The first signs of movement in 29a once again occurred at 8:30 a.m. Musgrove followed the same routine as the previous morning; dressing as soon as he was awake, taking a piss and then heading out of the door. He returned with impetus just before midday and immediately began to prepare his habit, and then with his little indulgence streaming through his veins, he collapsed on the bed.
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As I monitored Musgrove’s movements over the following weeks, his routine was surprisingly consistent. Invariably he would wake no later than 8:30 a.m., dress quickly and, with showering and dental hygiene not essential features of his lifestyle, he would leave the flat within minutes. There was always a great focus to his departure, his stride always purposeful towards the main road and to the bus stop, a meeting with his dealer providing the attraction. He would normally return to the flat two to three hours later with even greater impetus and then immediately begin preparing his concoction at the small kitchen table. Usually I wouldn’t watch. I was squeamish of needles at the best of times and the whole process turned my stomach. The irony wasn’t lost on me; here I was planning to murder him, but watching as he effectively killed himself, albeit slowly. After his morning fix he would remain in situ for several hours, either slumped in the chair or sprawled across the bed. It was during his “rests” that I usually left my surveillance post and headed back to Alton to check on the sale of the house or put together the other elements of my plan.
By late afternoon, usually no later than 6:00 p.m., I would be back at the flat to see him head off to the local off license or supermarket, returning twenty minutes later with a four-pack of extra-strong lager and occasionally some food. He would spend the rest of the evening watching TV. The only variation to his routine occurred on a Thursday, when for reasons that I never completely understood, rather than the normal visit to the off license, he would go to the Earl of Arundel pub. There was even a degree of ritual to this aberration, as he would always return by 11:30 p.m., and always alone.
Some mornings I would follow at a discreet distance as he left the flat and then caught a bus at the end of the street. I would wait for the next bus, often losing track of him, but occasionally close enough to see him get off the bus a few stops from the town centre and head to a small park, a ten-minute walk away. It was here, next to an old groundkeeper’s hut and in full view of a children’s play area, that he would briefly chat with his dealer and then far from surreptitiously buy his drugs. I often wondered how my cash injection had affected his lifestyle. Presumably it had simplified much of it, with no need to work or resort to theft, but how long the money would last was another matter.
Fortunately for me in achieving my ultimate goal, his habit was a solitary pursuit. On only a handful of occasions did I see him have any sort of social interaction. Usually this was with the kids that loitered on the street corner, and involved either giving or receiving abuse, and then occasionally with his dealer at the park. Other than a single visit from DI Patel a couple of weeks into my surveillance, Musgrove never had any visitors to his flat and even the brief exchange with Patel occurred on the doorstep. At the time I’d been frantic with worry that Musgrove may have let something slip, and for several days I’d dreaded a phone call or visit to my Alton home from Patel. But to my relief it never came.
Despite the passage of time, my anger remained undiluted. If anything it became more intense and my resolve that he should die only strengthened. Following weeks of surveillance I was confident that, with the predictability of Musgrove’s routine, his flat would be the optimal place for the ultimate act. Quiet, discreet and with few if any visitors, his body could lie undisturbed for weeks. This would give me time to leave the country and possibly even provide an alibi of sorts, knowing that the longer the body remained undetected the more difficult it would be for the police pathologist to provide a precise time of death. Then, even if suspicion was directed at me, I could always claim to have been out of the country and it would be virtually impossible to prove otherwise.
The final variable was the timing of the event. This proved to be a frustration, largely out of my control and largely dependent on the sale of my house in Alton. Daily I would phone the solicitors and estate agents to confirm the completion date and to chivvy proceedings along. I certainly didn’t relish the prospect of becoming a murderer, but I was desperate for my plan to reach fruition and to move onto the next chapter in my life, whatever that proved to be.
Chapter 17
After a restless and largely sleepless night on Kinder Scout, and not for the first time in the last few hours, I check my watch: still only 4:10 a.m. It is my last night in the bolt-hole and in my anxious state of mind there is little chance of further sleep. It’s now mid April, the morning of the 17th to be precise, and I’m at the end of my six months of self-imposed incarceration. It will be dawn within a couple of hours, and with my rucksacks already packed I intend to be on my way no later than 6:00 a.m. I reach out into the darkness and find my torch lodged in its usual crevice in the side wall. I switch it on and shield my eyes for a few seconds while I adjust to the light, and then look around my home of so long. I have a strange feeling: a kind of sadness and nostalgia, knowing that my time here is ending. But I’m equally ready to move on.
I struggle out of my tight sleeping bag, roll it up, and shove it into one of the two rucksacks propped against the wall. One of the bags contains my essentials and that I’ll take with me to the airport and beyond: passport, cash, spare clothes, a few old photographs, toiletries, et cetera. The second, larger and much heavier bag containing the sleeping bag and other non-essentials I plan to dump on the way to Edale train station.
My lips begin to tingle and I am aware that my breathing is rapid. The feeling reminds me of standing in the dark alley waiting for Musgrove, that night all those months ago. I reassure myself that my anxiety is understandable: I’m leaving the safety and security of my bolt-hole with the possibility that I may be recognised and captured on the way to the airport or at one of the numerous security checks when I finally get there. I suspect my nervousness is compounded by the fact that there is an element of institutionalisation in my thinking and I can’t help question whether I’m ready for the uncertainties of the outside world. Several times over the last few weeks it has crossed my mind that I should stay entrenched indefinitely in the bolt-hole, living my bizarre subterranean existence. In reality, of course, I need to move on. From a purely practical standpoint, the food packs, my only source of nutrition, are now at an end. I doubt there is much in the way of edible vegetation on Kinder Scout, and I don’t fancy my chances of catching any of the lightning-quick mountain hares that dart across the moors from time to time. In any case, I want – need – my life to move on. I’ve had enough of treading water.
For the last time I fire up the small camping stove, fill my cooking pot with water, and add the last of my camping-meal packs. Waiting for the food to warm through, I unfold the map of the Peak District and study it closely, though I’m not really sure why: I’ve long since committed to memory the route that I’m going to follow during the coming day. Away to the south-east is Edale and the train station. As the crow flies it’s probably only about four miles. Much of the route is downhill on well-worn paths and should take no more than a couple of hours – plenty of time for one of the hourly trains to Manchester and then onto the airport for my flight at 4:35 p.m. I refold the map and put it back in the main body of the rucksack before reaching into the front pocket and removing a small plastic zip-lock bag. As I’ve done numerous times over the past six months, I carefully empty the contents on to the floor and, under torchlight, check that I’ve got all I need. I open the two A3 envelopes, knowing that each contains exactly US $12,500 but I can’t help but recount each stack of $100 bills. Satisfied, I place the envelopes back in the plastic bag and then check the name on the passport, Mr James Andrew Bosworth, and verify the date and time on the plane ticket. Reassured that everything is in order, I place them back in the zip-lock bag and stash them in a small rolled-up canvas bag that will be my hand luggage on the flight. Finally I shove the whole lot back into the rucksack just as the water begins to boil.