Saturday 11th August 2012,
‘Yes Sir, I can Boogie, I can Boogie all night long,’ the ringtone pierced the thick warm air.
“Shit, who can be wanting me at this time of day when I’m pleasuring myself with my husband?” enquired Maureen.
“Well, if you don’t answer it, you’ll never know,” stated Darren, the aforementionedhusband.
“Yes, but I was just getting there, and I don’t know if I can climb that hill again. You know I love a bit of ‘afternoon delight’ and so do all my friends,” laughed Maureen. “So it won’t be any of them.”
“On you go, I’ll finish you off later Dirty Girl,” reiterated Darren.
“Hi, this is Maureen, can I help you?”
“Hi Maureen, this is Richard here. I’ve got some very interesting news for you. There seems to be an accounting error relating to David’s share dividends over the last 7 years. It seems that you may be entitled to some pay out from 2005 onwards.”
“Fuck me, how much?” shouted Maureen down the phone.
Richard replied, “Well if you multiply it all by 7, it’s approximately £150,000.”
“Wow,” exclaimed Maureen. “So this is my money?”
“Well it maybe, we just have to finalise some figures and some paperwork but there is probably some outstanding share money for you if you come round to the office. How about 9, say half past 9? I should have finished my work by then.”
“Of course I shall Richard; I’ll look forward to it, thank you very much.”
Maureen thought wow, what a pay out, £150,000 cash for doing nothing, fantastic.
She turned round to her tennis pro husband and said, “Right I’m off tonight to see Richard about some pay out and hopefully I’ll have some good news.”
Maureen Nichols who’d married Darren Jones a few years earlier and still lived very handsomely on her ex-husband’s David Nichols life policy and the accumulated wealth that was held within.
She had a shower, had a little bit of tea, and got herself dressed to go down to the offices, and in the meantime Richard prepared the scene.
The scene was set.
Richard decided to place himself in his favourite large leather chair, Chesterfield by design, in a beautiful racing green leather. He was proud of that; it was his present to himself for his first large order in Nottingham, all those years ago. He was by all accounts a self-made man with the help of his father Henry but he was proud of the fact that no one had given him a hand out; he’d studied hard, he’d worked hard and it now came to this.
The offices of Eliminator Limited were at the back of the entrance hall.
The buzzer went and the intercom said, “Hi, this is Maureen to see Richard. Is he in?”
Richard pressed the intercom, “Yes of course I am, I’m waiting for you.”
He had been sitting in his office watching the great big 65” plasma that was on the wall.
The London Olympics were in full swing.
It was Super Saturday, what an incredible event. He so desired the British athletes to do well.
Jennifer Ennis, she won.
A few minutes later, Greg Rutherford, he won.
Soon to be the 10,000 metres with his favourite runner, Mo Farah.
The Union Jacks were flying, the noise was deafening, the Bose sound system was incredible.
Maureen walked past reception, along the corridor where she could hear the cheering and shouting of Richard.
“Come on Mo, come on Mo! Do it, do it!”
Mo came down the home straight and sprinted away to victory.
“Yes! Yes! Fantastic.”
As Maureen walked in she saw Richard looking at the TV screen and his head bolted straight round to watch her enter the room.
In front of him, placed strategically at head level, was a sawn off double barrel shot gun.
Maureen perused the scene. Her heart skipped a beat. She had a sharp intake of breath.
Richard had a bottle of San Miguel in his hand. He was flushed with the happiness. The Olympics had brought him an hour of escape.
Maureen looked intently at Richard and whispered, “What’s all this about?”
Richard, calming down from the elation of the last hour said, “Maureen, you and my ex-wife are a breed of women that I have started to despise.
I was taught by my mother to always regard women in the highest extent.
Always ask them if you can touch their hair, always open a door for them, care for them, pay for a round of drinks, drive them everywhere, be their chauffeur, be their lover, be their protector. This was how I was brought up as a young man.
Nowadays, all they seem to want is the money, their obsessed by the protection of the money. They want to get rid their husbands but they want to keep their wallets. You and my ex are the epitome of modern women, I find you disgusting.”
Maureen was affronted by this.
She said, “What about the shotgun? What’s this all about?”
“Well in all honesty Maureen, I think you’re a complete and utter bitch and you killed David with your grinding, your whining and your incessant demands. I saw that man being ground into dust as you had countless affairs and ruined his reputation and life.”
“I didn’t!” shouted Maureen. “You caused his death by overworking him!”
“I certainly did not,” retorted Richard. “He was happiest when he was away from you, he took jobs anywhere in the country so he could stay away from your bitterness and your constant chiding.
Nothing was good enough for you, was it Maureen?
You are a disgusting human being.”
At that point, she lunged at Richard. She’d had enough!
“No one, I mean, no one speaks to me like that,” spat Maureen.
She lunged towards him, her right foot stepped on the lush Axminster carpet, a deep pile, 3 inches thick or should we say 3 and a half inches thick. That half inch had a pressure sensor that triggered the shotgun to ignite within a millisecond.
Maureen felt her foot give way and suddenly looked up. She then saw Richard’s face disappear onto the wall. Splattered like a watermelon.
“Unbelievable!” she said “AAARRGGHH!” screaming at the top of her voice.
Richard, who was effectively decapitated, sat there with his hands calmly holding the remote control as the medal ceremonies continued for British success.
The British National Anthem blared out of the surround sound system.
It was a Super Saturday for Britain and a complete disaster for the Baxter family.
Friday 24th June 2016,
“Hi, this is Derek Lewis from outside the Houses of Parliament in London. The results have just been announced from the Town Hall in Manchester.
The Brexit campaign have won.
The majority was 52/48 to leave the European Union.
It has been announced that the Prime Minister has resigned and a new era of British Politics has started today.”
In his penthouse in Prestbury, a business executive whispered to himself, “Ah well, it’s all down to me then!”
Tuesday 10th June 2008,
“Good evening, this is Mark Davis reporting for Look Northeast from Leeds, in the beautiful county of Yorkshire!
Today, Kenneth Alan Coleman of York Road, Pudsey, near Leeds was sentenced to life in prison for the murder of his ex-wife Shirley Coleman of Slattery Road, Pudsey with a minimum of 10 years before being considered for parole. Mrs Coleman was found in her home in October of last year with 22 stab wounds to her body. Mr Coleman was arrested at the scene after he phoned the Yorkshire Police, in Headingley, to confess the murder of his ex-wife.
We go over now to our reporter Kayleigh Wilson at Leeds Crown Court.”
Yes, Kenneth Alan Coleman, 57 of York Road, Pudsey was jailed today for the murder of his ex-wife Shirley. The couple were married in 1981 and divorced in 2003 after 22 years of marriage. Mr & Mrs Coleman had one son Nathan, in 1982 and Mrs Coleman became a stay-at-home mum. Shirley had been a local bank clerk in Lawnswood, but according to Mr Coleman, refused to return to work when their son went to school in 1987. Mr Coleman supported the family throughout the 80’s and 90’s even with a couple of redundancies from his sales job in British Gas and British Telecom. He finally got a stable position with Yorkshire Waterways with responsibilities for opening up the disused canals in West Yorkshire.
Shirley was diagnosed with pathological demand avoidance syndrome, a kind of psychological condition that meant Shirley found even small tasks difficult to complete. In 2003 Shirley was awarded the family home, half of Kenneth’s pension and spousal maintenance of £1,800 per calendar month on a joint life basis. This is a relatively new phenomenon where the more affluent spouse pays the ex-spouse for the rest of their lives, until one dies.
In 2005 Shirley returned to the court to increase the spousal maintenance to £2,000 per month, when Kenneth was promoted to Head of Operations. The final straw came when in early 2007, Shirley once again returned to the court to increase the monthly payment to £2,400, as Kenneth had now been promoted to the Chief of Operations.
The 4th of October 2007 was the final court appearance. On that fateful Friday, the Judge agreed that the increase was to go ahead. That decision was handed down at 11:30am. After a celebratory drink with her barrister in Leeds city centre, Shirley returned to the former marital home at 1.00pm. Kenneth was waiting inside with a large kitchen knife, ironically a wedding present from Kenneth’s deceased parents.
Kenneth told the officers attending the scene, he had just had enough! He stabbed Shirley 22 times, one for every year they were married. Detective Superintendent Michael Watts interviewed Mr Coleman and asked him what had made him finally snap.
Mr Coleman replied,
“She showed NO CONTRITION.”
The Honourable Judge Reynolds stated to the public gallery. “This is a very sad and possibly not an isolated case of a man broken and pushed to the edge, but murder is murder. One man can’t rile against the system. Kenneth will pay the ultimate price, the restriction of his freedom and a very bleak future in his retirement.”
“On sentencing Mr Coleman, Judge Reynolds warned other husbands and wives that took their grievances or injustices into their own hands, ‘You will pay the ultimate sanction of losing your liberty, maybe for the rest of your lives’.
Judge Reynolds also stated that if someone is finding it difficult to comply with the current laws, go to your MP and address your own grievances.”
This is Kayleigh Wilson reporting for Look North East and over to you Mark in the studio.”
In a York city centre hotel, waiting for a meeting with Yorkshire Central Hospital Commissioners, a 26 year old executive thought to himself.
“Go to your MP to ask the Government to pay for ex-spouses?”
“Turkeys don’t vote for Christmas!”
(Announcement on the steps of St Mary’s Maternity Hospital, Paddington, London).
Monday 21st June 1982,
St Mary’s Maternity Hospital, London.
“It’s a boy!”
Future King of England born.
200 miles north.
St Mary’s Maternity Hospital, Manchester.
“It’s a boy!”
Future Serial Killer born.
VICTIM 1: BARBARA ANNE WATSON
D.O.B. 03/08/58 – 08/01/18 ?? R.I.P.
Monday 8th January 2018,
Just like any other Monday morning.
“Hi Barbara, it’s Dennis Bailey and Chris Miles from The Bristol Post.
Is anyone there?
Can we come in?”
“Frick me, what’s that smell,” exclaimed Chris, an ex-army specialist, but actually now an extremely good news photographer.
“Whatever it is, it’s not good,” replied Dennis.
Dennis had opened an email in his personal account at The Bristol Post that very morning.
It read, ‘20 Clifton Road, Ashton. Take a photographer’.
It was sent by ‘Justice’.
“Who the hell’s Justice?” thought Dennis. He, at least, wanted to explore the intrigue of an unsolicited email. Although not uncommon he didn’t feel this one was spam.
Due to the advances in technology, modern local newspaper reporters now use their own SLRs or even their iPhones to take pictures of their interviews. It of course saves money if they don’t take a photographer. But whoever sent the email specifically asked for a photographer because these guys know how to frame and compose pictures.
Well, Dennis and Chris were about to stumble onto the biggest crime scene of their lives and the biggest in Britain for 10 years or more.
A quick search of the voters’ role revealed that the occupant of 20 Clifton Road was one Barbara Anne Watson, listed as single and aged 59.
“Nothing to ring alarm bells there,” thought Dennis.
So off the intrepid duo went into the suburbs of Bristol, with a little bewilderment and, if they were honest, a little bit of relief at getting out of the office so early on a Monday morning. Their boss, a hardnosed ‘fuck you’ Geordie, by the name of Malcolm King, told them, “Don’t fuck about and get right back here with that fucking cat stuck up that fucking tree story!” Little did he know, Malcolm wouldn’t really see his number one investigative reporter or his best press photographer for nearly 18 months.
“That’s the smell of rotten fish, sweaty socks and burnt bacon,” retorted Dennis. “I was a student once you know.”
“I’ve smelt worse in the army,” laughed Chris, but he didn’t mention that that smell reminded him of burnt corpses.
They had tried the front door a few minutes earlier, no reply. It was just before 10:00am; maybe Barbara was still in her pyjamas or in the bath.
But there was no way these two were going away until the mysterious email had had an answer. Especially a ghost one sent from guy called ‘Justice’.
20 Clifton Road was actually in the midst of a row of varied houses, very suburban and very English. It smelt of middle class, with the front gardens and parking for two spaces in the driveway. It was an aspirational area for many lower class workers.
“Mrs Watson had done alright for herself,” thought Dennis. The side door at the back was a little open so they decided this was their point of entry. Dennis laughed when he saw the door.
“Hey Chris when is a door not a door?”
Chris humouring Dennis, as always, said “I don’t know Dennis.”
“When it’s a jar, of course,” chortled Dennis to himself.
“Oh piss off Dennis!” giggled Chris. “That’s bloody school boy humour. But maybe Barbara is inviting us in for a cup of tea, what do you think then?”
“Yes Chris, I think she is! Let’s go and see what type of tea she has to offer,” replied Dennis.
A smell was pervading into the kitchen from the living area in the front of the house.
“Whaaa, bloody hell, I won’t be having a cuppa from those today,” exclaimed Chris pointing to the cups that were strewn about the kitchen. “Looks like they have gangrene! If that was a soldier’s leg, we’d have it removed or even chopped off!”
“Bloody hell!” shouted Dennis, “I thought my kids lived in squalor but this takes the biscuit”.
Bits of food lay of the floor, empty nut cases were scattered in the hall and pots with unknown substances were flung in the sink and he thought they hadn’t been cleaned for months.
“Mrs Barbara Anne Watson lived like a pig, so how could she afford to live in a place like Ashton?” thought Dennis.
The internal door was open onto the hall where a dull grey mist hung in air; it caught the back of Chris’s throat.
“It smells like CS gas, like we used in training in Winterbourne Gunner,” choked Chris, covering his mouth with a lens cloth from his camera case. That case was now open and his Nikon SLR was whirring into action. He sensed he was stepping into a crime scene but didn’t want this opportunity to pass him by.
Dennis felt the hairs on the back of his head rise and fall as he moved down the corridor, into the place where the smoke was emanating. As a gentleman in his 60’s, he always had a hanky in his pocket. His dear departed mother had always told him. “Carry a hanky, just in case a lady needs one.”
Well he needed one now.
“Jesus that smell is awful,” coughed Dennis.
A laundry basket was placed at the door, piled high with dirty clothes. Ironing board legs were visible through the gap.
“Why would anyone iron dirty clothes?” thought Dennis. He was now very, very careful not to touch anything of note. The whirring noise of the Nikon was echoing in his head, he felt this was really bad.
“Chris, can you use the video function on the Nikon to record me going into the room please?”
“Yeah, no probs Dennis,” replied Chris.
As Chris flicked the switch to the video recorder, the frontal light came on for better definition. The lounge was poorly lit as the curtains onto Clifton Road were closed.
“Bloody hell!” explained Dennis as he entered in the darkened room.
“What the fuck is it?” shouted Chris, from just out of view. He panned the Nikon around the scene, until he saw what shocked Dennis moments earlier.
The floodlight hit the feet first. The toe nails were gnarled and yellow, almost brown, they were placed in pink flip flop slippers, that used to be pink. Now they were just brown. The legs that were protruding from the north of the aforementioned slippers were covered with spots, dirt and blue veins, in that order.
As the boys expected, Barbara was still in her night gown. As it was emblazoned with ‘Frankie Says Relax’, Dennis put it close to 30 years old. But although Dennis thought that was in bad taste, it paled into insignificance when he saw what lay on the ironing board placed strategically in front of the television. On a small pile of clothes, dirty of course, lay Mrs Barbara Anne Watson. Well to be fair, Dennis and Chris had to assume it was Barbara. Firstly, they had never seen a picture of her and secondly, she had ironed her own face, or more precisely, someone else had.
The ironing board was orientated with a left hand rest but the iron was placed in the middle, upright. A small pile of clothes were strategically placed in the middle of the board so that Barbara’s chin was resting bang on the centre. Her face was then angled 45 degrees to the window, resting against the sole place of the iron. The iron was still on and smoke, mixed with steam, emanated in languid curls above the tip of the sole plate.
The skin on Barbara’s left cheek has black where the iron had been in contact but red around the shape of the deltoid of the sole plate. The skin to the north, south, east and west was pink with blisters but the worst image for Dennis was the skin dripping on to the dirty piles of clothes.
Chris knew that skin when it burns becomes thin and the 16 layers of dermas become detached from each other and start sliding, just like an avalanche. So unfortunately Barbara’s left lower jaw skin lay on the ironing board while her right cheek had a beautiful smile, this is because the cicatricle effect of the left cheek pulling Barbara’s scalp downwards.
The left dentures were visible and her tongue had fallen out of her mouth and stuck to the iron sole plate. This, in time, had pulled the left eye socket down and the eyeball was resting on the zygomatic bone. It looked like Barbara was interested in life with the right side of her face and turned into a zombie with her left.
That meant that one eye was looking in the pot and one was looking up the chimney.
“That’s the worst squint I’ve ever seen,” retorted Chris. The British always have a sense of humour in death.
“For Fuck Sake Chris!” shouted Dennis.
“Hope you’ve not got that camera on audio. Stay back from the body and don’t touch anything. Start taking pictures as the police are going to shut this place up real soon and we won’t get a better opportunity than this,” whispered Dennis, as he didn’t know if the audio was on or not.
Chris duly turned the Nikon back to picture mode and started taking images of the body and surrounding apparatus. His eye, immediately caught sight of the electric plug. It had a new timer on it, so shiny and new that it definitely didn’t belong to this house.
Chris was looking at the small pegs in the mechanical timer.
“Seen that Dennis? The bastard who ironed her let her burn for 30 minutes every hour. Wow this guy wanted to get our attention.” Chris had seen many dead bodies in Afghan, but he knew this one was fresh.
Dennis pondered, “Why us, why her, why ironing?”
They would find out a month later!
They had stumbled into media gold.
“Turn the lights on Chris, would you? I’m going to turn off the iron and open a window so I can breathe,” said Dennis.
He used his handkerchief to switch off the iron, as he’d seen ‘Waking the Dead’ many times, and opened the curtains.
“Jesus Christ! Look at what she was ironing!” shouted Chris.
Dennis walked around the newly lit room and saw that the ironing board was littered with £20 notes, all new, like they had been ironed and randomly spread out onto the board. Some were on the floor and some were on the TV stand behind Barbara.
“She liked to iron money?” enquired Chris.
“No stupid. These are all fresh, crisp and newly minted. Do you think that Barbara would have notes as clean as these? I don’t think so. The killer left them for us to find,” replied Dennis.
“Well, if he wanted us to have them, can we just help ourselves?” chortled Chris.
“Yes, of course we can, if you want to spend the next three months eating prison food,” retorted Dennis. “Let’s count them but not touch them.”
So they began counting the twenties and then recounted them so they wouldn’t get the number wrong.
A bit random thought Dennis but his investigator instincts told him this was no random number or coincidence.
God and killers don’t place dice!
The killer wanted Dennis to investigate the murder of Barbara and he made sure he brought Chris along for evidence and corroboration. “The killer has certainly caught my attention,” exclaimed Dennis.
“Right, we better call this is in,” said Dennis. “I’ll call Detective Superintendent Dick Walters of the Major Crimes Unit in Clifton because he’ll love a juicy murder, right in the middle of his city.”
“Ok,” said Chris, “Just going to upload these images to my email back at headquarters, so we don’t lose our edge.”
Dennis wasn’t so sure about this idea because he was a dinosaur with IT. He didn’t trust anything more sophisticated than a pencil. He once told Chris that NASA spent $40 million inventing a pen that could write upside down in space and the Russians just used a pencil. If it was good enough for the Russians, it was good enough for him.
The next day he would remind Chris of that story many, many times.
As Modern Press are 24/7 around the world types, they all have 4G Wi-Fi and email on all their devices so when Chris sent his pictures of 20 Clifton Road to The Bristol Post he also sent them to Facebook, YouTube, Google Images, the BBC and Sky and all of the red top newspapers in Britain.
Later Chris was heard to say, “How the fuck did that happen?”
250 miles away in Carlisle, a 35 year old business executive was waiting for a final appointment with a robotics engineer, when he started watching the ITV Lunchtime News at 1 o’clock. If Chris Miles wanted to know “How the fuck did that happen!” he should have asked him.
“This is the Lunchtime News read by Naha Patel. There has been a security breach at Facebook, YouTube and Google Images. For security reasons we are not at liberty to show you those images but first reports say they are from a murder scene in the heart of Bristol. Police are still at the scene and our reporter Gill Bury is with Detective Superintendent Richard Walters of the Bristol Police Force.
“We were alerted to the scene by local newspaper reporter Dennis Bailey. He had been instructed to visit there by an email that landed in his inbox this morning,” stated D S Walters. “We are not releasing the name of the victim until all interested parties are informed but she was a single, 59 year old woman from the Bristol area. We do suspect foul play and initial investigations suggest the victim has been dead for more than 24 hours and we’re appealing to local residents who have seen anything suspicious since Thursday the 4th of January 2018.”
The business executive in Carlisle thought the police will get no forensic evidence or eyewitness reports to help them this time and hopefully none of the other 7 to go.
VICTIM 2: NAOMI TRACEY HESKETH
D.O.B. 01/07/71 – 05/02/18 ?? R.I.P.
Monday 5th February 2018,
Just like any other Monday.
Newcastle is a beautiful city………… in the summer!!
“What am I doing in St James Park Stadium on a Monday morning, freezing my balls off?” thought Ryan Hodge, a young celebrity reporter for the Tyneside Express.
“Where is my career going? Down the bloody tubes,” he muttered to himself.
Well, with the next buzz of his phone, things were about to get a whole lot better for Ryan’s imminent future. The Samsung 8, his new pride and joy, a beautiful piece of engineering, appeared with a message from his text box saying Naomi Hesketh, another fine piece of engineering, was wanting to see him.
“Come and see me sweet cheeks! The door is off the latch, bring your Bon Bons!”
At 38, Ryan felt he was at the peak of his sexual powers, with a little bit of help from his old friend Viagra.
“Don’t knock, it till you try it,” was what he told all his mates.
He had a reputation as a considerate and powerful lover, many women had tried and failed to make him their one and only true love. A few older women in Newcastle’s glitterati ‘had to be seen brigade’ were more than happy to succumb to his natural attention and his need and desire to please them sexually.
And he was pleasing on the eye!
He was known on the Newcastle scene as the ‘Cougar Tamer’.
Naomi on the other hand was known as ‘The Mouth’ for two reasons.
One, she was loud and gregarious and,
Two, much more accurately, she gave the best blow jobs on the Tyne.
This included all the Romanian, Polish and Czech professional girls that were employed by the lap dancing clubs in the city.
Ryan, forgetting immediately that he had an interview with the new Peruvian forward that Newcastle had signed that weekend, reached into his wallet for his favourite Bon Bons and the magic of Viagra started to work immediately.
When it came to pussy, Ryan had no friends.
Quite literally, tooled up for the job at hand, Ryan made his way down from St James Park to the river and Naomi’s duplex. “The walk of 20 minutes should just get them little blue wonders working,” he thought to himself.
Bloody hell he was wired.
Naomi was by far and away the best cougar in Newcastle and ‘dirty as fuck’ as he’d informed all his mates at the newspaper.
When Ryan arrived at the duplex, the door was shut but with a slight push it gave way to allow him easy access. His heart and his balls started to race, both pounding to the rhythm of the sounds coming from the first floor. The living room was upstairs with the bedrooms on the ground floor to take advantage of the sun terrace overlooking the Tyne. Anyway it didn’t really matter as Naomi loved doing sex everywhere; kitchens, bathrooms, sofas and even once on top of a bin in the Castle grounds.
God he loved this woman!
“Naomi, Naomi its Ryan. Are you upstairs?”
No reply, he stopped, listened. “Hmm... That sounds like porn,” he thought. “This is going to be really good.”
“I’m coming!” How appropriate he thought.
He quickly climbed a flight of stairs and poked his head over the glass and steel balustrade. He could hear the gasping and panting of porn stars hard at their work on the Bose sound system. It surrounded the room with sex.
“Oh Jesus Christ. What the fuck!” exclaimed Ryan on reaching the top of the stairs.
In the low winter light he could make out Naomi’s naked figure facing the giant 75 inch plasma screen, her torso lit up with flashing images of bodies writhing across her legs and breasts. Arses, cocks and mouths briefly illuminating her body although he couldn’t see her face, as it was drooping towards the floor.
Her hands were tied together directly above her head and strung to the ceiling with a thick gauge chain. Through the flashing images Ryan could see she was sat on a leather box that was plugged into the wall underneath the plasma.
“Bloody hell!” he exclaimed again.
Her body was vibrating and her back was arched away from the TV, her breasts with those huge areolas and nipples were rock hard and swaying back and forth to the rhythm of the vibrating sound coming from the leather box.
“Jesus, Naomi, you’re on the sybian already!” shouted Ryan.
“Naomi! Naomi! Are you ok?”
“Are you ok Naomi?”
Ryan moved slowly across the room just as the actress on the porn movie orgasmed again. Ryan suddenly stopped, the Viagra had lost its affect. He could see Naomi clearly now. He saw that the sybian was on a timer, 30 minutes every hour.
Apart from her breasts and pussy, she was covered in £20 notes. They were stuck all over her body. It was like a bodysuit of money. Ryan had never seen anything like it and he’d seen a lot of shit in his life.
What the Fuck!
Fuckity, Fuckity, Fuckity!
“Why fuckin me?” shouted Ryan to himself.
He immediately looked around the room, he realised very suddenly Naomi must be dead. You can’t stick money in the middle of your own back, so she must have been murdered.
“Ok, dilemma time,” he thought to himself.
Run away as quickly as possible and denying any involvement.
Ryan dismissed this very quickly.
He knew this place had CCTV and Naomi had sent him a text that morning, easily traceable.
“Hold on a minute, if Naomi sent me a text 30 minutes ago she could still be alive or is the killer still in the building?” thought Ryan to himself.
He dived at the body. He held his hands to Naomi’s neck: cold, no pulse, white skin.
Even with his little medical knowledge, he could work out she was dead.
“Look around now,” he thought to himself, scanning the room for clues, anything unusual or any mad axe men that may be lurking in the shadows.
His natural newspaper instincts kicked in.
“For every cloud there’s a silver lining,” he thought.
“Ok,” he rationalised to himself, “No Fucking today but I’m gonna get a great scoop for the newspaper and for myself.”