A Fair Cop

by David Wass

Izzy loved fairs. They reminded her of her childhood. This one was near her flat, so she couldn't resist an evening stroll to revel in the flashing lights, the jangle of music, the excited screams from daredevil rides.

"Come along, m'darlin's! Flatten the ducks and win a prize!"

She jerked to a halt, suddenly oblivious to the jostling crowds. The shout came from the shooting gallery.

"Knock down six and 'ave the pick of the stall!"

A cold shudder ran through her. The voice was croaky, with a slight lisp.
It was his voice. The last time she'd heard it was on a tape recorder in the police station thirteen years ago.
 
"Six. That's right, love."

There'd been a murder. The police had replayed an answerphone message telling the victim to attend a meeting; he couldn't have known it was his appointment with death.

The killing had been brutal. The pictures of the burnt-out van had made her retch. Izzy could recite word for word the report the sole witness had given, before she'd been given a new identity to protect her from the missing murderer.

"Teddies, tigers and turtles! Win 'em all!"

She shivered again, and moved forwards until she could see the speaker through the crowd thronging his stall.

Then Izzy frowned and shook her head. He looked nothing like him. The identikit pictures hadn't shown a man with puffed-out cheeks, narrow eyes, and pinned-back ears as ifhe'd been under the surgeon's knife.

But everyone changed over the years. She'd been a pudgy, long-haired blonde before joining the police force. Now she was trim and fit, with her hair bobbed and back to its natural brown.

"Come on, now! In it to win it!"

And yet that voice was unmistakable. Somehow she'd have to convince herself it was him.

Her pulse in overdrive, Izzy elbowed her way to the only vacant space at one end of the line of people shooting at the moving targets.

"Here you go, love." The stall-holder held out a rifle, its black coiled cable swirling away through a hole in the counter.

Izzy's heart thudded. She could almost feel the eyes beneath a scruff of long, greasy black hair stripping off her denim jacket and jeans.

"All you've got to do is aim and fire." "Right, thanks."

Izzy thought hard as she aimed at the slowly moving line of battered metallic ducks. She needed hard evidence, and the place for that would be in his caravan or wherever. She would have to find out where he lived.

"Hard luck, darlin' ," he said, when she'd run out of ammunition. "That's your lot. Another go?"

She flashed him a seductive smile. "I think I need a few lessons first," she purred. "I don't suppose you know where I could get some?"

He grinned. "I'm due for a break in five. We could discuss it over a drink, if you like."

"OK. Sounds good to me."

They went into a tented bar by the lake. She steered the small talk, leading him on. Anything to get invited back to his place. It didn't take long.

"Fancy another after the fair closes?" he asked, his eyes glinting at the promise in her voice.

"Thanks, I'd like that."

Carl lived in a motor-home at the far end of the common. Swallowing hard, Izzy climbed the steps behind him and turned left into the living area.

Once inside, she gasped at the luxury. All bought with drugs money, if he really was the animal she suspected.

"Same as before?" he oozed, the lisp reminding her why she was there. "Lager's fine," she said, scanning the room. There had to be some sort of giveaway.

"Have a seat. I'll only be a tick."

He went into the kitchen. Izzy twisted round in the armchair.

There were two doors to the right of the entrance. The one to the bathroom was open. The one opposite had to be the bedroom.

"I'm just going to the loo," she called out above the clink of glasses. Having closed the bathroom door, Izzy scuttled through the other one. Yes, it was the bedroom. She shut herself in and crossed to the chest of drawers.

One by one she tugged them open, hurriedly sifting through the jumble of underclothes, T-shirts, tools, and grubby dvds. She'd reached the bottom drawer when she heard footsteps approaching.

"The drinks are ready when you are!"

Izzy jumped. A sickening quiver gripped the pit of her stomach. Switching off the light she slid under the bed, curling up her feet when they bumped into something solid.

The light flicked back on. Carl's dirty white trainers stopped within touching distance. She clamped a hand to her mouth.

He crossed the room to the wardrobe. She winced as the dark stained sweatshirt he'd been wearing hit the floor, grimaced at what smelt like a mixture of sweat and onions.

There was a rustling sound, followed by the wardrobe door slamming shut. At last he padded back out, shutting the door behind him.

The light was still on. Izzy scrambled to her feet and dusted the grime off her jacket and jeans. Hastily she glanced under the bed to see what she'd kicked. It was a suitcase. She tugged it out and carefully released the catches.

A rolled-up scarf. Inside it, a loaded gun - the murder weapon? And underneath, a number of yellowing newspaper cuttings showing the man whose body had been identified in the burnt-out van. There was a pencilled cross over his face. Hard evidence. Happy days.

Leaving the catches undone she quietly slid the suitcase back, checked herself again for dust, carefully pushed open the door. .. and froze.

Carl was leaning against the opposite wall, arms folded.

He was in a dark blue shirt now, mostly unbuttoned to show a gold coloured medallion against a black-haired chest. An image of a gorilla flashed though her mind.

"Well, well," he snarled. "I wondered why I couldn't hear the floor in the loo creaking as usual." He stepped inside and turned the key in the lock. "So, what are you up to?"

Izzy shuffled backwards, lips pursed, every nerve in her body tense.

"You don't look like one of my pushers," he went on, advancing menacingly towards her. "Maybe you're a user who expected to find a stash in here?"

Izzy nodded. Her mind raced. He'd left the key where it was. When he tried to grab her she would leap over the bed. He would fall forwards, she would chuck the grimy duvet over him, dash out and lock him in the room. Then she could use her mobile to call for help.

"Right," he snarled. "In that case I'll show you what I do with people who try to rip me off"

His fist caught her unawares. Izzy managed to ride most of the blow, but when it cracked into her cheek she bounced off the bed and hit the floor with a loud gasp.

Thankfully it was only a trainer that kicked her in the ribs rather than a boot. She rolled with it, but before she could react something was wrapped around her neck and yanked tight.

Izzie scrabbled at it with her hands; it felt like a silk stocking. Her breath rasped. She reached up and raked her nails down his face.

"Cow!" he yelped, and for the briefest of moments his grip relaxed. She used it to reach a hand under the bed and into the suitcase.

Then the noose was tightening again. The world was spinning, dark clouds were rushing past. She fought against the panic, and bringing round her hand holding the gun, Izzy pulled the trigger.

There was a bang and a loud scream, quickly followed by the heavenly release of the pressure from around her neck...

"Who the hell are you?" he whimpered, as dark red liquid oozed between the stubby fingers he'd pressed to his stomach.

Izzy didn't answer immediately. She was slumped in a corner of the room, her mind whirling with images of a warehouse on the docks, of a gorilla-like man firing a gun into a once white van. She could almost see the fire raging, hear the petrol tank explode.

A moment later she tugged her mobile from her jeans' pocket and looked into his terrified eyes.

"The sole witness," she said, with a contented smile.

3rd Prize - A Fair Cop by David Wass