The Hit Man (things are seldom what they seem)

Robert Hampton, a rather charmless man, of average height, medium build and with an instantly forgettable face, had carved himself a pleasant, if rather shallow niche in the village of Coltsfoot. He was beginning to feel quite safe in his rural idyll, although it would never do to become too complacent. He enjoyed the comfort of his Victorian cottage with the mundane name of ‘Meadow View’, but he would move on when the lease ran out; he always moved on.

Robert was a loner, by nature and necessity. Although he exchanged pleasantries with his neighbours, he declined social invitations, using his grief over the sudden death of a beloved, if fictitious wife as an excuse. Curiosity about his background was met with another fiction; a boring career in the Civil Service, shuffling paper.  He supported the local shops, popped into the pub occasionally and generally gave the impression that he was part of the community while skirting its edges.  He was sure his neighbours would describe him as “nice but dull” and that was just as he wished it.

He was eating a soft boiled breakfast egg and buttered toast at the kitchen table when he heard the clatter of the letter box.  He was expecting a letter regarding his overseas investments, but it was too early for the postman, so he finished his breakfast, made a fresh cup of coffee and listened to the morning news.

The day promised to be fine, so Robert decided to take a long, circular walk past the spinney, across the meadow and along the bridle path, and reward himself with a pint at the pub before returning home.  On his way to the utility room to find his hiking boots he saw the envelope lying on the mat; a good quality, cream envelope with his initials written on the front in an elegant, italic script.  The writing on the matching sheet of paper was so shocking that he experienced a temporary weakness in his legs and felt it necessary to lean against the wall for support.

Your past has caught up with you!

Your skills are needed, urgently.

Don’t think you can get out of it.

Meet me at 1.00 pm on Friday, at The Grey Filly.

Plenty of time to practise before the main event, if you are a little rusty! 🙂

PFS

The note was hand delivered, which suggested to Robert that the author of the letter was a local person. He couldn’t begin to imagine how someone in the village had discovered his secret. He had been so careful, but obviously not careful enough. He took the letter into his small, neat study and examined it.  His gut told him the handwriting was feminine and the arch tone reinforced the feeling. He found the round smiley face particularly sinister, for reasons he couldn’t quite define. Did this woman want to get rid of a husband, perhaps?  Was she so callous that she considered the matter a joke?  There was, of course, no way in the world that he would consider fouling his own nest; it was much too dangerous and, anyway, he had retired and was determined to stay that way.

Robert had plans in place for an event such as this, but he couldn’t leave before tying up this loose end. All thoughts of a walk and a pint forgotten, he put the letter aside and booted up his computer.

Penelope Fielding-Smythe was struggling, stork-like, with her left wellington boot while simultaneously attempting to evade the boisterous attentions of her black Labradors. Major charged at her right leg, toppling her onto the boot room floor,  allowing Poppy to use her abdomen as a trampoline and slobber over her face in a paroxysm of ecstasy.  Totally bloody uncontrollable, she thought helplessly, wiping Poppy saliva from her face.  Since the death of her alpha male husband, Archie, the dogs had decided that she was just another Labrador. She needed a man in her life.

She washed her face in the kitchen sink, fed the dogs in separate rooms to avoid bloodshed and settled down on the love-seat in the sitting room with a glass of wine and a bowl of pistachios. She was pleased with her little plan; it would kill two birds with one stone quite nicely.  She had already planned her wardrobe with the utmost care. Despite such a short acquaintance, she was sure she detected a certain light in his eyes during conversation. Women always knew about such things. He was definitely an alpha, in her considered opinion, and she hoped he would become her own alpha, but did he like dogs?

On Thursday evening, the doorbell rang in the middle of Penelope’s supper preparations, a simple herb omelette and salad.  How very inconsiderate to call at such an hour, she thought.  The dogs were outside, getting up to some mischief in her large garden, so she wouldn’t at least have the absolute hassle of rounding them up and shutting them in the boot room. It was dark and the outside light didn’t appear to be working, so she couldn’t immediately identify her visitor, although she saw that it was a man.  Suddenly she felt nervous, but didn’t feel justified in following her instincts, which would have resulted in door-slamming and calling the Police. She was English and didn’t wish to make a fuss. She summoned her courage and said, “Hello”.

The man took a step closer, put a hand in his pocket and enquired, “Mrs Fielding-Smythe?”

Before she could reply, Major and Poppy exploded through the front door, launched themselves at the visitor and knocked him to the ground. Unfortunately for Robert, but fortunately for Penelope, his head was split open by a large rock at the side of the path resulting in unconsciousness, shortly followed by death.  How very odd, thought Penelope, my sweet dogs are snarling.

Reginald Holmes, Major (retired) was already regretting signing a year’s lease on the Victorian cottage “The Meadows”.  He was a very private, rather old-fashioned man and disliked the easy familiarity of some of his neighbours. He had looked forward to a making a few friends in the village at his own pace, but resented being questioned in detail about his personal life on such short acquaintance.  After all, he had only moved to the village two months ago. There was a particular woman, Penelope double barrelled something or other, Secretary and Treasurer of the Coltsfoot Clay Pigeon Shoot, who was particularly annoying and intrusive. It was a great pity that he felt unable to join the Club because of her unwelcome attention, especially with the annual competition coming up in a few weeks time.  A team member had broken his arm and it could have been a wonderful opportunity for him to shine.  Bloody awful woman!  He eyed the gleaming trophies on the sideboard, usually a source of pleasure, and felt rather sorry for himself.

The Police found the deceased Mr Hampton an interesting puzzle, particularly in light of that fact that he was carrying an unregistered, untraceable gun in his coat pocket and appeared be a non-person.  Mrs Fielding- Smythe was initially viewed with suspicion because of the letter found at “Meadow View”, but upon further investigation the Police accepted her explanation and allowed her to go home.

Major and Poppy, left to their own devices for an unusually long period of time, had kept themselves busy by remodelling the boot room and kitchen.  It was not malicious behaviour but rather anxiety concerning the absence of the third Labrador.

Joel Thompson, thirteen years of age,  only son of Penelope’s neighbour and not the brightest spark, was unaware as yet of the crucial part he had played in the demise of Robert Hampton. His mind was fixed on the new I-Pod which he had ordered on the internet.  His savings were a bit short, but the £5 he had earned from delivering the letter had made up the difference.