Seventeen Deadly Sins

By Vic Nikitin

Drop in a generous amount of greed, sprinkle in a similar quantity of lust, add a pinch of wrath, a smidgen of desperation, a touch of envy, a swirl of twist-in-the-tale endings and mix well. The spicy recipe of Dahlesque short stories about ordinary people involved in not-so-ordinary activities will keep you guessing until the very last sentence. It is never exactly as it seems!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Vic Nikitin
• Release date: Jun 18, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301914708

Vic Nikitin

Vic Nikitin was born in the UK. He moved to London in the 1980s, to Johannesburg in 1992, and now lives in New Zealand. On this journey, he acquired an Honours degree in Modern Languages, a Teacher’s Diploma, and an MBA. He lectured extensively at the Tertiary level and consulted with corporations in South Africa.Vic is married, has two adult children, and combines teaching Digital Technology at secondary level with a passion for writing.While living in South Africa, he wrote his first novel, "Victim versus Villains." He has also published two short story anthologies, "Seventeen Deadly Sins" and "Seventeen-not-so-Deadly Sins", two police crime novels set in New Zealand, "There or not there" and "The Cronin Mementos." A second crime thriller "Some you win, some you lose" was published in 2022 and is now available.

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Seventeen Deadly Sins

Vic Nikitin

Published by Vic Nikitin at Smashwords

Copyright 2013 Vic Nikitin

https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/VicNikitin

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Contents Page

The wife and times of Tim Winter

Murder or suicide?

You only err twice

Trust

There or not there

Cat Burgled

See if I care

Fifty Percent

To catch a thief

You take the money, you pay the price

Cheer up, darling

You win some, you lose some

Tea and Crumpet

Private dick for hire

Bewitched

Blood is thicker than water

Breaking and entering

The wife and times of Tim Winter

The road was slippery after recent rain, so Tim slowed down at the sharp bend. Then, after passing trees dripping with water, he sped up on a straight section. Flicking on his lights, he followed the barrier to his left and ignored the steep drop on the other side. He’d spent his childhood exploring the area, so he knew the steep slopes and rough terrain were hazardous. Ahead, chunks of limestone and soil littered both lanes. Erosion and time had eroded the retaining wall. Slowing, he hoped oncoming drivers would see the debris.

Tim braked hard as a sports car skidded around the corner and into his lane. The driver avoided the rocks but lost control on the slippery surface. It skidded across the road with brakes locked and disappeared through the barrier. He stopped where the vehicle disappeared and shuddered as a loud bang echoed across the hillside. Leaping out, he hoped the driver had survived.

Scrambling over muddy roots and damp moss, he headed downhill. A metallic odour reached him as he neared the crash site. After passing between two giant oaks, Tim saw the wreckage squashed against a gigantic boulder. The engine lay to one side while the steering wheel was a few centimetres from the rock face.

Slowing to a walk, he sniffed the air for petrol fumes but could only smell smoke and burnt rubber. He learned about the substance’s explosive powers during his childhood when he dropped a match into an empty petrol can. The flames singed his eyebrows. But, this time, he didn’t want to be a dead hero.

After a second look, he realized the silver Maserati was familiar, but its number plates were caked with mud. He covered the last few metres and grabbed the passenger door. The twisted metal creaked in protest but failed to budge. A sense of tragedy nagged him as he climbed through the rear windscreen.

After sliding in on his stomach, Tim closed his eyes and paused for breath while resting on the rear seat. Then, after a final effort, he eased into the front passenger seat and took stock.

The airbag had jammed the driver’s head into the underside of the roof. Her brightly coloured dress was in shreds and awash with red. She groaned, floating on the edge of consciousness. Blood oozed from wounds to her scalp, her nose and mouth. Broken front teeth and torn lips made her look like she was snarling. Then, her head rolled away from him, and her eyes closed. He didn’t dare to examine the injuries to her lower body. All he knew was that she was in serious trouble.

An expletive escaped his lips as he recognised his ex-wife's battered features. Then, shaking his head in disbelief, he checked for signs of life. The pulse in her jugular was faint but regular. She was alive, but only just.

Before speaking to her, he dropped a tin of dog food on her bare toes. Sandy cursed and ranted at his clumsiness, more through shock than pain. Ice and profuse apologies helped diffuse the situation, as did coffee and a taxi.

Tim visited her a few days later. First, she became indignant when he tried to laugh off the accident. Then, she became red-faced and made biting remarks. Finally, as he backed off in confusion, she started to regret her harsh words.

Phoning him later, she offered him a ticket to a musical, a glitzy West End production in which she was a dancer. He graciously accepted but said nothing about his disinterest in the genre. Then, backstage, she kissed him for the first time. Tim was in heaven.

She chose the restaurant for their first date, but he paid for the evening. Two of her friends arrived, apparently invited, and monopolized the conversation. Tim switched off after the first exchange. He contented himself with polite smiles as he ate and nodded. He lost interest in their gossip about fellow performers and choreographers, peppered with machine gun blasts of cackling laughter.

He knew the evening would end once he paid the bill. So he escaped soon afterwards while Sandy and her friends went to a nightclub. He declined, claiming an early start and dismissed the evening as an experience.

A second apology and an invitation to coffee at her flat led to another unforgettable memory. She greeted him with a sensual kiss and a warm embrace. The smell of her lavender shampoo made him faint with desire.

Later, she slipped off her robe without thought, exposing smooth thighs, a flat abdomen, and soft breasts. Tim went to heaven, groaning with longing the first time she took him into her warm embrace.

Sandy’s eyelids fluttered as she surfaced.

‘Please, help me,’ she muttered. ‘God, it hurts.’

‘Sandy, it’s me, Tim.’

‘Tim? I don’t know any fucking Tim. I need help, you cretin.’

‘We were once married, Sandy.’

‘Oh. That Tim.’

She turned her head with a grimace, regarding him with bloodshot eyes. Blood dribbled down her cleavage. Tim wiped it away. Leaning closer, he shook his head at the whiff of alcohol.

‘Tim, please. Get help.’

Tim loved to draw. He neglected assignments and homework at school, preferring to work on design concepts. After developing a passion for computer-aided design in his late teens, he completed a degree. Still, he ended up in a cubby hole office of a busy advertising agency.

His disillusionment turned to joy at his first freelance job. More followed, and, soon after, he handed in his resignation. Within days, his former employer offered several money-spinning projects. As a result, his business was growing steadily when he met Sandy.

He was confident in providing for her and asked her to marry him. Surprisingly, she agreed but neglected to mention that she had lost her dance contract. In addition, punctuality was never her strong point, so she was behind with her rent and bills.

They were married and on honeymoon before either could draw breath. Rome drew them like a magnet because Tim wanted to tour the city, eat in restaurants and make love. However, Sandy had other ideas. After bumping into friends, she dragged him to the dressing rooms of half the theatres in the city as she caught up with friends.

Feigning tiredness, Tim left her to it. She returned to their suite at first light for the remainder of the trip, apologizing profusely each time. While Tim admitted he loved the make-up sex, the smell of stale bourbon was not nearly as exciting.

Once they returned home, Sandy threw herself into making a home for them. They rented a roomy flat, and she worked tirelessly to create an environment perfect for entertaining. She paid particular attention to his office, making it a haven for work.

‘Where’s your mobile?’

‘Why do you want to know?’

‘I want to phone the emergency services. Mine’s in the car.’

‘It’s on the floor, somewhere.’

‘Tim craned forward, searching for the device in the dim light. He found several pieces, none of which worked.

‘It’s broken.’

‘It was working fine a few minutes ago.’

‘When were you using it?’

‘Just up the road before hitting that landslide.’

‘You were driving and texting?’

‘Oh, please. I’ve been doing it for years. We women are born multi-taskers as if you didn’t know.’

She groaned after a coughing spasm splattered blood across the dashboard. Finding her bag, Tim pulled out a pack of moist tissues. She moaned deliriously at the refreshing coolness.

‘I’m going to fetch my mobile. I’ll be right back.’

Crawling out, Tim scrambled up the muddy bank. Twice, roots caught his ankles as he tried to hurry.

The birth of Lucy, their only child, was the most memorable day of Tim’s life. He ignored Sandy’s belligerent comment about never touching her again and lovingly held the tiny bundle in his arms.

A larger house followed, as did lucrative contracts. Then, finally, he settled into a work routine while finding time to help around the house. He ignored Sandy’s vitriol, putting it down to post-natal depression and sleep deprivation.

But he never forgot or forgave one particular exchange.

‘Tim,’ screamed Sandy one night, ‘Where the fuck are you?’

‘I’m here,’ he replied, arriving on the run. ‘What’s up?’

‘The room stinks. The kid needs changing. I’m wasted. Need to sleep.’

‘OK, OK.’

‘And, while you’re at it, give her a bottle, will you.’

He scooped up his crying daughter. Sandy was already snoring as he closed the door. Tim found the nappies in the kitchen and ignored the empty tumbler and a half-empty gin bottle. Instead, he took over bottle-feeding Lucy and changing her nappy. To avoid arguments, he scheduled work around her feeding times. Thankfully, after burping and changing her, she slept soundly in her crib in his office.

Finally reaching his car, Tim grabbed his mobile and made the slippery descent a second time.

‘What took you so long?’

‘It’s slippery.’

‘Did you phone?’

‘No, I’ll do it now.’

‘Hurry the fuck up! Can’t you see I need help, now?’

Tim prayed for a quick connection while dabbing the keypad but could only curse with frustration.

‘There’s no signal. I’ll have to go back to the road.’

With Lucy in nursery school, Sandy found new energy and purpose. Enrolling in a bookkeeping course, she liked numbers and columns because they appealed to her sense of order.

Tim was grateful when she took over the running of his agency. She recorded everything electronically, set up automatic payments, ran their household budget and was especially nice to clients. Typically, he viewed paperwork with dislike and only updated his records when legally obliged.

‘Have you seen the latest statements?’

‘Nope, I haven’t had a chance.’

‘Well, this year, we have a healthy net profit after tax.’

‘That’s great. We could start an education fund for Lucy.’

‘Tim, she’s not going to university for fifteen years.’

‘OK, OK. Maybe later then?’

‘I reckon you should buy me a new car.’

‘I suppose.’

‘I quite like that yellow sports model we saw in the showroom on the main road.’

‘Do you need such a fast car?’

‘Why not? We work hard and can afford it. I reckon I deserve it, don’t you?’

‘Seems a bit, well, extravagant.’

‘Not at all.; I’ve already put down a deposit.’

Tim decided against arguing. She promised to thank him later in bed. That was sufficient for now, he decided.

Exhausted, Tim flopped down in the driver's seat. Then, with shaking fingers, he pushed the buttons for emergency services.

‘Good news,’ said Sandy one morning.’ I’m meeting with our new financial advisor. He’s successful, drives a Porsche and everything.’

‘Sounds cool.’

‘I’ll ask him about a mortgage for a larger place, OK?’

‘I thought we were staying here.’

‘No, silly. Remember what we said?’

‘Remind me.’

‘We agreed to a bigger place with a jacuzzi and indoor pool.’

‘When was this?’

‘Don’t you remember the other night? I thought you liked black stockings.’

Tim indeed recalled the conversation as she whispered encouragement in his ear. He would have agreed to anything while his senses were overloading.

Breathing in sharply, Tim plunged into the mist. Drizzle limited his view, so he followed the tyre tracks. Crawling back into Sandy’s passenger seat, he saw she was unconscious.

He thought nothing of Sandy’s evening meetings with Greg, their financial advisor. She told him the details but omitted the part about leaving him. So, he ended up in a one-bedroom flat surrounded by belongings in boxes.

Her lawyer applied for custody, citing a need for a safe environment. But instead, the judge granted her the house, half of his income and limited visitation rights of one weekend a month. Utterly distraught, he stared at the bottom of a whisky glass for a week, ignoring calls and e-mail. Finally, Sandy sold their home and moved in with her new partner, jacuzzi, indoor pool and Maserati. Lucy became a silent and withdrawn child, but no one noticed.

Her pulse was still weak and erratic, and blood began to dry across her cheek. Tim prayed that someone would arrive soon.

Tim’s largest customer willingly hired him. He swallowed bitter disappointment, shelved a case of Jack Daniels, and went to work. He spread out meagre belongings in his cramped flat, repaired his twelve-year-old car and prayed for better times.

The last weekend of every month became more precious than everything else. He took Lucy to her favourite places, made her laugh, and had trouble letting go when his time was up. Yet, she seemed to understand but still hung on as tears flowed.

‘Did you call?’

‘They’re on their way.’

‘When will they be here?’

‘Soon, just hold on.’

She shook her head, a crooked smile on her lips.

‘It was too good to turn down.’

‘I loved you.’

‘I know all that. It’s about security and having the good things in life.’

‘Sure, you got the Maserati and the jacuzzi.’

‘Don’t forget the pool and the rocks,’ she added, twitching an emerald ring.

‘You gave it up just for that?’

‘You’ve no idea.’

‘That makes you nothing but a whore.’

‘Fuck you.’

‘A cheap one, at that.’

The open-plan office grew silent as two policemen strode across the floor.

‘Excuse me, sir,’ began the tallest. ‘Are you Timothy Winter?’

‘Yes, I am.’

‘Could we have a word? Outside, please?’

As Tim left the room, a hush of surprise turned to a cacophony of speculation.

‘We’re sorry to tell you, but there’s been an accident.’

‘Sandy, is she alright?’

‘No, it’s your daughter, Lucy.’

‘Is she badly injured?’

‘Fatally, I’m afraid. I’m very sorry.’

‘Oh, please, no. What happened?’

‘She fell into the pool.’

‘That’s not possible. Her mother is always around.’

‘She was present but unable to assist.’

‘What do you mean by unable to assist?’

The eldest glanced at his junior, muttering something about messengers getting shot.

‘Well, she was asleep on the sofa.’

‘In the middle of the afternoon?’

‘Perhaps one too many over lunch?’

‘You must be kidding?’

‘I’m sorry, but your daughter must have slipped and fallen in.’

The vehicle was already speeding through traffic. Tim recalled little about the journey, numbness, nausea, and unimaginable anguish. However, he recalled an argument about swimming lessons. Vehemently against, Sandy threatened to revoke his visitation rights. Finally, he gave in and would regret it for the rest of his life. His shirt was damp with tears when they pulled up at her home.

Coming round, Sandy struggled to open and focus her blood-caked eyes.

‘How many?’ asked Tim.

‘How many what?’

‘Drinks. Gin, isn’t it?’

‘No, no, no, vodka,’ she grinned, ‘but only a couple.’

‘Was it also a couple when Lucy drowned?’

‘That wasn’t my fault. We had guests for lunch.’

‘The cops found you comatose on the sofa, and the bottle was empty.’

‘Bollocks. It spilt onto the carpet.’

‘You should have been watching her.’

‘I was.’

‘Not properly.’

‘Do you think I don’t feel guilty?’

‘It doesn’t seem to have made any difference.’

‘Of course, it did. I’m also scarred for life.’

‘Does the booze help?’

‘There you go again. It’s always about that.’

‘It killed our daughter.’

‘You’re like a broken record, same fucking story, again and again.’

‘There’s only one story here,’ he replied, ‘and that’s the one where you fucked me over from the day we met to the day you let our daughter die.’

Tears rolled down Tim’s cheeks at the funeral. Then, glancing across at Sandy, he saw expressionless features on her perfectly made-up face behind a perfectly placed veil. He remained behind while she left hurriedly but could not face the perfect reception at her home.

‘That’s my favourite, you know,’ she said.

‘What is?’

‘The silver orb down there.’

Tim noticed the object for the first time.

‘You bought it from that crazy guy outside the Vatican.’

It reminded him of a cricket ball.

‘Yeah, I remember.’ she replied with a crooked grin. ‘I keep it in the glove compartment for good luck.’

Tim picked it up and tested its weight. He could feel the cold metal and smooth surface.

‘Put it back for me, won’t you?’

He smashed it against her skull as sirens wailed in the distance.

Murder or suicide?

The noose creaked as the corpse hung from the cross beam traversing the cottage’s only room. Peter Halgrave's features were contorted from the strain on his neck. Spittle dribbled onto his golf shirt, and the damp stain was drying fast. The rope fitted snugly under his jawline, under his ears and met at the base of his skull. One end was knotted around a metal ring set in the wall and wrapped around the cross beam. The other end was fashioned into a makeshift noose. It was never in danger of snapping because the victim only weighed a fraction of the manufacturer's two-tonne guarantee.

His dress was nothing out of the ordinary either, dark cotton slacks, a casual navy shirt and scuffed brown loafers. However, extraordinary was that his wrists were manacled behind his back, his ankles were tied, and the room contained not a single item of furniture. The previous owners now lived on the other side of the island.

The temperature continued to rise since every window, and the solid front door was locked. A spider skirted around a shrinking pool below the body. The afternoon heat was rapidly drying it out. Little else stirred in the afternoon heat, and even the cicadas did little to disturb the peace.

Bill Trent picked the key out of the dust and tested the lock. After receiving an anonymous call, he decided to investigate because he was nearby. Its well-oiled mechanism turned the first time. The bloated corpse stared silently at him, its features contorted in a hideous death mask. Not wanting to interfere with a possible crime scene, he stayed outside while scanning for clues. After a moment, he retraced his steps to call for assistance. A routine visit on a slow day was now a riddle he was determined to solve.

With little to do except wait, he strolled to a battered saloon. He leaned through the passenger window without touching anything. It was no different to any typical vehicle besides the polystyrene sheets on the rear seats and a battered hand trolley on the floor.

After putting on latex gloves, he opened the door and examined the interior. The passenger seat, he noticed, was damp and drying fast. Shrugging off the detail, he started a survey of the property.

The Medical Examiner’s vehicle arrived without haste. Geoff Mulholland and his assistant greeted him before putting on their gear and adjustable caps. Camera flashes illuminated the interior soon after he entered the building. Then, after a cursory examination, they cut down the body and wrapped it in a zip-up body bag before stowing it in their vehicle. Trent stepped into the house as they were finishing up.

‘So, what do you think, Geoff?’ he asked.

‘Cause of death was asphyxiation,’ he replied with a puzzled look. ‘Not sure about the time of death. I'll only know after the post-mortem.’

Rubbing his chin, he offered a rueful nod.

‘This is a strange one. It doesn’t quite add up.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘We have an individual hanging from the rafters, handcuffed, with no furniture. It’s a bit of a mystery if you ask me. I’ll conduct the post-mortem and give you a report tomorrow, OK?’

‘Thanks. I'll call you.’

The ME joined his assistant. Both stripped off their gloves and masks and drove off with the corpse. Trent stood motionless in the silent, empty room. He frowned. Indeed the windows were bolted. So no point of entry there, for sure, he thought. Same for the front door.

Trent examined each window despite knowing there was nothing to gain. Thoroughness was a habit, not a necessity, he believed. Nevertheless, he wanted to pick up the smallest details before making his report. These sometimes meant the difference between an open case and a closed one. In this case, they could make a suicide into a murder.

Trent avoided making assumptions as he left. Instead, he preferred to digest what he knew at present and fill in the rest. Nevertheless, several questions nagged him. The main one was how the victim hung himself without using any furniture.

Trent headed back to the station house with these thoughts in mind. Again, a sense of déjà vu gnawed at him because it was not the first time. Driving along the narrow road, he recalled an earlier