Be Careful Please

By Ron Shapiera

What is it that seeks prompts people to seek revenge? The causes may be minor or major. Joness perceived cause was not life threatening, but his inability to walk properly was sufficient for him to achieve revengeand he had a long time to think about how to achieve success. His wife welcomed thatit minimized his abuse towards her. Joness knowledge of revenge was limitedhow to carry it out and avoid being caught. Research at the library helped, but if not successful at first, a further attempt could be made. Any attempt at revenge would mean involvement of the police. A series of events brought him closer to success, and a feeling of exhilaration moved through him as he completed his revenge.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Dec 2, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499026047

Ron Shapiera

The author graduated in Birmingham, England and immigrated to Australia and started up a medical practice in Sydney, New South Wales. He is now enjoying his retirement with his wife and writing and caring for their five rescued dogs.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

T he constable on duty noted the time to be 8.30 p.m. on the station wall clock as he answered the telephone on the third ring. Thursday nights were usually quiet and gave him some time to catch up on his paper work before his shift finished at midnight.

Bondi police station, he said as he adjusted the phone to his ear. How can we help you?

The voice at the other end of the line was male, mature, but the words that were spoken were spoken quickly.

I would like to know if you, or someone, could check to see if a friend of mine is alright. The voice paused for a few seconds and the policeman said encouragingly, Carry on, sir, and reached with his free hand for a pen and a Concern For Welfare Report Form.

The male voice continued. I’ve been ringing her home and her work, but there’s no reply from her home and she hasn’t been into work since Monday.

Have you been round to her residence, Sir?

No, came the reply. I don’t get home until 7 p.m. or thereabouts, and I live in Turramurra.

Very well, Sir, perhaps you could give me some particulars. First, what is your name and address?

Paul Carrick and I live at 17 Arlington Road, Turramurra. The girl I am worried about is Susan Metcalf. Will you be able to help?

Yes, Sir. Where does Susan Metcalf live?

In a block of units in Bondi. I’ve known her for a few years and I rang her home over the past two, no, three days, but can’t get a reply.

Does the lady live by herself, or is she married, or has a flat mate?

She is not married and she lives by herself, but whenever she’s out or away, always leaves her answering machine on – but each time I rang, the ‘phone just kept ringing.

When did you ring her?

On Tuesday evening, about eight or eight thirty, I can’t quite remember. I rang her again on Wednesday evening and I was surprised that the answering machine was not on. I tried again in the morning, and later I rang her office but they said she had not been into work since last Friday. I tried ringing her again just before I rang you.

How old is Miss Metcalf, and could you tell me where she works?

Paul said she worked as an accountant in the firm of Fredericks and Company in George Street in the city and that she was in her late twenties.

Having written the details down, Constable Richards told Paul that he would send someone round to Miss Metcalf’s flat, and if he could have Mr. Carrick’s ‘phone number, he would get in touch with him as required.

The report remained on his desk until 9.15 p.m. when he took it to the dispatch room to request one of the patrol cars to check on Susan’s flat. At 9.50 a patrol car stopped outside the small block of units. The outside door was unlocked, and the patrol policeman noticed a small notice saying that the door would automatically be locked at 10 p.m., and unlocked at 7 a.m.

There was no sound audible from unit 4, and no sign of a light beneath the front door. Knocking produced no response, and the patrolman walked across the hall to unit 3. He knocked softly, and after a few seconds knocked again, this time much louder.

Who is it? came a man’s voice from inside.

It’s the police, Sir. May I have a word with you?

The door was opened to the extent that the restraining chain would allow.

There is no problem, Sir. I would like to ask a question or two about your neighbour.

The door closed and he heard the chain being removed.

Come in, constable. And the door was opened.

There is no need, Sir. Do you know Miss Metcalf in number four, and have you seen her recently?

No, my wife and I don’t know her at all well. We both work and neither of us arrive home until between six or seven in the evening. We hardly ever see her, and I suppose it was about two weeks ago when we said hello to her. Yes, that’s right, it was a week last Friday – we were going out to dinner as she was coming in.

What time was that, Sir?

About seven or seven fifteen, I imagine. Is anything wrong, officer?

No, Sir, thank you for your time.

The constable left the building and, noticing that it was after 10 p.m., tried the front door after he left and found that it had locked automatically.

She’s not here, he said to his driver and called the station to inform the dispatcher of that fact. She relayed the message to the duty constable and he noted that in his report, adding that the morning shift should contact Susan’s workplace sometime during the day to see whether she had returned to work.

When Constable Richards commenced work the next evening, he swore to himself when he read an addendum to his report that Susan had not been at work all week. He rang Paul and left a message on his answering machine that there was no further reply from Susan’s residence, and she had not been to work. They would look into the matter further.

He took his report to the duty Sergeant and told him what had transpired so far.

Leave it with me, Richards. I’ll arrange with the day staff to send a car around to her unit first thing in the morning. Most of the residents should be in, being Saturday morning.

At 6.30 a.m. the next morning, a patrol car stopped by the kerb at 14 Acton Street. It was a fine Spring morning – cool at this hour, with a promise of the temperature reaching into the twenties later in the day.

The two officers got out of the police car and putting on their caps walked to the front door of the units. The building was about twenty years old and the intercom system by the front door showed that there were eight units in the building. They saw the notice on the front door saying that it would be locked until 7 a.m., and when there was no reply from Susan’s unit, the bell was pressed for number three.

A short time later an irritable voice came from the intercom.

Yes, who is it? What do you want?

The policeman with his hand on the button pulled a face at his companion.

It’s the police, Sir. Would you mind unlocking the door? We are looking for Susan Metcalf. May we see you when we come in?

A buzzer sounded on the door indicating that it had been unlocked, and the two policemen entered the small foyer and walked up the carpeted stairs to the next floor. Waiting outside the open door to number three was a young man in pyjamas and dressing gown. The constable had noticed his name in the slot by the intercom and said, Good morning, Mr. Sinclair. Sorry to bother you so early.

That’s quite alright, constable. He smiled and as he spoke the irritability was no longer in his voice. The constable smiled back and continued.

Have you seen Miss Metcalf or do you know where she might be?

Sinclair shook his head slightly and pursed his lips.

No, not for about two weeks. Oh, and she is Mrs. Metcalf. She divorced her husband about a year ago I believe.

I see from the panel by the front door that there are eight units in the block. Are they owned by the occupiers, or are they leased?

Sinclair looked thoughtful and his eyebrows contracted downwards. I am not sure, but I think three are owned. The other five, including mine and Mrs. Metcalf’s are rented.

Who do you pay the rent to, Sir?

Jones Realty in Compton Street. I think he manages all the units.

Just two more questions, Sir. Where are the garbage cans kept, and what day is the garbage collected?

We each have our own numbered bin kept round the back of the building. We leave our bins out on Thursday evening for collection some time during the night.

Well, thank you very much, Sir, said the constable. I’m sure you would like to get back to your breakfast.

Sinclair appeared reluctant to go back inside.

Do you think anything has happened to Mrs. Metcalf? he asked.

I couldn’t say, Sir. Thank you for your cooperation. We’ll get in touch if we require any further information. The constable stood looking at Sinclair, who, after a few seconds, nodded his head and went back inside his unit.

Seven out of ten for diplomacy, Tony, said the second constable who had remained outside Mrs. Metcalf’s door looking intently at the woodwork and the carpet and only occasionally showing an interest in the conversation between the other two men.

Bugger off downstairs, Adam, said Tony with a laugh. Have a quick look in all the garbage bins and see if you can tell if there is any mail in Mrs. Metcalf’s letter box.

Adam gave a mock salute and went downstairs. Tony called after him before he had reached the front door. Adam, it’s not seven yet. Put your hat just inside to keep the door from locking, or we’ll have to interrupt Mr. Sinclair’s breakfast.

He stood on the landing slowly tapping one foot on the carpet. He went for a closer look at the lock on number four, and then turned to compare it with the lock on number three. There was only one lock on each door, and they appeared to be the same make.

That’s helpful, anyway, he murmured to himself, and he waited patiently for the return of Adam.

Did you find anything? he asked as Adam came into view.

Yes and no, replied Adam. There is some garbage in all the bins. If Mrs. Metcalf is living by herself the small amount in her bin could represent rubbish for a few days or a couple of weeks. I did manage to poke a stick in the letter box, and it felt as if there were a couple of letters inside. He looked expectantly at Tony.

I’d better ring the Sarge and let him know what we are up to. You stay here, Adam, and look inconspicuous while I go to the car. He looked at his watch. And no funny remarks about my hat. It’s after seven, so the door should be unlocked.

His sergeant did not seem unduly concerned, but he informed Tony that he would contact the estate agent to see if he had a key to the unit, and if so, to get him around, with his permission, of course, to unlock the door. Meanwhile, the patrolmen were to carry on with their normal duties and would be contacted by their car ‘phone in time to return to Acton Street.

It was almost two hours later that a call came for them to be at Acton Street just before ten a.m. Soon after they arrived a car pulled up behind them and a well-dressed but quite agitated man got out.

The policemen met him at the entrance to the building, and greeted him politely.

Good morning, Sir, are you from….?

Yes, yes, Jones’ the name. Let’s get this over and done with. I’ve a busy morning ahead of me.

He entered the building very briskly and was a little ahead of the policemen and about to put a key into the lock of number four when Tony called out to him.

Please stop, Mr. Jones. Would you allow me to open the door?

Jones shrugged his shoulders and handed the key to Tony. He inserted the key, turned it and opened the door slightly. There was nothing behind the door, and the restraining chain was intact, and dangling. The two policemen entered the small hallway and Mr. Jones followed them.

Excuse me, Sir, would you mind waiting here, while my colleague and I look around the premises?

There were no lights burning and nothing seemed unusual in the plain but pleasant lounge. The kitchen was tidy, with a place setting for one at the small kitchen table – no sign of food on the table or dirty dishes in the sink.

Tony had entered one of the two bedrooms off the kitchen when a sudden loud expletive caused him to spin around.

Shit, came Adam’s voice from the bathroom. In here, Tony, make it slow and don’t touch anything.

Tony turned and walked to the open door of the bathroom. Adam was looking down and Tony saw the reason for Susan Metcalf’s inability to answer her telephone.

She was naked, submerged in water in the bath. Her eyes were open, and her