Crossed Lines

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“No, don’t worry, he doesn’t suspect a thing,” my wife Tracy said to the man. “We can meet up this weekend while the old sod is away on business. The boring old fart is so stupid he has absolutely no idea what I get up to.”

I gulped as I held the phone to my ear. I’d phoned my wife, but instead of getting through I’d got a crossed line, and was, apparently, listening in to her conversation with someone else.

“So I’m not your first boyfriend since you married him?” the man asked her.

“Not even my third!” She gave a hoot of laughter. “But the others definitely weren’t as sexy as you.”

“Do you really hate it when your husband comes near you?”

“Yuck, he makes my flesh crawl!” Tracy made a mock vomiting sound. “I was planning to divorce him one day but I reckon I need to stay married a bit longer, so I can be sure of skinning him in the courts for all he’s worth. But I decided I can’t wait around that long. Which is why I’ve decided to have him killed.”

“Shut up, Tracy, for God’s sake—”

“Why not?” My wife laughed again. “When the old bastard dies I get all his money, not just half of it. A neighbour I had in the flats is on the case already as it goes. He’s an ex-soldier, he knows what to do. Of his trolley he is, had a head injury, mad as a box of frogs. My poor old hubby won’t know where and he won’t know when…”

“Are you all right Mr Lassiter?” my secretary had asked me as I sat in dumb astonishment when the call had ended.

“Yes, fine, Sally. I think I’ll just go out for some air.”

“Right you are, sir. I’ll field any important calls.”

Outside on the roof balcony I took a lot of deep breaths, trying to suppress my tears, wondering what to do, thinking of my wife’s ominous words about my forthcoming murder: “He won’t know where and he won’t know when…”

I’m a hedge fund manager. What it means basically is that I invest on the stock exchange on behalf of my company and I’m very good at it, and consequently I’m tremendously rich. At fifty years old I have all the trappings of the good life: a huge stately home in the country, a town house in Chelsea and several lovely cars. I also own a block of flats that I let out to tenants, and a year ago I had met the girl who wanted to rent one of the flats on the top floor, and, after a whirlwind romance, we had got married. Tracy is quite a bit younger than me, but the age difference hadn’t seemed to matter, at least not to me. I had visited her many times at Flat 8A Tennison Court, fallen in love with her and married her six months ago, and she’d moved out of the flat and moved in with me. Tracy was a real ‘party girl’ and when I was with her, she made me feel alive and vibrant. I thought back to those passion-filled afternoons in the bedroom of 8A Tennison Court.

How had it all come down to this? Now the thought of Tracy made me feel like crawling under a stone.

How had I made such a fool of myself?

Standing there in the stunned silence as I looked out over the glass-and-steel skyline of Canary Wharf, I contemplated my wife’s lover, whom she’d been talking to on the phone. I pictured some young dark-haired Lothario, much taller than my five-foot six-inches, with a six-pack torso, film-star good looks, probably with black designer stubble, smouldering eyes and huge muscles. I looked at my reflection in the plate glass window beside me, and my flabby jowls and doleful eyes put me in mind of a good natured warthog. That’s when I thought of my mother’s words: “Not everyone is handsome, Harold. But the nicest people make the most of their personalities, and a nice personality is much more attractive than any pretty face.”

I like to think I’m not exactly heartless. I give thousands to various charities, and I’ve set up several food banks in deprived areas, and when any of my tenants get behind with their rent, I never allow the managing agent to take action against them. Okay, you’re saying that with all his money, he can afford to be generous. But I’m telling you this, because I don’t want you to think I’m a just a rich bastard who doesn’t give a shit about anyone else.

“Mr Lessiter?” I jumped as I heard the voice from behind me. I recognised the huge powerful frame of Arthur, one of my tenants at Tennison Court. A year ago I’d been very upset to learn that he’d had a head injury and had had psychiatric trouble ever since, and lost his job as a result. He hadn’t been able to pay any rent, but, as I’d chatted to him and liked him, I’d let him stay on rent free since that time. After all, I reckoned that having the accident wasn’t his fault, was it? So I felt I owed him some help. Now I remembered something about him being ex-special forces, SAS I believe, one of those so called ‘trained killers’. I’d also heard that his head injury had made him dangerous and violent, prone to mood swings where he got into fights.

Trained killer? Oh my God! I remembered Tracy’s words: “My neighbour when I lived in the flats is gonna do it. He’s an ex-soldier, mad as a box of frogs, he’ll know what to do.”

“Hello Arthur,” I said in surprise, my voice trembling. “How on earth did you get past security?”

“Old soldier, I know lots of tricks,” he told me, tapping his nose and meeting my gaze head on. As I looked at his face, with a sinking heart, I remembered that he’d been friendly with Tracy. Then I realised the hopelessness of my situation: my assassin was much bigger and stronger than I was.

“Mr Lessiter, I just reckoned I should let you know, that your wife offered me money in return for me killing you.”

As he stepped closer I gulped, wondering if I’d be able to overcome him. Over the balcony was a huge drop, and he’d have little difficulty throwing me over.

“I pretended to agree, because if I hadn’t, the evil cow would only have gone to someone else to do it,” he went on. “But I solved your little problem, same way as you solved mine, when you listened to my problems and let me off paying any rent. You’ll never know how much you helped me by doing that.” He looked at his watch. “I threw her off the roof of Tennison Court about an hour ago. Hope you’ll agree I did the right thing.”

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18 thoughts on “Crossed Lines

  1. Pingback: Crossed lines by Geoffrey West | Sue Vincent's Daily Echo

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