Richard Wiseman - To Kill Or Be Killed

Kildonan

Isle of Arran

7 p.m.

April 18th

Kevan Dean was cold, shivering and shaking, and dripping water as he crawled onto the rain spattered ground at Kildonan. It was getting dark and there were lights on behind curtains in nearby houses. He plodded heavily over rocks and up to the road. A short, but heavily walked distance down the road he reached the nearest house and leg muscles giving out as he got there entered the garden got to the door and rang the bell.

There was a long pause after he heard the bell ring inside the house. Dean rehearsed what he was going to say to have most impact. A big man opened the door.

“What do you want?”

“My name is Kevan Dean, I’ve escaped from a boat where I witnessed a murder.”

“What?”

“Please help me. I’ve swum for miles. I’ve witnessed a murder and escaped with my life.”

“You’d better come in. I’m George Hudson. I’m a member of the Arran Police force. It’s good fortune you’ve come my way.”

Dean was welcomed into the house. He had a quick image of a dinner table, two children and a woman before he was bustled up the stairs, stripped and stood under the hot water of an electric shower over a bath. Given ten minutes under the hot pressured water stream he first felt pain in his muscles then warmth and relief spread through him. Being dressed in some thick dry pyjamas and a dressing gown helped Dean felt better. Better still sat in front of a fire and sipping whisky laced coffee he finally felt safer. George Hudson sent his two young children upstairs, in spite of their protests, and gave the man time to warm and recover. Whilst he waited he called the station; they were surprised to hear from him on his night off. A car was being sent down the A841 from Lamlash.

Hudson came and sat in his lounge opposite Dean.

“There’s a car on the way. What happened?”

Dean told his story and began shivering again, but not with cold. Tears ran down his face. Hudson looked at his wife in a meaningful way. She left the room and bustled in the kitchen.

“I need to contact my wife.”

“They’ll let you call from the station. This man on the boat he said he was one of the men from Perth?” Hudson probed.

“That’s right.” Dean took a sip from the coffee.

There was a knock at the door. Hudson left the room and returned with two men equally as large as him, made bulkier by their uniforms, knife vests and loaded belts. All three men filled the room.

“This is Kevan Dean. Says he escaped a boat hijacked by the escaped Perth killer. Apparently the hijacker killed a man who was keen on buying his boat.” Hudson explained.

The shorter and stockier of the two policemen squatted down by Dean.

“You’re shivering. Are you alright?”

Dean shook his head and spoke falteringly. “He shot him from behind, straight in the head. There was blood. He made me wrap the body and throw it over the side.” Dean began to cry “I thought I was going to die. I told him I had a family, it meant nothing to him. He said he was an assassin, I offered him a million, but he wasn’t interested. Cold blooded bastard!” Dean spat the words through gritted shaking teeth.

“We’ll take it from here George.” The larger of the two policemen spoke. “Get him a coat and some boots. Give us a bag with his clothes and we’ll wash and dry them.”

Dean was led out to the car, oversized wellingtons on his feet and an oversized coat hiding the pyjamas and dressing gown.

Hudson stood at the door and felt his wife’s arm curl around his waist. Dean turned at the door.

“Thank you Mr Hudson. Thank you Mrs Hudson.”

Hudson closed the door and put all the bolts on, turned to his wife and gave her a strong look.

“Check all the windows. Lock all the doors. I’ll get a rifle from the gun cabinet.”

“Surely there’s no danger now.” She said.

“Hmm. Can’t be too careful, it’s a bad time when assassins roam the country killing witnesses. Maybe he’ll be back.”

Jean Hudson went to the kitchen back door to bolt it, as she bent down to the lower bolt her husband’s big strong body filled the little doorway of the country kitchen and the shadow turned her head towards him.

“Jean you’d better call Ivy McLane. I’ve a mind that this is some business she’d be interested in.”

Jean nodded seriously. She and Ivy McLane were old friends and some years before, during the Northern Irish ‘troubles, Ivy had been seriously ill. Jean had stayed with her and nursed her through a fever. Jean had seen a diplomatic pass and hearing electronic sounds in the loft had investigated, Ivy had left her equipment running. Jean had told her husband what she had seen. He in turn had gone to see Ivy and had been appraised in full and certain terms of her rights and his need to back off, which he had respectfully done. George Hudson assumed with the Irish coast so near and Arran being remote that spies were needed. It surprised him little that a middle aged woman painter, as that was her career, turned out to be a spy. Spies were in his view those that we would least expect.

Whilst Jean phoned Ivy he went upstairs to their room and unlocked the gun cupboard removing a BAR hunting rifle. He sat down on the edge of their double bed with a cleaning kit, tools and gun oil. The box of ammunition lay unopened on the counter pane next to box clip.

The BAR lightweight Stalker made from aircraft-grade alloy with a matte blued finish had a detachable box magazine, which after stripping, cleaning and oiling the rifle Hudson filled and locked into place. He put the rifle on safety and went down stairs with it.

Jean was coming off the phone. She didn’t like guns of any kind, but remote places allowed certain members of the population to be armed and she trusted George to be careful. That man, Dean, well she’d heard bits of his story. She felt safer locked in with George and even safer knowing how well he handled a rifle.

In the loft of a house on Benlister Road, round the corner from the Arran police station at Lamlash, Ivy McLane unlocked her small gun cabinet and took out the Sig 220 ‘rail’ pistol. She didn’t need to clean it. Since the alert two days ago she’d followed the memo on armaments to the letter. Satisfied that she was safe, doors locked and windows barred she sat in the loft and sent out her message.

'Stanton heading down West Coast in a boat and has killed. The surviving witness is at Lamlash Police. Please call to advise my right to interview or send duty team to do same.'

The reply was swift.

Duty team members in Edinburgh mopping up post Perth to attend. Please welcome and assist.

At Lamlash police station after making a statement Kevan Dean had cried on the phone to his wife. He told her he’d be back the next day. A police launch was to take him to the mainland and he’d be driven home. In their warm, plush and well decorated detached house his wife sat hugging her children and thanking god for her husband’s deliverance.

At a nearby house Dean’s clothes were already washed and being tumble dried. An on call doctor had given him a mild sedative after his interview. Dean had refused food, but welcomed the cell bed with its thick warm woollen covers. He was left to sleep with his cell door left wide open. Arran police checked Mr Griffith’s details and made a call to the mainland and a car was despatched.

In Edinburgh Mrs Griffiths sat alone in her lounge. Her children were grown and had left home, one at university the other working in London. She sat singly on the sofa with her arms wrapped around her own shoulders, body language showing her closed, shocked grief.

“I’m afraid we are sure Mrs Griffiths.” The police man said and looked at the family photos arranged on the nearby grand piano in the large and comfortable reception room. “The owner of the boat saw it happen and was to have been killed too. A lucky chance allowed him to escape, even then he had to swim through a couple of miles of open sea.”