Kill or Die

by Ann Evans

  “Sure thing, Vince. I won’t let you down.”

  “Pleased to hear that,” said Vincent, playfully punching the other man’s misshapen chin. “So pleased!”

  Nash dragged himself up from the chair. His groggy demeanour made Vince wonder if the bitch was right. Maybe Nash would be dead by the time he got back, and things would start to look up.

  CHAPTER 18

  Someone was ringing his doorbell. Ian jumped to his feet, then stopped himself from running to answer it. He’d practically broken his neck last time by not looking where he was going. The kitchen door was certainly going to need replacing, or at least the glass panel. Anyway, it wouldn’t be Julia ringing to be let in. She’d have her key.

  Opening the door, he was surprised to find the paper-boy standing there. The young teenager, face half hidden inside a hooded coat, handed him the evening newspaper, which struck Ian as odd. It was only around Christmas paper-boys would knock customer’s doors, hoping for a tip. He used to do it himself, many moons ago.

  “Thought I’d better tell someone,” the boy said. “And you’re next on my round, so thought I’d better tell you.”

  “Tell me what?” Ian asked irritably, wanting to shut the door on this unnecessary annoyance. All he wanted was to get down to some serious thinking about where Julia and Lucy could have got to. “Go on then, spit it out. What have you got to tell me?”

  The teenager jerked his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of Benjamin Stanton’s place. “The old fella’s milk is still on the doorstep. It’s a bit weird, because he always takes it in. He might be sick, or something.”

  Ian sighed. “He’s forgotten, more likely.”

  The paper-boy didn’t move. “Someone ought to check on him. He is knocking on a bit.”

  “Yes, okay, son. I’ll check on him,” Ian agreed, moving to close the door, while he fetched his coat.

  The boy shifted uncomfortably. “You will go over, won’t you? If he’s lying hurt…”

  “Yes, I’ll go and check, okay? Now go on, finish your paper round.”

  With a backward glance at Benjamin’s house, the boy walked off.

  Ian closed the door, then took his coat from the peg. It was drizzling again, and almost dark. It was a rotten night. He hoped Lucy and Julia were all right. He hoped they were somewhere warm and comfortable.

  A wall of tall Leylandii trees formed a hedge between Benjamin's house and his, and Ian circumvented them to reach the driveway. There was a light on in one of the bedrooms, but the downstairs was in darkness. The curtains were drawn shut. If it wasn’t for the morning’s milk still on the doorstep, everything would have looked normal.

  Stepping up to the porch, Ian pressed his thumb against the front door bell, and listened for footsteps, or the dog barking. There were no sounds coming from inside—no TV, or anything. He rapped the knocker loudly, which usually made Bessie bark—silence. He wondered whether Benjamin had gone away for a few days, him and his dog, visiting relatives. Possibly the old chap had forgotten to cancel his milk. Julia would know... only he couldn’t speak to Julia. If only he could.

  He stooped down, and lifted the letterbox flap. At first, he couldn’t make out anything in the darkness. However, as his eyes became accustomed, he saw there was a something on the floor near the lounge doorway. He made out the shape of the old collie, and it appeared she was sleeping, because he could vaguely make out a slight movement of her breathing. But, then, he spotted another shape on the floor by the stairs, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He could distinctly make out a slippered foot, twisted at a painful angle.

  “Benjamin!” he shouted through the letterbox. “Are you okay? Can you hear me?” There was no movement, and Ian stood up, trying the door. It wouldn't open. He stooped down again. “I'm calling an ambulance, Benjamin. Help's coming. You'll be okay, my friend.” He straightened, feeling dizzy with panic. The poor old chap must have fallen down the stairs. God! How many more things were going to happen? It was like his world had gone mad. He felt for his mobile, cursing as he realised it was back in the house. He tried to run, but his legs felt like jelly. Heart hammering with panic, he stumbled back home.

  His house phone was ringing. Julia, it had to be her, He snatched it up. “Julia?”

  “You’ve got a bloody nerve!”

  The venom in the female voice made him stagger. “Who’s this? Get off the line. I’ve got to call an am…”

  “You're despicable! Unbelievable!”

  “Shelley…”

  “How dare you ring me,” she uttered, her voice thick with malice and spite. “My husband was standing there, listening. He wanted to know what we were talking about. God, if I haven’t had to spin enough lies, because of you. You know, he called the police. They questioned me for a whole hour about being mugged. An hour! Where I was attacked, what did he look like, what was he wearing, where had I been, who with, what film did I see…”

  “Shelley, I’m sorry, only, please get off the line, I need to ring an ambulance, my neighbour has had an accident…”

  “Spare me the details. I’ve got quite enough on my plate, because of you. Now, get this straight, Ian Logan. Don’t you ever ring me at home again. If my husband suspects anything, I’ve had it. And he’s all I have left right now. I’m not about to lose everything, over a pathetic swine like you.”

  His hand was trembling. “Shelley, I’m hanging up. It’s an emergency.”

  She started to say something, but he cut her off. He hoped the old chap wasn’t dead. He snatched up the receiver again, but there was no dialling tone. She hadn’t hung up. “Shelley, hang the blasted phone up!” Then, slamming it down again, he ran through to the lounge and found his mobile. Before he’d had chance to dial, the sound of a siren outside sent him running to the window.

  A police car had pulled up in the street, and the paper-boy was hopping from one foot to the other by Benjamin's driveway. Two police officers got out of the vehicle. They all hurried up the drive, and disappeared behind the trees.

  The paper-boy must have flagged down the police car for it to have got here so quickly, thank God. They’d be able to break in, and get an ambulance. He hoped the old boy was okay – and the dog. Funny how she didn't wake up when he shouted through the letterbox. Old and deaf, he guessed.

  Within minutes, there were more sirens, more police and an ambulance. Ian watched from his front window, thinking how surreal everything was becoming, as his neighbourhood suddenly changed from being a quiet, little cul de sac to a scene from an American gangster film. The street was teeming with emergency vehicles, even an RSPCA van, their flashing lights making patterns on his walls.

  He went upstairs to get a better view, seeing other neighbours standing in their doorways and in little groups on the pavement. As he watched, he kept a look out for Julia’s Mini coming down the road, stupidly thinking this commotion would bring her back home. But, the only vehicles that came were more police cars. God, where was she? This was insane.

  Eventually, he went downstairs intending to ring Steph, and tell her he was worried about Julia and Lucy. If she knew the truth, she’d have some idea where they might have gone.

  Before he reached the phone, however, someone rang his doorbell. Cursing softly, he opened the door to find two men standing on his doorstep. Judging by their manner and stance, they were plain clothes police officers, and for a second, Ian felt a stab of fear, in case they'd come to tell him something bad about his wife and daughter. And then, he jerked back to reality. It would be to do with Benjamin next door. His domestic problems were of no interest to anyone, except himself.

  The shorter, older of the two officers, wearing a bulky sheepskin jacket, introduced himself as Chief Inspector O'Ryan, and his taller younger colleague as Detective Inspector Grimes.

  “Sorry to disturb you, sir,” said O’Ryan. “But, we'd like a word, if it's no trouble.”

  Ian hesitated briefly, th
en moved aside. As the two police officers strolled through to his lounge, he sensed their disapproval at the state of the place, and the half empty whisky bottle sitting on the coffee table.

  “How is the old chap?” Ian asked. “I gather it's not good, judging by the commotion going on. He’s not dead, is he?”

  O’Ryan shot Ian an unsettling look, that made him again think they were here for some personal reason, not a courtesy call, or whatever this was. The Chief Inspector looked about forty-five, with tight curly black hair – what there was of it, as his receding hairline reached halfway across his head. The skin on the bald area was shiny with drizzle.

  “What makes you think anyone’s dead, sir?” he asked, his bushy eyebrows arching, and his small round eyes taking everything in, making instant judgements.

  “Well, because he was lying at the foot of the stairs.”

  “How do you know that, Mr. Logan? You are Ian Logan, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” Ian murmured. The fact this policeman knew his name sent alarm bells clanging in his mind. “I caught a glimpse of him, when I peeped through the letterbox.”

  They were both regarding him curiously, waiting for him to tell more.

  “The kid… the paper-boy told me Benjamin’s milk was still on his doorstep. He wanted me to check on him.”

  “I see, sir,” said O’Ryan. “You saw the gentleman lying at the foot of his stairs, and you didn’t think to call an ambulance?”

  “Of course I did,” Ian exclaimed, finding this whole thing ridiculous. “I came straight back here, and…”

  “And made the call?” asked the other officer, Grimes, writing everything down in his notebook.

  Ian’s throat felt tight, like he was making excuses. “No, I didn’t get chance. My phone was ringing when I got back in, and I couldn’t get rid of the person on the line – well, not until I hung up. And even then, she was still there. She hadn’t hung up, so I grabbed my mobile to ring from that, when I heard you lot arriving. So, there was no point then.” He turned towards Grimes. “And why are you writing down everything I’m saying?”

  “Just routine, sir,” said the younger officer.

  “Well, Mr. Logan,” said Chief Inspector O'Ryan. He spoke slowly, steadily, while the expression in his eyes warned his brain was working at a much swifter pace, analysing and processing information, and making quick assumptions. “As you’ve probably gathered, a particularly nasty incident has occurred next door to you.”

  “Hold on,” Ian said, holding his hands up. “What’s that supposed to mean? A nasty incident? Benjamin’s fallen down the stairs, hasn’t he?”

  The two officers glanced at one another, making Ian feel as if they didn’t buy his question. He was starting to feel light-headed. Something here wasn’t right. “Yes, okay, falling downstairs is nasty…”

  “It is, sir,” said O’Ryan. “Especially when it results in a death.”

  Ian felt his legs go weak, he took a few steps backwards, and slumped down on the arm of his sofa. “Ah, Jesus. That's a rotten shame. Poor old chap. My wife’s going to take this pretty badly.”

  “Close were you, sir?” asked O’Ryan.

  “Just neighbourly, you know. My wife gets his shopping, and does a few jobs for him. That sort of thing.”

  “Is she around, sir?”

  He kept his eyes down. “No, not at the moment.”

  “When will she be back?”

  Ian shook his head. “I’ve no idea.”

  There was a pause, and without looking, Ian knew the two were exchanging looks again, making assumptions. His personal life had nothing to do with them.

  “So, you tried to call an ambulance from your hall phone,” said Grimes, wandering through to the hall. “After you’d spotted the gentleman lying at the foot of his stairs?”

  “Yes. I said so. Only someone rang me, and wouldn’t get off the line.”

  Out in the hall, Ian heard the younger officer picking up his phone. “Seems fine now, Mr. Logan.”

  Ian couldn't believe their stupidity. Weren't they listening to a word he was saying? “Well, of course it is now!” he snapped. “What the hell do you take me for? Do you think I’d let the poor soul lie there…”

  “We’re not thinking anything yet, sir,” said O’Ryan. “Just trying to make sense of a rather unpleasant situation.”

  Their attitude was making him feel hot under the collar, and he found himself rubbing his clammy hands down his trouser legs. He tried to keep cool, not let them rile him. He took a steadying breath. “As I said, when I heard the sirens, and saw the police, I assumed they would take it from there. No point in making an emergency call, if you’ve already arrived, is there?”

  “Absolutely, and as you say, we have indeed taken it from there.” Chief Inspector O’Ryan smiled as he spoke, but there was no warmth in the smile, and the calculating stare was back with a vengeance. “Luckily, the paper-boy flagged a passing police car down. He said he was concerned about one of his elderly customers who hadn’t taken their milk in from this morning. Said he’d informed a neighbour, but didn’t think the neighbour was going to do anything about it. I gather that was you, Mr. Logan?”

  Ian's face was burning, as he defended himself. “Yes, I imagine it was, but I did do something, I went straight round there, and saw the situation for myself…”

  “Then, came home, and had a conversation about something quite different,” Grimes interrupted, speaking from out in the hallway. “Who was on the phone, sir? It says your last caller withheld their number.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me,” Ian murmured, beginning to feel like he was on trial here. “And I'm sure the message that says the number was withheld will also tell you what time they called, which will tally with what I’m telling you… but why the hell I should be explaining all this to you, I don’t know.”

  “You’re helping us with our enquiries, Mr. Logan,” O’Ryan said pleasantly. “It wouldn’t hurt to tell us who called you, would it?”

  Ian’s mouth dropped. “Helping you with your enquiries? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  Grimes wandered back into the lounge, pencil and notebook poised. “Who called you, Mr. Logan? Your wife?”

  Ian was about to protest. They had no reason to question him like this, but the sharp-eyed stare from the Chief Inspector shot down his resolve. Quietly, he said, “No, it wasn’t my wife. It was a work colleague.”

  “Their name, sir?”

  He took a deep breath, aware he was hammering another nail into Shelley’s coffin. “Shelley de Main.”

  “And her number, if you wouldn’t mind?”

  He told them, getting to his feet, stunned by all the questions. Grimes went back into the hall and called her. The conversation that took place shook Ian to the core, as he realised Shelley was denying any such conversation ever took place, branding him a liar.

  The lanky police officer regarded him with a deeply troubled frown etched across his thin face. “Shelley de Main says the last time she spoke to you was this afternoon. She was quite adamant about it.”

  “Now, why would she lie, sir?” asked the broader officer, unbuttoning his sheepskin, as if he was settling in for the night. “Why would she lie?”

  Ian pressed his fingers against his temples, as his head ached and buzzed. “Because she hates my guts.”

  O’Ryan sat down beside him on the sofa. The proximity was much too close for comfort. “And why does she hate your guts, Mr. Logan?”

  “Personal reasons.”

  “Are you married, Mr. Logan?” asked O’Ryan. “Oh, yes, you said your wife runs errands for the deceased. And she’s not at home at the moment.”

  Ian shook his head, staring down at the carpet through his fingers.

  “So, when is she likely to be back?”

  “I told you, I've no idea.”

  “None at all?”

  “No! No idea at all. She’s left me,
alright?” He snatched up the whisky bottle, and poured himself a tumbler full.

  The two officers glanced at each other, then Grimes asked, “Are you sure it wasn’t your wife on the telephone?”

  Ian looked from one officer to the other. Their damning appraisals sent alarm bells began clanging in his head. “No, it wasn't my wife. I'd have told you if it was my wife. Why the hell would I lie? What the devil are you getting at?”

  O’Ryan arched his bushy eyebrows. “We’re not getting at anything. Just piecing it all together, that’s all.”

  “Well, this bit of the jigsaw has nothing to do with Benjamin falling down the stairs.” He took a gulp of whisky, and coughed as it burnt the back of his throat. “And I'm pretty damn sure with technology being what it is, you can find out who my last caller was, and you'll see I'm telling the truth.”

  “I've no doubt,” the Chief Inspector said agreeably, and then spotted the plaster on his finger. “I see you’ve hurt yourself, sir. How did that happen?”

  “This?” His mind raced. He didn’t want to drag Shelley any deeper into this. Besides, she would only deny it. “It's nothing. I was a bit clumsy clearing up some broken glass.” As he moved, his cuff slid further up his arm.

  O’Ryan was quick in catching sight of the plaster on his wrist. “What’s this, another cut?”

  Ian pulled his sleeve down. “As I said, I was a bit clumsy. I’ve had a lot on my mind recently.”

  “Ah, yes, what with your wife leaving you,” said O’Ryan, sounding very much like he didn’t believe him.

  Ian’s cool deserted him. He slammed the glass back on the coffee table, splashing the whisky everywhere. “Look, what’s all this about? I’m getting the feeling I’m being accused of something here.”

  “Not at all, sir,” said O’Ryan. “It’s our job to check things out, make enquiries, to see if anyone has seen or heard anything suspicious in the last forty-eight hours, or so.”

  “Suspicious? In what way? Benjamin had an accident, didn’t he?” He shot swift looks from one officer to the other, a blackness starting to swamp him. Police don’t come asking question because someone had fallen down the stairs. “Are you telling me someone pushed Benjamin downstairs?”