Текст книги "Bolt-hole"

Автор книги: A. J. Oates

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

She exhaled loudly, and grudgingly responded without looking up. “Have you got the deposit and first month’s rent?”  I handed over an envelope containing the £400.  She opened it and slowly counted the twenty £20 notes onto the desk, and then, to my frustration, recounted, clearly not trusting me – or possibly herself.  After the second count she spun round on her chair and opened a filing cabinet behind her. “What address was it again?”

“Stanley Road. 17b Stanley Road.” After a minute of rummaging, she found the file, opened it and handed over a set of keys and a contract for me to sign.  I hurriedly scribbled a near illegible J. Bosworth; then I picked up the keys and headed for the door.

“Rents due first of each month, you need to drop it off here.”

“No problem,” I said without turning as I opened the door and was gone.

I drove back home with my thoughts dominated by the plan, probably to the compromise of my driving, as I received the blast of car horns from a couple of disgruntled drivers after I’d cut them up.  Creeping doubts were beginning to set in: was I really capable of murder? I felt almost embarrassed by myself; had I simply instigated an elaborate mind game to distract me from my other concerns?  For crying out loud, I’m an academic.  As a general rule assassins aren’t recruited from the ranks of the biochemists.  But almost as though it were a sign from some divine power to instil fortitude, my phone beeped loudly and, stationary at the traffic lights, I opened the text message: “Can’t wait to see you tomorrow – ££££, Mousey.”  In an instant my doubts were expunged. Musgrove had to die.

Reaching home, I quickly packed a rucksack with a sleeping bag, toothbrush, torch, binoculars, and food items: sandwiches, crisps, scotch eggs and fruit juice; not exactly a balanced diet but enough to keep me going for a few days.  I then headed for the bus stop.  By 10:40 a.m. I was at Stanley Road, and with the road quiet – just the occasional pedestrian and car – nobody gave me a second glance as I turned into the driveway of 17b.  Originally designed as a single house, like many of the neighbouring properties it had been converted into two one-bedroom flats.  The front door and main access to the upstairs flat was at the side and largely obscured from the road by an enormous overgrown privet hedge.

Hidden from the road by the privet, I struggled to turn the key in the lock and it crossed my mind that the ignorant girl in the letting agent’s had cocked up and given me the wrong key.  After thirty seconds of frustration, I discovered that the knack was to pull and lift the handle simultaneously, and satisfyingly the key would turn. I stepped inside the cramped hallway, dark despite the brilliant sunlight outside; I could barely make out the top of the stairs just a few metres in front of me.  I pressed the light switch but nothing happened and I resorted to my sense of touch as I climbed the steep staircase.  Underfoot, the carpet felt damp and sticky, and I shuddered to think where I was putting my hands.  The stairs opened directly into a combined living room and kitchen area, off which were two doors, one leading to a small bathroom and the second to a bedroom.  I was pleasantly surprised.  Although there was a strong smell of damp and the flat was in need of some decorating, there was no rotting food, stacks of dirty plates or overflowing toilet.

After my quick inspection, I turned my attention to more important matters and moved over to the living room window.  I peered out from the side of the large bay window, and with Musgrove nowhere to be seen I quickly closed the floral-patterned curtains.  I knelt down in front of the window, my eye-line just above the level of the windowsill, and pulled the curtains a few centimetres to one side to look into the street below.  It was perfect: I had an unobstructed view of both the front door and living room window of Musgrove’s flat directly opposite.  I watched, hidden from the outside by the hideous curtains. My long hours of watching and waiting had begun.

Despite the less than palatable surroundings I was feeling upbeat, and satisfied that another element of my plan was in place.  I began making myself at home by arranging newspapers to cover the filthy carpet and then rolling out my sleeping bag on top.  I dragged the only piece of furniture, an old armchair, over to the window.  Stuffing and springs were sticking out from the armrests and I covered it in newspaper before taking a seat, hidden behind the closed curtains.

The street remained largely quiet for the next thirty minutes, with just the occasional car or pedestrian. Then, at 11:30 a.m., from down the street away to my right, the unmistakable stooping figure of Musgrove appeared, wearing his distinctive filthy denim jacket.  I felt strangely excited at the sight of him.  Walking with obvious urgency despite his limp, he looked like he was about to break into a jog.  I watched from no more than twenty metres away as he turned into his driveway and let himself into 29a.  For a few seconds I lost sight of him before he reappeared in his living room and took a seat at the small table a couple of metres or so back from the window.  Through the numerous rips in the curtains, I could see him in profile, leaning over to one side and retrieving something from a carrier bag on the floor next to his chair.  I removed the binoculars from my rucksack, steadied them on the deep windowsill, and focused on the bag.  I watched as he removed a syringe and needle in their small sterile packets and placed them on the table.  He appeared on edge, glancing furtively around almost as if he knew he was being watched.  With his hands shaking, he took the syringe and needle from the packaging, assembled them, and then removed a small silver-foil packet from the pocket of his jacket, now slung over the back of the chair.  As he rolled up his sleeve I had a distinctly queasy feeling, and with no desire to see any more I turned away as he began preparing his fix.  As I paced around the room, it crossed my mind that he might overdose, thereby solving all my problems.  But I suspected he was a seasoned professional at the heroin game and this was unlikely. In any case, part of me felt that his self-destruction would take away the satisfaction of me being at the helm of his demise.

I returned to the window to see Musgrove slumped in the chair.  After thirty minutes he roused briefly, stumbled over to his bed, and climbed on the dirty, unmade sheets to enjoy a drug-induced siesta.

Just after 6:00 p.m. Musgrove rose from his slumber, and within a few minutes he left the flat and headed on foot towards the main road.  I considered following him but, with the risk of being spotted dissuading me, I decided to stay put.  Within a few minutes he returned with a carrier bag bearing the logo of the local Thresher’s off licence.  For the rest of the evening Musgrove sat in front of his small TV and drank extra-strong lager, only once getting up to make what looked like baked beans and sausages, and then eating them straight out of the saucepan.  At 10:33 p.m. he got up from his chair, put the dirty saucepan in the sink, had a piss, and lay back down on his bed.  His day was at an end.

I watched through the binoculars for a few more minutes as his chest moved up and down.  The rhythmicity of the movement had an almost hypnotic effect, and within a few minutes, unable to keep my own eyes open, I lay down on my sleeping bag, and after a matter of seconds, my day too was over.

–

Asleep for no more than a few hours on the floor of 17b, I woke to the sound of drunken shouting and banging metal.  It was still dark outside, and I checked my watch: 2:17 a.m.  Peering through the gap in the curtains, I could see a group of youths taking turns to smash a metal bar against a lamppost while the others looked on and shouted encouragement.  I watched as one of them held the bar at shoulder height while spinning on the spot, and then, as he lost balance and fell to the ground, one of his mates took over accompanied by raucous cheers.  Throughout the racket, no lights came on in the neighbouring flats and nobody came out to complain. I suspected being woken in the early hours was not an infrequent occurrence.

After a few minutes I heard the faint sound of a police siren in the distance, gradually getting closer.  My heart began to pound and I had to remind myself that I hadn’t actually committed any crime, at least not yet.  Within thirty seconds a police car turned into Stanley Road and the youths quickly disbanded.  With the street quiet again I scanned Musgrove’s flat but the lights were still off and there was no sign of movement inside.  I lay back down on the sleeping bag but was incapable of further sleep.  My thoughts were focused on my plan and the meeting with Musgrove later in the day.  I certainly didn’t relish the prospect of seeing him again, particularly to hand over money, but I attempted to console myself that it was for the greater good of achieving my ultimate goal.

 

Interrupting my thoughts, a door slammed in the street outside and I glanced up to see one of the neighbours getting on a bike and heading off to work.  Checking my watch, I saw that it was already 4:30 a.m.; lost in my preoccupations, the previous couple of hours had sped by.  I didn’t feel tired but closed my eyes to try and calm my thinking, and to my surprise I woke up several hours later with sunlight streaming through the window.  I sat up and looked over at Musgrove’s flat.  His ripped curtains were closed but his still sleeping form was just visible.  My eyes felt heavy and gritty and I regretted not taking out my contact lenses the night before.  I crawled out of the sleeping bag and gingerly stood up.  My neck and shoulders were stiff from sleeping on the hard wooden floor and I did a few limbering-up exercise to get the knots out of my body.  I went over to the kitchen sink and turned on the tap and watched as the water came out a rusty brown colour.  After thirty seconds it ran clear and I splashed it on my face, the icy cold water instantly refreshing, and soothing to my stinging eyes.

I took a seat in the armchair next to the window and ate a scotch egg.  Normally one of my favourites, it didn’t have quite the same appeal at six in the morning but I scoffed it down anyway.  Then, with the eggy snack repeating on me, I carefully studied 29a through the binoculars.  Musgrove was still asleep and his foot just sticking out from under the filthy blankets.  With the high-powered lenses I could even make out his revolting toenails, curled over and encrusted with dirt that the master of a Chinese opium den would be proud of.  Merely catching a glimpse of the despicable individual was sufficient motivation, if it were needed, to make my plan succeed.

Over the next hour I watched as the neighbourhood slowly came to life.  A flat two doors down from Musgrove was the first to show as three young men wearing Muslim garb left home, presumably on the way to the mosque for early morning prayers. I didn’t have Musgrove down as an early riser – more the crack of mid-morning at best – but to my surprise he was awake by 8:30 a.m.  He dressed quickly in the same dirty jeans and grey T-shirt from the previous day, and after the briefest of ablutions he was out of the flat by 8:40 a.m.  I watched through the binoculars as he marched purposefully down the road, even with his limp.  Again I considered shadowing him, keen to know his every movement, but felt it prudent, at least for the first few days, to avoid risking detection at all costs.

As I waited for Musgrove to return I ate another scotch egg, not really out of hunger but more as a means to kill time.  I was already finding the business of surveillance a tedious affair and was grateful to see him arrive to break the monotony a little after 11:30 a.m.  He was walking with the same urgency as I’d seen on his return the day before, presumably the focus of a junkie and the desperate need for a fix.  I watched as he entered his flat and then, a few seconds later, him sitting at the small table to begin preparing his morning constitution.

Within five minutes Musgrove was lying face down on his bed.  If the previous day was the norm he would be out of it for several hours and I took the opportunity to head back home to Alton before he was due to arrive to collect the money later in the afternoon. Though I doubted Musgrove was in any state to be watching, I pulled my baseball cap down low to cover my face and hurried down the driveway and into the street.  A bus was just pulling into the stop as I reached the end of Stanley Road, and I jogged the last twenty metres before climbing aboard.  Within twenty minutes I arrived in the town centre, and I made my way to the building society to collect the £4,700 for Musgrove, plus a further £300 for any contingencies.  After the obligatory offer and my subsequent decline of a “financial health-check”, I headed for the bus station, and by 2:30 p.m. I was back home in Alton.

Feeling tired and dishevelled after my largely sleepless night in the filthy flat, I had a long hot shower and scrubbed my hands with a nail brush to remove the grime that had become engrained under my fingernails.  After getting dressed I made beans on toast and a mug of tea and took them through to the living room.  I switched on the TV news.  It was probably the first time in months I’d had any interest in anything other than my own problems, but after just a few minutes my tiredness returned and I was asleep.

I awoke a couple of hours later to loud knocking on the front door.  I knew immediately who it was and jumped up from the settee, not wanting to leave him on the doorstep in full view of the neighbours.  Opening the door, I was greeted by Musgrove’s smug smile, clearly now recovered from his earlier fix.  I willed myself to stay calm, knowing that the machete was in the rucksack just a few feet away me, though the urge to use it was almost overwhelming.  “Hello, Julian, nice to see you.”

“Get inside, get inside,” I responded sharply.

Musgrove stepped through the doorway and started to walk from the hallway into the living room.  But I wasn’t going to tolerate any further breach of my personal space and barked at him, “Just wait there. Wait there, I’ve got the money for you.”  I reached into my rucksack, my hand brushing against the cold metal of the machete as I pulled out an envelope containing the £4,700.  I extended it to him and he gripped it with his filthy hands.  “Let me make it clear, this is the one and only time, do you understand me?  This is the last time,” I said as I released the envelope.

He opened it and looked at the contents.  For a second I thought he was going to count it, but instead he just smiled again, his rotten teeth on show. “Okay, okay, Julian. I trust you, I trust you.”  I opened the front door, stepped out of the porch to check there was no one about, and then by the elbow forcefully steered him outside.  “Steady on, Julian, what’s the hurry, not even a cup of tea?”

I didn’t respond, just slammed the door and locked it.  Outside I could hear Musgrove laughing sarcastically before shouting through the letter box his final parting quip: “See you again soon, Ju.  By the way, I’ll be in the Arundel tonight – my usual Thursday night ritual.  You’re more than welcome to join me for a bevy.  I’m in the chair.”  I was seething as I moved through to the living room.  I saw the photograph on the mantlepiece of Helen and the boys, and my hands trembled with rage and frustration as I picked up the silver frame.  I was desperate for revenge.  Musgrove had to die.

 

I made sandwiches and a flask of coffee and then, thirty minutes after Musgrove had left, I set off back to Rawlton.  As I sat on the bus I suspected that already he’d be buying booze or some other intoxicant, and with almost five grand burning a hole in his pocket he would doubtless be extremely popular with his dealer.  I arrived back at 17b at 8:05 p.m. as only the last remnants of the mid-September sunlight remained.  Turning into the driveway, I briefly glanced towards Musgrove’s flat but his front room was in darkness.  I let myself into 17b and headed up the stairs.  I unpacked my sleeping bag, laid it out on the floor, and then poured a coffee from the flask before taking up my vantage point in the chair by the window.

Musgrove arrived home at 11:30 p.m., staggering down the driveway and then struggling to get his key in the lock.  Eventually he negotiated the front door and within a few seconds the light came on in the bedsit.  Through the gaps in the ragged curtains I fleetingly saw him move round the room, but within five minutes the lights went off and in the darkness I could just make out his form lying on his bed.  After a few more minutes of watching, I lay down on my sleeping bag and within minutes I was dead to world.

I slept far more soundly than the previous night.  I was awoken briefly by a car alarm at around 1:30 a.m. but within minutes I was asleep again, finally waking at 6:00 a.m. when my alarm went off.  Sitting in the chair, I drank lukewarm coffee from the thermos, providing a welcome caffeine boost, and ate the rest of the sandwiches from the day before.  After a few minutes a door slammed shut and I looked out to see the Muslim lads heading to the mosque.  I silently debated whether I could ask God to bless my plan; I suspected not.

The first signs of movement in 29a once again occurred at 8:30 a.m.  Musgrove followed the same routine as the previous morning; dressing as soon as he was awake, taking a piss and then heading out of the door. He returned with impetus just before midday and immediately began to prepare his habit, and then with his little indulgence streaming through his veins, he collapsed on the bed.

–

As I monitored Musgrove’s movements over the following weeks, his routine was surprisingly consistent. Invariably he would wake no later than 8:30 a.m., dress quickly and, with showering and dental hygiene not essential features of his lifestyle, he would leave the flat within minutes.  There was always a great focus to his departure, his stride always purposeful towards the main road and to the bus stop, a meeting with his dealer providing the attraction.  He would normally return to the flat two to three hours later with even greater impetus and then immediately begin preparing his concoction at the small kitchen table.  Usually I wouldn’t watch.  I was squeamish of needles at the best of times and the whole process turned my stomach.  The irony wasn’t lost on me; here I was planning to murder him, but watching as he effectively killed himself, albeit slowly.  After his morning fix he would remain in situ for several hours, either slumped in the chair or sprawled across the bed.  It was during his “rests” that I usually left my surveillance post and headed back to Alton to check on the sale of the house or put together the other elements of my plan.

By late afternoon, usually no later than 6:00 p.m., I would be back at the flat to see him head off to the local off license or supermarket, returning twenty minutes later with a four-pack of extra-strong lager and occasionally some food.  He would spend the rest of the evening watching TV.  The only variation to his routine occurred on a Thursday, when for reasons that I never completely understood, rather than the normal visit to the off license, he would go to the Earl of Arundel pub.  There was even a degree of ritual to this aberration, as he would always return by 11:30 p.m., and always alone.

Some mornings I would follow at a discreet distance as he left the flat and then caught a bus at the end of the street.  I would wait for the next bus, often losing track of him, but occasionally close enough to see him get off the bus a few stops from the town centre and head to a small park, a ten-minute walk away.  It was here, next to an old groundkeeper’s hut and in full view of a children’s play area, that he would briefly chat with his dealer and then far from surreptitiously buy his drugs.  I often wondered how my cash injection had affected his lifestyle.  Presumably it had simplified much of it, with no need to work or resort to theft, but how long the money would last was another matter.

Fortunately for me in achieving my ultimate goal, his habit was a solitary pursuit.  On only a handful of occasions did I see him have any sort of social interaction.  Usually this was with the kids that loitered on the street corner, and involved either giving or receiving abuse, and then occasionally with his dealer at the park.  Other than a single visit from DI Patel a couple of weeks into my surveillance, Musgrove never had any visitors to his flat and even the brief exchange with Patel occurred on the doorstep.  At the time I’d been frantic with worry that Musgrove may have let something slip, and for several days I’d dreaded a phone call or visit to my Alton home from Patel. But to my relief it never came.

Despite the passage of time, my anger remained undiluted.  If anything it became more intense and my resolve that he should die only strengthened.  Following weeks of surveillance I was confident that, with the predictability of Musgrove’s routine, his flat would be the optimal place for the ultimate act.  Quiet, discreet and with few if any visitors, his body could lie undisturbed for weeks.  This would give me time to leave the country and possibly even provide an alibi of sorts, knowing that the longer the body remained undetected the more difficult it would be for the police pathologist to provide a precise time of death.  Then, even if suspicion was directed at me, I could always claim to have been out of the country and it would be virtually impossible to prove otherwise.

The final variable was the timing of the event.  This proved to be a frustration, largely out of my control and largely dependent on the sale of my house in Alton.  Daily I would phone the solicitors and estate agents to confirm the completion date and to chivvy proceedings along.  I certainly didn’t relish the prospect of becoming a murderer, but I was desperate for my plan to reach fruition and to move onto the next chapter in my life, whatever that proved to be.