Side Hustle
SHORT STORY: Two worlds collide, with potentially fatal consequences
With a part-time job in the university press office and a freelance side hustle, I couldn’t help but feel pleased with myself for creating a lucrative portfolio career that made the most of what Liam Neeson might call a very particular set of skills. So, unsurprisingly, a considerable amount of effort had gone into ensuring that the two parts of my work life remained separate, both for professional and tax-related reasons. But the details I’d received for my latest freelancer gig were sufficiently alarming to send me scurrying from my desk for an urgent catch-up with a certain member of the Medical Faculty.
I had to knock several times before Professor Murdo MacIntyre finally deigned to open his office door. The Prof consistently rocks the look of a man who’s just returned from a long walk with his dog. Regardless of the occasion, location or prevailing weather conditions, he’s always dressed in a variety of outdoorsy items: waterproof jacket, gilet, hiking trainers or a pair of those weird trousers that unzip at the knee to convert into shorts. True to form, the Prof was all fleeced up that day, but had accessorised with a pair of bright green tartan slippers. Academics can be an odd bunch.
The Prof appeared baffled by my presence. No wonder, really. We always met by prior arrangement to discuss whether or not I could help with his research communication strategy. Usually not, given that he didn’t see the point of social media and all those other new-fangled ideas (his words) that I pitched as a way to make his esoteric work accessible to Joe Public. I honestly thought he was going to have a stroke that time I invited him to appear as a guest contributor on my ‘Research Matters’ podcast.
“What on earth are you doing here, Olivia?” he asked with an undisguised hint of irritation. “We don’t have a meeting in the diary, do we?”
I decided the best policy was to plunge straight in.
“Nothing scheduled but I do need to speak to you about something rather serious. Something that can’t wait, I’m afraid.” I lowered my voice to a whisper before continuing. “Someone’s taken out a contract to have you killed. And the deadline for completion is next Friday.”
The Prof gave a short but mirthless laugh. “I assume you’re joking? If so, it’s in extremely poor taste.”
“Sorry but I’m really not joking, Professor.”
“Then how did you hear about this so-called contract?”
“Because I’m the person who accepted the offer to action it.”
That bombshell certainly got the Prof’s attention because I was instantly hustled into his spacious office, which overlooked the university quadrant from its ancient leaded window. His black Labrador eyed me suspiciously from under the desk as I took a seat beside a bookshelf rammed with scientific journals. The dog probably knew that I shouldn’t have encroached on the Prof’s turf unannounced like that. Perhaps they both deserved an explanation.
“I want to be clear from the outset that I don’t actually want to kill you, Professor. If anything, it would be a massive conflict of interest with my position at the university,” I admitted. “The truth is that I took this job without knowing the identity of either the client or the target.”
“How’s that even possible?” he demanded to know.
“Well, this kind of work isn’t exactly advertised through traditional employment channels,” I explained. “Offers are sent anonymously from an online brokerage. Usually worded along the lines of ‘Our UK-based client requires professional assistance to deal with a problem.’ Details of said problem are only supplied once the contract has been agreed. But the identity of the client is never divulged.”
He looked incredulous. “You mean to tell me there’s a job site specifically catering for people who work as hitmen?”
My raised eyebrow at the Prof’s gaff sent him into full back-pedalling mode. “Ur, hitwomen…?” he cautiously amended.
“Actually, the industry is really hot on promoting equality, diversity and inclusion, so the preferred term is contract killer. Also helps to preserve freelancer anonymity, which is super important when you consider that, despite best efforts, us ladies are still in the minority of professional assassins. Much like the situation for women in academia, I suppose.”
I couldn’t resist having that last little dig. But it seemed to go straight over the Prof’s head, as he just ploughed on with his seemingly endless questions.
“And what’s the going rate for this kind of job?” he enquired.
“Didn’t anyone ever tell you that it’s considered rude to discuss money?” I replied, only half joking.
“OK, give me a ballpark figure then.”
“Let’s just say that the fee would easily cover your research budget for the next year, while leaving me with enough change for an all-inclusive holiday at a swanky spa hotel in the Maldives and a designer handbag or two.”
I could tell from the expression on his face that the Prof felt conflicted about whether to be impressed or appalled by this revelation.
After a moment of reflection, he came up with a new line of questioning.
“What happens if you fail to complete the task?”
“I’d be contractually obliged to pay the client ten percent of the fee,” I responded. “So, a big hit—pun totally intended—to my finances. Plus, they’d probably give me a bad review, which would affect my star rating.”
“Contract killers have star ratings?”
“Name me a service provider who doesn’t these days. I’m currently rated an extremely gratifying four point nine stars for reliability, efficiency and creativity.” I left that little nugget of information hanging in the air.
“What if the client decides to cancel the job?”
“Ah, you’ve finally asked the right question. If the client pulls the plug for any reason, then they’d have to pay me ten percent of the fee to compensate for loss of earnings. And you’d still be alive. So, potentially a win for the pair of us.”
My response fired a cartoon lightbulb moment—I could almost see it flashing above his head.
“Any ideas as to how we might achieve this mutually beneficial outcome?” he continued.
“First of all, we need to figure out who the client is and why they might want you dead,” I replied. “Don’t suppose you have any thoughts on that?”
Personally, I suspected that the answer lay in some aspect of the Prof’s research. Nevertheless, I was at a loss to figure out why any of his peers from the ivory tower might take out a contract on his life, or even have the necessary funds available. The Prof is basically a one-man band, with no graduate students or research associates working under his supervision, and no collaborative projects undertaken with other universities. Instead, he prefers to spend his time alone with a supercomputer, number crunching a shedload of data to either uncover new uses for an old drug or find previously missed side effects.
“Well, there is one thing, I suppose,” the Prof suddenly butted into my thoughts. “I’ve just discovered that giving Bronchomab to people with emphysema can increase their chances of getting liver cancer.”
Now we were onto something. Hailed as a potential wonder drug, Bronchomab had been all over the business news lately. It was developed by COPD Therapeutics, a small Edinburgh-based biotechnology firm currently in the final stages of negotiating a takeover bid from a multinational pharmaceutical company. The deal was potentially worth millions to both parties. If the Prof had uncovered serious issues with Bronchomab, then that handed COPD Therapeutics a pretty compelling motive for murder.
“And this issue with liver cancer wasn’t detected in the original clinical trials?” I enquired.
“It’s there in the fine detail, if you know where to look,” he replied somewhat nonchalantly. “But, no, it was never reported in the scientific literature.”
“Have you told anyone about your finding?”
“My analysis is still unpublished; however, I did email COPD Therapeutics a couple of days ago to alert them to the problem. Not that they’ve bothered getting back to me.”
I tried, but failed, to suppress the urge to sigh aloud at his naivety. “It seems to me that the potentially life-threatening mistake you made was telling COPD Therapeutics about this side effect before going public with the news. We’ll need to come out swinging with a pretty solid communications effort to save your skin.”
“But I can’t possibly get a research paper written, peer reviewed and published in the amount of time left before you have to pull the trigger.”
“I don’t remember mentioning death by gun as my modus operandi, Professor.”
“I was speaking metaphorically,” he retorted.
“And I was just messing with you,” I laughed. “But since we’re on the topic, you might be interested to know that my work rarely involves guns as they’re just too messy and attention seeking. All that blood and brain splatter everywhere. Urgh! No thanks.”
“So how do you dispatch your unfortunate targets, then?”
“My USP is the ability to create plausible accidental death scenarios. You, for example, could so easily take a fatal tumble next time you’re out hill walking with your dog. No one would be particularly surprised as that kind of thing happens all the time in Scotland. And they might even blame the dog for propelling you over the edge.” I swear the canine gave me an aggrieved look as I outlined my plan to frame him for his master’s death.
“Hence your high star rating for creativity,” the Prof muttered grimly.
We sat in silence for a few minutes, the Prof presumably busy contemplating what he needed to do to avoid being pushed into a ravine.
“I could announce the liver cancer data during my speech to the British Society for Evidence Synthesis,” he eventually suggested. “That would get the word out to the scientific community far quicker than any research paper.”
“When and where will you be giving this speech, Professor?”
“On Wednesday. Down at the Society headquarters in London.”
“And I assume you’ll be holding forth to the massed ranks for about an hour or so?”
“Yes. I’m the only speaker and everything has to be wrapped up by six for the annual Society dinner.”
“That sounds ideal! I’ll write a press release for circulation to all the main media outlets, with the contents embargoed until just after your speech.”
“What happens then?” he asked.
“News of the side effect goes live to the world and you suddenly become the centre of a media frenzy. Every journo will want an interview. Your face will be all over the telly and newspapers, you’ll be trending on the socials, someone will turn you into a meme. In short, you’ll become too visible to kill.”
“And if your plan doesn’t work?”
“Then I’d remain contractually obliged to send you on the shortest possible route back down a mountain.”
But fortunately it never came to that.
While camped out in a bar close to the Society HQ, with only an overpriced cocktail for company, my phone had suddenly lit up like a Christmas tree. It appeared that everyone was already clamouring for a chance to quiz the man of the moment. Then, later that evening, I received confirmation from the brokerage that a chunky sum of money had been deposited into my offshore account. The Prof was clearly overcome with gratitude when I conveyed the news that his murder was formally cancelled because, totally unprompted, he offered to take part in my podcast. Perhaps this unfortunate incident had finally taught him the value of having a proper plan in place for communicating his research findings.
And talking of unfortunate incidents, a couple of months later, the body of a man believed to be the missing boss of COPD Therapeutics was hauled from the Firth of Forth. An accidental death while out sea kayaking, they said on the news.
Well, it happens all the time in Scotland.
This story was shortlisted for the inaugural Granite Noir Short Story Competition (February 2024). It was first published by Fictionette in March 2024.
Oh, I love all the familiar places in this one - but I may have to change my daily dog walk ha ha!