Bolt-hole (18 page)

I took a seat in the armchair next to the window and ate a scotch egg.  Normally one of my favourites, it didn’t have quite the same appeal at six in the morning but I scoffed it down anyway.  Then, with the eggy snack repeating on me, I carefully studied 29a through the binoculars.  Musgrove was still asleep and his foot just sticking out from under the filthy blankets.  With the high-powered lenses I could even make out his revolting toenails, curled over and encrusted with dirt that the master of a Chinese opium den would be proud of.  Merely catching a glimpse of the despicable individual was sufficient motivation, if it were needed, to make my plan succeed.

Over the next hour I watched as the neighbourhood slowly came to life.  A flat two doors down from Musgrove was the first to show as three young men wearing Muslim garb left home, presumably on the way to the mosque for early morning prayers. I didn’t have Musgrove down as an early riser – more the crack of mid-morning at best – but to my surprise he was awake by 8:30 a.m.  He dressed quickly in the same dirty jeans and grey T-shirt from the previous day, and after the briefest of ablutions he was out of the flat by 8:40 a.m.  I watched through the binoculars as he marched purposefully down the road, even with his limp.  Again I considered shadowing him, keen to know his every movement, but felt it prudent, at least for the first few days, to avoid risking detection at all costs. 

As I waited for Musgrove to return I ate another scotch egg, not really out of hunger but more as a means to kill time.  I was already finding the business of surveillance a tedious affair and was grateful to see him arrive to break the monotony a little after 11:30 a.m.  He was walking with the same urgency as I’d seen on his return the day before, presumably the focus of a junkie and the desperate need for a fix.  I watched as he entered his flat and then, a few seconds later, him sitting at the small table to begin preparing his morning constitution.

Within five minutes Musgrove was lying face down on his bed.  If the previous day was the norm he would be out of it for several hours and I took the opportunity to head back home to Alton before he was due to arrive to collect the money later in the afternoon. Though I doubted Musgrove was in any state to be watching, I pulled my baseball cap down low to cover my face and hurried down the driveway and into the street.  A bus was just pulling into the stop as I reached the end of Stanley Road, and I jogged the last twenty metres before climbing aboard.  Within twenty minutes I arrived in the town centre, and I made my way to the building society to collect the £4,700 for Musgrove, plus a further £300 for any contingencies.  After the obligatory offer and my subsequent decline of a “financial health-check”, I headed for the bus station, and by 2:30 p.m. I was back home in Alton. 

Feeling tired and dishevelled after my largely sleepless night in the filthy flat, I had a long hot shower and scrubbed my hands with a nail brush to remove the grime that had become engrained under my fingernails.  After getting dressed I made beans on toast and a mug of tea and took them through to the living room.  I switched on the TV news.  It was probably the first time in months I’d had any interest in anything other than my own problems, but after just a few minutes my tiredness returned and I was asleep.

I awoke a couple of hours later to loud knocking on the front door.  I knew immediately who it was and jumped up from the settee, not wanting to leave him on the doorstep in full view of the neighbours.  Opening the door, I was greeted by Musgrove’s smug smile, clearly now recovered from his earlier fix.  I willed myself to stay calm, knowing that the machete was in the rucksack just a few feet away me, though the urge to use it was almost overwhelming.  “Hello, Julian, nice to see you.” 

“Get inside, get inside,” I responded sharply. 

Musgrove stepped through the doorway and started to walk from the hallway into the living room.  But I wasn’t going to tolerate any further breach of my personal space and barked at him, “Just wait there. Wait there, I’ve got the money for you.”  I reached into my rucksack, my hand brushing against the cold metal of the machete as I pulled out an envelope containing the £4,700.  I extended it to him and he gripped it with his filthy hands.  “Let me make it clear, this is the one and only time, do you understand me?  This is the last time,” I said as I released the envelope. 

He opened it and looked at the contents.  For a second I thought he was going to count it, but instead he just smiled again, his rotten teeth on show. “Okay, okay, Julian. I trust you, I trust you.”  I opened the front door, stepped out of the porch to check there was no one about, and then by the elbow forcefully steered him outside.  “Steady on, Julian, what’s the hurry, not even a cup of tea?” 

I didn’t respond, just slammed the door and locked it.  Outside I could hear Musgrove laughing sarcastically before shouting through the letter box his final parting quip: “See you again soon, Ju.  By the way, I’ll be in the Arundel tonight – my usual Thursday night ritual.  You’re more than welcome to join me for a bevy.  I’m in the chair.”  I was seething as I moved through to the living room.  I saw the photograph on the mantlepiece of Helen and the boys, and my hands trembled with rage and frustration as I picked up the silver frame.  I was desperate for revenge. 
Musgrove had to die.

I made sandwiches and a flask of coffee and then, thirty minutes after Musgrove had left, I set off back to Rawlton.  As I sat on the bus I suspected that already he’d be buying booze or some other intoxicant, and with almost five grand burning a hole in his pocket he would doubtless be extremely popular with his dealer.  I arrived back at 17b at 8:05 p.m. as only the last remnants of the mid-September sunlight remained.  Turning into the driveway, I briefly glanced towards Musgrove’s flat but his front room was in darkness.  I let myself into 17b and headed up the stairs.  I unpacked my sleeping bag, laid it out on the floor, and then poured a coffee from the flask before taking up my vantage point in the chair by the window. 

Musgrove arrived home at 11:30 p.m., staggering down the driveway and then struggling to get his key in the lock.  Eventually he negotiated the front door and within a few seconds the light came on in the bedsit.  Through the gaps in the ragged curtains I fleetingly saw him move round the room, but within five minutes the lights went off and in the darkness I could just make out his form lying on his bed.  After a few more minutes of watching, I lay down on my sleeping bag and within minutes I was dead to world. 

I slept far more soundly than the previous night.  I was awoken briefly by a car alarm at around 1:30 a.m. but within minutes I was asleep again, finally waking at 6:00 a.m. when my alarm went off.  Sitting in the chair, I drank lukewarm coffee from the thermos, providing a welcome caffeine boost, and ate the rest of the sandwiches from the day before.  After a few minutes a door slammed shut and I looked out to see the Muslim lads heading to the mosque.  I silently debated whether I could ask God to bless my plan; I suspected not. 

The first signs of movement in 29a once again occurred at 8:30 a.m.  Musgrove followed the same routine as the previous morning; dressing as soon as he was awake, taking a piss and then heading out of the door. He returned with impetus just before midday and immediately began to prepare his habit, and then with his little indulgence streaming through his veins, he collapsed on the bed.

----

As I monitored Musgrove’s movements over the following weeks, his routine was surprisingly consistent. Invariably he would wake no later than 8:30 a.m., dress quickly and, with showering and dental hygiene not essential features of his lifestyle, he would leave the flat within minutes.  There was always a great focus to his departure, his stride always purposeful towards the main road and to the bus stop, a meeting with his dealer providing the attraction.  He would normally return to the flat two to three hours later with even greater impetus and then immediately begin preparing his concoction at the small kitchen table.  Usually I wouldn’t watch.  I was squeamish of needles at the best of times and the whole process turned my stomach.  The irony wasn’t lost on me; here I was planning to murder him, but watching as he effectively killed himself, albeit slowly.  After his morning fix he would remain
in situ
for several hours, either slumped in the chair or sprawled across the bed.  It was during his “rests” that I usually left my surveillance post and headed back to Alton to check on the sale of the house or put together the other elements of my plan. 

By late afternoon, usually no later than 6:00 p.m., I would be back at the flat to see him head off to the local off license or supermarket, returning twenty minutes later with a four-pack of extra-strong lager and occasionally some food.  He would spend the rest of the evening watching TV.  The only variation to his routine occurred on a Thursday, when for reasons that I never completely understood, rather than the normal visit to the off license, he would go to the Earl of Arundel pub.  There was even a degree of ritual to this aberration, as he would always return by 11:30 p.m., and always alone. 

Some mornings I would follow at a discreet distance as he left the flat and then caught a bus at the end of the street.  I would wait for the next bus, often losing track of him, but occasionally close enough to see him get off the bus a few stops from the town centre and head to a small park, a ten-minute walk away.  It was here, next to an old groundkeeper’s hut and in full view of a children’s play area, that he would briefly chat with his dealer and then far from surreptitiously buy his drugs.  I often wondered how my cash injection had affected his lifestyle.  Presumably it had simplified much of it, with no need to work or resort to theft, but how long the money would last was another matter. 

Fortunately for me in achieving my ultimate goal, his habit was a solitary pursuit.  On only a handful of occasions did I see him have any sort of social interaction.  Usually this was with the kids that loitered on the street corner, and involved either giving or receiving abuse, and then occasionally with his dealer at the park.  Other than a single visit from DI Patel a couple of weeks into my surveillance, Musgrove never had any visitors to his flat and even the brief exchange with Patel occurred on the doorstep.  At the time I’d been frantic with worry that Musgrove may have let something slip, and for several days I’d dreaded a phone call or visit to my Alton home from Patel. But to my relief it never came.

Despite the passage of time, my anger remained undiluted.  If anything it became more intense and my resolve that he should die only strengthened.  Following weeks of surveillance I was confident that, with the predictability of Musgrove’s routine, his flat would be the optimal place for the ultimate act.  Quiet, discreet and with few if any visitors, his body could lie undisturbed for weeks.  This would give me time to leave the country and possibly even provide an alibi of sorts, knowing that the longer the body remained undetected the more difficult it would be for the police pathologist to provide a precise time of death.  Then, even if suspicion was directed at me, I could always claim to have been out of the country and it would be virtually impossible to prove otherwise. 

The final variable was the timing of the event.  This proved to be a frustration, largely out of my control and largely dependent on the sale of my house in Alton.  Daily I would phone the solicitors and estate agents to confirm the completion date and to chivvy proceedings along.  I certainly didn’t relish the prospect of becoming a murderer, but I was desperate for my plan to reach fruition and to move onto the next chapter in my life, whatever that proved to be.

Chapter 17

After a restless and largely sleepless night on Kinder Scout, and not for the first time in the last few hours, I check my watch: still only 4:10 a.m. It is my last night in the bolt-hole and in my anxious state of mind there is little chance of further sleep.  It’s now mid April, the morning of the 17
th
to be precise, and I’m at the end of my six months of self-imposed incarceration.  It will be dawn within a couple of hours, and with my rucksacks already packed I intend to be on my way no later than 6:00 a.m.  I reach out into the darkness and find my torch lodged in its usual crevice in the side wall.  I switch it on and shield my eyes for a few seconds while I adjust to the light, and then look around my home of so long.  I have a strange feeling: a kind of sadness and nostalgia, knowing that my time here is ending. But I’m equally ready to move on.

I struggle out of my tight sleeping bag, roll it up, and shove it into one of the two rucksacks propped against the wall.  One of the bags contains my essentials and that I’ll take with me to the airport and beyond: passport, cash, spare clothes, a few old photographs, toiletries, et cetera.  The second, larger and much heavier bag containing the sleeping bag and other non-essentials I plan to dump on the way to Edale train station. 

My lips begin to tingle and I am aware that my breathing is rapid.  The feeling reminds me of standing in the dark alley waiting for Musgrove, that night all those months ago.  I reassure myself that my anxiety is understandable: I’m leaving the safety and security of my bolt-hole with the possibility that I may be recognised and captured on the way to the airport or at one of the numerous security checks when I finally get there.  I suspect my nervousness is compounded by the fact that there is an element of institutionalisation in my thinking and I can’t help question whether I’m ready for the uncertainties of the outside world.  Several times over the last few weeks it has crossed my mind that I should stay entrenched indefinitely in the bolt-hole, living my bizarre subterranean existence.  In reality, of course, I need to move on.  From a purely practical standpoint, the food packs, my only source of nutrition, are now at an end.  I doubt there is much in the way of edible vegetation on Kinder Scout, and I don’t fancy my chances of catching any of the lightning-quick mountain hares that dart across the moors from time to time.  In any case, I want –
need
– my life to move on.  I’ve had enough of treading water. 

For the last time I fire up the small camping stove, fill my cooking pot with water, and add the last of my camping-meal packs.  Waiting for the food to warm through, I unfold the map of the Peak District and study it closely, though I’m not really sure why: I’ve long since committed to memory the route that I’m going to follow during the coming day.  Away to the south-east is Edale and the train station.  As the crow flies it’s probably only about four miles.  Much of the route is downhill on well-worn paths and should take no more than a couple of hours – plenty of time for one of the hourly trains to Manchester and then onto the airport for my flight at 4:35 p.m.  I refold the map and put it back in the main body of the rucksack before reaching into the front pocket and removing a small plastic zip-lock bag.  As I’ve done numerous times over the past six months, I carefully empty the contents on to the floor and, under torchlight, check that I’ve got all I need.  I open the two A3 envelopes, knowing that each contains exactly US $12,500 but I can’t help but recount each stack of $100 bills.  Satisfied, I place the envelopes back in the plastic bag and then check the name on the passport, Mr James Andrew Bosworth, and verify the date and time on the plane ticket.  Reassured that everything is in order, I place them back in the zip-lock bag and stash them in a small rolled-up canvas bag that will be my hand luggage on the flight.  Finally I shove the whole lot back into the rucksack just as the water begins to boil.

My last few weeks in the bolt-hole have been quiet and uneventful, contrasting sharply with the final days in the build-up to Musgrove’s death.  Following the sale of my home in Alton and with the money in the bank, the last of my ties were severed and I began to plan in earnest for the ultimate act. 

I’d begun to convert my cash into American dollars, which would be my start-up fund for when I got to Brazil.  To avoid suspicion, I employed the services of numerous banks in and around the city, such that I never changed more than £1,000 in any single transaction.  The remainder of my current account, close to £450,000, I then transferred to an American bank based in Rio. 

I’d also obtained a new passport, using Bosworth’s name but of course my photograph.  I’d always known that if I attempted to use my own documents I wouldn’t get beyond the first airport security checkpoint.  But fortunately for me, and not saying much for our national security, obtaining a passport in Bosworth’s name had been far easier than I could have imagined.  I’d come across his expired passport, the old dark blue variety, when I’d gone to his house after one of his late-night mini emotional breakdowns.  With him none the wiser, I took his old passport and then simply submitted a new application using his details but my photograph.  Of course, in appearance Bosworth and I were nothing alike, but thankfully his original photograph, probably taken at the age of fifteen, was an old grainy black and white affair that made it difficult to distinguish any subtleties of facial features. Time had not been particularly kind to Bosworth, and in his current guise, with his chubby face and receding hairline, he bore little resemblance to his teenage appearance. It was a gamble, but I doubted that, given the twenty-year passage of time, the passport authorities would suspect the renewal was for a different person.  The only potential sticking point was the section:
address of applicant
.  Clearly it would have been easier to use my address in Alton, or even 17b, but unsure of what security and identification verification checks were in place, I thought it safer to use Bosworth’s address, the same address as on the original passport.  The downside, of course, was that I needed to get access to his house to collect the new passport before he discovered it himself; but I came up with a ruse about the central heating not working at my house and he let me stay with him for a week or so – until the passport was delivered. 

Physically, I felt ready for the challenges ahead.  My body was toned and lean, and when I stepped on the bathroom scales I was surprised to find that I’d lost a little over two stone since the death of Helen and the boys.  Over the previous few years I’d been so preoccupied with work that I’d rarely taken any exercise, so my weight had climbed to close to fifteen stone – three stone more than my ideal “fighting weight” of my early twenties.  My recent weight loss I largely attributed to the fact that preparing and eating regular meals had been the least of my priorities; but I’d also taken more exercise, usually in the form of long walks or runs out in the Peak District.

After weeks of painstaking surveillance, I felt sure that Musgrove’s flat would provide the safest and most discreet location to commit the ultimate act.  Of course, a potential problem was getting access to the flat.  For several days I’d struggled to come up with a plausible excuse that Musgrove would accept, but ultimately it wasn’t necessary, Musgrove’s greed providing the opportunity I was looking for.  I was just leaving a local bank after collecting another instalment of US dollars when my mobile rang.  The screen indicated
unknown,
but I recognised the number immediately.  I pressed the answer button but remained silent and waited for him to speak first.  After a few seconds, Musgrove came on, bellowing down the phone: “Julian, Julian, hope you’re well.”  I didn’t respond, but heard myself breathing deeply into the phone as he continued after a few seconds pause: “Good, good.  I … no, I mean, we have a slight problem.  I’ve run out of money and I need a little bit more.  Let’s call it a final instalment, a gesture of goodwill if you like.” 

My thoughts were whirring as I tried to work out the best way to play him.  It certainly came as no great revelation that he wanted more money, and if anything I was surprised he’d managed to last as long as six weeks before blowing it all.  Sensing the delay in my response, Musgrove continued more forcefully. “Look, Julian, I know you’ve sold your house.  You’re not short of a few quid, let’s just say another five grand and call it quits.” 

I finally responded aggressively. “You moron, you bloody moron, you really expect me to give you more money?” 

His response was belligerent and almost as if he’d got the moral high ground. “Listen, Ju, I’ve been having these terrible pangs of guilt.  Why don’t I pop over to Otley Road and have a word with Patel, the nice policemen, I’m sure he’ll be more than interested in what I’ve got to say.” 

I paused for a few seconds.  I certainly didn’t want to give in to his demands too early and arouse suspicion, but at the same time I knew that it would give me the perfect opportunity to get him alone and take care of matters.  “You bastard ... this is the last time, do you get it? The last time.  If it happens again I’ll go to the police myself.”  I could hear Musgrove laughing sarcastically, and despite the fact that he was playing into my hands it was irritating beyond belief that he perceived me to be so weak that I would succumb to his demands. 

“I want the money by the end of the weekend.”  Jesus, that’s not possible, I thought. I needed a few more days to get everything to ready. 

Thinking quickly, I responded: “I can’t do that … I’m out of town … in London.  It’ll have to be next Thursday.  I’m not getting back till then.”  Musgrove was clearly irritated, presumably his habit dictating the terms. “You better not be fucking me about, Julian, I want my money.” 

“You’ll have it next Thursday, that’s the best I can do.”  This time it was Musgrove who went quiet, and I continued: “I’ll bring the money round to your flat next Thursday at 11:00 a.m., I remember where you live.” 

“Okay, but you’d better get it here.  Trust me, Julian, you wouldn’t like prison, people like you don’t fit in.”  I had no doubt he was right, and switched off the phone without answering.

With exactly seven days to put the final elements of my plan in place, the date of the ultimate act was now set for October 8
th
, a Thursday and, coincidentally, my birthday.  Heading back to Rawlton, I got off the bus a couple of stops earlier than usual and called in at a travel agent’s in the precinct.  I’d passed it numerous times over the previous few weeks and had popped in once to check that the place was suitable.  It was an independent place but big and bustling, with at least ten sales assistants sitting behind desks.  It seemed to cater predominantly for flights to the Indian subcontinent, serving the large ethnic minority in the area, and also student backpacker trips.  To me it had particular appeal in that there were no CCTV cameras, at least that I could see, and it was a busy, chaotic place where I hoped my presence wouldn’t be remembered.  It also had the advantage that many customers paid in cash, however large the transaction, presumably explaining the need for two burly security guards on the door.  I entered the shop with baseball cap in situ, though whether this made me more or less conspicuous I wasn’t really sure.  The assistant’s English was basic at best, probably matching her computer skills, and she kept shouting through to the back in her mother tongue for instructions on using her workstation.  What should have been a five-minute job in the end took close to half an hour, but I was happy with the outcome: two return tickets to Rio de Janeiro, Brazil.  The first ticket, which, as circumstances dictated, I never got the chance to use, was in my name, departing Manchester Airport, 16:35 on October 9
th
.  The second ticket, and my contingency, was for my fictitious business partner, Mr James Andrew Bosworth, departing Manchester Airport, 16:35 on April 17
th
.  I paid cash for the economy-class tickets, both to return a couple of weeks after departure, though whether I’d need the return trip was of course another matter.  At the same time I booked a hotel at Manchester Airport for the night of 8
th
, the evening of the day of Musgrove’s planned demise.

----

On the floor at 17b, I lay in my sleeping bag, restlessly tossing and turning, into the early hours of October 8
th
.  My thoughts were in overdrive as I obsessed over the events and likely consequences of the coming day; the day on which my plan would reach fruition and the day, if all went well, Musgrove would die and my freedom would be guaranteed.  It was six weeks since the inception of the plan, and although I was as committed as ever, I couldn’t rid myself of lingering doubts.  Perhaps for a few, a very few, taking another man’s life is an acceptable hurdle to overcome in reaching a much desired objective, but I certainly didn’t belong to such a category. 

I climbed out of the sleeping bag a little after 5:00 a.m. and still another six hours to wait before my meeting with Musgrove at his flat.  It was dark outside and I switched on the living room light as I began to go through the contents of my small rucksack.  My hand immediately found the machete wrapped in an old cloth.  I took it out and took a couple of practice swings, a bit like a tennis player during the knock-up session.  I liked the way it felt in my hand: the weight was just right and the grip was secure – perhaps there was a future for me in the contract killing business.  I wrapped the machete back in the cloth and placed it on the floor before emptying out the rest of the rucksack: two passports, two envelopes of US dollars, one envelope with £500, a spare set of clothing, a few toiletries and finally, in the front pocket, a pair of leather driving gloves.  Everything was in order.