A Killing on Laguna Beach

That morning he'd looked into the shaving mirror pleased to see the pale skin that had hidden beneath the vanished beard was now nicely tanned. He had also grown used to, even liked, the new short hair style. And the colour, too, the rich brown that had embarrassed him at first. But in the mirror he looked his same self, nonetheless. He recalled his daughter many years ago coming down to breakfast after he had shaved away his beard leaving just a moustache. ‘You’ve grown a moustache!’. Surely he was still recognisable in this smooth-faced version? The advice from the Police Department had been sombre. 'We can't offer the protection you ask for. Better off being somewhere else and looking different until we've hunted down the threats'.

This was the first day since the journalist had been there that the sun hadn’t shone hot from a clear blue sky. A sea fret was drifting in and out of the bay and right now the far curves on either side of Laguna Beach were misted out. The rocky outcrop was faded and on it the crowd of cormorants and pelicans were only silhouettes. The music from the phones plugged in his ears silenced the sound of the lapping sea and the swish of cars on the road behind. He was glad he’d brought a fleece with him. Other distant explorers of the shore were even wearing waterproof jackets.

A small group of children were playing volley ball on a rectangle of sand. On the next seat along a Japanese lady with a doll-like baby rose to gather her possessions and stroll past him. He smiled, the child stared.

The tiny, magical blue box that hung around his neck was playing Bach, one of those insistent solo pieces for the cello he'd put on the machine last night, music that drove on, brooking no interference. He hoped his pieces for the newspaper carried the reader along in much the same way, laying out the evidence in a compelling narrative, the protagonists all laid bare in their greed and cynicism. He would listen to a little more before attending to the chore of mapping out the next article. He remembered starting his career with a typewriter and trudging to libraries, flicking through box-files. How wonderfully miniaturised and convenient was the process now of gathering information, recording, editing and transmitting the day’s material to his editor in Los Angeles.

A squadron of pelicans swept in a gliding flight inches above the water. A very pale sun was making yet another attempt to break through. It was time to stop listening, time to put thoughts and ideas into shape. He removed the phones from his ears.

A bulky shape passed between the journalist and his view of the beach. The man sat heavily on the other end of the seat to his left. The journalist looked round and gave a faint nod and smile to the man who returned it. White baseball cap, long ginger hair tied in a ponytail with a bright green ribbon. The journalist looked out to sea again and saw that the horizon had yet again disappeared though the shore line was now becoming suffused with pale sunshine.

The man said, ‘You’re the investigative journalist, aren’t you’ with no real question mark at the end of the sentence and the journalist was unable to conceal the jump of fear that ran through him. He looked at the man who smiled again and then looked away to the shore line sayings, ‘Of course you are’ and then, 'Make the most this sunshine'.

The journalist needed to clear his throat twice before speaking. ‘I am a writer as it happens’ and his voice sounded thin, weaker than he’d wished.

‘The investigative journalist, bane of a certain politician’s life. Am I right or am I right? And the bane of the politician’s brother-in-law, of course, that charismatic marvel of an evangelical preacher, the hypocritical and crooked Reverend. And not forgetting the politician’s sister and her corrupt land deals, her development schemes. What a crooked family! I read your articles and I like them. I approve’.

The man sat back and crossed a leg. ‘That investigative journalist. Not a very nice crowd, are they? I agree with you. With every word your paper’s published. And don’t you ever wonder what sort of dumb people, what sort of dim-witted flock, follow that preacher’s so-called Christian ravings? Now that is a story that should be told’.

The journalist stayed silent and began to nervously fiddle with the Ipod hanging against his chest. The ear phones fell on to his knee and then to the ground. He said, What did you mean by make the most of this sunshine?’.

The man turned dead eyes to the journalist. ‘I think you know exactly what I mean’.

‘How have you found me?’

‘I was told where to find you. Your office, I expect. A bribe, most likely a threat. I don’t know. I’m just the messenger, the bringer of bad news. Very bad news’ and he patted his pocket.

The journalist looked around. A family were walking out onto the sand. An elderly couple, not too far away, were making slow progress in his direction. A refuse bin was being emptied a short distance away. He tried a confident grin. ‘Don’t be ridiculous’, he said.

The man brushed that aside. ‘I share your views on our corrupt politician. And I despise the crooked preacher with his ranting claptrap. I feel the same about the sister and her swindles. I reckon they know you’ve won the day no matter how long their lawyers try to spin out the whole process. Ah, the power of the printed word!’

The journalist played for time. He said, ‘How about the spoken word? You seem to like talking’.

‘You’ve noticed! My only real fault! It'll be my undoing! Talkative or loquacious? What would a writer say?’.

He returned to his theme. He said, ‘This is revenge, nothing more, I guess. And this is my pension, my relocation costs, my ticket to a new life. Yup, I’ll return to San Francisco. Never liked L.A. for some reason. Retire. Seen a nice place out in Oakland. Yes, they’re paying quite a sum, believe me, Mr Journalist, quite a sum’.

The journalist looked around. ‘On Laguna Beach? Here in a public place? You must be mad. With that cap and that ginger hair, that bright green ribbon? Easily seen and noticed. You’d be traced in minutes. Don’t be ridiculous’.

‘Not so, not so. Do you know how many people fall down each day and nobody notices? Do you know how many look the other way? He’s drunk, he’s asleep. Don’t get involved. Ignore him’. He recrossed his legs, turned to the journalist and sadly shook his head. ‘Mr Eye Jay, believe me. And there’s not much noise. No more than the squashing of a plastic carton, say, or a sneeze, maybe. And why do you think I’m wearing a white cap and a ponytail of red hair tied with a bright green ribbon, this red reversible jacket? Why? Because the hair and the ribbon and the cap will be swept off between those two buildings back there and popped into a plastic bag and I’ll stroll out the other side a blue jacketed, shaven headed guy with a plastic bag of shopping. Perhaps that kindly looking, shaven-headed gentleman in the blue jacket saw which way the criminal went? If they ask, if they notice me at all’.

The journalist stayed silent for a minute. ‘I can get up and run. Believe me, I can run’.

‘Five strides at the most. I’m quick and I’m accurate’.

‘But the politician and the preacher and his cronies would be instantly connected with my death. Why should they risk that? A prison sentence and a fine is one thing but conspiracy to murder means Life at the very least. Why risk that. It doesn’t make sense’.

‘You can guess, Mr Journalist. A third party arranges all these things. Mr In-between phones me, agrees a fee, the method of payment. Nobody can make a connection. There is no connection. I said to the voice on the phone, the Politician and the Preacher are paying for this are they not, am I right or am I right? The voice said, C.J., you know better than to ask. No, it’ll be one of those inexplicable homicides, a random killing. It happens all the time. And the Politician and the Preacher will shout, 'How dare you suggest we are connected with this heinous crime! How monstrous! How actionable in a court of law!'. No, these are nasty people, no morals, no scruples, no limits’. He looked out to sea and added, ‘Corrupt and greedy people’. He looked back at the journalist and asked. ‘Who was it said power corrupts? You should know that, an educated and talented, knowledgeable journalist. Some titled gentleman over in England, I do believe’. He looked out to sea. He shook his head. 'I was meant for better things than this'.

‘They may not pay you’.

The man smiled. ‘I already have a hefty down payment. If the hefty remainder isn’t delivered to a certain hotel in Phoenix next Sunday morning, eleven on the dot, then a bag with a hat and a wig and a very clean pistol will arrive with an interesting note on your editor’s table. And if I can manage you then I can manage them, the politician, the preacher and the sister. They know that. The money will be there’.

‘My paper will match their offer. Believe me. The editor will confirm that. You sound a logical person. You can see the better alternative. Why take the risk?’

The man drew a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose and returned the handkerchief to his pocket. He sniffed and pursed his lips. ‘I can’t absolutely prove the Politico and the Reverend are paying. I can’t even point to the third party. A phone call, a delivery of money. Who? Who? Nobody will pay me for so little knowledge, not even your newspaper. I could be making all of it up for the money. No. My third-party’s money will have no source, all used notes, as likely as not gathered in on the Reverend’s many happy-clappy Sundays, monies supplied by the ignorant and the gullible’. He leaned forward suddenly with a look of alarm on his face, peering past the journalist who turned his head (as the killer knew he would) to see what salvation might be at hand.