Dead Feint

by Grant Atherton

  “Any plans for today?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

  “Nothing specific.” And then as if on impulse, “We could drive over to The Partridge if you’re up for it. Make the most of it.”

  I groaned. “I wish. But I really must knuckle down to work.”

  “In that case…” He slapped me on the back. “…I’ll get out of your way. I’ll go soak me up some rays down on the beach.”

  Despite the attraction of a lazy day in the open air, he didn’t seem in much of a hurry to get out there. For most of the morning, he loafed around the cottage, made endless mugs of coffee, and eventually locked himself in the bathroom for an inordinate length of time before finally appearing in time to make himself some lunch. I was getting more agitated as time dragged on.

  At one point, on his way back from dumping an empty baked bean can in the recycling box outside, he stopped by my desk and faced me with a frown on his face. “Are you sure you’re okay?” he said. “You’ve been on edge all day.”

  I faked a grin. “I promise you, once I have this draft under my belt, I’ll be back to my usual vivacious and scintillating self.”

  He chortled and returned to the kitchen from where I was regaled by the sound of his cheerful whistling and the ping of the microwave.

  Minutes later, my nostrils were assailed by the smell of toast and he returned to the living room, carrying a tray which bore a plate of baked beans on toast. He sat on the couch, tray on knee, and tucked into his lunch while I mused over some research papers, pretending to read them.

  Lunch over, he went back to the kitchen, and I heard him fussing around as he washed his plate and cutlery.

  “Hey, don’t waste this weather,” I called out. “The day will be over before you’ve had a chance to enjoy it.”

  “Okay, okay.” He appeared in the kitchen doorway hands raised in surrender. “I know when I’m in the way.”

  Eventually, after deliberating about what to wear, he headed out to the car. I crossed over to the window and watched him climb into the Cabriolet and drive away.

  At last.

  I waited for the sound of the engine to recede into the distance. For a while longer, I stood by the window, my hands pressed down against the sill, and took some slow deep breaths. This wasn’t something I was looking forward to. It was as if the act itself, what I was about to do, was an act of betrayal, and yet made my suspicions even more real, more certain.

  With a rapidly beating heart and a tightness in my throat, I mounted the stairs and made my way to his room.

  The second bedroom, Rusty’s temporary domain, was smaller than mine. Just large enough for the single bed, small dark wooden bedside cabinet, and matching single wardrobe.

  I started with the cabinet. The drawer at the top contained just some loose change, assorted underwear, and several pairs of socks. The cupboard underneath was where he kept his footwear, two pairs of sneakers. Nothing else.

  Next, the wardrobe. Apart from the hanging space which held an assortment of casual clothes; jeans, sweatshirts, three jumpers and a jacket, there was just one shelf running the full length of the wardrobe just above head height. It appeared to be empty, but I ran a hand over it, searching at the back for anything that was out of sight. Nothing. I checked the pockets of the jeans but found only a few used tissues.

  So far, so good. My increased sense of relief was balanced by an ever-increasing sense of guilt.

  Now for the suitcase. I closed the wardrobe doors, stood back, and checked the top. It was bare. I found the case in the other usual storage space. Under the bed. I pulled it out and tested its weight. It wasn’t light enough to be empty, and something hard and solid slipped to the bottom as I raised it from the floor.

  Unusually, it was secured by two padlocks. Not that it would be a problem to get it open. I went back to my own room and returned with a couple of paperclips. The old two-paperclip trick, easily learned by anyone with access to the internet, would make easy work of it.

  I heaved the suitcase onto the bed, bent the paperclips into shape, and inserted the hooked one into the first padlock. Applying some downward pressure, I pulled the clip in the direction the lock turned, and pushed the other straightened clip into the back of the lock. As I lifted the straightened clip and raked it towards me, the pins clicked. I turned the hooked clip and opened the lock. First attempt. Not bad. The other padlock took a few more tries but soon gave way.

  I opened the case.

  And tensed.

  Nestling among spare underwear and towels was the hard solid object that had slipped to the bottom of the case.

  A gun.

  Not at all what I’d expected. Why would a reformed ex-con need a gun? Not so reformed after all? A souvenir of old times? That in itself suggested not all was as it seemed in the private life of Rusty Naylor.

  Gingerly, I felt around the inside edges of the case and under the towels, trying not to disturb them too much.

  My hand came up against something soft nestled within the folds of the towels. I pulled it free.

  A black balaclava.

  My stomach churned.

  Even as I looked down at the object in my hand, I tried to tell myself it was of no significance. It was just a balaclava. Why wouldn’t he have one? It didn’t prove anything.

  And yet every new revelation led me closer to the inevitable conclusion that I so desperately wanted to avoid.

  Rusty was a murderer.

  There were still many unanswered questions, but if Andy Burns was right about that receipt - and it now seemed almost certain that he was - then its significance was obvious. That screwed up scrap of paper that had lain hidden away in the attic these last weeks showed beyond all doubt that whoever had purchased that balaclava was staying in this cottage before I moved in. And, if my original theory was correct, which I’m sure it was, had killed here.

  And yet I still didn’t want to believe it. Didn’t want to believe it could have been the man I called a friend. Didn’t want to believe that the murderer’s fingerprints had been here all along because I was sharing a home with him.

  I had to be wrong. Despite so many coincidences, whatever evidence I had found was no more than circumstantial. It was all a mistake.

  A noise from behind me.

  “I knew you were up to something.”

  I spun around to the source of the sound, and the blood drained from my face.

  Rusty was standing in the doorway.

  Too late to act, I saw the table lamp stem he carried in his hand only as he raised it.

  The last thing I remember, the one thing that finally put paid to all my doubts, was the outpouring of hate that filled his eyes, and twisted his features into a grotesque expression of undiluted rage.

  And then the makeshift weapon came down hard against the side of my head and darkness closed in.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  I fought back a wave of nausea and pushed myself up to a kneeling position as my surroundings swam back into focus. Despite the hot weather, I was cold and cramped, and a shiver ran down my spine. The throbbing in my temples increased as I raised my head.

  Rusty was seated on the edge of the bed, gun in hand, looking down at me, a sardonic smile playing across his lips. That violent rage had subsided but his eyes were hard and cold.

  How could I have got it so wrong and not seen him for what he really was?

  “So it was you all along?” I said. “You killed your own sister?”

  They were more statements than questions. The answers were obvious. Why else would I be sitting here with a gun in my face? And that genial easy-going style and friendly nature had all been a pretence, the mask behind which lived the psychopath. Because that’s what he was. There could be no doubt about that. I had only to think back to that disfigured body in the woods, to remember the obvious pleasure with which her killer, this man, had displayed his handiwork, to know what I confronted here.

  I had been far too close to Rusty for far to
o long not to see him for what he was. My want of friendship at a time of need, of someone to confide in, share with, had blinded me to the nature of the person beneath the facade, had made me all too willing to accept the surface appeal, the facile charm and flattery.

  But now I could mentally step back and see him objectively, I could read all the signs that singled him out as the pitiless specimen of humanity that he was, devoid of emotion, unable to empathise with others. And I cursed myself for not seeing those signs earlier. I recalled the pity play, the constant appeal for sympathetic reactions to the dysfunctional childhood and negative external factors that forced him into a life of crime. None of it had been his fault. He was always at the mercy of circumstance. And so he would evoke in others a sense of pity, to weaken their resolve, enabling him to manipulate and use them for his own ends. And I, who should have known better, had fallen for it.

  And now I was about to pay a heavy price for my lack of insight.

  He shifted his attention away from me and I followed his gaze to where the balaclava lay on the floor a few feet away.

  He looked back at me, shook his head and tutted, a display of mock concern. “Such a shame, Mikey. You had to go and spoil it all, didn’t you?” He stared at me, a sour expression on his face. “I knew something was wrong. You’ve been twitchy and moody all day. Not like you at all. And you couldn’t wait to get me out of the way, could you?”

  In the circumstances, I wasn’t in a position to argue. So I said nothing.

  “Just as well I thought to come back when I did or who knows what harm you could have done.” He leaned forward, forearms rested on his thighs and pointed the gun at me. “Such a simple thing to get wrong.” He nodded towards the balaclava. “I should have got rid of it once I’d done with it. And after all the trouble I went to trying to put you off the scent. Such a nice little distraction, but you still got there in the end.”

  It took a moment for it to sink in. “The bullet?” I nodded. “Yes, of course. You sent it to yourself.”

  He grinned. “Stroke of genius really, wasn’t it? Had you all running around in circles.”

  “And jumping over walls.”

  He laughed long and loud at that. “Yes, that was so funny. The look on your face as you went over that wall. It was priceless.”

  “Nice to know someone was amused.”

  “You’ve only yourself to blame. You’re the one who said my friends were targets.”

  “And so you thought you’d help me prove it.”

  “What are friends for if they can’t help each other out.”

  “Well you sure had me fooled.”

  The grin faded. “But not for long, unfortunately.”

  I leaned over to one side, relieving the pressure on my legs, and shifted them from under me. I spread them out before me and leaned back against the wardrobe door.

  He tensed as I moved and trained the gun on me.

  I help up a restraining hand. “Just making myself comfortable. Might as well make the most of it before you shoot me.”

  He chuckled. “Glad to see you haven’t lost your sense of humour.”

  “That is what you intend to do, isn’t it? Shoot me?”

  “It’s not as if you leave me much choice, is it?”

  Of course, I knew he wouldn’t think of doing it here. He’d learned enough to know the risk of leaving evidence behind. It would be the woods again. His location of choice when disposing of his victims. And that’s where my chance lay to get away from him, out in the open, away from the confining space of the cottage where I wouldn’t stand a chance. All I could do for the moment was play along with him.

  “And Jenna? Did she leave you no choice either?”

  A long slow sigh. “I’m afraid not. My fault. I got careless.” With his free hand, he pushed up the sleeve of his right arm to reveal a tattoo, a red and green serpent coiled around his arm. “So easy to forget the obvious sometimes.”

  “I remember now. The day the Chief came round and told us about the confrontation in the High Street. She overheard him. She heard him describe the tattoo of the man they were looking for. It was you, wasn’t it?”

  “Such a stupid mistake.”

  He looked down in admiration at his tattooed arm. “Brotherhood. Solidarity.” He looked up again. “It’s important to show your loyalty.”

  “A gang tattoo?”

  “We all had them.”

  “That’s what she meant, wasn’t it? There were two of them. She meant the tattoos. She put two and two together.”

  “Not straight away. But she began to wonder why I’d tried to keep it hidden. That woman wasn’t as dumb as I’d thought.”

  “Did you have to kill her? Couldn’t you have talked your way out of it?”

  He shrugged and the corners of his mouth dropped. An expression of nonchalant indifference. “Too much at stake. I just couldn’t risk it. It was best to settle the problem once and for all. I invited her over to talk it through. Told her to take the quick route through the woods. All I had to do was turn off the alarm, slip out of the back gate, and meet her on the way. It was soon settled.”

  My blood ran cold.

  His eyes held no trace of emotion as he dismissed the taking of someone’s life with such casual disregard, as just a problem to be solved.

  “So the man who confronted Candy all those months ago was one of your gang?”

  He didn’t answer, just grinned in acknowledgement.

  Sitting on the hard wooden floor like this wasn’t particularly comfortable, and I was cramped. “Look, can I get up from here? It’s not one of the cosiest places I’ve ever squatted in.”

  He waved his gun towards a wooden chair within reach by the wardrobe. “Just there.”

  I grabbed its arm, pulled myself to my feet, and sank into it.

  “You’re surprising calm for someone in your situation,” he said.

  That was a joke. I was anything but calm. My heart was racing ten to the dozen. But I couldn’t let it show. The calmer I seemed, the more relaxed he would be, and the more likely to let down his guard.

  “Maybe I can talk you out of it,” I said. I knew I couldn’t, of course. But as long as he thought I saw it as a way out, it would help allay any suspicions he might have about my attempting an escape. “You don’t have to do this. You could leave now. Be on your way before anyone knew you’d gone.”

  “And stay on the run all my life? I don’t think so.”

  He glanced down at his watch and scowled. “Parents are just finishing the school run. I guess we’ll have to give it a few more minutes. Less likely to bump into anyone taking a shortcut through the woods.”

  He sounded annoyed as though what he planned to do was just some minor inconvenience he needed to deal with and resented being delayed. The best way to keep him calm was to keep him talking.

  “I still don’t understand,” I said. “Your sister. Why did she have to die? And Tammy Page?”

  He guffawed. As if I had just cracked some huge joke. “I promise you,” he said, “if you knew my sister as well as I do, you’d understand all too well.”

  He stood up and waved the gun towards the bedroom door. “Time to get moving,” he said. “Time to get it over with.”

  A tightness spread across my chest and, as I rose to my feet, my legs weakened beneath me. He followed behind as I made my way downstairs to the living room.

  At the roadside window, I pressed a hand against the sill to steady myself and a movement from outside attracted my attention.

  It was Karen.

  Catching sight of me in the window, she smiled and greeted me with a cheery wave from the other side of the road as she climbed out of her Mondeo.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  I whirled towards Rusty, a wrenching tightness in my gut, my mind racing. “Karen’s here.” I’d completely forgotten she was picking me up.

  From his position at the bottom of the stairs, Rusty was out of Karen’s line of sight. He snarled. “
For fuck’s sake. How many more of you do I have to deal with.”

  I pointed a threatening finger at him. “Don’t you fucking dare harm her. Even if you shoot me, I promise I’ll find a way to stop you. I mean it.”

  “You’re in no position to make threats.”

  I braced myself, ready to throw myself at him if he dared touch her.

  A knock at the door.

  He faltered momentarily and then grabbed a jacket he’s left thrown over the back of the nearby chair, and draped it over his arm, hiding the gun.

  He crossed over to the door, keeping his eyes on me, and said, “I want you standing there where I can see your face. Try anything stupid and you’ll both pay for it. Now get rid of her.”

  Rusty’s scowl evaporated as the door opened and Karen stepped inside. The smile with which she greeted him fell from her face when she saw me.

  “What are you playing at Mikey? You’re not even ready.” She glanced down at her watch. “We have to be there in thirty minutes. We’ll only just make it as it is.”

  Before she could launch one of her verbal attacks, she stopped herself short, aware of the despairing look on my face. I needed to think fast.

  “What’s wrong?” she said.

  I drew in a breath and readied myself for the barrage of questions. “I can’t go,” I said.

  “What?” She shouted out the word. “What is this?” She turned towards Rusty. “What’s going on here?”

  Rusty shrugged. “Search me. I only just got in.”

  She turned back to me, a look of astonishment on her face. “What’s happened?”

  I held out my clasped hands, an act of contrition, and said, “Karen, you know I wouldn’t back out if it wasn’t important. I just can’t make it.”

  “Why?” It was a demand, and I needed to find an answer.

  There are times, those times of greatest need, when our minds, unbidden, come to our aid with a sudden flash of inspiration. This was one of those times.

  “It’s old man Gray, Sylus Gray, I have to go see him. I have no choice. It’s the old trouble again.”

  “Sylus Gray?” she repeated the name, not understanding. And then the light of recognition dawned in her eyes. “But Sylas-”