A case for the police leads a trail to CI5
It is said that killing is the easy part; it's disposing of the body which is the difficult bit. I've read enough crime novels (both English and American; both fiction and factual) to know that buried bodies don't always stay buried for long. Those that rise to the surface are riddled with forensic details. The net closes; the killer sweats it out; but the handcuffs eventually click. Well, I've done my homework and I haven't been caught yet. The bodies – my bodies – are in full view and there's nothing on police records to attach them to me. After all, if you dust for fingerprints, you have to have something to compare them with. Right?
It's midnight on a dark, wet, awful night. Just the kind of night I've been waiting for. The boozers are spilling out. Those too drunk to think weave their way to the car park and try to find the right key for the right car. Those with a little less in their bellies go off in taxis with waves and hugs and "See yah," yelled across the night. All this I've observed through the long, endless evenings. My target tonight is looking for a taxi. He's usually one of the last to leave 'The Mornington'. I ease my black car in his direction. I've picked up punters before and dropped them home. There's nothing like familiarity to let the guard down. I cruise over to Mr X. I don't know his name, and I've no intention of finding out. I know where he lives as I've given him a lift before. No messing about, nothing to get worried about. All nice and smooth. Mr X gets in. This night will be different though – he just doesn't know it yet. I smile my guileless smile as he slips in the back, stumbling as he always does. Drink and co-ordination don't sit well with him. He starts up some long and involved tale about god knows what and I interject with a 'Really" and "Is that right?" just to jolly him along; as though I'm actually listening.
Why do I want to kill this man? He's done nothing wrong; we have no history between us. He's married (that much I do know from what he's said in the past) and probably has a boring job (that much he hasn't said). So what's the problem? Oh, no problem. It's just that I like puzzles. I like to pit myself against Fate. I don't go in for judo or unarmed combat, or anything of that sort. No. The knife's my thing. Quick, largely painless, and little forensic evidence to leave behind. You're right, I do enjoy my work. I enjoy the planning, the random choosing of a target. No, I don't know why they're always men. Perhaps they're more of a challenge than women. Perhaps I don't like violence against the female sort. I don't know. It just is. Perhaps a psychiatrist can explain it to us both. It's bound to go back to my childhood! Mr X is my fourth victim. I don't like that word – victim - it smacks of weakness and intimidation. These men aren't weak (as far as I know) and I don't intimidate them (for long). But I can't find another word for what I do.
Anyway, it's a while before Mr X realises that we're not taking the usual route. He asks why and I say that there are roadworks. He, like the others who have gone before him, accepts this and he sits back to enjoy the ride. These men are usually asleep, or half way gone, by the time I reach my destination. Always a different part of town. I don't stray too far though. I don't want my 'fare' getting into a panic. We're usually arrived by the time the punter realises that we've reached our journey's end.
I pull up at a disused, crumbling factory site. I get out quickly before Mr X can react. I open the rear door and pull a gun on him. It's an old cap pistol and you couldn't shoot an apple in a barrel with it. But do you know what a real gun looks like? Do you know what a real marksman looks like? No, of course you don't. You just see the barrel of something nasty pointed steadily in your face and the blank look of a killer at the other end. I like that bit; the shift from happy drunk, to stone cold sober in the matter of moments. I grin as Mr X stumbles out of the car and asks what's going on. "Well, let's find out shall we?" I say as he moves forward into the darkness, tripping on the uneven ground. He burbles about his wife and kids. I take no notice. We keep moving – he ahead, me two steps behind. Unseen by him, I slip the useless firearm back into the left pocket and draw out a knife from my right. "This is far enough." He gets to asking why, when I slip the blade between his ribs before he has a chance to turn round. I know well now the exact spot to choose. As he slumps, I ease him to the ground, not wanting to get too close to him. I hear the air expelling from him. His last breath. I stay with him for a few moments, despite the heavy rain. A kind of communion I suppose. I feel it important to be with him on his last journey.
Satisfied, I turn away to have a pee when I see someone at my car. I'd left the keys in and the bastard was going to go off with it. I run forward, shouting. I'm quicker than he thinks and he abandons the car and runs off. I don't know if he's seen what I've done but I'm not prepared to take any chances. I'm quickly gaining on him. Then I fall over something in the dark and the knife slips out of my wet hand and gets lost in the debris somewhere. I don't have time to look for it, but make a mental note of the spot. The thief is disappearing round a corner. I scoop up a piece of abandoned rope lying there as I get to my knees and I'm off again. My legs hurt but there's no time for that now; no time for anything. I find the pursuit of my quarry exhilarating. I've never done this before. The thief isn't as fit as I, and I eventually catch up with him. He made the mistake of not looking back to see how far behind I was; perhaps he thought he didn't have time. But I'm there, sonny, right behind you. Death is on your heels. I wait till I'm only a foot-stride behind and then I push him to the ground. He rolls and, caught in the same momentum, I catapult over him. Ok, I can't think of every eventuality, can I? What I don't want is a catfight. If he lives round here, he's probably a street fighter, and I know my limits. But I recover first and shuffle rapidly on my ailing knees towards him before he can get up. We're both breathing very hard; saturated to our bones. I throw myself on top of him and get the rope quickly around his neck. I'm not a big man, not a heavy man, but I am a strong man. I can't afford for him to roll on his back and start wrestling. I tug the rope around his thick neck and turn and turn. He scratches awkwardly at my hands, writhing, gasping. I ride him like a tiger, not daring to let go. Eventually his struggling eases, his breath comes in short pants, until not at all. I still cling on. I've never done it this way before. I don't know how long it takes. Eventually the fire drains from me. The danger has passed. I drag myself off his body and stare down at him, exhausted. I don't want to see his face. I feel sad. I'm not one for introspection, and the emotion surprises me. Mr X had more to lose than this waster, but I guess I hadn't grown to know him. I hadn't taken him for 'taxi' rides; I hadn't stalked him or spoken to him. But I had to kill him. He was a witness. You do see that, don't you?
I go back to where I think the knife was dropped and hunt around in the dark for it wondering why I never carry a torch with me. Then I hear a car. There's a road not far away, but this engine is getting closer. To my surprise it's heading my way. I throw myself onto the ground but I'm sure that I haven't been spotted. The headlights are away to my left. The driver seems to know where he's going and is unaware of me. I lie flat in the muck and the wet for a while longer. The car pulls up at the factory building itself. The lights are extinguished and I hear a car door opening then slamming. I can't see much from this distance but I feel it too risky to head towards him to get my car. I'll have to abandon it. Why would anyone want to come out in this weather to this god-awful place? A clandestine meeting crosses my mind – drugs perhaps. My imagination goes into overdrive. It's those damned crime books I've been reading. Well, whatever the driver wants here, it's none of my business. I abandon my search for the knife and hope that the rain has washed off any forensics (ditto the two bodies out here). I get into a crouching position. My knees protest again, but there's no other way. Standing up would give too much away, even in this light, and, as you know, I'm not a man who takes chances. My main concern now is any evidence left in the car. It's stolen with false number plates. (I've managed to get away with using it for nearly four months now; but I only use it for my 'taxi fares'.) But it's too risky to make a go for it now. Perhaps – just perhaps – I'll be able to retrieve it in the morning and drive it back to the safe place I have. I don't want to hang around here waiting for the mystery driver to leave, so it was a wet and very long way home. Once the adrenalin had drained away it was all I could do to put one foot in front of another. I didn't want to take a bus – there were still one or two night buses cruising around – as I didn't want any clever driver or passenger remembering me.
I was feeling very sorry for myself as I let myself in quietly to my bedsit. I was shaking with cold. I didn't want to wake the neighbours by taking a bath in these early hours, so scrubbed myself down with a wet towel, convinced I'd have pneumonia by dawn. I usually lie on my bed after such adventures, reliving the moments, but that bastard had spoiled all that by stumbling into the drama. You're not convinced that I should have killed him, are you? Well you have a conscience, I don't. That's the difference between us.