Two Crime Novelettes: The Revenge of Darian Devlin and A Singular Murder

by J. S. Mahon

  That might seem a bit weird, but I’ve always liked pushing myself and since I’d stopped competing at judo some ten years earlier life had become a bit tame for my liking. You’d think I would have been worried, or even shocked, by the fact that they’d found out where I lived, but to me that was just taking the game onto the next level. It was something like going from white to yellow belt in judo and as I’d reached black belt by the age of twenty-three I saw no reason for not making good progress in this new sport if the competition were serious enough. I knew where my three suspects lived, of course, and this latest act gave me ‘carte blanche’ to do a little nocturnal visiting of my own. There’d be no pissing about with spray paint when I went round to their hovels, I thought as I rubbed on the turps, as that was child’s play.

  By the time Helen got up all I’d managed to do was smear the bloody paint all over the place, but she could still see what they’d written and her reaction was exactly what I’d expect any woman’s to be. When I saw her put her hand to her mouth I rushed into the house hoping to stop her from letting out a cry and waking Jenny, who always had a lie in on Sunday after her early start for horse riding on Saturday.

  “It’s nothing,” I said when I got inside. “Just some local hooligans, I expect.”

  “What? Calling you a sadist?” she said in a cracked voice.

  “They might have meant you,” I said, my attempt at humour falling as flat as a pancake. “Perhaps it was the kids whose football I punctured. They’re a bit older now and might have been out drinking.”

  “Why sadist, though? It sounds more like someone you’ve upset at work to me. I’ll call the police,” she said, approaching the phone.

  “No, no, no,” I said, each ‘no’ quieter than the last. “I don’t want any hassle at work. It wouldn’t look good on my record.”

  “But they know where we live. They might do something worse,” she said, starting to sound upset.

  “I think whoever it was has made their point. If they meant business they’d have put a brick through the window. Now, please make me a cup of tea and I’ll see if I can get this paint off before Jenny gets up.”

  My consideration for the wellbeing of our daughter kept her quiet for a while and I soon got to work with a paint scraper. By the time Jenny came down at about half past ten I’d moved on to nail polish and razor blades and you could no longer see the words. As soon as I saw her through the window I went inside and gave her a cuddle.

  “What’s happened, Daddy?” she asked, still sleepy.

  “Nothing, Jen. Just some silly idiot who’s sprayed paint on the window.”

  “What did they write?” she asked, because she’s a bright one. I’m a bright one too and I’d anticipated the question.

  “The name of their football team,” I said.

  “That’s funny.”

  “Yes, especially seeing as they’re about to be relegated. Some people are just plain stupid.” I said, glancing at Helen over her shoulder.

  It took a trip to the DIY store and half of the afternoon to get all the paint off and I was pleased that I’d only left a few very light scratches, probably with the paint scraper when I’d started at it hammer and tongs. After I’d washed my hands I went over to the Millers’ to ask them if they thought their CCTV camera might have picked anything up. Miller’s a lawyer and he had a wry look on his fat face that told me that he’d seen what they’d written. When he grinned and told me that the camera didn’t work I felt like smacking him one, but I kept my face straight and thanked him anyway. I’m not popular with the neighbours because I don’t take any nonsense from their kids, but I think I kept my calm and dignity pretty well.

  After Jenny had gone to bed, Helen brought up the subject again and I managed to convince her not to call the police, but at a price; the price of a CCTV camera of our own which she said she was going to get installed that week. Considering what I was planning to do I thought it wasn’t a bad idea and told her to get a good one while she was at it.

  I was very calm when I arrived at work on Monday morning and even spotting the smiley face that the bastard had scratched onto the left wing of my car only ruffled me a bit. The stakes were higher now and it was important that I was seen to be in a very tranquil state of mind. While it was still quiet and my colleagues were poncing around in the kitchen I made a call to the decision maker and asked them to withdraw the sanction that I’d given Afzal K. I told them that I’d made a mistake because he had in fact applied for a retail job and they agreed to reinstate his benefits.

  The next morning I rang the number again and was pleased to hear a different voice. I asked them to withdraw Malcolm D.’s sanction as I’d found out that he was trying to quit drinking and I wanted to give him all the help I could. On Wednesday morning I rang them again and heard a Scottish accent that time. I asked the lady to withdraw Peter B.’s sanction and she agreed. It wasn’t a number that I’d rung much in the past – never, in fact – and by the third call I’d realised that I didn’t have to give her an explanation, so I didn’t.

  In the meantime, while I was seeing my endless stream of losers, I thought long and hard about the three men in the light of the latest developments. Afzal K. had been furious when I’d stopped his money and I believe people who take steroids can be unpredictable. He had a car too and the fact that he’d said it wasn’t insured wouldn’t have made much difference if he’d got himself worked up. I could easily imagine him doing it.

  I was fairly sure that Malcolm D. didn’t have a car, not because he’d told me he didn’t, as I’d spent enough years with these people to know that lying becomes second nature to them, but because lifelong boozers like him never seem to get round to learning to drive. He’d taken his sanction badly and had also mentioned triggers, which was interesting. Perhaps instead of allowing my harsh treatment to set him off drinking again he’d decided to pull a different trigger and carry on harassing me. He’s one of those fat, talkative people who normally have plenty of pals, so he might have got one of them to drive him over to my house. It seemed somewhat less probable, but I’d be seeing him once more before I acted and I could make a final decision then.

  At our last meeting Peter B. had shown that he really had it in for me and if he’d had no joy at the CAB he might have concluded that his only option was to carry on where he’d left off with the flat tyre and the bonnet scratching. When he’d mentioned his clean police record I’d tended to believe him, but how many people must have fibbed to me about that over the years? Besides, a long spell on the dole changes a man and it’s not so easy to stay on the straight and narrow when you’ve got someone like me making your life a misery. His car was on the road too but, like the others, I’d be weighing him up one more time before ‘B-Day’, as I’d begun to call my plan of action.

  In case you were wondering, I’d had their sanctions cancelled because I wanted to see their reaction to my latest chameleonic antics. When Afzal K. arrived I greeted him with a friendly wave before ushering him over and bidding him take a seat as if he were my prospective father-in-law. I then lowered my eyes and sighed before lifting my hands and letting them fall onto the table top.

  “Afzal, what can I say? After you left the other day I realised that I’d been unfair.”

  Afzal responded with his eyes only, which became very wide.

  “I sometimes get so bogged down with technicalities that I can’t see the wood for the trees. You’re obviously trying your best to get a job and what I did was stupid. After I’d thought about it I rang the decision maker and told them not to stop your money.”

  “Yes, I saw that it went in. I wish you’d rung to tell me. I was worried sick, man.”

  “Yes, I should have, but I preferred to tell you here and apologise to you face to face,” I said, quite truthfully, as it was his reaction to my preposterous behaviour that I was interested in. “I’m really sorry and I won’t be such a jobsworth again, I promise you.”

  Afzal’s eyes narrowed an
d he smiled. “Have you had a bollocking for being too tough on people, or what?” he asked, not unpleasantly.

  “No, there’s another reason,” I said, observing him closely.

  “What’s that?”

  “Oh, well, it’s just that I think I should start giving people the benefit of the doubt more,” I said, disappointed not to have detected any sign of gloating after my last statement.

  “I hope so. Do you want to look at my booklet?”

  “Not today, Afzal, I’ll see you next time,” I said, keeping up the act, but now for a different reason.

  I was pleased to see that Malcolm D. had managed to stay off the booze, but if he still felt cheerful about it he didn’t show any signs of wanting to share his joy with me as he trudged towards my desk. My effusive greeting and subsequent apology had much the same effect as they’d had on Afzal K.; one of astonishment.

  “You’re probably thinking that I’ve been warned about being too strict with people,” I said when I saw that he wasn’t going to speak.

  “Not really,” he said, still looking numb.

  “Well it’s not that. I have other reasons for changing my approach.”

  “Right,” he said, and nothing more.

  “Anyway, I hope there are no hard feelings and that I can be of help to you now that you’re doing so well with the drinking, or rather the not drinking,” I said, almost inclined to offer him my hand, which would have been the first time I’d made physical contact with a customer for over a decade. “Keep up the good work and I’ll see you in a fortnight.”

  “Right. Bye,” he said, and waddled out.

  I hoped that the shock of my metamorphosis wouldn’t send him rushing to the nearest all-day boozer, but the fact that he was still on the wagon, added to him having kept his cards pretty close to his chest, made me happy. Happy because at this stage I didn’t want to lose any of my suspects, having already planned B-Day down to the last detail, and his sobriety and reticence had kept him firmly on the list.

  Peter B. simply did not buy my affability and repentance act at all and he sat there stony-faced as I went through my performance. His monosyllabic replies to my questions and refusal to respond to my cringeworthy apologies made me suspect that he had gone ahead with his complaint and thought that my theatricals were due to this. I bade him a cheery goodbye and settled down to review my B-Day plans.

  The main difficulty I’d had to overcome was finding a reason to be out of the house late at night without arousing my wife’s suspicions. I rarely leave home in the evening, unless Helen insists that we go out for a meal, as I’m not fond of the local pub. They’re not very fond of me either, if truth be told, as ever since the night when I chastised a young man for being disrespectful to me by turning my back on him and performing an inner wraparound throw that left him flat on his back and gasping for air, the other patrons had treated my warily.

  I finally thought of my old friend and judo teammate Brian who had moved to Leeds and I rang him to see if he wanted to meet up. He said that he was busy the following week, which was fine by me as I had no desire to make a fifty mile round trip, so I asked him if he could do me a favour.

  “Fire away, Dan,” he said.

  “It’s just this. If Helen ever rings you to ask if I came over on Tuesday night – that’s next Tuesday – just tell her that I did.”

  “Ah, meeting some bird, are you?”

  “Something like that. She probably won’t ring, but if she does, or anyone else does, just say that I was with you until about twelve.”

  He’d sounded a bit puzzled by my saying that somebody else might ring, but we go back a long way and I was sure he’d back me up.

  The downside of my alibi was that I had to leave the house at half past seven that Tuesday evening and find something to do until past midnight. I drove to the hills where I normally take Felix for his weekend walks and wandered about on the paths up there until nightfall. At about nine I drove to a nearby village and went to the local pub, where I managed to make two pints last until closing time. In the car park I put my gloves on, got my stuff ready, and set off back to the town where I work.

  I’d memorised the addresses of my three targets and worked out a route that would leave me near the road home when I’d finished. Afzal K. lives in a mainly Asian area, while Peter B and Malcolm D. live at opposite ends of a lousy neighbourhood on the other side of town. The fact that they all lived in terraced houses, as unemployed people do, made things a bit easier and it was also less likely that there’d be CCTV cameras. There were no lights on in the house where Afzal lives with his parents and less than a minute after the brick went through their front window I was off the street and starting my car.

  With the riskiest one over, because not many whites are seen around there, I drove slowly across town and parked up around the corner from Peter B.’s. His bedroom light was on, so after I’d hurled the brick through the downstairs window I got in close to the wall and hoofed it up the street. I heard a yell as I was opening the car door, but by the time the old sod could’ve got out of the house I was away.

  Malcolm D.s living room light was on, though the curtains were drawn. I would’ve liked to have given him the fright of his life, but it was about a hundred yards to the end of the street and I daren’t risk him sticking his head out of the shattered window and seeing me, so I stood in the middle of the street and took aim at the bedroom window. When I was about to let fly I saw a lad in a hoody walking up the street from the other end, but as I was wearing a balaclava I flung the brick and legged it, thinking how funny it would be if he got done for it. He looked the type anyway and had probably done worse, I thought as I drove out of town.

  I got home at about a quarter past one and stuffed my gloves back into the spare tyre area in the boot. I’d chucked the balaclava out of the car window not far from Malcolm D.’s house and I was pretty confident that I’d got away with it. Right then all three of them were probably reading the note that I’d tied around each of the bricks and wondering what exactly ‘YOU AIN’T SEEN NOTHING YET’ meant. Helen was asleep when I got upstairs and about half an hour later so was I.

  I saw in Friday’s paper that the coppers had been clever enough to link the three incidents, but I was glad to see that the reporter hadn’t bothered to point out that all three of the victims were unemployed. He or she did say that two of them lived alone and that Mr and Mrs K.’s two younger children had been terrified by the ‘attack’. Our new CCTV camera had been installed by then and I looked forward to a quiet weekend. Whichever of them had done it ought to have realised by then that it wasn’t a good idea to mess around with me.

  6

  The disturbing events of that week made me all the more determined to continue my campaign against Darian Devlin. I drove past his house on Friday evening, just to get myself in the mood, and saw that he had installed a CCTV camera, as I had expected. I then drove up the avenue parallel to his to check the access to his back garden, but on spotting a camera on the house next to the one I would have had to get past, I decided that another home visit was too risky. Besides, I didn’t think it fair that his family should suffer for the sins of that awful man.

  After another root round in the garage later that evening I came up with an alternative idea. It was a long shot, in more ways than one, but it would keep me from getting bored that weekend. At about half past eight on Saturday morning, after buying a takeaway coffee and a newspaper, I parked up on the road not far from the end of his avenue and prepared myself for a long wait.

  It was only about an hour later when I saw his car come to a halt at the junction, so I knocked back the cold coffee and started my car. For all I knew he was just going to the shop, but if I wanted to learn his weekend routine I would have to put in the time like a regular detective. As it happened, he drove out into the country and up a lane to the foot of a rounded hill, where he parked up on a layby alongside a couple of other cars. I had pulled over further down the lane, of cou
rse, and saw him get out, followed by a small dog.

  I felt a tingle of anticipation as I knew that I couldn’t have wished for a better situation in which to carry out my plan, but I began to have second thoughts even before I had parked at the end of the layby and got out. Perhaps I had got carried away and my idea was too risky after all. Maybe I should just do a bit more damage to his car, which would rattle him out here, and leave it at that, but I told myself that what I was almost sure he had done warranted a more severe punishment.

  I picked up my small rucksack and set off up the path he had taken. Had I known he was going up there I could have bought a map and my nervousness almost made me go home and come back another day with a better knowledge of the area. I managed to persuade myself to follow him at a safe distance and after about half a mile the path passed through a small wooded area before beginning to climb more steeply.

  I stopped in my tracks, looked back at the trees and then back up the path. The lay of the land suggested that he would probably come back this way and I couldn’t deny that the little wood served my purpose perfectly. The only problem I anticipated was my getaway as it would be safest to strike after he had passed through the trees. I discovered another narrow path at right angles to the main one and followed it for a few hundred yards. Realising that it curved back downhill I quickened my pace and came out onto the lane about a quarter of a mile before the layby.