Foul Murder; Clean Kill.

FOUL MURDER; CLEAN KILL.

The heat had been haunting him relentlessly, creating flashbacks of high, barred windows and still, breathless air. When the sky finally exploded into an almost tropical thunderstorm, Bronson smirked with relief. The smile immediately froze, as the rain bouncing off the road seemed to swallow the low-slung silver Porsche Carrera he was following. He swore. Grim faced, eyes screwed up, he peered through the cascading water that overwhelmed his windscreen wipers. He was desperate not to lose sight of the car, not now, when the driver was out on her own for the first time in days.

His smile returned when the Carrera’s indicator light flashed through the murk at the Art Gallery car park. Bronson pulled over and watched intently as his target parked near the entrance, unfurled an umbrella through the half open door and emerged from her silver cocoon in an elegant flowing movement. She locked her car, slipped the keys into her pocket and hurried inside. He found a street just busy enough to park unobserved, grabbed his linen cap and walked back to the gallery, trying to keep dry under the awnings of the boutiques that lined the road.

The exhibition was spread over several rooms and, occasionally glancing at the paintings, he went round to locate his prey and decide how and where the meeting would take place. There were few visitors. The high temperatures and threatening skies, had kept most people indoors. Would it be better to change this part of the plan? Postpone the meeting? He frowned. Empty rooms meant fewer witnesses, but it also meant his coming encounter would stand out on the security video. He bit his lip, concentrating on the possibilities. She had not been out on her own for days and the longer he had to stalk her, the greater the risk. Better go ahead, he decided. The humid weather was a definite bonus and would help his plans along in a very natural way. He pulled his cap down and studied his footprints on the otherwise immaculately polished floor. These floors would be cleaned regularly; which was good. He did not care for prints.

The clicking of heels on parquet and a whiff of Rive Gauche, announced her arrival and she strode in: a work of art in her own right. Dressed in a cream linen shift with matching jacket and red Manolo Blahnik stilettoes, she looked cool and confident and totally unaware of any problems; unaware her future was to be edited out. She wandered slowly from exhibit to exhibit, scribbling notes and smiling to herself. He kept an eye on her, while pretending to study a large painting of multi-coloured blobs by Paolini. How had the husband described her? A coffee table book: glossy, expensive and without any depth. All surface and no substance. No good at anything, apart from an unexpected knack for designing and creating kitchen gardens. He remembered the sneer that accompanied this description and felt the contempt almost oozing out of his mobile. Yet somehow she had been to University and now she was engrossed in the paintings; it was obvious she enjoyed them. He had the impression she knew what they were about, while he found them totally baffling and very much over priced.

Her husband had not mentioned her wealth, but when Bronson looked into her background, he discovered it was her money that started his publishing business. That was the reason the husband needed the help of a pro; a divorce was out of the question. Bronson had come across tabloid gossip indicating she had been romantically linked with several well-known men; mainly before her marriage, but rumours kept cropping up, even now. She had a bit of a reputation; there were unconfirmed reports of nymphomaniac tendencies and the husband felt threatened. Bronson had not liked the man, but accepted the job. Feelings never came into it; a job was a job, to be executed to perfection. He watched Mrs. Publisher closely, working out the best way to get this business going. He had done his homework and knew how it would end; he only had to set the trap to catch the bird.

Stepping back to look at the Paolini from a different angle, Bronson kicked her Manolos. She lost her balance and only his quick reaction saved her from falling. Profusely apologetic, he dusted her down and fussed over her till she started giggling. She never felt the nimble fingers in her pocket.

“Oh stop tickling me. Nothing has happened,” she laughed.
A flash of faked recognition; the well practised smile.
“Melissa?”
“Do I know you?”
“We met at university.” He was sure she wouldn’t remember everyone. “I’m Bob Bronson. We did history together.”
“You’ve got a good memory. I never made it beyond the first year. God knows how I managed to get in, in the first place!”
He should have known she’d dropped out, the husband should have told him, the stupid bastard; it could have blown his cover. He realised he was blaming the husband for something he should have found out himself. He bit his lip, but Melissa did not seem to notice his annoyance and he relaxed.
“What about an espresso as an apology? I believe the coffee bar here is superb.”
“I haven’t finished; I want to buy some of these paintings. I find them intriguing,” she glanced up at the riot of blobs. “They’re weird and the colours are beautiful. Don’t you agree?”
For the first time she actually looked at him, and he knew she immediately pigeonholed him by his smart casual, and very expensive, attire. She seemed to like what she saw and rewarded him with a dazzling smile.
“I don’t drink coffee, but I wouldn’t mind a G&T once I’ve finished here. If you’re not in a hurry, that is.”
“There’s no one waiting for me.”

The rain had cleared, and the car park was steaming in the hot sun when he followed her out. She went through her pockets then turned her bag out on the bonnet.
“Damn I’ve lost my keys. Sorry, have to go back and see if they’ve been handed in.”

“I can’t understand no one found them,” Melissa moaned, with a little girl lost expression of large moist eyes and almost quivering lip. “What do I do now?”
“Let’s have that drink first. I’ve got my car just round the corner and my apartment is not far from here. I’m sure you’ll like it.”
“I don’t like flats, I need a garden.”
“I’m considering a roof garden, but don’t know anything about plants. I could do with some advice.”
“A roof garden? Sounds interesting. Where do you live?”
“Riverside Atrium.”
“There? I remember the uproar when they wanted to demolish those old warehouses. Didn’t realise the building was finished.” She flashed him a smile as they walked to the car park exit. “Let’s have a look then, maybe I can give you some ideas.”
“I bet you can,” he grinned, with a glance at her long, shapely legs and small feet in improbably high heels.

He drove into the underground car park and Melissa looked at the pristine floors and vast cavernous emptiness.
“Not very busy, is it? Does anyone live here?”
“There are so many of these luxury apartments, they’re hardly selling.”
“Yet you bought one.”
“Penthouses are different. More space and better views. More exclusive.” He swore when he saw the ‘Out of Order’ sign on the lift.
“I’ll drive you home; I can’t expect you to climb all the way up.”
“Nonsense, I’m fit as a fiddle.”

“God, all my muscles ache. Aren’t we there yet?” Melissa panted, discreetly dabbing at her face. Smiling, a conjuror showing his most acclaimed trick, he threw open the door to the penthouse and stepped back, giving her the uninterrupted view through the open doors of the sitting room and the windows looking out over the urban landscape.

“Wow, this is fantastic!” She was sucked in, mesmerised by the panorama. He smiled; renting the penthouse had been a brilliant move. The landlord was an arse-hole: he had not bothered to check his references; simply trusted his story, impressed by his self confident, well groomed appearance. He knew the type: eager to get rich quick and preferably without telling the taxman. The greedy bugger had happily accepted his cash, but would regret it for the rest of his life.

Melissa carelessly dropped her jacket on a black Barcelona chair and walked to the window as he poured the drinks: a double gin and tonic for her, pure undiluted tonic water for him.
“Ice and a slice?”
“Yes please. You know, I can’t get over this view. I’ve read about city centre penthouses of course and seen photographs, but I never realised it could be so stimulating.” She gave him a quick smile over her shoulder. “It’s strange none of my friends has bought one yet. New flats are never really considered, you know.” She took the G&T and lifted her glass. The ice tinkled and the sparkling tonic caught the sun.
“Here’s to city centre living.” She gulped down her drink and coughed.
“God, that’s strong.”
“I don’t like it when you can’t taste the gin.” He smiled and realised he would have no trouble; despite her experience, she was a lamb, following the expected trail. Climbing the stairs in those heels had worn her out and made her thirsty, especially on a day like this.

Handing her a refill, he continued showing the trappings of penthouse living. A huge terrace surrounded the flat on three sides; the views here were even better, taking in the river. Melissa sucked her teeth.
“You can really do something spectacular here, but you’ll need an expert. I wouldn’t know how to grow plants in a place like this.” She walked round, sipping her drink, looking at the terrace from different angles. “You’d need to build in watering and drainage systems, I suppose, and make sure the wind can’t wreak havoc. And you must get rid of those gulls.”
“Why? I like them, I’ve been feeding them.”
“Don’t you see the mess they make? Even that rain has not washed it off. These droppings will kill your plants and those birds can be very aggressive.” Melissa looked up at the keening, circling seagulls.

“Oh shit!” Her glass shattered as her hand jerked up and she tentatively fingered her hair. A large globule of stinking goo had splashed on her head and was dripping on to her dress. Bronson swore in sympathy and led her to the kitchen. After pouring her another drink, he gently dabbed her hair with copious amounts of kitchen towel and warm water, but it did not shift the stuff.
“I’m afraid it’s too tough. Water doesn’t seem to do the trick. You’d better wash your hair.”
“This fish smell is awful.” Her voice trembled; she was visibly shaken by the unexpected attack and calmed herself with another gulp of her G&T. “Now you see why you shouldn’t feed them. I hope shampoo will clear it, but my dress is ruined.”
“I’ll have a look at it when you’re in the bathroom. You’ll find everything you need on the shelves and the bathrobes are behind the sliding doors.”

He heard the water rush into the bath and grinned. He knew she would not only wash her hair, but would try out the tub as well. He had seen her expression when she stroked the smooth, cool marble. He gave her time to get herself immersed, then walked in.

“Don’t worry, I won’t look, I’ll just put your dress on the rail.” He carefully eased the garment over a coat hanger. “The stain’s almost gone. I’m sure it will come out. You’ll send the bill to me of course.”
“I accidentally emptied your foam bath, do you mind?” Melissa giggled. “Made a bit of a mess in your beautiful bathroom.” He looked at her, almost invisible in the throbbing mount of foam. There were damp patches and puddles on the floor and the empty bottle lay discarded in a corner.
“As long as you’re happy,” he smiled. “Would you like a glass of champagne to match that froth? I’ve also got some great Belgian chocolates.”

He placed the tray on the edge of the bath and fed her a bonbon. Their eyes met and the message was clear. His smile accepted the invitation and he took off his shirt.

“I like a man with a toned body.” Her eyes followed his every move. “Will you join me?” Her voice husky and slightly drunk. He poured her a glass and their hands touched when she took it. He felt the tension and playfully stroked her cheek. She watched him with unfocused eyes, as he walked round the bath and started to massage her feet with tender expertise. She leaned back, moaning softly, eyes shut now and lips slightly parted. He continued, watching intently, feeling her body react to his persuasive hands, waiting for the exact moment …

A sharp pull and she slid into the water, still clutching her glass. Melissa opened her eyes in startled surprise, arms splashing frantically to grab the sides of the bath. It was quick, only a short struggle and her body slipped quietly under the lilting blanket and stayed there. Bronson smiled down on a job well done. He pulled on his shirt, wiped his fingerprints off fixtures and fittings, returned the keys to her bag and took the lift down, removing the ‘Out of Order’ sign on the way out.

It would be well over three months before his landlord would come for his rent.

He rang the widower on his way to the airport.
“Just report her missing when you return from your Book Fair.”

Munching smoked almonds in the first class departure lounge, he stared at the heat shimmering over the tarmac. It stirred an almost forgotten memory. The glaring heat of summer and the blistering cold that drew patterns on the cracked, barred windows of the orphanage, were the only things he remembered of his early childhood. The only memories of the years spent alone in his cot; years that had formed his personality, and made him the most ruthless, most successful man in every business he had started.

He smiled at the woman and her pretty daughter who came in, laden with duty free bags. They were joking and teasing, comparing their bargains. He watched, wondering what love and happiness felt like.

Shrugging off this fleeting thought, he opened his laptop and did some calculations. He had rather liked the penthouse, especially its central location, spacious lay-out and far reaching views. The furore that would soon blight the apartment, would make it a relatively cheap, but sound long term investment. He’d keep an eye on it, he could make a killing!

THE END.