One of Us Is Dead

51 Saturday 8 October 2022

Paul Anthony was doing one of the things he liked best. Thinking about his girlfriend — and hopefully partner for life — Shannon.

He liked her name. He liked that she was everything Fiona was not. Warm, tender, caring, so caring. Too caring?

OK, so she’d had a bit of a wobble over his despatching of Professor Llewellyn, and to be honest that was becoming his one concern about Shannon. Was she too soft? Killing was power, the ultimate power, the ultimate thrill. There was nothing to match the utter euphoria of a successful kill. She’d learn that in time, he would be a good teacher. Ridding the world of vermin. There was no sensation on earth like it.

Which was why he was standing here in the pitch darkness with his night-vision goggles, a few miles north of Brighton. Only the faintest sliver of a new moon up there in that big, wide, dark sky, above this narrow, dark country road, Sparrowhawk Lane. He knew the local police were after him, but he was entirely confident he could still go ahead and kill his target right under their noses. He found the thrill intoxicating.

He reminded himself not to look at that new moon through glass, that was unlucky.

The lane cut through the forest, just half a mile from the entrance to the house — or rather fuck-off mansion — of the man he was here to despatch, whose name was Dermot Bryson, along with his new girlfriend, but that couldn’t be helped. Collateral damage. Shit happened. Anyhow, she was guilty by association, just like most of his collateral damage victims always were. Hang out with the Devil and you take your chances, he figured.

Actually, strike that, he thought. I’m the Devil. But, hey, let’s not get bogged down in semantics.

If everything went to plan — and it always did when Paul Anthony organized it — Dermot and Tracey would be dead in seventeen minutes. The app on his phone was doing the countdown as it sucked in and processed data from the magnetic tracker he’d placed under Dermot Bryson’s bright red, million-pound Ferrari, three nights ago.

On confirmation of Bryson’s death, which Shannon Kendall would send to his client by video via the dark web, another half a million pounds would be added to the first half a million that Bryson’s ex-wife had deposited into his Bitcoin account a month ago. And of that he had no doubt. This was a well-paid job. But not all of them were charged this amount of money. The price he charged related to the complexity of the killing and the wealth of his client. He called it his affordability calculator!

Dermot Bryson’s extremely bitter ex-wife Kimberley would not be defaulting on her payment. Not when he had the recording of her giving him explicit instructions to murder her former husband, and agreeing on the way it would be done, as well as agreeing the payment schedule — half on acceptance of the contract, half on delivery.

Dermot Bryson, a recovering alcoholic, revelled in fast cars. And because he no longer drank he always drove himself when going out on a date.

Earlier tonight, Bryson had whisked Tracey Dawson off to dinner at very fancy Gravetye Manor, fifteen miles away from his house. Paul Anthony, concealed in the woods, reckoned that Bryson had been doing well over 70mph down the fast tree-lined straight in his Ferrari, as he’d passed by him. And from the footage taken by the two surveillance cameras he’d placed up trees along this lane over the preceding two weeks — and had now removed — this was the speed at which Dermot drove regularly along this stretch of road. He only braked slightly for the long curve that led up to, and past, the entrance to his property. A suitably grand entrance, with electric wrought-iron gates between pillars topped by round stone balls and the customary CCTV apparatus that went with it.

It was Paul Anthony’s hope, and plan, that — no doubt charged up by a fine dinner and the high of a great date — Dermot Bryson would be going just as fast on the way back home tonight.

He’d learned everything he needed to know to kill Bryson in the best — and most profitable — way, as the tycoon was already a customer of theirs whom Shannon had supplied with a 3D printed Glock-style handgun.

It amused him that over the past couple of weeks Dermot Bryson had come to consider them as friends and — dare he say it — almost trusted confidants, although they’d never met. One of the important things Bryson had told him was all about his neighbours.

There were just five other houses accessed along Sparrowhawk Lane. The occupants of one were currently abroad on a cruise, which left just four near neighbours for Paul Anthony to be concerned about. All of them were elderly, or at least knocking on a bit, which meant they probably weren’t night owls. That was confirmed by the clips over the past fortnight that had been automatically downloaded to his phone every morning. If any of them did go out, they were home again by 11 p.m.

Most importantly for his plan, none of the others had gone out tonight, so the only vehicle likely to be coming down the lane at this hour would be Dermot’s Ferrari. Of course there was always the possibility of a random police car on patrol but, in a month, none had been along here. To make absolutely sure, he had used a stolen POLICE ROAD CLOSED sign, which he placed strategically at the other end of the lane.

Sixteen minutes to go. The night air was calm and Paul was pleased about that. Yesterday’s torrential rain would not have been good, because Dermot might not have driven so fast. On the other hand, rain would have made the road slippery. Slippery would be good, but Paul didn’t need it to be slippery. Just fast.

Fifteen minutes. His nerves began tingling, but he knew exactly what to do about them. A deep breath for eight through his nose. Then eight back out through his mouth. Repeat three times.

It worked. He was calm again.

Fourteen minutes.

His own transport, tonight a Land Rover Defender, registered under one of his false and untraceable identities, was parked down a woodland track a quarter of a mile walk away. An awkward walk, because he was wearing gum boots two sizes too big, to fool any footprint or forensics analyst — once bitten, twice shy — although they were stuffed with foam to minimize their flopping about on his feet.

Thirteen minutes.

He looked at the tiny red dot on the map app on his phone, and was pleased to see that Dermot Bryson was driving very fast. It showed that the Ferrari was on the A27, the dual carriageway, out of Brighton and just passing the Sussex University campus. His speed was currently 95mph.

Keep it up, big guy! Love it!

Twelve minutes.

Eleven.

Ten.

In the still air he could hear — or perhaps imagined he could hear, very faintly at first — the scream of the Ferrari’s engine.

Nine minutes.

The red dot was moving closer.

The scream was getting louder.

Eight minutes.

Louder and closer still.

Seven minutes.

Now!

Paul Anthony strode quickly over to the ancient, solid chestnut tree that stood to one side of the lane, part-way around the curve, far enough around that you could not see it from the direction from which Dermot was approaching.

Earlier, under the cover of darkness, he had secured an object, four foot tall and six inches in circumference, to the trunk of the tree. He now set to work with it. When he had finished, the countdown was at five minutes.

Please God don’t let anyone else come along now!

It seemed like God was in a good mood — or busy elsewhere. Or whatever.

Four minutes.

Three minutes.

The scream of that engine was getting tantalizingly close.

Then he heard a different scream. A howling wail. Tyres on tarmac. The Ferrari’s speed on his app plunged. 70mph. 50mph. 30mph. 20mph. Zero.

What?

Then he heard the blast of a horn.