Dead Man's Dinner - Una Gordon Page 0,32

he had hoped, went over to her handbag to get one. While her back was turned Peter whipped an old pair of Bianca's tights from his pocket. In a second they were round her throat. She was strong and she struggled, but he was stronger and the struggle was brief. He felt a kind of satisfaction as she slipped to the floor. He positioned himself behind the door and waited. Hector shouldn't be long, but it was an hour and a half later that Peter heard a key in the door. The hammer was in his hand, ready. As the door opened, Peter brought the hammer down with full force on Hector's head. It was a massive blow and fatal.

Peter found that because of the way Hector had fallen he could not get out the door. He bent down to try to pull the body out of the way and as he did so, the door was pushed open from the other side.

“Is it all right if I come in?” a man said. The stranger's eyes met Peter's, then they looked down at Hector's body slumped between them. As horror slowly dawned on the man's face, Peter pushed past him and ran downstairs. He had to get away. It was Peter's bad luck that he had chosen for the murder the very night when Hector had arranged to bring a colleague home for dinner. He had said he'd park the car while Hector went ahead to see if Bianca needed any help with dinner.

Out in the street Peter found it was drizzling and he was sweating. That had been a close shave. How well had the man seen him? Who the hell was he? Damn and blast! What hellishly bad luck that someone should appear that night. He tried to calm himself down. He looked around to see if anyone was paying him particular attention, but people seemed to be intent in hurrying along to get out of the rain. Peter decided he'd have to get out of the country. He started mentally giving himself instructions. Get on the tube. Go back to the flat. Pack a few things. Find my passport. How much money have I? Just move, move, move, he kept telling himself. Was there any blood on his clothes? Would anyone in the tube station notice his agitated state? No, of course they wouldn't. This was London – no one was interested in anyone else. He ran down the escalator and waited impatiently on the platform. When the train did come it seemed to move from station to station with agonising slowness. As the automatic doors opened and closed, he could feel his nerves stretching and contracting along with them. He was in a hurry, but the rest of the world seemed to be moving in slow motion. Eventually he got out at his station and ran up the escalator. He decided against taking a taxi. He was about to cross the road when a voice hailed him from a car. By now the rain was driving down fast. He thought of not answering, but that might look suspicious. A man whom he recognised vaguely was leaning out of his car, speaking to him. “You live in the same block of flats as I do, don't you – want a lift? What a night!

Peter thought quickly. Which would look more suspicious – if he refused or if he accepted, then couldn't carry on a normal conversation. He decided to accept. The man was so busy concentrating in poor visibility that little conversation was necessary. As the man made incessant and repetitive comments on the foul weather, Peter found all he had to do was make monosyllabic noises in agreement. Like a refrain a line from Macbeth went through his head repeatedly. “So foul and fair a day I have not seen”. How well that summed up his feelings. The weather was foul, but he'd got rid of that bitch and her boyfriend and that made the day fair for him. He wasn't going to be like Macbeth and let the murder get on his conscience. He felt for a moment or two, before the fear set in again, a sense of power. He'd won in the end. Bianca was gone. He'd go abroad – start a new life.

Perhaps Derwent had done him a favour after all. He became aware that the driver had asked him something.

“I said I'll drop you here, then garage the car.”

“Right, thank you,