Dead at First Sight

34 Tuesday 2 October

Johnny Fordwater continued standing, holding the cold muzzle of the revolver against the roof of his mouth, his finger curled securely around the trigger, squeezing it. His hand was shaking. This was not easy. He squeezed a little more. His gaze lingered on the container ship on the horizon, then on the paddleboarder gracefully gliding across the almost preternaturally calm sea. A seagull swooped down to the promenade and seized something from the pavement in its beak. The last things he would ever see.

Any moment the gun would discharge. Any moment.

This really was not as simple to do as he had thought. Was he holding back from giving that trigger the one final bit of pressure it needed because he was petrified, he wondered? When all the chips were down, was he really a coward at heart? Scared of what lay beyond? Frightened of not doing the job thoroughly enough and waking up in hospital with his eyes and half his face blown away, as had happened to one of the squaddies out in Iraq, suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder? The poor bastard was still alive, in the nearby Blind Veterans’ home.

His hand was shaking, tiring. He couldn’t hold the gun up there much longer.

Get on with it, do it, be a man.

He closed his eyes, tried to think of Elaine’s face, to take her memory with him, but the image wouldn’t come. His brain refused to print it out for him. Just a blank.

Too bad. He jerked his finger hard, decisively, straight back against the guard. THONK.

A sharp, metallic sound. Silence.

Somewhere below him a car horn hooted in anger. He opened his eyes. The paddleboarder was still there, moving serenely. The container ship was still out on the horizon. He was still alive.

Or was he imagining it?

He lowered the gun and stared in disbelief at it.

He felt the paddleboarder laughing at him. The ship’s crew mocking him.

The whole world enjoying his embarrassment.

Johnny Fordwater’s so useless he can’t even kill himself!

He spun the cylinder, but it barely moved. ‘Useless as a chocolate teapot,’ he muttered. He hadn’t oiled the damned thing in years, he realized, maybe that was the problem.

He laid it down on the table behind him and went through into the utility room behind the kitchen to see what he had. There on a shelf above him, nestling between the Mr Muscle and a canister of Brasso, was a small can of 3-in-One Oil. As he reached up, his phone rang.

Ignore it.

It rang several times then stopped.

He returned to the living room with the oil and a rag and began lubricating his weapon until the cylinder spun freely.

The phone rang again. He looked at the display:

International. In a sudden moment of black humour he was reminded of an old favourite film of Elaine’s, with Peter Sellers and Peter O’Toole — and the actress Ursula Andress. What’s New Pussycat? There was a scene beneath a bridge across the Seine in Paris, when one of them had said to the other — he couldn’t remember which — ‘How can I eat my dinner while you are trying to commit suicide here?’

He picked up the phone and answered with a quiet, ‘Hello?’

A man with a foreign accent he couldn’t place, possibly German, said, ‘Major Fordwater?’

‘Speaking.’

‘I am Mr Jules de Copeland, I am Ingrid’s brother.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Ingrid — Ingrid Ostermann — I am her brother, you see.’

Johnny wasn’t sure what he was seeing — or rather, hearing. The man’s accent was strange, now sounding more African — Nigerian, perhaps — than German.

‘Jules?’

‘Yes, Jules.’ He gave a strange little laugh, all good-natured.

‘Nice to speak to you, Jules.’

‘Well, yes, you see I have some news about Ingrid. She should have come to England — she was looking forward so much, she was so excited for her new life with you! But very misfortunately, her taxi on the way from Munich to the airport was in a bad accident on the highway. The driver was killed. She was in a coma, you see. It has taken me a while to track you down and tell you this very bad news, sir.’

‘I see. She is still in a coma?’

‘Yes, but they say she will wake soon. We are praying for her. But there is another problem — she has no medical insurance. The hospital needs to transfer her to a private clinic to continue her recovery, but without funds they will not accept her. I am thinking you would want to help her.’

‘There’s no one else in the family who could help her financially, Jules?’

‘No, unfortunately, there is just me.’

‘So none of the money I sent over previously for you is left?’

There was a moment of hesitation, then the man laughed again. ‘No, there’s not unfortunately, no.’

‘And how are the boys doing at school? You did use that money I sent to pay their fees, I trust?’

A brief hesitation then he replied, ‘Oh yes, indeed.’

‘I’m glad to hear it.’

‘So perhaps, Mr Fordwater, you could arrange a bank transfer of £30,000 to cover the initial medical bills?’

‘Thirty thousand — will that be enough?’

‘Well, perhaps not really, sir. Maybe £50,000 might be better.’

‘Fifty thousand, yes?’

‘Yes, I will give you new account details.’

Inside, Johnny was bristling, but he kept his calm. ‘That’s very good of you. I have just a few problems, Jules.’ He deliberately fell silent, waiting for a reaction.

After several seconds the man prompted him. ‘Problems?’

‘Well yes, you see, firstly you say you are Ingrid’s brother. But her brother’s name is Rudy, not Jules. Secondly, in Germany they don’t have highways, they have autobahns. And thirdly, I believe Ingrid Ostermann, whoever she is, has been suckering money out of umpteen other mugs like me. I suggest you try your luck elsewhere. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m right in the middle of something important.’ He ended the call with a grim satisfaction, then looked back at the gun. The phone rang. Again, International showed on the display.

He nearly didn’t answer it.