To anyone reading my scribbled notes they would doubtless have made little sense, but as I began to review my plan it was perfectly clear.  The first step was to pay Musgrove.  Instinctively the notion of seeming to give way to his sick attempt at blackmail was totally abhorrent.  But I knew, if nothing else, it would provide time to put the other elements of the plan in place.  I phoned the bank, and after spending several minutes negotiating the complex computerised answering system I finally got through to a surly male operator.  My request for a £4,700 cash withdrawal was initially treated with some disinterest, but after he checked the account details, and presumably the balance, now burgeoning following the receipt of my parents’ inheritance and from the sale of their house, his approach changed dramatically.  “Yes, sir, I’ll arrange for your money to be available to you at your local branch by noon tomorrow, and by the way, sir, you seem to have a large sum of money in your current account, can I arrange a financial health check for you?”  I declined the invitation and replaced the phone.

I returned my attention to the pad in front of me.  To kill Musgrove and more importantly get away with it, I needed to build up a detailed picture of his routine, to determine the optimal timing and the location of the ultimate act.  Of course I knew where his flat was, and I needed to find a suitable vantage point from which to keep track of his movements. Abruptly interrupting my racing thoughts, my mobile began vibrating on the kitchen table.  I glanced at the small screen displaying “unknown” and then answered.  The voice was more slurred and disjointed than usual but I recognised it as Musgrove’s.  My instinct was to hang up, but taking several deep breaths I composed myself and remembered the old expression, keep your friends close and your enemies closer.  After several seconds of silence I answered aggressively, feigning annoyance and not having to try too hard. “What the hell do you want?”

“Now, now, Julian, is that anyway to talk to an old friend?”  Musgrove was clearly under the influence of some drug or other, presumably at my financial expense, and I didn’t answer.  After a few seconds he continued: “I’m just checking that you received my little note and that everything will be okay for Thursday.”

I responded forcefully, almost spitting into the phone. “Let me make this perfectly clear to you ... this is the one and only time that I’m ever going to give you anything ... you’d better understand that.”

Pleased with my theatrical performance, I switched off the phone without giving him a chance to answer.  I sat back in the uncomfortable kitchen chair with the bars sticking into my back and reflected on the phone call.  Perhaps surprisingly, I wasn’t unduly perturbed by the conversation; if anything it had only served to galvanise my commitment. I knew my plan had to work.

I refocused on the job at hand, and taking the stairs two at a time I headed up to the study.  I switched on the laptop and while it powered up I found the A-Z map on the shelf above the desk.  I flicked through to the pages covering Rawlton as I struggled to remember the name of Musgrove’s road.  Amidst the drunken haze of a few weeks earlier I could picture a roundabout at one end and an old church at the other, but studying the maze of streets on the map, it could have been anywhere.  As I attempted to recall any other landmarks, I remembered the envelope containing Musgrove’s letter.  I retrieved it from the kitchen table, ran back upstairs, and then held it up to the window.  With the sunlight penetrating the previously scribbled-out address, the first three lines were clearly visible:

Mr T. Musgrove

29a Stanley Road

Rawlton

The remainder of the address was still obscured but it was enough, and returning to my lap top I did a Google search with the keywords “Rawlton”, “rental”, “flat” and “letting agents.”  In total nine hits were retrieved, all corresponding to local letting agents in the Rawlton area.  Each website has a search facility for their listings and I selected “Stanley Road” for the address, “any” for the accommodation type, price range and whether furnished or unfurnished.  I was far from fussy and certainly not looking for five-star accommodation; anything with a view of Musgrove’s flat would suffice.  I spent the next hour or so trawling the listings of each agency, finding a total of eight properties on Stanley Road.  I printed off the list and then grabbed my jacket, keys and the A-Z before heading to the car.

Within twenty minutes I arrived at Stanley Road.  A knot immediately formed in the pit of my stomach and my palms became damp with sweat as I drove past Musgrove’s flat, the site where effectively a death sentence for my family had been conceived.  Desperately trying to calm and control my emotions, I drove to the end of the road, turned the car round in a quiet side street and removed the list of flats from my jacket pocket.  Propping the list against the steering wheel, I slowly drove back down the road trying to identify the house numbers.  Many of the properties were too far from 29a to provide a reasonable view and I immediately crossed off 111, 101b, 97a, 68 and 30a, leaving just two candidate flats, 17b and 10a.  I drove on further to reach 10a, which was close to the end of the street.  But again I eliminated it, as it was set too far back from the road and didn’t give an unobstructed view of 29a.

This left just 17b, a first-floor flat, according to my list.  Knowing that I must have already driven past it, I turned the car round and slowed to a crawl.  I passed 13, 15 and then a building with a washing machine in the front garden but no obvious number, after which came 19 and 21.  I stopped the car, turned off the engine and peered down the driveway beyond the overgrown hedge.  About to drive on further, at the last second I spotted the number 17 painted on a gatepost that had fallen into the overgrown front yard.  I jumped out of the car as my heart began to thud uncomfortably.  I was now directly opposite Musgrove’s flat, and I headed down the driveway of number 17.  The first door I came to had 17b scrawled in whitewash across the lower pane of glass.  I couldn’t believe my luck, a first floor flat directly opposite 29a: the perfect vantage point.

I tried to obscure my face as I went back to the car, praying that Musgrove wouldn’t happen to be looking out of his living room window.  I started the engine and drove for a few minutes with my heart still thumping, before parking up a couple of miles away.  I searched through the paperwork for the number of the letting agent and dialled it on my mobile.  With the phone ringing I suddenly realised that I was using a phone registered in my own name; it could easily be traced back to me. Why hadn’t I used a public phone box?  I cursed my stupidity – I had to start thinking like a criminal.  Too late to hang up, on the fourth ring a male voice answered: “Smith and Dobson letting agents.”

“Yes, I’ve seen a property on your website, 17b Stanley Road. I want to check that it’s still available.”

I could hear him tapping away at his keyboard. “I’ll just have a look on our system for you … Yes, it’s still available. 17b Stanley Road, a one-bedroom, unfurnished, first-floor flat, available immediately, £200 monthly rent and £200 deposit.”

“Great, I’ll take it,” I said. “When can I collect the keys?”

The agent appeared surprised: presumably they didn’t get many enthusiastic tenants for a flat in such an undesirable area of town. “Don’t you want to view the property first?”

“No, no, I’m sure it will be fine.  I’ve seen it from the outside.”

Again the agent tapped on his keyboard. “We have the keys in the office so if you want to call by around 9:00 a.m. tomorrow you can sign the contract and move in … There is one thing … as it is such short notice we can only accept cash payment rather than cheque.”