Kill or Die

by Ann Evans

  O’Ryan sighed. “I see you still have a lot to learn, Len! There’s more to life than young dolly birds. You’ll probably find that out yourself, one of these days.”

  Len Grimes chuckled. “Wouldn’t fancy her, myself. Too brassy. Might suit you though, boss.”

  O’Ryan pulled on a corduroy jacket, and then, his sheepskin. “I’m a happily married man. The question doesn’t arise.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” grinned Len Grimes, taking the lead from his superior, and getting his own coat on. “Where to, then, boss?”

  “An early morning call, I think. We’ll be doing him a favour. He might oversleep, with his wife away. And what I want to do is take a DNA swab. Forensics have detected two types of blood in the old man's hallway, and it's not Benjamin Stanton's on the dog. So, my guess is, the dog bit the bugger – and Logan has a couple of cuts on his hand and wrist, hasn't he?”

  “Just small cuts though, boss, going by the size of his plasters. The amount of blood we found means the dog must have punctured a vein or an artery – a deep wound, anyway.”

  O'Ryan checked his car keys were in his pocket, and moved briskly. “Well, the sooner we eliminate him, the sooner we can expand our search.”

  Grimes followed smartly, buttoning up his coat against the biting cold wind, as they went out into the watery gloom of a November morning. “Shouldn't we get a warrant?”

  “If he's got nothing to hide, we won't need one, will we?” said O'Ryan, ignoring the look his colleague cast him. He knew what he was thinking; he was like a dog with a bone. Only once he got an inkling about something, he didn’t let go. And there was definitely some connection between Logan and this crime. What it was, he didn’t yet know. But, he couldn’t ignore his gut instincts.

  “Not much to go on though, is there, sir?” Grimes remarked, sliding into the passenger side of the vehicle.

  O’Ryan turned the ignition key, and put the wipers on. “You don’t think so? Isn’t it odd his wife shopped for the deceased, and vanished on the same night he was murdered?”

  “So, you think Logan and his wife bumped the old guy off, then she nips off, with whatever they’ve nicked, so it’s not found on their premises?”

  “Stranger things have happened,” said O’Ryan. “If she was a regular visitor to the old man, she would know what he had, and what was worth nicking. The neighbour on the other side has said the old man had a small fortune in antique silver and gold. I didn't see any evidence of it, so it looks like someone's nicked the lot.”

  “Well, unless he’d got it all logged with his insurance company, it’s going to be a devil of a job knowing what has been stolen,” remarked Grimes, buckling up, as O'Ryan pulled out of the police station.

  The roads were pretty deserted at this hour of the morning, and happily, there was no fog. O'Ryan drove quickly and smoothly. “So, that's another good reason for tracking down Logan's wife. If she wasn't involved in this, then she might know what sort of stuff he had.”

  “I imagine the murder was a bit of a mistake,” added Grimes, wiping the condensation from the side window. “The old chap probably caught them at it, and suffered the consequences. Although, they might have guessed the dog would have heard them though. Bit odd, that.”

  “The wife was a regular visitor to the house,” O’Ryan reminded him. “The dog would have known her. Probably wouldn't have barked.”

  “Why hit it, then?” Then answering his own question added, “Though, I suppose, when they attacked the old man, the dog tried to defend him.”

  “Most likely,” agreed O'Ryan. “However, like you pointed out, the attacker lost a lot of blood. You'd think it would need stitching. But, there's been no reports from casualty departments about anyone needing treatment for a dog bite.”

  He turned into the estate, leading to Sycamore Drive. They were nice houses around this part of the village. It was the sort of area he'd like to live in, if he had the money. But, you couldn't buy anything on a copper's wages around here. “We need to take a look at Logan's dirty washing, I'd say, Len.”

  “And his rubbish. See if there's a shirt with dog's teeth marks,” said Grimes, adding, “I’m glad the dog is still hanging on in there. Lovely dog. She didn’t deserve that.”

  “She certainly didn’t, Len,” agreed O'Ryan, as he pulled up outside Ian Logan's house. “But, neither did a harmless old man.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Ian woke to a ringing in his ears. He rolled over, and felt the emptiness of the bed. His arm flopped heavily over his eyes. The ringing continued. Phone? Doorbell? He couldn't tell. He'd had too much whisky again last night. That would have to stop. He needed to keep his wits about him.

  Struggling out of bed, he dragged on his dressing gown, and stumbled down the stairs.

  Two figures were silhouetted through the slim panes of patterned glass in the door. They were too big to be his wife and daughter. He knew immediately who it was, and he heaved a sigh.

  “Didn’t wake you, did we, Mr. Logan?” the older detective remarked, not looking at all like he was sorry to have awoken him.

  Talking to a sarcastic copper this time of day was the last thing Ian needed. “More questions, Chief Inspector O’Ryan? Or have you come to tell me you’ve done your job, and found the murdering swine who killed my neighbour, and we can all sleep easy in our beds again.”

  O'Ryan regarded him, with a small understanding smile. “We’re making progress.”

  “Well, that’s a surprise, considering I’m the only one you seem to be interrogating,” Ian said, walking away from the door, knowing they wanted to come in. He went through to the kitchen, and filled the kettle.

  “Not at work today, sir?” asked the other one, Grimes.

  “No.”

  “Holiday?”

  Ian looked acidly at them. “No.”

  “Sick leave, then?” O’Ryan suggested, glancing at the dressing on his arm.

  “No. I’m taking the day off, in the hope of finding my wife and daughter.”

  “Where do you work, sir?” asked Grimes. His notepad was out again.

  With a sigh, Ian told them, adding, “I'm making coffee, you want some?”

  “That would be nice,” said O’Ryan, following up with more questions about Ian's job. He wanted to know how long Ian had worked for his company, and if he was happy there—if he was in line for a promotion.

  It was almost laughable. It was like they were looking for reasons now for him bumping his neighbour off. He handed them both mugs of coffee, and took a sip of his own. “At present, we don't have any money worries. I have a well-paid job, Inspector O'Ryan. I certainly don't need to go around stealing old men's valuables, if that's what you're getting at.”

  “I'm getting at nothing. Just trying to establish a picture of the people living in the vicinity of the deceased.”

  The officer nodded, added sugar to his coffee, then inspected Ian’s hand. “How’s the injuries this morning? Any better?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t looked. They feel okay.”

  “You want to keep an eye on them, sir,” suggested Grimes. “You don’t want gangrene setting in.”

  “Thank you for your concern. So, what exactly do you want to talk to me about today, or is it a social call?”

  O’Ryan made himself comfortable on a kitchen chair, loosened his coat, and started playing idly with a silver teaspoon. “Benjamin Stanton, the deceased, how well did you know him?”

  Ian sipped his black coffee. It cleared his head a little. “We’ve been neighbours about nine or ten years. He was here before that. We’re on chatting terms.”

  “The neighbours seem to think he was a very wealthy man.”

  “He probably was,” Ian conceded, with a shrug. “He’s a retired antique dealer and collector – or rather, he was.”

  O’Ryan stirred his coffee. “Problem is, we’ve no idea what’s been stolen. I imagine your wife would have a better idea, seeing a
s she’s a regular visitor to his house. Have you any idea where she is, sir? We really do need to speak to her.”

  “And I don’t?” Ian snapped, glaring at the senior officer.

  Inspector Grimes had a more sympathetic tone to his voice. “Have you any idea what time she might have left home yesterday, sir?”

  “I’ve told you. I got in around two a.m. I’d been out since early morning. She could have gone at any time.”

  “And did she take all her belongings with her?” Grimes asked.

  Ian was about to snap out another indignant reply, when he realised he honestly didn’t know what she’d taken. If she’d packed an overnight bag, it would imply she planned on coming back.

  He didn’t stop to explain, but bounded upstairs, and into the bedroom. Frantically, wondering why he hadn't checked this earlier, he threw open her wardrobe doors. His heart plummeted, as he saw her wardrobe was bereft of all her good clothes.

  He stared at the empty coat hangers for some time, then crossed the room to the dressing table, and flipped open her jewellery box. Empty, practically, only the pieces she never wore – some earrings, a large silver and gemstone ring old Benjamin Stanton had given her last Christmas; nothing left of value, sentimental, or otherwise.

  Ian sank down onto the bed, head in hands. No, she wasn’t planning on hurrying home. She had left him—for good.

  “This is silver, isn’t it?” O’Ryan asked, startling him. He had come upstairs silently, and was now looking into Julia's jewellery box.

  Furiously, Ian jumped up, and snatched the ring off him. “Who the hell gave you permission to come up here?”

  O’Ryan looked steadily at him. Ian was a good six inches taller than the officer, but somehow, he had the knack of making him feel small and worthless. “We could always get a search warrant, Mr. Logan. It’s entirely up to you.”

  Ian felt himself go weak at the knees. “A search warrant? What the hell are you accusing me of?”

  “We’re not accusing you of anything,” said O’Ryan calmly. “But, that is antique silver, isn’t it? I’m not an expert, but there are some things I recognise. Where did it come from?”

  Ian felt as the noose growing tighter. He spoke with difficulty. “Benjamin Stanton gave it to my wife last Christmas, as a thank you for all she does for him. And if you don’t believe me…”

  “I can, what, sir? Ask the old man? I can’t do that, because somebody smashed the poor soul’s skull in, so they could get their greedy hands on shiny pieces of metal. Just like this one.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Tiny particles of dust danced in the thin rays of light filtering through the grimy attic window. The pale watery beam fell on the two motionless figures, lying huddled together on a bed made of bin liners and old clothes, arms wrapped tightly around each other.

  The warmth on Julia’s cheek felt like someone’s breath, and her eyes shot open, the fitful night’s sleep gone, but the nightmare remaining.

  Lucy slept on, as Julia’s body tensed, ready to defend them – or attack, expecting someone to be standing over them. She half-expected to smell the leather of his coat, see his ‘oh so handsome’ face, smiling down on them. Or the scarred figure of the man sent to murder her and Lucy, and who, for some unknown reason, had switched from executioner to saviour. For a second, she feared he had changed his mind and returned to finish them off. But, there was no one there; no one standing over them with a club or a knife. It was a tiny ray of sunlight, touching her cheek.

  Julia had thought Nash incapable of compassion or mercy. She had thought him to be a vile, pathetic, inhuman creation. Yet, he had surprised her, and she had found herself trusting him to the point of promising she and Lucy would stay up here in the attic, hidden and totally silent for twenty-hour hours, after hearing them leave. Only, they hadn’t left—not yet.

  Yesterday evening, after they’d spent hours playing dead under the blanket, Nash had returned. He’d told them to move quickly, no arguments. They were to get into the attic, and stay there, until he and the other one were long gone. Getting into the attic had meant climbing precariously on a rickety chair on top of a crate, and squeezing through a tiny, grimy trapdoor in the ceiling.

  Lucy had sobbed quietly, as Julia had lifted her into the pitch-black void first. Then, the child had knelt by the opening, and helped Julia clamber in, her tears falling onto Julia’s face.

  “Not a sound, understand?” Nash had uttered. “I’m gonna tell him I’ve buried you. If he finds out you’re still alive, we’re all dead.”

  “Just let us go,” Julia had pleaded. But, his compassion hadn't stretched that far, so she had nodded numbly, and slid the attic door hatch back into place herself, sealing them into their tomb.

  The attic stank of mildew, and a freezing wind whistled through the eaves, with the force of a gale. Almost immediately, Julia had banged her head on a slanting timber beam, as she'd tried to stand. Then, she'd had to bend almost double, feeling her way along the rafters, fingers groping through thick cobwebs, clutching Lucy, terrified in case their feet slipped off the beams, and went through the plaster ceiling.

  The blackness had been total, and Lucy had clung to Julia, trying not to sob out loud. She had held her, trying not to scream herself. Slowly, the hysteria had subsided, but they had both wept. Then, afraid Vincent would come back and hear them, she begged Lucy to be silent, and cradled her in her arms, until finally the child fell asleep.

  She'd made her daughter as comfortable as possible. Plastic bin liners, full of old clothes, made for a bed across the beams. When Lucy was settled, Julia had battled her own panic, and forced herself not to give in to it. Instead, she felt around the room, crawling on all fours along the rafters, acclimatising herself to the darkness, and overcoming the suffocating claustrophobic sensation threatening her sanity.

  It came as a surprise, as she felt the damp walls, that there was a small window. It was thick with grime. She spat on a rag, and rubbed vigorously, until she could see out. The palest grey light infiltrated the darkness, banishing the black void, helping her make sense of her surroundings.

  For a long while, Julia had stood, gazing out, wondering if Ian was missing her – or was he with his mistress, enjoying the freedom. Did he care that she was out of his life? Was he worried about them? Was he even aware of their predicament? She doubted it.

  For one despairing moment, Julia felt it really didn’t matter if she died. It was a desolate, bleak thought – a dreadful hopeless emptiness. It was a feeling she had never experienced before – and never wanted to again. Then, through the shadows, she spotted Lucy, her small frame curled up on top of the pile of rubbish, and guilt for her selfishness overwhelmed her. The child was only eight; she had her whole life ahead of her. She had to get her out of this situation, somehow.

  Anger towards the two individuals flowed fiercely through her veins, along with a burning desire to survive this, for Lucy’s sake, if not her own.

  All they had to do was remain quiet, until those two downstairs had left.

  She had looked around for protection of some sort, and saw a wooden box. She was glad of its weight, as she dragged it, carefully and quietly, across the beams over the trapdoor At least with that there, no one could creep in, if she slept. Next, she sought out a weapon, deciding on an old chair leg. She wangled it back and forth breaking it off. It splintered easily, and she held it in both hands, swinging it through the air.

  Now, she felt better, less vulnerable.

  All they had to do was wait in silence, careful not to give their presence away to Vincent.

  Julia heard him return, five or six hours after being secreted into the attic. She heard him on the stairs, talking to Nash, going in and out of bedrooms, looking for them. Hadn’t he believed Nash’s story they were dead and buried? He must eventually have believed Nash had disposed of their bodies outside, in a shallow grave, somewhere – because he didn’t look in the attic.

 
; The two men didn’t leave, however, as Nash had said they would. She heard them go to bed, and she was certain they were still here.

  Now, with the morning light struggling through the grimy window, Julia stretched her legs slowly, trying not to wake Lucy. Her ribs ached; her eye was puffed, almost closed. Everything hurt, her stomach rumbled, but at least Nash had had the humanity to leave them with a bottle of water.

  It had been an eternity since she had eaten. Lucy had eaten most of her egg yesterday morning, but the child had to be starving, even though she hadn’t complained.

  Her thoughts drifted, imagining them sitting down with Ian for breakfast. She pictured him sitting across the table to her, his dark golden hair still ruffled from sleep, a little stubble around his strong jaw, blue eyes – as blue as Lucy's, looking at her, crinkling as he smiled. She imagined crispy bacon, fat sausages, and hot, sweet tea. She thought of walking hand-in-hand with Lucy to school, bringing her home again, and being in Ian’s arms…

  “Mummy!”

  Her bubble burst, and her hand instantly covered Lucy’s mouth, finger to her lips, but already afraid the cry would have sounded through the silent house. The child’s eyes were huge, and Julia’s heart ached, as she saw the fear returning to cloud her daughter’s sweet, innocent face.

  “Quietly, darling,” Julia whispered, her hand still over Lucy’s mouth. “We have to talk in tiny whispers, until they’ve gone. Be brave a little longer, please.”

  Lucy nodded, her eyes still like saucers. Julia took away her hand, smoothing the soft hair back from her daughter’s troubled eyes. She held her close. “It won’t be long now, I know it.”

  “I’ve got tummy ache. It hurts. It really hurts.”

  “You need the toilet?” Julia murmured, rubbing her daughter’s tummy. “I know, me too.”

  Locked in the room downstairs, they had been allowed to use the toilet. For nearly twelve hours now, neither of them had gone.