Hot to Kill Page 5

  It looked like there was a bit of a hold-up ahead: a middle-aged woman with a red face looking like she was going to melt, an old man behind her and then several people of various ethnic minorities, or was it majorities now? The UK had become a melting pot of everyone you could ever think of, and the Eastern Europeans had taken over, it seemed. And he resented them because they were cheap labour, and the influx of them teeming in from over the French border hacked him off. Now, the minority was blokes like him, the regular white Englishman, born and bred here with no unpronounceable names. The ‘John Smiths’ of this once great country were buried amongst the Polish, the Indians and the Syrians.

  He took another large mouthful of sausage sandwich, crumbs along with a blob of tomato ketchup falling onto the front of his T-shirt, which stuck out with the size of his gut. He swigged back his Coke and belched again. The queue shifted slowly forward and by the time he’d reached the front, he’d almost finished his sandwich. A blob of tomato ketchup was still evident in the corner of his mouth, looking like someone’s blood as he’d bit them, as if he’d left it as a reminder, something for later. A memento perhaps.

  “Add a car wash, mate. That thing’s dirtier than my neighbour’s wife,” he ordered, with a chuckle to Sanjay, today’s cashier. Sanjay half smiled and pondered whether to say anything about the ketchup but wisely decided against it, processing Gary’s payment quickly and moving on to the next in line. He’d seen men like Gary before and knew not to interfere or even try and be helpful.

  Gary paid and made his way back out into the hot summer heat and his equally hot van, where he took his sweet time punching the code on the carwash keypad and getting in. He glanced at the car behind him. The woman sitting in her vehicle would just have to wait; he was in no rush now he’d got something in his stomach. He put the can to his lips again and, taking a couple of big slurps, checked his rear-view mirror and finally pulled forward, activating the soap from the wash program as he did so. He took the opportunity of the wash cycle to plough through his bag of crisps, start on the remaining can of Coke and open his Mars bar. By the end of the wash he was feeling much better. He must have needed the fuel, and the pain in his stomach wasn’t quite so bad any more. It was a pity about his blood sugar levels.

  He headed out on the Wickham road. Not twenty minutes into his journey, his phone rang; the caller ID showed his bookie’s number. Suspecting Lionel wasn’t ringing to tell him he’d won the jackpot, he didn’t bother picking up. But Gary liked to gamble a bit, and not just with the dogs and horses. As an idea came to him, a smile spread across his red, unshaven, bloated face. He looked at the clock on the dashboard and figured, what the hell – he was already late anyway. He might as well be a bit later still and enjoy himself at the same time. He scrolled through his contacts to find the person he was looking for and clicked call. After four rings, a familiar voice purred, “Hello, Gary. What can I do for you?”

  “A whole lot, Vivien, and that’s why I’m ringing. When can you fit me in, sweetheart?”

  “I’m free now,” she purred again, though she never felt like she was purring with Gary. He was bordering on mean but he paid well. And the boils he had on his legs grossed her out, but when she closed her eyes… She said a silent prayer, glad she wasn’t the one married to the prick.

  “I’m on my way. Put that purple number on. It makes my cock as hard as a piece of wood, and I’m gonna show you a real good time.”

  The phone went dead in Vivien’s ear and her stomach rolled just once, enough to remind her that she’d never liked him and this was definitely going to be the last time with Gary. No more.

  Now he had something to look forward to, and he drove on with a smile on his face, thinking about what he was going to do to Vivien, and the cash in his pocket. But that was about to change: it was a pity he wouldn’t actually get to spend the cash on Vivien, but he really shouldn’t have pissed off Madeline Simpson.

  Chapter Ten

  It was Wednesday, and Madeline’s full day off. No Sally’s café and no Stanley’s office equipment place to get to, and nothing else on at any particular time. The best part of any day off? Nothing in the schedule.

  Madeline was sitting on the patio in one of the wicker chairs. She’d bought them so that she and Gordon could sit and enjoy some of the summer when Gordon got home from work, though he’d only joined her once since she’d bought them last month. Give him chance, she supposed. So there she sat, mug of coffee in one hand and a digestive in the other, perusing the garden and what she would do to it today. Apart from the bloody Great Orange Machine that still loomed in the far corner and which she couldn’t do anything about, the flower beds were desperate for some attention, as were some of the hanging baskets. She made a mental note of what was needed from a trip to town. She had to go into B&Q; Gordon had dropped the Stanley knife down the grid, clumsy oaf, so they needed a new one to replace it, along with a new grid cover so he didn’t drop it in again. She planned on treating herself to morning tea and a scone at the garden centre just out of town. She would get what she needed for the garden from there rather than the big-box store, even though the store would probably be cheaper.

  She drank off the last of her coffee, took the mug back inside and put it in the dishwasher. Walking back through to the hallway, she could see the mail on the floor behind the door. It was as she shuffled through the three letters, disregarding two of them as junk mail, that she noticed a red one from the telephone company. She sighed heavily, looked at the demanding envelope that anyone looking, including the postman, could see was an overdue account, and tossed it onto the hall table. She wasn’t going to get worked up over that blasted bill debacle on her one day off: it would have to wait.

  “You can cut me off for all I care. Who needs a sodding landline these days anyway?” she mumbled, heading for the stairs and the bathroom to clean her coffee breath away before she left.

  Five minutes later she was in the car, windows down and enjoying the breeze blowing through her hair as she headed down Stanstead Lane on her way to B&Q. It wasn’t far into Purley, and she pulled into the car park easily. It was nice and quiet midweek, unlike the weekends when DIYers of all ages and abilities slowly made their way around the aisles looking for what they needed. She picked up a new Stanley knife plus a packet of extra blades for it and went off in search of a new grid cover.

  Making her way to the checkouts, she headed towards the one with the shortest queue but was beaten to the post by an old man and his wife. Madeline seethed quietly: she knew for a fact the old bat had seen her out of the corner of her eye but had chosen to ignore her and pushed in anyway. Her mind starting rolling: Were they in a rush? What were they going to rush home for—a Rich Tea and a cuppa? They looked like they’d been retired for a good twenty years. She exhaled deeply, loudly, so they would know she was pissed. Even though Mr. and Mrs. Retired Couple probably couldn’t hear the huffing and puffing just behind them, it made Madeline feel better.

  The queue shuffled forward slightly as the person being served made their way off and someone else took their place. Madeline glanced over to the confectionery at the till point, scanning the Flakes and Turkish Delights, trying hard to avoid temptation by telling herself they would probably be warm and slightly melted in the heat anyway, and she wouldn’t enjoy them half as much as she thought she would. The queue shuffled forward again. The Retired Couple were next, and they loaded their few items… Ever. So. Slowly… onto the conveyor belt. Almost fit to burst, Madeline let out a “humff,” and this time Mrs. Retired did hear and turned round to glare. It was quite a good glare as glares go, Madeline thought, and felt the woman’s annoyance stick in her chest like a blunt dart.

  I hope she could feel mine directed at her bloody push-in.

  Not to be outdone, Madeline gave her best sarcastic smile back and the woman tutted like she was tutting to a child. That made her smile even more. Madeline – one point; Mrs. Retired Couple – nil points.

  Finally
they were through the checkout and heading outside. Madeline gave a low bird down by her thigh, more for her own enjoyment than for the old couple to see and be offended by. She emptied the three items from her basket quickly and efficiently for the cashier, who had her processed and back out the door quick sharp.

  “Why couldn’t other customers do that at the till instead of making it a bloody day’s job?” she mused as she headed briskly out to the car park.

  As she got closer to her car, she could see how dirty it was looking. It was all the dry dusty weather and the bit of rain they had had. It really needed a clean, and she decided to take it into the car wash before heading back home. She climbed in, turned the air-conditioner on full power and put the B&Q bag on the passenger seat next to her while she waited for the temperature to fall from what felt like a million degrees to something more human and less baking. You could have fried an egg on the dashboard. The noise of the fan on full reminded her of a hairdryer. As the temperature started to drop, she began to feel a little cooler, more refreshed. Pulling out of the car park, she headed out towards Purley Way, where she knew there was a petrol station with a car wash.

  “May as well fill up while I’m here,” she said to herself. “No point coming back at the weekend when it’s busy.” She topped the car up with petrol and headed inside to pay. Opening the glass door, the intense coolness of the shop hit her like a mouth-freshening extra-strong mint, making her nearly gasp out loud it felt so good and invigoratingly tingly on her skin. Could she just hang out here for the day without being done for loitering?

  There were two people in front waiting to pay. She didn’t mind standing there in the cold air—it was doing wonders for her hot and sticky self—but it seemed she’d found herself in yet another slow-moving queue. What the hell was taking so long up the front? The shop door must have opened at least half a dozen times as she stood waiting. Glancing behind her, she could see that quite a queue had formed. The man at the rear of the queue was a big sod, his flabby red arms sticking out of his sleeveless T-shirt, the name of a plumbing company embroidered on it. It was a logo she’d seen before, emblazoned on their vans. He wore a pair of dirty shorts and some old trainers on his feet without socks. His dirty blonde hair was stuck to his face in damp vertical lines like it had been tattooed in place. She turned back to wait patiently but grabbed a chocolate Flake from the display. It would be nice and cold from sitting in the coolness all day.

  Finally it was her turn: she paid for the Flake, the petrol and car wash, and headed back out to the heat and her dirty car. Starting the engine, she drove around the back of the petrol station to the car wash entrance, and then halted abruptly. To her absolute horror, there was the plumber’s vehicle, with no one inside, waiting to go into the car wash ahead of her. And she knew that Big Sod was at the back of the sodding queue inside.

  “Is he trying to piss me off?” Her blood started to boil in her veins and a throb started in her head. She sat there in her car and cursed out loud, slamming the steering wheel with her fists and calling him every derogatory word under the sun she could think of, questioning his size, his heritage and then his birth status. The tirade that forced its way into her head and out through her mouth was worse than anything in the worst of the worst movies. It was appalling, even to her ears. But that didn’t matter, nor did it stop her.

  At last, like an engine sputtering, she ran out of steam. The torrent of foul names trickled to a halt—and then she remembered the brand-new Stanley knife, complete with nice new and super-sharp blade, sitting right on the seat next to her. A spiteful but clever idea thrust itself into her head and she knew just how to avenge this fat, inconsiderate and utterly grubby individual.

  Acting quickly, telling herself he deserved it, she grabbed the knife, opened the blade, then took the Flake gently out of its wrapper, resting it back on top of the B&Q bag, naked, for later. Checking her rear-view mirror one last time, she slipped out of the car, bent quickly at the rear wheel of the vehicle in front of her Audi and stuck the knife blade into the tyre, making a short slash about an inch long and not quite all the way through the rubber. It didn’t need to be big for what she was thinking would eventually happen. It only took a couple of seconds to do the deed, and then she straightened up and carried on towards the front of his vehicle to where the rubbish bin was situated and put the Flake wrapper in the bin. If anyone was watching, CCTV cameras perhaps, they would think she’d stopped to pick up the wrapper then placed it carefully in the bin nearby. Simple. Clever.

  Madeline then got back into her car, wound all the windows down and waited for Big Sod to come out and get his dirty self and dirty van through the car wash before she and her Flake melted fully. She bit into her Flake with satisfaction; sprinkles of fine chocolate dropped into her lap and melted on contact. She wiped up what she could with sticky fingers and tried to suck them clean to avoid chocolate-covered clothes, but failed miserably. You just couldn’t eat a Flake sitting down, but, typical, she had tried to anyway.

  It must have been another couple of minutes before Big Sod approached his van and finally got in, and he didn’t even acknowledge he’d kept her waiting. She turned her engine on in an effort to try and cool down, and after another five full minutes of his chosen van-cleaning program, she finally entered the car wash for her own turn, long overdue. She pressed the code into the keypad, drove to the designated spot inside and waited. At last, coloured foam hit the front window like party snow. Putting her head back on the headrest and turning it slightly, she noticed Big Sod’s van turn left off the forecourt and wondered where he was headed and how long it would take before her plan came to fruition.

  When her chosen and somewhat shorter program had finished, she drove out of the car wash and carried on, towards the garden centre and morning tea with just her own company. She switched the audio player on, and it immediately picked up the last playlist off her phone, a mixture of songs from the ’80s and ’90s. She turned the volume up and listened to Robbie Williams and a bunch of others rocking it. You’re never too old to listen to rock and pop, she thought, no matter how frumpy you feel on occasion. It was a twenty-minute drive out to the garden centre but it didn’t matter on a nice summer’s day with great music playing. It was all part of the pleasure of gardening and time to one’s self on a Wednesday.

  About three miles away from her destination and a cup of tea, she saw the familiar flashing blue and red lights of either the police or an ambulance up ahead. In this case, it was both. The traffic in front was slowing to a crawl and Madeline joined the tail end of it, hoping that they wouldn’t have to stop completely and spoil the trip out. Luck was on her side because whatever had happened up ahead was not actually on the road, but off to the side. As she got closer to the emergency lights, she turned the music down out of respect and could just about see what had happened. She peered over to her right; it looked like a van had overturned and landed squarely in the ditch, totally upside down on its roof. She wondered if the driver had perhaps misjudged the corner and taken it a bit too fast. There didn’t seem to be any other vehicles involved, which was a blessing. Noticing the black tyre marks on the road, she deduced he’d left her side of the road rather than coming from the opposite direction. The van was covered in the detritus it had picked up as it had rolled, and the front end was crunched in like a discarded Coke can. This was a known black spot for accidents, so it wouldn’t have surprised her if speed had been the issue.

  The traffic in front pulled away as a policeman waved them through, and she trailed behind, looking at the wreck, wondering if anyone had been hurt. Then she spotted a familiar logo down the side of the van, covered in dirt where it had rolled but still recognisable to those who had seen it before.

  The van belonged to Big Sod.

  She drove past slowly, looking like a vulture at the upturned wreck. The ambulance crew were wheeling a large man on a stretcher to the waiting ambulance. Her intentions had not been to harm him. She certainly hadn�
��t intended for him to flip his van—it was just supposed to be a slow puncture and an inconvenience in his day for making her wait to get the car washed and to teach him a lesson for being such an ignoramus. But rather than feeling appalled at what had happened, Madeline was smiling like a mad woman, satisfied and immensely pleased at what she had done.

  As she turned up the volume on the audio system, Katrina and the Waves started singing, and she thumped the steering wheel in time to the beat. Even though she was driving along the Wickham road, inside she was walking on sunshine.

  Chapter Eleven

  Gordon was watching footy on the TV and Madeline was surfing on her iPad, pulling The Daisy Chain local page up to see what was going on. It was mid-conversation but obvious enough to follow what had been said. Particularly if you knew what you were reading about – Madeline assumed there wouldn’t have been too many men admitted to hospital with an upset stomach.

  @jaybaby, I know because my mum’s a nurse at the university hospital and she told me, though I agree she probably shouldn’t have.