Dead End

by Shirley Wells

  Chapter Two

  At six o’clock on Thursday morning, the only things moving were birds. The dawn chorus was in full swing, and dozens of starlings were already squabbling like spoiled kids.

  Jimmy sat in the white van he’d bought last week. It had been cheap, was suitably dented and rusting in places, and it stank of oil and something else. It was perfect.

  He’d disconnected the battery and was currently blocking the driveway to a house that sat at the end of a row of similar detached executive homes. Each property came with privacy provided by tall fir trees, making it unlikely that anyone from the nearby houses would spot his van. A small lake opposite was used only by ducks so no one would see him from that angle.

  All Jimmy had to do was wait, and he was good at that.

  He knew the layout, knew the kitchen was at the back of the house, as was the master bedroom. It was doubtful that Brian Dowie would spot the van until he emerged from his home at 6:40 a.m. If he did, though, Jimmy would be ready for him.

  Unlike the early riser she’d married, Diane Dowie liked her beauty sleep and wouldn’t leave the bedroom until after nine o’clock. Their twin boys were sixteen and always managed to get themselves to school without her help. School had finished for the Easter break, though, so the boys would probably stay in bed later than usual. While her husband lorded it over employees at his car salesroom, Diane would spend his money on clothes and beauticians. Later, when her husband set off for Cardiff, Diane would open a bottle of wine, and probably follow it with another bottle.

  Jimmy waited. The blood zinged through his veins and his palms began to sweat. Nothing could go wrong. He’d been patient. He’d watched the Dowie household until he knew the daily routine to the second. An inner voice reminded him that the school holidays changed that routine, but he ignored it.

  Minutes ticked by. Jimmy checked his watch.

  The front door opened and Dowie appeared. He aimed a remote control in the direction of the garage and the door swung up, but then he stopped to frown at the van blocking his exit. A scowl cut grooves in his face as he walked down the drive.

  Jimmy jumped out the van. “Sorry. Terribly sorry. I’ve called the breakdown company—half an hour ago now—and they should be here any minute. If you helped push—” He gave Dowie’s suit an apologetic glance. “If you’d be kind enough to sit inside while I push, I’m sure we’ll soon have it out of your way.”

  “Fine.” Dowie nodded reluctantly then fished in his pocket and produced a business card. “If you’re in the market for a new vehicle, here’s the place to come.”

  Jimmy had to stifle a bubble of hysterical laughter that rose up inside him. Dowie didn’t miss a trick—or the opportunity to screw someone over.

  “Thanks,” Jimmy said. “I’ll stop by. I’ve been meaning to trade this in for a while now.”

  “Ask for me—Brian Dowie. My name’s on the card.”

  “I will. Thanks so much. And I’m really sorry about this.”

  “We’ll both push,” Dowie said. “It’ll be easier. As soon as it moves, jump inside. Okay?”

  “Got it,” Jimmy said.

  Jimmy opened both driver’s door and passenger door, then moved to the back of the van ready to push it. “Hey, check the handbrake’s off, will you?”

  It only took a second. Dowie leaned in through the passenger door to release the handbrake, and Jimmy picked up the crowbar that had been waiting by the rear wheel. He brought it down on the back of Dowie’s head as the bloke emerged from the car.

  Dowie dropped like a corpse, his car keys falling from his pocket and narrowly missing a drain. That would have buggered everything.

  Christ! For one awful moment, Jimmy thought he really did have a corpse on his hands. As he bundled him into the back of the van, though, he could feel him breathing.

  He quickly lifted the bonnet, reconnected the battery and climbed into the driver’s seat. The engine fired at the first attempt. He reversed it a few yards, then killed then engine.

  It only took a couple of minutes to tie Dowie’s wrists and ankles, and gag him. Not that anyone was likely to hear him.

  Confident that his prize was safe and secure, Jimmy grabbed the can of petrol, jumped out the van and locked it. He ran up the drive to Dowie’s garage, went inside and fired the brand new BMW into life. It took him a couple of attempts to find the right button on the remote to close the garage door but as it slid into place, he reversed down the drive and was away. Anyone watching now would assume that Dowie was on his way to his office.

  Jimmy drove less than a mile, down a narrow lane and to a patch of waste ground. He’d watched the area and knew that no one went near it. A developer had bought the land, intending to build fifty or so homes on it, but planning permission had been refused and the ground had been left to its own devices while the owner appealed the decision. The few people who knew about it used it as a rubbish dump. A couple of old mattresses had been rotting there for months, a sofa too.

  He parked the car on the far side of the land, where it wouldn’t be noticed for a while, doused the interior with petrol and took a breath. He had three cigarette lighters in his pocket, just in case, but the first threw out a big flame. He tossed it onto the back seat and watched the sudden burst of orange take over. He strode away and, when he turned to look, all he saw was a fireball.

  He half walked, half ran back to the Crescent. He climbed inside his van, saw that Dowie was still unconscious, and drove off. His heart was racing.

  There was little traffic about. A Status Quo song was playing on the radio and Jimmy slapped the steering wheel to the beat. It was a breeze and he was soon pulling up outside the small terraced house he’d rented.

  Surprisingly, Dowie was still out cold. Jimmy thanked whatever god was watching over him.

  It wasn’t until Jimmy had dragged him out the van and into the back of the house, and pushed him down a set of steps into the cellar that Dowie began to come round. He was still very groggy so Jimmy had little trouble tying him to a chair.

  Dowie struggled in an attempt for freedom but Jimmy just laughed at him while he fixed the long length of rope to the rafter. He slipped it around Dowie’s neck.

  “The thing is,” Jimmy said, standing in front of Dowie and smiling at him, “you’re a bit stuffed right now. If you knock the chair over, you’re a dead man. Even if you just tip it forward, you’ll hang yourself. Still, a clever bloke like you will have worked that out for himself.”

  Dowie was trying to shout behind his gag. Jimmy ignored him. He double-checked that Dowie’s hands were tied securely behind his back and that the ropes binding him to the chair were tight, then he ran back up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

  “Be seeing you, Brian.” He flicked off the light switch and plunged the cellar into darkness. “By the way, my van’s fixed so I won’t be needing a new one for a while.”

  Jimmy was still smiling as he stepped outside. He’d left his car a couple of streets away and he walked briskly to collect it. Once inside, he drove off, satisfied with a job well done.

  Home was only five minutes away and he walked into the usual breakfast mayhem.

  “It smells of cat in here.” He wrinkled his nose at the pungent smell.

  No one took any notice of him. Carol was shoving washing into the machine, Matthew was pushing toast down his throat as fast as he could and Ewan was putting his football kit into his bag.

  “I said it smells of cat in here.”

  “Does it?” Carol sniffed. “I can’t smell anything. It could be George though. He peed on the carpet yesterday. He’s getting old, poor thing.”

  Not old enough. But even when George turned his paws, they’d still be stuck with three cats. Carol was cat mad.

  Matthew nudged his big brother’s elbow. “It’s probably Ew
an. He always stinks.”

  “Shut up, moron.”

  “Who are you calling a moron?”

  “Enough,” Carol said. “Come on, you’ll miss the bus if you don’t get a move on.”

  “Can I get a lift to the cinema tonight, Mum?” Matthew asked.

  “Yes, yes—so long as you don’t miss your bus.”

  “And then can I have Chinese takeaway?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Why can’t you get the bus to the cinema?” Jimmy asked. “You can’t expect your mum to ferry you around for ever.”

  “It’s no bother,” Carol said. “Besides, the bus takes ages.”

  “You could run, Matt,” Jimmy said. “I’ve done five miles this morning. It does you good.”

  Matthew groaned.

  “Petrol doesn’t come out the tap, you know,” Jimmy said. “It’ll come out of your pocket money.”

  “Oh, Dad, that’s so not—”

  “Stop arguing, Matt.” Laughing, Carol flicked a tea towel at him. “Come on, you nagged and nagged to go on this trip. I want you out the front door in sixty seconds. Both of you. Scram.”

  Five minutes later, the front door slammed and all was quiet except for the irritating rumble of the washing machine.

  Carol poured herself another coffee and sat down at the table. “You’re too hard on them, Jimmy.”

  “And you’re too soft. They’re both turning into proper mummy’s boys. You’ll regret it, you mark my words.”

  “You might regret playing the sergeant major too. They’re good kids. Let them enjoy life while they can.”

  “There’s more to life than enjoying yourself.”

  She snorted at that. “Sure there is. There’s getting a job, paying the bills, buying a house, getting sick—they’ll find out all about that soon enough.”

  “And they’re being prepared for none of it. They need a lot more discipline.”

  “That’s the army talking. And you’re only mad at Ewan because he wants to join the police. You should be pleased. A lot of sixteen-year-olds don’t have a clue what they want to do.”

  “And why does he want to join the police? Because he thinks the sun shines out of my dad’s arse. Well, it doesn’t. Believe me, it doesn’t.”

  “Then don’t try so hard to be exactly like him.” Carol finished her coffee and went to the sink to rinse out her mug. As far as she was concerned, the conversation was over.

  “I’m nothing like my dad.”

  “You’re exactly like him, Jimmy.”

  “That shows how much you know.”

  She probably didn’t hear him because she’d gone upstairs. She did that a lot. It was as if she enjoyed saying something that she knew would piss him off and then walking away.

  A couple of minutes later, she came back to the kitchen carrying a tall pile of towels. A bag was slung over her shoulder and her car keys dangled from a finger. “I need to go.” She dropped a kiss on the top on his head. “I’ll see you tonight, love.”

  She didn’t expect an answer so Jimmy didn’t give her one.

  When the door closed behind her, he walked up the stairs and threw himself down on their bed. The adrenaline had gone, leaving total exhaustion in its wake.

  He closed his eyes and thought he might sleep for an hour, but it wasn’t to be. He was immediately back with his colleagues, pushing into the hell that was Musa Qala. All they’d needed to do was assert Afghan government control in the rebel stronghold. It should have been easy. His pulse started to race again. He could taste sand and dust in his throat. He was there.

  He leapt off the bed and raced to the bathroom. He was violently sick, but not before he saw their mutilated bodies.

  As he splashed cold water on his face, he thought of Carol chatting with clients about the latest TV soap as she cut and coloured their hair. He thought of Matthew raving about the latest zombie movie with his chums, and of Ewan telling everyone he was going to be a policeman just like his wonderful grandfather.

  That bloody cat wandered into the bathroom with his ginger hair standing upright on his arched back. Jimmy lashed out with a towel. “Fuck off and pee somewhere else!”

  Chapter Three

  “You look great,” Dylan said.

  Bev turned away from the dressing table mirror, mascara wand in her hand, to frown at him. “I look like shit.”

  “You don’t.”

  She’d lost a little weight since her operation, but she’d also lost that haunted, frightened look. As daft as it sounded, worrying that she might have cancer had affected her far more than knowing she had it. Now that she knew what she had to deal with, she was calmer, more relaxed and more likely to smile.

  “Wait till I start the chemo and my hair drops out,” she said, turning back to the mirror.

  He didn’t want to think about the course of chemotherapy that lay ahead. These days, he was able to block it from his mind if he tried really hard. Bev was young, fit and healthy—she’d fight this hateful disease. He refused to believe otherwise. “So what’s the plan for tonight?”

  She applied a coat of lipstick and pursed her lips together. “The usual. Lucy’s bringing a DVD over—a romance, I think, in which no one dies of cancer—and I’ve got the wine. So we’ll watch the film, phone for a takeaway, slag you off and get drunk. Well, as drunk as we can on a Thursday night when Lucy has to work in the morning.”

  “If you need me—”

  “I’ll whistle. Go and enjoy your pub crawl.”

  “It’s not a pub crawl. I told you, I’m meeting someone.”

  “You haven’t told me why you’re meeting up with some old police informer.”

  He hadn’t. The last thing he wanted was for her to start worrying about some maniac out to kill him. Besides, despite his uneasy feeling about all this, it was unlikely that his mysterious caller wanted to do anything more than scare him. If he wanted him dead, he’d have made a move by now. “It’s just a job, Bev. There’s a bloke recently released from prison who’s done a runner. I need to find him, that’s all. It’s nothing exciting.”

  “It is if it pays the bills,” she said.

  Except it wouldn’t pay any bills. When it came to Leonard King, Dylan was both investigator and client. He had a couple of paying jobs though, both looking into insurance claims, so there was a little money coming in. “We won’t starve.” Not yet.

  He walked to the wardrobe, pulled his leather jacket from a hanger and shrugged it on. Returning to stand behind her seat at the mirror, he put his hands on his shoulders. “You do look great, you know.” He bent to kiss her. “Right, I’m out of here. Give me a shout if you need me. And don’t get too drunk.”

  “See you later.”

  As he walked down the stairs, he was aware of the silence settling around the house. Luke was having a sleepover at his friend’s house and Freya was staying with Dylan’s mum for the night. A lively teenager and a baby could make a lot of noise between them and the house missed them. So did Dylan.

  He wondered if he should wait for Lucy to arrive, then decided Bev would accuse him of fussing again, so he put his wallet and keys in his pocket and left the house.

  He walked to the rank and took a cab to the White Horse where he’d arranged to meet Archie Bryson.

  It didn’t take long to spot him, although Archie, a small man, well into his seventies now, blended into the furniture. He was sitting in his usual spot at a table in the corner, an almost empty glass in front of him. In the past he’d always had a hand-rolled cigarette dangling from his lips, and even though the smoking ban had been in place for years, he still looked out of place without it.

  It must be six or seven years since Dylan had last seen Archie but he hadn’t changed. His dark, slicked-back hair was a little thinner,
and he was minus a couple more teeth, but he still wore a collar and tie. It would be difficult for onlookers to believe he’d spent half of his adult life behind bars.

  Dylan walked over to his table. “What are you having, Archie?”

  Archie looked up and gave him a toothless smile. “Long time, no see. You’re looking well, Mr. Scott.”

  Archie had always called him Mr. Scott and Dylan had given up trying to change that. It sounded like a sign of respect but everyone knew what Archie thought of coppers or ex-coppers. He liked getting cash out of them for information though. And little happened on the streets of London without Archie’s knowledge.

  “You, too. So what are you having?”

  Archie looked at his pint glass. “I’ll have a whisky, please, Mr. Scott. A double if it’s not too much to ask.”

  Dylan bought their drinks, whisky for Archie and a pint for himself, and carried them across to the table. “How have you been?” he asked as he sat opposite Archie.

  “Mustn’t grumble. Managing to keep my head above water. Going straight now, of course. How about you? Odd to think of a bloke like you ending up behind bars.” There was no hint of a smirk, only genuine surprise.

  “Yeah, well. It was claimed that I used unreasonable force during an arrest.”

  “So I heard.”

  “It was all bollocks.”

  “I guessed it would be. Odd that they kicked you off the force too.” Archie wouldn’t let the subject drop but he didn’t seem to be gloating.

  “It suits me. I’m my own boss now so I can do things my way.”

  “A private investigator no less. I bet that keeps you busy. I suppose it’s one of your cases that brings you here this evening?”

  “No, this is personal. I’m looking for Leonard King. Remember him?”

  Archie always claimed poverty, but Dylan reckoned he could have made a fortune as a poker player. His expression never gave anything away. Never.

  “I do,” Archie said. “Served time for being caught in a big drugs bust. Was set up along with Max Rickman. Recently released, I hear.”