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On the floor at 17b, I lay in my sleeping bag, restlessly tossing and turning, into the early hours of October 8th. My thoughts were in overdrive as I obsessed over the events and likely consequences of the coming day; the day on which my plan would reach fruition and the day, if all went well, Musgrove would die and my freedom would be guaranteed. It was six weeks since the inception of the plan, and although I was as committed as ever, I couldn’t rid myself of lingering doubts. Perhaps for a few, a very few, taking another man’s life is an acceptable hurdle to overcome in reaching a much desired objective, but I certainly didn’t belong to such a category.
I climbed out of the sleeping bag a little after 5:00 a.m. and still another six hours to wait before my meeting with Musgrove at his flat. It was dark outside and I switched on the living room light as I began to go through the contents of my small rucksack. My hand immediately found the machete wrapped in an old cloth. I took it out and took a couple of practice swings, a bit like a tennis player during the knock-up session. I liked the way it felt in my hand: the weight was just right and the grip was secure – perhaps there was a future for me in the contract killing business. I wrapped the machete back in the cloth and placed it on the floor before emptying out the rest of the rucksack: two passports, two envelopes of US dollars, one envelope with £500, a spare set of clothing, a few toiletries and finally, in the front pocket, a pair of leather driving gloves. Everything was in order.
With the bag repacked, from my discreet perch at the bedsit window I looked out towards Musgrove’s flat. For several minutes the street outside remained quiet, with even the dawn chorus seemingly subdued. It was almost 5:30 a.m. before there were any signs of activity: a man on a bike appearing at the end of the road away to my right. I watched as he peddled along, but then, bizarrely, as he reached Musgrove’s flat, he swerved dramatically, almost falling off his bike before regaining his balance and taking a wide detour to the far side of the road. It was only when I looked more carefully into the shadows of the early morning that I could see his path had been blocked by a pool of water filling the gutter and spilling onto the pavement. As I watched over the next few minutes the dirty pool, presumably from a burst water main, accumulated in a natural dip, eventually covering almost half the road in front of Musgrove’s driveway. My thoughts went into hyper-drive as I tried to envisage how this would affect my plan. But in the end I reassured myself that, even if I had to paddle through the water, I’d still be able to get access to his flat. Not exactly ideal, but by no means a fatal blow to my plan.
Musgrove roused himself from his filthy bed a little after 8:00 a.m. But unlike the other days that I’d watched him, he didn’t leave the flat, and just wandered impatiently round his living room, presumably awaiting my arrival with the money. Still a couple of hours before the meeting, I knew I had to get out of my flat. The last thing I wanted was Musgrove watching from his window, waiting for me to arrive and then to see me leaving 17b – it certainly wouldn’t be an easy thing to explain. My opportunity eventually came when he went to the toilet, and with his back to me as he used the facility I grabbed my rucksack and headed out of the door. I hurried down the road and passed the pool of dirty water. Thankfully it didn’t seem to be getting any bigger and there was still access to Musgrove’s driveway. At the end of the street I turned right and headed for a small café. It was a greasy spoon sort of affair that was a popular hangout with the local taxi drivers. I ordered a coffee and then sat at the back, well away from the window, as I counted down the minutes before my rendezvous. As I sipped at the strong coffee I regretted my choice of beverage. I was already jumpy at the prospect of the next few hours and the caffeine boost certainly wasn’t required or helpful.
Over the next hour I obsessively dissected my plan and tried to identify any potential weakness. But I was confident in my preparations, including the bolt-hole contingencies, and felt I’d done all I could to ensure a satisfactory outcome. At 10:30 a.m., and with much of my coffee untouched, it was time to leave. I put on the black leather gloves from the front pocket of the rucksack and made my way into the street. I felt sick with anxiety and prayed that I could go through with it. I can do it … I can do it; I said the words over and over as I walked along, staring at the ground in front of me. I was now at most sixty seconds from his flat and I knew that my whole life would change, depending on what happened in the next few minutes. I turned the corner on the Stanley Road, my head still down, trying to eliminate any distractions and focus solely on Musgrove. I felt strong. Yes, I can and I will do it. With renewed belief, now just twenty metres from his flat, I lifted my head; but as I faced the scene in front of me I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.
Parked directly outside my flat was a police car with blue lights flashing. My first fear, of course, was that somehow the police had discovered my plan, but as I looked more closely I felt a slight sense of relief: two policemen stood directing traffic beyond the pool of water as a workman was setting up temporary traffic lights and another started bombarding the tarmac with a pneumatic drill. My head was spinning, what the hell was I going to do?
In a daze, I turned around and headed back to the café. I sat at the same table, slumped in the chair, as if all my energy had suddenly deserted me. The waitress came over and though I wasn’t hungry I felt obliged to put some money in the till, and asked for the all-day breakfast. A few minutes later the greasy mass arrived. At first I just picked absent-mindedly at the occasional mushroom, but I soon discovered that I was actually hungry, and as the food began to fill my stomach my anxieties settled a little.
I began to think with greater clarity. I doubted that the police would be there for long. Presumably once the temporary traffic lights were up and running they would be on their way. But I suspected the workmen would be there for some time, probably most of the day, if not longer. To reach Musgrove’s flat I would practically have to climb over their tools and the mountain of tarmac and earth they were busy creating. It just wouldn’t work. I couldn’t risk them giving a description to the police once the body was discovered. Shit, shit, shit, I said under my breath. Today had to be the day, no question: my flight was in less than twenty-four hours.
I finished the rest of the breakfast and started on a big mug of industrial-strength tea. It fleetingly crossed my mind that I should forget all about it and head to Brazil for an extended holiday and try to put Musgrove behind me. But within seconds I knew it wasn’t a viable option. There would always be the threat that he’d go to the police, and maybe even more importantly, and quite simply, I wanted revenge.