Stuart Kaminsky: Show Business is Murder

I couldn’t kill, though. Killing people is morally indefensible. Still, if Annabelle hated Miranda so much, perhaps I wouldn’t have to.

“I’LL DO IT.But I’m going to need two things. First-money. A lot of money.”

“That’s no problem,” said Annabelle. “Say, five thousand?”

“Say ten.” I sipped my beer. She hadn’t touched her G &T. If the tonic was as flat as the beer, I didn’t blame her. The pub we were in was a filthy dump, not the sort of place either of us would normally frequent. Which was why we’d chosen it, of course. “In advance.”

“Ten. Okay. Sure, I can go to ten.”

“And the other thing,” I said. “The other thing I need. You’ve got to come with me. When I do it, I want you there.”

She grinned. “What, the big, brave ladykiller needs Mummy to hold his hand?”

I wondered again what she knew about me, and how. “I need Mummy to be in it with me. In as deep as I am. I’m being frank with you here, Annabelle. When this is done, we’ll never meet again, and whatever it is you think you have over me will be cancelled out by what we’ll both have over each other. You understand?”

She picked up her glass, fished out the slimy slice of lemon and put it in an ashtray. She put the glass down again. “I understand. That’s no problem, either. In fact-yes, in fact, that’ll be fine.”

More than fine, by her tone. “What is it?” I said. “What is it, that makes you so keen to see Miranda die?”

With her finger, she pushed the piece of lemon around the ashtray, as if cleaning it. “We used to be close friends.” She looked up at me. “Very close friends.”

“I see.” Such matters, though disgusting, were none of my business. “So you know where she lives.”

“Better than that. I have a key.”

“All right.” I finished my beer, unappetising though it was. “How are we going to do this, have you thought about that? Fire, maybe?”

Annabelle shuddered. “God, no!”

I thought of making a joke about old flames, but decided it might be considered tasteless. “I understand, you don’t want her to suffer. That’s admirable.”

“Admirable?” She laughed, in an unattractive manner.

“What do you have in mind, then?”

“A gun,” she said.

“I see. Do you have a gun?”

“No. But I suppose you can get one, easily enough.”

I thought about that. Yes, I probably could. Easily enough, and safely enough. “All right,” I said, and it was decided.

Less than a week later, we sat in Annabelle’s car outside the Bloomsbury mansion block which contained Miranda’s flat. The gun was in the pocket of Annabelle’s raincoat. She’d suggested that she keep hold of it until we were inside, in case I needed both hands free to prevent Miranda from fleeing. I’d agreed to that-though only after what I hoped was a convincing show of reluctance.

I was confident that once the action was underway, Annabelle herself would do the shooting-and do it with pleasure. Whenever she spoke to me of Miranda, her ugly face burned with anger. Despite what she’d said in the pub, it was clear to me that she was the one who needed the reassurance of company on this outing.

I had told her that I had plans for disposing of the body which it would be better for her not to know about. In fact, the thing being done, I planned to leave the scene with all the considerable speed I could muster. Afterwards, Annabelle either would or wouldn’t be arrested. An ex-lover would, no doubt, be an obvious suspect. If she was, she wouldn’t tell the police about my part in the business since that could only serve to upgrade a case of manslaughter between lovers to one of conspiracy to commit murder. To be on the safe side, I would disappear for a while, until it seemed prudent to emerge, during which time I thought I might indulge in a little plastic surgery. Nothing major, a small nose job, which I hoped would enhance my employability as well as my anonymity.

If she wasn’t arrested, then so much the better. I’d still be free of her, since I could in theory turn her in at any time. Either way, I’d be free of Miranda.

We paused on the landing outside Miranda’s door. Annabelle handed me a large envelope containing my money. I checked it quickly, and nodded my acceptance. She inserted the key in the lock, more noisily than I had hoped. Before turning it, she said: “Here goes. Give us a smile for luck, Jez.”

Miranda Denny stood before us, in the center of her hallway, completely naked.

“Grab her!” said Annabelle, closing the door behind us.

I did so, overcoming my natural revulsion. She didn’t struggle. I heard Annabelle breathing heavily as she came up the hallway towards us. “Get ready,” I said, and I threw Miranda away from me with all my force, so that she bounced off a closed door and slumped onto the carpet.

I saw a flash of light in front of me, and then a nauseous pain colonised the back of my head and everything I had ever held to be true gushed out of my nose and down my shirt and onto the floor.

“YOU GAINED ACCESSto the flat by means of a door key which you had stolen from Ms. Inwood’s handbag when you visited her office earlier in the day,” said the detective chief inspector sitting opposite me in the little interview room. “Surprising the two occupants of the flat in bed, you became irate and irrational, ranting and saying that you were in love with Ms. Denny.” He put a finger on his notebook to mark his place, and glanced up at me. “Do you deny any of this, Mr. Becker?”

I said nothing. I had said nothing since waking up in the hospital, two days previously.

“They tried to reason with you, and were able to persuade you to retreat as far as the hall. But then you pulled out a handgun and said that if you couldn’t have Miranda, then no one could. You raised the gun and made as if to fire it at Ms. Denny. At this point, however, the lady’s partner, Ms. Inwood, hit you over the head with a Chinese dog.”

“With a what? ”

He checked his notes. “Sorry, a china dog. An ornament, which had stood on a side table. So, you have got a tongue after all?”

I regretted my involuntary outburst, and said nothing more. There was very little I could say. Perhaps forensic evidence would have assisted me, but the police would only look for it if they had reason to-and I could not afford to give them that reason. The truth was useless to me, not only because it wouldn’t have been believed, but because, if it was believed, it would only place me in a deeper hole than the one I was already in. I did not wish to face charges of robbery and conspiracy, in addition to those already proffered against me.

“The gun went off as you fell,” said the policeman, “causing a single round of ammunition to enter the wall of the hallway at about head height. No one was hurt as a result of the shooting.”

I didn’t listen to the rest of what he had to say. I used the time instead to ponder upon the disgraceful nature of the events which had overtaken me. It was a mortal outrage that I should face time in prison for attempted murder, when I had never in my life attempted to murder anyone, and for firearms offenses, when I had never in my life handled a firearm of any sort (except very briefly, and then only as an intermediary). It was a mortal outrage that an ugly woman and a plain one should conspire to take such disproportionate revenge on a man whose own crimes were minor-and who had, in any case, renounced his former trade, and reformed of his own free will.

My life ruined in exchange for a purse full of cash: Yes, I would call that disproportionate. I would call that a mortal outrage. I would call that a slap in the face of justice.