For now, it was an unknown, one of those things that you would never really know for sure until the moment arrived, and for Adam, that moment was fast approaching.
The more he thought about the events of the previous three months, the more Adam’s anger grew. He could hear two distinct voices in his head: the voice of reason and the voice of retaliation. They fought and argued, each having valid points, but overriding it all was the building rage within. How dare Aaron ruin his and his family’s lives! He would make him pay for his actions. He would make him suffer.
Crouched beneath the window, Adam noticed movement outside.
A male figure, dressed entirely in black, was standing next to the tree on the opposite side of the road. He could see his footprints in the snow, his dark profile silhouetted against the white of its surroundings. He was stationary, waiting, watching, clouds of white mist drifting skywards as he breathed in and out. Suddenly, he pulled a phone from his pocket and as he stared at the screen, his facial features were illuminated by its glow.
It was Aaron.
Adam watched as his nemesis walked towards the front door of the house. He stopped, surveyed the fire damage, and then continued out of his line of sight, the crunch of his footsteps indicating that he was on the driveway heading towards the back garden. When the neighbour’s security lighting was activated, shining through the small window onto the landing, Adam knew that Aaron was almost at the back door. It was time for him to take up his position in the bathroom.
Adam’s hearing now became his most important sense. Hidden from view, and in near total darkness, he listened intently to Aaron’s progress through the house. He heard the slight squeak as the back door was opened and then closed again. He heard him fumbling in the dark as he unsuccessfully attempted to switch the lights on in the hallway. He heard his heavy footsteps on the wooden flooring as he searched the lounge and dining room. And he heard the creak of the third step from the bottom as he slowly ascended the stairs. Adam held his breath, silent, save for the pounding of blood in his ears. His body tensed. Aaron was the other side of the bathroom door, standing on the landing.
Adam could hear doors being opened and movement in the carpeted bedrooms. It was time to strike. Pulling up the hood of his fleece to add to his intimidating persona, and with the knife gripped tightly in his gloved right hand, he silently opened the bathroom door.
Aaron had his back turned towards him, peering into the box room at the front of the house. Adam froze. As he turned, Aaron jumped backwards in shock as he saw the darkened silhouette standing in the doorway.
“Jes... What the fuck you doing? I nearly had a heart attack, man.”
Adam said nothing. He was unable to. Seeing his enemy standing before him brought a surge of memories - images of his wife and daughter being hit by a car, and of Jenny attached to a ventilator, lying on a hospital bed in a coma. He could feel the bile rising in his stomach, a suppressed urge to swallow, choking any thoughts of conversation. He could feel a tremor in his hand as he increased the grip on the knife’s hilt, the vibration travelling the length of his arm and spreading throughout his entire body as his rage slowly built in its intensity. But still he said nothing, did nothing, just glared at his foe with pure hatred.
Adam could see Aaron’s mouth moving, speaking words that he could not comprehend. He saw a moment of fear in his eyes as he noticed the knife, and he watched as he adopted a cocky, arrogant attitude in an attempt to talk himself out of a deadly situation. Aaron reached for the light switch, his face showing fear and disappointment in equal measure when it failed to bring light to the landing. His words bombarded Adam’s senses, the majority of which were lost on him, unheard or ignored.
Adam attempted to tune in to what was being said, but all that he could get were fragments of sentences, talk of wanting his money back, promises to leave his family alone if he complied, and references to the injuries caused to his wife and daughter. The latter caused his blood to boil. How dare he even mention their names after what he had done to them? Aaron attempted to blag his way out of trouble. He moved towards Adam, his hands outstretched, still demanding his money. Was he going to attack? Was he going to grab the knife? Adam had heard enough. The time for talking was over. As he got within striking distance, Adam lunged forward and thrust the knife deep into Aaron’s stomach. He held the blade tightly, not withdrawing it, watching the smug look on his face turn to fear and disbelief as it dawned on him that he had been stabbed. But Adam was not done just yet. He looked into Aaron’s saucer-like eyes and twisted the knife, watching with satisfaction as his face contorted in pain. Fuck you, he thought.
Aaron’s legs began to give way, his weight supported by the weapon that was still held in Adam’s hand. He looked down at the hilt protruding from his belly. He stared up at Adam, pleading for help, clawing at his shoulders for support. But Adam remained unmoved, cold and emotionless, watching as he collapsed to the floor and curled into a foetal position, his hands tugging at the handle of the knife.
Adam loomed over his dying enemy. He felt no compassion. He felt nothing. It was as if he was dead inside. It’s no more than he deserves. It serves him right, he thought.
“Help me, plea...” Aaron’s words faded as he slowly drifted into unconsciousness. The pool of blood seeping from his wound slowly expanded, soaking into the carpet beneath him.
Adam knelt down next to Aaron’s head, leaning forward to shake him, to wake him up. As his eyes blinked open, he whispered into his ear.
“You messed with the wrong person, Turner. I told you that if you hurt my family, you’d die.”
“G...Go to H...Hell!” he stammered, before coughing back the blood that had started filling his mouth.
“Your brother’s gonna get the maximum sentence for attacking that cop. Do you still reckon all of this was worth it?”
“Fuck...you!” Aaron was defiant to the last.
“One consolation though,” Adam grinned, “at least Kelly and Kyle will get to spend the rest of their lives in safety, away from you. Your money will help them start a new life somewhere. You know, you really should have treated them better when you had the chance.”
The sudden realisation that Kelly had been complicit in his demise hurt almost as much as the knife. It dawned on him that she had some connection, some past history with Adam. He had been betrayed by those closest to him.
And with that as his dying thought, Aaron took his final breath and drifted into oblivion.
Adam stood and stared in silence at the man lying at his feet. He felt no loss. There was no sorrow or mourning. Instead, he was overwhelmed with a feeling of satisfaction, of calm, and of closure. He had done it, he had defeated Aaron Turner. Now his life could return to normal. However, that was not possible, not in the short-term, at least. He was now a murderer, and unless he did something about it, that would change his life forever. Self-preservation took over. He knew what he needed to do and the thought of losing everything that he loved spurred him into immediate action.
Adam removed his blood-stained gloves, rushing downstairs to soak them in soapy water before placing them into the pockets of his winter coat which was hanging in the hallway. If anybody questioned why they were wet, he would simply explain that he had been clearing the snow from his van’s windscreen. Nobody would suspect the real reason – he hoped. Next, he reset the electrical breaker and adjusted the clock on the cooker and microwave to display the correct time so that nobody would know that the power had been turned off. And finally, he returned upstairs to prepare the murder scene, to manipulate the evidence to suggest that a totally different scenario had taken place.
Aaron was still clutching the knife’s handle - his fingerprints were already on it - that was one thing less to worry about. Pulling the cuff of his shirt over his fingers, Adam carefully pulled the knife out of Aaron’s body. The blade was covered in his warm sticky blood, but he ran its razor-sharp edge across his own thigh, cutting through his trousers and drawin
g blood from a deep, but superficial, wound. It hurt, but he dismissed the urge to cry out. Now coated in his own blood, as well as fibres from his own clothing, he replaced the weapon in its original position inside Aaron’s body and re-clasped his hand around its hilt. That part of the scene was now set – If DNA swabs were taken from inside the fatal wound, they would discover Adam’s blood mixed with Aaron’s, and the only way that could happen was if he had cut Adam in a struggle before the killer thrust. The suggestion that a fight had occurred when Aaron had broken into the house, and that Adam had accidentally killed him in self-defence, was beginning to take shape. The fact that Adam’s fingerprints might be discovered on the handle of the weapon could easily be explained by the fact that it belonged to him and that it had been taken from the kitchen, downstairs, when Aaron broke in.
Next, Adam needed to give the impression that a struggle had occurred. He barged through doors, knocking ornaments and clothing to the floor. He bounced off doorframes, hitting his face, arms, and back in order to acquire bruising and to transfer telltale DNA traces of skin and fibres to the affected surfaces. And finally, he took Aaron’s left hand and scraped his fingertips down the side of his neck, gouging three deep scratches into his skin and trapping his own DNA and blood under Aaron’s fingernails.
He stopped.
In a moment of calm, he switched on the upstairs lighting and took a second to think whether he had missed anything. He slowly walked around the house, carefully looking for anything blindingly obvious that he might have forgotten, anything that could ultimately lead to his undoing. Satisfied that all was as it ought to be, he picked up the house telephone and dialled 999.
“Hello, which service do you require?”
“Police and ambulance.”
“What’s the nature of your emergency?”
“Someone’s broken into my house, they’ve pulled a knife on me, and I’ve been cut.”
Adam spoke as if he was out of breath, panicked after having been attacked, and in pain from his wounds.
“I see. Is the suspect still on the premises? Are they still armed?”
“Err...Yes, and yes. He’s dead, stabbed with his own knife.”
“Oh!” There was hesitation in the call-taker’s voice. This was a new situation for her to handle. “Err...How bad are your injuries?”
“Not too serious. I’ve wrapped ‘em in a cloth.”
The call-taker asked for Adam’s name and address.
“OK, ambulance and police are on their way. Stay where you are until they arrive. Don’t touch or move anything, OK?”
“No worries, I’m not going anywhere.”
While he awaited their arrival, Adam sat on the carpet next to Aaron’s body and thought of how he ought to act once the police turned up. He needed to appear to be in shock after the attack, suffering from denial, not believing that his assailant was actually dead. But he also needed to say as little as possible at the scene. Most crimes were undone by careless words, blurting out unplanned statements and admissions in the first few minutes after the investigators arrived at the scene.
As he listened to the sound of sirens getting ever nearer, a feeling of serenity came over him. His plan was going according to schedule. This phase, the actual killing, was complete. The evidence had been manipulated to support his account of events. All that was left was to convince the detectives of his innocence.
Chapter 40
00:20 – Tuesday 10th January.
The silence and calmness of the house descended into utter chaos.
Outside, the street was filled with sirens and blue lights, the emergency vehicles parking haphazardly, totally blocking the carriageway. Then came the pounding of heavy boots charging through the house. There was shouting, radio chatter, and calls for assistance as they discovered Adam slumped on the landing floor next to Turner’s lifeless body. They checked for a pulse, called for an ambulance, and attempted CPR - all to no avail.
Adam’s wounds were checked briefly before he was escorted downstairs to the dining room. The police officers were unsure how they ought to treat him. Was he a victim? Was he a suspect? Should he be arrested for murder, manslaughter, or some other offence? Or was he innocent, simply defending himself against an armed intruder? Some knew a little of the circumstances surrounding his intimidation claims, others remembered him as one of their own, an ex-PC, but all were confused about the correct procedure to follow. They were out of their depth - they needed guidance from the on-call CID officers - but they had yet to arrive.
Adam sat quietly, surveying the mayhem around him, taking note of what was being said, what was being done, but outwardly appearing dazed and confused. To be fair, he was not feeling his best. Maybe the cut to his thigh had been a little too deep. Blood loss had a way of creeping up on you. As he watched, rooms began to be cordoned off, officers took post in the doorways recording everybody entering and leaving, and the mass of black uniforms were joined by those in green - the ambulance crews had arrived.
Whilst one team disappeared upstairs to confirm Aaron’s death, another paramedic tended to Adam’s injuries. A quick glance at his bruises and scratches was enough to tell that they were not urgently in need of treatment. However, the leg wound was a little more serious. Cutting his trousers away, the paramedic cleansed his gashed thigh before wrapping it in a fresh bandage and informing him that it required stitching. Adam was not listening. He was lost in thought, considering how lucky he had been that they had inadvertently removed any of Aaron’s DNA from within his own wound by cleaning it (cross-contamination from the knife). He had not even considered that as a potential source of evidence, but the ambulance crew had done him a favour by removing it nonetheless. It might have been costly had they later swabbed his thigh wound for DNA traces.
As he was helped to his feet and escorted out of the house to the waiting ambulance - the two junior police constables following along like lost puppy dogs - Adam noticed the emergence of people in white paper coveralls and masks. The Scenes of Crime Investigators had arrived. He could already see the flashes of light upstairs as they began photographing the crime scene and removing vital pieces of evidence. The only people not at his house were the detectives, those that would now be responsible for investigating the aftermath of the stabbing, but, no doubt, they were already mobilised and on their way.
Adam was transported to the local hospital where he was placed in a cubicle with the two constables standing guard outside the partially closed curtain in order to prevent him from wandering away. He had refused to be drawn into conversation with them, refused to answer their repeated question, “What happened in the house?” He had feigned a head injury, possible concussion from the supposed fight, and lay on the hospital bed pretending to rest while he waited for a doctor to come and stitch his leg.
Eventually, he was seen, checked thoroughly, and his wound sewn up. Having been given a clean bill of health (and a handful of painkillers), he was discharged back into the safe custody of the police.
“Err...Sarge, Mr Greenwood has been discharged from A+E. Should we bring him back to his H/A or to the police station?” asked one of the officers over his radio.
“Having liaised with CID, they’d like to get his first account and seize his clothing as evidence. SOCO are also waiting to photograph his injuries. You’d better bring him back here. Take him to the interview room in the custody suite when you arrive.”
“Will do, Sarge.”
With that, Adam was driven to Bury Street Police Station.
Thus far, the police had acted according to procedure. Adam had expected to be brought back to the police station; in fact, he was expecting to be interviewed under caution, at the very least. Maybe he would even be arrested, beforehand. It was all part of his plan.
It was a strange feeling to be in the Custody Suite as a customer, as opposed to a police officer. Adam had no control over events. He was placed in a secluded room away from the general prisoners, his personal guard stand
ing outside the doorway. The staff were pleasant enough, not exactly friendly towards him, but polite and professional. After all, he was not a prisoner, he had not been arrested (yet), he was simply helping them with their enquiries.
The door opened and a trio of men entered the room. All wore civilian clothing beneath white coveralls, and one had a digital camera slung around his neck. A paper sheet was placed on the floor and Adam was asked to stand in its centre. He was then ordered to take off his clothing, one piece at a time, each item being individually sealed into an evidence bag and the contents itemised, listed, and allocated an exhibit number. Adam accepted this indignity without complaint. He had anticipated it - the police needed to collect all possible evidence.
As his body was exposed to the onlookers, Adam’s injuries – his cuts, bruises, and scratches – were photographed from a distance and in close-up. Swabs were taken of the flesh surrounding the open wounds and those that had been treated at the hospital, and DNA samples were taken from the inside of his mouth. His hands were photographed and scrapings taken from beneath his fingernails, and finally, he had his fingerprints taken for elimination purposes. Adam felt violated having been prodded, poked and photographed by these strangers, but it was no less than he had expected. No doubt, their colleagues would be equally meticulous as they retrieved evidence from his house.
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