Definitely Dead

by Kate Bendelow

  Geoffrey found that since he had reached a certain age, it was easier to con the elderly and minimise the risk of getting caught. They were more trusting of him than they would have been with someone in their twenties or thirties. He was well-groomed and dressed conservatively. The red paisley handkerchief which always protruded neatly from his jacket pocket screamed honest and dependable. He became the older son they’d never had. Or, was the son they had, who was now too busy with his own life to tolerate infirm, needy parents.

  Once he had identified his wealthy victims, he spent time checking for nosy neighbours and CCTV. He masked his footwear, wore a trilby hat and carried leather driving gloves as part of his ‘older gentleman’ disguise. He never, ever left his DNA again, always ensuring he washed any cups he had used and removed any potential fingerprints. He would con his victims so effectively that he was long gone before they realised their life savings had disappeared.

  The best part of all was most of them didn’t even tell their friends and family, let alone report it. They felt embarrassed for being so naïve. They blamed themselves and as result, believed the insurance would never pay out, so what was the point in calling the police for a crime number? Surely allowing him into their property counted as legitimate access, which meant there would be no case to answer.

  Geoffrey chuckled to himself as he thought about the clueless old woman. Even if she did contact the police, her hearing and eyesight were so bad, she’d make a terrible witness. He’d done well selecting her. He was confident his next victim would be just as gullible and easy to manipulate. He loosened his tie and undid his top button. God, he hated smelling of old people’s houses. Still, it was nice to be outside now. He breathed in the sweet, fresh air as he strolled along the country road, swinging his briefcase cheerily.

  It was a quiet, peaceful stretch. Sparrows darted in and out of the hedgerows whilst up above, swifts twisted and turned, diving for flies. Geoffrey felt relaxed. Rich and relaxed. He’d taken care to park his car at a pub thirty minutes’ walk away and was looking forward to rewarding himself with a refreshing, cool pint once he got there. After that he would treat himself to a few glasses of their most expensive Scotch. He could afford it after all.

  He could hear a car approaching from behind and moved towards the hedgerow. As the sound grew closer, he became aware that it seemed to be travelling at some speed. He stopped, waiting for it to pass by. Geoffrey’s eyes widened with shock as the blue Citroen came into sight. Not only was the car travelling at speed, but it was also heading right towards him. It had veered away from the centre of the road. As it sped towards the verge he realised he had nowhere to go.

  He let out a scream as he braced himself for the impact. His legs were flipped up over the bonnet, sending his face smashing into the windscreen. The car pulled sharply to the right and stopped with a squeal of brakes. He was in agony. He had never felt pain like it. Where his forehead and face had so recently felt clammy with sweat, he could now feel the syrupiness of fresh blood stream down his face.

  From the crooked angle at which he lay, Geoffrey could see the vehicle. He watched as the driver climbed out and looked at him. It took every effort for him to raise his hand and signal that he needed help. He couldn’t compute what he was seeing, though, as the driver let out a laugh and climbed back in the driver’s seat. The engine started up and Geoffrey let out an inaudible sound.

  Although the blood streaming down his face was blurring his vision, he could just about make out the lights on the vehicle. He heard a crunching of gears as the reversing lights came on. Tears began to stream down his face as he heard the engine revving threateningly. He tried frantically to move. Tried to roll out of the way. But he couldn’t feel his legs and his arms hurt far too much.

  His eyes widened with shock as the car reversed at speed back towards him. The engine whined as the rear wheels crushed his skull into the tarmac. Had he not lost consciousness at that point, he would have known that the vehicle then drove forward before reversing back over him a second time. Somebody wanted to make sure he was definitely dead.

  Geoffrey’s body was eventually discovered by a passing motorist who initially assumed the rags on the floor were a discarded scarecrow. By then, the Citroen had been abandoned on waste ground, doused in petrol and consumed by flames. Any latent forensic evidence which may have led to identifying the driver, had well and truly gone up in smoke.

  31

  Spence had arrived for his shift at The Eagle earlier than he needed to. Lisa, who he was taking over from, had been effusive at the opportunity to leave an hour early. If truth be known, Spence was the grateful one. As lovely as his sister and her family were, he hated intruding on them.

  ‘Has it been busy?’ he asked Lisa.

  ‘Not too bad. The usual stream of regulars, a heavy-petting couple dressed in office clobber who are clearly having an affair and Sloth, who’s been nursing the same pint of Guinness for nearly two hours.’

  ‘Sloth?’

  ‘Yeah, you remember from The Goonies? He’s sat over there by the door.’

  Spence glanced discreetly over. He spotted him straight away and understood what Lisa meant; he was an unfortunate-looking man.

  ‘Blimey, he’s a big bastard, isn’t he?’

  ‘He gives me the creeps. He asked me what my favourite colour is. Weirdo.’

  ‘Ah, did he now? He probably wanted a guess at what colour underwear you’re wearing. You might actually be in there.’

  ‘Erm, I don’t think there’s any chance of that,’ Lisa said with a grimace.

  ‘Don’t put yourself down, love, you’re not that ugly.’

  ‘Cheeky sod.’ She swiped at him with the bar towel. ‘Right, I’m off. Thanks for the early finish. If you ever get yourself a life and need me to cover a shift for you, I owe you one. See you tomorrow.’

  He blew her a kiss as she left with a swing of her hips and a flick of her hair. As he watched her walk out the door, he couldn’t help but notice that the man was staring at him unflinchingly. He found it rather unnerving.

  ‘Can I get you the same again, mate?’ he called.

  The man nodded, swallowing down his dregs. He carried his empty glass over to the bar and watched as Spence pulled another pint. Once again, Spence was aghast at how huge the man was.

  He had a large bulging forehead, which was accentuated by his receding, mousy-brown hairline. His protruding eyes were rimmed with dark shadows and his nose looked like it had been broken several times. His mouth hung open causing him to drool slightly.

  ‘What’s your favourite colour?’ Lurch said.

  ‘Oh, I dunno pal, I’ve never really thought about it. Orange, I guess. You know that bright orange glow you see during a sunset? The colour of salmon. I love that. Why, what’s yours?’

  Lurch grinned widely, revealing a mouth of missing teeth. No wonder he was drooling, thought Spence.

  ‘Rainbow. I like the colour, rainbow. That’s my favourite. I like all the colours.’

  ‘Good choice, mate. Here’s your drink – on the house.’

  Lurch smiled bashfully and carried the drink carefully back to his table with both hands. Spence watched him go. He felt a bit sorry for the bloke. He clearly wasn’t the full shilling. He’d pay for the drink out of his own pocket later, to make up for laughing about him with Lisa.

  He watched the man as he settled himself at the table. He might be big, but he seemed harmless enough, Spence decided. He hoped so anyway. He certainly wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of him.

  32

  Nowak listened to the familiar sound of the screws going through the process of preparing for lights out. Sounds of footsteps, jingling of keys and the opening and closing of viewing hatches grew closer. Eventually, it was Nowak and Naylor’s hatch which was slid open and the prison officer peered in. Satisfied there was nothing untoward happening in their cell, it was slammed shut and the patrol continued. Nowak listened carefully until he was satisfied th
e screw had moved far enough away before retrieving his hidden mobile phone.

  One thing that he had noticed about the phone since he had been in prison was that it seemed to take an age to turn on. He desperately hoped for a message from Markita. His patience was rewarded as the phone came to life and he was notified of two new picture messages. The first was a sexy selfie of her blowing a kiss and the simple message:

  I love you xxx.

  The second message was from Donnelly:

  Markita’s fine, think she’s just missing you, mate. I gave her some flowers, wine and chocolate from you. She’ll be visiting very soon. Here’s a picture of Spencer James, your soon-to-be prison replacement, chatting some bird up outside the pub he works at.

  Nowak laughed with surprise at the picture and leaned over his bunk towards the silent bulk of his cellmate below him. ‘Oi, Naylor, you awake, mate?’

  Naylor mumbled something inaudible, his voice thick with sleep.

  ‘Mate, c’mon, sit up. I’ve got something to show you and you’re gonna love it.’

  ‘Show me tomorrow, I’m tired.’

  ‘It’s a picture of your fancy woman.’

  Naylor sat up so quickly, he caught his head on the metal edge of Nowak’s bunk. Oblivious to the pain he snatched the proffered phone out of Nowak’s hand greedily.

  ‘Where did you get this? Have you found anything out about her yet?’

  ‘That bloke she’s with? He could soon be your new cellmate. I’m sure he’ll be happy to tell you all about her.’

  Naylor gazed, open-mouthed at the picture as he zoomed in even closer, so he could drink in every feature of Maya’s face.

  ‘All right, you’ve had a look. Give me the phone back. I need to send a couple of texts.’

  Nowak texted Markita back first.

  I love you too and I miss you, babe. I’ve sent you a visiting order xxx

  Then he replied to Donnelly, his fingers flying expertly over the keypad as he composed his message.

  That’s Maya the SOCO from Beech Field I asked you to find out about. My cellmate is very interested to know more about her, think he’s got a crush. Find out what you can and let me know.

  Nowak was about to play it safe with the phone and turn it off and hide it away when he received a reply from Donnelly.

  So, Spencer James must be our grass if he’s hanging round with police. Once you’re out of there, he’s dead.

  Nowak turned the phone off and lay back, shaking his head. Typical Aiden – so much for cooling things a bit. Still, he agreed with the logic. If Spencer was involved in tipping the police off about the firearm being held at The Farmhouse, then what else did he know about him and Donnelly? They knew nothing about the man and that worried Nowak a lot. He was a great believer in keeping friends close and enemies even closer.

  At the moment they had nothing concrete to suggest that this guy was a threat to them. But there was the coincidence of him suddenly appearing at The Farmhouse on the morning of the raid and now they knew he was keeping company with a SOCO, so he clearly had good associations with the police. He had to concede that Donnelly was right. Keeping Spencer James alive in the future was not going to be an option. He was a dead man walking.

  33

  Lurch sat sipping his drink, smacking his lips against the froth that settled around his mouth. He continued to watch Spence as he served drinks and kept the bar clean. He decided he liked him. Not only had he given him a free drink, he had also asked him what his favourite colour was. Nobody ever bothered to ask him. Spencer James seemed like a nice bloke. Lurch decided that in different circumstances, they would probably become good friends.

  Nowak and Donnelly were the only friends he had. Before them, nobody had ever shown any interest in him. Having friends transformed his sad, lonely, and often scary world into something fun and colourful. Having spent his life in care, Lurch had never been socialised. His friendships provided the normality he craved.

  For the first time ever, Lurch had full and meaningful conversations. Previously he had only experienced strained small talk with strangers. This limited experience had led to him being educationally disadvantaged. Small talk was the reason he had become so fixated with asking people what their favourite colour was. It was the only conversation point he’d experienced as a child. It was his infantile alternative to discussing the weather.

  Lurch felt accepted by Donnelly and Nowak. He shared opinions and in-jokes with them. He had an insight to family life when he was allowed in their houses. He learnt to laugh and play and got up to all kinds of scrapes. He was too naïve to realise that a lot of the time, his friends used him as a scapegoat and laughed about him behind his back. But, even if he had realised, he wouldn’t have cared. He would have taken the flack for his friends quite willingly. It was the least he could do to thank them for including him in their friendship and allowing him to be the nearest he had ever been to ‘happy’.

  As the three of them grew older and the scrapes turned into more serious criminal acts, the dynamics of their friendship didn’t change. Donnelly and Nowak were the brains; Lurch was the brawn who contentedly took the rap whenever they were caught out. Now, Donnelly had told him to follow Spence and report back about what he did and who he was with.

  He didn’t have to hide from Spence, but he did have to take photographs of the people he was in contact with. Lurch had to make sure Spence didn’t see him doing that. Lurch was good at the following. Considering his huge stature, he was incredibly good at not being seen. It came from a childhood of being passed in and out of the care system.

  In care, Lurch used to hide in the shadows so no one could hurt him. Being in the shadows kept him safe but he didn’t like it there. The small spaces made his breath feel snuffly and there was no colour. As he grew, so did his anger and resentment towards all those who had ever hurt him. Soon, he was big enough to make people stop hurting him. That was when he started to notice all the colours. He had never looked back.

  And as for Spence? Donnelly hadn’t said anything about hurting him, which Lurch was pleased about. He didn’t want to hurt someone who seemed so nice. Unless Donnelly told him too. Then if need be, nice or not, he would break every bone in his body.

  34

  Andy Carr was dressed in green hospital scrubs and was now slipping his feet into a pair of mortuary-issue, size ten, white wellington boots, choosing to ignore the sight of a diluted bloodstain on the toe. He had been tasked by Kym to attend Geoffrey Doran’s post-mortem and he was not happy about it. Firstly, he hated them. He had been in the job far too long now to find anything remotely interesting about them. They were also a stark reminder of how fragile his own mortality was, something he really didn’t need reminding of at the moment.

  Secondly, he had enough stuff going on and he could do without this added inconvenience. The last thing he needed was to spend several hours watching some poor fucker get sliced open and be swabbed, weighed and measured.

  He was in the company of Anwar Singh, from the collision reconstruction unit. He was part of the investigation team looking into the circumstances surrounding Doran’s death. Anwar was joined by Jean Collins, the exhibits officer. Jean was a quiet, unassuming woman who absorbed information through her large owlish glasses while constantly scribbling her way through copious amounts of notes.

  While Anwar remained cheerful, keen and enthusiastic, Andy was his usual morose, disinterested self. He continued to be distracted by the chiming from his mobile phone, which he had placed on top of his crime-scene notes.

  ‘Andy, I apologise profusely if we’re keeping you from something,’ Doctor Granger sneered. He abhorred interruptions whilst holding court and had been continually irritated by Andy’s lack of attention as he made his preliminary observations of Doran’s naked, broken body. The pathologist expected people to be in awe of his extensive skills and knowledge. Usually, investigators hung on to his every word, desperate to know how their victims had died. He did not appreciate
the repetitive bleeping which indicated that Andy Carr had yet another text message.

  Andy was either oblivious to the pathologist’s sarcasm or in true immutable style, was too arrogant to care. He was just about to reply to Granger when his phone started to ring again. Catching sight of the name of the caller, Andy could feel the blood drain from his face and his sphincter start to twitch.

  ‘If you’ll just excuse me, Doctor Granger, I need to take this. It’s an important work call. Please, accept my apologies.’

  Andy could hear Doctor Granger sighing exasperatedly at Anwar and Jean as he made his first cut into Geoffrey Doran. The scalpel sliced the skin as easily as a hot knife through butter as the Y incision was carved as Andy scuttled away, phone clutched to his ear.

  By the time Andy had headed back into the changing room, where he could take the call in private, it rang off. Almost immediately, however, the same number flashed demandingly back up on the display.

  ‘Hello? I was just about to call you back.’

  ‘Really? You’ve been ignoring my calls and texts.’

  ‘Not intentionally, I’m sorry. I’m at the mortuary, there’s a post-mortem just about to start. I shouldn’t really be on my phone.’

  ‘Anyone I know?’

  ‘Geoffrey Doran.’

  There was a snort. ‘No loss there. I hope death wasn’t too quick and painless.’

  ‘Doesn’t appear to have been, the guy has no face left.’

  Another snort. ‘I need to speak to you about the forensics from the McCluskey stabbing.’