Dying Eyes (Brian McDone Mysteries)

by Ryan Casey

  Cassy raised her eyebrows. “Why you so interested?”

  “No, no, I’m just…‌It’s natural for a ‘granddad’ to show concern, right?”

  Cassy nodded slowly. “Right. Truth be told, I’m knackered, but I’m hardly gonna stand the poor lad up.”

  Stand him up. Stand the bastard up.

  “Anyway, you should get some kip.”

  “Yeah. I might head back and meet a friend. Or something.”

  “Oh, yeah! Meet a friend. That’s a good idea, yeah.”

  The pair of them walked in silence. Meet a friend. Who was he kidding? Was his friend called Jack Daniels?

  “Well, enjoy your date,” Brian said, waving Cassy off.

  “Yeah. Yeah, I will.” She disappeared down the corridor.

  Brian exhaled and wiped the sweat off his cheeks. Why had he even reacted that way? An old bloke like him would never have a shot with a pretty young girl like her. And still, he had Ness. He had his life to get back to. He and Ness could give it another go. They had to. That was his life.

  “By the way,” Cassy called.

  Brian jumped as Cassy popped her head back ‘round into the corridor.

  “He’s called Ryan.” She winked at Brian and vanished down the staircase.

  Ryan. Of course. The better fucking name. It was always the Ryans who defeated the Brians. At least she might accidentally whisper Brian’s name when Ryan was fucking her.

  Bloody Ryan.

  Brian scrunched the carrier bag in his hands as he hopped up the stairs and entered his room. The corridor reeked of urine. Probably the homeless scrote again. He seemed to be pissing closer and closer to his door the more time progressed. He’d have to get them seen to, have a stern word with them. Now the Nicola Watson case was all but over, he needed something a little lighter to concentrate on.

  A copy of the Lancashire News from earlier that day was wedged underneath Brian’s door. He picked it up and glanced at the headline: “Local Charity in Jeopardy as Murder Saga Spirals On”. A picture of Robert Luther shaking the hand of a passer-by. Smiles all round.

  No doubt, tomorrow it’d be news of Scott Watson: “Brother Involved in Murder Shocker”. It was all just one big soap opera story to them. That’s what it was like when they weren’t directly involved in the reality of it all; they always sought the dramatic conclusion. Sure, the Lancashire News might have been the biggest celebrators of the hard work and ethics of BetterLives, but the moment a tiny piece of information about a potential link to something dirty, they were the first to crucify them. Business was business.

  And Scott Watson. At first, Brian thought the lad had just smoked a little too much weed. Tomorrow would reveal what led to his sister’s death, but it was all starting to click into place. “I’m a driver,” he’d told Brian and Cassy back at the first interview in the Watson house. A bloody driver. How’d he let that information slip? And his parents‌–‌they never said anything about him working. Never elaborated. Did they suspect some sort of involvement, too?

  Brian tossed the newspaper to one side and undid his tie. Takeaway menus and dirty shirts were scattered around the floor. The creased curtains were half-open, the faint smell of body odour in the air. It was only eight p.m. Too early for bed. Too early for a release? His arm ached, begging him for an intervention…

  As he took his coat off, something dropped against the floor. He reached down, expecting it to be a loose pound coin, but a red and black SanDisk pen drive stared up at him. The one Scott Watson had been holding, the one he’d apparently ordered from Amazon and mixed up with Nicola’s ring. Damn it‌–‌he’d forgotten to check it in to property. He scooped it up in his hand and placed it next to his computer.

  He picked his phone out of his pocket and began to key in Price’s direct number. If he were lucky, he’d get hold of Price before he left for home.

  As he typed in the final four numbers, he thought about Danny Stocks’ visit the other day. “Maybe they don’t want you to find out.” The urgency to arrest Scott Watson. The timing. Was he being paranoid? ‘Course he was. Price had arrested Luther. He was willing to let Luther go down.

  Wasn’t he?

  Brian cringed and swiped the number out of his phone before tossing it to one side and jamming the pen drive into his computer.

  He booted up his computer and waited for it to load. Some McAfee thing that expired weeks ago. A woman that he’d accidentally picked up from a porno site creeping across his screen. The little “new devices detected” bubble in the bottom right. He clicked on it, and the contents of the pen drive opened up.

  Three folders: Work. School. Charity.

  As Brian clicked into the Charity folder, it became clear who had been using Scott’s missing pen drive.

  “‘Nicola Watson, 22,” her résumé read. That was the only file in the Charity area. Nothing suspicious. He should just ring up and report it in to property. But why would Nicola Watson use her brother’s pen drive?

  He exited and double clicked on the School icon. Perhaps it was just some old work she’d forgotten to delete. He exhaled as the School timetable folder spread across the screen. He double clicked it out of curiosity.

  Inside, he found another three folders. Inside one of those, another seven.

  He clicked more frantically, disappearing into an abyss as the little blue icons tripled in number. Abstract titles.

  School.

  Healey Way.

  Reports.

  Brian’s heart was in his throat when he saw the title of the final folder.

  Proof.

  He inhaled deeply and double clicked.

  Nothing in there. Empty.

  He slammed his fist against the desk, shaking the cursor of the mouse in frustration. All of that effort leading to a dead end. He’d felt so close to something, too. He’d have to call in to property and let them have a look through.

  He glanced up at the screen again. His mouse cursor had moved. He noticed a folder hidden away in the bottom corner of the window. He double-clicked it.

  Something banged outside his room. Voices and commotion. He looked over at his door to check it was locked then double-clicked on the first document inside the folder.

  It was a photograph titled P.G. 1. He couldn’t initially make out what it showed, other than metal fencing in front of some sort of lock-up, taken from a distance.

  But as he flicked through the pictures, all taken at the same location, a figure emerged.

  The figure had his back to the camera, so he was hard to make out, but Brian could tell from his wiry hair and hunched demeanour who it was. He walked towards the door of the lockup, and then looked over his shoulder. Then he disappeared inside.

  Brian scanned the rest of the contents of the folders, his hand shaking against his mouse. He yanked the pen drive out of the computer, but the photograph didn’t leave the screen and stayed imprinted on his retina.

  The undeniable photograph of Michael Walters entering the lock-up from distance, taken by Nicola Watson.

  Brian might not have known what exactly it meant yet, but one thing was for certain: Nicola Watson was watching Michael Walters for some reason, and she’d died shortly after.

  It might have been late, but there was only one place for him to go to get to the bottom of this right now.

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Moths danced around the light outside Michael Walters’ house as Brian’s car crept onto the pavement. Rain flickered in the glow of the Victorian street lamp. Michael Walters’ front door was large, with a circular brass handle. Hanging baskets of red flowers dangled beside the entrance, dim light glowing from the leaded windows.

  The shot of Michael Walters entering the lockup, looking over his shoulder, taken by Nicola Watson. She knew something. And all of the photos labelled P.G. 1. P.G. 2. What did it mean?

  One thing was for certain; she knew something about Michael Walters. She knew something about that lockup. And she’d been killed for it.
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  Brian checked his phone. Two missed calls. Whoever it was could wait. He didn’t want to get anyone else involved with what he was doing. At least, not yet. He switched the phone to “silent” and stuffed it into his pocket before stepping out of the car.

  Brian hopped across Michael Walters’ freshly resurfaced driveway and past his shiny blue Honda. He knocked firmly at the door three times.

  A movement in the light, a shuffling around inside. Then the rattling of keys against the door.

  What was he going to say? How was he going to handle this?

  Michael Walters pulled the door open. His eyes widened when he saw Brian staring at him. He was dressed in a red jumper, wiping a plate in his hand.

  “I…‌Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you, Officer. Is there anything I can help you with?” He took a glance over Brian’s shoulder.

  Brian nodded. “There’s just a few things I need to talk to you about. About the case. Luther…‌your boss. He might be innocent.” He bit his tongue and waited for Walters to take the bait.

  Play it cool. Give him what he wants.

  Walters raised his eyebrows. “Well of course he is. Would you…‌It’s awfully rainy out there. Would you like to come inside for a moment, Officer?”

  Brian held his breath and walked through the doorway, his wet black shoes marking the cream carpet, rain dripping down the sides of his face. What was he thinking?

  Walters grabbed Brian’s coat and eyed up the damp patch Brian’s shoes had made on the carpet. “I’ll take them off.” Brian gestured towards his shoes. Michael nodded and moved through to the kitchen.

  Brian followed him in, past the wooden cabinet in the hallway. Photographs of Michael and a woman. Ex-wife. Still obsessed, no doubt. He looked around for signs of keys. Something that would lead him to this lockup from the photographs. He needed to see what was in there. He needed to know what was so important.

  Brian walked into the open kitchen/dining room area. The tiles were checkered black and white, the surfaces sparkling clean in the vibrant spotlights. “A drink?” Michael asked, pouring a spot of gin into a glass.

  Could he perhaps have one glass? Put across an atmosphere of normality? Brian raised his hand. “No thanks. Just here to check a few things.”

  Michael shrugged and twisted the top off the bottle. “Well, suit yourself.” He knocked back his drink. “You know, I’m not proud of what I did, Officer.”

  “What you did?”

  “The prostitutes,” Michael whispered as if people were listening in. “No man is proud of doing that sort of thing. But I was at a loose end. I just want that to be clear. I don’t want us to have any misunderstanding about that.”

  Brian leaned back against the black marble kitchen worktop. “Right. It’s…‌I’m not here about that, anyway. I was just wondering about the night Nicola Watson was murdered. We’ve arrested her brother on suspicion. He’s a driver. Probably the last person to see her.”

  Michael stared at Brian, gently shaking his glass below his chin. “Is that so? Well, what does that mean for Robert? And for BetterLives?”

  How far could he go with this? If Price knew he was here…‌No. That didn’t warrant even thinking about. “There are still a few loose ends. Don’t take this the wrong way, Michael, but I just find it hard to believe that you wouldn’t have known about Robert and Nicola’s relationship if you two were as close as you make out.”

  Michael’s face dropped as he moved to the sink. Cutlery had drained onto the marble surface, bone-dry. “I wondered when I was going to slip up about that.”

  Brian edged towards the other side of the room as Michael rested his hands against the sink. “So you knew?”

  “Yes. Yes, I knew. I…‌Officer, do you have a warrant to be here?”

  Brian gulped. “It’s just a personal visit. Just a few questions I had. But they could greatly benefit your boss.”

  Michael stared at Brian with his squinty grey eyes before sighing again. “Right. The DVD footage I took from CityWatch. I said…‌I told you I was trying to remove the CCTV from the nights I’d met the escorts. I lied. And Officer, I’m so sorry for this, but it was a DVD of Robert meeting with Nicola. A video of her in the office. I…‌When I heard the news about the girl’s death, I panicked. I didn’t think anything of it before then. But I guess I was just looking out for the charity. Just trying to do the right thing.”

  Michael raised himself from the sink and took a sharp sniff. “I’m truly sorry, Officer.” He moved closer to Brian. “Sorry for lying. I thought it was the right thing to do. Evidently not.”

  “It’s okay. Do you have the DVD in your possession?”

  Michael stared right through Brian in the room’s perfect silence. Was he on to him? He smiled. “I believe I do. It’s upstairs. You’ll give me a moment, won’t you? I’ll go get it for you.”

  Michael scooted out of the kitchen. The sound of his feet clattering up the steps echoed through the ceiling, the floorboards creaking above Brian’s head.

  Brian glanced around as the floor above continued to creak. A dining area at the other side of the kitchen worktop, and a conservatory style extension with wooden floorboards and a large, cream leather sofa. Brian peeked through the kitchen door to check he was still alone.

  As he reached the conservatory area, with various potted plants resting against the windows, he spotted a few books on the coffee table. Aristotle, the latest Clive Barker book, and a little grey notepad with a bookmark sticking out of the top.

  The creaking continued above Brian’s head. He looked over his shoulder again. He had time just to have a look inside the pad, didn’t he? Just a glance?

  He scooped the pad into his hand and flipped it open to the bookmark.

  Inside the yellowing pages was a list of dates, organised meetings with various charities and individuals. Brian flicked through. The children’s hospital. Westholme Psychiatric Clinic. Fair enough. Places in which BetterLives would be interested.

  He looked closer between a few of the lines and saw a star and smiley face, with initials below.

  28th Nov - * :)

  P.R.H.

  P.R.H. Preston Royal Hospital.

  Brian examined the notepad. More lists of dates. More smiley faces and initials.

  W.H.B

  B.B.F

  He needed something. Surely, there must be something.

  More creaking above his head.

  Pembrokeshire Garage.

  He stopped, his heart racing.

  Pembrokeshire Garage.

  P.G.

  The garage from the photographs. He’d seen it before, of course he had. Disused nowadays. Old family business that closed down years ago. But why did Michael Walters need to visit there? And what were the smiley faces all about? Why did BetterLives need the garage?

  He shut the book and placed it on the table. He turned around and almost fell back as he looked at the kitchen door.

  Michael Walters stood in front of him, holding a DVD in his hand.

  They stared at each other for a moment, Brian’s whole body shaking and his mind frozen. Think, Brian. Think.

  “Just…‌Clive Barker. Not a fan. Never been a fan‌–‌”

  “I’m of the rare camp that actually thinks his work has improved in recent years.” Walters looked down at the books.

  He knew.

  Brian could only smile and nod. “Right, right.”

  The creaking. Definitely still creaking upstairs.

  “I don’t believe you’ve met Rex, my Rottweiler, have you?” Michael asked.

  Brian’s hands shook. Rex. How many other secrets was Michael Walters hiding?

  “He gets awfully active when he smells new people in the house. Very protective. Anyway…” Michael reached for his notepad and aligned it with the edge of the table. “The DVD. It’s here, if you want to watch it. Nothing you don’t already know, though.”

  Brian grabbed the DVD and stuffed it in his jacket pocket.

 
“Again, I am truly sorry for my lapse in judgement, Officer.” Michael’s eyes narrowed as they scanned Brian’s face.

  “Not a problem.” Brian walked towards the door. “Not a problem. I’ll be in touch. It’ll all be sorted soon. Thanks for your honesty.”

  Michael fluttered his eyelashes as Brian stepped out of the kitchen towards the front door. The walls of the hallway swallowed him up. The pictures of Michael Walters and his wife glared back at him. He slipped his shoes back on his feet and fumbled around with the front door. It wouldn’t open. The creaking. Rex. Fuck. Open. Open.

  “You know, it’s a real shame, about Nicola.” Michael reached over Brian’s shoulder and slid the lock open. He could feel Michael’s breath on his neck. “Such a life-affirming young girl. Life-affirming, yes. I do hope you get to the bottom of this, Officer.” He smiled at Brian and moved back from the door as Brian turned the handle with his shaking hand.

  “I thought you never spoke to Nicola Watson.” Brian stepped out into the rain and wind, the faulty streetlight flickering above his head.

  Michael stood in his doorway and stared at Brian. “I…‌What I meant to say, was that I got the impression that she was a bubbly girl. Goodnight, Officer.” He shut the door, and his silhouette disappeared out of sight.

  Brian rushed to his car and threw himself inside. He took a moment to find his breath, rubbing his cold hands against his tingling, hot neck.

  He switched the engine on and looked at the digital clock‌–‌21.48. It would take him ten minutes to get to where he needed to go. He pulled his phone out of his pocket. Another two missed calls, this time from Vanessa. He’d ring her later. He’d call the police as soon as he found what was in there. But Walters suspected him. He knew he suspected him. That look of knowing. Catching Brian sneaking around in his books.

  Brian revved up the engine and pushed his foot against the accelerator, turning out onto the main road. There was only one place on his mind right now.

  Pembrokeshire Garage.

  What was BetterLives hiding that was worth Nicola Watson’s life?

  Chapter Twenty Nine