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Claire Daphne's avatar

Back in 2004 I was on a Singapore Airlines flight to Singapore, a little over seven and a half hours in the air. I always book a window seat in economy, and on this 747 the layout was the dreaded 3-4-3. Boarding was almost complete and, by some miracle, the middle and aisle seats beside me were still empty. I was already celebrating the extra room when the very last passenger ambled down the aisle and dropped into the aisle seat. Of course.

I can’t help myself on planes: if someone sits next to me, I talk to them. I genuinely want to know their story. There are billions of us carrying entire lifetimes around in our heads, and a long flight feels like the perfect place to hear one. So I started chatting with the guy. He was maybe a shade under forty, dressed in a plain T-shirt and jeans, serious at first but warmed up quickly. His English was flawless, crisp, confident. A couple of miniature bottles of red wine later and the pieces started falling into place.

He was single, never married, in Singapore for work, traveled constantly, worked for himself. People rang him for quotes, he replied within a week, and he only used a satellite phone. He kept using the word “eliminate” in the most casual way, and when I asked his name he smiled and said, “Let’s just call me Roger, shall we?”

That word—eliminate—lodged itself in my brain and refused to leave. By the time the cabin lights dimmed after dinner I had a growing list that would trouble anyone. He had local accomplices waiting in Singapore and contacts all over the world—freelancers he picked depending on the job. He never carried his own “tools”; too many questions at airports. Everything he needed was rented or bought on site. This particular client was an extremely wealthy Singaporean. The work would require two weeks to study the situation, another two weeks to prepare, and one single day to finish it. Afterward he was off on holiday—somewhere nice, details to follow never.

I didn’t sleep. For hours I lay there in the half-dark rehearsing every profession that matched the description. None of the innocent ones fit.

Morning came, breakfast was served, and I kept asking questions as gently as I could. He answered everything with the same calm half-smile, like we were discussing cricket scores. We landed, walked off the plane together, cleared immigration together, collected our bags together—two strangers who had just spent an entire flight playing the slowest, most unnerving game of guess-the-occupation.

At the taxi rank I finally caved. “Roger, I have to know—what exactly do you do?”

His cab pulled up. He shook my hand, climbed in, then rolled the window down as the driver started to move. With that same relaxed smile he’d worn the whole way, he handed me a plain white card bearing nothing but a lone QR code.

“Industrial pest control,” he said.

And then he was gone.

Seventeen years later the card still sits in a drawer. Real exterminators don’t call themselves pest killers, they don’t need two weeks of surveillance and local muscle to deal with cockroaches, and they don’t celebrate the completion of a job with a vague tropical holiday. Somewhere in Singapore a very rich man once had a pest problem, and Roger was the solution.

I never scanned the code. Some questions are better left unanswered.

Here is the card if anyone needs it: https://ibb.co/NgDsSNzm

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Queenie's avatar

Sometimes, when people are trapped in a toxic marriage, they resort to contract killers. https://globalhitmanguide.wordpress.com/2025/08/29/trapped-in-a-toxic-marriage-the-psychology-of-the-hitman-escape/

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