Frank Owen stepped through
the automatic doors and onto the pavement; he paused briefly and cast a glance
back over his shoulder at the Churchill hospital and tried to think of a time
when he had left that ghastly building with good news, but he couldn’t so he
proceeded to the bus stop through the mist and murk.
It was a damp and dismal late
October day, grey and uninspiring, the kind of day when it was impossible to
discern where terra firma ended and the sky began.
When he reached the bus
shelter he entered the inhospitable Perspex box and sat down on what supposedly
passed for a bench.
He leant his walking stick
against the bench beside him and then reached into his coat pocket and
retrieved a pack of cigarettes and his lighter.
He put one to his lips.
“You shouldn’t do that you
know, they’ll kill you they will” A voice said from one corner of the shelter.
He turned his head to see
that the voice belonged to a small skinny women in her fifties wearing a shabby
coat over what he presumed was a cleaners uniform.
“They killed my husband” she
continued as she sat down on the bench.
“And he was a lot younger
than you”
He smiled and nodded then he
lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply.
Frank was seventy nine years
old, eighty in November, and he gave up smoking on his fortieth birthday and
apart from the very rare occasion when he was offered a cigar at a special
occasion, a wedding, a regimental reunion or some other gathering, he had not
smoked for half of his life, until a few weeks before when he was first diagnosed.
The oncologist used words
like carcinomas and metastasised he didn’t really take it all in but it was in
his pancreas, oesophagus, stomach and bowel which meant they would have to gut
him like a fish even if surgery was an option which it never was.
There were treatments of
coarse but they would merely delay the inevitable.
The prognosis was that
without treatment he would probably see another birthday but not another
Christmas.
So he thought what the hell
he’d really missed smoking and it was hardly likely to kill him now.
He exhaled and a cloud of
smoke which seemed to hang in the still moisture laden air.
“I will just have to take
that risk my dear” he said to her and smiled.
Frank was a big man; over six
feet tall and broad shouldered and despite his need to walk with a stick he
still carried himself with a military bearing and apart from rheumatism in his
knees, hence the need for the stick, and the fact that he was dying he had felt
ok, a little discomfort at times but no more than that,
He had lost a little weight
of late, not a bad thing in itself he had been a stone or two overweight for a
good few years, and he had felt tired a good deal which he put down to his age,
he would not have gone to the doctors at all but for chronic indigestion the
reason for which had soon become quite apparent.
But in those few short weeks since
the initial diagnosis the pain had started and it was getting worse, pain like
he had never known before, even when he was shot in Korea it didn’t hurt so
bad, and he was starting to look gaunt and skin hung loosely about his neck.
He thought back to that day’s
consultation and the doctor’s words.
“You have a little time to
get your affairs in order” he said to him.
“But you will deteriorate
quite quickly”
Just as well I have no
affairs to get in order, he had thought to himself.
He had no one to miss him or
mourn him; his passing would be as insignificant as a ripple on a pond.
Irene his wife of 39 years
passed away ten years previous after a stroke and his only child Derek was
knocked down and killed by a drunk driver while he was crossing the road outside
his university digs aged 20.
He had no other family left
his elder sister had died in childbirth and her daughter died shortly
afterwards and his brother died in the port of Aden
a victim of Yemeni terrorists in 1966.
He had no nephews or nieces,
no distant cousins, the friends and comrades who were not already dead were
gaga so there were no beneficiaries of his meagre estate.
There was enough in his savings
to bury him and the rest of his worldly goods would be sold and the money could
go to the hospice where he was set to shuffle off this mortal coil.
He was ready to die, he had
had enough, his life had been almost intolerable since Irene died, lonely and
meaningless, but the last year had all but broken him and he was ashamed of
himself and that was something he thought would never happen, but he had
allowed himself to become a victim, giving in to intimidation and what was most
unforgivable of all he had become a coward.
A car horn sounded which
brought him back from his self-pitying reflections. He looked up to see a car
parked in the bus bay with the passenger window down.
“Can I give you a lift Frank?” The driver called.
Frank got to his feet and
walked stiffly to the car.
“Thanks” he said through the
open window.
“As long as it not out of
your way”?
“It’s not a problem Frank”
Said the driver.
So Frank opened the door and
got in, the door made that whirring sound as the window was raised as he belted
himself in.
The driver was a muscular man
in his mid-thirties with Jet Black hair and wild eyes who appeared to be tall
even sitting down.
His name was, Boris Katarski
and he was a Detective Sergeant with the Abbotsford CID. Whom Frank had got to
know during a murder enquiry almost a year previous.
This was not the first time
they had bumped into each other, and it had happened more than once at the
hospital, he supposed that police business was bound to involve visits to the
hospital for any number of reasons.
“Thank you Sergeant this damp
weather gets right in your bones” he said rubbing his knees.
“No problem, Frank, so what
brings you to the Churchill on a damp and dismal Thursday?” Boris asked trying
not to sound like a policeman.
“Just visiting a friend”
Frank lied not wanting to be pitied. “And you?”
“Oh just interviewing a
victim of crime” He answered not entirely convincingly.
“Anyway how come you’re at
the mercy of public transport? Where’s your car today?”
“Oh it’s in my lock up I’m
afraid I can’t afford to keep it on the road anymore”
Frank replied not quite
honestly. “The pension doesn’t seem to stretch as far as it used to”
The rest of the journey
consisted of small talk about politics and the previous night’s match.
Then they turned into Orchard Lane and
pulled up outside number 14 where Frank lived.
“Thanks for the lift Sgt it’s
really appreciated” He said as he opened the car door.
“Don’t mention it and please
call me Boris”
“Ok. Thanks Boris” He replied
a little uncomfortably and then he got out the car after some undignified
effort.
“I don’t move as well as I
did” he said with a laugh.
Just before he closed the car
door he said goodbye, then made his way up the short path to his front door.
It was a an unremarkable
little house build in the same decade as Frank was born but looked as if it had
stood the test of time better than he had himself and would be around a good
many years after his passing.
The front garden much as the
back needed some attention and he had had to admit to himself some while ago
that he wasn’t up to the task anymore.
The hanging baskets that throughout
the summer hung either side of the front door and half a dozen stone planters
were about all he could keep on top off though not for much longer.
He fumbled for his door key
and slipped it into the lock and having unlocked the door and he went inside
turning briefly to wave to Sgt Katarski before closing the door behind him.
Boris sat in the car and
watched Frank walk up the path and returned his wave and carried on watching
him until the door closed.
He liked Frank, he was a nice
old boy, but that wasn’t the reason he kept engineering these accidental
meetings.
He knew Frank was keeping
something from him and DS Katarski was like a dog with a bone he would not let
it go.
Safely in his house he lit
the gas and sat down in front of the fire he was glad he had got a lift the
damp weather was getting to him, but as much as he appreciated the life and as
much as he liked the Sergeant he always made him feel ashamed.
He had first met DS Katarski
when he was investigating the brutal murder of Brenda Sage, an elderly
neighbour, who lived in the house across the road from his own.
The reason for his great
shame was that he lied.
On the evening of the murder
Frank had been stood at the kitchen sink washing up after his supper idly
looking out through the window, he had an unhindered view of the road and the
houses opposite due to the lack of net curtains which he had dispensed with
after his wife died, mainly because he thought them too fussy but also because
he liked to see what was going on.
Just as he was washing up the
last saucepan he saw Brenda’s front door open, which surprised him because she
didn’t get many visitors especially of an evening so he was curious to see who
it was.
The porch light was off and
in the shadows he could only just make out a slight figure. But as they moved
down the path to the gate they were illuminated by the street light.
Franks jaw dropped to see Danny
Blake open the gate and pass into the street.
Blake was a small wirery man
in his twenties, a vicious thug, who having never done an honest day’s work in
his entire life made his living from crime.
Burglary, robbery, mugging,
shop lifting you name it he’d done it, he was nothing if not versatile.
Then to Frank’s horror Blake
looked directly at him and smiled a very unattractive smile, then his blood ran
cold as Blake waved his hand across his throat in a cutting gesture.
Frank was frozen to the spot,
powerless to move under his evil gaze.
Then he turned and walked
casually down the street.
Frank was in turmoil he knew
something bad had happened, Brenda could be laying in her house injured, but
the implication from Blake was clear if he said anything he was dead.
He didn’t know what to do, he
picked up the phone and put it straight down again, if he phoned the police he
would have to say what he saw.
He grabbed his coat and
rushed out the back door, went down the path and through the back gate where his
car was parked.
He drove a couple of miles
down the road until he reached a small parade of shops where he knew there was
a phone box, from there he called the police.
By the time he got back to
his kitchen the police were already knocking on Brenda’s front door.
Once they had gained entry
and then returned to their car he could tell by their body language and the
lack of urgency that she was dead.
DS Katarski knocked on his
door the next morning and that was when the lying began.
Blake had not been satisfied
with his implied threat to Frank on the night of the murder he made a point of
reminding him whenever he got the chance in the street, in the pub, at the
shops, and whenever he got to hear that Frank had been seen talking to a
policeman then a window would be smashed, the flowers in his planters would be
dug up or a tire on his car would be slashed, the last time his wipers were
ripped off, that was the reason he kept his car off the road now he couldn’t
afford the repairs.
But the worst thing of all
was when he just stood in the street and stared at his house, taunting him,
shaming him.
Every act perpetrated against
him underlined the contempt he had for himself for succumbing to Blake’s
intimidation.
But now the worm was turning,
he was dying and that he could do nothing about, but he didn’t want to die a
coward and that he could do something about.
It was too late to tell the
police what he saw the cancer would have seen him off long before the case got
to trial; it was too late for conventional justice but he had something better
in mind.
The next day he put his plan
into action, he had hatched the plan while he was waiting in the oncology
department at the hospital.
The first part was quite
simple and involved luring Blake to his house and he decided the best way was
with the lure of money.
The only snag being that he
didn’t have any so he spent an evening cutting up pieces of newspaper to the
size of a ten pound note and by placing a real note at each end and securing them
all with a rubber band it made up an impressive looking bundle of notes.
The second part involved
making sure Blake saw the bait; this was achieved by way of an improvised
meeting.
Frank knew that Blake was a
regular at the Bricklayers Arms, the pub at the end of his road and was
generally in the pub between six and seven most evenings.
He got himself in a position
so he could see his mark through the window then he drained his glass quickly
and was on his feet directly in his path as he entered then he stood blocking
his way as he put on his overcoat.
“Come on old man get out of
the way” He sneered.
Frank made an exaggerated
movement to get his arm through the armhole and could see by the expression on Blake’s
face the precise moment he saw the bundle of notes that was now clearly visible
sticking out of Franks inside coat pocket.
“I’m just going, I’m just
going” Frank said and made his goodbyes to the barmaid satisfied that the bait
had been well and truly taken
He knew he had plenty of time
to walk the 80 yards or so to his house as Blake would have to bide a while in
the pub so as not to draw suspicion on himself.
Once he was through the front
door he quickly took off his coat remembering to retrieve the bundle from his
pocket and went straight to the sitting room.
He had now reached the third
and decisive part of his plan which he had pondered on long and hard.
Now he was dying he intended
to address the situation of allowing himself to be intimidated before it was
too late.
Before sitting down he
adjusted the angle of his armchair so that it faced the door but was not
visible from the doorway until the door was fully open.
Then he sat down and with his
left hand picked up the revolver from the table.
The gun was a war souvenir
from his time in Korea
and he hadn’t had it out of his trunk for forty years or more.
He spent most of the day
cleaning it and he loaded it with three rounds, that was all that he had, but
he only needed one.
He had covered the sofa with
a large plastic sheet that he used for decorating which was peppered with spots
of different coloured gloss and emulsion. Not that he was doing it to conceal
the crime he just didn’t want to ruin the sofa, his wife really liked it.
At first he thought he would
just scare a confession out of him but it would never hold up in court and he
would retract it as soon as he could.
So he had resolved to kill
him quickly and cleanly and then give himself up.
Frank knew Blake would come
through the front door, there were security lights out the back, and the front
door wouldn’t take much force to open.
He just sat there and waited
he didn’t suppose it would be long the lure of a roll of notes is very strong
to someone of criminal bent, and he was proved right, when he heard the wood
splinter on the front door, Blake had stayed little more than an hour at the
pub and now he was in the hall.
Frank passed the gun into his
right hand and pointed it in the direction of the door.
What Frank hadn’t considered
until that moment was the possibility that Blake wouldn’t come alone but he
needn’t have concerned himself as Blake was far too greedy to share the spoils
of an easy score.
The door handle turned and the
door began to move and all of a sudden it was wide open and Blake rushed in.
“I thought I’d come for a little
visit Frank” He said looking round the room.
“I think you have something
for me ..”
Then he saw the gun for the
first time and started to edge backwards to the door.
“No need to rush off Blake,
come in and sit down, make yourself comfortable as you’ve come for a visit”
Blake carried on edging
backwards then Frank pulled the hammer back with his thumb until there was an
audible click
Blake turned white and Frank
smiled.
“Sit down” He said again.
Blake sat down on the plastic
sheet.
“Is that thing supposed to
frighten me?” Blake said trying and failing to regain his bravado.
“No, it’s supposed to kill
you” Frank replied coldly.
Blake started to shake
“No, please” he begged
“You don’t have to kill me,
I’ll leave you alone from now on, I promise, please don’t kill me”
“Why should I spare your
life, you miserable piece of vermin?”
“I beg you please I don’t
want to die”
“Did Brenda beg for her life
before you beat her to death? Why should I spare your life you didn’t spare
hers?”
“It wasn’t me, I’m innocent”
Frank was shaking with rage
now all the anger at his shame and cowardice was coming to the fore, he wanted
to tell Blake how he had stained his life, how he made him feel about himself,
but the words wouldn’t come.
Instead he sat and stared at
the snivelling creature before him and decided now was as good a time as any
and picked up the cushion he had earlier placed by his chair that he would use
to muffle the sound of the gunshot, again not to conceal the crime but so as
not to disturb the neighbours.
Boris was officially finished
for the day and off the clock but decided, as it was on his route home, to call
round to see Frank Owen.
Boris thought Frank must have
seen someone the night Mrs Sage was murdered and he had a pretty good idea who
and he planned to ask him straight out why he hadn’t come forward.
Boris was a pretty good judge
of character and there had to be a good reason why a man like Frank Owen would
keep quiet.
As he turned into Orchard Lane
everything was quiet and he parked in the first available space. It was only as
he walked up the path that he noticed the front door was ajar.
He pushed it open slowly and
stepped inside the dark hallway.
“Frank!” he called
Frank heard the Sgt call just
as he aimed the gun at Blake, who seeing the old man momentarily distracted took
his chance and sprang up off the sofa and launched himself at him,
Then the gun fired and the bullet
hit Blake in the chest throwing him back onto the plastic covered sofa, before
continuing its flight, hitting the wall by the door just as Boris opened the
door.
Boris burst into the room and
heard something hit the wall about twelve inches from his head, he wasn’t sure
what it was until he saw the smoking gun in Franks hand then he looked at the
hole in the plaster and thought to himself that that was too close for comfort.
He tried to put the fact that
he had narrowly missed being killed from his mind and quickly surveyed the
scene, a motionless body, the plastic sheet, the cushion silencer, a wad of
cash and a smoking gum.
His first task was to take
the gun from Frank who relinquished it without argument then he checked the
motionless body for signs of life and for the first time realised it was Danny
Blake.
He turned and looked at
Frank.
“He’s dead” He confirmed.
“Good”
“What the hell happened Frank
what was he doing here?”
“I set a trap for him,
ambushed him if you like,” He pointed at the bundle of notes
“I lured him here and then
executed him”
Boris sat down on the vacant
chair while Frank filled him in on the events of that evening and the previous
year which lead up to it.
He told him everything,
seeing Blake, the 999 call, the lying, the intimidation, the vandalism and the
cancer right up to the point when Boris entered the room.
“You can arrest me now” Frank
stated.
Boris sat in the arm chair
with his head back and his eyes closed and said nothing.
“Well Sgt arrest me”
“I’m not going to arrest you,
you old fool” Boris replied leaning forward.
“But I killed him, and you
know I did”
“I’m not arresting you” Boris
repeated
“But you have to, I killed
him and I’m prepared to face the music”
“If I arrest you for murder
you will spent your last days in prison awaiting trial” He paused
“I have spent half my
professional life trying to put that in prison” he pointed at the corpse.
“And all I hear are the
excuses, “he’s from a broken home, his mother was prostitute, his father was a
drug addict, the poor lamb it’s really not his fault” but you Frank they will
convict in a heartbeat, while vermin like him play the system”
“I don’t want you throwing
your life away, your career away, to save me” Frank said
“Don’t worry” the Sgt said
The next hour passed largely in
silence, as Boris tried to think what to do next.
Then he suddenly got up and
walked to the door, when he got there he fumbled in his pocked producing a pen
knife which he used to dig the bullet from the hole in the plaster then he put
both in his pocket.
Then he turned to Frank and
asked.
“Where’s the fuse box?”
“Under the stairs, Why?”
“We need to disable the
security lights at the back”
Boris said with his head
inside the cupboard.
Then he and Frank wrapped the
corpse in the plastic sheet which they then carried out to Franks garage,
fortunately it was possible to access the garage from the garden reducing the
risk of being seen and with the lights disabled and a convenient fog they
managed to get to the garage unnoticed.
Once in the garage they put
the body in the boot then paused for a breath Boris then checked the shelves
and found a container of methylated spirit and another of turpentine and put
them in the boot next to the body.
“What now” Frank asked still
breathing heavily.
“Drive to the old Northchapel
print works on Oakham Road
I’ll follow on in my car, ok?”
“Ok”
It was a foggy night which
was something of a blessing and a curse, a blessing as it was good cover if you
were up to no good but a curse when you’re nearly eighty years old and your eyesight’s
not to clever.
So Frank drove carefully over
to Northchapel constantly checking his rear view mirror to make sure the Sgt
was behind him.
Boris was nervously following
Franks beat up old Mondeo through the fog cursing the slow progress and praying
that Franks funeral pace driving would not attract any unwanted attention, he
breathed a heavy sigh of relief when he finally saw the Mondeo indicating to
turn into the old print works.
Frank drove on round to the
back of the buildings to a spot that couldn’t be seen from the main road Boris
pulled up some fifty yards from the other car and once out went straight to the
boot and after a cursory glance at his surrounding dragged the body from the
boot and with some difficulty and little help from Frank manhandled Blake’s
body into the driver’s seat.
He threw the old plastic
sheet onto the back seat then started to splash the contents of the two
containers of flammables all over the car’s interior, remembering just in time
to leave a small amount in one container.
He then rummaged in the car
boot and found an old umbrella he then soaked the end of it with the remaining turpentine.
“Go and get in my car” He
said to Frank
Finally he lit the end of the
umbrella with Franks lighter and tossed it through the open car window, and
then almost as an afterthought he fished in his pocket and retrieved the bullet
and tossed it into the flames.
Once the car was well ablaze they
drove off, they made better time on the return journey with Boris driving.
“Fancy a pint?” Boris asked
“No not really” Frank said
rather surprised at the suggestion.
“Well you need to have a
reason not to be at home so we’ll go and have a beer”
The pub he chose was the
Coach and Horses on the outskirts of Abbottsford and it was not chosen at
random.
The first reason he picked
this particular pub was that its car park was adjacent to the river and was a
handy disposal point for the gun and secondly it was known to be the favourite
watering hole for more than one of Blake’s associates so in the unlikely event
that the gun was discovered the finger of suspicion could reasonably be pointed
in their direction.
Once they arrived at the pub he
parked the car as near to the river as possible.
Boris opened the glove
compartment and removed the gun that he had wrapped in a tea towel and placed
it on his lap.
Then he very carefully wiped
it down thoroughly including the two remaining bullets and the spent cartridge
case.
“Ok Frank let’s get that beer”
They both got out of the car
and Boris lead frank towards the river.
“I suppose you used to fish
this river when you were a lad” Boris said for the benefit of any unseen ears.
Frank wondered what the hell
he was talking about then Boris gave him a knowing look.
“Yes, yes” Frank replied finally
cottoning on.
“Yes many times, I’ve caught
many a fish in this river.”
At that moment Boris tossed
the gun into the dark water.
Then they turned towards the
pub.
They stayed in the pub for an
hour or so and barely exchanged a word but once they were back in the car Boris
went over what they would have to do next.
On arriving back at Franks
house they had to make sure there was no evidence of the shooting, but in order
to account for the broken front door they had to make it look like a burglary
had taken place so draws were pulled out a table knocked over, that sort of
thing, and they had to do it quickly because it was supposed to have already
happened.
Once Boris was satisfied it
looked like a burgled house he phoned the station and reported that Frank Owens
house had been burgled and his car stolen.
Then he had to go outside and
break the lock on the garage doors to make it look like that had been broken
into as well.
It was just as Boris sat down
on the armchair to make a call to the police that he noticed the bullet hole in
the wall again.
He stood up scratching his
head wondering how to cover it.
“We could move that cabinet”
He suggested pointing at a tall unit at the other end of the room.
“Or the hat stand from the
hall”
He shook his head and
muttered to himself.
“What about a standard lamp,
do you have a standard lamp?”
He was panicking now.
“Why don’t we just move that
picture so it covers the hole”
Frank suggested.
The story Boris gave the
police was that due to a nagging suspicion that Mr Owen was withholding
information about the murder of Mrs Sage he had decided to visit Mr. Owen.
He had thought that if he
invited him out for a drink in the hope that in convivial surrounding over a
pint he might relax and let something slip, which unfortunately he did not, so
he gave him a lift home.
Staff at the pub were
questioned and confirmed that the Sgt and Mr Owen were indeed at the pub that
night and though there were conflicting
statements as to what time they arrived these were ignored as it was a busy
pub.
On returning to 14 Orchard Lane they
found the hose had been burgled and Mr Owens car stolen.
It was at this point that Mr
Owen admitted have withheld information about the Sage murder and went on to
say he believed he had been targeted
because he had been seen in Sgt Katarski’s company as certain acts of vandalism
and spite had been perpetrated on him in the past to ensure he kept his mouth
shut.
This story was later borne
out by the fact that Blake’s corpse had been found in Mr Owens burnt out stolen
car.
In the following weeks police
took the view that Blake had either had a falling out with one of his own
associates or a rival miscreant who had then killed him.
All the evidence pointed to
Blake having burgled the house his fingerprints had been found on the external
and internal doors of the property and having located the car keys he had stolen
the car which he then drove to a remote location where he later met his end by
a single gunshot the bullet having been found at the scene confirmed this
hypothesis.
Boris only saw Frank on a
handful of occasions after that night the last of which was at the hospice a
few days before he died Frank was very near to the end and had little strength
left but he manage to grasp Boris’s hand firmly and mouth the words “thank you”.
Sgt Katarski never regretted
his actions in not arresting Frank for Blake’s murder it was not done solely
with the intention of getting him off the hook but rather more by allowing him
a dignified end to his life while at the same time dispensing some natural
justice for Mrs Sage.
The bi-product of his actions
was to give the CID the excuse to raid the property of every known associate of
Blake’s with the thinly veiled motive of finding his killer.
They could never find
sufficient evidence to prove them guilty of his murder but it did turn up
enough evidence of wrong doing to lock them up for something else.
While Boris felt his
conscience was clear in relation to helping Frank, the many pats on the back he
received regarding the numerous indirectly related arrests did make him feel a
little uncomfortable.
But he did smile to himself
at the irony of the situation of Blake’s murder being in the same pile of
unsolved cases as that of his victim Brenda Sage.
