The Right Man
Written by Mark Watson
The Right Man
Copyright © by Mark Watson, 2009
All Rights Reserved
Smashwords Edition 1.5, May 2010
www.allmyfiction.com
This book is a fictional work; any likeness to events or individuals is entirely coincidental.
Chapter 1
They do say there are only two things in life that are certain. That’s death and taxes. Well, I’m certainly not the tax man. It’s a very prejudicial world we live in today. You would have thought with all the free thinking and freedom of thought people would be more understanding, but again I’m disappointed. Trying to put the mark at ease by adding a bit of humor I said, “Congratulations Mr. Simmons on choosing our friendly and efficient service.”
Mr. Simmons didn’t really seem to appreciate the comment; it didn’t raise even a faint smile, and instead he just started to scream. Fortunately the scream didn’t last long. Dropping the empty Pizza boxes, I placed the Taurus to the center of his forehead squeezing the trigger nice and slowly. The hammer clicked back, Simmons scream choked off into silence as his eyes focused on my trigger finger. The hammer struck and the revolver bucked with satisfying recoil, the large .357 magnum wad cutter punching into his soft skull, the contents of his cranium liberally splattering the living room wall like a floor to ceiling star chart.
People often question the use of such a destructive weapon, too much of the old school for my liking. One in the head, two in the heart: I know all you good people know what that means. We’ve all watched avidly as some hit man offs some poor person in the films.
My personal view is that if you’re shot in the head with a magnum at close range the contents of your skull will be splattered all over the neighboring scenery. So maybe you’re one million to one lucky and your heart keeps beating, but you’ll always be a coma patient.
I suppose if you were the type of person who gets a bit queasy at the sight of blood you wouldn’t want a wave of back splatter on your shoes. Then again, if you were that kind of person this would definitely not be the right job for you.
Thinking back over the last four years I have a few fond memories of my new career. The hours are good and the work interesting. I suppose you could be forgiven for thinking I’m a bloodthirsty psychopath but I wasn’t always so willing to eviscerate my fellow man.
I don’t get satisfaction from killing people I don’t know and have never met before. It’s just a job, and like all jobs, you get a sense of satisfaction in doing it well.
Buried deep down somewhere in my black heart is a sick sense of humor. I guess I got it from watching action movies as a teenager. Movies like Robocop, ‘you’re fired’ just as the guy gets shot out through the window. Maybe Mary Whitehouse had a point and I’m just a sick product of my sick generation.
While death can be horrific most people can admit fate has a sense of humor. Most marks have done some deed worthy of their contract; rarely do any of my clients ask for the job to be completed quickly and painlessly. If you want someone dead it’s unlikely to be out of love, now is it? You’re hardly likely to say, “can you off my cheating husband, but can you make it quick and painless?”
On this occasion Mr. Simmons was the very rare exception to the rule. He had a terminal disease which would towards the end have been a really nasty way to go, all things considered. His wife said he would fight to the end. Not the sort of end you would wish on anyone particularly someone, who seemed a decent guy.
Without a backward look I exited the Simmons home having completed the contract as specified. As requested, I made it was very quick and relatively painless for him apart from a small amount of fear which was unavoidable.
On the whole most of my contracts are unspecified or requested with a maximum amount of unpleasantness. One particular job springs to mind which can always raise a smile to my face. The client was suspicious that her husband was having an affair she planted covert video equipment in the house.
To her horror she found herself watching her husband having sex with his favorite dog. Stifling a laugh I made some sympathetic noises and asked her if she had any particular request as to how the contract should be completed. After a brief though she asked could I make it painful and messy as possible.
Well, we’re a service industry, so what could I do but say, “of course, very nasty, I’ll video it for you if you like.” Later that week I arranged a night with the client when she would be away from home. On the night I collected up my supplies and went to Mr. Alhambra’s house to pay him a visit.
Deciding the mark was a man of habit I arrived just after nine which would give me ample time to prepare, but not enough to raise suspicion of the local populous. I made a careful circuit around the perimeter of the large detached bungalow, soon ascertaining that Mr. Alhambra was busy having his bath ready for his liaison with his pet pooch and the dog in question was in the bedroom watching the TV.
Quietly approaching the window so as not to disturb the animal, I saw to my relief that the top section of the window had been left open a fraction. Pulling out the doctored meat sticks I carefully pushed one through the window so it fell down onto the carpet. The small noise alerted the pet which came over to the window to investigate. Finding the meat stick on the floor and not knowing any better, the poor unfortunate animal promptly ate it. Retreating to the shrubbery I set up the video camera to film the next act while the heavy dose of PCP took effect on the pooch.
The large female Rottweiler was standing obediently on the bed when Mr. Alhambra exited the bathroom. The animal seemed calm enough and I was beginning to doubt that the plan would work. Disheartened, I sat and watched the sick spectacle as the unfortunate Mr. Alhambra approached and attempted to mount the dog.
The placid looking animal suddenly burst into action like a hurricane of tearing and ripping teeth. Entrails, blood and flesh flew around the room; I’ll swear I saw a portion of liver strike the window. By the time the pooch had burned off its PCP craze the video camera could barely see through the window.
Well, I must say I outdid myself. I could not have imagined anything could be so funny and disgusting at the same time. The animal attack was even more aggressive than I expected and the resultant carnage far exceeded my desired effect. I quickly packed away my video camera and made a stealthy retreat to the nearest pub for a stiff drink.
The next day when I met the client at a suitably anonymous hotel room I played her the video stream. She managed the first two of the twenty minute attack before throwing up on the hotel carpet and begging me to turn it off. I must admit she was a tough cookie as even I found it disturbing to watch. After taking a minute to recover her composure, white-faced she gasped," That was the vilest and most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen.” Congratulating me on a job well done she paid me a fat bonus, cash in hand.
Jobs like Alhambra give me a feeling of job satisfaction. The world is a better place without him and many of my other marks. Maybe you disagree with that on ethical grounds, I guess you’re all just good citizens with high moral standards, probably much as I was four years ago.
Chapter 2
Some time ago, in another life, I was a good upstanding law abiding citizen. Although I’ve always had a complete lack of compassion I understand the necessity to be polite and look after people to get on in life. Loyal friends are hard to find so cherishing them is time well spent.
This little joyride through hell started one fateful day close to Christmas. I came home from work to find a police car parked outside my nice cozy little house.
I didn’t for a second think the police were there to visit me so, cursing them under my breath for parking to close too the gate I carefully pulled onto the drive.
I got out of my car and retrieved my laptop from the boot. Glancing towards the street I saw a suitably somber PC step out of his car. Since he was looking straight at me I waited to see what he wanted.
As he approached me I saw from his face that something serious was going on. “Mr. Nostaw?” He enquired. I knew right away what he was going to say next just by the way he spoke.
Like a true stereo type in an extract from The Bill on TV, you could tell the guy hated this task. He was probably the officer they always picked for that type of house call as he was the only one of them that had the guts.
“Yes, that’s me officer” I replied. “Don’t worry you’re not in any trouble sir, but I need to talk to you on an urgent matter. Would it be alright if we talked inside?”
“Yes, sure, come in,” I said my heart sinking like a lead block.
We went inside and he sat down opposite me on the chair and started to talk. I could tell he had had to do this before as he was quite practiced at breaking bad news.
Speaking slowly and clearly he explained about the accident. I just sat paralyzed on the sofa, unable to take it in. The walls drew in around me as the nightmare started to play out.
I was in shock and only taking in scraps of what he was saying. Man, party, BMW, losing controls, wife, kids unfortunately in way… all dead. I couldn’t believe it. It was at that point my comfy life ended and things started to go morally awry.
Outwardly I was solid and stable, but my insides were all ripped out. I worked longer and longer hours as I tried to avoid the pictures of happier times hanging on the walls of my now quiet and lonely house. After the inquest I cremated my loved ones. I didn’t invite anyone as I just couldn’t face dealing with all the pity. Instead I placed their ashes in a safety deposit box so that when the time came for me we could all be scattered together forever a family.
It was in these dark times that I forgot my grief and humanity, and replaced it with a dark cold conviction that, although I could never bring back my family, I would make sure the person responsible didn’t get to enjoy theirs either.
With that thought in mind I went to the guy’s trial writing down his name and address in a small pocket book. Outside the court I covertly took his picture, then his wife’s, then his kids. Then I got on with my life while I bided my time.
The man, Daniel Tibald, was the MD for a small cosmetics firm. As with lots of reasonably well off people, he seemed to think that the law didn’t apply to him. The fatefull day, after fondling a few of his secretaries, he left his company’s Christmas party and, like so many footballers, celebrities and well to do people, he attempted to drive his new BMW home while two and a half times over the limit.
My wife had been waiting at the bus stop to catch the bus home from town where she had taken the kids to pick their presents. For a split second in time, fate decided that at 3:04pm my family and Tibald should cross unfortunate paths at the road junction: a meeting that would end all their lives, and change the course of mine forever
Tibald approached roundabout at around fifty miles per hour in a thirty zone. Too drunk to concentrate he panicked and lost control, plowing into a bus stop, terminating the lives of my wife and our two kids, along with another old lady.
While the court found him guilty of death by dangerous driving the sentence was rather week at twenty-four months. While friends and relatives complained bitterly about the lack of justice, if anything, I was glad he only went down for such a short time. I didn’t really want to have to wait for ten years to get my hands on him.
Tibald was led off to jail whining and whimpering, and I pretended to go on with my life. I started to attend my old gun club again; after eight months I seemed a lot better and my application for a gun permit was accepted.
Not sure of my requirements, I chose a selections of weapons, a semi auto shotgun, a semi auto .22 rim fire rifle, a .303 bolt action rifle, and a Taurus revolver rifle to add to my slip. One has to ask who thought of that Taurus as a rifle.
A revolver rifle is a revolver with a removable stock and a one foot barrel. It’s the closest firearm to a handgun that the general public is permitted legally to own. The day I saw it in the gun shop I wanted one. It’s a similar pattern to the Dirty Harry magnum and a true weapon of rightful vengeance..
It gives you an immense feeling of power and satisfaction as you hold it in your hands and feel it kick. With the roar of the blast and smell of cordite, firing the gun is just like being in a gangster movie.
I ordered my Taurus from the catalogue and when it arrived I went and picked it up from the Manchester gun dealers.
At home and sitting on my couch I removed it from its box and hefted the heavy weapon in my hand. Examining it, I could see the pistol was a combination of brute force and simple elegance in its design. The stock was screwed on with a long thin bolt that reached from its tail to the handle. Taking a flat bladed screwdriver from the draw I removed the stock to try the gun out for balance and ease of use. With the weight of the stock removed the revolver was much more manageable, and the ergonomic rubber grip was a snug fit to my hand without the interference from the stock.
Sitting on my sofa, for a moment, I did contemplate loading the weapon and shooting myself in the head. The thought was soon pushed from my mind as I contemplated the weapon in my hands and the task of getting even with Tibald.
Initially, when I conceived the idea of executing the murderer of my children, I considered it a suicide mission. A one way ticket, so to speak.
Examining the revolver closely I spotted an unexpected feature of the gun’s frame design. The revolver’s barrel was screwed into the frame and locked in place with an easily removed screw.
A short trip to the workshop in the garden and I had the barrel removed. Looking at barrel design it seemed simple enough. Out came the Vernier caliper, and before long I had an engineering drawing of the assembly in fine detail.
After reassembling the revolver and replacing it in the safe, I sat back and made myself a new plan. It wasn’t till a few months that I looked at the drawing again.
Having completed my planning I set to work preparing the ground for Tibald’s welcome home party. One warm Saturday I took the drawing out into the workshop, selected a length of chromium alloy bar and started to cut.
By the fourth or fifth attempt I held in my hands a close replica of the barrel from my Taurus – well, apart from the rifling.
The rifling in the barrel of a gun causes the bullet to spin giving it a gyroscopic stability and therefore accuracy - a relatively simple principle to understand.
The bore of the barrel I had constructed was smooth, unrifled. There were two reasons for this, the first being I didn’t have a rifling tool. Gunsmiths’ machine tools are not easy to get hold of without attracting undue attention for obvious reasons. While I could make my own tool I considered it a waste of time as I was planning to get up close to deal with Tibald.
The avid TV and film watchers will be able to tell you that police trace weapons by their ballistic signature, which are the scratches on the cartridge cases and bullets formed as the weapon is discharged. They can also use the bullets themselves, and casings, to trace where they were purchased.
Realizing I would needed to produce untraceable ammunition over the previous months I had collected a number of .357 revolver cartridges from the brass bucket at the club.
Being of a design that is reloadable I set to work designing a reloading press. It proved relatively easy to obtain detailed plans from the Internet and in a short time I constructed a press and reloading machine.
Some items you can create yourself and others you need to buy. The percussion caps and propellant, although perfectly legal to buy, were proving difficult to obtain without leaving bread crumbs. With a stroke of luck I met up with a South African friend who was visiting the UK.
My close friend volunteered to obtain me the items I needed for cash when he got home. Following his suggestion I rented a post office box with a fake ID. A few weeks later a small package arrived containing enough propellant and percussion caps to make thirty rounds.
All that remained was to mold some slugs. Using a real mold would create unique markings on the slugs. The solution was to create a bullet mold myself in the workshop, and then, with the aid of a blow torch and a sheet of old roofing lead, I soon had my thirty rounds of untraceable ammunition.
Although there was a chance that investigators could trace the casings back to the club, the casings are not ejected from a revolver, so it was unlikely that there would be any casings to examine.
I suspect you may have already guessed why I was going to all this trouble. As far as I could figure a debt needed to be settled and a statement made.
I was planning a small welcome home party for Mr. Tibald that no one would forget. I had made up my mind that Tibald wasn’t worth another life so this wasn’t going to be a suicide mission. With careful planning and a good deal of research I booked myself a holiday to the north coast of France.
My boss said it was about time I took a holiday. He seemed pleased that I was taking an interest in something other than work and relieved I had stepped out of my gloomy place and returned to the land of the living again..
Chapter 3
The weekend before Mr. Tibald was released into the arms of his good wife I crossed the Channel on the ferry with my battered old beamer and trundled along the coast to the Boulogne-Sur-Mer.
It was off season so the little seaside campsite was quiet. The owner of the site was happy for the off-peak business. After a warm welcome she led me to my pitch and left me to my own devices. The mound of camping gear in the back of my car cunningly disguised the missing rear seats allowing me to fit the deflated RIB (inflatable boat) and outboard. Fortunately no one thought to ask why one man needed so much camping gear.
I lazed around the campsite until Friday taking in the local sites and spending long hours enjoying good food in the local restaurants.
When Friday evening arrived I drove to a secluded beach nearby which, with its soft sand and gentle slope, was ideally suited to launching small boats.
It was high tide and a full moon, the shingle crunched under my feet as I struggled to carry the pile of equipment down to the water’s edge.
My black rubber inflatable boat was soon assembled and inflated. I dragged it onto the water and anchored it in the shallows while I fitted the 60hp Yamaha outboard and fuel tank. The remaining containers of food, fuel and equipment for the cross Channel trip were stowed in the front of the boat.
The car securely locked, I climbed into the boat and cast off. The outboard burbled sweetly as I typed in the co-ordinates into the Garmin navigator. Once clear of the bay I opened up the throttle, roaring off to my crusade in a shower of spray.
At dawn I reached my destination and tied up on a buoy just off Hastings. I pulled on my drysuit and dropped in over the side of the boat. The tide was on slack making the 500 yards to the shore an easy swim.
In the shadow of the trees I removed my drysuit, placing in its sack, then with a nonchalant stroll I walked round to the car park where I found to my relief the van was still where my brother-in-law had parked it.
My new transport was a tatty looking Vauxhall Astra van and despite its decrepit exterior the engine started up with a satisfying growl from its much newer three liter engine.
In the back I could see Nick had been as good as his word. Two eighty liter drums were strapped in tight and he’d made a nice job of plumbing them into the fuel tank with auxiliary pumps. “No need to refuel,” I’d said, “to avoid CCTV cameras.” He’d done his job admirably.
Stuck to the dashboard was a yellow post-it note. Written on it were the words, ‘Look under the seat. Good Luck.’
Scrabbling around under the passenger seat I pulled out a thermos flask and a big packed lunch Shaz had prepared for me. Whatever happened, at least I wouldn’t go hungry.
Both had taken the loss of their nephews badly. Nick was so furious he was on the point of sharpening all the kitchen knives in preparation for a ritual sacrifice. It was all I could do to stop them coming along on this adventure, but finally I convinced them that I had nothing to lose if I got caught. It didn’t matter to me anymore, whereas they were just starting out and had a future.
Their offer to help was genuine, but with the risks involved I wasn’t prepared to let them end up locked away for most of their life. Instead I bought them a relaxing vacation for two in Malaga - four hundred pounds for a cast-iron alibi was money well spent in my view.
To reassure myself that I was ready for the next stage of my plan I opened the glove box and breathed a sigh of relief as I pulled out the familiar shape of my Taurus; it sure felt good to hold it again in my hand, like having an old friend along for company.
My mind prepared, I packed the gun back into the glove box. Gently shifting into gear I slipped out of the car park and started my long drive back to familiar territory.
Two hundred and sixty miles and five hours later I was on home turf. It wasn’t even midday yet, I had hours to spare. Feeling tired, I drove to a quiet area of town called Croft and parked in a secluded lay-by. Climbing into the back of the van I lay down on the floor, my head on my rolled up coat, and within minutes I dropped into a deep sleep.
I woke up hours later aching on the hard metal floor. Struggling I climbed into the front seat and poured myself a lukewarm coffee from Shaz’s thermos. Ten minutes later I was fully awake and ready for the night’s grizzly work. I started up the van and dove off towards Appleton and my appointment with the Tibalds.
Drawing into the leafy lane in the exclusive suburb I stopped a few yards from the drive to Mr. Tibald’s mansion which was well back from the road and conveniently screened by the trees.
One could be sure he had a good security system. However, I could hear the party going on even from where I sat.
It was a safe bet that no-one was watching the cameras which I had spotted mounted at various points along the roofline. I put on my balaclava and pulled the hood of my sweatshirt over my head.
With a quick look round to make sure I wasn’t being watched I stepped out of the car and strolled down the drive, casually stepping off into the bushes once I was near the front door.
With all the cars parked on the gravel in front of the house I didn’t want to take the risk that I might be rushed while reloading. There was also the risk that up close they would recognize me, and inevitably someone would escape. Taking the intelligent option I sat down behind a fir tree to wait for the end of the party.
You might have expected I would be bored and cold, waiting for hours, but surprisingly enough it was a pleasant clear night and the close proximity to the house gave me plenty of time to get to understand the layout of the building.
As the evening wore on, one by one the revelers started to leave. After another hour of watching cats fighting in the shrubbery all the cars had left and the house appeared to be empty apart from the Tibald’s.
My time had come to exact my revenge. This was the point of no return, but without any doubt in my mind I calmly stepped forwards and walked up to the front door.
I had been watching the house carefully and I knew they hadn’t locked the door after the last guest left. Pulling my Taurus from my pocket I opened the door and walked into the house.
Stepping into the living room I confronted the family. It doesn’t take a brave man to mow down a woman and her children with a car while you’re drunk, and Mr. Tibald was definitely not a brave man.
He recognized me immediately despite the balaclava. His happy drunken face went white as a sheet and with a fart he emptied his colon into his shorts.
I’m sure that most fathers and husbands would have begged for their wife and children’s lives. Instead, Tibald just stood staring at me in blind panic.
Strolling casually across the thick carpet towards the children I thumbed back the hammer on the revolver. Just before reaching them I made a quick left turn. Mrs. Tibald, realizing what I was about to do next, rushed towards me, but before she could reach me I squeezed off two shots, a round in the head each for the Tibald juniors.
Deftly I switched hands and as Tibald’s wife was just about to reach me I thrust the barrel into her face and fire the third round.
Meanwhile, Tibald stood and watched his family’s heads explode like ripe melons, crimson splashes of blood spraying across the magnolia walls, rooted to the ground by blind terror.
If it had been a scene from a film on a TV show I would probably have been raving or grinning like a sadistic maniac. But no, I just felt empty and calm as the heavy low velocity rounds all but decapitated my victims.
I turned to Mr. Tibald smiling pleasantly: “Still drinking I see.” Shaking with fear he replied in a croaky voice, “I’ll stop drinking, I’ll give up driving. Don’t kill me.”
I just laughed in his face. “It’s a bit late for that isn’t it,” I said looking at the empty tumbler next to his hand.
“Let me go,” he pleaded. “You’ve killed my wife and kids, please don’t kill me. I’ll not tell the police it was you.”
That remark left a bad taste in my mouth. He really was a pathetic excuse for a human. After that remark I knew I couldn’t just shoot him, a quick death being far more than he deserved.
Instead I gesture with the revolver and said, “Let’s go to the garage and look at your nice new car.”
Tibald meekly led the way through the house into the double garage. In the garage was a nice shiny new seven series beamer. “Mmm, nice,” I said in approval.
“Take it, it’s a gift,” he said and tossed me the keys. But unfortunately for Tibald what had caught my eye was not the car, but a set of professional looking power tools neatly hung on hooks along the wall.
“That’s awful nice of you,” I said, sidling up to the wall unhooking a heavy duty nail gun. “I guess maybe you can live after all.” Waving my gun at him, I gesture him to sit down against the back wall of the garage.
“I’m going to tie you up. Put your arms out stretched,” I told him calmly. To my surprise, without a complaint he did.
The idiot was so relieved that I was not going to kill him that he hadn’t guessed what was coming next.
I pressed the barrel of the gun into his palm and pulled the trigger back. Bang! The five inch nail slammed through his palm and into the masonry behind stapling him securely in place. The sudden agonizing pain started him screaming and struggling.
With all his writhing around I couldn’t get his other hand against the wall. Time was running out so I tapped him on the head with the nail gun, the blow not hard enough to knock him out but enough to stun. I wanted him awake at the end.
With him now more manageable I was able to grab his other arm and … Bang! He was fixed like a fly to the wall.
By that time he was really screaming. If the shots hadn’t caused the neighbors to phone the police, I knew full well the tormented sounds coming from Tibald would do.
Although torturing him was proving enjoyable, stapling him to the wall was just a means to an end. I just wanted him to stay still so I could complete the scene before I had company.
Casually, I opened the garage door. Stepping into the plush BMW I pressed the keyless ignition switch and the engine spun into life. The 3.7L engine sounded silky smooth and the throaty sound from the exhaust bounced off the garage walls. Gently I flicked on the lights and reversed it down the drive.
Not wishing to break any traffic regulations, I put on my seatbelt and wound down the window. In front of the blue glare from the HID headlights lights I could see Mr. Tibald sobbing at the end of the garage. He reminded me of a butterfly in a display case.
Placing my left foot firmly on the brake I shifted into drive. Next, my right foot slammed down to the floor on the throttle pedal, the big engine shrieking with protest.
With the rev counter hitting the redline I suddenly I moved my left foot sideways of the brake. The rear wheels spun and screeched as the car lurched forward, surging down the drive. Crash! With a screech of tearing metal I was thrown violently forwards against my seatbelt. Concrete blocks bounced off the bonnet and the car was engulfed by a dust cloud.
Despite the damage to the car the door still opened smoothly, saving me the discomfort of climbing out through the window. I stepped out clutching my neck and looked at the wall where the unfortunate Mr. Tibald was still sitting. I could see without a second glance that he was beyond any further torment
I started to laugh. Tibald’s head was resting in the middle of the bonnet like a pig’s head on a serving platter. The front edge of the bonnet had separated his head from his mangled body which appeared to be embedded in the radiator.
I stood for a moment inspecting my work, but in the silence I could hear sirens. The fuzz were finally on their way, predictably late as usual, fortunately, leaving me plenty of time to jog back along the drive and jump into the driving seat of the van.
Slipping the van into gear I drove away quietly, not wishing to attract any undue attention. I drove towards the nearest motorway junction, stopping only when I reached a postbox.
Taking my Taurus from my pocket I unscrewed the barrel and placed the gun chassis into a self-addressed box. After sealing it up tightly with plenty of parcel tape I dropped it into the mail box and continued my journey south.
The drive was uneventful and the traffic light. By the time I reached Hastings some hours later I still hadn’t made the news.
It was still daylight so I drove the van to the beach and waited around listening to the radio and reading a discarded newspaper until late evening.
Now it was low tide the beach was dry and the sand firm. I drove out onto the sand in the gathering darkness and stopped at the low water line. Although the drive had been long, as expected the fuel drums were still half. The caps unscrewed easily and the fuel gushed out spilling into the foot wells as I push both drums over on their sides.
Swapping my overalls and hat for my drysuit I threw my old clothes into the back of the van. Like a ritual funeral pyre I lit the newspaper I had been reading and threw the burning torch into the back. The spilt fuel ignited and the van burst into flames with a satisfying whoosh.
Certain that by the time anyone arrived on the scene to investigate the blaze the van would be a smoldering wreck, I swam out to my boat and set out on the water racing into the darkness towards France.
The sea was relatively calm that night and I made the run across the Channel without encountering any problems. The moon reflected off the slopes of the waves and the deck vibrated under my feet as the boat carved through the water. In the green glow of my night vision goggles I could see nearby ferries and cargo ships toiling away as I gave them a wide berth, using my GPS system to guide me home.
It was starting to get light by the time I reached the French coast. I arrived at the beach and laid anchor well below the low tide marker. I then covered my tracks by scuttling the rib by slashing the inflated tubes. I trod water while I watched the heavy outboard pull the small boat down to its watery grave.
The incoming tide pulled me back into shore where staggered up the beach to my faithful transport which fortunately was still stood waiting for me.
Back at the camp site, tired but successful, I was soon back in my tent cuddled up in my sleeping bag fast asleep. The hit had brought closure and right away I started to feel my life was improving.
I knew the police would be taking a great deal of interest in my whereabouts so the next week’s holiday I spent strolling around the countryside with the caravan site owner Marion and her dogs using my credit card at every available opportunity. Marion must have been lonely as she was more than happy of the company; myself, I found her good company too.
When Friday came I loaded the car up with the camping gear and bottles of local , then, after saying my goodbyes to Marion and the owner of the local bar, I headed off back to sunny old Britain, refreshed and nicely sun tanned.
I wanted my return to Britain to be noticed so the bottles of wine were six per box. This was in the days when there were limits on the amount of alcohol you could bring into the country. My car appeared to be seriously overloaded with wine, far more than my personal limit would allow. The instant I entered the ‘nothing to declare’ queue all eyes turned my way.
The customs guy checked my passport and eyed me suspiciously while I tried not to laugh. Putting on my best pensive look I shuffled from foot to foot. It didn’t take much for the guy to think he’d scored a tax evader and before long my car interior was stripped and the luggage was all over the customs house.
It wasn’t until they opened the wine boxes and counted the wine that they realized they things weren’t what they seemed.
The disgruntled customs officer muttered under his breath about learning to pack properly and wrote some disparaging notes on his clip board. As he leaned forwards I could see he had made a note of my name, address, and license plate. With any luck if the police showed him my picture he would recognize me again.
With a half hearted apology for the inconvenience he left me to put my car back together. After I’d repacked my motor I was soon on the motorway, windows down, listening to Lynyrd Skynyrd’s second album, ‘Sweet Home Alabama’ pumping from the speakers.
After a long drive I arrived back in the real world at my quiet empty little house. I was well aware of what had happened in my absence so it came as no great surprise to spot two men in a silver Volvo car parked just up the road from my house.
I parked my car on the drive pretending not to notice the undercover police car. Trying to behave as innocently as possible I opened up the house and started unloading the wine boxes and luggage.
It wasn’t long before I heard their footsteps following me up the drive. Putting on a straight face I turned round to confront them. “Mr. Nostaw?” said a voice. “Yes that’s me,” I replied innocently.
The officers just looked like two ordinary guys in cheap suits. If you consider that they were approaching someone they suspected of being a homicidal maniac you might have expected them to have taken suitable measures. Would you have sent two unarmed men to confront me, I surely wouldn’t have. In the States they would have sent an entire tactical assault team.
“We’d like you to come down to the station to help us with our enquiries,” said the taller officer in his ill-fitting Burton’s suit.
“Why?”, I said, looking puzzled. “Are you arresting me for something?”
The man looked at me oddly as if he had expected me to do or say something incriminating. Seeming unsure what to say he carried on, “Erm, is it necessary, we just want to talk with you.”
“Well, in that case, no, I won’t come to the station with you.” The officers looked perplexed.
“How about we just come in to talk to you then,” he offered.
This time faking a tired voice I replied, “I’ve just come back from two weeks in France, I’ve had a long drive, I got stopped by customs, and I’m tired. Unless you’re going to arrest me, whatever it is you want can wait till another day”.
They exchanged glances with each other, one of them shrugging. “In that case we’ll leave you to your unpacking and maybe speak to you tomorrow when you’re feeling more co-operative”.
To my surprise they didn’t return the next day. It was the last I saw of the police. Being stubborn by nature I doubt the police really believed my alibi. After checking with customs, my credit card company and Marion at the camp site my alibi would stand up, there wasn’t a lot they could do with their suspicions.
The only other likely candidates for the Tibald murders were my brother and Shaz. Unfortunately for the police they struck out there too as hundreds of witnesses could place them in Malaga at the time I was busy turning Tibalds’ front room into an abattoir. From what I understand the case was given up as a robbery that went wrong. I’ve no plans to inform them otherwise.
Chapter 4
Justice served, I thought that barring any intrusions from the local constabulary the whole affair was finished with. I soon found out, however, that all the police interest in my comings and goings must have caught someone’s attention. A few months later I got approached by a man in the local high street while out doing my weekend shop.
“Mr. Nostaw,” he said in a polite voice, “any chance of a quick word?”
Suspecting he was some kind of police officer, but curious to know what he wanted I replied, “Yer, sure mate, what is it?”
“Well, I understand you have some skills that my clients may be interested in,” said the man beaming broadly. “Why don’t you sit down with me and discuss it with me over a coffee, I’ll buy of course.”
Taking a seat outside the local Costa Coffee I waited while he went in for the drinks. By the time he reappeared carrying two cups I was resigned to the fact this was a new soft tactic for extracting any shred of information that could be used to break my alibi. I hadn’t been expecting him to ask questions about computing and I wasn’t disappointed; he was far more interested in what I’d been up to lately.
Although I had suspected he was from the police his line of questioning was all wrong.
He wasn’t interested in whether I’d been doing something I shouldn’t have. He wasn’t even interested in any specific details about my alibi. He was far more interested in the morality issues to do with how I felt about Tibald’s death.
It was a strange kind of questioning and he wanted to know the answers to questions for which not even I was sure of the answers. “How do you feel about the slaughter of the Tibald family?” I replied defensively. “Hey I was in France when that happened.”
“I didn’t ask if you were responsible, I just wanted to know what you felt about it.”
“Give the guy who did it a medal,” I replied. “I’m glad they’re all gone and he doesn’t get to enjoy his family life after killing mine.”
“What even the wife and kids- that’s quite harsh,” he said, raising his eyebrows.
I shrugged. “There’s plenty more Tibalds kicking around here.”
At this point he roared with laughter and said, “Well, as you’ve probably guessed, I’m not from a computer company or from the police.”
“No kidding,” I said. “I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me who you really are, are you?”
He bent closer and in a quiet voice started to explain what the conversation was really about. I felt a cold sweat forming on the back of my neck as he outlined fairly accurately how I managed to murder the Tibalds while I was in another country.
He then went on to cheerfully say, I had potential. My complete lack of remorse and good attention to detail made him sure that I was the right stuff for a special contract agency, the right man for the job so to speak.
By this time I’d twigged what his game was. His agency was the sort you call when you need a problem removing on a permanent basis. What he had was a job offer or an insinuation that he would put a word in the right ear to set the law on the right track.
I was at a loose end: clean record, no wife and kids, already a ruthless proven killer, did I really have anything to lose by saying yes?. I looked at him in disbelief for a moment. Then before I knew it, I’d jumped in with both feet. “So tell me, what’s the pay like?”
He grinned, “Thought you’d never ask. Its 2K per successful contract; contracts are typically one per week.”
I was quite surprised by the amount of money to be made. I couldn’t help but wonder to myself how the police hadn’t noticed all the death and mayhem on the streets.
“Okay” I said after thinking for a minute. “I’ll bite. Explain how it all works?”
He took a PDA type phone from his pocket and slid it across the table towards me. His face suddenly took on a serious expression as he started to explain the inner workings of the agency.
“This phone will relay your contracts to you as required, you’ll be placed on our books as an engineer who works from home. We won’t ask for details of how you complete your contracts or when they’re completed. As for proof, we employ an independent auditor who notifies us of completion.”
I picked up the PDA and dropped it into my pocket. “Send me a job contract over and I’ll have a look,” I said with a grin, getting up to leave.
He flipped a card out of his top pocket and handed it to me, suggesting that I drop by the office tomorrow and pick up my contract in person, if I didn’t mind the trip. At least then I could be convinced this was not a joke or a trap, I thought to myself.
The writing on the card said Kirsky Associates in thick gold embossed italics. On the back there was an address for their offices in Manchester. I shook the recruitment agent’s hand and slipped the card into my pocket, and then, as if by magic, he vanished off into the crowded shopping center.
The next day I got out of bed early. It had been a while since I had anything to look forwards to. Although I was highly skeptical about the whole arrangement I was still curious enough to investigate. Treating it like a job interview I decided first impressions count so I had a bath and put on a nice shirt and trousers.
Soon enough I was off out of the door and heading into the city. My tatty old cruiser hummed along the motorway, which is about the only place it really seemed comfortable. The pale winter sun shone down from a clear blue sky. Looking up I thought: the right type of weather for optimism.
The company house was in a rather plush area mostly populated by expensive solicitors’ offices. With the local area inundated by professional footballers getting into fights, and crashing their expensive cars while drunk, it was hardly surprising they were doing so well.
I left my shabby vehicle in the private car park between a Bentley and a Range Rover Sport and walked round to the front door expecting it to be locked. After all, it was Sunday.
The doors were standing open. Not wanting to be caught by some practical joker I pressed the buzzer on the wall and waited. A hidden speaker crackled and a soft voice said with a giggle, “Come in, the door’s open”. Drawn like to a siren I did as the voice requested, stepping into the darkness of the building’s interior without contemplating what waited within.
Fortunately it wasn’t a burly police officer with a pair of handcuffs; instead, at the end of the hall I saw a large reception desk. The alluring voice belonged to a pretty brown haired Hispanic looking girl sitting behind the desk.
She smiled sweetly at me as I approached. I was quite taken by the way she smiled. Her smile wasn’t the usual plastic “Barbie” smile you get at the local hair salon. Her face had a warmth and care I found quite hypnotic.
“Everybody works on a Sunday?” I asked, “I’m not sure I want a job here if I have to work Sundays.”
Looking up, smiling, she said, “You’re in luck, most of the staff work from home. It’s just me and Mr. Kirsky in today.”
“Well your job must pay okay,” I said knowingly, “since the license plate on that Range Rover says its your bosses, the Bentley must be yours.”
She laughed. “No, I’m not that lucky. The Bentley’s a client’s. I walk to work. Besides, walking is good for my figure.” Peaking over the edge of the desk I could say her figure didn’t need much improving from where I was standing.
She looked up and caught my gaze. Blushing she glanced at the computer screen behind her desk. “Take a seat please Mr. Nostaw,” she said, looking up at me with her honey eyes from under those long eyelashes. “Mr. Kirsky will be with you shortly”.
In the corner of the lobby were some comfortable looking armchairs and a low coffee table stacked with magazines and newspapers. Feeling like I was in a dentist’s waiting room waiting for root canal work I sat down and tried to make my self comfortable for the expected long wait. Important people always seem to like to keep you waiting. I suppose it gives them a feeling of power, but no sooner had my backside hit the chair the floor creaked and a man walked into the lobby.
He was smartly dressed, maybe mid-forties with bushy eyebrows that gave him a rather ferocious expression. He looked slightly familiar, but I couldn’t quite place where I’d seen him before.
Climbing out of the deep armchair to face him, I saw beneath the comfortable smile a cold sparkle in his eye. For some reason I felt uncomfortable and very paranoid just standing in front of him. Rather like gazing at a coiled cobra and hoping it was asleep.
He greeted me warmly, shaking my hand with a vice-like grip. “I expect you’ve come to pick up your contract of employment and details of benefits?”
I nodded enthusiastically because I really couldn’t think of anything to say. I probably looked like one of those daft toy dogs you see in the back of people’s cars.
“Come then,” he said. “Let’s go talk in one of the conference rooms.” He strode ahead as I followed him down a dark marble-face corridor.
He did a neat left turn into a doorway at which point I slipped on the polished floor, nearly falling on my backside trying to follow him. For an older guy I was surprised how quick he was on his feet.
Grinning, he closed the door behind me and gestured for me to take a seat. I took a place at the large polished circular table. In front of me was a sheet of paper and a brown manila folder. Reading through it very carefully I could see it was a standard job contract. Unable to find fault with it I signed and dated it, and then hand it back to Mr. Kirsky.
“Welcome aboard,” he said and shook my hand again enthusiastically. “Its great to have you join out family. Right now we’ve got more work than we can cope with so another pair of hands is just what we need.”
This admission came as a bit of a surprise to me. In this day and age there seems to be a never ending supply of crazy people waiting for the excuse to slaughter some poor sole.
Mr. Kirsky already had the answer to this question, and explained it candidly even before I’d had chance to ask.
“It’s not hard to find people who want to go round bumping people off. The real problem’s finding people who won’t fuck it all up. It takes just the right amount of ruthlessness, intelligence and religious attention to detail to make a good employee round here.”
“What about the SAS?” I asked. “Well yes,” he replied," I admit they’re well trained and they would get the job done, but they stand out in a crowd. With their backgrounds even the stupidest policeman would figure out that they were the most likely suspect”.
“Well I can see your point,” I said. “I hadn’t really thought about it like that.”
At that moment we were interrupted as Mr. Kirsky’s phone rang. He took a look at the incoming message then got up from behind the table. “I wish you luck,” he said, smiling. He handed me the brown folder and ushered me to the door.
Later on that night I fetched myself a nice warming glass of Rioja and sat down with the manila folder to see what it contained. The contents were a DIY disappearing kit. There were a number of different driving licenses with my picture on them, a collection of credit cards matching the driving licenses, and a sheet of paper.
Scanning down the sheet of paper I read through the list of phone numbers, supplies, ordinance, transport, advice, doctors. There was a whole array of support services listed with two notes at the bottom. The first note read: ‘Ring once, then hang up, you will be called back’; the second: ‘Credit card expenses will be deducted from contract payment’.
I looked at the PDA sat on the chair arm and the enormity of what I’d got myself into struck home. I couldn’t help but wonder who the first luckless lamb would be. Nor could I help but wonder if I would be able to murder someone in cold blood that I didn’t even know, let alone hate.
Chapter 5
A few days later I came home from work and as usual was sitting idly picking at an unappetizing microwave meal for one. There wasn’t anything worth watching on TV so I sat in my depressed silence watching a blank screen. You don’t realize how much your family means to you until they’re gone, and all you have left is the silence of four walls to keep you company.
Fortunately my depression was suddenly forgotten when, unexpectedly the PDA on the table vibrated, startling me out of my chair.
Picking it up I saw there was a new email from the agency. Knowing that this mail would be a death sentence to someone, I opened it hoping that I wouldn’t be looking into the face of the Queen or some innocent child.
One look at the picture and I recognized the face; it was one of Manchester’s leading police officers. I’m not sure what he had been doing to deserve the honor of being my first target, but he must have been very annoying to someone.
In a way I was relieved it was a police officer. My experience of Tibald’s sentencing over the death of my family had left me with no love for the legal system.
Bundled in the email was a data file containing comprehensive lists of personal information on the target. Lists of hangouts, car number plates, home addresses, pictures of the wife and kids, the girlfriend and associated family members, it was all there.
The poor bloke’s complete life laid out before me, complete with every single small act of indiscretion. The detail of the information was frightening. If Kirsky had wanted to out me to the police I was sure he could easily dig up enough information to send me to my cell.
I was about to pick up the phone to dial the supply line to order a handgun when a thought occurred to me. If I made too much of a mess I’d end up being fed to the police as a scapegoat.
If I just walked up and shot the guy every officer in the area would start digging under stones looking for me. You can’t just off an officer of the law and expect to get away with it.
Whatever method I used had to look like something other than a suspicious death.
A suicide would be good, but families often refuse to accept them as the truth. What I needed was a death that could be either an accident or a suicide. That way everyone would be happy.
I settled back in my chair and started reading through the email again. There was plenty of room for a potential suicide. The guy was having an affair; he had a history of depression. Now all I needed was an accident.
Looking at the biography I saw the mark was into mountain walking and visiting pubs. The phone tap data revealed he was planning to go walking in North Wales the next weekend so I went onto the internet to research the mountain he was heading for.
The weather was due to be snowing and bitterly cold, which gave me the idea for a perfect plan.
Picking up the PDA I dialled the supply line and let it ring once before hanging up. Almost immediately the phone vibrated with an incoming call.
On the other end the male voice said, “Good evening Mr. Nostaw. You have a list of equipment you require?”
I gave the man the list of equipment. I expected him to reject some of the items because they were a little obscure. But to my surprise the man said “no problem” and rang off. I hoped their delivery was not by Royal Mail or I’d not be ready till next year.
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