DM for Murder

by Matt Bendoris

  Her daughter looked on in horror and shouted, ‘You’ve killed Mama,’ before lunging at April, who swung the kettle upwards at full force, catching Patricia perfectly under the chin, delivering a knock-out upper cut blow like a heavyweight boxer.

  With both of her attackers down, April immediately went for her handbag to retrieve her mobile phone. She was in luck, she had two bars of signal. She called Connor, hearing the international dialling tone connect. It rang three times before he answered.

  April didn’t wait for him to speak, shouting, ‘Pasty and her mum are in on it. It’s a trap, Connor. A TRAP.’

  ‘I know,’ her colleague coolly replied before the transatlantic call was cut off.

  April dialled 999 asking for police and an ambulance, while she picked up the knives that were intended for her, putting them in the bin. Seconds later the door was kicked down, and DCI Crosbie rushed in, covered in a light dusting of snow, leaving a trail of slush from his hiking boots behind him.

  ‘That was fucking quick,’ April said, as she slumped against the cooker. ‘How’d you find me?’ Crosbie snapped cuffs on the two Tolan women and admitted, ‘It was tricky. There are hundreds of these fucking chalets up here. So I asked the snow plough driver. He recalled seeing “some crazy bitch in a purple banger weaving all over the road” behind him. He helpfully told me where you pulled off.’

  ‘And the snapper?’ she asked.

  ‘He’s been iced, I’m afraid,’ Crosbie replied. ‘Anyway, how do you like these silver bracelets, ladies? You’re goin’ downtown.’

  ‘Been watching too many cop shows, detective?’ April observed correctly, as the heat from the Aga enveloped her like a warm blanket.

  ‘Yeah,’ he confessed. ‘Got masel’ a homeboy in Bawlmore, too,’ he said, giving his terrible American impression.

  ‘I have no idea what that means, my strange detective friend, but glad to see you all the same.’

  April looked at the Tolan women lying prostrate on the floor. Patricia was still out cold, while Edwina sobbed and whimpered like a wounded animal. April rummaged around in her bag again until she found her pack of menthol lights and her lighter. She sparked up and inhaled deeply before closing her eyes, humming the song Ding-Dong! The Witch Is Dead.

  ‘Or at least very badly scalded,’ DCI Crosbie added wryly.

  94 #TooLate

  Connor Presley had taken April’s call just a fraction too late – he was already staring down the barrel of a gun when he was forced to hang up. Geoffrey Schroeder stared at the reporter intently, assessing if he posed any danger.

  ‘I’m unarmed,’ Connor said, raising his hands slowly in the air.

  Geoffrey placed his forefinger to his lips and replied, ‘Shhhh.’

  The warehouse had long been abandoned. Wind blew through the cracked and missing windows, with broken glass scattered everywhere. It was the perfect place to kill someone. No CCTV cameras. No witnesses. No one to help. Connor was beginning to think this had been a bad idea.

  Schroeder indicated with the barrel of the gun that the journalist should move to the right. The crunch of their footsteps on the broken glass could be heard above the wind rattling through the old building as Schroeder herded Connor behind a bunch of old pallets that were haphazardly stacked about eight feet high. Connor wondered why they were trying to hide. If Schroeder wanted to shoot him, he could have done it there and then.

  Behind their makeshift wooden cover, Schroeder stopped pointing his gun at Connor and whispered, ‘I didn’t shoot Horrigan. I wanted to, but I guess someone hated him more than I did. I got a tweet from someone called Baby Angel telling me he was going to be in Baltimore. They told me to go to his hotel. But it didn’t feel right, so I backed off. Next thing, he’s dead. Someone wanted me to shoot him or take the rap for it. That’s why I wanted to know who gave you my name. I’ve been set up.’

  They both heard a noise at the other end of the warehouse. ‘We’re not alone,’ Schroeder said, raising his gun in readiness.

  Connor feared that Schroeder may think he’d set him up. He protested his innocence. ‘I swear I didn’t tell anyone where I was coming. No one. Not even the cops.’

  Schroeder looked distracted and didn’t seem to take any notice of Connor’s declaration of innocence. ‘It’s no cop. We need to get out of here,’ Schroeder said, as he crouched down to peek around the edge of the pallet stack.

  Suddenly Schroeder flew backwards. A loud bang cracked around the warehouse walls, leaving a ringing noise in Connor’s ears. The pro-lifer writhed in agony, clutching his face, before another bullet struck, blowing blood and matter out of Schroeder’s side across the floor. Connor attempted to pull him back to safety, but it was too late. Geoffrey Schroeder lay lifeless.

  His gun was within grasp, but Connor had never fired a weapon before. He was also up against an expert sharpshooter, so knew that any thought of a movie-style shootout, with him blasting his way to safety, would be futile. Instead, he decided to use what he was good at, and all he had left. Words.

  ‘I’m coming out. My hands will be in the air. I have no weapon. Repeat, I am unarmed. Okay. I’m coming out now,’ Connor announced loudly. Here goes nothing, he thought to himself. Connor stepped from behind the pallets to show he wasn’t about to make any sudden moves.

  ‘I was always waiting for you to “come out”, Elvis. I’ve had my suspicions about you.’ Bryce Horrigan’s former deputy, Tom O’Neill, smirked at Connor.

  Connor ignored the gay jibe and asked with genuine interest, ‘How the fuck did you find us?’

  ‘I was in the boot of my car. Or the “trunk”, as they say over here. I even tweeted you from it. Nice touch with the valet parking, don’t you think?’ Tom said, pleased with his ingenuity.

  ‘And where did you learn to shoot like that?’ Connor asked.

  ‘Well, duh, I am from Northern Ireland,’ Tom replied in his thick Derry accent. ‘We’ve got more fucking guns than the Yanks. At least I don’t have to hide them here. God bless America and the Second Amendment. The right to bear arms is the best thing about this country. I keep mine in the boot. You’re not supposed to, but it came in very handy, don’t you think?’

  Connor decided to change tack. ‘Murder, Tom. Really? Bryce may have been a pain in the arse, but bitch about the boss over a beer, for fuck’s sake – you didn’t have to kill him.’

  ‘That’s what I thought too, but when you’re offered the perfect plan to literally get away with murder… well, frankly, it was just too damn tempting,’ Tom replied, his powerful-looking gun pointing directly at Connor.

  Connor scoffed. ‘Get away with murder, Tom? You lured an unarmed man to his death, stared him in the eye and shot him in cold blood. You’ve crossed the line, buddy. You going to do the same when you fall out with your next boss? How about the boss after that, Tom? Where would we be if we all did that? You’re fucked, mate.’

  ‘You think so?’ Tom snorted.

  ‘I know so. Bryce wasn’t the only one lured in, pal. Or that poor pro-life fucker lying over there in his own guts. Don’t you think Pasty and her insane mother have a contingency plan for you too, you dumb twat?’ Connor saw Tom flinch at the mention of his co-conspirators. ‘They can expose you with a single tweet, fella. And don’t think they won’t. They might have hacked Bryce’s Twitter account, but you pulled the trigger. You’ve been lured in, just the same as Schroeder.’

  Tom’s gun barrel dropped ever so slightly. He may have been the one holding the weapon, but suddenly he felt very exposed. It made perfect sense that the Tolans would dispose of him now. He was the only one who had fired the shots. He had killed Bryce, Chrissie Hardie and the hotel porter, Cliff Walker. It was only meant to be Bryce. It had been all so simple when they’d laid it all out. It was only now he realised he was just another pawn in the Tolans’ lethal game.

  Tom finally responded to Conn
or. ‘Bryce was right about something: I could never fill your boots, Elvis. You are good. A real operator, as they say in the trade,’ he said as he raised his rifle up to eye level and took aim at the rival reporter.

  ***

  Detective Sorrell listened to the entire conversation on his iPhone, recording the confession on the free ‘Call Recorder’ app Haye had installed for him. Connor had phoned the captain’s cell from his BlackBerry before stepping out from behind the pallets. Sorrell had been about to hang up on the reporter when he heard him say he was unarmed. Realising a situation was unfolding, he had hit the record button.

  Haye had already been driving Sorrell towards the warehouse, at the head of a fleet of police vehicles, even before they’d taken the call from Connor. That’s after they had triangulated Tom O’Neill’s location from the strength of his signal between cell towers, in the same way they had been tracking down all the Internet trolls.

  Sorrell had his phone clamped to his ear, listening to the events unfold in the warehouse he could now see in the distance. But he was too late: a single shot rang out, abruptly ending the transmission. ‘Shit,’ the captain swore as he thumped the dashboard in frustration.

  ***

  Connor Presley’s BlackBerry had shattered into several pieces when he dived to the floor as Tom O’Neill had taken aim and fired. But the shot that rang out hadn’t struck. Instead, when Connor looked up, Tom was spreadeagled on the floor.

  ‘Got the motherfucker right between the eyes.’

  Connor looked behind him to the prostrate figure of Geoffrey Schroeder. The pro-lifer lay lopsided, one half of his body a bloody mess, his rifle propped up on a broken piece of brick, the butt under his good arm. He was still staring through the telescopic sight, the effort of manoeuvring into position sapping the last of his energy.

  Captain Sorrell and his trusted lieutenant found them that way. Connor desperately needed to call April. He picked up the bits of his BlackBerry and stared at it despairingly.

  ‘Here, use my phone,’ Haye said, offering his cell.

  ‘Thanks. But I can’t remember her bloody number. I’ll tweet her instead,’ Connor said as he struggled to familiarise himself with the iPhone’s touchscreen, having been so used to the BlackBerry keys. He logged on to his own account and sent a DM to April:

  Connor Presley @ElvisTheWriter

  Are you all right? Situation here resolved. O’Neill was the killer. He’s dead.

  Connor pressed ‘Send’, before writing another:

  Connor Presley @ElvisTheWriter

  Also need your mobile number. My BlackBerry is knackered.

  He sent his second message believing it was a futile gesture as April would never have the wherewithal to check her tweets. He was about to dial his office when he received a DM:

  April Lavender @AprilReporter1955

  What took you so long? I’ve sorted psycho mum/daughter. I’m bloody starving.

  Connor shook his head slowly from side to side. ‘Will wonders never cease,’ he said to himself.

  95 #HeadlineNews

  Daily Chronicle @DailyChronicle

  TV star’s ‘killer’ shot dead in US. Two more suspects arrested in Scotland after one man killed and woman seriously injured.

  It was certainly a headline that caught the attention of both the dwindling newspaper-buying world and the Twitterati. Tom O’Neill’s death had already become worldwide news, but the information on the agencies and news sites was sketchy at best.

  That wasn’t the case for the Daily Chronicle. They reported that the radio DJ Lacey Lanning had been found gravely wounded while a freelance Daily Chronicle photographer was discovered dead at a remote Highland chalet. What’s more, Bryce Horrigan’s ex-fiancée and her mother had been arrested at the scene.

  From the other side of the Atlantic, Connor Presley reported how he had found himself in the middle of such dramatic events, managing to capture a full confession on his phone from Tom O’Neill before Bryce Horrigan’s deputy had been shot dead. There were even some glowing quotes from the publicity-reluctant Captain Bernard Sorrell, praising Connor Presley’s bravery and assistance in the conclusion of Horrigan’s homicide case. The report also contained a first-person piece by Connor, who painted the shoot-out scene like a movie finale. It led to dozens of requests for interviews pouring in to his newspaper’s offices from media outlets across the UK and US. Even a Japanese TV crew wanted to speak to the Scots ‘hero’ for their news feed. Then there were the publishing houses, desperate to do book deals.

  ‘I feel like I’ve gone over to the other side – being interviewed instead of asking the questions,’ he told April as he was getting ready to head for Marshall Airport to catch the first of his flights back home.

  ‘Well, maybe you have. You going to write the book about it, then? It’d be a bestseller,’ April said through her customary mouthful of food.

  ‘Only if you write it with me. It needs the Scottish half of the story too, and that’s all down to you.’

  ‘Oh gosh, yes. My dream come true – to finally be a published author. Should have done it years ago when I was your age, when I still had the energy.’

  Connor caught sight of himself in his room’s mirror before he left. He looked wiped out, with grey skin and bags under his eyes. ‘Energy?’ he laughed. ‘If only you could see me now. Anyway, I’m off to the airport to see if my newfound celebrity status extends to getting an upgrade.’

  96 #Farewell

  Captain Sorrell was waiting for Connor in the lobby, catching the reporter’s attention as he went to check out.

  ‘Give you a ride to Marshall?’ the detective offered.

  ‘Thanks, captain. Would you mind if I asked you some questions on the way?’ Connor asked hopefully. ‘It would make a good follow-up piece.’

  ‘You damn journalists never switch off, do you?’ Sorrell smiled, which was as close to a ‘yes’ that Connor was going to get. ‘You’ve met my driver, Lieutenant Haye.’

  ‘Is that all I am to you, cap’n?’ Haye laughed.

  ‘Do you actually have a first name, lieutenant?’ Connor asked.

  ‘Harry. It’s been so long since I’ve been called anything other than Haye, even I had to think for a minute there,’ he joked.

  ‘So Dirty Harry it is. Most people call me Elvis,’ Connor said back.

  ‘When’s your flight, Elvis?’ Haye asked.

  ‘I’m on the 17.00 to Newark.’

  ‘It’s just gone noon. Fuck it, we’ve got plenty of time. Shall I take him some place, cap’n?’ Haye said with a glint in his eye.

  ‘Why the hell not?’ Sorrell replied.

  Minutes later they pulled up outside the detectives’ favourite Irish bar on East Fairmount. ‘You gotta try the crab dip, Elvis,’ Haye recommended. ‘It’s fucking A.’

  The three men took a booth, ordered their food and drinks, before Connor produced his Dictaphone from his man bag. Sorrell chuckled. ‘This guy is all business, ain’t he?’ Their drinks arrived, with the trio sinking their first Guinness almost before the waitress was back at the bar.

  ‘Something has been bothering me, captain. You and the lieutenant were already on the way to the warehouse when I called you. So you were either keeping tabs on me, Geoffrey Schroeder or Tom O’Neill – which one?’ Connor asked.

  ‘Well, we didn’t have a cell phone for Schroeder. And it would have been too easy to track you down – all I’d have to tell you was I had a big story, and you’d have given up your location and sold me your grandma at the same time, right?’ Sorrell said, smiling again.

  ‘So it was O’Neill you were on to. But how?’ Connor wondered.

  ‘Lots of circumstantial things, really. The first was Lindy Delwar. She told me the ‘hat man’ in the hotel room had a really weird accent. South African, or something. Now, Lindy Delwar had not been outsid
e the city of Baltimore in all her twenty-four years, so how would she know what a South African accent sounded like? It hadn’t been an Afrikaner she’d spoken to. It had been a Northern Irishman. Hell, I could hardly understand O’Neill when he came in to see us.’

  Sorrell took a gulp of his Guinness before continuing. ‘The next was the bug plugged into Horrigan’s office computer. It could only have been done by three people: his deputy O’Neill, his ex-girlfriend Patricia Tolan or lover Chrissie Hardie. So that narrowed it down again. It also turned out that Horrigan had DM’d O’Neill, sending him to Baltimore to set up his little orgy. So we knew O’Neill was in the vicinity.’

  ‘Bryce must have smelled a rat,’ Connor said. ‘He would’ve feared he was being set up, so he sent his trusted right-hand man to make sure it was all right,’ Connor figured.

  ‘More pimp than deputy,’ Haye smiled. ‘What Horrigan didn’t know was, he had just sent his own killer to lay the trap. O’Neill booked room 1410 through Coops, pretending he needed a hooker. But all he really wanted was an unregistered room. He even set the scene with the four champagne glasses so his boss wouldn’t be suspicious. It was bothering us why Horrigan hadn’t run a mile when a man had opened the room door to him. Unless he’d sent the man in the first place.’

  ‘Bryce sensed danger but his dick overruled his head,’ Connor concluded.

  ‘Chrissie Hardie then turned up dead. O’Neill told us Chrissie had complained to Horrigan’s bosses about his biting. They turned a blind eye. He pretended to be a shoulder to cry on, when really he was setting her up as bait. Part of the foursome to lure Bryce to Baltimore. Chrissie was more than willing at first as she wanted revenge. She’d been promised Bryce would be left humiliated. But when Bryce turned up dead she no doubt freaked out. She called Bryce’s phone, but hung up when the captain here answered. Her phone records then show she called Tom O’Neill, most likely demanding answers. Of course he would have promised to come round to sort it all out. And he did, driving from Baltimore to New York to shoot her in the head.’