The Dead and the Dying (a John Mason thriller)

by Amy Cross

"Car will be outside your door in ten minutes," says a male voice, before hanging up.

  A body in the water. That's careless. I'd assumed we were dealing with an expert, with someone who would never leave such a messy clue behind. Then again, perhaps it's no clue at all. Perhaps he left it behind because he knew it offered nothing. Or perhaps it's a decoy, designed to consume our resources and distract us. That's what I'd do if I was going around killing kids. Surely this guy isn't really as stupid as he seems?

  I decide to call Ellen. The phone rings for a while before she picks up.

  "John?" she asks. She sounds so far away.

  "Hey," I say. "Where are you?"

  "I'm at home, John," she says, sounding highly-strung. "What do you want?"

  I look about the room, then I go through to the kitchen. "Where are you?" I ask.

  "I'm at home," she says again, this time sounding annoyed. "What do you want?"

  I walk through to the bedroom, then I check the bathroom. "Where the fuck are you?" I ask.

  "John, have you been drinking?"

  I stand in the hallway and I remember. Ellen doesn't live here anymore. "Sorry," I say. I disconnect. Well that was embarrassing. I have to get these chemicals out of my body, they're destroying my mind. If that bastard Fibes ever comes near me again, I'll kill him, I swear. I'd rather have one more year lucid and independent than five more years with this crap inside my body.

  I grab the bottle of whisky from the living room and -

  "My name is John Mason and I'm a" -

  - I take a swig. Everything's coming back to me now. Ellen hasn't lived here for nine months, maybe more. She lives across town with whatshisname. No, I never remembered his name anyway, even when I wasn't drugged up to the eyeballs.

  I hear a car pulling up outside. I go to the window. A black Mercedes is parked in the street. The driver looks up at me. Damn, he's seen me and he's here to pick me up. But was that really ten minutes? I grab my coat, put on my shoes and hurry out the door, half-running down the steps.

  The driver gets out of the car. "Sir -"

  "It's okay," I say. "I can get the door. What time is it?"

  "It's just gone midnight," he says, raising an arm to stop me getting in the car. "Sir!"

  "What?" I see he's looking at my crotch. I look down and see a dark stain. "Sorry," I say. "I think I'd better run in and have a shower".

  "I'll wait, sir," says the driver.

  I turn and walk slowly back inside. So, did I piss myself because of the drugs, the drink, or just because that's the kind of guy I am?

  7. Promises

  "You look like shit," says Tepper as she looks up from the examination table.

  "At least I have an excuse," I say as I take my first look at the water-logged, discoloured and bloated body of the teenager they fished from the harbour a few hours ago.

  "Bottle of whiskey's not an excuse," Tepper mutters.

  "I haven't been drinking," I say. "What do we know so far?"

  Alice comes over with a set of scalpels. "Male, 16 years old, suffered from diabetes, once broke his hand falling from an apple tree in his parents' garden".

  "Amazing what you can tell from DNA," says Tepper sarcastically.

  "Serial number on the bolt holding his hand together," Alice says. "Four years ago he had some pretty significant surgery. I ran the serial number and came up with a name. Thomas Smith".

  "Stupid name," I say.

  "You're in a nice mood," says Alice.

  "You'll have to forgive John," says Tepper. "When he's been drinking he -"

  "I haven't been drinking!" I say, a little too loudly to be convincing. But maybe I should just agree with her. After all, there's no way I'm telling any of them about the cancer. "Just one drink," I add. I smile at Alice. "I used to be an alcoholic".

  "Once an alcoholic, always an alcoholic," says Tepper.

  "Wrong," I say. "That kind of crap's for people with no will power". I give Alice my best smile. "Speaking of which, would you like to go to dinner with me some time?"

  "No," says Alice, rather bluntly.

  "No?" I ask.

  "Just no," she replies, and starts cutting into the dead boy's arm.

  "You blew my chances," I say to Tepper. "Unless... Alice, are you a lesbian? Did Tepper turn you?"

  "I'd estimate he'd been in the water for three or four weeks," says Alice firmly. "But the pores of his skin seem to be pretty tight. I think he was dead when he went under".

  "So he didn't drown," I say. "What else?"

  "Tox from his stomach contents came back with rat poison compounds," Alice continues. "I don't think there's any doubt as to the cause of death. Also, note the reddening around his face. Something scratched him. It looks like fingernails, but the angles are wrong".

  "Someone else's fingernails," I say.

  At least, Alice looks at me again. "Probably," she says.

  Any chance of a 'moment' between us is broken as we hear the door slam shut. We turn to see that Tepper has walked out and seems to be waiting in the corridor.

  "You should talk to her," Alice says.

  "Not my problem," I say.

  "You should still talk to her. She's upset. Let her know you care that she's upset. It'll help you out no end".

  I nod. "Do you always give advice to people over dead bodies?"

  "You'd be surprise," she says.

  "Jealous?" I ask as I step out of the exam room.

  "Of what?" she says, clearly angry. "I told you before, I don't want to work with you when you've been drinking".

  "And I haven't been drinking," I say. "Well, not drinking drinking. Do I seem drunk?"

  "You see out of it".

  "That's different," I say, but I don't want to be having this conversation any more.

  "I don't want to be having this conversation any more," Tepper says suddenly, surprising me. "I think the best thing would be if we finish this case and then we don't work with each other again".

  "That's ridiculous," I say. "We work well together, and I don't drink anymore. Not like I used to".

  "It doesn't -"

  "What? It doesn't work like that?" I hate when I sound like this. "That's a load of crap. Those people who say once an alcoholic, always an alcoholic, they've never been there. Sure, if you've got no self control, maybe you have to give up altogether. But some of us do have some self control, and we can manage to step back across the line of acceptable behaviour and fucking stay there. So don't give me that support group crap".

  "Did you go to a support group?"

  "Yes, and it was shit". I pause to let the words sink in. "Those groups are full of self-perpetuating bullshit. You can't argue against what they do, because then you're just in denial. Bollocks. I never had a real drinking problem before, and I'm perfectly okay now".

  She stares at me, looking completely disgusted. "Then why are you acting like you're drunk?"

  That's the drugs, I want to say. It's the chemo and the drugs that keep the pain at bay. But if I tell her that, I have to tell her about the cancer. Imagine that. I'd be John the Cancer Guy. People would look at me differently. They'd feel sorry for me. They'd go out of their way to make me feel better about myself. Does that sound appealing? No way. "I'm not," I say weakly.

  "Then you need a new partner," she says.

  I stare at her for a moment. "Fine," I say.

  "It's for the best". She turns and walks away down the corridor.

  "Harsh," says Alice, who had been at the door listening. "You want to go and get a drink?"

  I frown. "Did I imagine it, or did you turn down my invitation to get dinner?"

  "That's dinner," she says. "I'm talking about a drink".

  At 3am, there aren't many options for a drink, but Alice 'knows a place' and we're soon in an all-night diner that does a nice little sideline in under-the-counter liquor.

  "So where is it?" Alice asks, sipping at her straight vodka.

  "What?"

  "The tumour".
r />   I stare at her. Do I trust her? "What makes you think -"

  "I'm observant," she says. "You've been on chemo. Recently, too. Like... hours ago. Just a low dose, but you have the dilated pupils and a distinctive lightness to your skin. Not many people would've noticed".

  I look at my drink for a moment. I don't mind admitting I'm pretty uncomfortable with this conversation. "Pancreas," I say after a while.

  She nods. "How long do you have?"

  "Five years at most," I say. "They only found it when I got shot. Otherwise I still wouldn't know".

  "You should be off sick," she says.

  "I don't really have any hobbies".

  She smiles. "The chemo will cloud your mind. If that's what you're worried about. It'll stop you thinking clearly for a couple of days after each dose".

  "I know," I say.

  "You need to plan around that," she says.

  "Again, I know".

  "So was she right? About the drinking?"

  I take a sip of whisky. "She buys into that crap about 'once an alcoholic, always an alcoholic'. She doesn't think it's possible to get back to where you once were. She thinks you have to quit altogether".

  "A common misunderstanding," says Alice, raising her glass. "Cheers". I tap her glass with mine. "I'll sleep with you," she says suddenly. "But not until we've cracked this case".

  "How do you know I'll sleep with you?" I ask.

  "Because you asked me out to dinner," she says. "And I'm not ugly, by any means".

  "True. But still, I might have standards".

  "I'm sure you do. But I'm sure I meet them".

  We sit in silence for a minute or two.

  "Why would someone hold a bunch of kids in a shipping container," I say slowly, staring at my glass, "then kill one of them, toss him in the water where we're going to find him, and move the rest?" I look up at her. She shrugs. "And why wasn't this Thomas Smith kid reported missing?"

  "Because his parents didn't give a shit?" Alice says.

  "There are parents like that?" I ask.

  A pause. We raise our glasses again and drink.

  "You have to go over that boy's body again and again," I say. "You have to look for something that'll tell us where he's been, what happened to him".

  She opens her mouth to reply, but her phone rings. She answers. "Yeah. Okay". She passes the phone to me. "It's your girlfriend".

  I take the phone. "Development," says Tepper coldly. "We did some checking up on Thomas Smith. We found where he lives".

  "Go and speak to his parents," I say.

  "He doesn't live with his parents," Tepper replies. "In fact, he's married and he's a computer systems analyst. He lives in Redvers Green. And I already came to speak to his wife, except guess what? Thomas Smith is right here, alive and well. And he sure doesn't look like he's sixteen years old".

  8. Visiting Hours

  "A hundred grand," says 'Thomas Smith', looking nervous as he sits on his sofa with his wife. "But it seemed worth it at the time". He’s a kid, really. Mid-20s but he looks younger, and it’s hard to believe he’s married, especially to such a good-looking woman. There’s nursery stuff in the corner, too. It’s unpacked, like they’re expecting a kid. Sure enough, there’s a telltale bump in the wife’s belly.

  Tepper nods. "So your real name is..."

  "Victor Fleming," he says. "But I don't use that name any more".

  "No kidding," says Tepper. "So you bought the name Thomas Smith?"

  He nods. "Everything. Social security number, bank account, everything. Passport. The whole life. It was like a new start. I... I have really bad credit".

  "Let me get this straight," says Tepper. "You bought a turn-key new identity for a hundred grand, and you've been living as Thomas Smith for..."

  "A month".

  "Fresh," says Tepper.

  I decide to butt in. "We pulled Thomas Smith from the water a few hours ago. The real Thomas Smith. The one whose identity you purchased. How old are you?"

  "Twenty-five, sir," Victor/Thomas says.

  "Don't try getting polite with me," I say. "Who did you buy this identity from?"

  "I got a name from a friend. I called this guy, he said he had an ID I could have for two hundred. I bargained him down to a hundred. We did the deal, he gave me the documents. Look, I know I shouldn't have done it, but who really got hurt?"

  "Thomas Smith," says Tepper. "It looks like you bought his identity, and he was killed about the same time".

  "Kids," I say.

  "Exactly," says Tepper.

  "No," I say, turning to her. I whisper so that Victor/Thomas can't hear me. "The kids in the shipping container. It's a kid farm. The guy keeps them alive 'til they turn sixteen, then he sells their complete identities. There are people out there who'd pay everything they've got for a new start. New social security, new identity, new everything. All our guy has to do is keep the kids alive long enough to collect the details so he can sell them, then dump the kids in the nearest harbour".

  "Someone would've noticed if a bunch of kids went missing," she whispers back.

  "Not if the kids were picked up when they were young. Maybe purchased from desperate mothers. Kept alive for years until they matured. Once they got to the age of sixteen, they could get all the documents they need, then their identities could be sold. Just need to get rid of the actual kids".

  "Am I in trouble?" asks Victor/Thomas.

  "How do we know you didn't kill this kid?" I ask. "How do we know you didn't track him down, drown him, toss the body into the harbour and waltz off with his identity?"

  "I couldn't kill someone," he pleads. "There's no way. I bought all of this. I know it was stupid, but I wanted a new start. It never occurred to me that anyone could get hurt".

  Tepper and I aren't listening. "There's an address," she says. "If the kid had documents and an identity to sell, he must have had an address".

  "It'll be a fake," I say. "Guarantee it". I get to my feet. "Come on, this idiot's not going to be any use. Victor, where did you meet the guy who sold you the ID?"

  "The Harvey Hill industrial estate," he says. "But I think that was pretty random. He chose it".

  "Nothing's random," I say. "Especially when you're trying to be random". I turn to Tepper. "Come on".

  "I haven't finished taking his details," she says.

  "Leave it," I say. "It's not important".

  "I'm staying to take his details," she insists.

  "Fine," I say. "See you tomorrow". I walk out of the house without saying anything to Victor/Thomas. I figure it's not worth giving time of day to such a complete idiot.

  Alice is waiting in the car.

  "You missed a great show," I say as I get into the passenger seat.

  "I don't like people," she says, lighting up a cigarette. "What did you find out?"

  "That we need to go and take a look at the Harvey Hill industrial estate".

  "Now?" she asks.

  "Now," I say.

  The Harvey Hill industrial estate is on the other side of town. It's basically made up of a load of large warehouses, with a few residential streets at one end of the plot. No-one comes here much, especially not late at night. The place has a reputation for being a bit dodgy, but it's a good place to pick up hookers when you're a little strapped for cash. They come cheap around here.

  "There's no-one here," Alice says as we drive slowly through the night, passing warehouse after warehouse.

  "Look in the shadows," I say.

  She peers out the windows. "I still don't see anyone".

  "They're here," I say. "Whores, mainly. Some dealers. Stop the car, I guarantee someone'll appear at the window".

  "Creepy," she says.

  "Sure. Unless you're after some drugs or a fuck, in which case it's extremely fortuitous".

  She smiles. "And you know about this how, again?"

  "I can't believe you don't know about it," I say.

  The car turns a corner.

  "Stop!
" I say.

  We stop outside the ruined remains of a warehouse that has recently burnt down. There's some tape to prevent people getting inside, but the whole structure is pretty much ruined.

  "Fire?" Alice says.

  I nod. "These buildings have fire detection systems, smoke alarms, sprinklers... If a fire starts, it gets dealt with. So how come this one burnt almost completely to the ground?"

  "Because someone made sure of it?" Alice asks.

  I open the door and get out of the car. "Exactly," I say.

  Alice and I walk over to the charred remains of the building, but as we get there I feel a sharp pain in my stomach, and I can't hide it. I double over in pain, barely able to stay on my feet.

  "Here," says Alice, taking a pill from her pocket. "Take this".

  Without hesitating, I take the pill. After a couple of minutes, the pain subsides. "What was that?" I ask.

  "Targeted pain relief," says Alice.

  "You always carry that kind of stuff around in your pocket?"

  She laughs. "Sure, when I know I'm going to be hanging out with someone who has terminal, mostly untreated cancer".

  "Thanks," I say, taking a couple of deep breaths.

  "Hey!" calls a voice. We turn to see a man walking over the road, coming towards us. He's dressed up in hunting gear, with big black sunglasses. He has a bulge in his jacket that suggests a concealed handgun. "Can I help you?" he asks, stopping and putting his hands on his hips.

  "What happened here?" I ask, indicating the burnt-out remains of the warehouse.

  "Fire," he says, with a tone of voice that suggests he thinks he's imparting some great secret information. "Four weeks ago. Huge".

  "What caused it?" asks Alice.

  The man shrugs. "Kids? Squirrels?"

  "Who owns it?" I ask.

  "Some guy used to come," says the man. "Always at night. Had a big van. Don't know if he owned it but he was here a lot".

  "What -" Alice starts, but I interrupt her.

  "Who are you?" I ask. "It's 5am, what are you doing here?"

  He pauses. "Getting home from work. Who are you?"

  Alice flashes her badge at him. "Police," she says. "We're interested in the guy who kept stuff in this warehouse".