I Want Him Dead

by Anthony Masters

  “Does that matter?”

  “I want some status after all these years.” He gave her a cold smile. “Do you know what I mean?”

  “Maybe that’s what I was after. Some kind of status. Not just the identity of the rejected wife. I’ve got his money, you see.”

  “Yes.” He didn’t react.

  “Doesn’t seem to help much though.” Slowly a plan was taking shape in her mind. A twisted sort of logic had her in its grip.

  “But you’ve made a fresh start, too,” said Joe.

  “I don’t know what you mean —”

  “You confessed. You slept. I watched. You’d suffered enough. Then you woke. Now you can spend the money on your son or on yourself. You’ve paid, haven’t you? Christ knows you’ve paid.”

  In an extraordinary way he was convincing.

  “And you think Canada’s a fresh start?” she asked him, not wanting to follow up what he had said.

  “No,” Joe said bitterly. “It’s just a dream. I’d never get there.”

  Anne’s mind was still reeling, but she began to try and convince herself that it was all a coincidence. Tattooed mermaids might well be popular amongst the criminal classes. There was a long pause as she gazed out at the retreating wavecrests, the sand unsullied, rippled and pristine. The gulls wheeled over their heads, flying out to sea, and a cold breeze blew, making them both shiver.

  “About Canada —”

  “Yes?”

  “Suppose I helped you?” Anne brought the words out in a rush, her mind only half made up, and he turned to stare at her in what she thought was genuine bewilderment.

  “I don’t understand —”

  “You’ve done a great deal for me today. More than anyone has.”

  “Come on —”

  “No. I mean it. Can’t I help with the money? I’ve got an awful lot of it. My husband’s — new partner — might try to challenge the will, but I don’t think she’s got a chance. Anyway, I wouldn’t let you down.”

  What was she trying to achieve, Anne wondered. First the confession, then the appalling suspicion, closely followed by a financial offer. Of course he couldn’t be Paul’s assassin. Unless Herrón had phoned deliberately to set up the meeting, with blackmail in mind, in which case no wonder he had been so surprised when she had made him the offer. Suppose her wild conjectures were right? She could simply be giving her husband’s assassin a bonus.

  “You can’t do it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Your son —”

  “There’s more than enough for both of us. Do you think I’m some kind of nutter?” she said, with a sudden burst of anger. “Spinning you a yarn. A drunken, middle-aged woman trying to seduce a man at any cost.”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “If you check last week’s newspapers you’ll read about my husband, Paul Lucas, killed by a hit-and-run driver in the car park of The Lord of the Manor pub. He died immediately and the killer got away. That’s all fact. The only thing I can’t prove is that I hired the assassin. It cost thirty thousand pounds and there’s this ex-con in a music shop in Richmond. Weird little man with a badly burnt face who plays the piano. I was interviewing him — just like I was going to interview you. Then I had a few drinks which, as usual, started the ball rolling and it rolled very fast. But this, as I say, is the background I can’t prove.”

  “I believe you,” he reassured her, but she noticed that he avoided her eyes.

  “So now I’ve given you my credentials — why can’t I help?”

  “I couldn’t let you.”

  “Please try.”

  “It would be an opportunity,” he muttered.

  Was he acting, she wondered, or was he by some outside chance genuine? The dilemma beat at her relentlessly. “Do you want to take it?”

  He was silent, staring out at the grey line of the chilly sea as the waves sucked at the pebbles.

  “It’s for Devra and Alan, too. They’ll have a chance,” she added.

  “I love him.” Herrón’s voice broke and he turned to her again, this time with genuine tears welling in his eyes. Joe was remembering how Leslie Ryland had held Timothy. “God — I love him so much.”

  For a fleeting moment she felt his pain and had a sixth sense that this wasn’t just good acting. “How much do you want?” she said gently.

  “The fares, maybe.”

  “What about accommodation? You can’t live in a slum.”

  “Devra’s got a bit stashed away —”

  “Enough?”

  He shrugged.

  “I’m going to give you thirty thousand. To make a fresh start. Is it enough?”

  “Look — you can’t do this.” He was backsliding now, or appearing to.

  “Is it enough?” she demanded.

  “It’s over-generous.”

  Anne smiled. “It’s exactly what I paid Coyd for the — I suppose he would call it ‘contract’.”

  “Isn’t that rather macabre?”

  “No. I want to make recompense. I need to. I know I can’t, but I want to try.” Did she sound as artificial as she imagined she did?

  “How can you believe a word I’m telling you?”

  “I’d like to speak to Devra,” she said. “Do you mind? I do need proof. I want to believe you —” I’m cunning, she thought, really cunning. He’s my puppet.

  “But you don’t.” Suddenly Joe realized the situation was no longer plain sailing. She had crept up on him.

  “You’d think me a fool if I just passed the money across, wouldn’t you?” Anne was all quiet reason.

  He nodded.

  “So when can I speak to her?”

  “On the phone?” he suggested, hoping she might agree but knowing she wouldn’t.

  “In the flesh,” said Anne,with considerable satisfaction.

  Then, after a pause, she said, “Some people become criminals because they have no other choice.” She enjoyed sounding like some fellow-travelling social worker and yet she was still unsure. Who was Herrón?

  “I could have had another choice,” he protested.

  “I just want to talk to Devra — and if I’m satisfied, I’ll give you the money.”

  “What shall I do?” he asked humbly.

  “Ring me and I’ll fix another meeting. Perhaps I can make a more dignified entrance then.”

  They smiled at each other blandly, their minds racing.

  They walked slowly back to the station without speaking. Anne was still attempting to work out whether she had jumped to an incredible conclusion, and Joe was trying to react to what had happened, attempting to come to terms with the fact that, to all intents and purposes, his job had been done for him by his intended victim.

  What would Eamonn think or advise, he wondered. Was all this a piece of manipulation, designed to trap him in some way, or had Anne Lucas really been ready to confess to the first available stranger? Could she have been so emotionally unstable that her confession was spontaneous, and that to salve her conscience she was going to be an equally spontaneous Good Samaritan? It was all too good to be true; she must be playing some kind of game. The more Joe conjectured, the more certain he became that he was not dealing with some ingenuous hysteric who had just saved him the job of openly blackmailing her, but a woman with a strategy. What was he to do? Confront her, or play along? He decided, for the moment, to choose the latter.

  It was a raw night and there was a hot-chestnut seller at the station entrance. Joe and Anne bought a packet and shared them until her train came in, while they both continued to try and divine each other’s intentions. So many men could have a mermaid tattoo, she thought. A lot of women might break down and want to confess to a stranger, Joe considered. But neither conclusion was particularly satisfactory, nor did it bring them any peace of mind.

  “If you don’t want to go ahead I’ll quite understand,” he said.

  “I won’t change my mind. We’ve made a bargain,” Anne added hesitantly.

  �
�You can trust me.”

  She shook his hand, seeing the mermaid again.

  Chapter 7

  As the train pulled out, Anne felt a wholly unlooked-for sense of liberation. Whoever Patrick Herrón was, however trustworthy or untrustworthy, she had told him what she had set in motion and what he did with the information was up to him. The act of confession had been cathartic after all, and the consequences, as they should be, were out of her hands. A form of justice had taken place. Rough justice at least.

  She closed her eyes as a sudden and totally unexpected physical desire for the man seized her — the first time in months and possibly years that she had felt a genuine sexual urge.

  An image of a small, squalid space came into her head. Not the chintzy little hotel room where she had dreamt whilst Herrón watched over her, but a much more sordid place where he and she thrashed on a narrow bed, eventually falling to the floor where the struggle for supremacy continued.

  She tried to remember when she had last had sex with Paul. Was it really so long ago? Gradually an alarming and feverish desire built up inside her and Anne wondered if this had subconsciously lain behind her need to control this man. She seemed to have presented herself with a bizarre kind of voyeurism. She wanted to have sex with her husband’s assassin — or, if he wasn’t, to imagine he was. She lay back, putting her head on the seat, wondering if she was going mad.

  Yet Anne was deeply grateful to Herrón for the deep sleep she had experienced in the hotel — more grateful than he would ever realize for it had been wonderfully refreshing, giving her the confidence to continue, to survive her confession, despite the dream. If Herrón was the assassin, she ought to loathe him, but she didn’t, and as far as Paul was concerned Anne’s bout of remorse had dispersed her guilt and with it the last vestiges of a love that had so often surfaced like a shark’s fin. All she could feel now was power and sexuality and a new sense of purpose, and an identity that she had sought for in vain over the last few months. Anne had no plans for her long-term future, but she knew what the short term could be. If she had employed this man to assassinate her husband, then she would continue to do so. She would become his lover, control his destiny and make him dependent on her.

  Joe Barrington hadn’t the faintest idea that he had given himself away. In fact he was delighted that his crude blackmail plan had reversed itself and made him the object of her benevolence. A major hurdle remained, however. Devra. How the hell could Carla pose as a probation officer? That would have to be the ultimate in farce. Then he had a cheering thought. Why was he stereotyping probation officers? They came from all backgrounds and were of all types so that wasn’t the problem at all. The real problem was Carla’s lack of authority. How could he coach her to sound convincing? He had been on probation himself years ago and ironically knew something of the job. Joe began to realize that he would have to draw Carla into his secret life for the first time.

  What would she say if she discovered that he had killed twice — or would she manage to take the facts on board as unopened baggage as she had always done in the past? Then another thought occurred. Did he really still love Carla, or had they now grown so far apart that they hardly knew each other any longer?

  As Joe walked reflectively back to the bus stop he decided to phone Eamonn, and as he stood in the phone box his optimism returned. He hadn’t had to do a damn thing and the gods had favoured him; he had been blessed. Maybe he and Anne Lucas might one day even become lovers. Demon lovers, of course.

  “Yes?”

  It was Freda. She was never exactly demonstrative on the phone, but when was she ever?

  “It’s Joe.”

  “Why haven’t you phoned?” She sounded alarmed and he felt a twinge of vague anxiety.

  “I’ve been away.”

  “Your brother’s in a coma.”

  For a wild moment he thought she was joking. “Pull the other one,” he told her, the ice gathering in his stomach.

  “He’s terribly ill.”

  “What the hell’s going on?” Joe was sweating now and suddenly life had stopped being miraculous.

  “Someone came to see him and Eamonn got upset. He ran up to his bedroom and took some pills.” She stated the facts baldly, crudely.

  “What did you do?” he yelled down the phone, guessing immediately who it had been and wanting to rip out Leslie Ryland’s eyes, kick in that bald pate. Why had he been so complacent? Why had he so easily accepted Eamonn’s sacrifice and then forgotten about it? He was as bad as his mam.

  “I called an ambulance.”

  “Didn’t they stomach-pump him?”

  “Yes. But he had some kind of heart attack. They tried to resuscitate him but it wasn’t any good. There could be some damage.”

  “Brain damage?” Joe was shaking with shock, not knowing what to do, aware that all his good fortune had prematurely run out.

  “No one will tell me,” Freda said stoically. “Are you coming up? I mean — I can’t be expected to handle all this on my own. I’m not next of kin and —”

  “This person. What did he look like?” Joe knew he had to be sure.

  Her reply exactly fitted Leslie Ryland’s description.

  “He was looking for something.”

  Joe knew immediately what it was and he tried to speak to Freda slowly and calmly and, above all, persuasively. She had to obey him. “This young man is a dangerous criminal. On no account speak to him again.” Joe paused, trying to think ahead, but blind panic was making him confused. “Eamonn had my holiday address, but I don’t know where the hell he kept it.” He was all too well aware how callous he must sound, but he had to protect Carla and Tim. Then he had an inspiration. “He might have put the address in my mother’s jewellery box. He had it as a — as a keepsake and he put bits and pieces in there.”

  “I know the one you mean,” she said. “Your brother usually kept it downstairs in the office.”

  “Where is it now?” demanded Joe, seeing no reason to thank her.

  “I took it to the hospital with some of his things. I knew he’d want it near him.”

  “Go and get it,” he yelled, losing control.

  “Pardon!” Freda was affronted.

  “I said go and get it. Now.”

  “It’s too late.”

  “I’ll pay you.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Her voice was stiff with outrage.

  “Listen.” Joe tried to stop shouting. “Eamonn’s life is in danger. So is mine. You have to get that address and destroy it. Do you understand?”

  “No. I’m afraid I don’t.” She had clearly taken great offence.

  “You have to get the address. Check the jewellery box. See if it’s there. Please.”

  “Now?” She was still outraged.

  “Yes.”

  “Why don’t you go?”

  “I’m a long way away.”

  “Where?”

  “Cornwall.”

  “But aren’t you coming up to the hospital?” Her outrage was turning to bewilderment.

  Joe found a fragment of patience. “Please get the box. If my address is in it make sure you destroy it — and I’ll call you back. It’s a matter of life and death.”

  “Very well.” Freda was finally acquiescent.

  “I’ll ring you later tonight.”

  Joe put the phone down, hardly able to breathe. She was so fucking stupid.

  He hurried out of the telephone box, all too well aware that unless Freda reached Eamonn fast, the Candy Man could hunt him down tonight.

  Joe’s panic was mounting as he waited for the bus. Was Eamonn going to die? Had he really tried to kill himself because of Ryland? For the first time in many years, Joe began to pray, principally for Eamonn and then later for himself and Carla and Timothy. Every second counted and now it looked as if the bus was going to be late too.

  * * *

  Leslie Ryland arrived on the ward, flustered and unsure of what he was going to do next. He had been to the shop se
veral times but it was permanently in darkness, the CLOSED sign on the door.

  “Are you a relative?” asked the nurse.

  “I’m Eamonn Coyd’s brother, Joseph,” he improvised. “How is he?”

  “Very poorly. He’s in a coma. But you can see him for a short while.”

  “Thank you. Do you think I should try and talk to him?”

  “Yes — but be as reassuring as you can.”

  “Can he hear me?”

  “He might.”

  Leslie went in and sat down beside Eamonn Coyd. The terrible scars, the tubes, the monitoring equipment made him look as if he had just landed on planet Earth and was now being carefully examined as an alien species.

  He spoke softly, as confidingly and intimately as he could. “Hello, Eamonn. It’s Joe. You’re going to pull through but you’ve got to fight. Do you hear me? You’ve got to fight.” He reached over and took Eamonn’s scarred fingers in his own, shuddering slightly as he touched the damp flesh.

  As he did so, Leslie examined the unit with great care, noticing with considerable relief that there were no other patients, only the steady hum of electricity and the electronic bleeps from the machine that was keeping Coyd alive.

  He opened his locker, riffling through Eamonn’s wallet, watching the door, checking each item and replacing them in the same order. Leslie Ryland was a practised hand at making speedy inventories of other people’s property and other people’s lives, but he found nothing and turning over the remainder of the locker was frustratingly fruitless. Clothes, a watch, a small notebook full of what seemed to be a list of sheet-music stock and a plastic sleeve which held a quotation.

  I rage, I melt, I burn

  The feeble God has stabbed me to the heart.

  JOHN GAY

  It was cut from a newspaper and was yellow with age. On the back of the sleeve was another.

  James James

  Morrison Morrison

  Weatherby George Dupree

  Took great care of his Mother

  Though he was only three

  Leslie shrugged and replaced the sleeve, sifting through a sponge-bag, a pair of greasy, down-at-heel slippers, reading-glasses — and at the very back, under an old rubber hot-water bottle, a small box with an ornate design of two young lovers, their beringed hands intertwined, their pink cheeks faded and scratched.