Perfect Intentions: Sometimes justice is above the law

by Leona Turner

  After ten minutes, the car was ready to go. Dean hurriedly replaced all the tools he’d been using back into the boot.

  “Can I give you a lift anywhere?”

  “Nah, you’re all right, I can catch the bus from here.”

  He pointed at the bus stop across the road.

  “I’ve not made you miss your bus, have I?”

  “There’ll be another one along in a minute. See ya.”

  Clare waved her thanks and got into the car and switched the radio on.

  ‘The charred remains of what is believed to be a man have been found on the Leicester Road industrial estate in Manning’s Town this morning. The police have yet to make a statement regarding the identity of the victim, although it is believed he is not local to the area…’

  Clare hit the search button and found a station playing ‘non-stop hits.’ Five minutes and five adverts later, she pulled into the car park singing along to ‘Sound of the Underground.’

  Aware she was already running a little late, Clare hurriedly dropped her bag in the staff room and went straight to her counter, where Hannah was already busy sorting through a new line of perfume that had come in. Hannah spotted her and smiled.

  “All right, doll?”

  “Yeah, yourself?”

  “Uh-huh. You off to see Loretta tonight?”

  “Half six. You want to come round later?”

  “Sure. How are things going with her, anyway—she as good as her rep suggests? My sister in law swears by her, she’s a modern day saint, and everyone who’s met her says how fucking invaluable she is.”

  Clare could hear a hint of ill-disguised jealousy in her friend’s voice and dismissed it.

  “Well, it is good of her to help me; she doesn’t have to.”

  “Yeah, modern day saint, like I said”

  “Well, I can come over and talk behavioural psychology with you if you like, but I thought your strengths lay with your amazing ability to pick up random men in bars—“

  Clare was baiting her, and Hannah knew it.

  “Fair enough, point made. So lets move onto my strengths then. Are you coming out with me tonight or not?”

  “Tonight? No, I can’t do tonight; you know that. I’ve got too much work on at the moment.”

  “Tomorrow, then?”

  “Hannah, I told you this weekend’s not good for me.”

  “Bloody hell, Clare, you’re turning into a hermit. One night off won’t kill you; I might, though.”

  “Maybe next weekend.”

  “Remove the ‘maybe.’ ”

  “Ok, next weekend.”

  “Good. Ok, moving on: did you hear the news this morning?”

  “The burnt body?”

  “Yeah, they reckon it happened sometime last night.”

  “They don’t know who it is, though, do they?”

  “No, hope it’s no one I know. It’s a bit bloody worrying when it happens on your doorstep. I mean there haven’t been any reports of missing people have there? And in a small town like this everyone pretty much knows everyone else’s business.”

  “We’ll have to check the news at lunch, see if the police have any more leads.”

  “Yeah, anyway, I’ve got to get to the stock room. If I take much longer Maggie will have my guts—she’s still pissed off about the time I came in late. I mean, for God’s sake, it was over a year ago, get over it.”

  “You mean when you were two hours late and hungover?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you threw up on her?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I know what you mean, Hannah; some people really know how to hold a grudge.”

  Hannah smiled and wandered off in the direction of the stock room.

  Clare checked her watch; if she wanted to get out in time to go to the bank, she was going to have to get the stock re-ordering done before lunch. Taking a deep breath, she began sorting through papers.

  Clare was twenty minutes late when she eventually arrived at the bank. Red-faced and clearly flustered, she went straight up to the information desk and informed the teller she had an appointment to see the bank manager. After exhaling noisily, the teller begrudgingly swung her chair round and skulked off towards the back of the bank, presumably to find the manager.

  As the teller came back into her line of sight, the manager was trailing behind.

  “Ah, Miss Heathers, I’m Ian White. Glad to see you could make it.” Clare decided to ignore the jibe, realising she probably deserved it.

  “Would you just like to follow me through to my office?”

  Clare smiled.

  “Lead the way.”

  The office was sparse: it held only a computer, a desk, and a stand full of leaflets advertising all the new services they offered. As Clare took a seat, she wondered briefly how old the man-child in front of her was—he didn’t look a day over eighteen. She had a horrible suspicion he was going to patronise her, and the days of her holding her tongue were long gone.

  “Miss Heathers, the reason I wanted to see you is the fact that your account has been overdrawn several times in the last few months, pointing to the fact that you are having trouble managing it, which means your latest application for an extension on your overdraft facility has been declined. Sorry.”

  “So as you see that I’m a little overdrawn each month, you’re not going to give me an additional extension on my overdraft facility, is that right?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid that you have to show the account is stable for at least six months before we will consider extending your credit.”

  “So basically after six months, if I manage not to become overdrawn, you’ll give me an extended overdraft facility?”

  “Yes”

  “But if I’m not overdrawn anymore, why would I need an extension on my overdraft facility?”

  “Well, I’m sorry Miss Heathers, but that’s bank policy, I’m afraid.”

  “Yes, well, forgive me for being a little cynical, but I can’t help thinking I’m funding your Christmas parties. Every time I’m overdrawn by ten or twenty pounds, I get charged an additional fifteen pounds, and then I receive one of these thoroughly charming letters.” Clare threw the bank letters on the table.

  “Which not only informs me that I’m overdrawn, but also drops in the fact that you’re charging me for writing to tell me about it.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Heathers. If you’d like, we can meet up again in six months and do another review.”

  Recognising defeat, Clare scooped up her letters and jammed them back into her bag.

  Mr. White sat back in his chair, watching Clare’s retreating back, and released a long, low breath out. She may have been attractive, but he wouldn’t fancy taking her out on a date—not with that temper, anyway.

  Getting back into her car outside the bank, she allowed herself a moment of pity before starting the engine. Driving toward Loretta’s office she almost missed the turn into the car park as her mind was still on her dwindling finances. She had known there had been little to no chance of the bank being able to help her. She decided to try and put it to the back of her mind as she parked up. Clare knew that Loretta wasn’t going to be happy. Loretta had agreed to stay on later than she would usually to accommodate Clare’s working patterns. As Clare walked into the office reception the receptionist looked up and smiled at her. Clare forced a smile back and the receptionist motioned her straight through to Loretta’s office.

  “Hi, Clare, how are you getting on with the course? Did you look up that case study I told you about?”

  “Yeah, thanks for that, it was really useful, although I did want to ask you about something.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, it’s about something I read in a magazine. It was an article on a prison guard who worked in the paedophile wing in some prison, and it was so depressing. Did you know the majority of convicted paedophiles refuse help? I mean they can’t or won’t comprehend that they did something wrong.”
/>   Loretta nodded and sat back in her chair.

  “You know, Clare, one of the best things about psychology can be the most frustrating. As in within traditional science, there are certain rules, the laws of physics, chemistry, and biology are irrefutable, and we know them to be true because we see them every day. With psychology there is no absolute truth; it deals with patterns, patterns of behaviour, patterns of thought. There are no absolutes. There are certain things we can look for, but if you expect to find a neat template that will fit every one of the seven billion people on Earth, you’re going to come up short.”

  Loretta smiled.

  “Now, have you heard of an experiment called ‘gorilla in our midst?’”

  An hour later Clare left Loretta’s office feeling much better than she had going in. Her meeting with Loretta had gone so well in fact, that she’d almost forgotten how badly her day had been prior. Clare pulled her car back into the car park by her flat, noticing someone sitting on the wall opposite. There was nothing unusual in that; the local teenagers were always hanging about drinking, smoking and hurling obscenities at anyone who walked past. But this was different. For a start, there was only one person there, and she recognised him instantly. She grabbed her bag and got out of her car, slamming the door and locking it. She looked over at him.

  “Hello again, what are you doing hanging about?”

  “Waiting for you, as it happens.”

  “Really? And why’s that?”

  “I wanted to make sure that wheel was still attached,” he said, gesturing towards the car tyre he had fitted that morning.

  “Well, that’s reassuring.”

  “To be honest, that wasn’t the only reason. I was just wondering if you were doing anything Saturday.”

  Clare’s eyebrows shot up.

  “Are you asking me out?”

  “Yeah, I guess I must be.”

  “Don’t you think you’d be better off asking someone closer to your own age?”

  Dean looked abashed for a second before regaining his composure.

  “I’m asking you out for a drink, not proposing marriage.”

  “Fair point. Ok, then, why not?”

  “I’ll meet you here Saturday at eight.”

  Not waiting for a reply, he turned and left.

  Clare watched him for a few moments before grabbing her bag and heading toward the door.

  Her meeting with Dean had thrown her, and she was still smiling when Hannah arrived.

  “All right, hon, what’s got you smiling all of a sudden?”

  “Nothing, just pleased to see you, is all.”

  Hannah wandered past her, looking somewhat unconvinced.

  “I have a couple of bottles of wine, a takeaway, and Dirty Dancing on DVD—what more do you need for a perfect evening?”

  Clare followed Hannah through to the kitchen.

  “I stuck the oven on twenty minutes ago, so it should be warm enough. Stick the takeaway in and I’ll grab us some glasses.”

  Clare wandered over to the cupboard to get the glasses. She considered telling Hannah about Dean, but given her knack for overreaction, she decided that it might be a good idea to keep the information to herself for now and see how Saturday panned out first.

  Chapter 3

  The front door to Matt’s apartment was opened quickly and silently, the intruder slipped in and the door was closed once more. Moving swiftly and silently from room to room, the intruder checked for any signs of life. There shouldn’t be—Matt’s routines were just that: routine. He wouldn’t be home until five, leaving more than enough time. Locating the packet of Temazepam in the bathroom cabinet, gloved hands quickly popped the tablets into a small plastic bag and using a can of deodorant crushed them. Taking the bag of ground temazepam into the kitchen, its contents were then emptied into the coffee machine filter. Scanning the surfaces to ensure no evidence remained, the intruder slipped silently out.

  Three hours later the intruder returned, and, as expected, all was quiet. Walking through into the lounge, the figure noticed that Matt was slumped over the dining table, the coffee cup on the floor trailing the remains of coffee and Temazepam cocktail. Moving quickly, the intruder secured Matt to the chair he was in.

  Forty-five minutes later, Matt awoke. Looking up, he saw the masked and cloaked figure staring back down at him.

  Matt watched as the intruder moved slowly across the hard wood floor—his floor in his apartment, supposedly his haven. It felt far from a haven now. Looking around him, he wished he hadn’t bothered working so hard to achieve the minimalist look because this clinical atmosphere he had created was far from comforting; it was like the intruder had chosen the room for its foreboding atmosphere.

  The footfalls were loud on the bare floor, which brought Matt’s attention back to his predicament.

  When he had first woken up in his apartment and had found himself duct taped to one of his dining room chairs, he’d thought it was a prank, courtesy of one of his rugby mates. Then he had realised that he had no recollection of the last few hours after he had gotten home from work. He had come in, made himself a coffee, sat at the dining table to sort through the post, and that was it—after that he had nothing. And yet, here he was, bound, gagged, and sitting in his candle-lit lounge. He had been the one to put the candles out; he was going to propose to Helen tonight, but somehow he didn’t think that would be happening now. Watching the intruder, his panicked mind flickered back to the news he’d heard earlier on his way back from work.

  A body had been found. His mind grappled with the idea that the perpetrator might be the man in his apartment.

  The intruder was watching Matt with interest as differing emotions flickered across Matt’s face. The first victim’s discovery had been the mainstay of all news reports for the day, and Matt was clearly wondering, and quite correctly, if he was to be victim number two.

  The intruder turned and headed toward the bedroom door, Matt was still staring, finding it impossible to look anywhere else. The figure temporarily disappeared from sight into the bedroom. Matt shifted uneasily in his seat. Within minutes, the figure reappeared with a large box in hand. After a moment, Matt recognised it: his toolbox.

  It had been in his bedroom for a while now. Helen had wanted some bookshelves putting up. It was a job he was continually putting off. Up until now, his avoidance of the toolbox had become a standing joke. Helen had taken to leaving it by the side of the bed in the belief that if he kept stubbing his toes on it, he would just get the shelves up, to save crippling himself every morning. Now, however, it couldn’t be further from amusing; it looked dark and sinister in the half-light, casting long shadows across the floor that nearly touched his feet.

  The intruder gently laid the box down on the floor in front of him, and he felt an icy cold hand clutching at his bowels. A bead of sweat released itself from the back of his neck and snaked its way down between his shoulder blades and into the crevice of his buttocks.

  The intruder sensed his rising panic and started to move slower and more deliberately.

  Looking sideways at Matt, the intruder stooped down and reached around inside the toolbox. Matt’s eyes were glued to the figure, as he watched a gloved hand reached into the toolbox and pulled out an electric drill. A muffled squeal escaped Matt.

  Eyes never moving from the drill, Matt began struggling with his bindings, causing the chair to sway.

  “In a minute I shall untie you, and you will have five minutes to escape.”

  Matt suddenly felt a brief moment of relief; he knew that within thirty seconds of being released he could be out of his apartment and back in the safety of his car.

  “Do you understand?”

  Matt nodded.

  “However,” the voice continued.

  “Perhaps I should mention that when—or should I say if—you make your escape, you’ll be doing so with holes through both your ankles.”

  On cue, the drill screamed into life.

  That
was when Matt passed out.

  Going through to the kitchen the intruder filled a glass with water and taking it back to the lounge threw the water in Matts face.

  Coughing and spluttering Matt awoke. There was soft music playing in the background. Then reality crashed down on him as a familiar voice reached him from across the room

  “Ok, Matt, I can see you’ll need a little help, so I have generously decided to administer you a little anaesthetic to stop you passing out from the pain.”

  Matt wasn’t sure what worried him more, the content of the statement, or the jovial, conversational tone that had been used.

  All of a sudden, the intruder was upon him. Matt barely had chance to react, and the needle pushed easily through the flesh and found its mark. As the plunger was deployed, he felt the sickly, cold feeling of the condemned man.

  The intruder headed back to the toolbox to collect the necessary instrument, and Matt started to feel a little light-headed. By the time he had returned, Matt had convinced himself that he wouldn’t feel a thing, but as the drill sparked into life and made its way toward his right ankle, all he could think was that he’d never play rugby again. He briefly wondered if he’d live to see his unborn child—the child that had been the catalyst for his impromptu proposal.

  As the drill ripped straight through the skin and hit the bone, he felt pain so acute he threw up. The gag prevented the vomit leaving the confines of his mouth, and he swallowed it back down. He willed himself to pass out. But the anaesthetic and adrenaline coursing through his veins was making it impossible for his body to switch off.

  After what seemed like a lifetime of pain had been administered, the drill finally fell silent. Taking a penknife the intruder approached Matt once more and cut through the binds of his hands and what remained of the ones around his ankles. Somewhere in the back of his mind Matt was aware that the grinding had stopped, and he forced himself to look down. He instantly regretted the decision. Flesh and blood made up most of the floor space around him, and white flecks of bone shone within the blood. The intruder had set a little table in front of him, and on it was an alarm clock set for nine twenty-five—exactly five minutes from now.