One of Us Is Dead

53 Saturday 8 October 2022

Through his night-vision goggles, Paul Anthony watched the pirouetting Ferrari rip through the four-foot-high barrier of reflective aluminium foil he had stretched across the lane, fastened to a tree on each side. It was still travelling at around 60mph, he estimated, as it hit the tall oak tree broadside, just at the rear of the driver’s door.

And disintegrated. Accompanied by a massive boom, like a corrugated-iron warehouse dropped from a great height onto another corrugated-iron warehouse.

Parts flew in all directions, immediately followed by an aftermath of sounds of metal clattering across tarmac, heavy objects crashing into the surrounding undergrowth, then, after several seconds, a metallic ping... ping... ping... ping...

And finally a long hissing sound.

Then silence.

Oh dear, Paul thought. It sounded like the radiator was spewing out hot water. That would be an expensive repair. He really did not want to think what a Ferrari radiator would cost to replace.

Not that this was something that would be preying on Dermot Bryson’s mind just at this moment. The thought made him smile, as he walked towards what was left of the cockpit of the car. Through his goggles he could see the front end had been torn away, the engine section and front wheels were lying upside down a good hundred yards along the road, partially in a ditch.

But he focused his attention for now on Dermot Bryson. The man he had been hired to kill was still buckled into his contoured racing seat in the remains of the cockpit, deployed airbag lying white and limp on his lap. His arms were straight out in front of him on the steering wheel with the round yellow boss and prancing horse motif, looking for all the world as if he was ready to continue with his journey, bar one small detail. There was just a bloody, jagged stump above his shirt collar, where his head should have been.

Paul listened carefully, but all he could hear was the silence of the night. And still the faint hissing. Good. He switched off the app that had plotted Bryson’s journey here and activated the phone’s camera. He photographed Bryson’s headless torso in the car. Then, striding into the woods, found the man’s head in a gorse bush but conveniently looking out with a bemused expression. No mistaking who this was!

He took a sequence of photographs with his night-vision camera. Then he carried on with his examination of the scene. Tracey was on the far side of the lane, lying close to a tree, entangled in her seat belt and part of her seat, with her skull split open and the contents leaking out. Good girl, at least you were wearing your seat belt, he thought, as he took another photograph.

Next he photographed a large amount of twisted black metal around the base of the oak tree the Ferrari had struck. Then, a bit of artistry he was very pleased with, he found the metal gearbox gate, a hallmark Ferrari detail, lying all on its own on a fern. There were seven notches — gates, he knew they were called — and the gear-lever had a shiny round knob. He was tempted to take it, use it as a paperweight, it would make a nice souvenir. But maybe not, he decided.

He spotted a framed, damaged section of glass with a rubber surround, that looked like one of the windows that had been blown out. And finally, a deployed airbag lying in the middle of the road inside some red and black twisted metal wreckage.

He photographed that too. Happy days!

Then, aware he might not have much time if one of the neighbours came to investigate or called the emergency services, he turned to the task of removing the evidence. Beginning with unfastening the ties from around the trees, he went on to pick up the pieces of foil with his hands. Shit — he’d imagined the foil would have just ripped in half, but it hadn’t; it had exploded like a fucking bomb and there were fragments everywhere, some small pieces so tightly embedded in the tree trunk that he couldn’t get them out.

Nevertheless, with the aid of the portable vacuum cleaner he had brought in his rucksack, a bin liner and a powerful torch, he scoured the road for every other fragment he could find. And, last of all, he removed the tracker.

As he worked, he constantly looked around and listened. He had his excuses all prepared, that he was driving along, the Ferrari went tearing past him at a crazy speed and the driver appeared to lose control on this bend. But no one came. His excuse lay in his head, unused. He hadn’t been able to find the Ferrari’s dashcam, which had clearly sheared off its stem, but he was not overly concerned as it wouldn’t show anything out of the ordinary.

It was over an hour before he was satisfied, and felt confident enough to head back to his Land Rover. When he got home, he would have a celebratory whisky and cigar, and then send the photographs to his client, along with the invoice for the fifty-per-cent balance.

Job done!