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I had no problem with this request, and, learning from my earlier blunder, I had no intention of paying by cheque or credit card and leaving any form of trail that could lead back to me. “Yes, I can give you cash.”
“Okay. I just need to take your name for the contract.”
Momentarily caught off guard, after a few seconds of frantic thought a single name came to mind. “James Bosworth. My name’s James Bosworth.”
I felt some relief as I made my way back home, leaving the dirty streets and derelict buildings behind and driving through the increasingly more affluent areas of the city. I arrived back home just after 3:00 p.m., and realising I hadn’t eaten since the previous night I made a cheese sandwich and soup before retaking my seat at the kitchen table, keen to get on with the next phase of the pla
Next I turned my attention to the weapon. I’d seen numerous movies in which a gun had been the instrument of choice. I was sure there were dodgy pubs in the rough parts of town where I could purchase such an item, but with a career in academia rather than organised crime, I was limited for contacts in the underworld. In any case I didn’t know how to use a gun; it was all too risky. A knife on the hand was a different matter. Any fool could swing a knife – I was quite sure of that. I reached over for the bread knife that I’d used in making my sandwich. It had a long blade, maybe twenty-five centimetres in length and three centimetres deep. I gripped the wooden handle and took a practice swing as I imagined Musgrove standing in front of me. It didn’t feel right. The length of the blade was probably sufficient, but the knife wasn’t heavy enough. I sat back in the chair; I knew that I’d seen something more suitable but couldn’t quite remember where. After a few seconds it came to me, and I dashed out of the back door and to the garden shed, where I’d stored some of the boxes of my dad’s gardening stuff.
It didn’t take long to find the focus of my search: a foot-long, slightly curved metal blade with a wooden handle, pretty much like a machete. My dad had used it to hack away at the nettles and brambles that encroached on his garden from the woods beyond. Part of the blade was brown and rusted, but the business end, the cutting edge, had been recently sharpened, and I certainly wouldn’t have dreamed of ru
For the rest of the afternoon and well into the evening I continued the pla
The more I thought, the more it appealed. Commit the act and then head straight to the airport and hop on an open-ended flight to Brazil for an extended holiday. Once in South America, I could monitor any developments on the internet or satellite TV news, and all being well, if I were not a suspect, I’d be able to return home at my leisure. The plan was simple and perfectly achievable, and I even doubted that the police would suspect my involvement in Musgrove’s death. Maybe not even realising that I knew he was responsible for the hit-and-run, they would in all probability attribute his death to some squabble over drugs, and I’d be in the clear.
I ate a light supper, more sandwiches and chocolate cake bought from the supermarket. I felt exhausted – hadn’t realised how tiring pla
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I woke early the following morning feeling refreshed despite just a few hours’ sleep. I’d thought I might wake with a change of heart, but there was none of it. My conviction was greater than ever, Musgrove was a complete waster. I was practically doing a public service and I doubted anyone would shed a tear for his demise.
Full of enthusiasm, at 8:15 a.m. I left home for the letting agent’s to collect the keys for my new abode. Battling against the commuter traffic, the roads around Rawlton were much busier that the previous day and I didn’t arrive until a little after 9:10 a.m. I felt disproportionately anxious as I got out of the car, and in my guilt-ridden paranoia I half-feared that passers-by would somehow suspect that I was pla
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 begi