Price agreed, she and the punter drove off; he was headed for a secluded spot where they could conduct their business unobserved, or so he told her. She wasn’t frightened; her heartbeat was slow and steady, and her mind was focused. He seemed to know what he was doing. Experienced. Been here before. Good. A smile creased her face as she stroked her handbag. In another life, given different circumstances, she might have been married with children. She might have been the one waiting at home for this balding lump of lard as he risked everything.
The car drew to a halt on a deserted road that ran alongside the Docks; no CCTV that she could see. A fine film of sweat had broken out on his brow; his breathing was heavy and expectant. He leaned in to kiss her and she got a whiff of fabric softener from his shirt. Some woman cared for him. She recoiled from the image as she shoved him back into the driver’s seat and leaned over. Her hand reached for the zip on his suit trousers. It wouldn’t take long. A few quick strokes and hopefully she wouldn’t have to go any further. She smiled as she pumped away at him–but his eyes were closed and he was paying attention to nothing but the actions of her left hand.
He certainly didn’t notice as her right hand slipped into the back seat to the handbag lying on the passenger side beside the seat-belt clip. Her fingers slipped into the bag as he wriggled with delight, panting heavily and moaning some woman’s name inaudibly Stupid bastard; two-faced, hypocritical slime-bag. As she leaned in closer to his face, she could have sworn he was puckering up for a kiss.
What he got instead was a syringe filled with pure heroin.
His eyes widened in surprise as she pushed the plunger down, filling his right jugular. He started to struggle, but she knew that there would be no surprises here. He just had to wait it out. As did she.
She opened the passenger door and stepped outside. Taking a battered cigarette from her pocket, she drew in a lungful of smoke that warmed her chest. Blowing rings into the freezing night air, she knew that the man inside the car would be struggling to hold on to life. She heard a noise and assumed that it came from his death throes as his arms flailed against the driver’s window. He was guilty, guilty, guilty. There wasn’t an innocent bone in his body. Married, obviously. Or at least living with someone who cared enough to make sure a capful of fabric softener had been thrown into the washing load. A parent, obviously. Or at least with a kid in his life so close to him that football training and kicks around the park were part of normal life. And what was he doing behind their backs? Screwing around. Messing everything up. He deserved what he got. He did. And there were plenty more like him.
Glancing at her watch she felt irritated; he was taking too long. She opened the door and reached over the passenger seat. He had stopped thrashing and his eyes were closed, his breath shallow and laboured. But…he was still breathing. She didn’t have time for this. Reaching into the back seat she dug her nails into the soft fur of the teddy; shoving it into the man’s face, she held it against his mouth and nose, and waited–until any sign of life was gone.
Good.
Glad that was over, she started on the real work. She delved into her bag again, this time pulling out an ultra-sharp boning knife and poultry cutters. She rifled through his CD collection, quickly looking for something that meant nothing to her, something to muffle the sound of bones shattering, before realizing that heavy music coming from a parked Merc could arouse suspicion, even in a quiet street near the Docks.
She cracked through his ribs. She was proud of her strength. Strategic planning aided her attempts every time. Still, both were means to ends. Plunging the boning knife in, she severed the superior vena cava and neatly removed the organ. She double-bagged it in cling film and popped it into her handbag.
Stepping outside the car, she reached into her bag, lifting out a handheld car vacuum. Her work here was almost done. She reached into her bag again. With her thumb and forefinger she removed a hair, a single hair, from inside a plastic freezer bag.
She left it where she was sure even those idiots from the identification bureau would be sure to find it.
The sooner the better.
‘Have you reached a verdict?’ Judge Neil Wylie asked the five women and ten men of the jury.
Show time.
I breathed deeply and steadied myself. I always hated this bit, this time in a trial where everything you’ve worked for hangs in the balance. If I was to live up to my reputation as some sort of Ice Queen, I had to keep my act going–but it was hard when I was bricking it. I stared unblinking at the jury box, thanking God for my poker face and Boots for the six inches of make-up that was hiding any emotion that might be lurking there. In truth, all I wanted was someone to hold my hand and tell me I’d done well and that everything would be fine. I’d be as well hoping for Santa to make an early appearance.
To keep my hands busy, I pretended to scribble down notes on the yellow legal pad in front of me. It had been a long, tiring murder trial, but this moment was where everything was so exciting yet so terrifying. It was out of my control and I hated and loved that feeling. Would I have changed anything? Would I rewrite the script if I could? What if I’d fucked it up? My mind was flooded with all the little things I could have done better. There was also a part of it that was trying to remind me of all the things I’d done well. Really well. My mother’s voice wanted to sneak in there–Mary McLennan wouldn’t want me to get too confident in case I was heading for a fall. My mind was a busy place.
A stout, pigeon-chested woman in her mid-fifties struggled to her feet. With her beige hunting gilet, green tweed skirt and reading specs hanging from a gold chain round her neck, she was a perfect advert for Horse and Hound. I rechecked the chart I’d drawn up two weeks ago during jury selection. This was Miss Agnes McPhail, breeder of Rhodesian Ridgebacks. My stomach tightened a bit–I felt somewhat uncomfortable with the thought of Miss McPhail as the foreman. She was only on the jury because I had run out of challenges. I remembered the old adage that dog owners end up looking like their pets–well, she must have been housing a few mutts that looked like well-skelped arses. The sound of the odd nervous cough was the only noise as the court macer took the verdict from Miss McPhail and handed it to the judge. I couldn’t take my eyes off the white sheet of paper. The judge unfolded it as I studied his face for a telltale sign. There was none. He was as good as me at this lark.
I stole a glance towards my client, Kenny Cameron. An ugly, skinny wee shit if ever there was one. He was five feet five inches tall and, in his boxers (Christ, what a thought), he tipped the scales at just under nine stones. Cameron stared straight ahead; only the bobbing of his Adam’s apple indicating he was still alive and kicking. He was submissive and reconciled to his fate, as he had been throughout the trial for the murder of his wife, Senga. The only time Cameron showed any emotion was during direct examination, when he explained why he had bludgeoned big Senga to death. When asked to describe how his partner had sustained head injuries, Kenny Cameron began to sweat as he haltingly told the jury about hitting the ball hammer off his wife’s skull, over and over again until he was covered in her brains. When he was finished, his hands shook and his body heaved with great dry sobs. The jury looked a bit green too. I only hoped they still remembered why he had done it.
‘Will the accused please stand?’ Judge Wylie shouted.
My client staggered to his feet. I remained sitting, staring ahead with a lack of emotion that was very hard work indeed. The press would be watching for any sign of weakness, to see if the Ice Queen was melting.