Running Stupid: (Mystery Series) (12 page)

Turning, Matthew slowly made his way around to the side of the car, stopping for a breath when he reached the front door.

“That wasn’t very nice, was it?”

Matthew turned to see Darren Whittall climbing to his feet, his face flustered. “
What the fuck
?” Matthew pleaded.

“You can never keep a good man down, right?” Darren said with a light chuckle.

Matthew, standing at the open car door, just laughed.

“You find me amusing?”

“You?” Matthew quizzed. “I find you fucking pathetic.”

“Then, why are you laughing?”

Matthew, whose hands had disappeared into the car, whipped out the rifle once cradled by Darren Whittall. “I guess I just enjoy irony.” He pulled back on the trigger.

The shot echoed through the fields and forests, brushing scared birds from their nests, ushering animals from their habitats and bringing a cluster of noise from beaks, mouths, and fluttering wings.

Darren Whittall, a smile no longer on his face, slumped to his knees with short and empty breaths. His hands fiddled around his chest where blood gushed from a large wound. He looked at Matthew Jester; the emptiness and sadism in his eyes had been replaced by fear. His pupils whitened, his eyes rolled back into his skull, and he fell backwards, his body hitting the ground as his soul departed.

Matthew Jester tossed the rifle into the backseat of the Jeep and clambered behind the steering wheel. The keys had been left in the ignition.

Matthew watched the dashboard as his speed trickled past seventy. He relaxed slightly and slumped back in his seat, making sure to check the rear-view mirror -- paranoid that the man he had just killed, or his psychotic brother, would be chasing after him.

After manoeuvring around a succession of long country roads, he found his way onto a residential road. He eased his foot off the accelerator, brought the speed to a cruising thirty, and flicked on the radio, glancing out of the side windows as lights popped on inside the houses and people woke up to a day that Matthew had already had enough of.

He slowed the car even more when he heard his name on the radio. He raised the volume and tuned his ears into the broadcast.

“…
Hours after winning the most illustrious court case in history. Matthew Jester is wanted for the murder of soul sensation Jennifer Wilkinson. After sharing an intense, short-lived relationship, Jester, a man they say is likely to be on the brink of insanity, killed his girlfriend in his seven million pound mansion
–”

“Nine,” Jester corrected the reporter.

“
Matthew Jester was quickly brought to justice soon after the murder. Police officers at the scene claim he reacted poorly to the arrest, assaulting them both physically and verbally. He was placed under heavy restraint, ushered into a police car and sent to the station.
” The reporter paused, clearing his throat. “
The police car was involved in an accident shortly after. Early evidence rules out foul play, although this has not been confirmed and we have been told that police are pursuing all possible angles. The accident claimed the lives of both attending police officers. Matthew Jester fled the scene. The police will issue a full statement later this afternoon. We will have more on this story as we get it; stay tuned for
--” Matthew reached over and turned the volume down.

He cursed under his breath and smacked the steering wheel in anger.

The radio station broke into an advertisement. After hearing about car repair, life insurance, and shaving gel, Matthew turned the volume back up. They had opened up a debate about him. Three people offered their views, opinions, and arguments.

“
This morning we’ll be discussing Matthew Jester.
” Pleasantries were exchanged between the host and his two guests. He introduced them to his listeners, welcoming both of them and inviting them to talk.

“
I think he’s an idiot, or completely psychotic
,” one of them offered. “
How can he kill someone on the day he wins a hundred million? It baffles me
.”

“
What if he didn’t kill her?
” the other guest offered.

“
Everything points to murder
,” the host interjected. “
Nothing is conclusive, but the police will issue a statement later on this afternoon
–”

“–
To confirm his guilt
,” the first man said, finishing the sentence. “
He’s guilty, there’s no doubt about that. You don’t flee the scene of an accident if you’re innocent, especially when two coppers are lying dead in front of you
.”

“
What if he was scared
?” the second man offered. “
Maybe he fled because he was scared. A situation like that would scare anybody
.”

“
Do you think he’s innocent?
”

“
I’m not saying that
.”

“
So, why are you defending him then
?”

“
I’m not defending him. I just–
”

Jester flicked off the radio. He’d heard enough. He’d heard
more
than enough. He was a wanted man. The world was waking up around him and it would wake to news that Matthew Jester had killed Jennifer Wilkinson before fleeing from the police. In less than two hours, his face would decorate millions of front pages on millions of newspapers on doormats all over the world.

***

Ahmad Fadel touched down in London just as the sun began to heat up his surroundings. From his plush seat on his private jet, he had watched the sunrise, a beautiful thing to watch on the ground, an astonishing thing to watch from the skies.

After landing, he made his way to his English manor house, a recent purchase to add to his property collection.

After getting a bite to eat from the well-paid cook, he took a shower, shaved, washed his face, and then changed into a fresh batch of clothes before making his way downstairs. Past the meditation room, the games room, and the dining room, opposite one of the many offices in the house, was the room he sought. Initially, it had been a second dining room, but Ahmad Fadel had quickly seen to it that the room was converted into a meeting room.

Expensive art hung from the white walls, and light beamed in through a large window and splashed across an oak table which could seat fourteen people. All the spaces were occupied. In each of the seats sat a suited man, eagerly and nervously awaiting the entrance of the billionaire. When he entered, they all stood to attention and waited until he personally shook each of their hands.

After greeting everyone in the room, Ahmad Fadel sat at the head of the table. Dennis Maloney, an American billionaire and Ahmad’s right hand man, walked to his side, whispered a few things in his ear, dropped some files in front of him, and then strolled to the back of the room where he stood against the back wall.

Ahmad Fadel cleared his throat. “He’s still alive,” he said clearly. “And free.”

His words prompted the cheering of everyone in the room but one. Michael Hikel, the second richest man in Germany, slumped back in his seat. “Damn,” he said.

Opposite him, Danny Walldoot, a billionaire sports entrepreneur and football chairman, laughed. “I told you he’d make it past the first day,” he declared happily.

“How?” the German wanted to know, and he turned to Ahmad Fadel. “How did he make it?”

“As planned, he was arrested,” Ahmad Fadel said sternly. “Not as planned, he escaped.”

“But we
did
plan on him escaping,” Russian Billionaire Petya Demidov declared. “That is the reason we did this, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Fadel said. “But he didn’t escape in the way we thought …” Fadel paused, “...
planned
he would,” he corrected.

“I heard it on the radio this morning,” Amir Naser, oil tycoon and friend of Ahmad Fadel, said. “The car crashed, killing the two police officers.”

His words brought a wave of expressed astonishment from the other businessmen.

“Where is he now?” someone at the other end of the table shouted. Fadel looked to see Matthew Riverbank, the CEO of a large news organisation, peeping at him through thick-rimmed spectacles.

“He’s safe, don’t worry,” Fadel said surely. “We’re keeping him monitored.”

“He hasn’t gone to the police, then?” Petya Demidov quizzed.

“He’s too scared to go to the police, and he knows they’ll just arrest him,” someone offered.

“I hope he gives himself in,” someone else said placidly from the back of the room.

Everyone at the table laughed. “Yeah,” Demidov said merrily. “That’s because you bet on him not making it past three days.”

The words prompted more laughter.

Demidov turned his attention to Dennis Maloney and Ahmad Fadel, his eyes flickering between the two powerful men. “Do you think he’ll make it to the end?” he quizzed. The room fell silent, all ears tuned in, eagerly waiting for the answer.

Maloney stepped forward after receiving a nod from Fadel. “There is a strong chance he will,” he said plainly, his words directed at everyone in the room. “The wheels have been set in motion, the obstacles placed, and now we just need him to run through them.”

“Are you sure you can pull this off?” Riverbank asked.

“He can,” Fadel said abruptly, not allowing time for Maloney to speak. He turned to smile at the American before returning his grin to the table. “I trust him,” Fadel said, his words final.

Everyone at the table nodded.

“In that case,” Hikel said calmly, “I think I’ll put some more bets on.”

Fadel nodded and slid the German a pen and a sheet of paper. His bets were written down, the paper was shown to Dennis Maloney, its contents encrypted and written onto a tablet computer produced from inside the American’s coat. The paper was then fed through a crosscut shredder.

“This kid is costing me a lot of money,” Hikel said placidly. “He better hurry up and die. My wife wants a new house.” He smiled and everyone around the table laughed.

Matthew Jester pulled the stolen Jeep to a stop in a gravelled parking lot; ahead, past the green grass and the sand dunes, the sea calmly stroked the beach. He removed his seatbelt, turned off the engine, and paused, admiring the view. Ahead, amongst the sand dunes and the thick, uncut grass, was a small hideaway he’d often visited as a penniless teenager. It was warm, safe, and serene. Back then it had been his home, somewhere to sleep. Now it was his solitude; a place where he could hide away from the rest of the world.

He studied his reflection in the rear-view mirror and sighed, congealed blood hanging from his nose like crimson snot forming a crust around the rim of the appendage. Dried blood also marked his chin, cheeks, and forehead.

He rummaged around in the glove compartment and found a rag, torn from an old bath-towel. It now served as a window wiper, to clear the frosty, smeared windows on the cold winter mornings.

He moistened the towel with his saliva and began to clean away the congealed blood, wincing when the towel swiped across an open wound on his cheek. He studied his appearance one last time before returning the towel to the glove compartment.

Stepping out of the car, he embraced the cool air with his head held low, not wanting to be recognised by any passers-by. Behind the parked Jeep, past the car park and on the other side of the road, was a line of shops: a newsagent’s, a pharmacy, a mini-market, a post office, and a pub. Leaving the vehicle – which he hadn’t bothered to lock – Jester headed towards the row of shops, making a beeline for the pharmacy.

When he entered, he immediately ducked into one of the aisles. He quickly scanned the shelves: shampoo, conditioner, deodorant, body spray, shower gel. At the end of the aisle, he kept his head turned, arching his neck awkwardly, keeping out of view from the shop keeper.

He walked back down the same aisle, made a left turn at the end, and strode up the second aisle. He found what he wanted on the third shelf near the end. Paracetamol, ibuprofen, and paracetamol. He scanned the aisle, his eyes flickering across the many different boxes and labels. “It’s the same shit relabelled,” he cursed under his breath, stepping further across the aisle.

Near the end of the aisle, he paused to check the shelves and found boxes of codeine phosphate and paracetamol. He picked up the box, paused to check the label, tossed it to his other hand, and continued to search. He found a mix of codeine phosphate and ibuprofen, and one of dihydrocodiene and acetaminophen, then headed for the counter.

He tried to keep his head low as he dropped the boxes onto the counter and reached for his wallet.

“Headache?” the man behind the counter said. Luckily for Matthew, he had a look of complete disinterest, total job dissatisfaction spread over his greasy face.

“Yeah,” Matthew mumbled. He picked up a five pound note and passed it to the chemist.

The young man spoke in a distant, practised tone as he rang up the boxes of tablets. “Please refrain from taking both these products at once,” he pitched in a dull manner. “As more than one of these contains Paracetamol.” He shot one last look at Matthew as he pushed the boxes his way. “It’s very toxic for the liver,” he added, passing Matthew a handful of small change and his receipt.