“In hospital, were you given any information?” The prosecutor resumed his questioning on the second day of questioning.
“Well, the doctors said I was lucky to be alive, as the bullet missed the Femoral artery and lodged against my thigh bone. The bullet matches those used in the other cases, and apparently a few stray fibres were found against the render of the furniture store.
“So you knew little more about the attempt on your life?”
“Only what I surmised.”
“The spot was carefully selected, well lit with both street lights and security flood lights for the surrounding apartment blocks, and timed to enable the shooter to escape quickly with the tram. We were lucky that no-one else was shot, given that Fletcher gate tram stop can be a busy stop for the lace market, it wouldn’t have been impossible for another pedestrian to walk in front of the shot.”
“How long were you in hospital for?”
“Did you receive any communication?”
“I got an anonymous letter from the shooter.”
“Is this the letter?” The prosecutor held up a clear evidence bag containing an A4 typed page.
“Would you kindly read it to the court?”
Although the words were burned with a piercing accuracy into my mind, for the sake of correctness I slipped my glasses onto my nose and reached for the offered paper.
Reading the words aloud brought the terrifying emotions of the first read back with vengeance, tears welling up in my carefully presented eyes and I took several deep gulps of cold water to regain my composure.
“Were the police able to gain any information from the letter?”
“I believe the letter was sent off to the central laboratory in London, where I believe finger prints were identified on the envelope belonging to Mrs Ann Coons, the wife of the accused.”
When DI Plum informed me of the connection to Max, my suspicions seemed confirmed and I spent the next month living in fear. Two days after being released from hospital, I took a room in a London Hotel on the pretence of visiting my agent and researching in the British Library.. In an attempt to alleviate my suspicions, I searched for Max Coons on the internet, and was horrified to discover he was an Olympic archer, who had missed out on a gold medal the London Olympics. Bowing to pressure from my editor, himself under pressure from the killer, and with permission from DI Plum I submitted a brief, emotionless summary of my experience, allowing the reader to form their own judgements.
I returned with foreboding on the 7th of May. DI plum met me unexpectedly at the station, providing silent support in the confines of his car before abandoning me at Queens Medical for my check up at the end of his lunch. My doctor was encouraged by my progress removing the bandages with warnings about overdoing exercise.
Relieved, I limped my way down to the taxi rank at the entrance. I could at last have the bath I had been longing for, and cursed the good intentions of DI Plum for rushing off with my suitcase in his car. A screaming ambulance and wailing police car arrived as I stepped through the sliding doors. My heart skipped a beat as I recalled the date. Shivering in a sudden breeze, I watched coldly as the paramedics wheeled a portly business man into the hospital followed by two police constables. Seeing me, DC Stubbs hesitated before approaching pale faced.
The final installment from this story that was not part of the original submission.
The submitted section which relates to the final paragraph of this work can be found here.
The Following Chapters all proceed as with the competition entry. I just couldn’t decide which I prefer…
and for those naught few who want to skip to the end…