by Ann Evans
“It’s hard to say, at this moment in time,” said O’Ryan.
“But, why would you even think that a possibility?”
“Because, sadly, it would appear someone broke into Benjamin Stanton’s house, ransacked it, killing the old gentleman in the process and half-killing his dog.”
Ian sank to the floor, his legs totally giving way on him. “My God! Oh, my God.”
O’Ryan and Grimes helped him onto the sofa. His head was spinning at the horror of it all. No wonder they were questioning people. No wonder people were under suspicion. He put his head in his hands. “Poor old soul. How could anyone attack a frail, helpless old man? Oh, my God, Julia’s going to be heartbroken.” He lifted his eyes to them. “And his dog? Is she still alive?”
“Just about,” said Grimes. “No idea if the vet can save her.”
“Dear Lord, how could anyone do such a thing?”
O’Ryan stood over him, beady eyes taking in everything. “Greed. Probably a burglary that went badly wrong, when the intruder was disturbed.”
They were interrupted by the sound of someone else ringing the doorbell. Ian went to answer it, but Grimes indicated he'd see to it. He was gone only a few seconds, before he called for his superior to join him. Ian followed, feeling like he was trapped in a nightmare. A uniformed police officer was on his doorstep. The three of them talked quietly before O’Ryan and Grimes came back in.
“Well,” said O'Ryan. “Looks like we can fix an exact time to when the incident occurred next door, Mr. Logan. Our experts estimate the old gent has been dead about sixteen hours, but we can be even more precise. Seems he raised his arm to try and protect himself, and his wristwatch got smashed in the attack. It stopped at five past one.”
The thought of poor old Benjamin trying to fend off some murdering, thieving bastard made him feel sick.
O’Ryan’s eyes narrowed. “Where were you in the early hours of this morning, Mr Logan?”
An odd buzzing sound erupted in his ears. He stood open mouthed. Then, with a gasp, he uttered, “You think I killed Benjamin Stanton?”
“Did you?” O’Ryan asked calmly.
“No, I bloody well did not. Why the hell are you accusing me? I liked the old chap. What the hell is this?”
“Enquiries, sir. Just routine enquiries.”
Grimes had his notebook open again. “So, where were you last night between say eleven pm and two am?”
His heart was thudding. Beads of cold sweat were bursting out of his skin. He wanted to tell this pair to go fuck themselves, but the more he antagonised them the longer this would go on. “I worked late. Then, I visited a friend. I got home about two o’clock.”
“And this friend will verify your movements, will he?”
“She,” Ian corrected him, lowering his head. “And no, I doubt she’d do that, seeing as she's denied ringing me.”
Without looking up, he felt the two officers summing up the situation, jumping to conclusions. It felt like a noose was tightening around his neck.
“If you could tell us Shelley de Main's address,” suggested Grimes, his pencil poised.
Ian shook his head. “I can’t. She’s married. It would wreck her life if her husband found out.”
Again, another silence. Then, Grimes said, “We can check your story with the utmost discretion, her husband need never know. So, her address, if you wouldn’t mind. Just to save time.”
Ian told them, hating himself for having to. He gulped down another mouthful of whisky. Shelley would think he was waging war against her. God, as if he hadn’t done enough to the poor woman.
“And your wife, sir,” asked Grimes. “If you could verify your wife's movements around that time.”
“I've no idea what she was doing, leaving me, presumably.” He slammed his glass down on the coffee table again, his face hot and flushed. “Look, you’ve got a murder out there to solve. Why the hell don’t you get on with it, and leave my domestic problems to me?”
O’Ryan ignored his outburst. “So, she only left the marital home last night?”
“Yes!” Ian blurted out. “I discovered she’d gone when I got home, if you must know.”
“And you’ve no idea where she’s gone?”
Ian shook his head. “I wish to God I did know. It’s been driving me crazy all day. I’ve rang her sister and her friends. No one’s seen her.”
“Does she have her own transport, Mr Logan?”
“Yes, a Mini. A yellow one.”
“Registration number?”
Ian told them, and Grimes jotted it down. “We’ll put this out for you, Mr. Logan. You'll soon have her home again.”
“You do want her back, don’t you, Mr. Logan?” O’Ryan asked, watching his reaction.
Ian’s eyes fluttered shut in an effort to hold back the sudden tears. “Yes, Inspector. I want her back. I love them so much, this is killing me.”
“Them?”
“She took my daughter with her, too.”
O’Ryan spoke, his face expressionless. “So, your wife left here with your daughter possibly around about the same time as your neighbour was being burgled and murdered.”
Ian stared from one to the other, a nauseous sensation rising inside of him. Surely there was no connection. Julia could have left him at any time during the day, straight after breakfast, for all he knew. But, when he spoke, it was to confirm the worse scenario. “Yes. Yes, it’s possible.”
Grimes got on his radio; he was reporting the Mini’s registration number to someone, as he and O’Ryan strode out of the house.
Ian stood alone in the centre of the room, a cold dark despair crawling over him. Julia and Lucy might never be coming back.
Maybe they couldn't come back.
CHAPTER 19
Sweat glistened on Nash's pale skin, mingling with the drizzle. A cold mist hung in the air, as darkness fell. He’d had to work quick, well, quick for him, in the state he was in. He had no idea how long Vince would be gone. Knowing him, it would be his luck to find a car he could nick round the next bend. And this job had to be done before Vince got back. His life depended on it.
The dog bite had really taken it out of him. Normally, he'd be a match against Vince, if it came to a fight. However, now, he felt like he hadn’t a scrap of energy left in his body.
It had been practically impossible digging and shovelling one-handed, and it was only thoughts of the consequences if this wasn't done right keeping him going. He had no strength left. His entire body ached now, especially his arm. It burned, and his face throbbed like he had a toothache.
He was a good distance from the house, in a rough overgrown copse, but he could still make out the chimneys, and boarded up top windows, silhouetted against the grey evening sky. He stared at the little attic window jutting out from the steep slate roof. The window wasn't covered, and he could almost imagine two faces up at the windowpane, peering out. Although, he knew they wouldn’t. He'd told them to keep out of sight, and not make a sound. Maybe he was wrong to trust them. He should have finished them off, like Vince told him. Only, he didn’t hurt kids. Kids dying broke your heart, he knew from experience. He didn’t want to risk feeling like that ever again. And the woman had been kind to him. There weren’t many people in this world who had showed him any kindness, but she had. Still, they'd better keep quiet, and out of sight. It wasn't just their lives at stake now.
All around was wild countryside. Skeletal trees, with their leafless branches, dripped cold spots of rain on his head, while beneath his feet, the ground was spongy with mud and fallen wet leaves.
He stood back, and wiped the sweat from his eyes with his good arm. The mound of soft earth was five and a half feet long by two feet wide. He’d dragged a few broken branches over it. It would have to do, he was knackered.
He flung the broken spade he'd been using into the undergrowth, and staggered back to the house. There was no warmth there. If anything, it fe
lt colder and damper than outside. At least outside, the air smelt fresh, not rank with mould and decay. He lit the stove, and put his face close to the flame. The pain soared, and he groaned.
He wanted to sleep. He needed to sleep. At least when he was asleep, the pain eased. But, there was more to be done. Vince expected him to be ready when he returned with the vehicle. He wanted to be all ready, so they could go. But, everything had to be removed, so there was no sign of them ever being here.
He dragged himself upstairs to his bedroom. It was a desolate room, with an old mattress on the floor. He shoved the few bits of clothing he’d got into a bag, then went along to Vincent’s room, and did the same there. Floorboards creaked and bowed, as he moved. Bloody death trap, this was. He had to drag the holdalls full of stolen stuff downstairs one at a time. He dumped it all in the kitchen, ready to go.
They’d travelled light, leaving most of their belongings behind in the flats they'd both walked away from. They’d both got their passports, though. There was no going back. Just moving on, starting again with the money they’d get from this job. He didn’t care where Vince planned on heading. All he knew was he’d be booked onto a flight to sunny California by this time tomorrow.
He slumped down onto a chair, picturing himself, lying on a warm Californian beach, his face all fixed up, basking in the sunshine, listening to the ocean's waves lapping on a sandy shore, eyeing up the women, handsome again, picking and choosing. He could almost feel the warm sun on his face…
A rough shaking of his good arm jolted him awake. He blinked up to see Vince standing over him, surprised to find he'd fallen asleep.
“You done it?” Vince rasped.
“’Course I have,” Nash answered, struggling to form the words. His jaw ached, like every other joint in his body.
“What’ve you done with them?”
“Buried them, out in the fields,” said Nash, wiping his mouth. “Nearly killed me, dragging them all that way, but it’s done. Did you get a car?”
“Naturally. A decent one. And I got us some chips. Want some?”
Nash tried to get to his feet. He couldn’t manage it. He was probably weaker than he thought. He couldn’t remember when he last ate. He wasn’t hungry now, but the pains were back, crippling him. Food might help.
“Eat, then go?” he slurred.
“First thing in the morning,” said Vincent, opening up the chip paper, and devouring the food ravenously.
Nash stared at him with bleak eyes. Tomorrow seemed a lifetime away. “Why not tonight? Let’s get going. I gotta get out of this cold. It’s killing me.”
With his mouth stuffed with food, Vincent said, “No point. I can’t see my friend in London until after eleven tomorrow. We may as well sleep here in some sort of comfort rather than risk being picked up roaming the streets or sleeping in a stolen car.” He smiled. “You’ll still be on a flight out to California by lunchtime. Eat up.”
Nash unwrapped his bag of chips, but his movements were laboured, painfully slow. Vincent jabbed his mobile, tuning into the radio. He tapped his foot in time with the music, as he ate.
“So, you’ve cleaned up?” Vince asked, between mouthfuls.
“Yeah. There’s nothing to see,” Nash answered, his head lowered.
“Where did you say you buried them?”
Nash nodded towards the window, but the effort was almost too much, and he groaned. “Out there, among the brambles. Want me to show you?”
“You sure there’s nothing left, no blood or anything? Think I’ll nip upstairs and check.”
“You calling me a liar?” Nash started to say, but Vince was already heading for the stairs. Nash paused between chewing, listening as the stairs creaked under his weight. He made no move. There was nothing for him to see up there, nothing to worry about. He'd even soaked the floor in water to make it look like he'd cleaned up blood.
When Vince returned, there was an odd look on his face. “You’ve done a thorough job, haven’t you, my old mate? No one would ever have known they were here.”
“Just done what you said,” Nash muttered.
Vincent’s eyes narrowed, and he peered towards the window. “So, they’re out amongst the brambles, are they?”
“See for yourself. But, if you dig them up, you bury them again. I’m knackered.”
Vince smiled. “Nice evening for a stroll.”
“Please yourself,” Nash murmured, but his stomach tightened into a knot, and he touched the cosh in his pocket. He staggered to his feet, and leaned in the open doorway. When Vince glanced back, he pointed vaguely to where he’d dug. Vince headed off into the shadows. Nash could make out his outline in the gloom of twilight. He saw him searching, then finally, stop, and stoop down.
Nash hadn’t been listening to the music on Vince’s mobile particularly, but then, the news came on, and the newsreader started saying something about an eighty-year-old antique dealer found battered to death at his home in Old church.
“Vince!” he shouted, drawing on some hidden energy to make his voice carry. “Vince, quick!”
The other man came leaping through the undergrowth. “What? What's happening?”
Nash jerked his thumb towards the mobile phone. Vince stood motionless, then quietly whispered, “That’s us, matey. That’s us.”
Panic welled up inside Nash; he snatched at Vince’s arm, pulling at the damp leather. “What we gonna do, Vince? They’ll be after us now.”
“Keep calm. Nothing’s changed. They’ve got nothing to go on. And there was no mention of a woman and kid. They haven’t linked them. Probably never will.” He cast Nash one of his soothing smiles that usually made him feel better, not this time, though.
“We need to get out the area, head south.”
Vince patted his shoulder. It felt more like a punch, in the state he was in. “Stop panicking. We’ll go ahead with our little plan. Get ourselves a good night’s sleep, and make an early start. My friend will take the stuff, pay us, and hang onto it, until everything has quietened down. And we’ll be off to sunny climes, right?”
“Yeah, right, mate, sorry,” Nash mumbled, feeling the panic subsiding slightly. “You want coffee?”
Vince cast him a long calculating look, making him fidget uneasily. He turned on the tap, holding the kettle beneath the running water, and avoiding Vince’s eyes. Vince was brainy, much brainier than him—he wondered what he was thinking.
“You’re a hard-hearted geezer,” Vince said at last, sounding quite impressed.
Nash kept his mouth shut, and concentrated on trying to light the gas one handed.
Vince kept on staring. “You snuff out a woman and a kid, then you scoff a bag of chips, and ask if I want a coffee. You amaze me. Honest, Nash, you really amaze me.”
A wave of relief washed over him. Deliberately, Nash tried to look irritated. “I didn’t enjoy it, if that’s what you’re thinking. But, it was my side of the deal, you reckoned. Didn't have no choice, did I?”
“Indeed, you didn't,” agreed Vince. “Because if I’d had to bloody my hands again, you wouldn’t be entitled to one little bean, would you?”
The stove finally ignited, and Nash put the kettle over the flames. “Well, it’s done. They’re dead and buried. No one’s gonna find them.”
“How did you bury them? Couldn’t have been easy one-handed.”
Nash shuffled to a chair, and sat down again. He was tired, unbearably tired, and every limb ached. “It weren’t easy. Go take a soddin' look, if you’re that bothered.”
“Keep your hair on, just taking a friendly interest,” said Vince, spooning coffee into mugs. “They’re dead and buried, so we haven’t any worries, have we?”
Nash stared bleakly at the steaming mug of coffee Vince shoved under his nose a few minutes later. He had one worry—how to lift that mug up to his lips.
CHAPTER 20
Chief Inspector Patrick O’Ryan drained the last dregs of his
vending machine coffee, squashed the plastic cup in his fist, and aimed it accurately at the bin on the other side of the office. Len Grimes raised his eyebrows in recognition of the good shot. It had been a hell of a long night, and their duty wasn’t over yet.
O'Ryan had stayed at the crime scene until the early hours, establishing the method the perpetrator had used to get in, and the type of weapon used to kill the poor blighter. Whoever had attacked the old man had made certain he didn't live to tell the tale. It had been a particularly brutal attack. It was amazing to find he hadn't polished off the dog, too, out of spite, because there was human blood on its coat, so it had certainly tried to defend its owner.
O'Ryan had sent Len Grimes off to visit Shelley de Main during the evening. He returned later to tell him she'd reported being mugged the night before. A report and crime sheet had even been filed. When Len Grimes had called on her, she'd fobbed her husband off by saying it was more questions regarding her mugging. Len, being the nice guy, had gone along with it, until they'd been able to talk, without her husband listening. But, even then, she'd denied being with Ian Logan on the night of the crime, or phoning him.
It hadn't taken much detective work to trace the call Logan had received to find it had indeed been from her. So, chances were, he was telling the truth. At the adjacent desk, Len Grimes stretched his lanky frame. “What do you reckon then, sir? Think Logan’s got anything to do with the old chap’s death?”
O’Ryan swivelled in his chair. “Just pondering that same question, myself, Len. According to what Shelley de Main told you, she was at the cinema alone, and even managed to get herself mugged on the way home. So, that scuppered Logan's alibi.”
“You don’t think Logan walloped her then, sir?” Len Grimes suggested, tapping his pencil against his teeth. “She’d have to tell her old man something, wouldn’t she? Mind you, she’s a bit old for Ian Logan, a good ten years or more, I reckon.”