Hot to Kill

by Linda Coles

  @Stargazer, What a terrible way to be ill. Food poisoning! I can’t imagine the poor guy’s pain or which end to deal with first.

  @Jaybaby, You can be gross sometimes but I know what you mean. Yuck! It’s bad enough just having the runs without the rest of it! #uncomfortableforsure

  @stargazer, I wonder what he ate and where? #investigation?

  @Jaybaby Who knows? But likely, I’d say. One case isn’t much to go on but it sounds bad.

  @Stargazer, If it’s bad enough, I reckon they’d investigate it for sure. #haveto

  @Jaybaby from @harold, Could have been anything gone off in this heat. Probably forgot and left his ham sandwiches in the car or something then ate them. I’ve done that before now.

  @harold, That sounds dangerous, man. Shouldn’t do that.

  @Jaybaby, I learned the hard way too. Never again. Left a chicken once while I went to the grocers and post office.

  @Harold, What happened to that? Didn’t eat it, I hope? #deathwish

  @Jaybaby, No, the smell put me off so I took it back to the butchers. He swapped it for me.

  @Harold from @stargazer, Wow, you were lucky! #kindbutcher. But it seems the poor guy is okay, though he’ll need time to recover, I expect. Not the best way to get time off work, eh?

  @Stargazer, No, but at least the weather is good. Perhaps he’s a gardener? There’s always plenty to potter about doing on a warm day, and for that I do envy him.

  @Harold, But not the rest, eh?

  @Stargazer, Certainly not the rest! Over and out for now, my friends. My cocoa awaits me.

  There was the conversation right in front of her eyes: a man, Grey Man, was in hospital with food poisoning and the local health board could well be investigating, although it appeared at this stage to be an isolated case. Well, they wouldn’t find anything at Sally’s. She’d been sure not to drag them into something they hadn’t had a hand in doing. No, an investigation wouldn’t lay any blame on them: plenty of people had eaten tuna that day, just not the variety that had been sitting in a sweltering-hot shed over the weekend.

  Madeline closed the page on her iPad and went to make a cup of tea.

  Chapter Twelve

  Thursday

  Ruth was at her kitchen table, her morning run complete and a steaming mug of coffee keeping her company as she scanned the newspaper.

  “Same old same old,” she concluded, then flicked to the crossword puzzle. Glancing at the kitchen clock, she made a note of the time. Could she beat yesterday’s time? Her personal best was a slight 12 minutes. Could she do it in less?

  “Let’s do this!” She pumped the air in an effort to spur herself on, then checked the clock again, working out when she would need to finish to beat her PB. She quickly scanned the clues and immediately added the three she knew straight off. The skill in beating the clock was to get some traction with the ones you knew and work the rest out from that: no deep thinking and no hanging around. Much like The Chase on TV: if you don’t know the answer, just pass or guess but don’t dilly-dally around.

  After a full 15 minutes, she relaxed a little. With two more clues to solve she’d resigned herself that her own PB would have to stay put for another day. She had just folded the paper up when a story at the bottom of the front page caught her eye. It was a picture of the mangled wreck of a van out on the Wickham road, where the van had somehow overturned and was sitting firmly on its roof. The headline read “Another black spot incident.” She read, “A man was taken to hospital yesterday after his vehicle rolled, badly injuring the driver inside who has a suspected broken collarbone and facial lacerations, along with other cuts and bruises. While his injuries are not life-threatening, it is a reminder for everyone to buckle up and watch their speed on the notorious stretch of road. A tyre blow-out was thought to have caused the accident, but police said speed had likely contributed to the van rolling, and the man’s injuries would likely have been less severe had he been wearing a seat belt.”

  She picked the paper up and added it to her recycling box under the kitchen sink, but the story of the accident stayed with her a few moments longer. Maybe it was the mention of the Wickham road. She knew Madeline regularly went to the garden centre and seemed to recall her mentioning going there on Wednesday, when the accident had occurred. She was glad Madeline hadn't been caught up in it.

  At the breakfast bar in her own kitchen, Madeline was reading the report in the local paper too, front page no less, about a big sod who had got his comeuppance for pissing her off and making her wait at the car wash, though of course that’s not exactly what was printed. Apparently, Big Sod had been out on the Wickham road and the police reckoned he had taken the bend too quickly and blown a tyre. The man was apparently quite badly injured, but his injuries could have been reduced had he been wearing his seatbelt. The police were reminding everyone to keep their speed to the conditions, particularly on known accident black spots, and of course to buckle up.

  Madeline turned the page to read the other news and smiled to herself.

  “Serves him right. Should have been wearing his seatbelt, silly sod.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Madeline had left the phone bill on the hallway table, not wanting to ruin her day off trying sort the damn thing out. She knew the bill was incorrect. She always paid the bills on time, usually long before they were due, and the phone bill was no different. But for some reason there had been a complete muck-up. The payment had been made – it had registered against her account – but from only god knew where, an extra charge of nearly £700 had attached itself, and it was nothing to do with her. Last month when she’d received the bill with the charges she’d tried tell that to the imbecile on the other end of the phone – when she was finally able to talk to someone about it, that was. But here the bill was again.

  She checked her watch. There was just enough time to try and sort it out before she left for Sally’s and another day of watching the cheese and rocket scones diminish. She ripped open the envelope and it was just as she’d expected: a red final demand for £700, or else they’d cut the line off. She dialled the account query number on the invoice and waited to be connected.

  “Thank you for calling. Your call is important to us. We are currently experiencing heavy volumes of calls and your estimated wait time is...” The mechanical female voice hesitated while the other mechanical robot, another female but with a much deeper voice, filled in the blank. “Thirty. Five. Minutes.” It then flicked back to the other female robot: “Please stay on the line, or try again later.”

  Since she didn’t have that long to waste, she pressed ‘end’ and slammed the receiver back into the charging base, which didn’t give nearly as much satisfaction as slamming the old style of phone down. There was no option but to have another go later from her mobile.

  Dexter was on the warm paving stones in the morning sunshine not far from the garage, and she wished him good day as she ventured inside to her car. He didn’t bother lifting his head off the ground; too damn lazy for his own good.

  “I wouldn’t mind another day doing exactly what I wanted all day like you do, lucky thing.”

  No response, but none was expected really. Madeline drove out of the garage and turned out of Oakwood Rise, on her way to a another day and another dollar. Or pound, in her case.

  “He’ll be in soon, your friend.”

  Margaret was trying to wind Madeline up. She nodded towards the big clock on the wall behind her head. It read 12 pm exactly.

  “First, he’s not my friend, and second, surely it’s your turn to serve the old git? I had him last time.”

  “Ah, but he seems to like you.”

  “And how the hell do you work that out? He doesn’t say anything more than ‘Tuna mayo roll and tea,’” she said, deepening her voice to imitate him. “Hardly a conversationalist, hardly a sign of friendship.”

  “He’s probably just lonely, or shy. Might be really nice if you got to know him. Give the guy a chance.” Margaret
smirked like she was fixing her up on a blind date.

  Madeline rolled her eyes at her. “I don’t think so. Not for me. If you feel sorry for him, you be his best buddy, but leave me out of it. He makes my skin crawl.”

  Margaret tut-tutted her mock disapproval and went back inside the kitchen area, no doubt to avoid the entrance of the infamous 12.05 pm customer.

  As expected, however, Madeline didn’t see him again that Thursday, nor the following week. In fact, she never saw him at the café again at all. No one missed him. The grumpy old sod was not someone any of them liked serving, and the general consensus was he’d moved away, or fallen out with his tuna mayo roll and tea combo. Good riddance to him.

  At 2 pm she finally had time to call the phone company again. Pulling the phone bill out of her bag, she sat on the step of the café’s back entrance and punched the number into her mobile. The sun was still blazing away, but the little overhead porch shaded her from its direct heat. The kitchen inside was a bit quieter now, most people having finished their lunches, so there was a lull before the few folks who wandered in for an afternoon cuppa. This time, the female robot informed her that the wait time was now less than five minutes, so she hung on, listening to the crappy piped music that was on a continuous loop. After one and a half times round of the same song, ‘Natalie’ came on the line and asked how she could help.

  “Hello Natalie, Madeline Simpson here. Shall I give you my account number?” She set off being helpful, hoping this wasn’t going to be a painful experience for either of them.

  “Yes, thanks.” There was the sound of typing as Madeline gave it to her. “How can I help you?”

  “Well, as you can see, I have a strange charge against my account for seven hundred pounds, which is nothing to do with me, and it’s now gone red so it’s serious. I don’t want to be cut off. Can you sort it for me?”

  “You want me to pay it for you?”

  “No, I don’t want you to pay it. I want you to take it off my account. It’s nothing to do with me.”

  “But it’s allocated to your telephone number, so it must be to do with your account. It’s for charges over the last month.”

  “But that’s just it,” said Madeline, struggling to keep her voice level. “It’s nothing to do with me. I’ve paid my bill, the usual amount give or take a few pounds. This is not mine.” She took a deep breath and tried another tack. “Look, Natalie, I’ve always paid on time, but these charges are simply a mistake and shouldn’t be on my account. Can you remove them, please, then perhaps someone can find out where they really belong?” She let out a long breath. Trying to be both clear and pleasant at the same time was burning her up inside and her pulse was beginning to race full throttle. And she didn’t need the stress.

  “I can’t just do that, I’m afraid,” said Natalie blandly. “I’m not authorised to do so. I’ll have to put you through to my supervisor. Hold please.” Then she was gone. An empty phone. For a moment.

  The hideous piped music was back, and Madeline was left sitting there open-mouthed. Margaret called from out the front; it seemed she needed a hand. She stared at the phone in her hand, which was bleating an electronic version of “Yesterday” by the Beatles. Margaret called her again, her voice more urgent now. Madeline no choice but to hang up, exasperated.

  “For heaven’s sake,” she cussed to the empty phone, Natalie in particular.

  “Coming,” Madeline shouted back. She stood and retied her apron, then went back towards the kitchen, putting a smile back on her face as she went, though throttling Natalie would have been much more satisfying.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Saturday

  “Look Des, it’s nothing personal, but no more. It’s for your own good, buddy. You can’t afford it.”

  Lionel, the bookie’s shop manager, was not happy, but Des was even less so: he was desperate to put a bet on the 2.20 pm at Doncaster, a ‘dead cert’ according to his tip-off, and he certainly needed a win. For a change.

  “Oh, go on, would you? You know I’m good for it, and the win will clear some of the debt I owe you, so a win-win all round. Go on, Lionel – what do you say?” Des hoped his smile would help win him over. It usually did. But this time he was mistaken.

  “I say no, Des. You’ve already had fair warning. I told you last week, and the week before, and you just don’t listen. It’s for your own good, you know. You haven’t got the cash to be splashing around, else you’d pay off your debt.” Lionel lowered his voice and tried a different way to get through. “Look, you’re going to end up in with a real bad crowd if you’re not careful. I’ve already told you the big boss doesn’t mess around with non-payment of tabs, if you know what I mean. ’Cos if you don’t, I’ll spell it out for you. It usually includes a baseball bat, just so you know, and be under no illusion: he’ll not stop when you start squealing, and he won’t stop hounding you until the debt is paid off in full. I’ve seen the way he works, mate. Believe me, you don’t want to go there. Now clear off and go home – or better still, go and earn some money and pay your debt back.”

  He couldn’t make it much clearer, but Des was desperate: the couple of hundred quid was burning a hole in his pocket and the tip-off was egging him on. He took the money out and waved it in Lionel’s face as a tease.

  Lionel let out an exasperated sigh. “I must be a soft touch, or stupid.” Defeated, he said, “Give it here. To win, I suppose?”

  Des nodded. “Yes, Troopers Gold, 33 to 1.” He kiss-smacked his fingers like he was waiting for the juiciest steak to arrive and waited for his ticket. The winner’s ticket. He could feel the excitement bubbling inside, the dead cert to win a way of getting out of his mess. Come 2.30 pm he’d be a richer man and he’d be able to pay some off his tab off, but the first thing he needed to pay off was his sister. He’d nicked her grocery money two days ago while she’d cooked dinner for him at her place – meat pie and chips with lashings of gravy, one of his many favourites. He felt bad about it, but who could resist a dead cert? And he knew she wouldn’t miss the cash until next week when she went grocery shopping, so he had a few days to get it back to the tin in the kitchen drawer. She’d never even know. Hell, he might even buy her a bunch of flowers with his winnings. She deserved nice things.

  Des took his ticket, thanked Lionel again, and headed off down the street to the pub for a pint and to watch the race. He figured he’d better not hang around the bookies much longer. After all, he’d had his warning.

  At 2.30 pm, Des turned his attention to the TV in the bar and watched as the race got underway. Troopers Gold was leading the pack. “Go, go, go!” Des shouted at the TV. But his excitement turned to disbelief as Troopers Gold was overtaken on the final stretch and came second. On his ‘to win’ bet, which might as well have been last.

  Des sat nursing his pint, looking much like someone close to him had recently died. In actual fact, it was probably going to be him when his sister caught up with him – never mind the bookie’s boss. She’d rip a strip off him for sure. His day had well and truly turned to mincemeat, and he was up to his neck in trouble and debt. He tipped the remains of his beer down the back of his throat and slowly made his way outside like a depressed man on his way to a wake. What the hell was he going to do now?

  Chapter Fifteen

  Week 3

  Monday

  Madeline and Gordon had had a lovely weekend: he’d gone to watch the match – Crystal Palace were at home – and she’d stayed at home, puttering around the garden. Even when the weather was hot and dry like it had been, weeds managed to find a way to invade the places you didn’t want them, and it could take some considerable force to get them out. By early afternoon on Saturday, Madeline was soaked to the skin with sweat, her cotton shorts and T-shirt now too hot for the vigour and the heat of the day. She’d had to sit on the patio several times with a glass of cold lemon barley water with lots of ice cubes. Dexter had watched carefully out of one eye, half buried and looking out from under a low-
hanging bush in the corner of his shady spot, not even contemplating entering the hot sun.

  She’d bought a couple of steaks for dinner that night, to put on the barbecue, and there was a cold bottle of white wine in the fridge, along with a couple of beers for Gordon. She’d even bought raspberries, cream and merengue nests to make dessert. She’d hoped Gordon would join her for a while out on the patio later that evening, and he had, so it couldn’t have been more perfect.

  But on Monday morning it was time to go into Croydon and the office, so she finished getting dressed, put the pleasant weekend thoughts to the back of her mind and prepared herself mentally for the week ahead. And that meant having another go at sorting out that damn telephone bill again. It was still tucked away in her bag from Thursday; she hadn’t had a spare minute to have another go that day, and by Friday she’d simply forgotten about it. The fog had rolled into her brain and it was all she could do to remember what was in front of her at work, never mind what was in her bag.

  “Morning, Deidre. Have a nice weekend?” Madeline pulled up alongside her in the private car park, gravel crunching under the wheels, her passenger window open to call through.

  Deidre smiled brightly. She always seemed to Madeline to be quite genuinely upbeat – unless something really got her back up, and then she was lethal. Much like Dexter in that respect: arched back, bared teeth and it was all on.

  “Oh, wonderful thanks, Madeline, just wonderful. The grandkids came round and we filled the paddling pool and they had the best time with Granddad squirting water from the hosepipe too. Everything and everyone was drenched by lunchtime but the glorious sun soon dried things off. Then we put sausages on the barbecue and everyone stuffed themselves silly. You?”