by David Woods
A grey-haired and well-dressed man walked in, who spoke with a public school accent. “I’m looking for my friend, Jim Grainger.”
“Oh yeah. And who might you be?”
“Oliver Smythe.”
“Oh yes. Jim told me about you. Inside together, weren’t you?”
“That’s right.”
Billy told him the sad story and Oliver digested the news in silence. “That’s terrible! Poor Jim.”
“Yeah. I hope he didn’t suffer.”
“Have they positively identified him yet?”
“No. They said dental records would have to be checked.”
“That could take days. And in the meantime the company must go on in case there’s a mistake, and that body is someone else.”
“Not much hope of that.”
“Have you contacted the insurance company yet?”
“No. I don’t know who they are.”
“I can see you need some help.”
“That’s right. Can you spare the time?”
“I’ve got all the time in the world for Jim Grainger.”
They worked together all day, Billy handling practical affairs whilst Oliver attended to the paperwork.
* * *
After handing over the cash to Simpson, Garry went back to work with mixed feelings — pleased to have taken positive action to get rid of Grainger, but nervous about the possibility of the crime being traced back to him. Work was piling up at Blakesbuild and he still could not force himself to get on with it despite reminders from his staff, which he brushed aside saying he was too busy. His mind was busy, but with a mixture of hatred and a dread of being found out, imagining himself being taken away by the police amid a glare of publicity.
The next day was no better when he went to work at Blakesbuild as usual, after listening to the news. He tried hard to concentrate but without success. He wondered if he would be able to concentrate better at Osbornes, but then remembered he had given Simon Berry a free hand after the recent meeting with his solicitor, knowing he would do a better job than him in his present state of mind. Also, he could not face all the staff now he was not really an Osborne himself, so his mind returned to Jim Grainger again. If he was out of the way there would be no Graingers left, and he could forget the whole nasty business. The day dragged on until the early afternoon when Simpson rang. “Have you seen the late editions yet?”
“What late editions?”
“The newspapers, of course.”
“No. What do they say?”
“There was a fire and a body recovered. Too badly burnt to be recognised.”
“Did they name the body?”
“The story says it’s almost certainly Mr. Jim Grainger.”
“Has he been positively identified?”
“Not yet. But it’s got to be him.”
“I’ll see you when he is.”
“You’d better see me straightaway or I’ll be the next.”
“Hard luck, chum.”
“It’ll be hard luck for you as well.”
“What d’you mean?”
“Just meet me in two hours time in the same place. With the money.”
Garry rushed out of the office, desperate to get a newspaper. The story was easy to find, showing a picture of a burnt out house beside the caption ‘Builder dies in his own house.’ Garry read the article several times until he knew every word, feeling elated and free. At last, he thought, I can forget about that evil bastard, and it’s even better than I thought possible — he died in a fire the way he killed my parents. All worries about being found out were replaced by a feeling of euphoria and well-being, and he walked briskly to the bank, drew out the money and drove to the cinema car park, arriving early. Simpson arrived soon after, parked next to the Jaguar and slipped into the passenger seat Garry handed over the money. “We won’t meet again.”
“You’re dead right, we won’t.”
Simpson drove away quickly, and Garry did not notice the car following Simpson’s rusty old heap out of the car park. He drove back to the office and immediately got down to work, ordering coffee and sandwiches. Before concentrating on the heaps of paperwork in his ‘in’ tray he rang Jane. “I’ll be working late. Will you meet me at ten for dinner at “The White Swan?”
Jane was taken aback by his cheerful mood and interest in food. “Are you feeling hungry?”
“Ravenous.”
“Wonderful. See you later, but please don’t drink before you leave.”
“I promise to be completely sober.”
While drinking coffee after dinner Jane said, “Why are you so happy tonight?”
“I had a good day.”
“Really? What went so well?”
“Everything, ole girl.”
Jane got up after he had gone to work the next morning and sat in the kitchen, eating a light breakfast while reading the paper. She suddenly stopped eating when she read the name Grainger. That’s why he was in a good mood, she thought. He knew about this yesterday. She shivered at the thought of his possible involvement, but convinced herself he would not jeopardise his rich lifestyle on such a risky venture, although in her heart she knew he was capable of killing.
* * *
Miles away in Sussex another person was reading the paper over a leisurely breakfast. Having dutifully given Mark a kiss on the cheek and seen him go to work, Angela ate a bigger breakfast now she was pregnant. She had just finished off a bowl of porridge with the paper spread out to one side of the kitchen table.
She choked on her tea as she read about the fire, sending the cup flying. The story described Grainger as a go-ahead energetic builder, who worked sixteen hours a day to build up a thriving company. No mention of any criminal record was made, and the story went on to say all his workers were devoted to him and devastated by the loss. Angela read it twice before bursting into tears, and was overcome with grief — the person she really loved was dead! She spent the morning almost rigid, not able to move or think of anything else, but during the afternoon she began to get angry with herself. If only she had taken the trouble to find him he might still be alive.
Then she thought of Garry saying he was a criminal and should be strung up, and then there was the detective after him. If he was a criminal, how did he become such a successful builder? Were all the stories invented by Garry to keep her away from him? She was still miserable and depressed when Mark came home from work.
* * *
Simpson drove carefully from the cinema car park back to his flat, with one eye on the following car. He ran upstairs to count out five hundred pounds, stuffing it under a cushion just before the two men came bursting in. They almost pounced on him. “Well, have yer got the money?”
“Yes. It’s all here.” He handed it over and was silent as the bigger man checked the amount. “Right, you’re off the hook for one week, then you start paying rent again.”
“Okay, that’s fair.”
The big man moved closer and pointed a dirty finger at Simpson. “You don’t know who I am, do you?”
“No. You didn’t say.”
“Right. And if you try to find out, you’re dead.”
“Okay. I know the rules.”
“And if you give my description to the police, you’ll die ’orribly.”
Simpson just nodded nervously. The two men walked out, leaving him trembling with fear, and he did not have to find out who the man was because he already knew.
Charlie Chatfield was well known among the criminal fraternity as a brutal killer. Simpson sat and thought about what he should do next, soon convincing himself that Chatfield would return that night to kill him. He packed his remaining clothes into carrier bags, and began carrying boxes of his favourite possessions down to the car, which was parked outside, as near as possible.
By dusk, the car was full and he locked the flat door. He made sure the money was safely in his inside pocket, but when he got to the outside door of the building he stopped suddenly, holding his breath, and ret
reated into the building. Chatfield and his companion finished staring at the car and its contents and advanced towards the block of flats.
Chapter Nineteen
As dawn came a light breeze sent waves of fine rain over the treetops and soaked the forest. Jim had slept through the previous day and night, and the cold water on his face woke him. He sat up feeling still and cold, studying his surroundings, as slowly the events of the last two days came back to him, together with all his memory. Not realising how long he had slept, he assumed it was still the morning after the fire, and walked around the clearing trying to remember which way he came in. The tree trunk reminded him, and he walked through the trees hoping someone had called the fire brigade. He entered the site through the same gap in the hedge.
He walked towards the show house expecting to see a lot of activity, but everything was strangely silent and the place deserted. He stared at the remains of the house, a black empty set of cracked brick walls without a wisp of smoke or fire to be seen, and walked through the open back doorway feeling the walls. They were cold, and he stood still trying to work out how the fire could have been put out so quickly, but a glance at his watch told him the van with Billy and the men was due. It was on time and, hearing it pull up outside the office, he walked carefully over the debris to where the front door once hung. Billy stepped wearily out of the driver’s seat, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and when he looked towards the burnt out house he froze. All the other men stood like statues, the colour draining from their faces, and no one uttered a word as Jim walked out of the blackened structure.
Billy felt his knees weaken and he started to tremble, but one of the men found his voice: “Is it a ghost or a bloody miracle?”
The sound of a voice made Billy recover and, slapping his own face, he spoke unevenly. “J-Jim. Is it really you?”
“Of course it’s me. This is a fine mess, isn’t it?”
All the men surged forward to meet him. Billy spoke first. “We thought you were dead.”
“Not yet, Billy. What made you think that?”
“Yesterday morning a man’s body was found in the ruins. Everyone assumed it to be you.”
“Why me?”
“You were missing, the office door left open and your pick-up was still here.”
“You said the body was found yesterday morning. That means I must have slept all day.”
“Where were you?”
Jim pointed across the site. “Over there. The other side of the adjoining field. In a wood.”
All the men started to talk at once, each trying to tell the story. Jim got the gist of it. “So the police think I’m dead?”
Billy suddenly went pale again. “Oh my God, so does Rosie.”
“You told her I died in the fire?”
“Yes. And she took it very badly.”
“I’d better go and see her straight away. You ring the police and tell them where I am.”
Jim drove off as fast as the Morris would go, arriving an hour later. He ran to the back door, which was open. Newspapers were lying on the front door mat, and he found Rosie in her favourite armchair. She was dead — the shock had obviously been too much for her. An untouched cup of tea was on her small table, and when Jim felt her cold skin he broke down. He loved this old lady as if she were his own mother and he sat on his chair and wept, occasionally looking at her peaceful face. Not having moved from his seat he was still grief stricken two hours later when the police car pulled up outside, and the sound of a loud knock on the front door made him jump.
After wiping his face, he opened the door to be greeted by a young plain clothes officer. “Are you Jim Grainger?”
“Yes. Come in.”
“Detective Sergeant Pratt.”
Jim just nodded and walked into the front room.
The detective gasped at the sight of Rosie’s pale motionless features. “Is she dead?” he whispered.
“Yes. And it’s all my fault. Could we talk somewhere else?”
They walked into the kitchen, followed by another plain clothes officer. Sergeant Pratt stood squarely in front of Jim and looked at his red-rimmed eyes. “Why is it your fault?”
“Because if I hadn’t gone after the two men I wouldn’t have got knocked out. And Billy wouldn’t have had to tell Rosie I was dead.”
“I see. What exactly happened?”
Jim told his story from the time Ken Bridger arrived.
The sergeant frowned and said sharply. “Why didn’t you offer him a job?”
“Because I knew him long enough in prison to know I didn’t trust him.”
“And you reckon he was the man found dead in the house?”
“He was the only other person on site. And the two intruders probably thought he was me.”
“But they must have realised they were wrong when they saw you later?”
“I don’t know.”
“They would have killed you.”
“They nearly did.”
“Where did they hit you?”
Jim pointed to the back of his head.
The sergeant looked closely and growled, “There’s no sign of an injury.”
“The lump’s gone down.”
“How very convenient, I’m sure,” he said sarcastically.
Jim’s heart sank even further. “What are you saying, sergeant?”
“I’ll tell you what I think. This man Bridger came to see you, and probably threatened to expose you to your business contacts as an ex-con if you didn’t pay him off. You had a fight during which you smashed his jaw and killed him. Then you started that fire to make it look like an accident. Just like you did before.”
Jim was stunned by the accusations and felt drained. He just shook his head and said nothing.
The sergeant went on. “Very clever of you to get rid of an enemy and claim the insurance at the same time. But you should have dreamed up a better story whilst you were hiding in that wood.”
Jim just croaked. “It’s all true.”
“Rubbish. I’m placing you under arrest on suspicion of murder. And this time you won’t get away with it.”
Sergeant Pratt went through the formalities and then handcuffed Jim, before leading him through the house to the police car outside. Jim sat in dazed confusion, his mind gyrating from grief at the loss of Rosie, to dread of being incarcerated again. He was taken to the same police station as before and questioned for hours, but he steadfastly denied killing Bridger, although the barrage of accusations and abuse went on and on until he began to wonder if he had killed the man. At last the relays of different police officers ceased and he was taken down to the same cell that he had occupied before. The steel door clanged shut and he was alone to face a night of deep depression and grief.
The next morning he was questioned again until his mind was almost numb, and after four hours was charged with the murder of Ken Bridger, dental records having confirmed that morning the identity of the body found in the house. The newspapers, desperately short of other news, splashed the story across their front pages and pictures of the burnt out house were shown beside different versions of the story. They described Jim as a huge giant of a man, strong as a lion and just as dangerous.
* * *
Jane heard the papers fall on the front door mat and picked them up, reading the headlines on the way to the kitchen where Garry was just starting his breakfast. She stopped at the door and read on and then calmly laid the paper, front page up, in front of him. Giving a short laugh she said, “So your imagined enemy is not as dead as you hoped.”
“What d’you mean my ....” He stopped mid-sentence and snatched the paper up, hiding his face from his wife’s inquisitive gaze. Then he spun around and stormed out, grabbing his briefcase on the way. Jane heard the front door slam and sat down, amused by his reaction. He must have wanted him dead very badly, she thought. I wonder why? It cannot be for killing that man years ago, but perhaps he still blames him for his parents’ death.
Garry s
tormed into his office and rang Simpson, but no reply. He sat back and fumed over being ripped off, but more importantly Grainger was still alive. He got up and ran down to his car determined to find Simpson, but as he sat in the driver’s seat he began to have second thoughts about seeing him again. It could still be risky, he thought, but gradually he began to feel better about the situation. He would never be suspected of involvement in the killing of this man Bridger, and Grainger would be convicted of murder and sent to prison for life – a sentence he richly deserved. All the time he is locked away he will not be in a position to find out about his elder brother, and there would be plenty of time to think of a plan to deal with him when he is eventually released.
By the time he returned home from work he was in a very good mood, having convinced himself the present situation was preferable to the risk of being implicated in a murder. Jane heard the car door slam and ran from the kitchen and up the stairs as fast as she could, thinking he was bound to be in a terrible mood and could even be violent.
He called from the bottom of the stairs. “Jane, Darling, I’m home.”
She peered down at him from the top of the stairs, not really believing he was so cheerful.
He grinned and said. “There you are, you lovely lady.”
She was taken aback and walked quickly down. They spent a pleasant evening together, but neither mentioned the newspaper story.
* * *
Angela was still engrossed in her private grief for Jim when she read the front-page story, and her immediate reaction was anger. He has deceived me again, she thought. I have spent days mourning his death and now I find he is alive and a killer. “Oh, what a fool I’ve been again!” she said out loud as she sat in the kitchen, long after finishing breakfast, and occasionally stroking her swollen stomach. She tried hard to hate him, telling herself how much better off she was as Mark’s wife, and how proud she was to bear his child, but no matter how hard she tried she could not hate him.
* * *
Simpson hid under the stairs, listening to the two men running upstairs, and waited until a door slammed before running for his life. The car would not start, its tired engine cranking noisily. He sat with his heart in his mouth, sweat dripping from his chin as the engine protested, the battery running out. He was just about to give up and run, when it fired and sprang into action so he crashed it into reverse and turned quickly, driving away from the building with his right foot hard down.
