Free The Midnight Hour by Neil Davies Page B

tough week, all this pretence, all this “compassion”. At least now her mother’s in the ground I can get on with things. In fact, the whole business has given me an idea.
    I’m tired of subtlety. Time for something more direct.
    I’ve “borrowed” a gun and some bullets from a friend of ours who’s in a local gun club. He won’t miss it until it’s all over.
    Poor Susan so depressed at losing her mother, especially through an accident right in front of her. Guess she couldn’t handle it, decided to end it all. She must has stolen the gun earlier in the evening when we were round at our friend’s having a quiet drink to try and forget the last few days. I never saw it coming, honest. Well, that’s what I’ll tell the police anyway.
    Where did I put the gun? I was sure I hid it in the bedside drawer. Must be getting forgetful with all the stress. Damn, here she is as well, coming up the stairs. This was meant to be the ideal time. Everyone knows I work late in my “home office” while she comes to bed on her own. Where the hell did I put it?
     
    22nd June, 10:20am
     
    I don’t think I can pinpoint exactly when I decided to kill my husband.
    I’m not even sure now whether it was before I found his diary or after, it just seems an idea that should have been there all along. Whether it was or not seems irrelevant.
    I can almost forgive him for killing my mother, she did tend to interfere and get in the way, and maybe even for the cats, although for some strange reason that seems the harder of the two. But the fact that he did these killings purely by accident while trying to kill me…. well, that’s just too much to bear. I mean, have you ever heard of such incompetence? And then leaving the gun where I could find it so easily?
    He deserved to die!
    In truth he helped me considerably in the end. The death of my mother and his suitably edited diary both covered the reasons for his “suicide” and for any erratic behaviour by me. Ok, I admit that bursting into laughter at his graveside was perhaps pushing it but I couldn’t help myself, and I think I got away with no more than a few pitying looks! Even the policeman investigating the whole thing put his arm around me and said some comforting words.
    I don’t think I’ll be looking for anyone to replace my dear departed husband, not for quite some time anyway. Time to enjoy my freedom. Coming here to the Caribbean is just the start. Just look at how blue that sea is!
    Guess all those years of “happy” marriage finally paid off.
     

ROAD RAGE
     
                   
    “I’ve killed seventy-four men and thirty-three women in my professional life,” said Harry, his voice flat, emotionless. “Seventy-five men if you count Ricky The Rodent, but he panicked and ran and fell into a quarry, so I don’t really feel I can take credit for that one.”
    Jennifer Padstow nodded in understanding and listened with a grim and forcefully sustained expression of unflappable interest. She tried her best to ignore the voice inside screaming, Seventy-four men and thirty-three women… You’re alone in a car with a fucking psycho!
    She was proud of the steadiness in her voice as she asked her next question.
    “You remember his name? Ricky The Rodent I mean.”
    Harry nodded.
    “I remember all their names. Just a knack I seem to have.” He hesitated. “Are you sure this is the kind of stuff your editor wants?”
    “Oh yes,” smiled Jennifer. He’d feed his own grandmother to wild dogs and finish his evening with canine burgers to get a scoop like this. “It’s not every day we get a professional hitman willing to talk to us.”
    “Hit person ,” he corrected her. “We’re very politically correct in our organisation these days.”
    “So, you have female hit… people?”
    Harry laughed. “Not that politically correct.”
    Inspiration , thought Jennifer. An angle. Wonder if I could get Equal Opportunities to investigate the world of contract