Running Stupid: (Mystery Series) Page 5

  Jester frowned, tilted his head, and looked at the driver. “When did you go back to calling me sir anyway?”

  “I think we should stick to formalities,” Charles said firmly. “We tried to deviate from them once before … and that got us into quite a bit of bother.”

  “It doesn’t matter anyway,” Jester said with a shrug of his shoulders. “I better get going … I’ve got to phone … someone. I need to get this sorted out.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Matthew clambered out of the vehicle, slammed the door shut, and nodded a goodbye to Charles.

  The Limo had reversed out of the driveway by the time Matthew stuck his key into the lock.

  “What the fuck!” he shouted an angry gesture to himself. His hand, trembling slightly, held the key in the lock, but he couldn’t turn it.

  It took him a moment to realise the door was still unlocked, just like he had left it in the morning. Jennifer was waiting for him after all, he reasoned. He grinned, feeling a little better. He stepped across the threshold and slammed the door shut behind him.

  Passing through the living room, he quickly checked the kitchen, the dining room, and the games room. Jennifer was in none of them. Taking a left out of the kitchen, past the entrance to the living room, he crossed though a clear, glass panelled door and walked into the conservatory. From there, he could see the luscious garden and the beautiful scenery beyond. Jennifer loved to sit and stare at the view. She would spend hours at a time just admiring the landscaped garden and the world beyond.

  His eyes scanned around the fish pond; across the pebbled walkway leading to the rose beds; past the floral archway and the trimmed rows of hedges; past the small marble fountain, thrusting jets of clear blue water into the air. He checked the pine picnic bench, underneath a low hanging elm tree; he scanned the stone blocks near the fish pond, on which she liked to sit as she listened to the fish scuttling through the water.

  She wasn’t in the garden. Or if she was, she was hiding, and hiding well.

  Turning, Jester made his way upstairs. His tired legs made hard work of the entwining staircase. When he finished ascending, he was out of breath, red-faced, and beginning to wish he had installed a lift. He paused to regain his breath when he reached the top, sucking in deep lungfuls of air whilst holding on to the banister.

  When he regained his composure and his breath, he straightened himself and turned towards the bedroom. He noticed an odd smell lingering in the air as he advanced. A distinctive smell, a smell that shouldn’t be in his house. He paused, halting his movement, trying to pinpoint the stench.

  “Nasty,” he said after much deliberation and no conclusion.

  He continued on his journey. He walked into the bedroom and instantly heard the noise of a running shower from the en-suite. He put his ear to the door and heard the distinctive sound of rushing water hitting flesh.

  “Jennifer!” he shouted, tapping lightly on the door.

  The shower continued to run, but she didn’t answer.

  He shouted again, louder this time. His voice was tired.

  Still, his girlfriend didn’t answer him.

  “Fuck it,” Matthew snapped. He opened the door to the en-suite and stormed in.

  He stopped in his tracks just as he reached the shower. The curtain had been drawn, the jets were raining down, and the human silhouette was lying down.

  He quickly skipped forward and yanked the shower curtain open. The smell from within hit him like a fist; what had been an annoying twinge in his nose before now exploded in his senses. He jumped back and retched, suppressing the urge to vomit, but only for a moment.

  When he saw the body of his girlfriend, mangled, twisted, naked and cold – lying, covered in blood, cuts, and bruises – he lost his ability to suppress the purge. He turned his head away from the carnage and unleashed a barrage of vomit onto the bathroom floor. It splattered across the blue tiles, splashing onto Matthew’s feet and on the bathmat.

  “Holy shit,” he spat with globs of saliva dripping from his chin. He staggered over to the bath tub, and lost the ability to walk. His legs turned to jelly and he fell. His right knee collided with the tile and a white-hot pain screeched through his leg, but he was oblivious to it.

  “Holy shit,” he repeated. “Jennifer.” His voice was breaking, tears forming in his eyes. “What the fuck happened …”

  Slowly, he reached out his hand. He turned over her arm; bright red welts wrapped around her wrists like masochistic bracelets. The same marks appeared on her neck. He touched them gently. They were rough, cold. He stroked her on the cheek. Her face was cold as ice.

  He ran his eyes over the other marks, the decisive marks; three deep stab wounds. One through her abdomen – deep and wide – another through her chest, even larger, shattering her ribs and taking a chunk out of her left breast. The final one was in her leg, through the back of her thigh.

  He turned his attention back to her face. He studied her dead, cold eyes. “Who did this to you?” he asked, his voice breaking at every syllable. He stroked her hair; it was frayed and matted with blood. Chunks of the jet black locks had been ripped from her scalp, but the wounds on her head looked older than the ones on her body. He was no expert, but Matthew knew that the wound on her leg was also older than the ones on her chest. It was darker, drier.

  Matthew knew that her killer had toyed with her. The thought of it made him retch again. He cleared his stomach in three waves and continued to dry heave. Nothing but saliva came out of his mouth, but that didn’t stop his stomach from trying.

  When he finished and straightened himself up, he returned to his dead girlfriend. He stroked her wounds and gave her a kiss goodbye.

  He summoned the strength to stand and walked into the bedroom, his head held low. He was making a beeline for the phone. Jennifer was dead, and there was nothing anyone could do now, but the police needed informing. Before he could even pick up the phone, he heard the unmistakeable sounds of police sirens in the distance.

  He dialled nevertheless, giving them the details in a robotic tone before hanging up. The police sirens grew louder and louder, closer and closer, and then Matthew recognised a familiar sound; tyres crunching the gravel on his driveway.

  He looked out the window and saw two police panda cars screeching to a stop in front of his house, kicking up chunks of gravel and firing them at the building.

  ***

  Far away, in sweltering desert heat, a solitary figure lay by a pool that was brimming with luscious blue water. No harsh wind disturbed the surroundings, no rain clattered the ground, no birds sang, no insects chirped. Everything was serene, and peaceful, the way the man resting on the sun-recliner demanded it to be.

  Turning his back to the sun, he exposed his tanned flesh, supple and plentiful; coating at least seventeen stone of fat, muscle, and bone. He wore swimming trunks, tight and black, and when he stood or sat, his belly flopped over them. The backs of his legs, covered in jet back hair, were also getting their fair share of ultra violet rays.

  His skin was coloured with a middle-eastern flavour, naturally tanned. Specks of greasy oil on the surface of his skin reflected spots of sunlight, creating colourful pools of oil on his leathered hide. He moved, the squeaking sound of oiled skin against upholstery slight but unmistakeable in the silent surroundings.

  He reached out a wrinkled arm and took a tall glass from the marbled patio beneath him. He brought the glass to his lips – making sure to carefully part the umbrella – and sucked satisfyingly on a purple swirl-straw.

  “Sir,” someone behind him spoke, his tone formal, his American accent prominent.

  The tanned man, shocked at the sudden voice, turned his head and sat upright. “I told you not to creep up on me like that,” he spat.

  “I am sorry,” the man apologised. “I know you don’t like to be disturbed at this time but ... it’s about the English man.”

  The leather man smiled and took another sip from his cocktail. “I hope eve
rything went to plan.”

  “CNN has broadcasted the news. People are getting very angry; nothing serious of course, but …” he allowed his sentence to trail off.

  The leather man smiled. “And the girl?”

  The man nodded. “She has been taken care of. The plans have been set in motion.”

  Lying back on his recliner, Ahmad Fadel stretched satisfyingly, clasped his hands together behind his head, and then closed his eyes. “So it has begun,” he said, a sly smile on his lips. “Let the games begin.”

  8

  Matthew Jester waited for the police to come to him. He wasn’t sure he had the strength in his jelly-legs to make it downstairs. Four police officers bolted through the front door, practically taking it off its hinges, ran upstairs, and sprinted to the en-suite, following the scent of blood. When they burst in the room, they saw Matthew Jester hunched over the mangled corpse of Jennifer Wilkinson.

  All of them were armed and all of them pointed their semiautomatic pistols at Matthew.

  “Don’t move!” two of them shouted simultaneously.

  “Fair enough,” Matthew muttered.

  Two officers stepped forward; one reached to his belt, pulling out a set of handcuffs. The second officer helped Matthew to his feet and began reading him his rights.

  “Wow, hold on a minute,” Matthew said, freeing himself from the police officer’s grasp. “You’re arresting me?”

  One of the officers looked at the dead body of the soul superstar. “You are under arrest for the murder of Jennifer Wilkinson.”

  “I didn’t fucking kill her!” Matthew shouted.

  One of the officers took a step towards him, but he quickly jumped back, pushing away the advances of the uniformed woman. “I’ve just come home. I didn’t fucking kill her. You can’t just arrest me!”

  “We have witnesses.”

  “What? Who? I’ve been at court all day; I have witnesses, too. Watch the fucking news!”

  The female officer lunged forward, taking hold of Matthew’s wrists. Before he could wrangle out of her grasp, another officer quickly restrained him, wrapping his arms around his back before slipping his hands into a pair of cuffs.

  He struggled to break free, but the four officers restricted every move he made. “I’ll sue you for this!” Matthew bellowed.

  “Us as well?” one of the coppers said, sharing a joke with his colleagues.

  They left the bedroom, descended the stairs, and stood still in the centre of the living room. The officer who had disappeared into the kitchen now reappeared, carrying a large kitchen knife.

  “In the garden,” the policewoman said, holding the knife loosely. “Just like the witness said. Just tossed into the garden.” She brought it to a colleague who was waiting with a zip-lock bag. He dropped the knife in the bag, using the tips of his thumb and forefinger to hold it so he didn’t smudge any prints.

  “What the fuck is that?” Matthew asked.

  “Evidence,” the copper said bluntly. “It’s clean, as well. You fucking bastard,” he spat. “You make me sick, you know that? How can you do such a thing to such an amazing woman, and then have the nerve to stand and wash the murder weapon!”

  “Murder weapon?” Jester was confused. “Look, I didn’t kill–”

  His words were cut short by a hard backhand across his face. He felt his tooth chip and began to taste blood. “I didn’t kill her!” Matthew pleaded, hissing the words and spitting blood.

  “You sick fuck.” The officer who had hit him was now inches from his face, his eyes in intimidation mode. “I should take you out right now, you worthless piece of shit,” he hissed, his breath warm on Matthew’s face. “You make me fucking sick.”

  He pulled his face away and Matthew felt inclined to comment. “I have some Gaviscon in the fridge.” His sarcastic remark was met with a fierce stare. “Or perhaps not,” Matthew said with a sly grin.

  “Take him to the car,” the stern officer shouted. “I’ll radio in some help … someone needs to clean this place up.”

  Matthew waited in the back of one of the police panda cars. His hands tight behind his back, his fingers searching down the back of the upholstery. Two police officers were near, one in the passenger seat, not speaking to Matthew but keeping a close eye on him; the other standing outside the vehicle, her hand resting against the roof.

  “So …” Matthew turned to the silent cop in the front seat. “When are you going to let me go?”

  The officer eyed him suspiciously before answering, “You will be checked into the station soon. Your solicitor can be present if you want–”

  “No, I mean seriously, when are you going to let me go?”

  The officer turned in his chair to face Jester. “I respect the law, Mr. Jester, and I love my job, but let me tell you one thing.” He leaned closer. “I loved Jennifer Wilkinson: she was a true star. I don’t like murderers and sick people like you. If I knew I could get away with it, I’d beat you until you were black and blue. I’d rip your life to shreds bit by bit, and you know what?”

  Jester shook his head.

  “I’d enjoy every minute of it.” The police officer turned back around in his chair. Jester looked at the back of his head in the ensuing silence.

  “Not a fan then, I take it?” he muttered solemnly.

  Moments later, they were on the road. The two female officers had stayed at the crime scene. During the wait, Matthew saw police vans and unmarked vehicles pull up at the house, all of them acquainting themselves with the officers on scene, two of whom were now driving him to the station.

  They had ignored him at first and, besides a brief chatter about the weather, they still ignored him. Jester caught their gazes every now and then, hateful eyes beaming at him in the rear-view mirror.

  They turned onto a long stretch of country road, dotted on either side with a line of trees and a lush, open meadow. As soon as the wheels of the vehicle drifted away from heavy traffic and touched the open road, the driver put his foot down.

  Jester peered out of the side window as the car rocketed along the road. “Do you guys ever get speeding tickets?” he pondered loudly.

  The policeman in the passenger side laughed. The driver – the one who had confronted Jester in his house – spoke: “What are you suggesting?”

  “Nothing,” Matthew was quick to reply.

  The car picked up speed and, after more silence – with only the sound from the police radio breaking it up – Jester pondered aloud again. “When you chase a runaway driver,” he began, “you’re doing about ninety … he’s doing the same.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” the driver snapped.

  “Well, he gets a speeding ticket, and the rest, but what about you? Why don’t you get a speeding ticket?”

  “Because we were the ones chasing him. That’s our job, we uphold the law.”

  “Exactly. That’s a funny thing, isn’t it?”

  “What?” the driver was losing his patience.

  “The law. Like you said, you were upholding the law, so it was okay for you to drive fast. But what if someone stole one of my cars and I hopped in the other car to chase him? You’d nick us both.”

  “We’re the police, you’re not.”

  “So you have the right to break the law?”

  “We’re not breaking the law!”

  “And what’s so bad about a speeding driver anyway? Fair enough, it’s reckless for someone to be racing along a dual-carriage way at one hundred miles an hour, but if you get three police cars to chase him, then surely you’re just adding to the carnage. Goes without saying, doesn’t it? One doing one hundred is hell, four doing one hundred is … well–”

  The driver turned his head sharply. “Will you stop–” his words finished with a grunt of pain.

  The car slammed into a thick tree trunk, propelling the driver backwards and then forwards; the side of his head slammed hard against the steering wheel, bounced, and then lolled over to the window. Hi
s distorted features bled uncontrollably. Blood trickled out from his nostrils, running a river down to his mouth where a broken tooth protruded through his upper lip.

  The passenger suffered a different fate. On impact, he flew through the windscreen, spilling thousands of pieces of shrapnel as the entire sheet shattered. He made solid contact with the tree before bouncing back onto the bonnet where his body lay, mangled and lifeless.

  Matthew remained in his seat. He didn’t normally wear seat belts, but the police officer had forced him into one. Glass shards had found their way onto his lap and blood covered his face and jacket. It was the driver’s blood, blood that still pumped through open wounds on his head, nose, and mouth.