Hot to Kill

by Linda Coles

  And there was also that night she’d taken Lorna home –who had she seen heading to the park? Grey Man. And who had she seen walking briskly along the platform in the tube station in London after another attack? Grey Man. Suddenly it had become clear exactly who the police were looking for. The little description they had of him fit perfectly, and the times and dates she knew about all fit too.

  “Hell. It’s got to be him!” she said out loud, much to the alarm of Dexter, who was quietly napping in the corner on the big comfy chair. He raised his head, glared at her, and went back to his own world.

  Madeline stood and began to pace. What on earth was she going to do about this? She could arrange an accident for him, add him to her current body count, but she didn’t want to bring the police to her door a third time. And she certainly wasn’t keen to go anywhere near a police station, especially with no real evidence against Grey Man. And besides, how would she explain how she’d come to see him each time? Would making a formal complaint against Grey Man just give them even more reason to dig into her life? No, she couldn’t think of risking it – not yet. Maybe when things had died down further… Not the best choice of words, Madeline, she thought wryly, but still, they made sense. In the meantime, she’d just have to hope and pray no one else was attacked.

  Getting up from the table, she flicked the switch on the kettle again, made herself another coffee, then sat back and watched the rain start to fall properly. It was quite cathartic.

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  At 12 pm it was still raining, so that meant she wasn’t going. At 1 pm it was still raining but Madeline’s conscience was telling her to grow up and put her big-girl knickers on – though not the lilac ones, which she’d thrown out anyway – and go and pay her respects properly. The other book club members would be there, and it would look bad, odd even, if she didn’t show. And if the police were there, wouldn’t they think it was suspicious if she wasn’t? Her inner dilemma had been sorted. The kitchen clock told her she’d better get a move on. If she was going, she needed to get changed.

  Dashing up the stairs to the bedroom, she grabbed a black skirt, a blouse and her black heels, then went to the bathroom to add some make-up and fluff her hair up a little. The finishing touch to her funeral ensemble was to change earrings and find her wristwatch. The woman looking back in the mirror didn’t look half bad – not quite up to Rebecca’s standards, but still, not bad.

  Perhaps I should make a little more effort every day, and not just for funerals.

  “What do you reckon – do I look like a murderer?” Dexter, who had jumped up onto the bed, was washing himself, his hind leg pulled up behind his ears, like it was the most important thing in the world. He stopped at Madeline’s question and just looked at her, then resumed what he was doing as if to say, “Do you really want me to answer that? Credit me with some intelligence.”

  She transferred some essentials into a smaller black handbag and was ready to go.

  “Shit! Look at the bloody time. I’m going to be late.” She ran down the stairs, leaving Dexter thinking it was his birthday being left behind on the bed. She bolted out through the front door and into her Audi, then drove out down Godstone Road towards the church at Purley. The rain was falling quite fast now, big droplets splashing on the windscreen, making visibility much poorer than it would have been in the drizzle. She hoped the big umbrella was still in the boot, though it wasn’t the best place to keep it, in hindsight – if it was hurling down when she got there, she’d be soaked just getting the damn thing out.

  “Better check the time of arrival,” she said, and rummaged in her bag for her smartphone. With one eye on the windscreen and the other on Google Maps, she typed in the address. Sixty-five minutes via the A22 bypass route. And a big, long line of solid red blobs – backed-up traffic at a standstill.

  “Damn. Must have been an accident. Shit! Shit! Shit! Now I’m almost certainly going to be sneaking in at the back during the service. And I bet there’s nowhere left to sodding park either. Damn it.” She thumped the steering wheel in frustration. Realising she’d have to go the back way, following the smaller local roads, she made the necessary turns to get on to Coulsdon Road and headed north. While it wasn’t as stuck as the bypass, it was busy with dawdling locals. She hadn’t the time to stick to the 30 mph speed limit, so she pushed her speed as far as she dared. She passed the Coulsdon Manor and golf club, and approaching the intersection in record time. Looking at her watch again, she knew the timing was going to be tight and she hoped there wasn’t going to be too much traffic at the junction ahead.

  As she got nearer she realised she was out of luck. A shopping trolley of a car was sitting at the front, trying to turn right. It was making no effort at all to nudge its way out; there was probably an old person or a learner at the wheel. Thumping the steering wheel again in frustration, Madeline scrutinised the four cars ahead, trying to determine if they were going to be as nervous getting out as the one at the front. The ‘click-click’ of her indicator was winding her up, so she turned it off and watched the flashing amber on the car in front instead. On. Off. On. Off. On. Off. It was equally annoying, and she took another deep breath, trying to calm her inner tension.

  The rain was falling heavily, great blobs hitting the windscreen, the wipers doing their damnedest to keep up but struggling. A thin mist started to cover the inside of the windscreen, fogging everything up and making visibility even worse. She reached forward and wiped the glass with the back of her hand, making smeary marks instead of clearing it.

  Finally the driver of the shopping trolley up front plucked up their courage, found the pedal on the right and pushed it down, and the trolley cruised round the corner with the second car close on its bumper. The next two weren’t as bad, but still, they took their time. When it was finally Madeline’s turn, she took a cursory look both ways and decided she could make it before the oncoming truck reached her. She pushed the pedal to the floor and gunned it. She’d had enough holdups already. But the tarmac was drenched, and instead of grabbing the road, her tyres spun wildly, searching for traction in the water, before finally propelling the car forward. But it was too late. Madeline’s car clipped the front bumper of the truck and it spun her around, sending her hurtling sideways into a lamppost on the other side of the road. The airbag exploded in her face with a wallop.

  It all happened so fast. At a standstill, powder sifting over her face, she very slowly pulled her head up to check what state she was in. Her shoulder hurt, her face hurt – everything hurt, it seemed, including her mood. And there was a stranger shouting through the passenger side window, a man, who then opened the door and shouted again, this time right in her face. Who the hell was he? Rainwater was dripping off his hair and that’s all she could think about.

  “Are you okay? Heavens. Are you hurt?” he shouted, over and over again, but Madeline had gone dumb. Her brain reeled.

  “Are you okay?” He tried again, a little calmer, and she managed a nod.

  Looking over at the other side of the road, she saw the truck she’d hit was in someone’s front garden. Its rear end had opened up and brown stuff was spilled all over the road. It smelled like shit.

  “What’s that smell?” she asked the dripping face in front of her.

  Why does it matter, Madeline? You’ve just had an accident.

  “You hit a truck carrying manure. Look, don’t worry about that now. Can you move your arms and legs okay?”

  She moved each of her legs in turn and both appeared to function just fine, but when she went to unclip her seatbelt, a sharp jolt of pain shot through her right shoulder.

  “Aarghh! Shit, that hurts!” The impact of hitting the lamppost must have broken something around her shoulder or collarbone, because the wave of pain and nausea almost made her pass out. She put her head back and closed her eyes a while, willing it to fade away quickly. All she could hear was the downpour hitting the windscreen hard outside, and Madeline knew she was about to lose con
trol and fade off someplace.

  And then it all went dark.

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  She came to in the back of an ambulance. She chanced a glance as best she could at the temporary strapping on her shoulder. It throbbed like all hell. The rain had dulled the daylight, from what she could see through the back window of the ambulance, and it felt almost dusk, even though it was probably only about two o’clock in the afternoon.

  “Ah, you’re back with us. How do you feel?” A friendly-looking man in a dark green uniform was taking her vitals as they sped towards hospital, lights and siren blazing. She could see the reflections of red and blue bouncing off houses and other vehicles through the side windows as they passed through heavy traffic, and she imagined vehicles moving over to let them through, like the parting of the Red Sea. This time it would be a sea of red tail-lights.

  Not the time to be getting biblical, Madeline. Or perhaps it is?

  “Like I’ve been in a car accident, funnily enough.” She knew she sounded sarcastic and he was only doing his job. He looked a little taken aback.

  “Sorry. I don’t mean to be rude. I’m supposed to be at a funeral, and it was very nearly my own.” Taking a deep breath to calm down, she answered his question. “Sore head, desperately sore shoulder and a bruised ego. Other than that, I guess I’m okay.”

  Be nice, Madeline. He’s just trying to help and do his job.

  “Well, you’re lucky you’re not hurt any worse. Your shoulder can be fixed, and as soon as we get you to the hospital, they will give you some stronger pain relief than what we have on board. You may have to have surgery on that shoulder, but we’ll know more when they’ve examined you properly. Hang on in there.” He did have kind eyes, and she managed a slight smile in reply before turning back to watch the blue and red reflections again.

  What the hell have I gone and done now? Madeline the Maverick?

  It was only a short journey to Croydon’s University Hospital, and she was soon being trolleyed out the back of the ambulance and wheeled inside. The sound of the pelting rain was replaced by the voices of doctors and nurses as they went about their business with other patients. An orderly wheeled her into a cubicle, where she was told a doctor would be there shortly to assess her injuries in more detail. She closed her eyes to wait; the stress of the day so far was catching up and making her feel incredibly drowsy. Or it could have been the meds the ambulance crew had administered. She zonked out again.

  “Mrs. Simpson. Can you hear me? Mrs. Simpson?” Whoever it was had a bright singsong voice, and Madeline managed to peel her eyes open. “There you are.” He was all smiles.

  “Hello.”

  “Welcome back, Mrs. Simpson. I’m Dr. Graham, and I’ll be taking care of you until we get you up onto a ward. From what we know so far, it looks like you’ve more than likely broken your collarbone and have some other cuts and bruises. You’ve had a nasty bang on the head too, so some concussion. I’ve organised x-rays so I can see what we are dealing with, but we’ll probably keep you in at least overnight, maybe two depending on how bad that break is. Concussion can be a funny thing, and we don’t take chances with it. Better here where we can monitor what’s going on.”

  Bloody marvellous.

  “Okay. Thanks. I don’t suppose I can do much about it, really. Would you know how the driver of the truck is? Did he come in here too?”

  “Not heard, I’m afraid, but I will check for you. The police will probably want to speak with you, but not until we’ve fixed you up a bit first.” His singsong voice made everything sound so cheery, as though a chat with the police and an x-ray were something to look forward to, like jelly and ice cream.

  “I need to tell my husband where I am. He’ll be worried. Gordon – his name is Gordon, and he works at Calder and Rushmore. He’s an architect, you know. A partner, actually.” She knew she was rambling, but the nurse wrote it all down anyway. She guessed he’d give the information to a young police officer or admin person to do the necessary.

  “I’ll make sure he’s notified; don’t you worry. Now let’s get you off for that x-ray.” He signalled to a hospital porter to take her on the next part of the journey to getting fixed up.

  A G&T is what I need, and a damn good sleep.

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  It had been a rough shift for both detectives. Friday night was never the best time to be in law enforcement, and even though Jack and Amanda didn’t walk the beat and patrol the nightclubs and bars like uniforms did, they still had to clean up the mess if something went wrong. Tonight, a young woman had been attacked by her husband, who had a history of drunken behaviour and had taken it out on her with his fists. This time he’d gone way too far and she was lying in intensive care. She’d be lucky if she made it through the night. He, however, was in the wind, and Jack and Amanda had gone in to the station to check up on a few things and were sitting drinking mugs of tea, talking through the case in the staff canteen. Other officers were on their breaks and the room was filled with the smell of fried food and strong coffee. In the far corner of the room, a group of officers were sharing a joke, all sitting round one big table. It must have been something highly amusing, but the laughter was getting on Amanda’s nerves.

  “I wish they’d quiet down a bit. I can’t hear myself think.”

  “Ah, leave them alone. This job is tough enough without having to watch your volume in here. If you can’t do it the break room, where can you do it? The only other place is the pub. Not always practical.”

  “Yeah, I know. I’m just a bit on edge. That poor woman might not even make it through the night, and it doesn’t seem right that folks are laughing. And before you say anything,” she put her hands in the air as though in defeat, “I know, I know – it’s not their fault.” As if on cue, another loud roar of laughter bellowed out from the group. Amanda winced. “What’s so sodding funny anyway? What are they laughing at?”

  Jack shrugged his shoulders in reply and said, “I’ll get us another mug each before we get back to it. Want anything to eat?”

  “No, just tea. Thanks.” She watched Jack head over to the cashier to order two more mugs.

  While he waited, he wandered over to the group of officers in the corner and stood listening as one man spoke. The whole group, including Jack, erupted once again. Jack shook his head as he walked away, still laughing along with them. He picked the two mugs up, still smiling, and carried them over. He set one down in front of her.

  “So what’s so funny over there? Dirty jokes?”

  “No, actually. Dumb chicken jokes, like the ones you used to tell at school, only far worse. Listen to this.” He cleared his throat as though he was talking to a large audience and was on stage somewhere. “A little kid was standing behind an old man at the garden centre. The old man had five giant bags of chicken manure in his trolley. The kid asked the guy why he was buying bags of poop. The old man replied that he was going to put it on his strawberries. The kid screwed up his face and said ‘I dunno where you grew up, but at our house we put sugar and cream on our strawberries.’”

  She laughed despite herself. “Hell, that really is bad. Why on earth are they telling crappy jokes?”

  “Because a couple of them were called out to that accident at the top of Coulsdon Road earlier today, when that manure truck hit a car coming out of the junction and ended up in someone’s garden. Spilt its load everywhere, apparently – a right mess.”

  Amanda looked blank. “So?”

  “So it was chicken shit. That’s why they’re telling ‘shit’ chicken jokes.”

  “Oh, I see,” she said slowly, finally getting it. “Was anyone injured?”

  “Truck driver’s okay, but the woman driving the car that tried to cut in was taken to hospital. Definitely her fault. It was PC Daniels over there that went to interview her when she’d come round. The irony is she was on her way to a damn funeral. Can you believe it? Needs to watch where she’s going a little better if you ask me, or it
’ll be her own funeral.”

  Amanda set down her tea and went over to the group. Everyone quieted down at the look on her face. She spoke directly to PC Daniels.

  “What was the name of the woman in the chicken shit accident, the one on her way to a funeral?”

  PC Daniels got his notebook out and flipped back a couple of pages. “Here it is. A Madeline Simpson. Why?”

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Saturday

  “How are you feeling today?” asked Ruth, sitting down on the edge of Madeline’s hospital bed.

  “I’ll be better when I can get out of here. Three days, they say. I thought they kicked you out at their earliest convenience.” Madeline wasn’t happy; in fact she was bloody grumpy. Again. The broken collarbone needed an operation to fix it and she’d got concussion and some nasty bruises. The operation was scheduled for later that day, so she was set for a few days’ stay in hospital. Her arm was going to be in a sling for six weeks, and she wasn’t looking forward to the inconvenience of it all.

  “Did you know, you’re seventeen percent more likely to die after an operation at the weekend?” she blustered. “Just been reading about it online. Mine’s today. Saturday. Seventeen! Who’d have thought it?”

  “Don’t be so maudlin, Madeline. You have to get that shoulder fixed, and your stay in here will go quick enough. Just enjoy the rest while you can. I wouldn’t mind having a lie-down for a few.” Ruth smiled warmly; she was just trying to lift Madeline’s spirits. “Do you need anything from home, a book or a fresh nightdress maybe?”