One of Us Is Dead

54 Monday 10 October 2022

Paul Anthony, breakfasting out on the terrace of his apartment, was in such a fabulous mood! It wasn’t just the glorious, unexpected, Indian summer weather that was making him feel so sunny, nor the fact that beautiful Shannon was naked in the master bedroom en-suite shower. It was most of all the front-page splash of the local newspaper, the Argus, which had been delivered alongside the other newspapers he also read daily. And the dramatic images of the wrecked Ferrari beneath the big, shouty headline: SUSSEX MILLIONAIRE AND GIRLFRIEND DEAD IN HIGH-SPEED SMASH.

Paul Anthony smiled, took a sip of his Armagnac then blew a smoke ring. Job done. Too bad about the girlfriend but, he pondered, the ex-wife, Kimberley, probably wouldn’t be too upset about that addition when she found out. He stroked Montmorency, lying on the floor beside him. ‘Not bad, eh boy, value for money?’

Even the dog looked impressed, staring at him with those big brown eyes. That was the thing about dogs, Paul Anthony thought. You could go out, kill someone, kill a dozen people, and when you came home, your dog would jump up and down and lick you. They were non-judgemental, unlike cats. A cat would just look at you and know what you’d done.

He slipped Montmorency a piece of leftover toast. The dog wolfed it down and immediately looked at him, imploringly, for another. ‘Basta ya!’ he said. ‘We’ll go for a walk in a bit, you can have your breakfast after that. Where would you like to go? Up to the Dyke? Telscombe? A nice long walk, eh?’

Most days the dog walker, Joe, took him. But Joe was away with his wife, Liz, in their new motorhome. Paul Anthony didn’t mind, he liked walking him and it was good bonding, getting him to practise walking like a guide dog should. He kept a white panel van down in one of the lock-up garages behind this building, for the main purpose of taking Montmorency out.

The van was signwritten Kingsway Electrical. Its licence plate was a clone of the one owned by the real Kingsway Electrical, whose services Paul Anthony had used when he’d first rented this apartment. The boss was a man called Mike Shaw. He’d bought the van off him when he was replacing it with a new one and had never removed the company markings.

One time when Shaw had been working in the apartment, Paul Anthony had slipped the electrician’s driving licence out of his wallet and photographed it and he now had an exact copy. Just in case he should ever get stopped by the police.

But why would he be? He always drove carefully, courteously, and scrupulously within the speed limits. Unlike that tosser, Bryson.

He’d checked his Bitcoin account yesterday, after sending the photographic evidence of Bryson minus head to his client, and the second half of the payment had already been made. Speedy Gonzales! Prompt payers. He liked prompt payers. Not that he got a lot of repeat business — he was more in the one-off game, with clients like Bryson’s wife, Kimberley.

Callously dumped after twenty years — at least that was her account to him — Kimberley Bryson was a satisfied customer, and so she should be. The divorce hadn’t yet been finalized, so legally she was still Dermot Bryson’s wife. And as such, she stood to inherit her late hubby’s entire estate.

Happy days for her, if Bryson’s listing in the top 350 of the Sunday Times Rich List was anything to go by. He raised his glass. ‘Fill your boots, Kimberley!’ Then he gently stroked the back of Montmorency’s head before glancing at his watch: 9.20.

Behind him, through the open patio doors, he heard the sound of the shower still running. Shannon. He smiled. Sex after a killing was always the best, seriously, the best. They’d spent most of yesterday in bed, fuelled by Champagne and a delivery of pizzas at lunchtime and Thai in the evening. She was something else. Perfect for work, and perfect for pleasure.

He drank a little more Armagnac and took another long puff of his cigar. Montmorency sighed. Getting restless.

‘Soon, boy!’ he said and tickled the back of the Labrador’s head again. Then, staring out across the sea, flat as a millpond, at the wind farm on the horizon, he reflected what a great career move death had been.

The only issue, he had learned, was around the laws of perpetuity, which forbade you from leaving money to yourself when you died. But of course, as with all laws, there had been ways to circumvent that, even if it did mean a pact with Fiona. And judicious use of Bitcoins.

Rufus Rorke, missing at sea, had been declared legally dead by a Sussex coroner. So tragic, so sad. Boo hoo.

On the third day he rose again on the dark web — no disrespect intended — as Lee Oswald.

Such a clever name, he prided himself.

Oh, and Paul Anthony. Such a nice and very useful name.

Most of the proper money he had made in his first incarnation was safely buried in the blockchain that was Bitcoin. It didn’t require all the ID crap that banks requested, under the money-laundering regulations. All it required was the code, safely backed-up. Perfect for a dead man!

He’d created Paul Anthony very carefully, bit by bit, with the aid of a few contacts in the right places. Paul Anthony was thirty-eight years old, divorced, who ran a successful international property development company and had an annual income, post-tax, in excess of £250,000 — more than enough to have satisfied the landlords of his current smart abode.

With his usual thoroughness, he’d covered every detail of Paul Anthony’s life, down to his Jersey, Channel Island, passports and driving licence, his Aviva health insurance policy, and his annual generous donations to the range of charities he supported.

And all would have been fine if he hadn’t had contact with that total loser Barnie, who had recognized him.

It hadn’t been clever of Barnie to try to blackmail him.

But then, Barnie had never exactly been the brightest bauble on the Christmas tree.

Although maybe, as Fiona had suggested, he hadn’t been too bright himself attending Barnie’s funeral, either. But he honestly hadn’t expected James Taylor to be there — he didn’t even know James was still in contact with Barnie.

And he’d only wanted to attend for just one reason. To gloat. Were there many pleasures in life greater than that?

Barnie was plain dumb, but James had always been smart. Although of course, Paul Anthony knew, he himself was far smarter than both of them. Always had been.

If you really thought you saw me, James, my boy, I strongly advise you to forget about it — if you know what I’m saying. I know more ways to kill someone and make it look like an accident than you’ve had hot breakfasts.

His thoughts were interrupted by the very pleasant smell of a freshly showered Shannon, wrapped in a towelling robe, a kiss on the back of his neck, and a pair of elegant hands massaging his shoulders, then sliding down inside the collar of his dressing gown and nuzzling his ear. ‘Come back to bed.’

He tilted his head up and kissed her on the lips. Then he said, ‘Explain that to Montmorency. He needs his walk.’

She gave him a sultry look. ‘And I need to feel you again. Inside me.’

He grinned. ‘Why don’t I make you some breakfast, take Montmorency for a walk, then come back and we spend the rest of the day in bed?’

‘Don’t we have work to do? Our new clients who would like their shiny new guns?’

He grinned again. ‘We do have work to do, but it could be done in bed. Isn’t that what laptops are for?’

‘Hmm.’ She was leaning over him and looking at the front page of the newspaper on the table. Abruptly, she pulled away and her mood changed. ‘What the hell?’ She sounded genuinely angry.

‘I’m sorry?’ he queried. ‘What do you mean?’

‘The girlfriend died?’

‘Collateral damage.’

The sudden change in her tone of voice startled him. ‘What the fuck does that mean? Was she involved in his slimeball activities?’

‘By association.’

She pulled up a chair opposite him and sat down. ‘By association? What association?’

‘She must have known he was a slimeball, but she liked the idea of a fancy lifestyle, fast cars, flashy houses, high-end restaurants.’

Shannon was frowning in a way he did not like. ‘Paul, when we first met, I really admired your attitude — philosophy — whatever. You eventually told me you create accidental deaths for people who deserve to die?’

He nodded. ‘Yeah.’

‘Really?’ She leaned close on her elbows. ‘So explain to me — convince me — why, exactly, Tracey Dawson deserved to die?’