Lisa Stone - Stalker

‘Paul, it’s Derek Flint.’

‘What the fuck do you want?’ Paul demanded. ‘Why are you phoning me and on a private number?’

‘Paul, I’m sorry things didn’t work out with you working for me, but I need to talk to you, ask you something.’

‘About what? You had no right to fire me like that. I could report you to the manager of the apprenticeship scheme.’

‘I didn’t fire you. I let you go.’

‘Same thing. You owe me wages.’

‘I paid you up to the end of the month.’

‘Yes, but I should have been given compensation in lieu of notice.’

Derek knew there was no legal obligation for him to compensate Paul, that was why he used the apprenticeship scheme: he could take on help and let the lads go as and when he wanted to, although he wasn’t going to antagonize Paul by telling him that now.

‘I’m sure we can work something out,’ Derek said, at his conciliatory best.

A small silence, then, ‘Why are you phoning me?’

Derek cleared his throat and concentrated. ‘The police want to talk to you about the break-ins at some of the properties where we installed CCTV. I thought you should know so it doesn’t come as a complete shock, so you don’t blurt out something you might later regret.’

‘Are you threatening me?’

‘No, of course not. I hadn’t meant it to sound like that.’

‘I don’t mind talking to the police; I’ve done nothing wrong,’ Paul declared adamantly.

‘I know you haven’t. But if they start asking about my business can you say you don’t know anything about how it works and that you made some mistakes? I mean, you might have seen and heard stuff you didn’t completely understand.’

‘Or understood too well.’

Derek felt his heart step up a few beats. ‘What do you mean? Like what?’

‘Like something dodgy. I’m not sure what it is yet but I bet I could find out. If you’re in trouble with the police then I’m guessing it’s your own fault.’

‘I’m not,’ Derek blurted too quickly. Then, ‘You won’t say anything like that to the police if they visit, will you?’ A long silence. ‘I could make it worth your while.’

‘How?’

‘I could give you good references for your interviews.’

‘Do me a favour!’ Paul sneered. ‘You’ll have to do better than that.’

‘What do you want then?’

‘Money.’

‘That’s blackmail.’

‘Suit yourself. No skin off my nose. I don’t mind talking to the police, I’ve got nothing to lose.’

‘No, all right, stop. I’ll give you a month’s wages. Two hundred pounds.’

‘A thousand,’ Paul said.

‘What!’

‘I’m guessing it must be worth that or you wouldn’t have phoned.’

‘All right, a thousand then.’ He wiped the sweat from his forehead. ‘But no more. I’ll pay you after the police have spoken to you.’

‘Before. You might not give it to me after.’

‘Half before and half after.’

‘Done. I’ll have the first lot tonight.’

‘Tonight?’

‘Yes. You know where I live. Put the cash in an envelope with my name on it and push it through my letter box.’

‘All right, I will,’ he stammered.

‘At eight o’clock exactly. I’ll be waiting on the other side of the door. Make sure no one sees you.’

‘You won’t tell anyone I’ve given you the money, will you?’ Derek asked pathetically.

‘You’ll just have to trust me on that. Five hundred quid, at eight o’clock sharp.’

‘Yes, I heard.’

Derek cut the call, sat back in his chair and gulped in air. A thousand pounds! It was his own stupid fault for ever implementing Paul in the first place. Hopefully this would put a stop to it once and for all but he’d need to make sure. He now logged the amount in the accounts file on his computer just as he did with all his business transactions.

Eight o’clock, Paul had said. Plenty of time before he had to leave. It had been a shit-awful day and he desperately needed to spend time with his family. He craved their comfort and support. But as he zoomed in on the live streams coming from his clients’ cameras, the business with the police and Paul overshadowed any pleasure or comfort. Many of the houses were empty in the afternoon with the parents at work and the children at school.

He looked in at the Khumalos’ house but that was empty too, as was the Williams’. Since the night their babysitter had behaved so deplorably they hadn’t been out in the evening. He’d heard them discussing the difficulty in finding a trustworthy and reliable babysitter. ‘I mean, if you can’t trust your goddaughter then who can you trust?’ Mrs Williams had declared.

Derek hoped they found a sitter soon so they could go out again together. They were a nice couple and deserved an evening away from their kids. Ironically, Derek had recently taken on a client who was a qualified nursery nurse. She lived a mile away and supplemented her income by occasional babysitting. She’d be ideal. When things settled down again he’d give some thought as to how he could bring them together. He liked to help nice people.

A movement on another screen caught his eye, and he quickly enlarged the images coming from the Hanks’ house. Mrs Hanks was opening the front door to her lover again; a sleazy salesman named Tim Riseman.

Derek was furious. The deceit made his blood boil. The affair had been going on for six months after Riseman had called one afternoon selling conservatories. Derek was finding it difficult to contain his anger. Every second Tuesday, while Mr Hanks was at work, his wife had sex with this seedy bastard. Not only was she making a fool of her husband – who was a decent guy – but Derek knew from listening in that Mr Hanks hated his job and would have retrained as a nurse had he not had to maintain the standard of living dictated by his greedy and materialistic wife. Derek had been holding back from intervening, not wanting to raise suspicion while Paul had been with him, but now he was gone he was free to help. This would be his next project, he thought, but for now he watched in distaste as Mrs Hanks seductively unbuttoned her blouse and exposed her very large breasts.

At 7.30pm Derek opened the door to the living room to tell his mother he was going out.

‘You look ridiculous in that get-up,’ she sneered. ‘A middle-aged man dressed in black leather! And don’t go revving that bike outside; it upsets the neighbours.’

‘Do you want anything from the garage shop?’ he asked, ignoring the ridicule. ‘Sweets?’

She shook her head. She usually wanted to know where he was going when he took his bike out in the evening and invariably he told her it was to the garage to fill up the bike with petrol.

‘I won’t be long,’ he said, but already her attention had returned to the television.

With his helmet and black leather motorbike gloves tucked under his arm, and quelling his unease at what he was about to do, Derek went into the garage. It was too small to keep his van in so he used it for his motorbike, stock, and general clutter from the house that they no longer needed but his mother refused to throw out. At the sight of the bike, his confidence grew. It was a big and powerful machine, well respected by other road users. Riding it made him feel important, stand out from the crowd and in control, similar to when he sat at his workstation and viewed his empire of clients. Yes, on the bike he was someone who commanded attention and respect, especially when he opened up the throttle.

He raised the garage door, inserted the key into the bike’s ignition, put on his helmet and gloves and then mounted the bike. With a flick of the key the engine roared into life, a deep, resonating throb. He allowed himself one good rev, which he knew his mother would hear, before driving out of the garage, leaving the door open so it would be ready for his return. Once on the road he accelerated away and then out onto the high road. His spirits lifted. It was early evening; the street lights were coming on and the roads were emptying. He drove with purpose: masterful, head held high, but only as fast as the speed limit would allow for Derek always tried to follow the rules.