Switchback Stories (8 page)

London. Paris. LA. Grant liked the high life, he was always on the go, and he always had a new project up his sleeve.

The heist went like a charm. Scaling the outside wall was no problem. Grant waited until the night patrolman had moved to the next wing of the building before he entered the section where the diamond was kept.

The gel was more effective than he’d realized. He was chilled to the bone. He passed through the infra-red beam with every confidence. He was pleased with himself but he felt weak and light-headed. The cold had numbed his muscles and slowed his movements.

He carefully removed the diamond from beneath the glass case on the dais and placed it in a small black silk bag.

As he turned and retreated he unexpectedly went weak in the knees, a side effect of the numbing cold. He began to topple, righted himself, almost lost his grip on the bag.

Breathe, he told himself. Stay calm.

I can’t let the cold get to me.

Fight it.

He retraced his steps back to the roof, the diamond bag secured around his waist.

He jumped up and down to combat the iciness and the sleepiness.

He needed every ounce of his strength, his resilience, his focus to ensure he rappelled down the outside wall without losing his grip or his balance.

He was most of the way down, ten feet from the ground, when his body seized completely and he dropped like a stone, landing flat on his back on the earth.

If the guards had seen or heard anything…

He shook his arms and his legs to get the circulation back, and pushed himself groggily to his feet.

He scanned the area. There were no signs that he’d been detected.

Move.

He ran, but it was more like a limp, toward the deeper night shadows.

He hadn’t gone much further when a paralysing cramp ripped through his lower calf and he dropped to the ground.

Damn. I can barely move…

And then he heard the alarm, shrieking like a creature of the night, and much sooner than he’d anticipated.

The museum guard was too good at his job. Coming back through on his rounds, he’d obviously noticed the diamond was gone.

Grant rubbed his leg vigorously as he struggled back to his feet.

A figure appeared in front of him, coming out of the darkness.

Lyn.

‘I think we should get a move on,’ she said with a mischievous wink, enjoying the danger. She helped him back to the waiting car.

• • •

Lyn was eagle-eyed, quiet and composed as she drove them back to the apartment.

It was an open plan, split-level residence with exposed timber beams and a skylight. The hot shower was running seconds after they entered the front door.

‘I’m impressed,’ said Grant.

‘With the apartment?’

‘With you. Cool, calm, collected.’

She gave him a mischievous wink. ‘I’ve got a brilliant teacher.’

He laughed.

He stood under the hot spray for what seemed ages, relishing the warmth that permeated his nerve ends and his muscles.

‘Get the coffee boiling,’ he called out to Lyn.

In the bedroom, Lyn placed the diamond on the dresser at the foot of the bed. ‘It’ll be the first thing we see when we wake up,’ she said.

‘A dream come true,’ he replied.

‘What is? Me…or the diamond?’

‘You’re both spectacular.’

She slid between the sheets and into his arms.

Still reeling from the icy shock to his system, he hadn’t been thinking about romance this evening. But the brush of Lyn’s lips on his, and the touch of her smooth, naked skin against his body brought all his senses racing back.

Lyn woke him the following morning, ‘Wake up, sleepy head. Your diamond awaits you.’

He mumbled something incoherent and turned over.

‘Come on.’ Lyn placed her arms around his shoulders and gave him a gentle shake. ‘You said you wanted to be up and away from here first thing. You promised me Barcelona.’

Grant rubbed his eyes, then lifted his head and looked at the diamond. The glare was dazzling. A thousand points of brilliance danced laser-like before him. His vision descended into mottled shades of red and black.

He was blinded.

‘Damn! I can’t see!’

‘Well now, that’s a problem,’ said Lyn.

‘Where the hell did all that light come from?’ There was panic in his voice.

‘The skylight, darling. There’s nothing quite like sunlight streaming down, is there? I had the diamond positioned directly underneath it. Just as well I kept those museum sunglasses with me.’

He hadn’t paid much attention to the skylight the evening before. It had amused him watching Lyn set the diamond up on a small table at the foot of the bed so it could be the first thing he saw when he woke.

He’d laughed at the way she’d fussed.

‘You did this deliberately?’ he said now.

‘You make it sound so terrible.’ She took the diamond from the table and placed it in her carry bag. ‘You should be proud, you’re the one who’s done such a damn fine job of teaching me everything you know.’

She was dressed and standing by the bedroom door.

‘Now don’t you worry about those eyes, lover. Remember what the museum people said. If you catch a direct glimpse of the diamond when it’s fully illuminated it will temporarily blind you. But the effect wears off eventually.’

She was at the front doorway now. ‘I can’t tell you how relieved I was that the weather people got their forecast right. Clear, hot day. Sunrise at 5.46. The angle of the sun over the apartment just perfect for…well, for
this
.’

Grant was out of the bed, on his feet, trying to feel his way forward in the unfamiliar room.

Her car was ready and sitting right outside. By the time Grant was fully operational again she’d have lost herself in a city of millions of people.

She looked back at him one last time as he staggered out of the bedroom.

‘You know, Grant, I really like this apartment. I think I’ll buy one just like it with my new-found wealth. I just
adore
that skylight. A very nice touch, don’t you think?’

A
twist of fate had given him the chance to commit the perfect murder. He stood alone in the living room with the long, sharp kitchen carving knife held tightly in his grip. His wife, Michelle, lay sleeping in the bedroom.

All he need do was to plunge the cold blade into the gently breathing shape on the bed, then dispose of the body in the backyard’s huge incinerator. The beauty of it was that no-one would ever come looking for the body. No-one would even suspect she’d been murdered.

Fate had delivered another, unexpected reason for her death.

As he had so many times before, Brian Redding had spent the afternoon at Anna Johnson’s apartment.

‘The trouble with murder,’ Anna had said, ‘isn’t so much with the act itself. It’s trying to explain the sudden disappearance of the victim when the cops come snooping.’

It was this matter-of-fact, cold-heartedness, coming from the angelic face with the wide, blue eyes that many men had found so intriguing.

Brian had never contemplated murder before. He was surprised how natural a move it seemed, when suggested by Anna; and by the easy manner in which they discussed a variety of ways for ending Michelle’s life.

It had begun when Brian said; ‘I won’t consider divorce. I’ve spent too many years building up the business to lose half to that lazy, mousy woman.’

‘The big question is – can you handle the cops?’ Anna asked. ‘You’ll be an obvious suspect. And the law has an uncanny way of digging up evidence when they’re searching for a corpse.

‘I don’t know,’ Brian shrugged. ‘I just don’t know.’

Now he didn’t have to worry.

When he arrived home, Michelle greeted him at the door, then pointed to the suitcase in the hall behind her. ‘Dad called. Mum’s taken a turn for the worse with this asthma of hers.

I’m going to fly to New York to spend a little time with her. Just travelling light, with a carry-on bag. You don’t mind, do you, darling?’

‘Of course not,’ Brian said. He was delighted. ‘Are you all right though? You look a little pale.’

‘Just a headache.’

After Michelle had left, Brian made some business calls, then went into the bathroom. He shaved. Then he ran a hot bath and sat in the steaming water for over an hour. His thoughts kept turning to Anna.

I want to be with her all the time.

When he stepped back into the living room, he saw Michelle sprawled on the sofa, watching “Gone With The Wind”.

‘What on earth are you doing back here?’ Brian asked.

‘You won’t believe it,’ Michelle replied. ‘I checked in at the departures counter, got my seat allocation and then the 7.30 flight to New York was delayed for over two hours. I’d developed one of my migraines and I couldn’t have handled waiting around the airport with my head thumping. I decided, since it’s a reasonable taxi run, to head back here, take my pills and do the trip later.’ She attempted a wry comment. ‘One of the benefits of living at East Boston, eh?’

‘Yeah,’ said Brian. A neighborhood of Boston, Massachusetts, East Boston was close to the harbor and an easy drive to the airport. ‘And now you’re watching TV.’

‘Yeah. Well, I was hoping it would help me unwind.’

Brian smiled. ‘Of course. These old historical romances have always helped you relax. Quite odd.’

‘Beats smoking.’ Michelle attempted a smile but the ache in her temples was too strong. ‘It’s not working this time, though. I’ll have to go and lie down. I’ll log on, in the morning, and transfer to another flight.’

She headed for the bedroom.

Brian fixed himself a scotch and dry and sat down in front of the television.

The movie was interrupted by a station news flash. The familiar face of the newsreader appeared on the screen. ‘News just to hand,’ he began, ‘A major disaster at Boston Logan International Airport has claimed the lives of all those on board the delayed 7.30 flight to New York. TPL’s Flight 475 caught fire on take-off and crashed on the main runway …’

The glass slipped from Brian’s hand and he sat, open-mouthed, gazing at the scenes of carnage on the small screen.

The chance to commit the perfect murder dawned on him quickly.

He reached for Michelle’s handbag on the coffee table and checked the contents. The seat allocation docket was there: 27E.

He was the only person in the world who knew for certain that Michelle Redding hadn’t taken her seat on the flight. He could see from the charred remnants of the disaster that an accurate body count could be ruled inconclusive.

Brian looked in on Michelle. She was already asleep. A wisp of red hair trailed her cheekbone, shifting slowly to the rhythm of her breathing. He could try smothering her with a pillow, but there was a chance she’d wake and struggle.

The steely blade of the carving knife was the swiftest, surest way.

• • •

Later, he wrapped the body in large, plastic garbage bags and dragged it across the backyard. The incinerator was a large, old-fashioned structure that had been on the property when they’d bought it.

He remembered Anna’s words from earlier. ‘Never throw a body into the ocean. They get washed up. And don’t bury it. It can be dug up. Burn it. Then scatter the remains out in the country.’

‘You’re a wonderful person,’ he’d said in mock tones. ‘That takes care of the body. But we still have the problem of the police. They’ll turn the place upside down for clues. Her parents would never believe she just upped and left me.’

‘Perhaps we need to invent some plausible story,’ Anna said.

Well, fate had delivered that, Brian thought to himself. The incinerator flames licked at the night sky. He would go inside soon, to clean up the bedroom. He was staring up at the moon when his neighbor, chatty soccer mom Ellie Stanton, poked her head over the old timber fence.

‘Funny time of night to burning off, Brian,’ she said, ‘Lovely night, though.’

‘Yes. Just had an urge to burn off some excess rubbish. Maybe those scenes of Atlanta burning in tonight’s movie gave me the idea.’

His neighbor grinned. ‘Oh, yes. I love “Gone With The Wind”. Must have seen it a dozen times. Michelle invited me in to watch her recording of it just a couple of weeks ago.’

‘Recording?’ queried Brian.

‘That’s right. The one she recorded off the telly last time it was shown. About a year and a half ago I think she said it was.’

The color drained from Brian’s face. ‘Does that recording have a news flash … about a plane crash …?’ His voice wavered.

Ellie nodded. ‘Now that you mention it – yes, terrible business.’ She waved and began to head back inside. ‘I guess that’s the trouble with recording movies direct to the hard drive on these digital things, isn’t it? No tapes, no discs. It’s all in the one unit. I’d never know if I was watching something ‘live’ or something stored on the drive. And you get all the old news reports as well.’

I
t was the second week of the howling winds. Sweeping across the green pastoral landscape of the valley, they had turned the usually moderate Autumn into something darker: a preview of a grim winter.

Three or four days of southerly gusts was not unusual, thought Jillian Ashworth, but this was the ninth day and the winds, which sometimes bayed like a pack of hounds, had become the talk of the town. The headlights of Jillian’s crimson Toyota pierced the darkness of the winding road, illuminating the wind-swept branches of the roadside beechwoods as they danced like ghostly wraiths.

Despite the late hour – it was 12.45am – she had driven rapidly along the dark country roads. Now she turned onto the steep rise of the Bellwood Villa driveway. The tall iron gate, set in the stone fence that surrounded the property, was already open. Just ahead, Jillian saw the police car pull up on the paved courtyard.

She parked and stepped from the Toyota. There were several lights on inside the house but no sign of movement. Alighting from the police car, two officers approached her – a young man, tall, lean, sandy-haired, and a woman with reddish colouring. Senior Constable Don Christie hurriedly introduced himself and Constable Anne Wright. ‘There are no outward signs of disturbance,’ he commented. ‘You stay by your car, Miss Ashworth. Constable Wright and I will investigate the premises.’