I, Crime Writer

  Peter Haroldson had been so looking forward to Jimmy coming. It would be the first time he had him to stay since he and his wife broke up. It was to be a time of reconciliation, well aware how Jimmy had been affected by the break-up. However, any hope that Jimmy would make it easy for him had already evaporated.

  ‘I understand how you feel, son. But let’s try.’

  ‘I don’t wanna try,’ said Jimmy, ‘I hate you.’

  Peter struggled for words that would help, but was aware words would fail him. ‘I’m sorry you feel that way. But maybe you’ll understand.’

  ‘Never! All I know is you dumped mom, and she cries herself to sleep every night.’

  Philippa Simons gunned the engine as she turned the corner. An attractive woman of thirty, her life had been renewed of late. She had been Peter’s secretary, and in the normal line of promotion, she had advanced to his mistress, and now to his new live-in girlfriend. Her immediate thought when she heard Jimmy would be coming to stay was to go and stay with friends for a couple of days. But Peter had been adamant. ‘No. He’s got to understand you’re with me.’

  ‘But Peter,’ she had said, ‘he’ll blame me for breaking his parents up.’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Peter, ‘that is all my fault. Believe me.’

  The house filled her windscreen as she straightened the wheel, and even as she parked, she was convinced it was a bad idea. But regardless, she got out of the car and entered the house.

  ‘I’m home,’ she said as she walked in, with mock joviality. She found Peter and Jimmy in the kitchen, Jimmy eating beans on toast, Peter watching. ‘Hello,’ she said, ‘nice to see you again, Jimmy.’

  Jimmy filled his mouth with beans. Looked up. Threatened a mock puke.

  ‘That wasn’t very nice,’ said Peter.

  Jimmy chewed momentarily. Said: ‘Neither is she.’

  ‘But you’ve got to try to get on with people.’

  ‘Mom says she ain’t people. She’s a tart.’

  Philippa felt like slapping the little runt. But instead, said: ‘I’m sure we can get to like each other, Jimmy. Once we get to know each other.’

  Peter immediately realised it was a wrong move. Hence, as Jimmy finished his beans, he said: ‘How about going for a drive. You can see where we live now.’

  As Peter stood up and walked out, Jimmy hunched his shoulders nonchalantly and followed.

  ‘Things move on, you see, Jimmy.’ Peter drove along the road, determined to get through to his son.

  ‘But I didn’t want things to move on,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘I know, son, but we don’t always get what we want.’

  ‘Mom sure didn’t.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘But your tart did.’

  ‘That’s not fair, Jimmy. It’s not as clear cut as that.’

  ‘It seems so to me. Mom says it’s your fault, anyway, ‘cos you couldn’t keep your thingy zipped up.’

  Peter flushed. What was that bitch playing at, telling the lad things like that.

  ‘I’m sorry you feel that way, but nothing’s gonna change now.’

  ‘But dad, you said things move on. So she can’t stay for long.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  A thought came into Jimmy’s head. ‘But dad, things can change really quickly.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  At which point, Jimmy’s hand shot in front of his father, grabbed the wheel, and gave it a mighty tug.

  Philippa Simons was driving alone for the second time that day. However, this time she drove with more urgency. The phone call had come ten minutes ago and already she was nearing the hospital.

  Finally arrived, she rushed through the door and found herself face to face with a blooded, but otherwise unhurt Peter and Jimmy Haroldson.

  ‘What the hell happened?’ she said, shocked.

  Peter took a sly look at Jimmy and said: ‘I don’t know. As I told the police, I just lost control.’

  At least, thought Jimmy, he’s no grass.

  Philippa looked down at the boy. ‘So you still hate your father now? You know, after saving your life before the car exploded?’

  Jimmy Haroldson smarted as she repeated the events the police had told her about. And before his very eyes came a vision of the car on fire, his leg stuck and unable to move, and his father … damn him.

  ‘It was nothing,’ said Peter for him. ‘Let’s get home and try to be a family again.’

  It was a difficult night for Jimmy. He wasn’t stupid, and regardless how he felt for his father, he had to admit he liked his life and didn’t really want to be dead. Hence, it was with mixed emotions that by nightfall the three of them were finally talking civilly. At one point, even a laugh erupted from his mouth.

  Finally, Peter Haroldson looked at the time and said: ‘I think it’s time for bed.’

  Begrudgingly, Jimmy agreed, and as he walked out the door, he managed a reasonably cheery ‘goodnight dad,’ although his referral to Auntie Philippa still had the consistency of a rasp.

  Finally in bed, he began to reappraise his life. Maybe, he thought, things might not be so bad. Okay, mom was still very upset, but he could help her with that. And he had to admit, a little love still existed for his father under all that hate.

  Finally resolved to make a go of it, Jimmy Haroldson decided to let his dad know right then how he felt. Getting out of bed, he walked down the landing and was about to go into his father’s bedroom when he heard the noise.

  Just what went on in his head at that moment, he was unsure. Maybe he never realised what living with Philippa would entail. Maybe he thought they were just friends. But as the noise of love-making filtered to his ears, he knew he could stand it no more.

  Peter Haroldson was in the hospital for the second time in twenty four hours. And also, for the second time, he found himself lying to the police.

  ‘No officer,’ he said, ‘I didn’t see his face. All I saw was the knife. And after that, everything went blank.’

  Jimmy could only agree. And as he had said: ‘I think I do love you, dad. And maybe the two of us could still be a family.’

  HOW LOUD THEY ARE

  The voices are getting increasingly loud.

  I don’t like them. They chatter incessantly. They tell me things I don’t want to know. About myself. About others. And I don’t want to hear it. I don’t!

  They won’t stop. Once they start, they build and build to a cacophony of noise. They take many forms, the voices – but they speak with a single cause. They single out a single cause, a single task, a single journey I must make – and my conscience begins to run.

  I like it when they go. It is peacefulness. I can live with that peacefulness, that tranquility, even though I know the voices will come again.

  They are reaching their crescendo now, urging me on, and the last hope of fighting them vanishes, and I wonder where the knife came from.

  Outside, I walk, without direction, but purposefully, and I spy a woman …

  Afterwards I go home for tea.

  And tranquility.

  CASS NOVA AND A SHAKE OF THE DICE

  The case had gone well and to celebrate DC Sandy Powell and I decided to go to the pub for a drink. Seated, Sandy said: ‘I don’t know how you got that confession, Cass, but whatever you did, it worked.’

  I gulped my beer, seeking refreshment. ‘It’s like one of my early cases,’ I said, ‘when I was a menial DC like you.’

  Sandy knew I didn’t mean it. ‘Go on,’ she said.

  I sat back. ‘There’d been a robbery. Not a big one, and the robber was obviously an amateur. I thought, this is going to be easy to crack. After all, we had a description of the guy and plenty of forensics. And it didn’t take me long to track him down. ‘He was a young man, seventeen. When I turned up at his house, I was met by a very pleasant woman – obviously his mother. Walking into the house, I realized they were practicing Christians. There was even a Bible in the living room.

 
‘Of course, it was obvious the lad had rebelled. It often happens when too much religion is placed on a young mind. Anyway, I explained what had happened, and she denied it. Still, I demanded to see the boy. But what I didn’t expect was his identical twin to come down when called, too.

  ‘So, suddenly it was a little bit more difficult. The evidence could have been for either, so how was I to get the right one?

  ‘The mother was no help – they rarely are when sons are involved, even though her shiftiness made it obvious she knew and was covering up. Then I noticed two things – the Bible, and on the sideboard, some dice. “Well I don’t care which one I fit up for it,” I said.

  ‘The mother was suitably appalled, thinking me a bent copper. I picked up the dice – began to shake them. “I’ll tell you what,” I said, “an even number I’ll have him, odds, that one will do.”

  ‘As I gave them another shake, her sense of justice got the better of her, and she shopped the son responsible.’

  Sandy smiled. ‘The wisdom of Solomon.’

  ‘Got it in one. Now, I think it’s your round.’

  ‘No it isn’t. I bought these,’ said Sandy.

  ‘Okay,’ I said. I took out some dice. ‘Let fate decide. Evens, I win; odds, you lose …’

  BOILING MAD CHEF

  Chef was not happy, and to be fair, you could hardly blame him. The hotel manager had called the police, and when they arrived, he had put it thus:

  ‘This is the fourth kitchen porter we’ve lost since he’s been here. But according to this one, he threatened to cut him up and boil him.’

  The police were, of course, sceptical. After all, chefs will be chefs, and they weren’t exactly known for placid behaviour. But when it was discovered that the other three had disappeared without trace, the case took on a new urgency.

  ‘You cannot be serious’ Chef had said as he stirred the big, bubbling vat. But indeed they were. And as they emptied the contents of the vat and took it away for analysis, the manager commented further on the complaints of chewy meat of late.

  Chef was, of course, cleared. No human remains were found, and the police and the manager felt suitably stupid.

  And so they should, thought Chef as he picked up the phone. ‘Yes, that’s right,’ he said to the suppliers, ‘a new deep fat fryer. Large.’

  THE DETECTIVE’S CLUB

  The great detectives entered the club room separately. First came Poe’s great Dupin, followed by the genius that was Sherlock Holmes, and once the small, bespectacled priest had arrived, the others bid Father Brown welcome.

  Depositing their assorted sticks, umbrella and other devices by the hat stand, they sat and waited for the maid to provide drinks. As to why they were there, they had no idea at that point. But once the maid had opened the door to the ante-room, and dropped her tray as she issued a scream, they knew their purpose was clear.

  They stood around the body on the floor – noticed the blood from the deep head wound. Each one took in the whole scene, went through various scenarios in their head, and as they questioned the hysterical maid, only one possible answer came to mind. After all, there was no one else in the building.

  They looked at each other suspiciously, hardly daring to think such a thing were possible. But in the end, Holmes could take it no more. ‘It is clear,’ he began, ‘that the culprit is none other than … (all three looked above them as he continued) … Anthony North. He wrote him out!!!’

  A LIFE OF CRIME

  Crime is what I’m involved with – it’s as simple as that. This last twenty years it has been my life. But how did I get into it?

  Well, in my early adulthood I was at a loose end, not sure what I wanted to do. Everything seemed a gamble, and when ever I tried something new, it turned out only to be temporary. Maybe I was destined to be a drifter, but there wasn’t much purpose in that.

  Eventually I met Cat Man Craig, or Cat for short. He was, well, a burglar, and damn good at it, too. No matter how secure a householder thought his house was, Cat knew they’d omitted something, and he always found it.

  So, I got to talking with him – spoke about the ‘buzz’ that I wanted in my life – and he agreed to take me on the job he was planning.

  I must admit, as we gained entry, and searched the darkened rooms, I had the buzz. And as we finished the job and Cat went home, I knew, from that moment on, this was the life for me. Sadly, though, as I took the police straight to his stash, it was the end for Cat.

  I enrolled the next day – made detective in no time at all …

  Yep, crime is what I’m involved with – it’s as simple as that.

  CASS NOVA AND THE SHADOW SEASON

  It was one hell of a night – draining. Terrifying!

  The serial killer had hit several times now, and every time it was to a set pattern. They’re considerate like that – usually. It becomes like a ritual. And we can read their pattern. And we’d done so with this one. And we made a pretty good prediction of when he would next strike. He had a season for killing.

  He seemed to strike when everyone else was enjoying themselves the most – seasonal times, as if fun must always have a dark shadow. So we staked out the town that night – covered everything.

  As a detective inspector, I was one of the controllers. I sat in the mobile headquarters, banks of equipment around me, constant static chatter as nothing suspicious was reported.

  They say it is frustration that drives such people to kill. Their lot is pathetic – and certainly many serial killers seem to be loners. But there’s more to it than that. These killers have economic seasons, too. They are more likely to hit during periods of affluence, as if people have more to worry about than simple survival. And it is here they have time to fester – to say my life is NOT fair.

  If only they could get over themselves.

  The joy of laughter filtering in from outside was surreal – so much fun, so much enjoyment, so much naivety. Yet among them was a monster. He’d look no different to you. Indeed, he may be building up for more ‘enjoyment’ than you could ever realize – and as the night wore on, that sense of pervasive evil increased.

  Every communication came with a heightened tension. As the laughter subsided outside, a static of expectation seemed to fill the air itself. In the silence of the early hours, there was more than darkness. The shadow seemed to veil everything decent in the world, producing a chill that stuck to you like glue.

  Several times I went outside to stretch my legs and felt it. Tangible. Omnipotent. My eyes strained to try to sense it, to capture it, to have some precognitive knowledge of its intent.

  The hours – minutes – seconds! – dragged on, and we felt that any time now the report would come. A shriek, a scream, a plunging blade, a river of blood, a death …

  And we would be too late. Again.

  And then? The dawn. The shadow receding. Decency arising with a hot sun.

  I went outside once more. Sucked in cleanness, light. I went dizzy as the tension seemed to ease. He had not struck this night. The world was well.

  And then I vomited.

  THE APPEARANCE OF THINGS

  A good action movie needed its shadowy villain. The director knew that. And he also knew the best ideas were taken from the every day things he observed.

  His mind’s eye drifted back to that very morning. He was excitable. It was the last day of filming, and it always had an effect on him. Indeed, he was lucky to have got to this stage. Powers high up in the movie business did not want this film made. And okay, there was editing, marketing, and much more yet to do, but he felt good it would be a success.

  But all these thoughts had affected him that morning. And he was becoming increasingly paranoid as he saw the car following him, and later, the shadow.

  He sat there, thinking what to do, ideas flashing through his mind …

  The shadowy figure in the car knew he had a job to do. And as the car he was following pulled up outside the parking lot, he acted quickly but stea
lthily. His target had to be stopped. This he knew. And he was being paid big money to do it.

  The target was walking, now. There were people around, a youngster playing by the road, a couple talking outside the laundry, and as the target walked passed the trellis at the side of the gate, he knew it was time to act …

  The Director saw it all before him. The shadowy figure, the appearance of normality, but knowing this was defective. Intention showed on the man’s face as he walked from behind the trellis, smiled and raised the gun.

  A moment’s silence and then the two shots rang out.

  The director’s eyes bulged. Everyone around him waited, silenced by the scene. Until finally, he said: ‘Cut! Okay, that’s a wrap.’

  The Director felt good as he left the party after the end of filming. He had had the idea for the sudden appearance of the gunman when he saw a shadowy figure behind the trellis by the gate that morning. And as he passed through the gate once more, he had just a second to notice it again before the gunman appeared. And as the gun fired, he liked the irony that he’d just filmed his own death.

  MISTAKEN IDENTITY

  Only now do I think it safe to write about it. Only now have the events lost their immediacy. Yet is it wise to write it all down? As a matter of personal therapy, perhaps, but other than that, my logic seems faulty. But I am driven - driven on and on to do so, to make it clear ...

  I had phoned the police as soon as the shot was fired. 'I'm telling you, someone just came into my house and shot at me,' I said.

  Personally, I couldn't understand it. Okay, I was rich, but not that rich. I had upset a few people on my way to top, but not that aggressively. Overall, I thought I was liked. But obviously I was wrong.

  DI Logan seemed to be at a loss also: 'There's no clue here at all, Mr Dyson,' he said. ‘The best thing we can do is get you safe and see what happens.'

  Some detective he was, I decided. But a quick trip to my country cottage with two armed police guards seemed to make up, temporarily, for his inefficiency. But you can imagine my shock when, two days later, he turned up and said: 'It looks like a case of mistaken identity.'