My last few weeks in the bolt-hole have been quiet and uneventful, contrasting sharply with the final days in the build-up to Musgrove’s death. Following the sale of my home in Alton and with the money in the bank, the last of my ties were severed and I began to plan in earnest for the ultimate act.
I’d begun to convert my cash into American dollars, which would be my start-up fund for when I got to Brazil. To avoid suspicion, I employed the services of numerous banks in and around the city, such that I never changed more than £1,000 in any single transaction. The remainder of my current account, close to £450,000, I then transferred to an American bank based in Rio.
I’d also obtained a new passport, using Bosworth’s name but of course my photograph. I’d always known that if I attempted to use my own documents I wouldn’t get beyond the first airport security checkpoint. But fortunately for me, and not saying much for our national security, obtaining a passport in Bosworth’s name had been far easier than I could have imagined. I’d come across his expired passport, the old dark blue variety, when I’d gone to his house after one of his late-night mini emotional breakdowns. With him none the wiser, I took his old passport and then simply submitted a new application using his details but my photograph. Of course, in appearance Bosworth and I were nothing alike, but thankfully his original photograph, probably taken at the age of fifteen, was an old grainy black and white affair that made it difficult to distinguish any subtleties of facial features. Time had not been particularly kind to Bosworth, and in his current guise, with his chubby face and receding hairline, he bore little resemblance to his teenage appearance. It was a gamble, but I doubted that, given the twenty-year passage of time, the passport authorities would suspect the renewal was for a different person. The only potential sticking point was the section: address of applicant. Clearly it would have been easier to use my address in Alton, or even 17b, but unsure of what security and identification verification checks were in place, I thought it safer to use Bosworth’s address, the same address as on the original passport. The downside, of course, was that I needed to get access to his house to collect the new passport before he discovered it himself; but I came up with a ruse about the central heating not working at my house and he let me stay with him for a week or so – until the passport was delivered.
Physically, I felt ready for the challenges ahead. My body was toned and lean, and when I stepped on the bathroom scales I was surprised to find that I’d lost a little over two stone since the death of Helen and the boys. Over the previous few years I’d been so preoccupied with work that I’d rarely taken any exercise, so my weight had climbed to close to fifteen stone – three stone more than my ideal “fighting weight” of my early twenties. My recent weight loss I largely attributed to the fact that preparing and eating regular meals had been the least of my priorities; but I’d also taken more exercise, usually in the form of long walks or runs out in the Peak District.
After weeks of painstaking surveillance, I felt sure that Musgrove’s flat would provide the safest and most discreet location to commit the ultimate act. Of course, a potential problem was getting access to the flat. For several days I’d struggled to come up with a plausible excuse that Musgrove would accept, but ultimately it wasn’t necessary, Musgrove’s greed providing the opportunity I was looking for. I was just leaving a local bank after collecting another instalment of US dollars when my mobile rang. The screen indicated unknown, but I recognised the number immediately. I pressed the answer button but remained silent and waited for him to speak first. After a few seconds, Musgrove came on, bellowing down the phone: “Julian, Julian, hope you’re well.” I didn’t respond, but heard myself breathing deeply into the phone as he continued after a few seconds pause: “Good, good. I … no, I mean, we have a slight problem. I’ve run out of money and I need a little bit more. Let’s call it a final instalment, a gesture of goodwill if you like.”
My thoughts were whirring as I tried to work out the best way to play him. It certainly came as no great revelation that he wanted more money, and if anything I was surprised he’d managed to last as long as six weeks before blowing it all. Sensing the delay in my response, Musgrove continued more forcefully. “Look, Julian, I know you’ve sold your house. You’re not short of a few quid, let’s just say another five grand and call it quits.”
I finally responded aggressively. “You moron, you bloody moron, you really expect me to give you more money?”
His response was belligerent and almost as if he’d got the moral high ground. “Listen, Ju, I’ve been having these terrible pangs of guilt. Why don’t I pop over to Otley Road and have a word with Patel, the nice policemen, I’m sure he’ll be more than interested in what I’ve got to say.”
I paused for a few seconds. I certainly didn’t want to give in to his demands too early and arouse suspicion, but at the same time I knew that it would give me the perfect opportunity to get him alone and take care of matters. “You bastard ... this is the last time, do you get it? The last time. If it happens again I’ll go to the police myself.” I could hear Musgrove laughing sarcastically, and despite the fact that he was playing into my hands it was irritating beyond belief that he perceived me to be so weak that I would succumb to his demands.
“I want the money by the end of the weekend.” Jesus, that’s not possible, I thought. I needed a few more days to get everything to ready.
Thinking quickly, I responded: “I can’t do that … I’m out of town … in London. It’ll have to be next Thursday. I’m not getting back till then.” Musgrove was clearly irritated, presumably his habit dictating the terms. “You better not be fucking me about, Julian, I want my money.”
“You’ll have it next Thursday, that’s the best I can do.” This time it was Musgrove who went quiet, and I continued: “I’ll bring the money round to your flat next Thursday at 11:00 a.m., I remember where you live.”
“Okay, but you’d better get it here. Trust me, Julian, you wouldn’t like prison, people like you don’t fit in.” I had no doubt he was right, and switched off the phone without answering.
With exactly seven days to put the final elements of my plan in place, the date of the ultimate act was now set for October 8th, a Thursday and, coincidentally, my birthday. Heading back to Rawlton, I got off the bus a couple of stops earlier than usual and called in at a travel agent’s in the precinct. I’d passed it numerous times over the previous few weeks and had popped in once to check that the place was suitable. It was an independent place but big and bustling, with at least ten sales assistants sitting behind desks. It seemed to cater predominantly for flights to the Indian subcontinent, serving the large ethnic minority in the area, and also student backpacker trips. To me it had particular appeal in that there were no CCTV cameras, at least that I could see, and it was a busy, chaotic place where I hoped my presence wouldn’t be remembered. It also had the advantage that many customers paid in cash, however large the transaction, presumably explaining the need for two burly security guards on the door. I entered the shop with baseball cap in situ, though whether this made me more or less conspicuous I wasn’t really sure. The assistant’s English was basic at best, probably matching her computer skills, and she kept shouting through to the back in her mother tongue for instructions on using her workstation. What should have been a five-minute job in the end took close to half an hour, but I was happy with the outcome: two return tickets to Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. The first ticket, which, as circumstances dictated, I never got the chance to use, was in my name, departing Manchester Airport, 16:35 on October 9th. The second ticket, and my contingency, was for my fictitious business partner, Mr James Andrew Bosworth, departing Manchester Airport, 16:35 on April 17th. I paid cash for the economy-class tickets, both to return a couple of weeks after departure, though whether I’d need the return trip was of course another matter. At the same time I booked a hotel at Manchester Airport for the night of 8th, the evening of the day of Musgrove’s planned demise.