– Paula Homerton in Bothwell, South Lanarkshire : ran over in a hit-and-run, survived.
– Derek Ndebele in Hendon, London: found dead, cause of death undetermined.
So what do we think? A coincidence, or is someone out there killing FUGUTH landlords?
My head is reeling. Google alerts are clearly not yielding as much information as the user knows – if they find out about Willie and Harry, the local connection will be undeniable. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Jobie234544 says:
Do you think you should contact the police? It seems like there’s something there.
To which the original poster confirms:
I think I will do. Not the emergency number obviously. Don’t think it’s right to have these suspicions and keep them to myself. Worst case I’m overly cautious. Best case I save some lives.
Not everyone wants lives to be saved.
A hero if true.
Not a bad way to pick victims tbf.
If he fancies doing my landlord in too that’d be ideal.
– What makes you think it’s a man?
– Duh, it’salwaysa man.
Maybe it’s not one person. Maybe so many people are being broken by the system they operate within that tenants are finally seeking vengeful justice.
It is genuinely impressive that I am actually able to process this information because Brian and his wife are having a blazing row in his office. She’s shouting very specific dates and times like, ‘The evening of September 24th,’ at him, and after a pause, during which I assume he’s consulting the fake diary, he responds in a measured tone, ‘I was doing a house viewing with a Mr and Mrs Reynolds. Nice couple, if I remember correctly. Didn’t put an offer in, though.’ That’s one of mine. Mrs Reynolds was my teacher in Primary 3.
Leanne bats that away with ‘Went on any long drives I should know about?’
‘What are you talking about? I drive every day, you mad cow.’
Momentarily, I wonder if I will miss this role. The answer is clear: I won’t. The legal firm I applied to have already reached out to organise an interview. The wages are a bit higher than here, even with the affair money, and it won’t involve degrading myself with being an estate agent for the odd commission. Which is good. Dave’s money, which was inconsistent at best, has ended. He sent me a message the other day which read:
No more money. Free pics pls? X
Leanne breaks into my thoughts, yelling, ‘I know you’re lying, Brian. I know what you’ve been up to.’
Brian matches her volume. ‘Oh yeah? Please, do let me know what that is. I’ve told you exactly where I’ve been and what I’ve been doing. It sounds like I’ve been doing my job and being a loving husband and doting father and nothing else. Sounds fucking boring if you ask me.’
The bell above the door ringing is barely audible over Leanne screaming, ‘Fuck you, you’re a lying cunt, Brian. Just admit it.’ If I get this job, I’ll tell Leanne every detail of what he’s been up to. She knows it, clearly, but I want to make sure she reallyknows.
I smile towards whoever has entered. No matter how dazzling I am capable of being, it will not make up for the welcome they are receiving involving a domestic dispute. It’s Diane, the detective. The smile drops from my mouth.
‘Hello again. Feeling better?’
‘I’m fantastic, thank you for asking.’ She barely registers what I’m saying, though. She peers over my head to the glass panel of Brian’s office wall.
‘Your boss got a few minutes?’
Leanne storms out. ‘I know you’re up to something, you arsehole. You’re not as clever as you think you are.’ She makes a move to slam the front door but it has one of those mechanisms where it shuts slowly, cautiously, and we don’t get the dramatic burst of sound she was after. Instead we hear the clip-clop of her angry footsteps and then nothing.
Brian follows a moment later. ‘Sorry about that, troops.’ Then he clocks the detective and stiffens. ‘Diane, nice to see you again. How can I be of service?’
‘Maybe not out here. Could we go into your office for some privacy?’ She’s already entering Brian’s space without being given permission.
