Breaking Point (9 page)

The first address was in a nice neighbourhood and the street view confirmed a five-bed detached property with lakeside views from the rear. I doubted the owner of the company had that kind of equity, let alone our Bad Boy. The second was plausible, irritatingly – a set of flats in a much less salubrious part of town. Lots of neighbours, high unemployment so lots of people home. The culture of passive resistance to law enforcement amongst such under-classes was unlikely to extend to the murder of one of their own by a stranger. My heart sinking, I tried the third address and switched to street view. Immediately, I felt my stomach contract with excitement. Parked in front of a grubby looking two-up, two-down – end-terrace, yet – was a flatbed truck with the company decal on the side. The words were not clear, but the colours and style were unmistakable.

It was him.

After a few more minutes of virtual reconnaissance, I cleared my browser history, and returned to the office.

The afternoon's work passed in a blur. Having informed my wife I would be late home ("Oh my dear, they really don’t deserve you!") and, setting my office phone to auto-forward calls from home to my mobile but refuse all others, I left work promptly at five (snagging some elastic bands from my desk on the way out), and paid a visit to the town shopping centre. There, I paid cash for thick dark gloves, a black waterproof jacket and trouser covers, and a black woollen hat (the too-tall kind that are or were the fashion) a pair of thick kitchen scissors, and finally some black refuse sacks. Having thrown away the receipts, I stored the items in their carrier bags in the boot of my car. I then drove out, headlights cutting through the autumn night, to the industrial estate.

8

My plan had simply been more reconnaissance, at first. I drove by the industrial park slowly, evaluating the parking area. I saw two things that were very encouraging. The first was that there were no CCTV cameras covering the parking area itself, though I noted cameras above the entrances of each business. This should mean no record of my vehicle. Even better, the back corner was not even lit – the streetlights either broken or powered down. Either way, it seemed to auger well for my enterprise.

I pulled in.

I parked up in the darkened area, the nose of my car facing the trees. My headlights showed the tree line would be easily passable on foot and I even caught a glimpse of a garage door through the foliage, suggesting that I’d successfully located the spot on Google Earth that seemed to indicate a cut-through from the car park. I checked my watch – six p.m. – and killed the engine and lights. I glanced around the lot, looking at the placement of the other vehicles. There were some, but all at the far end, under the lights and near to the business entrances. I had space and relative privacy.

My initial plan, to get the lay of the land as regards the parking, then return home, was already compromised by my decision to pull in, and it occurred to me that it might be better to strike immediately, tonight, and finish the matter. I considered it carefully and could not find a serious objection beyond my own nerves. I engaged the boot-release, then climbed out of the car. Looking around as casually as possible, I observed no onlookers as I claimed the carrier bags containing my earlier purchases and my tire iron. Opening the passenger door, I sat in the seat. I emptied two of the carrier bags into the third and then placed one bag over each foot. These I secured around my ankle using elastic bands.  With one final check for observers, I took the remaining bag and tire iron into the tree line.

It was better than I’d dared hope. The area was wooded but passable, with no obvious footpaths. There were also waist-high tangles of brush and bramble that provided excellent cover. Placing myself behind a conveniently placed bush, I swiftly pulled on the trouser covers and jacket. Using the scissors, I cut crude holes for my eyes and mouth into the hat, then pulled it over my face to my chin. I had to trim the eye holes a little so that my peripheral vision was not impaired, but it was a job of seconds. I still felt calm within myself, but I noticed that my heart had begun to beat more heavily as I opened one of the big bags and placed the hat trimmings inside it, along with the remaining bags. I secured the scissors in the waistband of my trousers and the tire iron under the waterproof. A quick glance around confirmed this area had not had recent foot traffic, so I elected to leave the bag in the bush. A risk, but it would look like dumped rubbish and I would be able to swiftly retrieve it on my return journey. Investigators would find the tracks of my passage, almost certainly, but the bags should disguise my shoes and the tracks would lead them only as far as the car park.

I pulled on my gloves, checked my watch. Six minutes past six. Time.

9

The trees gave way swiftly to a block of garages, clustered around a dirt lot. I observed the unpaved road that ran along the side of the end house. Bad Boy's house. One of the garages appeared to back directly onto his garden and there was a narrow alley between this garage and the next, which I assumed would lead to his rear garden. Getting there would mean moving across open ground, in full view of the rear of three other premises, but there were lights on in only one, and there the curtains were drawn, so I made my move, swiftly but not hurried. My heart rate and breathing were both elevated as I entered the alley. The fences to my right were high, but to the left, waist-height. Bad Boy obviously didn’t prize privacy in his garden.

Looking over, I saw an unkempt lawn, patchy and muddy, leading to a wooden back door with a large glass panel in it. There was also a window in the wall to the left, and another above, marking the first floor. All were dark.

Again, I looked around and, again, luck was with me – the overlooking windows of his neighbours were either dark or had curtains drawn. Still, it would not do to linger. This part of the plan I had been forced to leave to chance – no way I could figure out how to gain entrance ahead of time. I would simply have to improvise, though I imagined the tire iron might give me some assistance. The window gave way to a kitchen area, shabbiness apparent even in the gloom. Perhaps – hopefully – he was not yet home. It would simplify matters considerably. I stepped over the gate and swiftly covered the ground to the back door. I noted on my approach that there was a pile of bricks up against the wall, standing as high as the fence, and in and around this pile was a large collection of cigarette butts. Bad Boy was a smoker, but he didn’t smoke in the house. Consideration for guests was out of the question, which made the most likely explanation that he rented the property. Not a watertight hypothesis, but serviceable for the moment. Did it matter? Perhaps. At the very least, it meant that there would be an additional set of keys somewhere, if entry tonight proved impossible.

I examined the door and noted that it opened inwards. The blue paint was peeling from the wood and the lock was a relatively simple affair. Better and better:  no tricky double glazing to worry about. Looking through the window, I saw a small, narrow kitchen area with a closed door that led into the rest of the house. As I peered down through the dusty glass, my heart leapt in my chest once, almost painfully. The key was sat in the lock on the inside of the door. I smiled through my mask. How fitting that Bad Boy's complacency regarding home security should be the seed of his destruction! How utterly fitting!

Having pressed my ear to the glass and heard no noise, I decided not to waste any more time. I removed the tire iron from my jacket and drew my arm back to strike. My blood was pounding hard in my ears and, when the upstairs light suddenly flicked on, I was frozen for a second, utterly rigid with adrenaline and shock.
Caught, I’m caught!
My mind screamed, my arm twitched and trembled, and my fingers threatened to drop the iron even as they clenched tight around it.

An eternity passed in the scant seconds I was frozen, during which the unmistakable sound of a shower running came to my ears. Through sheer will, I forced myself to relax and considered this new information. Bad Boy was home and clearly engaged in his ablutions. This was certainly a double-edged sword. On the one hand, the knowledge that my prey was here, close, vulnerable, filled me with excitement, even a kind of panicky joy. So close!

On the other, this made entry more problematic. Would the noise of the shower be sufficient to mask the sound of the breaking glass? Perhaps, but it seemed unlikely. Certainly risky. Was there any other way to gain entry? I couldn’t think of one. Perhaps it would make more sense to withdraw now, come back tomorrow? If his routine was to shower around this time, it was likely to be the first thing he did when he got in – cleanse the sweat of manual labour from his skin before whatever passed for his evening festivities. That created ample opportunity for me: I could leave work at five tomorrow and be in place in plenty of time for his return.

I couldn’t decide. Precious seconds ticked by, during which I stood exposed in his garden, fully visible from the overlooking houses. I was acutely aware of the passing of time as almost a physical thing; aware that each moment was adding to my risk, further endangering my mission. In an act of desperation, I tried the door, meaning to test the strength of the lock, but really just stalling for more time.

The door swung open, silently.

I stood there for a further long, terrible second, frozen in pure shock, unable to credit this turn of events. My suddenly nerveless hand slipped from the door handle and my arm fell to my side as I stared into the open kitchen.

It sounds ridiculous now, but my first thought was to suspect some kind of trap – some security feature, perhaps a dog or an accomplice who was waiting to jump me. Before my mind had fully processed my fortune, my legs took control and propelled me into the kitchen, after which I shut the door behind me, slowly. It closed as silently as it had opened.

Once inside, I observed the open pack of cigarettes on the inside window ledge, lighter lying on top of it, and my brain finally made the connection. Of course, before hitting the shower, Bad Boy had taken a smoke break, and either forgot to lock the door or simply didn’t think to.

Either way, I was suddenly forced to suppress a laugh, clamping my hands over my mouth and almost doubling over. The laughter that wanted to come from my throat was edgy, hysterical, and I resisted succumbing only with the greatest of efforts. By the time the fit had passed, my eyes were streaming with tears. Only when I was sure I could trust myself did I relax my gloved hands from my face and look around the darkened kitchen. It was squalid:  dirty, peeling linoleum floor, washing machine turning yellow with age, filthy sink beneath a window staring out over the garden. A gas stove at the far end with saucepans piled on top of it. Cupboards on the other side at floor level, topped with a dark surface, created a corridor in the narrow room with barely enough room for two people to pass. On top of the crumb-strewn surface lay a toaster, bread bin and sandwich toaster. Mounted on the wall behind it was a magnetic strip, with three sharp cooking knives in a row. I examined these thoughtfully, especially the biggest one: an expensive looking carving knife.

Interesting.

I hefted the tire iron, considering, then placed it on the surface and took down the knife. In the weak, reflected light of the sickly yellow streetlight glow, the blade looked ugly in its sharpness: pus-coated, poisonous.

Perfect.

I smiled again - a tight, painful smile - and waited for the shower to stop running. While I did so, I also examined the door that led into the rest of the house. It was wooden, white, with a small round metal handle at the usual height. Impossible to tell if it was an actual turn handle or one of those push latches. Either way, it opened into the room. I tried the handle. It didn’t turn. Experimentally, I pulled, gradually increasing the tension, until I felt it roll out of the latch and open. The door immediately began to creak and I froze, listening, heart in my mouth. For several pounding heartbeats, I waited for the sound of running water to stop, adrenaline coursing through my veins, eyes wide, lips snarling.

The shower continued to run and I slowly forced my muscles to unlock. They did so with some reluctance, and I felt sure that they wouldn’t completely relax again until I was well gone from this place.

With a slow exhalation, I pushed the door back onto the latch and considered the situation. The story I was looking to tell the investigators was the classic burglary-gone-wrong: “Having gained entry to the victim's premises, he is surprised by the home owner. The assailant grabs the nearest weapon to hand – a kitchen knife – and stabs the victim, before fleeing the scene.” So far, so plausible. But it did mean that I couldn’t move further into the house without arousing some suspicions. Like why did the burglar take a carving knife with him into the rest of the building? No, that wouldn’t do. Keep it simple, get him in here, do the deed, leave.

The only question became, how was I to get him into the kitchen without tipping my hand and warning him? I frowned before recalling the pack of cigarettes, resting on the window ledge, and began to grin. I checked my watch. Ten minutes past six. Plenty of time. Not like my quarry was known for his impulse control, after all. Probably head straight down here after his shower. He’d come right to me.

You know, those things will kill you, Bad Boy
, I thought, as I crouched down behind the counter, and waited.

10