Mörderische Kurzkrimis
zum Englischlernen
PONS GmbH
Stuttgart
PONS
TO DIE FOR
Mörderische Kurzkrimis
zum Englischlernen
von Dominic Butler
Alle in diesem Buch geschilderten Handlungen und Personen sind frei erfunden. Ähnlichkeiten mit lebenden oder verstorbenen Personen wären rein zufällig.
1. Auflage 2016
© PONS GmbH, Stuttgart 2016
Alle Rechte vorbehalten
www.pons.de
E-Mail: info@pons.de
Projektleitung: Francesca Giamboni
Autor: Dominic Butler
Redaktion: Brian Wolfe
Korrektorat: Natalie Gaab
Covergestaltung: Anne Helbich, Stuttgart
Logoentwurf: Erwin Poell, Heidelberg
Logoüberarbeitung: Sabine Redlin, Ludwigsburg
Bildquelle Umschlag: Aktentasche: /Thinkstock/RTimages;
Auge: shutterstock/dean bertoncelj
Layout: PONS GmbH, Stuttgart
ISBN: 978-3-12-050102-2
Sie lesen gerne Krimis und möchten etwas für Ihr Englisch tun? Mit diesen spannenden Kurzkrimis tauchen Sie noch tiefer in die Sprache ein und erweitern Ihren Wortschatz. Die verwendete Sprache passt genau zu Ihrem Lernniveau, so dass sie die richtige Mischung aus neuen und bekannten Elementen bietet.
Mit Klick auf ein fett geschriebenes und nummeriertes Wort öffnen Sie zeigen, dass es hierzu Vokabelangaben gibt. Mit Klick auf ein fett geschriebenes Wort öffnen Sie automatisch eine Fußnote mit der deutschen Übersetzung. Von hier können Sie zur Vokabelliste für das jeweilige Kapitel springen. Mit nochmaligem Klick auf das Wort in der Liste schließt sich diese wieder und Sie gelangen zurück zum Text.
Im Anhang können Sie nochmals alle Wörter und Ausdrücke in einer alphabetischen Wortliste nachschlagen.
Viel Spaß!
Über den Autor
Dominic Butler stammt aus Nordengland. Er ist Englischlehrer und Schriftsteller. Nach seiner Schulzeit, die er an einer klassischen Grammar School (entspricht dem deutschen Gymnasium) verbrachte, studierte er Film und Literatur an der Sheffield Hallam University. Während seiner Studienzeit arbeitete er in Teilzeit als Gerichtsschreiber am Strafgericht in Sheffield. Dort erwachte sein Interesse für Kriminalfälle, die von nun an Thema vieler seiner Kurzgeschichten wurden. Dominic lebt und arbeitet zurzeit in Italien, wo er Englisch unterrichtet und gerade seinen ersten Roman beendet, einen düsteren, jedoch humorvollen Krimi.
The angel was in her dream again; however, this time her steel face was that of an old and angry man. The eyes were filled with hate, and the voice with the sound of vengeance1.
But it was just a dream.
Except this dream seemed to be so much more real than any other. This dream felt cold. This dream was dark. This dream was hard against her back and head.
No, she did not like this dream; so she forced her eyes open.
Normally, her room was light, even at night, because for many years now, she had hated being in places where she could not see. Yet tonight the room was filled with an impenetrable2 darkness, and she felt a sudden stab of fear.
She quickly tried to move her arm to reach the lamp on the bedside cabinet, but instead her elbow banged3 against something hard, and she cried out.
Confused, she tried to sit up, but this time her head struck4 something.
Panic spread over her. The type of panic you feel when you wake in the middle of the night, sweat covering your body, your heart beating, your mind still half-convinced that the monster of the nightmare is a reality.
She kicked her legs, but they too seemed to be trapped. Only then did she begin to form an image in her mind of where she was.
An image of a small space, enclosed on all sides, virtually5 no bigger than the length6 and width7 of a person.
The image of a coffin8.
The sound that escaped from her lips was horrendous9 to hear. It did not sound like a woman at all. It sounded like a wounded10 animal. It sounded like fear itself.
“Help me!” she screamed, her voice muted by the small space. “For God's sake, somebody help me! Help me! There's been a mistake! Get me out of here! Get me the hell out of here!”
After several minutes of screaming and kicking and trying to hit her hands against the wood, she stopped. Slowly she managed to regain some control of herself, to stop the tears that were falling down her face, to slow her breathing and to start thinking.
The first thing she did was check her clothes. They seemed to be the same suit and blouse that she had been wearing when she left the restaurant.
The restaurant. Was that the last thing she could remember? No, she could remember walking home through the city of Newcastle.
So what had happened? An accident?
Despite her fear she was still an intelligent woman. No, there had been no accident. At least, not of the physical kind. The cut on her head was the only part of her that hurt right now.
Right now? What time was it right now?
Her watch, it had luminous hands11! If she could…
But before she moved her arm, she knew that the watch was not there. For more than ten years she had worn that watch. Now its very absence12 made her begin sobbing again.
“Damn it, Jean!” she told herself. “Pull yourself together13. You can get out of this. Think!”
Her watch was gone. That could only mean one thing.
That someone had placed her in this coffin in spite of the fact14 they knew she was still alive.
Her heart began to race15 again, but this time it was anger that drove it. “You cowards!” she screamed.
Her phone? No, if they had taken her watch, they would have certainly taken that.
So she was alone.
Her family would never know what had happened to her, though they would be full of the suspicions16 that had tormented them for years. It was the fear of every judge’s family: the fear that one day a criminal would take revenge17 upon the person who had delivered their justice.
In the dark she began to cry again, and this time she made no attempt to stop herself.
“Judge Grey?” a quiet voice whispered. “Can you hear me?”
Judge Jean Grey jumped in shock, her head banging against the wood once more. The voice was quiet and muted, but it seemed to be very near to her. “Who is that? Where are you?” she shouted.
“Judge Grey, if you can hear me, you have to find the walkietalkie. Can you do that? Can you reach down and find it? Somewhere near to your right leg.”
The judge's right hand quickly searched in the dark and found something. It was a thick plastic square, and she could feel large buttons on it.
“Press the first button if you want to speak.”
For a moment the judge waited. She tried to compose18 herself, to remove the fear and tears from her voice. When she finally pushed the button, it was the voice of the famous crown-court 19 judge that spoke. The judge who had brought to justice more criminals than any other in the north of England. The judge who was famous for her tough sentences and iron rulings20. “Listen to me. Listen very carefully. I don't know who you are. I don't know why you are doing this. I only know that you are making a very big mistake. Do you really believe that you will not be found? I'm a crown-court judge. Someone will have seen you take me. Someone will be looking for you even now. Let the authorities know where I am, and I'll call for them21 to be lenient22. Fail to alert them, and I'll make sure you suffer for this.”
There was a long silence; then the quiet voice spoke again.
“You don't like the dark, do you? You don't like small dark places?”
It was horrible to hear her phobia on the lips of this man, but she was determined to be strong. “What do you want? Money? I have money, but the only way you can get it is to get me out of here now. You may have my wallet, but I'll never tell you the pin code.”
“9784,” the voice said quietly. “I know all of your secrets, Judge Grey. I know it all. I know where you hide the cigarettes that you tell your husband you don't smoke. I even know why you're scared of the dark, but I want to hear you say it.”
The judge's blood turned to ice. This was not the voice of a petty criminal23. This was the voice of a madman24. “Look, you have to listen to me. I'm a good person. I've done my job for the good of society. If I've sentenced you or one of your family, it was in the name of the law.”
Another silence. “Yes, you've been a good person. Not all your life, but for the last fifteen years. Before that, though…”
“So why are you doing this to me?” she shouted.
“Judge Jean Grey,” the voice said. And suddenly the judge remembered hearing the voice as she walked past an alley on her way home. She had turned and seen the face of an old man, but then a needle had pressed into her neck, and she had felt herself falling.
“You drugged me!”
“Yes. I learnt all about drugs just for this day. Like I learnt all about you. I watched you. I followed you, for nearly fifteen years. I could have killed you a hundred times. In a way I became you. I became your judge. And this… this is your sentence.”
“Who are you?” the judge screamed. And she banged her head against the wood of the coffin and felt soil25 falling between the gaps, soil that made her realise how real this was. How there really was no escape.
“No. Maybe not a judge,” the voice said. “Something else. Maybe an angel.”
The angel. Every day for fifteen years she had thought about that angel. Every time she had driven past the statue she had tried to look away.
“No. Please, not this.”
“Yes, this,” the voice hissed. “Fifteen years ago you were leaving your golf club after another extravagant dinner, and you were drunk. You crashed your car on the Durham road, hitting another car and killing the driver. You were trapped in your car, in the dark, alone. I don't know if you could see it: the Angel of the North, the statue looking down on you as you cried and begged for mercy26. I only know that when the family of the dead driver asked for justice from the courts they found none. You used your power and influence27 to cover it all up. You never confessed that it was your fault. The other driver, a young woman, was dead, but you were never punished. Now this is your punishment, Judge Grey.”
The judge screamed and shouted and hit her fists against the wood. “I'm sorry! It's true! It's all true. It was my fault. That poor girl. I killed her! God forgive me! But please, don't leave me here! I've tried to make things better, I've tried to be a good person.”
When she stopped speaking, there was a quiet sigh, and then the voice spoke for the final time. “That's all I ever wanted to hear you say. Ever since the day you killed my daughter.”
For a moment there were no other sounds than the judge's sobbing, but then there was a strange noise above her, and the wood seemed to creak28.
Tentatively she raised her hands and pushed the lid29 of the coffin, soil and dirt falling into the gaps and covering her. She screamed in fear, fear that the soil would suffocate30 her; then she pushed harder, and this time the lid fell back, and the early morning sky was revealed.
Slowly she tried to stand, her legs weak, and her eyes unbelieving31.
Her coffin was buried in no more than half a foot of soil; the large stone that had been on top of it was lying on the grass.
And the giant statue of the Angel of the North was standing above her, justice and vengeance on her steel face.
The body lay on top of the hot red rocks.
It was almost impossible to see that it had once been a person. Now it was only ruined flesh1, broken bones and blood.
The park ranger kneeling in the sand and rock some metres from the mess removed her hat and used it as a fan in front of her face in an attempt to stay cool.
It was no good. It was nearly two o'clock in the afternoon, and the sun was high above the Grand Canyon, its blistering2 rays shining down on the scene.
She looked up at the clear blue sky above the cliffs and shook her head. The fall that had killed the person must have been at least from ten thousand feet, she thought.
“Not a nice way to go3,” she said, quietly, watching the fly that had noticed the body and thinking about what she should do next.
Suddenly, behind her, she heard a footstep. She turned, her hand moving to the pistol on her belt.
“Sorry,” the man said, his face shocked.
He was tall, dark-haired and disquieting4. Something about the way he stood there made her think that he had been there for some time. That maybe he had wanted to let her know he was there by placing his booted foot heavily on the floor. He was wearing a pair of khaki pants,5 a red and black lumberjack shirt6 and a rucksack that was fastened over his shoulders. He looked exactly like the type of hiker that she expected to find out in the canyon at this time of year.
So why did she think he was not what he seemed?
“Who are you?” she inquired, her hand still on the gun.
“Jesus, what… what is that?” he asked.
Ranger Clarke stood up slowly, her eyes carefully assessing7 him from behind her reflective sunglasses. “Do you know what this is? Does it have anything to do with you?” she probed, her tone neutral, yet beads of sweat8 forming on the palm of the hand that was holding the gun.
He shook his head, his eyes never leaving the horrific corpse behind her. “No… no, I… God, is that what I think it is?”
He seemed to have no idea what was going on. Still, there was something about him that she did not quite trust. “What are you doing out here?”
He continued to stare at the bloody mess behind her, and she began to feel her patience disappearing. “Answer me. What are you doing here?” and she unbuttoned the leather strap9 that held her gun in place.
“Hey, what? Look, I'm Zac… Zac Dee, I'm just hiking, you know, the rim-to-river trek10.”
“Have you got any I.D?” she asked.
He nodded, his eyes still on the corpse. “Yeah… I have it here…” and he began to step forwards, but then suddenly he staggered11 and fell.
Despite her mistrust12 she quickly moved to catch him, putting her shoulder under his arm and helping him sit down and remove his rucksack. “You're okay,” she said, the same words she had said to at least a dozen heat-exhausted hikers. “You need some water.”
He shook his head. “It's not that, it's… God, how can you look at that thing?”
She smiled in spite of the situation. “Not a big fan of blood?”
He shook his head and took the bottle of water from his belt. “I hate it. We should call the police.”
She nodded. “I already did. They should be here in a while. They told me to just wait. So that's what I'm doing.”
“Did you see, you know, what happened?”
“Nope13.”
“It looks like he's fallen right out of the sky.”
She looked around. This part of the canyon was wide, the Colorado River two or three miles to the east. It was not a location that hikers normally came to as they preferred to follow the water.
“People don't just fall from the sky,” she said, wondering14 again if he was who he said.
He looked up. “Sure they do. Parachutes fail to open. People fall out of those little tourist planes. They have those around here, don't they? Maybe there was an accident in one. Or maybe a husband and wife had an argument, and the wife pushed him. Or…”
“Okay, enough,” she said, taking her own water and drinking deeply.
He nodded. “Sorry, I get talkative15 when I'm nervous.”
She thought for a second. “No worries. Look, if you're feeling okay now maybe you should keep moving. I can wait here for the police. There's nothing you can do to help.”
He hesitated, and her feeling of mistrust returned. The man claimed that he hated the sight of blood, yet he seemed in no rush16 to get away from the body.
Who was he really?
“I can't just go. I'd feel bad about leaving you. I mean, what if this wasn't an accident. What if there's someone out here watching us right now?”
binoculars17