I want u 2 join me! x
He typed:
That’s my plan! x
She replied:
Promise? x
He grinned and typed:
I promise! x
He picked up his iPhone and flicked through to the compass app he had downloaded a long time back for a coffee advert he had written, in which a man and a woman teased each other by sending compass co-ordinates that came closer and closer until they finally met in a coffee shop. That was one of his most successful commercials. Teresa must have seen it, he figured. His own location showed as: 51°50′ 33.594'' N 0°06′ 15.631'' W.
It was 9 p.m. At a rough guess it would take him an hour to drive there. He made himself a toasted cheese sandwich, which he figured would absorb enough of the alcohol to put him safely below the limit, then on his laptop googled Hampstead Heath, working out the nearest street to the co-ordinates he had been given.
Shortly before half past nine he brushed his teeth, squirted on some cologne, pulled on his black leather jacket and pocketed a small torch. Then he took the lift down to the garage, climbed into his Aston Martin and tapped his destination into the satnav. His stomach was full of butterflies. But good butterflies!
His drive across London through the thin evening traffic was joyous. A Michael Kiwanuka CD was spinning, the dials in front of him were spinning, and the GPS numbers on his iPhone were spinning as he headed nearer and nearer to Hampstead. To Teresa Saunders. His dream girl!
He reached his destination with twenty minutes to spare. The Kiwanuka CD had finished and now a Louis Armstrong track was playing: ‘We Have All The Time In the World’.
And just how appropriate was that?
He parked his car, pulled the torch from his pocket and entered the heath. There was no one around and ordinarily, in such a strange, dark and isolated environment, he might have felt apprehensive, but tonight the knowledge that Teresa was heading through the darkness too — and might already be there — allayed his concerns.
He watched the compass co-ordinates on the app spinning away, until he reached 51°56′ 47.251'' N 0°17′ 41.938'' W.
Right in front of him was a park bench.
Oh yes! He was loving this!
He sat down, the butterflies going increasingly crazy in his stomach, and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. But what if she disapproved of smokers? There was a smell of burnt wood in the air.
He slipped the pack back in his pocket and sat listening. Somewhere in the distance he heard a man calling out, ‘Oscar! Oscar! Here, boy! Oscar!’
A dog barked.
The man said, ‘Good boy, good boy!’
The dog barked again.
Then silence.
He waited. The air was chilly. After a while he checked his watch. Five minutes had passed. Another five minutes passed. He checked Facebook on his phone. Nothing. He sent a message.
I’m here!
Moments later a message came back.
So am I!
He looked around, then switched on the torch and shone the beam in every direction. It fell away into the darkness. He sent another message.
I can’t see you. Did I get the co-ordinates right? 51°56′ 47.251" N 0°17′ 41.938" W.
The reply came almost before he had posted it.
Spot on!
He felt a sudden swirl of cold air; it went, almost as fast as it had come. Then he felt something digging into his back — something hard and flat that felt different from the rest of the bench.
He turned around and shone the beam onto it. It was a small brass plaque. Engraved, in tiny lettering, were the words: In memory of Teresa Saunders (1983–2011) who loved this heath. Tragically killed by lightning on this spot.
Another swirl of icy air engulfed him. Then he felt a touch, just the faintest touch, on his cheek. Like a kiss.
An instant later there was a crack, like a peal of thunder, directly above him. He looked up in shock to see a dark shape hurtling down towards him.
‘Poor bastard,’ the Police Sergeant said.
‘Must have been instant at least,’ the constable who had been first on the scene replied.
The fire brigade officers had rigged up some lights, and three of them were hurriedly attaching lifting gear from the rescue tender to the massive, blackened branch that pinned Jobe, by his crushed skull, to the ground.
The attending paramedic could find no pulse, and viewing the matter leaking from the unfortunate young man’s crushed head, was all too grimly aware that it was what he and his colleagues, with the gallows humour of their trade, called a ‘scoop-and-run job’. The Coroner’s Officer was on his way.
A man who had been walking his dog nearby was in shock. He had stood numbly watching, then several times had repeated crossly, almost shouting, to the attending officers beyond the police tape cordon, ‘They should have bloody cut it down — any fool could see it was an accident waiting to happen.’
Another police officer who had turned up, but had nothing to do, suddenly snapped on a pair of gloves, knelt and picked up an object. ‘iPhone,’ he said. ‘Might give us a clue who he is.’
He tapped the power key to wake it up, then studied the screen. ‘Looks like he was meeting someone here,’ he said. ‘Seems as if he had a date. Meant to be meeting her here at 10.35 p.m. — that’s half an hour ago. I haven’t seen any sign of a woman anywhere around.’
‘Not his night, is it?’ one of the fire officers replied. ‘Stood up, then this happens.’
‘Or maybe she broke it off and left,’ the Sergeant said.
Smoking Kills
A very short story based on a true incident
‘You have a last request?’
‘Uh-huh. Could I have a cigarette?’
‘I’m sorry, this is a no-smoking execution chamber.’
‘It’s not going to kill me, you know.’
‘You’re right about that, sunshine.’
The Stamp of a Criminal
Roy Grace’s first case
The dog was a wuss, Crafty Cunningham always said. An adorable wuss, certainly, but a wuss nonetheless.
His wife, Caroline, agreed. He was a big dog, a lot of dog, especially when he jumped on you, wet and muddy from the garden, and tried to lick your face. It was like having a sheep fall off a cliff and land on you. His name was Fluff, which was a ruddy stupid name, they both knew, for a dog of this size. The animal was still unable to grasp the fact that after eleven years (a ripe seventy-seven in dog time) he was no longer a tiny, fluffy puppy, but was a very large, overweight and usually smelly golden retriever.
They both loved him, despite the fact they had been badly advised on their choice of a puppy. They’d originally wanted a guard dog that would be happy roaming a big garden in Brighton, and wouldn’t need too many walks beyond that. Fluff needed two long walks daily, which he did not often get, which was why he was overweight. And as a guard dog he was about as much use as a chocolate teapot. Crafty was fond of telling their friends that the hound might drown a burglar in slobber, but that would be about his limit.
Crafty’s real name was Dennis, but he’d acquired the nickname back in his school days and it had stuck. He’d always been one for a crafty dodge. He used to play truant from school; he was a crafty dodger around the football pitch, and equally crafty at dodging trouble. And he was always one for getting something for nothing. His father had once said of him, with a kind of grudging respect, ‘Dennis is a lad who could follow you in through a turnstile and come out in front of you without having paid.’