James Craig - Time of Death

The thought made him laugh. Bad form was what he did best.

He glanced at his watch: eleven fifty. Yawning, he started picking his nose.

When she finally appeared, he was just flicking a ball of snot at a passing mongrel.

‘How nice to see you,’ he muttered.

Finally, after all this time, he had caught a break. The woman was on her own, singing along quietly to a tune playing on her iPod. Swaying to the music. Probably drunk.

Perfect.

He started the engine and watched as she stepped between a couple of parked cars, twenty yards or so further up the two-lane road. Peering out from behind a small Ford, she saw that there was no traffic in either direction. Stepping out, she got halfway across before realising that the pavement on the far side had been closed off for repairs. Turning away from him, she continued walking down the road itself, heading towards the traffic-lights at the next junction.

Putting the car into gear, he carefully manoeuvred it out into the roadway. She was thirty yards in front of him now, as he moved his foot on to the accelerator. By the time she realised what was happening, he was almost upon her. Half-turning, there was barely time for the incredulity to register on her face. There was a satisfying thud and she was flipped up over the car bonnet, and sent bouncing down the road.

Did she recognise him as she flew past? It was unlikely but he hoped so. He wanted her to know why – why this was happening to her; why she had got herself killed. That should be the last thought crawling through her brain before she expired.

Looking back, he saw the street was still empty – no witnesses, no reaction, plenty of time for him to go back and make sure the job was done properly. But the satisfied grin had not reached his face when his thoughts were interrupted by the scream of a horn. He was sailing through the junction before he realised it, through a red light, almost sideswiping a black cab as it roared past him.

‘Mother of God!’ he cursed, bringing the Peugeot to a halt.

The taxi stopped in a squeal of rubber off to his left. He could see the driver get out and head towards him with fury in his eyes. The cabbie hadn’t seen the girl yet, but there was no question of going back now. No matter: a look in the rear-view mirror showed her still lying prostrate on the tarmac. He’d hit her at speed. She wasn’t getting up again. He was confident that the job was done. Stomping on the accelerator for a second time, he left the taxi driver’s curses flailing on the wind, and headed off into the night.

Rosanna closed the front door and stood in the entry hall of Reith Mansions, listening for the sound of Ian Dale’s BMW pulling away from the kerb. Peeking through the letter box, to make sure that her unwelcome suitor had finally gone, she let out a drunken squeak of triumph. ‘Good riddance, you odious little man,’ she cackled. ‘Let’s see how you talk your way out of that one when you get home.’ Taking her mobile from her jacket pocket, she pulled up Erica Dale’s number on the screen. For a few moments, her finger hovered over the call button, before she thought better of it. ‘You’ve had enough excitement for one day, girl,’ she mumbled to herself. ‘Time for some sleep.’

Recalling vaguely that the building’s lift was out of order, Rosanna slowly staggered up two flights of stairs. Swaying slightly in front of the door to her flat, she began rummaging through her bag in search of her keys. When they were not immediately forthcoming, she tipped the bag upside down, emptying the contents on to the carpet in the corridor. What a pile of crap, she thought. I really must sort it out. Falling to her knees, she began sifting through the debris.

‘Hurrah!’ Grabbing the keys, she slowly struggled back to her feet. Reaching for the lock, it took her another moment to realise that she was not alone. She made a face as her pickled brain tried to process this information.

‘What are you doing here?’ she asked, not looking up. ‘It’s late and I’ve got work in the morning. Plus, I don’t feel well.’ She tried to insert the key in the lock and missed. When she tried again, it fell back to the floor. ‘Shit!’ She bent down and felt woozy.

Then she felt a firm hand on her collar, pulling her backwards. ‘Hey!’ Rosanna tried to stand upright, but her legs buckled. Her stomach surged and she thought she was going to be sick again. She half-fell away from the door, tottering back towards the stairs. One of her shoes came off and she felt the ground disappear from beneath her. The same hand reached out towards her, but she couldn’t grab hold of it as she started bouncing backwards down the stairs.

It was hot and Carlyle was bothered. Standing on the cobbles of Covent Garden piazza, inside the flaccid police tape, he wiped some sweat from his brow and looked at the tourists staring back at him. Didn’t they have anything better to do than gawp at some poor bloke who had keeled over while playing the bongos for their entertainment?Over the last hour, people had come and gone, but nevertheless the crowd had been growing steadily. Now it was easily more than a hundred strong, which was probably a much bigger audience than poor Dennis Felix had ever enjoyed while he was alive. Carlyle was almost tempted to pass the dead man’s hat round and ask for contributions towards the funeral expenses. If nothing else, that would have cleared away the crowd.

Standing next to him, sweating profusely, was Sergeant Dave Prentice. On a rare and unwelcome foray from his usual position behind the front desk at the station, he was reciting the basic facts that had so far been gleaned about the unfortunate musician: ‘Mid-thirties apparently. From Estonia apparently. Lives somewhere in East London.’

‘Apparently,’ Carlyle said, without thinking.

Prentice shot him a dirty look. ‘He’s been playing at this pitch three or four times a week for over a year.’

‘Well done,’ said Carlyle, trying to retrieve the situation. ‘That was quick.’

‘Speak to her .’ Prentice pointed at a woman standing nearby. ‘She knows him.’

Carlyle caught the woman’s eye and beckoned her over. Young and gaunt, she was about 5 feet 4 inches, with dark rings round her eyes that matched her black hair. You need a good feed and some prolonged exposure to sunlight, he thought. She was dressed in baggy green trousers and a cropped pink vest, allowing her to display a selection of rings protruding from her belly button. With too much jewellery and not enough make-up, she looked primed to run away and join the circus. Maybe she already had.

‘I’m Inspector Carlyle and I work with Sergeant Prentice here.’

The girl stepped directly in front of Carlyle, but said nothing. Despite the heat, she was shivering and he could see that she had been crying.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

The girl eyed him suspiciously. Then she glanced at the body lying on a trolley, hidden under a blanket, waiting to be taken away by the crew that had edged their ambulance to one corner of the square.

‘It’s not a trick question,’ Carlyle snapped, his meagre reserves of empathy already exhausted.

‘Kylie.’

How unlucky, thought Carlyle, to be named after a midget Australian pop star. He focused his gaze on a spot an inch above her head. ‘Okay, Kylie, what can you tell me about Mr Felix?’

‘He was from Tallinn, in Estonia.’ She scratched her neck. ‘That’s like, Russia, I think. Somewhere round there anyway.’

‘What else?’

Kylie thought it over at length. ‘I’ve known him for about six months,’ she said finally.