“Yes, I’ve seen a property on your website, 17b Stanley Road. I want to check that it’s still available.”
I could hear him tapping away at his keyboard. “I’ll just have a look on our system for you … Yes, it’s still available. 17b Stanley Road, a one-bedroom, unfurnished, first-floor flat, available immediately, £200 monthly rent and £200 deposit.”
“Great, I’ll take it,” I said. “When can I collect the keys?”
The agent appeared surprised: presumably they didn’t get many enthusiastic tenants for a flat in such an undesirable area of town. “Don’t you want to view the property first?”
“No, no, I’m sure it will be fine. I’ve seen it from the outside.”
Again the agent tapped on his keyboard. “We have the keys in the office so if you want to call by around 9:00 a.m. tomorrow you can sign the contract and move in … There is one thing … as it is such short notice we can only accept cash payment rather than cheque.”
I had no problem with this request, and, learning from my earlier blunder, I had no intention of paying by cheque or credit card and leaving any form of trail that could lead back to me. “Yes, I can give you cash.”
“Okay. I just need to take your name for the contract.”
Momentarily caught off guard, after a few seconds of frantic thought a single name came to mind. “James Bosworth. My name’s James Bosworth.”
I felt some relief as I made my way back home, leaving the dirty streets and derelict buildings behind and driving through the increasingly more affluent areas of the city. I arrived back home just after 3:00 p.m., and realising I hadn’t eaten since the previous night I made a cheese sandwich and soup before retaking my seat at the kitchen table, keen to get on with the next phase of the planning.
Next I turned my attention to the weapon. I’d seen numerous movies in which a gun had been the instrument of choice. I was sure there were dodgy pubs in the rough parts of town where I could purchase such an item, but with a career in academia rather than organised crime, I was limited for contacts in the underworld. In any case I didn’t know how to use a gun; it was all too risky. A knife on the hand was a different matter. Any fool could swing a knife – I was quite sure of that. I reached over for the bread knife that I’d used in making my sandwich. It had a long blade, maybe twenty-five centimetres in length and three centimetres deep. I gripped the wooden handle and took a practice swing as I imagined Musgrove standing in front of me. It didn’t feel right. The length of the blade was probably sufficient, but the knife wasn’t heavy enough. I sat back in the chair; I knew that I’d seen something more suitable but couldn’t quite remember where. After a few seconds it came to me, and I dashed out of the back door and to the garden shed, where I’d stored some of the boxes of my dad’s gardening stuff.
It didn’t take long to find the focus of my search: a foot-long, slightly curved metal blade with a wooden handle, pretty much like a machete. My dad had used it to hack away at the nettles and brambles that encroached on his garden from the woods beyond. Part of the blade was brown and rusted, but the business end, the cutting edge, had been recently sharpened, and I certainly wouldn’t have dreamed of running a finger along it. I stepped out of the confines of the shed, glanced around to check that no one was watching from a neighbouring upstairs window, and lifted the machete to shoulder height. As I took a swing and the blade sliced through the air, it felt comfortable in my hand – not too heavy but, I suspected, of sufficient weight to decapitate my target. Satisfied, I went back inside the house and wrapped the weapon in an old tea towel before stashing it in my rucksack. Already I could feel that my plan, only a few hours from its inception, was beginning to generate momentum. I returned to the kitchen table almost giddy with excitement and surprised at how quickly I’d adjusted to the concept of being a murderer.
For the rest of the afternoon and well into the evening I continued the planning, concentrating my attentions on the immediate aftermath of the act. Of course, I knew that the precise timing and location of the murder would depend on monitoring Musgrove’s movements over the following weeks, but there were other things I could start to put in place. Whatever happened, I wanted to have a ready supply of cash. I had a sizeable sum, in excess of £220,000 already in my current account, largely from the sale of my parents’ house and the £75,000 of savings and various small insurance policies that they’d taken out. I suspected that with the sale of my own house the figure would be close to half a million pounds, probably sufficient for me not to have to work for the rest of my life, albeit living modestly, particularly if I moved abroad. The latter had particular appeal. I’d always wanted to live overseas, America, possibly Australia, or even South America. Several years earlier I’d been on a scientific conference to Rio de Janeiro. The conference itself had been completely forgettable, but like many such symposiums, the more dull the research area the more exotic and enjoyable the venue. Helen and I had often talked about going together for a holiday, but had never quite found the time.
The more I thought, the more it appealed. Commit the act and then head straight to the airport and hop on an open-ended flight to Brazil for an extended holiday. Once in South America, I could monitor any developments on the internet or satellite TV news, and all being well, if I were not a suspect, I’d be able to return home at my leisure. The plan was simple and perfectly achievable, and I even doubted that the police would suspect my involvement in Musgrove’s death. Maybe not even realising that I knew he was responsible for the hit-and-run, they would in all probability attribute his death to some squabble over drugs, and I’d be in the clear.
I ate a light supper, more sandwiches and chocolate cake bought from the supermarket. I felt exhausted – hadn’t realised how tiring planning a murder could be. Despite the fatigue, though, I felt elated, my mood having changed beyond recognition from the despair of earlier that morning. I was in bed by 10:00 p.m. but was unable to sleep as I obsessed over my plan, and only finally drifted off well into the early hours of the morning.
----
I woke early the following morning feeling refreshed despite just a few hours’ sleep. I’d thought I might wake with a change of heart, but there was none of it. My conviction was greater than ever, Musgrove was a complete waster. I was practically doing a public service and I doubted anyone would shed a tear for his demise.
Full of enthusiasm, at 8:15 a.m. I left home for the letting agent’s to collect the keys for my new abode. Battling against the commuter traffic, the roads around Rawlton were much busier that the previous day and I didn’t arrive until a little after 9:10 a.m. I felt disproportionately anxious as I got out of the car, and in my guilt-ridden paranoia I half-feared that passers-by would somehow suspect that I was planning a murder. Conscious that the fewer potential witnesses to my movements the better, it was a relief to find the premises empty of customers. There was just one young woman sat behind a desk. She barely glanced up as I entered, and appeared completely disinterested in my presence, her attention solely on the computer screen and the e-mail she was writing. After a few moments of standing an arm’s length from her desk, I gave up on her spontaneously acknowledging me. “I’ve come to pick up the keys for 17b Stanley Road, my name’s Bosworth, James Bosworth.”
She exhaled loudly, and grudgingly responded without looking up. “Have you got the deposit and first month’s rent?” I handed over an envelope containing the £400. She opened it and slowly counted the twenty £20 notes onto the desk, and then, to my frustration, recounted, clearly not trusting me – or possibly herself. After the second count she spun round on her chair and opened a filing cabinet behind her. “What address was it again?”