Текст книги "Bolt-hole"

Автор книги: A. J. Oates

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 17

 

After a restless and largely sleepless night on Kinder Scout, and not for the first time in the last few hours, I check my watch: still only 4:10 a.m. It is my last night in the bolt-hole and in my anxious state of mind there is little chance of further sleep.  It’s now mid April, the morning of the 17th to be precise, and I’m at the end of my six months of self-imposed incarceration.  It will be dawn within a couple of hours, and with my rucksacks already packed I intend to be on my way no later than 6:00 a.m.  I reach out into the darkness and find my torch lodged in its usual crevice in the side wall.  I switch it on and shield my eyes for a few seconds while I adjust to the light, and then look around my home of so long.  I have a strange feeling: a kind of sadness and nostalgia, knowing that my time here is ending. But I’m equally ready to move on.

I struggle out of my tight sleeping bag, roll it up, and shove it into one of the two rucksacks propped against the wall.  One of the bags contains my essentials and that I’ll take with me to the airport and beyond: passport, cash, spare clothes, a few old photographs, toiletries, et cetera.  The second, larger and much heavier bag containing the sleeping bag and other non-essentials I plan to dump on the way to Edale train station.

My lips begin to tingle and I am aware that my breathing is rapid.  The feeling reminds me of standing in the dark alley waiting for Musgrove, that night all those months ago.  I reassure myself that my anxiety is understandable: I’m leaving the safety and security of my bolt-hole with the possibility that I may be recognised and captured on the way to the airport or at one of the numerous security checks when I finally get there.  I suspect my nervousness is compounded by the fact that there is an element of institutionalisation in my thinking and I can’t help question whether I’m ready for the uncertainties of the outside world.  Several times over the last few weeks it has crossed my mind that I should stay entrenched indefinitely in the bolt-hole, living my bizarre subterranean existence.  In reality, of course, I need to move on.  From a purely practical standpoint, the food packs, my only source of nutrition, are now at an end.  I doubt there is much in the way of edible vegetation on Kinder Scout, and I don’t fancy my chances of catching any of the lightning-quick mountain hares that dart across the moors from time to time.  In any case, I want – need – my life to move on.  I’ve had enough of treading water.

For the last time I fire up the small camping stove, fill my cooking pot with water, and add the last of my camping-meal packs.  Waiting for the food to warm through, I unfold the map of the Peak District and study it closely, though I’m not really sure why: I’ve long since committed to memory the route that I’m going to follow during the coming day.  Away to the south-east is Edale and the train station.  As the crow flies it’s probably only about four miles.  Much of the route is downhill on well-worn paths and should take no more than a couple of hours – plenty of time for one of the hourly trains to Manchester and then onto the airport for my flight at 4:35 p.m.  I refold the map and put it back in the main body of the rucksack before reaching into the front pocket and removing a small plastic zip-lock bag.  As I’ve done numerous times over the past six months, I carefully empty the contents on to the floor and, under torchlight, check that I’ve got all I need.  I open the two A3 envelopes, knowing that each contains exactly US $12,500 but I can’t help but recount each stack of $100 bills.  Satisfied, I place the envelopes back in the plastic bag and then check the name on the passport, Mr James Andrew Bosworth, and verify the date and time on the plane ticket.  Reassured that everything is in order, I place them back in the zip-lock bag and stash them in a small rolled-up canvas bag that will be my hand luggage on the flight.  Finally I shove the whole lot back into the rucksack just as the water begins to boil.

My last few weeks in the bolt-hole have been quiet and uneventful, contrasting sharply with the final days in the build-up to Musgrove’s death.  Following the sale of my home in Alton and with the money in the bank, the last of my ties were severed and I began to plan in earnest for the ultimate act.

I’d begun to convert my cash into American dollars, which would be my start-up fund for when I got to Brazil.  To avoid suspicion, I employed the services of numerous banks in and around the city, such that I never changed more than £1,000 in any single transaction.  The remainder of my current account, close to £450,000, I then transferred to an American bank based in Rio.

I’d also obtained a new passport, using Bosworth’s name but of course my photograph.  I’d always known that if I attempted to use my own documents I wouldn’t get beyond the first airport security checkpoint.  But fortunately for me, and not saying much for our national security, obtaining a passport in Bosworth’s name had been far easier than I could have imagined.  I’d come across his expired passport, the old dark blue variety, when I’d gone to his house after one of his late-night mini emotional breakdowns.  With him none the wiser, I took his old passport and then simply submitted a new application using his details but my photograph.  Of course, in appearance Bosworth and I were nothing alike, but thankfully his original photograph, probably taken at the age of fifteen, was an old grainy black and white affair that made it difficult to distinguish any subtleties of facial features. Time had not been particularly kind to Bosworth, and in his current guise, with his chubby face and receding hairline, he bore little resemblance to his teenage appearance. It was a gamble, but I doubted that, given the twenty-year passage of time, the passport authorities would suspect the renewal was for a different person.  The only potential sticking point was the section: address of applicant.  Clearly it would have been easier to use my address in Alton, or even 17b, but unsure of what security and identification verification checks were in place, I thought it safer to use Bosworth’s address, the same address as on the original passport.  The downside, of course, was that I needed to get access to his house to collect the new passport before he discovered it himself; but I came up with a ruse about the central heating not working at my house and he let me stay with him for a week or so – until the passport was delivered.

Physically, I felt ready for the challenges ahead.  My body was toned and lean, and when I stepped on the bathroom scales I was surprised to find that I’d lost a little over two stone since the death of Helen and the boys.  Over the previous few years I’d been so preoccupied with work that I’d rarely taken any exercise, so my weight had climbed to close to fifteen stone – three stone more than my ideal “fighting weight” of my early twenties.  My recent weight loss I largely attributed to the fact that preparing and eating regular meals had been the least of my priorities; but I’d also taken more exercise, usually in the form of long walks or runs out in the Peak District.

After weeks of painstaking surveillance, I felt sure that Musgrove’s flat would provide the safest and most discreet location to commit the ultimate act.  Of course, a potential problem was getting access to the flat.  For several days I’d struggled to come up with a plausible excuse that Musgrove would accept, but ultimately it wasn’t necessary, Musgrove’s greed providing the opportunity I was looking for.  I was just leaving a local bank after collecting another instalment of US dollars when my mobile rang.  The screen indicated unknown, but I recognised the number immediately.  I pressed the answer button but remained silent and waited for him to speak first.  After a few seconds, Musgrove came on, bellowing down the phone: “Julian, Julian, hope you’re well.”  I didn’t respond, but heard myself breathing deeply into the phone as he continued after a few seconds pause: “Good, good.  I … no, I mean, we have a slight problem.  I’ve run out of money and I need a little bit more.  Let’s call it a final instalment, a gesture of goodwill if you like.”

My thoughts were whirring as I tried to work out the best way to play him.  It certainly came as no great revelation that he wanted more money, and if anything I was surprised he’d managed to last as long as six weeks before blowing it all.  Sensing the delay in my response, Musgrove continued more forcefully. “Look, Julian, I know you’ve sold your house.  You’re not short of a few quid, let’s just say another five grand and call it quits.”

I finally responded aggressively. “You moron, you bloody moron, you really expect me to give you more money?”

His response was belligerent and almost as if he’d got the moral high ground. “Listen, Ju, I’ve been having these terrible pangs of guilt.  Why don’t I pop over to Otley Road and have a word with Patel, the nice policemen, I’m sure he’ll be more than interested in what I’ve got to say.”

I paused for a few seconds.  I certainly didn’t want to give in to his demands too early and arouse suspicion, but at the same time I knew that it would give me the perfect opportunity to get him alone and take care of matters.  “You bastard ... this is the last time, do you get it? The last time.  If it happens again I’ll go to the police myself.”  I could hear Musgrove laughing sarcastically, and despite the fact that he was playing into my hands it was irritating beyond belief that he perceived me to be so weak that I would succumb to his demands.

“I want the money by the end of the weekend.”  Jesus, that’s not possible, I thought. I needed a few more days to get everything to ready.

Thinking quickly, I responded: “I can’t do that … I’m out of town … in London.  It’ll have to be next Thursday.  I’m not getting back till then.”  Musgrove was clearly irritated, presumably his habit dictating the terms. “You better not be fucking me about, Julian, I want my money.”

“You’ll have it next Thursday, that’s the best I can do.”  This time it was Musgrove who went quiet, and I continued: “I’ll bring the money round to your flat next Thursday at 11:00 a.m., I remember where you live.”

“Okay, but you’d better get it here.  Trust me, Julian, you wouldn’t like prison, people like you don’t fit in.”  I had no doubt he was right, and switched off the phone without answering.

With exactly seven days to put the final elements of my plan in place, the date of the ultimate act was now set for October 8th, a Thursday and, coincidentally, my birthday.  Heading back to Rawlton, I got off the bus a couple of stops earlier than usual and called in at a travel agent’s in the precinct.  I’d passed it numerous times over the previous few weeks and had popped in once to check that the place was suitable.  It was an independent place but big and bustling, with at least ten sales assistants sitting behind desks.  It seemed to cater predominantly for flights to the Indian subcontinent, serving the large ethnic minority in the area, and also student backpacker trips.  To me it had particular appeal in that there were no CCTV cameras, at least that I could see, and it was a busy, chaotic place where I hoped my presence wouldn’t be remembered.  It also had the advantage that many customers paid in cash, however large the transaction, presumably explaining the need for two burly security guards on the door.  I entered the shop with baseball cap in situ, though whether this made me more or less conspicuous I wasn’t really sure.  The assistant’s English was basic at best, probably matching her computer skills, and she kept shouting through to the back in her mother tongue for instructions on using her workstation.  What should have been a five-minute job in the end took close to half an hour, but I was happy with the outcome: two return tickets to Rio de Janeiro, Brazil.  The first ticket, which, as circumstances dictated, I never got the chance to use, was in my name, departing Manchester Airport, 16:35 on October 9th.  The second ticket, and my contingency, was for my fictitious business partner, Mr James Andrew Bosworth, departing Manchester Airport, 16:35 on April 17th.  I paid cash for the economy-class tickets, both to return a couple of weeks after departure, though whether I’d need the return trip was of course another matter.  At the same time I booked a hotel at Manchester Airport for the night of 8th, the evening of the day of Musgrove’s planned demise.

–

On the floor at 17b, I lay in my sleeping bag, restlessly tossing and turning, into the early hours of October 8th.  My thoughts were in overdrive as I obsessed over the events and likely consequences of the coming day; the day on which my plan would reach fruition and the day, if all went well, Musgrove would die and my freedom would be guaranteed.  It was six weeks since the inception of the plan, and although I was as committed as ever, I couldn’t rid myself of lingering doubts.  Perhaps for a few, a very few, taking another man’s life is an acceptable hurdle to overcome in reaching a much desired objective, but I certainly didn’t belong to such a category.

I climbed out of the sleeping bag a little after 5:00 a.m. and still another six hours to wait before my meeting with Musgrove at his flat.  It was dark outside and I switched on the living room light as I began to go through the contents of my small rucksack.  My hand immediately found the machete wrapped in an old cloth.  I took it out and took a couple of practice swings, a bit like a tennis player during the knock-up session.  I liked the way it felt in my hand: the weight was just right and the grip was secure – perhaps there was a future for me in the contract killing business.  I wrapped the machete back in the cloth and placed it on the floor before emptying out the rest of the rucksack: two passports, two envelopes of US dollars, one envelope with £500, a spare set of clothing, a few toiletries and finally, in the front pocket, a pair of leather driving gloves.  Everything was in order.

With the bag repacked, from my discreet perch at the bedsit window I looked out towards Musgrove’s flat.  For several minutes the street outside remained quiet, with even the dawn chorus seemingly subdued.  It was almost 5:30 a.m. before there were any signs of activity: a man on a bike appearing at the end of the road away to my right.  I watched as he peddled along, but then, bizarrely, as he reached Musgrove’s flat, he swerved dramatically, almost falling off his bike before regaining his balance and taking a wide detour to the far side of the road.  It was only when I looked more carefully into the shadows of the early morning that I could see his path had been blocked by a pool of water filling the gutter and spilling onto the pavement.  As I watched over the next few minutes the dirty pool, presumably from a burst water main, accumulated in a natural dip, eventually covering almost half the road in front of Musgrove’s driveway.  My thoughts went into hyper-drive as I tried to envisage how this would affect my plan.  But in the end I reassured myself that, even if I had to paddle through the water, I’d still be able to get access to his flat.  Not exactly ideal, but by no means a fatal blow to my plan.

Musgrove roused himself from his filthy bed a little after 8:00 a.m.  But unlike the other days that I’d watched him, he didn’t leave the flat, and just wandered impatiently round his living room, presumably awaiting my arrival with the money.  Still a couple of hours before the meeting, I knew I had to get out of my flat.  The last thing I wanted was Musgrove watching from his window, waiting for me to arrive and then to see me leaving 17b – it certainly wouldn’t be an easy thing to explain.  My opportunity eventually came when he went to the toilet, and with his back to me as he used the facility I grabbed my rucksack and headed out of the door.  I hurried down the road and passed the pool of dirty water.  Thankfully it didn’t seem to be getting any bigger and there was still access to Musgrove’s driveway.  At the end of the street I turned right and headed for a small café.  It was a greasy spoon sort of affair that was a popular hangout with the local taxi drivers.  I ordered a coffee and then sat at the back, well away from the window, as I counted down the minutes before my rendezvous.  As I sipped at the strong coffee I regretted my choice of beverage.  I was already jumpy at the prospect of the next few hours and the caffeine boost certainly wasn’t required or helpful.

Over the next hour I obsessively dissected my plan and tried to identify any potential weakness.  But I was confident in my preparations, including the bolt-hole contingencies, and felt I’d done all I could to ensure a satisfactory outcome.  At 10:30 a.m., and with much of my coffee untouched, it was time to leave.  I put on the black leather gloves from the front pocket of the rucksack and made my way into the street.  I felt sick with anxiety and prayed that I could go through with it.  I can do it … I can do it; I said the words over and over as I walked along, staring at the ground in front of me.  I was now at most sixty seconds from his flat and I knew that my whole life would change, depending on what happened in the next few minutes.  I turned the corner on the Stanley Road, my head still down, trying to eliminate any distractions and focus solely on Musgrove.  I felt strong.  Yes, I can and I will do it.  With renewed belief, now just twenty metres from his flat, I lifted my head; but as I faced the scene in front of me I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

Parked directly outside my flat was a police car with blue lights flashing.  My first fear, of course, was that somehow the police had discovered my plan, but as I looked more closely I felt a slight sense of relief: two policemen stood directing traffic beyond the pool of water as a workman was setting up temporary traffic lights and another started bombarding the tarmac with a pneumatic drill.  My head was spinning, what the hell was I going to do?

In a daze, I turned around and headed back to the café.  I sat at the same table, slumped in the chair, as if all my energy had suddenly deserted me.  The waitress came over and though I wasn’t hungry I felt obliged to put some money in the till, and asked for the all-day breakfast.  A few minutes later the greasy mass arrived. At first I just picked absent-mindedly at the occasional mushroom, but I soon discovered that I was actually hungry, and as the food began to fill my stomach my anxieties settled a little.

I began to think with greater clarity.  I doubted that the police would be there for long.  Presumably once the temporary traffic lights were up and running they would be on their way.  But I suspected the workmen would be there for some time, probably most of the day, if not longer.  To reach Musgrove’s flat I would practically have to climb over their tools and the mountain of tarmac and earth they were busy creating.  It just wouldn’t work.  I couldn’t risk them giving a description to the police once the body was discovered.  Shit, shit, shit, I said under my breath.  Today had to be the day, no question: my flight was in less than twenty-four hours.

I finished the rest of the breakfast and started on a big mug of industrial-strength tea.  It fleetingly crossed my mind that I should forget all about it and head to Brazil for an extended holiday and try to put Musgrove behind me.  But within seconds I knew it wasn’t a viable option.  There would always be the threat that he’d go to the police, and maybe even more importantly, and quite simply, I wanted revenge.

As I pondered my next step and drained the last of the tea, my mobile rang.  I knew who it was even before looking at the number. “Where the fuck are you, where’s my fucking money”, Musgrove yelled down the phone.

Sensing his displeasure, for the first time that day I managed a smile at his obvious discomfort.  “My train was delayed. I’m still stuck in London at my friends’ house.  I’ll be up tomorrow.”

There was silence on the other end and I could imagine Musgrove pacing round his flat, presumably withdrawing and desperately needing his pharmaceutical crutch. “You’d better not be messing with me, Julian, if I don’t get my fucking money I’ll be going to Patel ... You better fucking believe me.”

I suspected he was telling the truth.  “Look, I’m sorry, there was nothing I could do about it, you’ll have your money tomorrow morning … by eleven, okay?”  The phone went dead.

For the next few minutes I sat at the table with my gaze fixed on the phone in my hand, as if it was going to provide guidance as to my next move.  Interrupting my thoughts, the waitress came over and removed the dirty plate and I gave her a couple of quid in tips; maybe the generosity would do something for my Karma.  I had less than twenty-three hours to kill Musgrove and get to the airport for my flight.  What the hell was I going to do?  Then it came to me in a flash of inspiration. Looking at the discarded morning paper on a neighbouring table, I realised it was Thursday, and Thursday, of course, for Musgrove, meant pub night.  If I could intercept him outside the Earl of Arundel pub and get him in the dark alley opposite, it could work.  It wasn’t perfect, not as discreet as his flat, but it would have to do. What other choice did I have?

Staring out of the window from the back of the café, I watched as the distinctive figure of Musgrove appeared from the end of Stanley Road and made his way to the bus stop.  Presumably he was on his way to see his dealer and no doubt cursing the fact that I hadn’t turned up with his money.  I waited a few minutes until his bus departed, and then made my way back to 17b.  More workmen had arrived, along with a JCB digger; clearly this was no small job.  The temporary traffic lights were now functioning, and the police, thankfully, had already left, as I headed down the driveway and let myself into the bedsit.

For the rest of the afternoon I paced the small room, struggling to sit still for more than a few minutes.  Musgrove arrived back home at little after 2:00 p.m. and I watched as he comically scaled the piled-up tarmac at the end of his drive.  Once inside the flat he went through his usual ritual of heroin followed by sleep.  I sat back in the chair and closed my eyes, trying to get some rest, but within seconds I was back up again and prowling the room.

–

As the darkness slowly enveloped the flat, I watched as Musgrove woke from his drug-induced slumber.  I watched as he heated up baked beans and ate them straight from the pan.  I watched as he relieved himself, as always leaving his bathroom door open.  I watched as, early evening, he left the flat, climbed over the rubble at the bottom of his driveway and headed for the bus stop.  My hours of watching were almost over.

–

The next couple of hours dragged slowly by.  I spent much of the time unnecessarily checking the contents of my rucksack.  At 9:20 p.m. I did a final inspection of the bedsit and wiped down the surfaces with gloved hands to remove any fingerprints.  Within thirty minutes I would be standing in the dark alley opposite the Earl of Arundel public house with a machete in my hand.  A further sixty minutes later Musgrove would be dead and I would be desperately running for my freedom, pursued through the streets by the police and thanking God that I’d had the foresight to make a contingency plan.