by Penny Bates
CONTENTS
Title Page
A Broken Heart
by Penny Bates
SMS Murder
by Alan Durant
An Open and Shut Case
by Anne Rooney
In a Hot Place
by David Belbin
More Shades 2.0 Shorts titles
Copyright
A Broken Heart
by Penny Bates
A Broken Heart
by Penny Bates
Dominic Martin dropped his book in surprise. Dying wasn’t supposed to be like this. There had been no warning. No pain. No clutching at his chest with clawed hands. No explosion of blood in the brain. Even the weather was wrong. It was a warm, sunny afternoon. There were drifts of flowers in full bloom and birds singing overhead. There were no gangsters, just young mothers with prams. The park was busy and full of life, like the toddlers shooting each other with water pistols. There were no flesh-eating monsters, just dogs running after sticks.
No, it was all wrong.
He tried to say so, but nothing came out. He felt cheated, somehow. Disappointed. Why didn’t his short life flash in front of him? Where was the bright light leading him to a better life? The sun hit him in the face as his head fell back, but there were no angels. The pages of his book fluttered slightly in the breeze, as his eyes rolled heavenwards and did not close again. Perhaps that was the flutter of angel wings, he thought, while the front of his white T-shirt became damp and red. In fact, she must have been an angel – the woman with the sweet smile and the long, silvery hair. There was the scent of Heaven about her, a faint smell of lavender on a summer’s day. There was the quiet music in her voice and the glint of something silver in her hand. Yes, he could see it now. A thin, silver bolt gripped firmly in the woman’s hand, like Cupid’s arrow. It had dipped towards him and silently filled his heart.
‘Debbie, it’s just a body like any other,’ the Inspector said with a sigh, as the young policewoman flinched at the sight. ‘You’ll get used to death in time. It comes to us all, you know!’
‘But to find a corpse here, on a bench in the middle of the park,’ the policewoman said slowly. ‘He can only be nineteen or twenty. Reading his book one minute and then dead the next! The man who found him thought he was asleep!’
‘I can see why,’ the Inspector added, as he carefully picked up the book from the floor and dropped it into a clear, plastic bag. ‘He’s slumped, but still upright. A stab wound to the heart, I’d say. Probably killed him instantly, but no doubt forensics will tell us more. Shame this book’s our only witness!’
‘Looks like a library book, sir,’ Debbie replied. ‘It’s got a sticker with a smoking gun on its spine. They’re the crime books, sir. My Gran borrows these …’
‘You’re top of the class,’ the Inspector joked. ‘And here I was, thinking Death Kiss was just another love story!’
Clare Lawson stared at the ceiling and yawned. It was a warm, summer’s evening outside and she was starting to get restless. A fly buzzed in and out of an open window. It settled on a plate of melting chocolate biscuits, but Clare didn’t have the energy to wave it away. She shuffled in her seat to stay awake and noticed that others in the room were shuffling too. A woman to her right twisted her bookmark between her thumb and forefinger, until it turned into a coiled spring. Another drew hearts and flowers on a scrap of paper, while pretending to write notes. There were ten identical books on the table, and nine people desperate to go home.
The Library Reading Group met once a month on a Monday evening. It was Maureen Spencer’s great idea. As Head Librarian, Maureen felt it her duty to share her love of books with anyone who would listen. It would be such a wonderful event. Readers of all ages and sexes would flock to it. There would be tea and lively discussion. Perhaps even wine! The air would be filled with a passion for books. And maybe a passion for people too, Maureen hoped. The Library Reading Group might just bring the man of her dreams, as well. He could be an author, or perhaps a poet? A soul-mate.
But the reality had been different. The Library was hardly a buzzing place on summer evenings, apart from the flies. Clare wondered who on earth would want to spend an entire evening in the dark and stuffy reading room? It smelt of musty papers and dust. Although a student volunteer, she hated tidying the books there. Only the old and the lonely give up a summer night for a Reading Group, Clare thought, as she glanced at the bored and restless bodies in the room. Without Dominic Martin there, she was the only young person in the room.
‘Get on with it, Maureen,’ Clare muttered beneath her breath. She was only there because she liked working with Maureen and didn’t want to let her down. It would look good on her CV too, when she applied for college, and anyway Maureen had been kind to her. Clare grinned when she thought of the oversized Santa Claus jumper Maureen had knitted her for Christmas. It must have taken hours to make, but then Maureen was a demon with the knitting needles when she wanted to be.
Clare often wondered why the other people came to the Reading Group. Could it be a punishment for overdue books? It was fair to say that ‘Hell hath no fury like Maureen Spencer scorned!’ when customers stuffed late books through the Library letter box, to avoid paying fines. Perhaps the dry dissection of books and the circling flies was Maureen’s way of getting even?
‘Shall I kick off, now we’ve looked again at Chapter One?’ Maureen declared, breaking the silence. ‘I think Death Kiss is a breathtaking book! The opening paragraph has such power! Such passion!’
Clare smiled as Maureen waved the book in the air, eyes blazing with excitement. Maureen’s passion for books was obvious, but it was amusing to hear a dull, middle-aged woman speaking with such enthusiasm about sex and violence! There was a shiver of a hand-knitted, frilly cardigan as Maureen swept her fringe to one side to explore the mind of the killer. There was a strange music to her voice as she asked what might drive someone to commit such cruelty? She twisted her pearl necklace tightly as she described the throttling of the heroine and the novel’s heart-stopping ending. Then Maureen pushed back her chair and declared the discussion open, satisfied that she had covered everything that needed to be said. Only Maureen, Clare thought, would be wearing thick tights and her usual tweed skirt on such a beautiful, June day. And only Maureen, as usual, would have her knitting with her, the needles glinting silver in a shaft of evening sunlight.
‘It’s a shame Dominic’s not here,’ an old lady said, after what seemed like an endless silence. ‘He was really enjoying this book. More of a young person’s book, I suppose. Lots of blood and sex. Gave me nightmares …’
‘A dark horse, young Dominic,’ the woman doodling hearts and flowers added. ‘Always on those dating sites looking for the perfect girlfriend, he said. Looking for the woman of his dreams! Mind you, he had a real scare recently. Said he’d arranged a date with a fun-loving blonde who turned out to be a silver-haired woman over fifty! Shared a love of books, she said, but he certainly didn’t enjoy having to spend an evening in a restaurant with her. Said he’d slipped away and left her to pay the bill!’
‘Oh dear,’ the old lady replied. ‘But I do hope he’ll be here next month. It’s not the same without him. Such a lively young chap.’
‘But not much of a gentleman by the sound of it,’ Maureen said, as she snapped her book shut. ‘What a cruel way to let a lady down!’ She flushed pink. ‘Now, shall we take a break? Anyone for a biscuit?’
Darkness was falling as Clare and Maureen set the alarm and locked the heavy Library door.
‘I think it went well,’ Maureen said, as they turned to go. ‘They were very sleepy though. It took ages to get the discussion going.’
�
�Well it gets a bit hot in there,’ Clare replied. ‘In fact, I wish I’d got time to freshen up before I go to meet my boyfriend for a drink. Never mind. I’ll have to do.’
‘Have a squirt of this, dear,’ Maureen said, reaching in her handbag. ‘Lavender’s such a lovely scent.’
Clare watched Maureen walk away, her silver hair shining brightly in the fading light.
‘A bit old-fashioned, but she’s such a pretty lady for her age,’ Clare thought, as she rubbed the perfume into her wrists.
‘Shame she’s all alone. Maureen’s always so unlucky in love.’
The perfume was lovely. Heavenly!
‘Goodnight, Maureen,’ Clare shouted into the distance. ‘And don’t walk through the park. Mum’s just sent me a text to say there was a warning on the local news. She says there’s a killer on the loose!’
‘Don’t worry about me, dear,’ Maureen replied. ‘I’ve always got my knitting with me …’
SMS Murder
by Alan Durant
SMS Murder
by Alan Durant
It started with a text. Tom Davies was sitting on a train on the way to his girlfriend Laura’s house, when his phone vibrated. He thought it would be a text from Laura, chiding him for being late, but the number of the sender wasn’t on his contact list and wasn’t one he recognised. The message itself turned his easy smile to a bewildered frown. Subject dispatched. Head for cash mon eve old card.
He stared at the screen. Read the text again. Shook his head. Weird or what? he thought. He searched in his mind for possible meanings in the text that might be relevant to him. Could the sender be someone from college, perhaps? Subject dispatched. What did that mean? And as for the second bit, well, that sounded like some cryptic crossword clue. No, he decided. It had to be a wrong number. The text wasn’t meant for him at all. He pressed reply, thumbed in, Sorry, mate. U got wrong no, and pressed send. He went to delete the original message, then changed his mind. He’d save it to show Laura. It’d make her smile, which might be useful if she were annoyed with him for being late.
‘You could’ve texted,’ Laura reproached him when he finally arrived. But she wasn’t really that put out. They didn’t have anything planned, just an evening in, watching TV.
‘Talking of texts,’ he said, when they were sitting down in the front room drinking tea, ‘take a look at this. It came out of the blue when I was on the train here.’
He got the text on screen, passed her his phone. She read the message, then looked at him with an expression of amused bewilderment.
‘Bizarre,’ she uttered.
‘Yeah,’ he agreed. ‘I texted back to say he’d got the wrong number.’ He laughed. ‘Makes you wonder, though, doesn’t it?’
‘Yeah.’ She laughed too. ‘Intriguing.’
They spent some time happily speculating what the text might mean: a message from a recruitment agency for headteachers perhaps, or, more fancifully, a taxidermist who’d stuffed a family pet but wanted extra for the head. The last bit of the message was the trickiest to explain. ‘Mon eve’ was obviously Monday evening, but ‘old card’?
‘You dispatch cards, don’t you?’ said Tom. ‘Don’t get the old bit, though.’
‘No,’ Laura said thoughtfully. ‘Unless it’s the name of a place – The Old Card. A pub perhaps?’
‘Funny name for a pub,’ Tom protested.
‘Pubs have funny names,’ Laura persisted. ‘The Pig and Ferret, The Jolly Duck, The Leg of Mutton.’
‘Well, you could have a point,’ Tom conceded.
They turned on the TV after that and didn’t talk about the text any more.
They were in the middle of watching a mystery movie when Tom’s phone rang. He glanced at the display, then frowned: it was the same number as the earlier text.
‘Hello,’ he answered uncertainly.
‘Good evening,’ said a deep, confident, man’s voice. ‘I believe you may have received a text from this number earlier today.’
‘Yeah,’ Tom replied. ‘I sent you a reply to say you’d got the wrong number.’
‘Ah. The thing is Mr –’
‘Davies. Tom Davies.’
‘Good evening, Mr Davies,’ the man said warmly. ‘My name is Russell Smith. I work for a telephone network monitoring company. We’ve had several complaints lately of texts going to the wrong numbers, and we sent out some exploratory texts to see if there was a problem. I wonder, could you confirm for me please the message you received?’
‘Sure,’ said Tom. He reeled off the message.
‘Ah, I see,’ the man muttered sombrely. ‘It seems there is a problem. You shouldn’t have received that text.’ There was a slight pause. ‘I’m really sorry about this, Mr Davies. It looks like it’s a local fault. Could you confirm for me your postcode, please?’
‘Well …’ Tom hesitated.
‘It’s just that I can’t get rid of the fault unless I can discover where it is,’ the man explained. ‘I hope you understand. It’ll be a nuisance for you if these random messages keep coming through to your phone.’
‘Yeah, I guess so,’ Tom accepted. He gave the man his postcode. ‘My girlfriend and I had some fun, though, trying to decipher the message you sent – especially that bit about the old card.’
‘Old card?’ the man queried, then laughed. ‘Oh that. It was just nonsense, dreamt up by some geek in the office.’
‘Nothing to do with headmasters or taxidermists, then?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ the man said, amused. ‘Anyway, thanks very much for your time, Mr Davies. You’ve been very helpful. We’d like to send you a gift for all the inconvenience caused.’
‘It was nothing,’ said Tom. ‘Really.’
‘No, it wasn’t nothing,’ the man insisted. ‘I can assure you it wasn’t nothing.’
Then he rang off.
‘Curiouser and curiouser,’ said Laura archly.
Tom shrugged, and they went back to watching the movie.
The next day, Tom was at home heating up some soup for lunch, when he got a call from Laura.
‘Switch on the TV,’ she instructed. ‘The news on BBC One.’
‘Eh? What, now?’
‘Yes, right now.’ The urgency of her tone made Tom move with unusual haste. He switched on the TV, tuned it to BBC One. There were shots of police putting up yellow tape round a crime scene.
‘The headless corpse was discovered here on the common by a man out walking his dog early this morning. As yet, the dead man has not been identified and police say that they have no idea why or by whom this gruesome murder was committed. Any member of the public with information relevant to this enquiry is urged to call the police task force.’
A number appeared on the screen.
‘See?’ Laura’s voice almost shrieked down the phone.
‘See what?’ Tom questioned.
‘That’s the meaning of the text you got: subject dispatched. It’s a kind of code, you know, for someone’s been murdered. And then head for cash. The killer’s going to hand over the head to whoever hired him to do the murder when he gets his money. It’s obvious!’ Laura’s voice was high-pitched and breathless.
Tom took a moment before responding, hoping this might have a calming effect.
‘Laura, you’re letting your imagination run away with you,’ he said with amused dismissal. ‘The text was from a telephone network company. It was a mistake. I had a long conversation with the guy last night, remember?’
‘He was lying,’ Laura insisted. ‘He was trying to find out about you.’
‘This is crazy,’ Tom uttered.
‘Is it?’ said Laura. ‘Phone that number back then. Ask for that guy …’
‘Russell Smith.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Ok, I will,’ Tom shrugged.
The doorbell rang.
‘Hold on a moment, Laura. Just got to answer the door.’
‘No!’ cried Laura. ‘Don’t answer it. It might be him!’
<
br /> ‘Don’t be silly, Laura,’ Tom said firmly. He’d had enough of this. Sometimes Laura’s imagination was just too wild.
The doorbell rang again. Tom went to the front door and opened it. A postman was there with a package – an ordinary postman holding an ordinary package.
‘Thanks,’ said Tom, taking the delivery.
‘See,’ he said into the phone. ‘I haven’t been murdered. It was only the postman.’
He started to unwrap the package. ‘It’s probably that free gift that guy promised me.’ He pulled off the brown paper and found himself holding a small, white, cardboard box. He lifted the lid, pulled aside the tissue paper … He gasped and withdrew his hands, so that the box dropped to the floor, spilling its contents.
‘Tom! Tom!’ yelled Laura. ‘What is it? What’s happened?’
Tom stared, horrified, at the gift he’d been sent.
‘It’s – it’s …’ he stammered, struggling to comprehend what he was seeing. ‘He’s sent me – an ear.’ His phone vibrated. He pressed to open the text and read the message with horrified eyes: I’m listening. No blabbing, mate. The Dispatcher.
Forensic tests confirmed that the ear probably did come from the headless corpse. The police praised Tom and Laura’s bravery and public-spiritedness in speaking to them and not bowing to the murderer’s threats. They tried the number of the text that Tom had received, but weren’t surprised to be told that the number was no longer in use or, when they investigated further, to discover that the phone was registered to someone who didn’t exist. Russell Smith, The Dispatcher, was a phantom.
‘He’ll be long gone by now,’ a police inspector told Tom and Laura regretfully. ‘Out of the country, probably.’
To Tom and Laura this news was cause for relief, certainly not regret.
The head was found eventually out at Denham Fort, ‘The Old Base,’ as it was popularly known. It was Laura who worked that out. She tapped the message Tom had been sent into her phone, using predictive text. The last word came up as ‘base’. She scrolled through the options and, sure enough, card was one of them. It must have been the first on the killer’s phone. She was right, then, when she’d suggested that first evening that old card might be a place. The head belonged to a known drug dealer who’d been trying to muscle in on another, much bigger, dealer’s patch. No one was charged with the murder; the police reckoned the murderer was a contract killer – not a local man – and the trail soon went cold.
