Sitting in the front seat of the BMW, Rosanna Snowdon cursed the late-night traffic. She was hoping that the congestion would ease, so she could manage to make it home before she had to throw up. The bottle of supermarket Rioja after taping the latest edition of London Crime — on top of the two double vodkas she had taken to relax before recording her show — had not been a good idea. She had vowed to go easy on the booze, but that plan had gone out the window after her boss’s boss had started hitting on her for the umpteenth time. Alcohol was a key part of her coping strategy when it came to fighting off the unwanted attentions of fat, menopausal television executives, something of which Rosanna had plenty of previous experience.
There was a long BBC tradition of management ‘mentoring’ the talent. It was something that she had always robustly resisted, even if sometimes her would-be suitors put up quite a struggle. Ian Dale, the Managing Editor of Factual Programming (London), had been chasing his ‘little star’ for almost a year now. If Rosanna was not really in a position to tell him to get lost, she did nothing to give him any encouragement either. Now he had offered to drive her home. That should have been a major red flag, but she was pissed and tired and couldn’t be bothered to wait for a taxi, which could take ages at this time of night. It was already almost midnight and she had to be back in the studio by 8 a.m. tomorrow morning. Anyway, pissed or not, she was confident that she could handle Dale. If all else failed, she had her ace card, his wife Erica’s mobile number, prudently acquired from Dale’s secretary when it became apparent that he was going to be an ongoing nuisance. The number was programmed into her own phone. If he got out of order, she could just call up Mrs Dale, hand her husband the phone and invite him to explain himself.
Finally the Beemer made it through the last set of traffic-lights and turned into Gladstone Terrace. In front of her mansion block, Dale pulled into a bay marked Motorcycles Only and put the car into neutral. Spandau Ballet’s ‘Gold’ started playing on the radio. Rosanna didn’t know if she would make it inside in time; if not she could make use of the bushes either side of the front door. It wouldn’t be the first time, she thought ruefully.
‘That’s great, Ian, thank you.’ Before the car even stopped, she was trying to release the seat belt and make good her escape. However, in her intoxicated state, it was proving a difficult task.
Seeing her difficulty, Dale smiled lecherously. ‘Here, let me help.’
Putting one hand on her knee, he reached over for the buckle with the other, copping a quick feel of her left breast on the way.
‘Ian!’ It came out as a squeak rather than a shout. With a click, the belt released itself and he was all over her. She could smell his sweat and could hear his panting. She tried to sound forceful: ‘Get off!’
Grunting, he kept on pawing her, trying to force his tongue into her mouth. He was stuck half on top of her now, too heavy for her to try and lever him off. Her sense of nausea was overwhelming. A hand went between her legs. Energised, she pulled her thumb out of her right fist and slowly, deliberately, jabbed it into his left eye.
Immediately, both hands went to his face, and he slumped back into the driver’s seat. ‘Hell! My eye! You’ve blinded me.’
It took Rosanna a second to realise that she was no longer wearing the seat belt. But then, even as she reached for the door release, she felt a terrible pain in her stomach. Turning back to face Ian Dale, she was able to catch the look of horror in his good eye as she started to puke. For what seemed like an eternity, a prodigious stream of projectile vomit bounced off his shirt and pooled in his lap. Finally the retching finished. Rosanna took a moment to ensure that there was nothing more to come before taking some deep breaths through her mouth. Pulling a tissue from her pocket, she wiped her mouth daintily, before rolling it up into a ball and tossing it in the pile of sick. ‘Phew!’ She grinned, wiping a tear from her eye. ‘I feel a lot better for that.’
Ian Dale still had one eye clamped shut. The other was bulging in shock. It looked as if he was going to cry. The inside of the car was a complete mess and the smell was truly appalling. Rosanna opened the passenger door and swung her legs on to the pavement. ‘This is your wife’s car, isn’t it?’ She asked, turning back to take one last look at the mess. ‘It looks as if you will have some explaining to do when you get home.’
‘Can I at least come in and clean up?’ Dale whimpered.
‘Are you kidding?’ Rosanna asked, edging out of her seat. ‘After you just tried to rape me?’
‘What?’ This time he did let out a sob. ‘It wasn’t rape.’
‘No, but it jolly well would have been,’ Rosanna said. She felt sober now and, even better, in control. ‘We’ll call it quits, then, but if you are still here by the time I get upstairs I’ll call the police. And then I will call Erica.’
‘But…’ Dale’s protests died in his throat.
‘I’m sure that Mrs Dale would be very impressed by the sexual urges you are still able to display at your age.’
At the mention of his wife, Dale finally put the car into gear and released the handbrake.
‘Well done, Ian,’ Rosanna said, stepping out of the car. ‘That’s a good boy. Now, remember, you are getting off very lightly indeed. Have a good evening and see you tomorrow.’ Slamming the door firmly shut, she threw her shoulders back and walked as steadily as she could manage towards the front door.
The windows of the rusty old Peugeot 307 were wound all the way down, but the smell inside the car was still disgusting. It was as if someone had vomited and then curled up in a nest of fast-food wrappers and died under one of the front seats. Even with his latex gloves on, the man was reluctant to touch anything. He had already decided that when he got back to his apartment he would shower — twice.
Trying to suck in cold air from outside, he stuck his head out of the driver’s window and fired up another cigarette, careful to drop the stub from the previous one into his jacket pocket. As the smoke percolated into his lungs, he at least felt a little better. He had been waiting outside the dilapidated student pub in North London now for more than two hours. Every time a knot of punters emerged, he let his hand hover over the ignition, ready to spring into action. But, so far, his target had not emerged.
Every minute that ticked by on the car’s electronic clock increased his annoyance level another notch. He was missing a poker game for this, and he loved his poker, even if it was an expensive habit. Grinding his teeth, he thought about how ridiculous it was that he was having to sit here, waiting. In any proper country, he would be able to have someone walk right into the Cow Pub, put a couple of. 45s in the girl’s head, toss the gun on the floor and walk out. No questions, no problems, no comeback and there would be change out of $100 US. But this was not a proper country, he knew that well enough. The weather was vile, smoking was almost a criminal offence, and shooting people in public was considered ‘bad form’.
The thought made him laugh. Bad form was what he did best.
He glanced at his watch: eleven fifty. Yawning, he started picking his nose.
When she finally appeared, he was just flicking a ball of snot at a passing mongrel.
‘How nice to see you,’ he muttered.
Finally, after all this time, he had caught a break. The woman was on her own, singing along quietly to a tune playing on her iPod. Swaying to the music. Probably drunk.
Perfect.
He started the engine and watched as she stepped between a couple of parked cars, twenty yards or so further up the two-lane road. Peering out from behind a small Ford, she saw that there was no traffic in either direction. Stepping out, she got halfway across before realising that the pavement on the far side had been closed off for repairs. Turning away from him, she continued walking down the road itself, heading towards the traffic-lights at the next junction.
Putting the car into gear, he carefully manoeuvred it out into the roadway. She was thirty yards in front of him now, as he moved his foot on to the accelerator. By the time she realised what was happening, he was almost upon her. Half-turning, there was barely time for the incredulity to register on her face. There was a satisfying thud and she was flipped up over the car bonnet, and sent bouncing down the road.
Did she recognise him as she flew past? It was unlikely but he hoped so. He wanted her to know why — why this was happening to her; why she had got herself killed. That should be the last thought crawling through her brain before she expired.
Looking back, he saw the street was still empty — no witnesses, no reaction, plenty of time for him to go back and make sure the job was done properly. But the satisfied grin had not reached his face when his thoughts were interrupted by the scream of a horn. He was sailing through the junction before he realised it, through a red light, almost sideswiping a black cab as it roared past him.
‘Mother of God!’ he cursed, bringing the Peugeot to a halt.
The taxi stopped in a squeal of rubber off to his left. He could see the driver get out and head towards him with fury in his eyes. The cabbie hadn’t seen the girl yet, but there was no question of going back now. No matter: a look in the rear-view mirror showed her still lying prostrate on the tarmac. He’d hit her at speed. She wasn’t getting up again. He was confident that the job was done. Stomping on the accelerator for a second time, he left the taxi driver’s curses flailing on the wind, and headed off into the night.