The Mayfields Murders

MAYFIELDS. One of those friendly  towns, where everybody knows each other.  A good place, a wholesome  place. A sleepy countryside town, full of farmers and fluffy old dogs. Old men in tweed line the streets. Picture, if you will, little brick cottages with flowers in the window-boxes and Saturday book-groups with tea & wine. Sounds dreamy, doesn't it?

SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER the 4th, 7.49am
63 FLETCHER'S LANE, MAYFIELDS-LINE

A sweet sun-kissed morning dew glistened on the thick grass. The wet stones of the wall and the rusty iron hinge of the gate shone pristinely under the vast blue sky. Leaves, turning to that unmistakable autumn hue, rustled in the breeze. Albert Blair let out a pleasant sigh and paced down the brick drive in his slippers, plaid flannel lounge-pants and cozy robe. He swung the gate open and crossed round to the edge of the street, where he opened up the mail-box and retrieved the morning paper. He paused, Sunday print in hand, and looked down Fletcher's Lane, which skirted the edge of the wood and lined the capacious green pastures, sinking out of view. He whipped his head around as a speeding black Mercedes SUV went thrusting past, blowing the paper clean out of his hand. The car skipped along the narrow country road at twice the speed-limit and followed the meandering curves of the sleepy two-lane route.

Thinking fast, he dashed up the drive, robe flapping, and practically jumped into his black Alfa Romeo. The Italian 4-door roared to life and shimmied backwards through the gate and to the edge of the road. He changed into first gear and the wheels scrabbled on the wet tarmac as the car revved up to speed.

Infected with curiosity, he rammed the accelerator and the car shot up to sixty miles per hour, then to seventy, in spots straying to a hair-raising seventy-five. The aging driver breathed on the brakes as he cut a sharp blind curve, ready to swerve out of the way of an oncoming driver. On the straight-away, he accelerated again, and the erratically-driven SUV reappeared in his line of sight as he slowly gained on his target. Eventually, at a three-way-crossing, he got close enough to read the number-plate, glad that his hot brakes were able to stop him from sailing through the intersection.

7505-FVF, it read. He recognised that combination, but from where? As he waited for the Mercedes to turn, he committed the digits to memory. Pulling a sharp U-turn and skidding back towards home as the Mercedes screeched away from the stop, he said it to himself over and over again. Seven-five-zero-five, F-V-F. Seventy-five-o'five, F-V-F.

As the steaming-hot Alfa bounced back into the driveway, he stepped out, still in his slippers, and raced upstairs, looking for the digits 7505-FVF in his books.

TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER the 6th, 11.02pm
THE FAR END of CHESTERFIELD AVE, MAYFIELDS

David Jensen  never liked his task on the neighbourhood watch team, and tonight he'd rather have been in the tub with a glass of scotch than roaming the empty suburbs armed only with a cheap flash-light and a small club. Not that he expected anything other than a dodgy raccoon or a stray cat to be of any bother, of course. These preppy developments, full of their posh houses, shiny luxury cars and friendly golden retrievers had an alarm in every corridor and a key-pad on the garage. Hardly ever in the history of the town had places like Oak Creek Lane, or Chesterfield Street, for God's sakes, seen anything more than a sharp steak-knife in the kitchen. It was eleven. He was done walking around in the dark. He'd stroll back over to Essex Ave, shut the gate behind him and retire to bed where his wife Elaine was already sound asleep.

Just then, he heard the excruciating sound of rusty metal being thrashed together, between the house and the fence a few doors down, likely just where the back gate would be. Probably the raccoons, he thought, getting into a trash-can. He flashed his torch down the crevasse just to make sure. Nothing but a foot-print, from what looked like a boot. It had been wet lately, and somebody had probably gone round the side of the house while gardening, leaving tracks in their boots.  He peered down the narrow space, which sloped down to the back-yard, one more time. A ladder sat folded on the grass, five feet below the downstairs window. He surveyed the area with his flash-light and decided to go through the gate and pop round the back.