The B.O.G.O.F Murder

A story inspired by fly-tipping.....

He was positioned in a safe and secure hideaway. Although the Weather wasn't that cold, he felt shivery as he'd not moved for the last 10 minutes. He'd been busy working when he'd heard the sound of footsteps crunching across the dry earth towards him. It was still early. Around 4 am. He'd already decided he'd got to knock this job on the head soon. He was done with it. But one last phone call. One last job. It was lockdown. It was going to be a challenge to get this job done, but that's what had enticed him to do it. The prospect of being able to do what he does, under everyone's nose, in plain sight, excited him. It was risky. It was always risky. He'd finally said yes after the payment agreed was doubled for the 'risk factor'. The job he'd planned for months was now nearing the end. Just a few more things to do......He'd heard a noise and had ducked down as the footsteps got nearer. He quickly assumed a position he'd been used to assuming for many years. Becoming invisible.

.................Although he was used to it, it didn't get any easier. Whilst still fully fit and able to stay like this for a long time, hours if needed, his muscles and joints had started to niggle more often as he'd aged. That's why he knew that this would be his last job. He switched his mind to focus on what was happening right now. A woman appeared through the thicket, carrying two big black bags. The woman was in her early 30's, dark brown hair, red lipstick, blue eyes, designer glasses. Leaves had been caught in her otherwise perfectly groomed hair. Everything about her was precise. Her makeup, hair, nails, perfectly ironed trouser suit. She was looking rosy-cheeked as the bags were heavy. He remembered his Mum saying 'Women don't perspire, they glow'. He smiled inwardly to himself. He recognised her of course. He was amused at how elegant the lady from number 41 looked, humping two bags of fly-tip out into the woods. She always left the house early. Creeping about quietly so as not to wake up her husband. A perfect house on a perfect street, a perfect new red car to match her perfect red lipstick and perfectly painted red nails. He knew everything about everyone else in the village too. He knew that the neighbour at number 43 called him the 'Milk Tray' man. He smiled to himself at the memory of the phone call home last Sunday with his Mum. 'The lady at number 43 calls me the 'Milk Tray Man' Mum', 'Nosey Parker' more like!' She wasn't wrong. He knew every single thing, every single detail about everyone in the quiet village he called ‘Brigadoon’. His 'safe place'. He moved slightly. She heard something. She looked around and so far she’d not seen him. She carried on hauling the bags another 6 feet closer.

She dropped them in a little dip, safely hidden and started to straighten herself up and move away. His phone 'dinged'. 'Shit', he thought to himself in the split second it took for him to realise he'd made a mistake. He'd forgotten to leave his phone in his hidey-hole before moving into this final position. He saw the panic in her eyes as she looked around for the source of the 'ding'. She’d clocked him. Their eyes locked. It was just like one of those 'magic eye' pictures when you look for ages and see nothing, and all of a sudden, the image appears. She was the 'rabbit in the headlights'. And there he was, now standing in front of her. He was quick at assessing 'situations', running through the questions and her possible reactions and 'outcomes'. He knew of course that she'd be thinking, 'What was he doing in the bushes?'. He knew she'd probably not say anything about their encounter because he'd caught her fly-tipping. They both knew that. But could he trust her not to start asking questions about him? Wondering who he really was and what he was up to in the woods at that time of day. All she could think of to say was 'Morning!'  She shrugged. He shrugged.

And then he pulled the gun out of his back pocket and shot her between the eyes. Red blood trickled down her forehead, matching her red lipstick, red nails. She was his latest victims lover. His customer had debated about getting rid of them in one go but he’d convinced him to go easy. One at a time. His customer had agreed, but this opportunity was too good for him to miss. He took her body and placed it next to her lover. He'd staged that body as a suicide but could now re-arrange them both to look like a 'shoot her, shoot myself' scene. It took him just a few minutes to get it set right, take away any evidence of him ever being there and move quickly and steadily home. He’d staged his kills many times before.

15 minutes later, as the sun started to appear, he walked back up his garden path in his dressing gown and slippers, conveniently just as his neighbour was leaving for work. 'I see it's your job to put out the rubbish again James?' 'Yes, that's my job mate and my next one is to take the Mrs a cuppa in bed'. He turned with a smile. Sorting out other peoples rubbish was what he'd done for the last 20 years. This final contract had paid him double, and he'd given a 'buy one get one free' in return. The End.

If you'd like help writing your story, get in touch.

You can also join our 'Book Club for Writers' group on LinkedIn - a friendly, relaxed and safe way to share your writing and get support and feedback from writers and 'wannabe' writers, just like you.