by Linda Coles
When the page had fully loaded, she read the brief description of what was on offer. Beside it was a link to get in touch and discuss requirements. She took a deep breath. Then another. The cursor flashed tantalizingly but Sam didn’t click it. Instead, she reverted back to the search results and read a couple more descriptions before choosing one more and clicking through. As the last page, she read what services were on offer but this page had a somewhat different feel to it than the one previous. It seemed, well, less matter-of-fact and more “Let’s solve a problem.” There was something she liked about the way the words flowed; it felt a little more harmonious.
And it was that harmonious feel that caused Samantha Riley to make her decision. Funny that it was important at all, she thought as she clicked the link.
Her husband’s killer had been selected.
Chapter Fifty-One
Since Duncan had called to say don’t wait up, again, Sam had snuggled up on the sofa under a fleecy blanket all on her own. Again.
It was like being single half the time.
Not much will change there, then.
She kicked the throw off her legs and poured another glass of red, grabbing the remote control before resuming her comfortable position. She rested her head back on a cushion, feeling a little drowsy, the wine and pills mixing as they shouldn’t. A calmness blended with a slight numbness embraced her whole being and she slid further down the sofa before selecting a program she’d recorded a few days ago. After her recent research and actually making contact with a professional hit man, she wanted something that would simply wash over her and didn’t require much brainpower. The food program would do the trick. Sam clicked select and the music started, followed by the deep voice of a male presenter that she’d seen on a show before but couldn’t place where. No matter; it wasn’t important.
She settled in for the program to finish the job that had been started by the substances she’d consumed. Not five minutes in and her eyes were fluttering a little, as if she was going to go to sleep, and drowsily she wondered if perhaps bed was in order. An early night, a nice deep sleep always did you good. But as the presenter chattered on, something stirred inside her mind and began to pull her back to the moment. Sam reared bolt upright on the sofa like a corpse coming back to life on an old Frankenstein movie, and did her best to focus. Suddenly alert to what he was talking about, she asked herself if she’d misheard him in her drowsy state. But no, the presenter’s words were mountain-stream clear and the meaning just as cold. She turned up the volume. No, there was no doubt about the topic of this particular food program.
Naturally occurring poisonous foods.
Tossing the throw aside, she swung her legs down to the floor and listened intently. The segment was on the dangers of green potatoes and their potentially lethal ingredient – solanine.
“I thought that was an old wives’ tale,” she said to herself.
Apparently, it wasn’t. She sat there thoughtful, drinking in the information, knowing she could use it somewhere in her plan. Fate had once again shown her something she could use in the demise of her husband, though when and where she’d add in later. Her mind snapped into gear, turning over the possibilities, as she took in the extent of what solanine could do. Yes, large quantities of it could be fatal, but it was no longer that common in modern-day potatoes you bought from the supermarket. Not unless you purposely grew such potatoes, like the Incas had done thousands of years ago, but even then, they had had a process for degrading the solanine before they ate them.
As the program went on, Sam knew she could incorporate the idea somehow: it was a natural substance and the notion of using it too good to be missed. But Duncan would have to consume more than his fair share of potatoes, even supposing she could find enough green ones to do the deed with, never mind convincing him to eat them. But distilling it and using it to immobilize him – well, that was another matter. Diarrhea, vomiting, drowsiness, mental confusion, shortness of breath and weak and rapid pulse were all symptoms that’d slow him down considerably, and the poison would likely never get picked up, because why would anyone be looking?
The more she thought about it, the more it made sense: Duncan was a big man, and strong too, so if someone broke into his room, he’d certainly be able to put up a fight and defend himself, even against a surprise attack in the dead of night. But if he had been slowed down beforehand by mental confusion and gastro problems, it would make the assassin’s job much easier.
Sam’s face broke into a sick smile as she stood listening to the rest of the show. Solanine looked to be the answer, but how to get it?
She shut off the television and fetched her laptop.
By the time she heard a key turn in the front door, it was nearly eleven o’clock. She closed her laptop and smiled winningly.
“Hi, darling. You look bushed. Can I get you something to eat or drink?” she asked cheerily.
A delighted but tired Duncan replied, “I’d love a proper mug of tea and a sandwich if you can be bothered. I’m done in.”
Sam watched as he all but collapsed onto the sofa, resting his head back and closing his eyes for a moment. “No bother. Stay where you are. I’ll bring it in,” she said with a smile and a spring in her step as off she went through to the kitchen, looking for all the world like a loving wife attending to her exhausted husband’s needs.
Tomorrow, a trip to the garden centre was in order. A bag of green seed potatoes with plenty of eyes should do the trick.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Luke was sick of the sight of his small, functional room at his parents’ place, but beggars really couldn’t be choosers. At least it was cheap, and, with no money to speak of and no income prospects on the horizon, he knew he’d be staying put for a while longer.
Currently, he was nursing a mug of coffee at a corner table about a mile away. As a precaution, he had begun to vary the locations he accessed his new business website. Being over-cautious was better than the other way around and getting busted unnecessarily, he figured. While the site was anonymous, he knew there was always going to be a way to trace it eventually, if the tracer knew who they were searching for.
As he sipped, there was a ping, signalling that he had a new message. He sat forward, hardly believing his eyes.
That was quick…
Keeping his face as neutral as possible, he hovered the cursor over the message, willing himself to be calm. Taking a deep breath, he clicked it. The message filled his small screen and even though he was tucked in a corner unable to be overlooked, he still did a sweep of the café before he read it in its entirety. It was short.
Looking for a removal. Quickly. Window of opportunity has come up Thursday evening in Croydon. Interested?
Holy shit. Thursday evening was only a few short hours away. Suddenly all of his and Clinton’s planning over the last couple of weeks seemed like children’s daydreams. Stuff was getting real, and fast. Thursday. Was there even time to get things organized? He stared at the message as thoughts catapulted themselves through his head like a circus act on steroids.
Well, this was what all those plans had been leading up to, wasn’t it? So what was he waiting for?
“They’re simply a prospect, a number, a business transaction,” he told himself. His hand cupped the mouse; the cursor wriggled over the reply icon. By thinking of this … this thing he proposed to do as just another business deal, could he take the humanity out of it and get on with satisfying his first customer?
For £12,000, he could try.
Remembering his own tentative first enquiry, he decided to keep his reply brief and noncommittal. He began to type:
Not much time but can be done. £12K. Half now; half on completion. Need photo and whereabouts to get rolling. Stand by.
He hit send and sat back in his chair. How long it would be before the prospect came back with further information and funds he’d no idea, though he hoped it would be today. To his surprise, his nervous energy had changed t
o excitement, anticipation even.
It’s new business, remember? A prospect.
He rubbed his hands down the front of his jeans to dry his sweaty palms and rolled his shoulders back to remove the tension. If he was going to fulfil his first order, there were a few things to do, namely purchase a weapon with the first instalment of money.
Money. How was he going to set up the exchange of funds? Mentally he smacked himself in the forehead. He’d assumed a car park rubbish bin would suffice, but what if his client wasn’t in Manchester? What was he going to do then?
Steady on, Luke, he told himself. What did he usually do when he had to find a location he’d never visited before? Google Earth. Yes. After the prospect revealed their location, Luke could zoom in and find the perfect spot nearby. Even the smallest of towns had supermarkets, and most of those had a rubbish bin by the entrance.
Okay, that was step one. As for picking up the funds, after midnight, no one else would be rifling through the bin and make off with his fee, would they? But there’d be cameras present, recording, and he wasn’t going to risk losing £6000 that easily.
So scratch that. What about Bitcoin? But he had no clue how that even worked and how he his prospect could use it anonymously. Besides, there was not enough time to learn.
Shit, shit, shit.
Right, then. Back to the drawing board. He needed to learn how to do cyber-currency transactions, and he needed to learn it quickly.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Another late night, another early start. Duncan, gulping down a sausage and egg McMuffin and a coffee in the McDonalds car park, looked like he’d been a couple of rounds with Tyson his eyes were so puffy, but the end was in sight for the case, it seemed. For that he was grateful. And the sun was promising to make an appearance later. After a string of wet, grey days, some orange in the sky, no matter how low, would be a welcome mood-changer. And speaking of moods changing, what was with Sam and her dramatic transformation lately? It was welcome, of course, but it made him uneasy.
A starling hopped by his car looking for scraps for breakfast, found a stray French fry, and tucked in. The activity alerted another bird close by who swooped down to stake its claim on the same find. Feeling sorry for the first bird getting moved on, Duncan lowered his window and tossed a piece of bread its way. Wasting no time, the starling picked the whole piece up and moved further to one side to eat it in peace. Duncan smiled as he started on his hash brown, his first good deed for the day already in the bag. His phone buzzed. Sam.
“Morning, early bird,” he said, thinking of the starling.
“Morning, hard-working husband. Just wondered if you’re in for dinner tonight and what time you’re leaving for your course tomorrow?” Sam enquired.
Duncan again thought about the change in her mood, then answered, “I should be home by six and as for tomorrow, I’ll leave home just after lunch. I’m meeting up for dinner while I’m down there so I’ll crack on with some reports in my room if I’ve time beforehand. Only way to get some peace. Why do you ask?”
“Thought I’d make something nice for dinner since you’ll be away. Might even bake you some brownies to take with you.”
“No need to do anything special on my account. Though your brownies are the best.” It had been a while since Sam had last baked brownies, and the thought of the fudgy centre, the way it stayed fudgy, made Duncan drool slightly. “On second thoughts, brownies would definitely be welcome if you can be bothered.” As soon as he’d said ‘bothered’ he regretted it and hoped she didn’t take offence. He scrunched his face up in anticipation. But if Sam had noticed the word she didn’t show it, and when she spoke again, his face resumed its normal expression.
“Great – I’ll make a batch,” she replied cheerily. “I’ve got to go out shopping later anyway so I’ll get the chocolate. Need anything?”
“No, I’m all good, thanks. I’ll see you later, then.”
“Okay. Bye!” Her sing-song voice hung in the car. Duncan scrunched his empty packaging into one bag and left the car to deposit it in the nearby rubbish bin. On the way, he grabbed a paper cup up that had missed its destination and put it with the rest of the rubbish. Good deed number two. His thoughts turned again to Sam and her change of attitude. It was like old times, and Duncan had an overwhelming desire to believe things had got better.
Perhaps he’d get her a little gift or some flowers, just because. He filed the thought away for later. Back in the car, he headed for the station and pulled in to his second car parking space of the morning. Rochelle’s Triumph bike slid into the space next to his and Rochelle, clad head to toe in black leather, nodded her greeting through his side window. He watched as she turned the bike off, swung her leg over the seat, and removed her helmet. At six feet tall, she was a vision many men couldn’t ignore – no matter how hard they tried. Her long blonde hair fell to her shoulders like a sexy slow-motion chocolate advert, and Duncan felt himself groan inside involuntarily. Rochelle smiled as their eyes connected in a work colleague kind of way. Shame on Duncan’s part. He opened his door and got out, pulling his coat collar up against the cold morning. In the distance a bit of orange was breaking the skyline in amongst the grey buildings. He felt brighter than he had done in weeks despite his exhausted state.
“Morning, Duncan. You look like shit.”
“Cheers, Rochelle. I don’t have the benefit of make-up to cover up my bags – I suspect you’ve already expertly buried your own,” he said coyly.
“Perks of being a woman,” she replied with a wink. “Makes up for PMS and the other crap we have to put up with.”
As they walked together towards the building, Duncan said, “Well, at least you girls don’t have to shave every day.”
“And neither do you, actually, but we girls shave more often than you’d think, so that’s your argument gone to crap. In fact, we wax, which really isn’t pleasant.”
She had a point. A vision of long, slim, smooth, silky legs flashed across Duncan’s vision – and they weren’t Sam’s.
Oblivious, Rochelle carried on. “And talking about who has the better deal, how’s Sam doing these days. Any improvement?”
They were inside the building now, headed robotically for the canteen and a coffee.
“Funny you should ask. Since my ultimatum, she’s done a full three-hundred-and-sixty-degree turn, and she almost seems like Sam from old. She’s up and dressed in the mornings now, and she even made my breakfast a couple of mornings ago. And earlier today, she rang me to see if I wanted her to bake some brownies.”
Rochelle raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Well, that’s great news! Looks like your chat worked. I’m pleased for you, for you both, because separating would have been a bitch, let me tell you. Stressful doesn’t even begin to describe it, and with two little ones to argue over …”
Her words trailed into nothing and Duncan could only nod his head. But Rochelle had more to say. “Of course, there could be another explanation for her complete turnaround.”
“Oh?”
“Come on, Duncan. What’s the most common and obvious giveaway clue when someone is murdered and we question the spouse’s friends and colleagues?”
Duncan looked at her in puzzlement.
“Think, Duncan. You were on the same profiling course as me last year. What is the most obvious thing the spouse does before they strike? What’s the classic giveaway?”
She waited. Then it hit him.
Pre-offence behaviour – when a spouse has a sudden and unexplained change in behaviour towards their partner. It was textbook stuff. A significant change in a partner’s behaviour can mean the partner may have already begun to plan for a change in the status quo.
Rochelle looked at him, levelly.
“You seriously think she is planning to off me?” he said incredulously.
Rochelle gave him a questioning look but said no more.
Chapter Fifty-Four
It was Sam’s turn to stare at a mes
sage.
Not much time but can be done. £12K. Half now; half on completion. Need photo and whereabouts to get rolling. Stand by.
This was what she wanted, wasn’t it? Her husband out of the picture, leaving the girls and her on their own with money in the bank? Wasn’t she sick of his continual late nights and his endless moaning about her not being up to his expectations? She’d tried to keep things together when she’d lost her job, but it was a struggle. She had found the constant rejection from possible employers hard to deal with, even though she was overqualified for many of the roles she’d applied for. But she’d found a way to cope; the painkillers had taken the edge off her anxiety, relaxing her, letting her sleep. It had been her oversleeping that day that had been the catalyst for the sorry situation she now found herself in.
The message was still waiting for an answer. The money wasn’t a problem, nor was getting a photo. Nor, it seemed, was the time frame – tomorrow night. So why was she hesitating? Because once she hit reply and did what the message asked, there’d be no turning back. Hit men couldn’t be turned off once the switch had been flicked. It was a one-way decision and only Sam could make it. Was she ready?
No messy divorce to worry about . . . money in the bank . . . Cornish coast . . .
She’d only spoken to Duncan a matter of minutes ago, asked him if he’d be in for dinner and about the time of his departure tomorrow – and so casually too. Sam longed for a piece of paper to write down the pros and cons. If the hit did go through, she knew the police would immediately suspect and question her. She knew they had all sorts of ways of finding proof, most of which she was unaware of. Had it been the other way around – Duncan getting rid of her – he’d have a much better chance of getting away with it. He’d not only know the processes and procedures the crime scene officers would use, but he’d be nice and close to the case to monitor what was happening, whom they suspected. He’d be able to destroy or tamper with evidence, something Sam wouldn’t be able to do. Absentmindedly, she wondered how many officers over the years had committed such a crime – and got away with it.