by Jan Toms
‘I think there has been a mistake,’ Victor practised to himself, ‘but don’t worry, the money is quite safe,’ or perhaps: ‘I’m so sorry but I seem to have received some mail that wasn’t meant for me.’
The man drew closer. Victor noticed that his clothes looked shabby and none too clean. Surely this wasn’t the man he was supposed to meet? He glanced at his watch. There was still two minutes to go before seven. This was just some tramp taking advantage of the opportunity to enjoy a wander in the sun.
Suddenly the stranger flung himself down onto the bench beside Victor, glancing covertly over his shoulder. Victor flinched but kept his cool. He wondered if he was going to demand the money. Reassuringly, Fluffy, still half-asleep under the bench, gave a growl. Victor shortened his lead and imagined that Fluffy was a police dog that he could release at a moment’s notice and set on his attacker, dragging him to the ground. Fluffy jumped onto Victor’s lap.
The man was studiously silent, looking to the entrance to the garden as if he too was expecting someone else and was in two minds as to whether to leave. Victor felt that he must take charge of the situation.
‘Beautiful evening,’ he offered.
His companion appeared not to have heard. Victor wondered if he might be deaf, or even daft, for he was mumbling quietly under his breath.
The sandwiches were open on his lap and, in a sudden spirit of friendliness, Victor held them out. ‘Would you like one?’
The stranger glanced down at them, then at Victor. Victor nodded encouragingly and waved the package closer.
With a suspicious glower the stranger reached out and grabbed one. Victor saw with shock that the man’s hand was badly mangled, as if he had had an accident with some machinery. Ever polite, he looked away.
Hungrily, the man packed the sandwich back. For the first time, he looked directly at Victor, with Fluffy sitting alertly on Victor’s knee. The dog’s appearance seemed to unnerve him and he stared at Fluffy as if he was some sort of ghost. Without saying anything, he got up and hurried for the exit, glancing anxiously back over his shoulder.
No sooner had he moved than Fluffy, now wide awake, gave a yap and set off in pursuit, and, to Victor’s horror, made a dive for the man’s ankle. As his teeth made contact, the man let out a howl and kicked out with the injured foot. Fluffy gave a yelp and flew through the air, landing several yards away. Picking himself up, he hurried back to Victor’s protection.
Victor was shocked to think that in an unguarded moment he had loosed his hold on Fluffy’s lead with such consequences. ‘You must stop doing that,’ he admonished the little poodle.
He felt relieved that the man had now disappeared, half expecting him to come back and challenge him about his dangerous dog. Thankfully, he didn’t do so and gradually Victor relaxed – until he remembered the reason for his presence in the garden. Well, at least it would be much easier to meet his companion with no one else around. He held on to Fluffy securely to prevent any further mishaps.
The sun was beginning to disappear behind the horizon in a haze of purple and orange, and the temperature dropped markedly. Victor glanced at his watch – ten past seven. He – whoever he was – was late.
He noticed that Fluffy had done his business right by the leg of the seat and, glancing round to make sure that no one was watching him, he bent down and scooped it up in a tissue, depositing it in the now empty sandwich bag. Victor had only made two sandwiches and he was still hungry, although he felt a certain feel-good factor at having shared his meagre meal with the tramp. Along by the exit there was a dog dirt box, and fastidiously he walked along and dropped Fluffy’s donation into it. He was intending to go back to the seat but at that moment the park attendant poked his nose round the gate.
‘Last one, Sir?’ He glanced down the length of the garden.
‘I was just waiting for someone.’
‘We close in a few minutes.’ The attendant went down to check that there was no one hiding in the bushes, then came back and hovered meaningfully near the gate. As the hands of his watch crept up to seven-thirty, Victor felt angry. Here was another journey he had wasted. Just wait until he caught up with whoever had sent him the note. He would certainly give him a piece of his mind.
Annoyed, he made his way back down towards the village. At the junction ahead there was some sort of commotion and what looked like a police car. A group of people were huddled around something. Victor changed his mind and went back the way he had come. If he cut through the housing estate he should be home within half an hour.
THIRTEEN
Charity invited Victor home to tea on Wednesday.
‘Come straight from work,’ she instructed. ‘I’ll pick Fluffy up in the afternoon and bring him over so that you needn’t worry about him.’
‘Thank you.’ He fought down the feeling that his life was being organised to the nth degree.
Charity had come round to his house after work on Tuesday and grilled him about the mysterious meeting that he had had the evening before.
It was too complicated to explain; besides, he suspected that if ever she knew the whole story she would immediately take charge of the mysterious money and for the moment he wanted to keep the business to himself.
‘I just met up with an old business colleague,’ he said, uncomfortable in the role of liar.
‘A man?’
‘Of course.’
Victor then raised the question of paying her for her role as dog walker. She wouldn’t hear of it. In fact, she said that she was offended that he should even think of such a thing.
‘I thought we meant something to each other, Victor. I don’t know how you can even suggest it.’
‘We do, I —,’ he stumbled out something about having to pay if it was someone else and as she wasn’t working etc., but she pooh-poohed his explanations away.
‘I am perfectly happy to pop round every day while you are at work.’ The matter was settled.
He arrived at her father’s house clutching a bunch of flowers and a bottle of wine. He wasn’t sure about the wine, whether Mr Grimes – Alan – might disapprove, but it was Charity who answered the door and swept the gifts from his arms, putting the flowers in water and the bottle (Chablis) in the fridge. Personally, Victor preferred red wine but he knew that Charity was a dry white wine drinker.
‘Come on in and take your jacket off. Put your feet up and relax. I’m afraid father is delayed, some development at the nick.’
She treated Victor to a corkscrew kiss and fondly gave his genitals a little squeeze, a hint of what was to come later.
Fluffy tripped out of the living room and came to meet him with tiny trills of delight. Victor bent down and picked the dog up, he smelt of roses. Seeing him sniff Fluffy’s coat, Charity said, ‘I gave him a bath and trimmed some of his hair. You should take him to a dog stylist.’
Dog stylist? Victor had no idea that there was such a thing. Now he looked closer, he could see that the pom-pom on the end of Fluffy’s tail definitely looked more spherical and his topknot had a positively bouffant look.
‘Thank you,’ he said lamely. This was becoming a habit, thanking her for doing something he didn’t want done in the first place.
She escorted him to the living room and settled him in a chair, fetching him a glass of wine and the paper. He suspected that if this was his home she would take off his shoes and put on his slippers for him. Whilst being mollycoddled was nice in small doses, he wasn’t sure he wanted it as a way of life.
‘I won’t be long.’ She kissed the top of his head and retreated to the kitchen.
Victor took a long gulp of the wine. It was very cold and he knew that later on it would repeat on him, but the other day Charity had expressed her preference for a cold Chablis, so that was what they were drinking.
Victor read the Clarion’s lead story about the council’s plans to re-route a bus that was causing controversy. ‘Save the Number 7’, the headline demanded. The number 7 ran in a different
area so made no difference to him, but he liked to know what people had to say.
He turned the page and noticed a small piece headed ‘Mystery Man Still Not Identified’. On Monday evening, an unnamed man had collapsed at the junction of Prince Leopold Lane and Rylstone Hollow. The police were asking for anyone who was missing a friend or relative, or knew anything about the incident, to get in touch. Victor turned the page, thinking that it was on Monday that he had been in the area. With a sudden realisation, he wondered if the man who had been on his way to meet him had met with an accident. That would explain his failure to turn up. He wondered if he should go to the police station and explain that he had been meeting someone who hadn’t arrived, but then he imagined the questions that they would ask him. ‘What did he look like, Sir? What was his name? Where did he live? Why were you meeting him?’ Victor couldn’t answer any of these and he fought shy of explaining about the money because it would just sound ridiculous. He decided that, after all, he could not help the police with their enquiries.
Idly he wondered what he might do if the man coming to meet him really had died and no one came forward to ask for either of the cheques back. Well, he’d cross that bridge when he came to it.
At that moment he heard the front door open, the sound of boots being wiped on the doormat, and low voices. Fluffy flew to the kitchen to discover the nature of the intruder. Victor heard Alan say, ‘What on earth’s that?’ Disloyally, Victor wished that Fluffy didn’t sound quite so much like a strangled soprano.
A few moments later, Alan came into the living room clutching a glass of red wine. Victor cursed himself for not having been a bit more assertive and asking for red himself. Alan shook his hand and asked how he was.
‘I apologise for being late,’ he said. He looked troubled and Victor waited apprehensively, in case the older man started expressing misgivings about his relationship with Charity. He could not, of course, know about Last Tango in Paris and what had followed but even so, it was an uncomfortable moment.
Alan gave a big sigh and sank into the other armchair, trying to ignore Fluffy, who was investigating his trouser leg with what looked suspiciously like evil intent.
After a moment, Alan asked, ‘I don’t suppose there have been any repercussions since your accident?’
‘Repercussions?’ Victor thought for a moment, but apart from inheriting Fluffy he had largely managed to put the incident out of his mind.
‘Bit of a mystery at work,’ Alan said. ‘You might have read about that man who collapsed near Prince Leopold Lane? Well, we have got a positive identification and it’s a bit worrying. His name is Angus Kilbride, generally known as ‘Fingers’ and he’s a nasty piece of work.’ Alan looked like a man wondering whether to say anything in the confessional, then, seeming to decide that Victor was someone whom he could trust, he added, ‘The fact is, he’s the third member of two rival South London gangs to die in this area.’ He gave a sniff. ‘What is even more disconcerting, they have all died in mysterious circumstances.’
Charity clattered in with an assortment of cutlery and busied herself at the table.
Alan continued. ‘The first one, whom you had the misfortune to land on, was Tommy Hewson – he was a known associate of a gang known as the Blues Brothers. Then there was Bernard Maguire – Mauler – who drowned in the Chine. He worked with another gang, the Pretty Boys. Now there is Fingers Kilbride, another member of the Pretty Boys’ outfit.’ He sighed. ‘Fingers is so-named because he is what they call a Peter Man, a safe blower. A few years ago he managed to take off his own fingers when some gelignite went off by mistake, but that didn’t seem to slow him down.’
Victor had a sudden vision of the hand reaching out to take one of his sandwiches, the missing digits. He gulped.
‘H-h-how did he die?’ he managed to ask.
‘That’s the thing. He seems to have had some sort of seizure. The pathologist called it toxic shock. Poor chap had a nut allergy and somehow he had eaten peanuts just before he died. Fatal.’ Alan shook his head at the mystery of life.
Victor had just raised his glass to his mouth and nearly choked on his wine. He was back in the park sitting on the bench, offering one of his peanut butter sandwiches to the tramp who had joined him.
‘Are you alright?’ Alan saw his expression, the sudden pallor. ‘I say old chap, you’re not going to pass out are you?’
Victor shook his head to try and clear the spinning vortex in his mind. It was the Chine incident all over again. He tried to remember anything about the tramp other than that he had looked shabby and smelled. His manner had been shifty and Victor had no idea what he might have been doing wandering around Rylstone Gardens. But the sandwich, that was the worrying thing. He had accidentally given the tramp something that had killed him. He tried to reassure himself. Surely Fingers must have known that he shouldn’t eat nuts? Perhaps he was so hungry that he didn’t even think about it.
‘Victor?’ Charity was frowning at him. ‘Come along, tea’s ready.’
Somehow he got to the table and toyed with what Charity announced as sosmix burgers.
‘Come on, eat up!’ Her tone demanded obedience.
Victor’s head was in such a whirl that he longed to go home and hide until he could think of some explanation for what had happened on Monday evening. Gradually it was dawning on him that he had inadvertently become a serial killer. He realised that he must keep himself under control, try to behave normally until he had had a chance to think through all the implications. Across the table Alan and Charity were quiet, pretending to concentrate on their food, trying to ignore his change of mood.
Under the table Fluffy was investigating Alan’s shoelace and getting a little too friendly with his ankle. The policeman gave his foot a shake and Fluffy flew off with a squeal. Alan looked embarrassed, saying, ‘Whoops, think I accidentally kicked him.’ As if to make amends, he asked, ‘Where did you get him?’
‘Victor got him from the RSPCA,’ Charity answered on his behalf. She was having her own thoughts, amongst which was the increasing likelihood that Fluffy was indeed the Angel of Death and that Victor, quiet biddable Victor, was a foreign spy or secret agent or hitman or something. After an initial frisson of fear, the excitement began to bubble up. Was she…, could she be a gangster’s moll? She glanced at her father. She must think of Alan’s reputation. How would it look if it turned out that his daughter’s lover was the most wanted man in Britain? She looked across at Victor, chasing a piece of sosmix around his plate, and she gave his ankle a nudge under the table. He looked up like a startled rabbit and she smiled broadly at him.
Shall I let him know that I know, she thought? The idea of being bedded by Britain’s most wanted man was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to her!
When the meal was over, Victor offered to help with the washing up, anything to keep him occupied, but Charity wouldn’t hear of it.
‘You stay here and talk to father,’ she insisted. Victor had no choice.
As Alan seemed so preoccupied with his own thoughts, Victor decided to instigate a conversation. Perhaps he could find out how much the police knew and whether they had any suspicions as to his involvement in the crime.
‘You must f-f-find your work ex-exciting,’ he offered.
Alan made an effort to be a good host. ‘Most of it is just routine, writing reports, filing information.’
‘Ha-have you any idea what m-might have h-happened to the g-gangsters?’
Alan leaned forward. ‘Let me tell you about the two gangs. The Pretty Boys are so-called because they are brothers and think they are good looking. A worse trio you would be hard put to find. Two of them, Harry and Gary, have been in gaol for arson and armed robbery but they are on the loose at the moment. Their father, Lawrence Hickman – Larry – moved to Spain some time ago as he’s wanted over here and daren’t come back. The youngest brother, Barry, isn’t as cunning as the others but he’s good with money.’
Alan leaned clo
ser and lowered his voice. ‘This is only a theory, but I think the Pretty Boys are trying to take over the territory of the Blues Brothers and I’ll tell you why.’
Victor’s eyes grew large and his heart started thudding. Hearing about all this from the inside was exciting – until he remembered that in some way he seemed to be implicated, at which point he felt faint again. Fortunately, Alan was too engrossed in telling the story to notice. He continued: ‘This brings me to the Blues Brothers. Two of them – Reggie and Randy – are twins, the sons of Alfonso Rodriguez, a Spaniard. Like Larry, he lives in Spain but his boys, Reggie, Randy and the youngest one, Dodge, are well known for running drugs and protection rackets. At the moment, Reggie and Randy are both banged up – in different gaols mind you because otherwise they’d be pulling some scam. My suspicion is that while the two older Rodriguez boys are in gaol, the Hickmans want to take over their patch.’
Victor thought about it for a while before asking, ‘What m-makes you think it is the Pr-pr-pretty Boys?’
Pleased that Victor seemed to be following the story, Alan said, ‘Well, the fact is that Gruesome is an associate of the Blues Brothers, while Mauler and Fingers were both members of the Pretty Boys’ gang. My guess is that both gangs have hired a professional to take the others out.’ He paused for thought.
This was too much for Victor to take in but Alan was speaking again. ‘My theory is that one of them has hired Vincenzo Verdi for the job. He’s known to be one of the best – and the thing is, the police have never been able to track him down. He just seems to turn up on the scene, carry out a killing and then vanish the way he came.’ With a sigh, he added, ‘We have no idea who the other gang might have hired but it looks like there will be trouble ahead.’
