It was the classic case of a murder-suicide. The husband walks in on the wife doing something he dislikes, generally something like breathing, and she ends up with a knife through her chest. Then overcome with grief, the husband repeats the protest by taking his own life. Tony fit the profile perfectly. He was an ex-con, so anything he did was regarded with suspicion, but there was more than that. Tony had become violent in prison after an incident involving Michelle, which was why Martin had been hired, a revenge for the incident that had left a man unable to walk.
Threatening Michelle was never a good idea, she was sharp enough to look after herself without any problems. But prison develops paranoia's, and Tony's were worse than most. His mind created every scenario his cellmate described in lavish detail, every agony she had had to endure. It was more than enough. The man had had no chance against Tony, fuelled by months of pent up rage, and it was surprising that only the man's legs had been destroyed.
Of course, no one had been able to blame Tony, the circumstances under which the incident had occurred were beyond his control, video footage revealing his agony as much as his mind had illuminated his wife's. But it had built a profile, and that was more than enough to get this him condemned for the crime Martin was about to frame him for.
The assassin was just waiting for his Bear to get back from his drinking spree, a drunken Bear would be no challenge. He only hoped he did it soon so that he could see his wife's last moments, because they weren't very far away.
When the Bear did arrive, morning was already lighting the sky. Martin was worried his Barbados holiday was going to be disturbed. He didn't like it when things got disturbed. Life was supposed to flow properly, it was supposed to be an art, breaks in this were particularly irritating. It was perhaps this annoyance that broke his plan apart.
Tony was filled with a defensive anger, accepting that he was at fault, but hating everyone for witnessing him being in the wrong. Anger manifested itself through fists thrown at a sofa. A sofa was an acceptable target, his fists never flew at anything else, but the sofa still shuddered with the weight of his fury.
Martin felt the fists on the sofa that he had been waiting behind. He knew then that he had failed. The noise was enough to attract attention, and it would cause an investigation when their bodies were finally found. Murder-suicide would be accepted, but there would be those who would know, friends of Tony who would have contacts. It would put his client at risk, and that constituted a failure.
Martin felt his knife enter flesh, that unique joy, with warm blood instantly coursing down his arm. He positioned the man and fled, taking all traces with him, but still recognising his failure.
Tony felt his wife's blood under his head, the sensation strangely muted by the numbness in his skin. He assumed her dead, but even his numbness was defeated by the hope he felt when cold fingers grasped at him. She was alive.
He knew full well the phone lines would be cut, but his mobile had been given to him when he left prison, and it had assumed its customary, but rather unnecessary, position the pocket inside his jacket. It still had Jack's number on speed-dial. It wasn't required, but to alter it would be to admit that his life had altered, and he still clung to it for the life it represented. It didn't take much to push the button that called Jack before he collapsed onto the floor. His blood mingled with his wife's, messing up her perfectly clean home just a little bit more than he had already. Somehow he didn't think she would mind. He'd ask her tomorrow, he was just too tired now. His fingers clasped tightly to hers even as they loaded him into the ambulance.