Dying Eyes (Brian McDone Mysteries)

by Ryan Casey

  “Right.” Brian marched down the corridor and smiled as he walked past the nurse from earlier. “I’ll be there. Make sure you don’t let him go anywhere. I’ve‌–‌”

  “Brian, you‌–‌”

  “I’ll see you down there.” He ended the call and slipped the phone back into his pocket.

  After a voluntary nurse quickly bandaged his hand, he emerged from the hospital and back out into the rain. A feeling of purpose ran through his body. A feeling of reunion. The worst possible circumstances had made him feel better than he had in months. He didn’t need a release anymore.

  He sat in his car and turned the engine on. Biffy Clyro were playing again. Same song as the other day, the same new mainstream crap. But he didn’t mind. It was music to his ears. Ha! Even that sounded funny in his head.

  He looked down at his passenger seat, and the camera stared back at him. His stomach knotted. It would be over soon. He could be there in five minutes, and it would be over.

  He turned out of the hospital car park and headed back down the main road. Michael Walters couldn’t hide any longer.

  This was going to end, right here.

  Chapter Thirty One

  A sea of flashing blue lights engulfed the street outside Michael Walters’ house. It was impossible to believe that this was the same location, robbed of its peace and serenity, that Brian had been earlier. The rain had given up its assault, but water still fell from the trees lining the road. Price was there, wearing a suit as usual despite the torrid conditions. Cassy stood beside him as other officers in white coats scattered around. One of them struggled to attach black and yellow tape to either side of the driveway.

  Brian got out of his car and rushed over towards Price. Price gave him a double take as he chatted to a shorter, fatter DC and gestured back at Michael Walters’ house. His face wasn’t as red as usual.

  “Brian,” he said. “Where the bloody hell have you been for the past‌–‌”

  “At the hospital. My son’s been in an accident. What’s the latest?”

  Price’s eyes widened. “Um, well…‌First off, good work. I don’t agree with your methods but…‌yeah. It looks like you were on to something.”

  Brian pointed back to his car. “The camera in the passenger seat. It’s all on there. Pembrokeshire Garage, Price. Michael Walters was using his position and status in BetterLives to abuse kids. Making little dates with children’s hospitals. Orphanages. He was exploiting the weak and voiceless. The sick, sick bastard.”

  Price nodded. His eyes were distant. Empty.

  “What’s going on?” Brian asked. “You’re scanning the house. Have you found something? Where is he?”

  Price held his hand out to Brian and shook his head as Cassy emerged. “I think you’d better show DS McDone inside, Emerson.”

  Cassy tilted her head and half-smiled at Brian. “Come on,” she said.

  The lights were all off, but makeshift fluorescent lighting spread around the hallway and staircase cast a soft glow around the house. White sheets covered some of the surfaces. An officer in a blue jacket inspected the desk by the door. He picked up the photograph of Michael Walters and his ex-wife and sighed before placing it back down again.

  There was a large plastic mat along the hallway leading towards the kitchen and dining area, where Brian had stood just an hour or so earlier. It was strange, seeing so many people in the house, like a morbid party. A police fancy-dress orgy, but without the fun.

  Cassy stopped Brian at the kitchen doorway. “You’re okay, aren’t you?” She looked down at his muddy trousers and the bandage on his hand.

  A sickly feeling grew in Brian’s stomach. He’d seen houses like this before. He’d been in the job for enough years to know what he was walking into. That same sense of anti-climax. Nobody had to say anything; everybody knew. He nodded and entered the kitchen.

  The first thing he saw was Michael Walters’ shiny brown shoes hovering above the kitchen worktop.

  Brian scratched his forehead as he walked over to him. Walters’ eyes were still open. One of them had popped out of his head and dangled against his cheek as a thin white cord hugged his neck. His hands were purple, and his glasses lay on the floor beneath his feet, one of the lenses cracked. His body swung lightly, like a car air freshener.

  “When did you find him like this?” Brian asked the dark-haired younger DC. He jotted things in a notepad, his jaw shaking and hands twitchy.

  “Um…‌I‌–‌We got here about, about um, ten minutes ago?”

  Ten minutes. Michael must have done it right after Brian had left. He looked up at Michael’s one good eye, staring out with fear. Inevitability. He’d known. He’d seen the suspicion in Brian’s eyes earlier when he’d read his diary, and he’d known. Suicide was the only way to escape without being punished.

  “A man can’t live with the guilt of something like that.”

  Brian turned round to see Price approaching him.

  “Have you seen the camera?”

  “Yes, yes.” He waved at Brian. “You did well. Not method, but good work. I do need a word, though. In private. Lance, would you mind?”

  The nervous younger DC hopped up from the worktop and scooted into the conservatory.

  “Could’ve picked a nicer venue for our chat,” Brian said. Michael Walters’ body still swung from the wire a few feet away.

  “Brian, I’m quitting my role of Detective Inspector for a while as of tomorrow.”

  Brian tried to speak but his mouth hung open. Price…‌quitting? “What…‌Why would you do that? You…‌The police. It’s your life. Isn’t it?”

  “The press. They’re going to crucify us tomorrow. They say we’ve shown negligence towards BetterLives. They say we’ve let this shit go on right under our noses.”

  Brian gritted his teeth. “And have we?”

  Price couldn’t quite meet Brian’s eyes.

  “Oh, Price. Price, you…‌What the hell?”

  “It was just an anonymous claim or two, Brian. For fuck’s sake, an anonymous claim. How many anonymous claims do we get a day? It was nothing serious. Nothing to link BetterLives or Michael Walters to Nicola Watson‌–‌”

  “Nothing serious?” Brian shouted. “Price, this man has been exploiting his fucking charity to abuse innocent children over God knows how long a period. It’s been pretty fucking clear for a few days now that Nicola Watson knew something important. And you think that somehow it’s not serious?”

  Price rubbed his hands against his face. “Y’know, back when I was a Detective Sergeant, I used to be all moral, like you. But the further you climb up the detective ladder…‌Brian, there’s bigger things at play. But you did good. You did the right thing. I can’t fault your work or commitment.”

  Brian barged past Price towards the door.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Home. I’m going home, and I’m going to go to sleep early, and I’ll be up tomorrow for the briefing so we can put the nail in the coffin of this fucking thing.”

  Price scratched the back of his neck. “I didn’t know, Brian. If I’d have known, I would’ve done the right thing, I swear.”

  Brian shook his head at Price, like a parent to a misbehaving child. “How much did BetterLives pay you to keep quiet about this, hmm? Hundreds? Thousands?”

  Cassy emerged from the hallway. She looked between the two of them, confusion in her eyes.

  “It’s not like that,” Price said, calmly. “It was two anonymous reports, Brian. Two anonymous reports.”

  Brian tensed his fists and started to walk towards Price.

  Cassy grabbed his arm. “Come on.” She eased him back outside the kitchen. “Let’s go get a drink.”

  “I’ll be there for the briefing in the morning,” Brian said. “I hope you stick to your word, Price.”

  Price’s eyes watered, and his shoulders slumped. “I’ll be gone in the afternoon.” Michael Walters’ swinging body cast a shadow over him.

/>   “It’s so unsatisfying, isn’t it?”

  Brian and Cassy leaned against the bar. Students, downing drinks and shouting nonsensical chants, surrounded them. Student nights. A reminder of a long-lost youth that didn’t look quite as appealing as it seemed at the time.

  “What is?” Brian asked.

  Cassy’s chin slumped into her hands. “Well, when you told me it’d be a disappointment when we got him, I didn’t quite believe it. But…‌he got away with it. He got away with all those horrible, evil things in his life, and he’ll never have to pay for it. And Nicola Watson‌–‌her family, the charity, the children…‌They are the ones who’ve had to pay.”

  Brian sipped his rum and Coke as a wobbly eyed, drunken student staggered up to him. “All right, Officer? Sick fancy dress! Where’s your truncheon?”

  Brian narrowed his eyes and clenched his jaw as the student stumbled back towards his giggling mates.

  “You learn to get used to it,” Brian said.

  “Hmm.” Cassy sipped her drink. “What was all that about between you and Price?”

  Two anonymous reports. He could sympathise with Price, to an extent. They received a whole bunch of unfounded reports and conspiracy theories every day. It couldn’t have been easy doing the job he did, especially when the media and major institutions were pressuring you and pushing you in certain directions.

  “The press aren’t going to be happy with us tomorrow. Negligence, they’ll call it. Price is acting the martyr.”

  “But I don’t get why. We were pursuing every lead we could. It was an accident that the pen drive turned up. I just…‌Why do they have to punish us?”

  “Because that’s what the vultures do. They can’t punish Michael Walters because he’s dead. They won’t punish BetterLives because they’re Preston’s fucking saviours. So they poke the finger at us. If you can’t get used to that now, you probably never will. How was your date? I hope I didn’t ruin it too much.”

  The last question seemed to catch Cassy off guard. She messed with her hair. “Oh, that. Yeah, thanks for saving me. I don’t think Ryan or I will be seeing each other again. He’s too…‌well, creative.”

  Brian raised his glass towards Cassy. “To independent life.”

  Cassy smiled at him. “Fuck you, Granddad.”

  Brian finished the last drop of his drink as nightclub lights pulsated around him. The warmth of the drink seeped down his neck. He looked at his watch. 12:07 a.m. now. “Time for another drink?”

  Cassy shrugged. “Whatever you’re having, I’ll have a double.” She winked at him and downed the remainder of her vodka lemonade.

  Chapter Thirty Two

  Brian’s head pulsated as he squeezed his eyes together, desperate not to let the light in. The back of his neck was splitting, and his stomach was heavy and rumbly. His arm didn’t ache today, though. Something was different. Where was he?

  His sweaty body was naked from the waist down, his shirt clinging on by one button at the collar. Shit. He hadn’t…‌had he?

  He turned to the opposite side of the room. Cassy’s record player. Of course. He’d come back with her. Kipped on the sofa. But his trousers…‌Where were they? The kitchen door opened, and the smell of fried sausage cut through the room.

  “Morning, stranger.” Cassy glanced down at Brian’s floppy penis with a grin on her face.

  Brian’s cheeks warmed as he grabbed a cushion and threw it in front of his bare crotch. He shuffled around on the sofa, careful not to reveal his arse in the process. Cassy looked on, fully dressed in work gear, sausage sandwich in hand.

  The smell made Brian’s stomach turn, the distant taste of musty alcohol still coated across his tongue. How many drinks had he had? Probably too many. But it wasn’t like usual. It wasn’t like the nights alone, the whisky showers and the razors. It was a celebration. It felt strangely good. Normal.

  “I’m all right.” Brian cringed as Cassy poked the sausage sandwich into his face.

  She shrugged and stuffed half of the sandwich into her mouth. “More for me, then.”

  Brian turned his attention back to his uncovered lower half. Was Cassy ever going to give him a moment to dress?

  “Oh, your trousers are in the hallway.” She pointed towards the door. “You seemed to think it was a good idea to leave them in there last night. I tried to stop you, but you were fairly adamant…”

  Brian clenched his jaw, his cheeks on fire. He realised Cassy was looking at the scars on his forearm and trying not to say anything. “Well, could you, um?”

  “Oh, go get them yourself, Brian,” Cassy said, one hand on her sausage sandwich, another on her hip. “You’ve been lying on that sofa with your own bloody sausage on display all night. No point getting all shy about it now.”

  Brian grumbled as Cassy walked back into the kitchen.

  Three, two, one…

  He made a lunge into the hallway, his naked arse visible, and quickly pulled his creased trousers on. His head seared with pain as he stretched to fasten his buttons. At least he’d headed back to his flat before he’d gone out last night and changed from his dirty clothes.

  “I’ll just finish this and meet you in the car if you want,” Cassy said with a mouthful of sausage. She tossed the keys at Brian, who dropped them, his coordination still lagging.

  “Sure. I’ll um…‌I’ll see you in there.” He rushed down the stairs and out into the open air, where he retched into the drainpipe beside Cassy’s flat.

  Fucking sausage.

  Cassy joined him a few minutes later as he wrapped his hands around himself in the passenger seat. He didn’t like being a passenger at the best of times, but after a rough night on the town, it was even more painful. An awkward silence permeated the car as Cassy approached the station.

  “So…‌did you sleep all right?” Cassy glanced at Brian then looked back down at the steering wheel, a grin on her face.

  He wasn’t sure what was more awkward‌–‌the fact that Cassy had seen his “sausage”, or his cuts. “Look, Cas. It was just a cock, all right? I had my cock out. Big deal. If you’re gonna giggle about it like a schoolgirl all morning, I’ll walk to work.”

  Cassy spluttered as she tried to hold her laughter back. “That was a cock? I didn’t see anything. You sure about that?”

  Brian imitated a childish “ha ha” before looking out of the window. A small crowd of six or seven journalists with cameras and notepads gathered around the entrance to the police station. Bloody media… “Anyway, you’d better pull yourself together. Looks like we’ve got some company.”

  Cassy stopped the car before the crowd noticed them. She sat rigidly in her seat.

  “What’re you doing?”

  “The scars, Brian,” Cassy said, staring out of her window. “You were telling me about what happened last night. And then I saw the scars. I know you’re not a real drinker, Brian. You’re too much of a lightweight to be a real drinker. Maybe it’s time to bury the hatchet. The case is over, so why don’t you offload your burden, too? Why don’t you tell me what drove you to cutting yourself?”

  Brian folded his arms, his cheeks heating up. He looked around the car, everywhere but Cassy’s face. “You got me drunk and still didn’t manage to get an answer out of me. Poor effort, DS Emerson.”

  “Okay, okay. You don’t have to speak right now. But just tell me, what chance do I have of, like, ever finding out?”

  Brian opened the car door and waved at the press. One of the men with a camera patted his friend on the shoulder and sent a flock in their direction, like seagulls around dropped ice cream. “Maybe if we survive this lot, I’ll consider it.”

  “Officer, what do you have to say about the repeated arrests of Michael Walters? Why were adequate searches not carried out?”

  “Officer, if the police had figured out what Michael Walters was up to sooner, could Nicola Watson’s life have been spared?”

  The press assassination. He bit his cheeks and focused on the appr
oaching entrance to the station as the media continued to shuffle around him.

  “Officer, what do you have to say about the arrest of Robert Luther and the arrest of Nicola Watson’s own brother? Is there any way you can repay BetterLives and the poor girl’s family for almost bringing them to the ground?”

  “You go inside,” Brian whispered to Cassy. He faced the crowd as they gathered around the steps. His head still ached, and he felt a little wobbly from the height. Maybe he was still drunk. “I know it’s a very confusing time for all of us right now‌–‌”

  “Too damn right it is!” a bald-headed man shouted.

  More heckles echoed through the crowd, gaining momentum.

  “I know it’s a confusing time,” Brian continued, “but we’ve just started to put the pieces together of a very complex jigsaw, and we’re still trying to get to the bottom of the true extent of things.”

  “Officer, what do you have to say of the Telegraph‘s report that there was a cover up of Michael Walters’ activities within BetterLives and the police department?”

  Brian thought back to Price’s words as the microphones dangled into his face. Two anonymous reports. He cleared his throat and half-smiled. “We’ll know more as the day goes on. Right now, you need to allow the police to do their job. No guilty parties will get away with this, I promise you.” He turned away from the crowd and entered the police station as the mob of voices roared on behind him.

  A quietness ran through the offices and corridors of the station as Brian walked through. It always did after a big case. Phones rang on, not answered quite as immediately as during the case. The chatter of keyboards was less frantic. Brian took a seat at his desk.

  “Good job on the Watson case, Brian,” DS Stephen Molfer said, not quite making eye contact with Brian.

  “What was that, Stephen? I didn’t hear you‌–‌say that again?”

  Stephen shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Good job.”

  “Cheers,” Brian said, smiling smugly. There was something bittersweet about the happiness, though. A man had hanged himself. Children had been involved. An innocent girl had been killed because she was on the verge of leaking that information. Nothing to be happy about. It was only the beginning of a bigger investigation. BetterLives. Police negligence. How deep did it all go? He got the feeling they had only scratched the surface.