The Accidental Assassin

by Jan Toms

  ‘Send for the rapid response team, now!’

  Slowly, Barry crawled his way along the length of the pews towards the door, Dodge close behind him.

  ‘Now!’ he whispered loudly and the two of them wriggled out and made a dash for the door.

  ‘That’s far enough!’ They stumbled to a halt, finding their path blocked by Constable Peters, shining her torch directly at them. Their arms were still clasped around each other and they crouched like frightened children.

  ‘Don’t go in there!’ Barry shouted at her. ‘If you do you’ll get hurt.’ Inside the church it sounded like Guy Fawkes’ night and he added, ‘You’d better send for an ambulance, quick!’

  Isabelle radioed the station. Caught off guard, the two escapees linked their arms through hers and said, ‘Come on, let’s take cover.’

  ‘Let me go!’ It took her a moment to realise that she was not being kidnapped but rescued.

  Already the rapid response team was on its way and, crowded into a tiny doorway, they heard the increasing wail of sirens.

  The scene that followed had all the ingredients of an extended version of The Bill. The sky outside was alive with flashes of blue, tyres screeched convincingly on the tarmac, men made huge by protective clothing scuttled like woodlice disturbed under a log. Somebody produced a loudhailer and in true cop fashion called out, ‘We’ve got the place surrounded. Put your weapons down and come out with your arms above your head.’

  ‘Look!’ Isabelle produced her warrant card. ‘Just let me out, I’m working.’

  Their eyes large with surprise, Barry and Dodge stood back to let her past. ‘You be careful!’ Dodge called after her.

  Outside the church there was silence, until at last the church door creaked open and a solitary figure walked out. ‘Don’t shoot!’ he called out. ‘It’s me, Constable Grimes.’

  ‘Alan!’ From the shadows, Constable Peters ran towards him, showing a most unpolicewoman-like concern for his welfare. Inside the church it was what Barry thought of as deathly silent.

  Victor had taken a nonchalant stroll past the Congregational church at precisely 8.15. As he drew near he saw several shadowy figures slipping round to the back with every appearance of being up to no good. As he wondered whether to stop and watch, he noticed another figure in the bushes. He quickly hurried on.

  His walk took him to the end of the road then into the small public gardens. Just as he drew near to the church on his return journey – about fifteen minutes later – something resembling the soundtrack to a Star Wars movie began to play inside. At the first bang Fluffy gave a yelp and swung round, entangling his lead around Victor’s ankles. Giving his own yelp, Victor toppled over, landing heavily on the pavement. With amazing strength, Fluffy began to gallop in the direction of home, dragging his owner along the ground. Just as Victor managed to untangle himself and climb shakily to his feet, the entire police presence of the county descended upon the road. Much as he would have liked to stay and watch these interesting proceedings, Victor had learnt that being in the neighbourhood of an ‘incident’ was tantamount to guilt. Rubbing his sore knees, he hobbled after Fluffy, who was giving a good impression of a greyhound. No doubt he would read all about it in the Clarion tomorrow.

  ‘Fraternal Fracas,’ announced the headlines of the early edition of the Clarion. A picture of two men carrying a stretcher with the subtitle ‘Eight Dead in Mystery Mayhem’ completed the front page.

  Victor turned to the inside to read the gory details. It seemed that the police had been tipped off by an ‘unidentified source’. That’s me, Victor thought with satisfaction. He wondered if there might be a reward for the capture – dead or alive – of so many miscreants. The Clarion went on to explain that the police had then attended an ‘incident’ at the old Congregational church, where a scene of carnage greeted them. Inside were eight bodies. They had all been shot. They were identified as Reginald and Randolph Rodriguez, twins who had recently been released from gaol on appeal; Harold and Garfield Hickman, well-known members of a gang known as the Pretty Boys; Nicos ‘the Greek’ Papadoulous; Gerald ‘Knuckles’ White; Eugene ‘Razor’ Wilkinson and Andy ‘Sugar Boy’ Sweetman. It was assumed that some sort of gang showdown had taken place. Two young men were seen leaving the scene but they had been picked up later and were helping the police with their enquiries. A man with a small white dog had been seen in the vicinity. He was not wanted in connection with the shooting although he was asked to come forward in case he had witnessed anything that might be useful to the police. The paper praised Constable Alan Grimes, shortly to retire from the force and familiar with many in the neighbourhood, who had risked his life by entering the church and was commended by the Chief Constable for his bravery.

  Victor sighed and wondered whether to phone the station. Alan already knew that he had known about the time and place of the showdown. It wouldn’t take him more than a second to recognise the description and conclude that yet again Victor had been lurking where he shouldn’t be. He supposed that he should do his duty and come forward but there was really nothing that he could add. Perhaps he would just pop round and see Alan at home the next day and get his advice. On the other hand, perhaps he wouldn’t.

  Alan was on top form. Not only was he a hero but he had that morning received a letter from Charity from New York.

  Dear Daddy, it started. I know you must be worried about me and I am sorry not to have phoned you myself but to be honest, I just needed to get away and things are a bit complicated. Dad, I have fallen in love, really and truly in love, but my darling Vincenzo should not have been in England, which is why we had to leave without telling anyone. I am very happy. He has lots of money so there is no need to worry on that score. We just need some time to sort out the future. So, I will be in touch again and don’t you worry. Lots of love, Charity.

  Reading the letter for the fourth time, Alan decided not to dwell on why ‘Vincenzo’ shouldn’t be in the country and how he made his money. He knew that Charity didn’t have a passport either and to get to New York she would need one. Still, his daughter was safe and that was all that mattered.

  There was another reason for his high spirits. By the time they had finished at the police station the night before, it had been after 2 a.m. Seeing that technically neither he nor Isabelle were on duty and had been acting on their own initiative, once they had given their statements and helped with the general clearing up, they went home – together.

  It wasn’t what it seemed, for Isabelle was clearly in no state to go home on her own. It was the first time in her career that she had had to deal with mass murder.

  ‘Oh Alan, I do feel rather shaky,’ she confessed as they left the station.

  ‘Shall I drive you home?’ he offered.

  ‘My landlady will be in bed. She won’t be very pleased to be woken up at this time.’

  He wondered why she didn’t have her own key but didn’t pursue it, instead saying, ‘In that case, you had better come home with me.’

  He meant it as a father to a daughter, an adult looking after someone not quite past childhood, only it hadn’t exactly turned out as he had intended.

  At Prince Consort Crescent, he made Isabelle a cup of Horlicks and a nice cosy bed on the put-u-up. ‘You can have my bed if you’d rather,’ he offered, but she wouldn’t hear of it. He fetched her a clean towel, a new toothbrush from the bathroom cabinet and a pair of Charity’s sensible pyjamas, placing them on the chair.

  ‘You just go on up and wash or whatever and then try and get to sleep. I’ll be just up the stairs.’

  In spite of all the excitement, Alan actually fell asleep very quickly. He was feeling his age these days and the exertions of the evening had rather taken it out of him. When he awoke it took him a few moments to remember that a very beautiful young woman was asleep in his living room – only she wasn’t in the living room but had mysteriously found her way into his bed.

  ‘Isabelle?’ He scrambled up then realised that h
e was wearing only his underpants, which he had kept on the night before in case he needed to get up in the night to go to the loo. He grabbed the duvet to cover himself, in the process unveiling Isabelle, who had stripped off the pyjamas at some point in the night and was deliriously naked.

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry!’ He struggled to cover her up again whilst still trying to protect his own modesty.

  ‘Alan, what are you panicking about? I got hot in the night that’s all.’ She made no attempt to hide away and he was mesmerised by her youth and desirability.

  Stretching like a python about to coil itself around its prey, she said, ‘I felt frightened in the night in case one of the gang had survived and came to get us so I came up and got in with you, only you didn’t even wake up.’ She giggled.

  ‘Isabelle, I’m not sure…’

  She laughed, a grown-up looking indulgently on a child. ‘Oh Alan, you are wonderful; you are so old-fashioned. Honestly, it’s no big deal if we sleep together. I know you’re going to say that you are old enough to be my father and all that, but so what? I know that you are a widower. We are both free agents. Don’t be such a stuffed shirt.’

  And then it happened. Isabelle, wonderful, naked Isabelle, proceeded to give him what his colleagues referred to as a good seeing to. Afterwards he felt well and truly seen to!

  Isabelle had to be at the station first so she left at 9.30, having had a good breakfast, because she declared that ‘sex makes you hungry’. She also borrowed one of Charity’s white shirts.

  ‘I’ll see you when you come on duty,’ she called at the door and, after a second’s thought, came back to kiss him.

  ‘I, I don’t think it would be wise to mention where you spent the night,’ he started, but she gave her tinkly little laugh and said, ‘Oh Alan, you are funny. I’m a big girl now. You don’t have to worry. We’re just colleagues, aren’t we, and if being colleagues means that we also become – well, occasional lovers, then it’s no big deal, honestly it isn’t.’

  As she walked down the drive, her hips gently swaying like a ship of the desert, he began to wonder if he had been killed the night before and was now in heaven.

  An hour later he was at the supermarket. Clearly plenty of people had already heard the news and, feeling like a celebrity, he accepted the congratulations. Just as he got to the checkout another voice called out to him, ‘Alan! Alan, congratulations.’

  He swung round to find Edna Fairgrove pushing her way past several people to get to him. ‘Oh, hello Edna.’

  He thought how nice and wholesome she looked, mature and plump and – well, comforting. In spite of all the excitement before breakfast, he couldn’t resist the thrill of desire that was already circulating like some greedy carnivore, gnawing at his insides and demanding satisfaction.

  ‘Alan, I thought you were wonderful last night,’ she started. ‘Are you sure that you weren’t hurt?’

  ‘No, not even a scratch.’ He gave a modest laugh, playing down his courage. ‘All in the line of duty,’ he added, playfully.

  ‘Well, have you got time to pop back for a coffee?’

  He glanced at his watch. He still had three hours before he was on duty. Something very reckless was going on in his mind.

  ‘Well Edna, that would be very nice. To be honest, I rather fancy a stiff drink and a bit of a chat – I think I’m still in shock.’

  To his surprise she bridled prettily, her cheeks flaring with a pink heat.

  ‘Come along then, come and have a drink.’ She didn’t mention the chat but after last night he thought that even in daylight, something amazing might be on the cards.

  As they made their way back to her house he thought, well, here’s a turn up for the books. I seem to have the pick of a surrogate daughter looking for a sugar daddy and a foster mother wanting someone to cosset. Don’t be greedy, he admonished himself, but then, after his heroism of last night, and just for today, why should he not have both?

  TWENTY-NINE

  Barry and Dodge were called in to identify the victims of last night’s massacre. At the sight of his brothers, Dodge began to cry. Sometimes Reggie hadn’t been very nice to him and sometimes Randy hadn’t stood up for him the way he might have done, but they were still his flesh and blood. Apart from Dad in Spain, there was no one else now – except of course Barry. Barry was even now standing next to him and he moved closer to him for comfort.

  ‘Can you tell us which one is which?’ the officer asked. ‘We’re having trouble seeing any differences.’

  ‘That’s Randy.’ Roger started to cry again and, in spite of the fact that other people were watching, Barry put his arms round him.

  ‘There now, don’t get upset. It wasn’t your fault.’

  They were questioned separately. Their fingerprints were taken and they were dusted for traces of residue from the cache of firearms that littered the church, but there was no evidence that either of them had used a gun.

  ‘We wouldn’t,’ said Barry. ‘We’ve been trying to stop the violence.’

  In her statement, Constable Peters said that the two men had left the church before the shooting started and that they had both tried to protect her from any harm.

  At last they were released with a warning not to leave town.

  ‘Where will we find you?’ asked Constable Peters.

  They looked at each other. ‘At my place,’ said Barry, taking his partner’s hand. ‘That’s where we’ll be.’

  At Barry’s place, they made some sandwiches and curled up together on the sofa. Dodge did most of the talking, mostly about his brothers. It was clear that he was deeply grieved by the outcome of their plan to bring peace to the neighbourhood.

  ‘I loved them, you know.’ he said for the hundredth time. ‘I know they did some bad things but…’

  ‘You loved them, I know.’ Barry was trying to think of the wider implications, like what was going to happen to the two empires run by the Pretty Boys and the Blues Brothers. For himself he was not unduly concerned, for he had his own bank account, all legitimately accounted for. As for all the other things, the gambling joints and strip clubs, he didn’t mind what happened to them. In fact, it would be such a relief not to have to think about them and forever have his conscience troubling him.

  ‘You can have all the assets,’ he had said to the nice policeman at the station. ‘Take it. I don’t want it. Give it to charity.’

  All he wanted was the man curled up beside him sucking his thumb in an endearing orphan of the storm way. ‘Let’s make some plans,’ he said, putting his arm around Dodge’s shoulders. ‘When this is all sorted we’ll be free agents. Just think about it.’

  ‘I think I’d like to go and see Dad,’ Dodge said. ‘He’s bound to be upset and I ought to tell him myself really.’

  ‘A good idea.’ Barry checked up and found that their fathers were living within ten miles of each other on what was known as the Costa del Crime. ‘We’ll do that, Dodge,’ he reassured him, ‘as soon as the police say we can leave.’ He had no idea how their respective fathers might react to the news that their only remaining sons were now a couple, but for the moment it distracted Dodge from the present.

  They would need to plan the funerals and Barry decided to raise the subject now, get all the nasty things out of the way.

  ‘About the funerals,’ he started.

  ‘We’re Catholics,’ Dodge replied.

  ‘Are you? Do you go to church and confession and all that stuff?’ He wondered how that fitted in with murder and extortion but remained silent.

  Dodge gave a shaky laugh. ‘No, of course we don’t.’ He thought for a moment before adding, ‘although I suppose now I could confess and say that I wouldn’t do anything bad any more, couldn’t I?’

  ‘You could, but wouldn’t the Church frown on what we do together?’ Barry asked.

  Dodge looked disturbed. ‘But it isn’t bad, is it?’

  ‘Of course it’s not. Let’s just forget about the Church, shall we? No
w listen, what I was going to suggest is that we bury all four boys at the same time in the same cemetery, next to each other. That way it would be sort of symbolic and besides we could visit the graves at the same time.’

  Dodge nodded, seeing the sense of the suggestion.

  ‘Right then, I’ll get that organised for when the time comes.’ Seeing that Dodge was edging towards tears again, Barry added, ‘Why don’t you think of something nice to write on the gravestones.’ Dodge gave a subdued nod.

  Later, Barry asked him, ‘What would you like to do, when all of this is over? We could do just about anything we want. No matter what happens to our enterprises, there’s still plenty of money.’

  Barry had already decided that when the dust had settled he’d like to buy the El Sombrero, or if that wasn’t up for sale then to open his own club. Whenever he was feeling anxious he escaped into a daydream about what it would be like, planning every detail down to the tablecloths and the style of the sign outside the door. Yes, that would fulfil a dream.

  ‘D’you know,’ Dodge ventured, ‘I’d really like to run a shop, one selling ladies’ fashions like at Something for Everyone. I – I think I might have a bit of a flair for it.’

  Remembering the first time they met, with Dodge a vision in sapphire, Barry had to agree.

  ‘Or perhaps run a wedding shop? I could stock dresses and veils and all the accessories, things to decorate wedding cakes and garters and silver sandals.’ As he talked he grew increasingly animated. Barry thought that there was a long way to go yet, an inquest, a trial, and a lot of loose ends to tie up, but one day in the not too distant future, they really would be free.

  ‘I love you Dodge,’ said Barry.

  ‘I love you Bar,’ said Dodge.

  Now that Charity had censored his wardrobe, Victor was forced to buy some new clothes. He found himself looking to see what other men were wearing. His instinct was to take the lead from men of his father’s age range rather than the young bloods about town, but then he began to realise that they were all dressing very much alike. When he went to look for the sort of things he had always favoured, they seemed to have disappeared from the shelves so he grew increasingly reliant on the wisdom of the shop assistants.