Coincidence? (standard:Suspense, 2905 words)
Author: Hulsey	Added: Apr 23 2011	Views/Reads: 4418/2592	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A spate of coincidences lead to murder.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story


Samantha was amazed, realising that she too had a copy of Dan Brown's
Angels and Demons in her knapsack. She was now suspicious, and held 
back from confiding their latest connection to the stranger. She 
feigned sleep, not wishing to converse with the enigmatic man. 

That evening, Samantha attended a party in a taverna, which overlooked
the beach at Hersonissos.  Her friend, Maria was celebrating her 
birthday and a host of young guests were invited. Samantha wandered 
towards the balcony, the fresh sea breeze cooling her hot face. She 
looked across the bay, admiring the hundreds of colourful lights that 
were reflecting off the calm sea. 

“Well hello again.” 

Samantha turned to face Frampton, who was holding two large Bloody
Marys. With his white shirt that was undone to the navel, and his 
matching chinos, he seemed suitably attired for the occasion. He 
offered Samantha one of the drinks. 

“You! Are you following me?” 

Frampton shrugged. “I was about to ask you the same question.” 

Maria joined the bewildered couple. “Do you two know each other?”
Samantha nodded. “We met on the plane... Don't tell me that you know 
him?” 

Maria linked the beaming Englishman. “We met about... How long ago was
it, Joe?” 

“Six years... I told you that I had a few friends in Crete.” 

Maria grinned. “What a coincidence.” 

The music of Zorba the Greek echoed throughout the taverna and Maria
held Frampton's hand. “Come on. Let's dance.” 

Frampton extended his hand towards Samantha. “You too.” 

The brunette girl shook her head. “No, I don't think so... I‘ll finish
my drink and have an early night. I don't feel too well.” 

The lying girl watched her friend and Frampton dancing eagerly. She
focused on the coincidental stranger, now more suspicious than ever. 

During the week in Crete, Frampton regularly encountered Samantha.
Sometimes, she was tipsy, although she was mostly in control of her 
behaviour. She even considered having a holiday romance with her 
handsome, fellow compatriot, but she quickly dismissed the notion. 
Although she was certain that there had been a spate of coincidences, 
her inner conscience refused to eliminate her suspicions. 

During the flight home, Frampton made a bold approach to Samantha. “I
was wondering; I could not help but notice the absence of a ring on 
your finger, so would it be presumptuous of me to ask you for a date?” 

Samantha reddened. “Are you hitting on me?” 

“I guess I am... Well...” 

Samantha giggled childishly. “I don't think so... Granted, you are sweet
and are not bad looking, but we know nothing about each other.” 

“My name is Joe Frampton and I'm self employed as an electrician. I live
in Falmouth Street in Newcastle and...” 

“What!” cried Samantha. “You live in Falmouth Street... Now I know
you're fucking with me... I live in Suffolk Street... Just what's going 
on here?” 

“Suffolk Street?” grinned Frampton. “That's the next street to...” 

“I know where it is,” interrupted Samantha. “How come I've never seen
you before?” 

Frampton shrugged. “Beats me... So you must know, Linda Kettering, Ann
Darwin, and Jenny Faraday?” 

“I went to school with them... Well, Samantha, what about my offer? Will
you...” 

“No! Please, I'm not ready for another relationship just now... Now if
you don't mind, I'm watching Benidorm.” 

Three nights later, and Samantha was lounged on her sofa, watching
television and tucking into a Chinese meal, when she heard the motor 
outside her house. She peered around her drapes, to view a maroon 
Mondeo parked on her front. Due to the streetlamp, she could see that 
the driver was looking towards her house. She stampeded up her 
staircase, and after reaching her bedroom, she rummaged in her drawer 
for the binoculars. Danny, her ex-boyfriend was an avid race-goer, and 
had left them after abandoning her. 

Samantha knelt on her bed and carefully moved the curtain to one side.
She focused on the face of the motorist, and gasped, realising that it 
was Joe Frampton. Without hesitation, she reached for her mobile phone 
and called the police. 

Ten minutes later, and the police arrived, but there was no sign of the
Mondeo or Joe Frampton. After taking her statement, the police officers 
promised that they would check on Frampton, even though they stated 
that no crime had been committed. 

The following evening, Samantha was watching the local news on her
television. She fought for breath when the image of Joe Frampton 
appeared on the screen. # “Have you seen this man? Yesterday, in the 
early hours of the morning, nineteen-year old, Susan Garvey was found 
murdered, close to Newcastle railway station. Witnesses claim that the 
man was between twenty-five and thirty-five, was tall, and had blonde, 
wavy hair. He was believed to be driving a maroon car, possibly a Ford 
Mondeo. Anyone with any information, could you please call the number 
at the top of your screen... Now today's other main stories... There 
are to be more job cuts at...” 

Samantha wept silently, her breathing in spasms. She was trembling
uncontrollably, and pondering about her encounters with Frampton. She 
hesitantly reached for the telephone. 

Samantha waited outside the Crown Court, her mind in turmoil. She was
angry, yet determined. She was angry that the police had dismissed her 
reports of the stalker outside her home the night the girl was 
strangled. Frampton was about to walk free, as there was not enough 
evidence to convict him. That was, until Samantha intervened. 

Certain that Frampton was the murderer, and that she no doubt was an
intended victim, she had come to a decision. She had never meaningfully 
lied before in her life, but if the falsehood justified the means, then 
surely she was acting correctly. She also felt a sense of guilt, 
supposing that Susan Garvey would still be alive today if Frampton had 
not deviated from his original victim. Her conscience was clear. Her 
lies would protect other defenceless, young girls from the hands of 
this killer. 

The usher's voice startled her. “Samantha Jarvis!” 

She swallowed deeply and preened her hair before entering the court.
Like a hospital that retains its antiseptic odour, the courtroom reeked 
of furniture polish and beeswax. Samantha was led towards the witness 
box; her eyes refusing to look towards Frampton. There was no going 
back now. 

After swearing the oath, the prosecutor smiled at Samantha, his wig
seemingly lopsided. “Miss Jarvis, on the 4th May of this year, you 
shared a flight with the accused. Is this correct?” 

“Y...Yes... I met him in the departure lounge, and then sat next to him
on the plane.” 

“In the departure lounge, how did you meet the accused?” 

Samantha hesitated. She was about to tell her first lie. “He sat down
next to me.” 

“That's a lie!” yelled Frampton. 

“Silence!” ordered the judge. “I will not tolerate another outburst such
as this in my courtroom... Mr Carlisle, you may continue.” 

“Miss Jarvis; didn't you find it strange that the accused was also
sitting next to you on the plane?” 

“Yes, but I put it down to a coincidence.” 

“I object!” shouted the barrister for the defence. “My client had
pre-booked his seat on that flight and opted for that particular seat 
because of his stature. How could he have possibly known in the 
departure lounge, that the girl he conversed with would be sitting next 
to him on the plane?” 

The prosecutor conceded. “Granted, that may have been a coincidence, or
there again, perhaps the accused was watching the check in desk... Miss 
Jarvis; could you recall the gist of your conversation on the plane?” 

Samantha's eyes involuntarily drifted towards Frampton, whose head was
bowed. “Yes... At first, he was polite... Then after a while, I felt 
unsettled... I could feel him, constantly staring at me... And then...“ 


“Go on, Miss Jarvis.” 

“And then, he said something strange... He said, have you ever wondered
what it would be like to murder someone.” 

The public gallery stirred, and Frampton moved his head from side to
side repeatedly. 

“Order!” demanded the judge. “Please continue, Miss Jarvis.” 

Samantha lifted her head and looked towards the disbelieving killer,
whose eyes were glazed. “H...He then reverted to speaking normally, 
which I found unsettling and strange.” 

The prosecutor once more intervened. “Indeed... Did you happen to meet
the accused on the island of Crete?” 

“Yes... It happens that he knew a friend of mine, Maria. We attended her
birthday party on our first night on the island. He approached me, and 
when I insisted that I wished to be alone, he objected. It was only 
when Maria intervened that he left.” 

Mr Carlisle continued. “Was that the only time you encountered the
accused during your stay?” 

“No... I saw him several times... He used to wait outside my parent's
taverna.” 

The prosecutor interrupted. “Not the behaviour of a sane and respectable
man, Miss Jarvis.” 

“No, I was terrified, but did not want to bother my parents.” 

“And the flight home,” quizzed the prosecutor. 

Samantha was becoming more confident as the questioning continued. “I
tried to ignore him, but he then said that he wanted to marry me... I, 
of course refused, and it was then when he again mentioned about what 
it must be like to murder someone... That was the last of the 
conversation, as I pretended to sleep.” 

“Did you ever see the accused after that?” 

“Yes, three nights later... I was watching the television at around
ten-thirty, when I heard the revving of a motor outside. I noticed that 
it was him, and when he noticed me, he ran his finger across his 
throat.” 

“Him being Joseph Frampton?” asked the prosecutor. 

“Yes... I called the police, and when they arrived, Frampton had driven
off.” 

Mr Carlisle faced the jury. “And Susan Garvey was murdered early
morning, just hours later... Thank you, Miss Jarvis, I have no more 
questions.” 

Samantha was trembling and her throat was dry. She made to leave, but
the barrister beckoned her to stay. 

The short, bespectacled defender addressed her. “Miss Jarvis; would you
describe yourself as a brave and heroic girl?” 

“Brave? No.” 

“Then why did you not do what every sensible girl would have done and
demanded to change seats for the return journey? Surely that was the 
rational thing to do, given the circumstances.” 

“I... I didn't want to cause any inconvenience.” 

The barrister placed his hands on his hips. “Inconvenience! A stranger
confides to you that he has a fantasy of murdering someone, and you 
didn't wish to inconvenience the staff... Miss Jarvis, in your earlier 
testimony, you stated that it was my client who sat next to you in the 
departure lounge. Could you not be mistaken?” 

“N... No. He sat next to me.” 

“Hmm, you see; although nobody could recall the incident, my client
checked in twenty-two minutes before you did. Of course, he may not 
have made his way to the departure lounge immediately, but he swears 
that he did... Such a pity that the CCTV cameras were out of service at 
that time... You claim that several times, my client used to wait 
outside your parent's taverna. Could it be possible that he was smitten 
with you and was merely trying to court you?” 

“No!” 

The barrister continued. “Why then did you not report this to your
parents, or indeed the police?” 

“I didn't wish to inconvenience...” 

“Ah! You didn't wish to inconvenience anyone... My, what a disciplined
and considerate girl you must be, to put other's convenience before 
your own life... Outside your home, you claim that you saw a maroon 
Mondeo parked there. You also claim that my client was the driver. You 
must have particularly good vision to see him bring his finger across 
his throat in the darkness.” 

“There's a streetlamp outside my home; and besides, I saw him through my
ex-boyfriend's binoculars.” 

The barrister smiled smugly. “And you claim that the car was a maroon
Mondeo?” 

“Yes.” 

“Joe Frampton does indeed own a Ford Mondeo, but it is brown and not
maroon.” 

Samantha felt her bowels loosen. “It could have been...” 

“You could see my client's face clearly, but not the colour of his
car... No more questions, just yet, Your Honour.” 

Samantha walked towards the courtroom exit, her legs feeling as though
they were made of putty. She refused to make eye contact with Frampton, 
but clearly heard his damning words, “you lying bitch.” 

Fifteen years later and Samantha was married with two young daughters.
Joe Frampton had been found guilty and sentenced to life imprisonment, 
and she never ever mentioned to her husband about her involvement in 
the case. Without Samantha's fabricated statement, Frampton would no 
doubt have walked from the courtroom a free man. 

One evening, Samantha was playing snakes and ladders with her daughters,
when she was attracted to her husband's newspaper. She squinted, and 
her mouth was drying up when she neared the tabloid. She snatched the 
newspaper away from her protesting husband and focused on the 
photograph and the headline on the front page. 

Killer caught! was the headline. Samantha was confused. She gazed at the
photograph, but realised that this could not possibly be Frampton, as 
he was still serving his prison sentence. 

“What is it, darling?” asked her husband. 

“W... Who is this? I... I mean... how can...” 

“He's David Cairnes. He murdered some poor girl last week and now he's
been caught... He's confessed to some other murder, fifteen years 
ago... Should bring back hanging if you ask me.” 

With trembling hands, Samantha ignored the moans of her daughters and
began to read the column. She read that Cairnes used to own a maroon 
Mondeo, but burnt it out after Joe Frampton was convicted of the 
murder. 

Samantha's head throbbed, when she recalled what seemed way back in her
lifetime, the incidents on the plane. That Frampton had sat next to her 
in the departure lounge and on the plane was indeed a coincidence, as 
was the fact that they were both fond of Bloody Marys, they both liked 
Dan Brown novels, and they were both acquainted with Maria. That they 
lived in adjoining streets could also have been coincidental, but the 
Mondeos, and that Frampton had a double, defied belief. This far 
exceeded the logic of coincidences. This was impossible. What had she 
done? It now seemed plausible that Frampton was merely attempting to 
win over her companionship. 

Over the years, she had come to believe that what she told in court was
true. She sought only justice, and was merely trying to protect others 
from his clutches. People would understand. They must. Samantha began 
to slap at her own face and screamed at the top of her voice. Her 
daughters cowered, watching their father trying to console their 
distraught mother. 

Outside, a police car pulled up. Samantha Jarvis had a lot of explaining
to do. 


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