Dead End

by Shirley Wells

“The very same. Any idea where I might find him?”

  “No.” Archie took a long swallow of whisky and paused to savour the liquid flowing down his throat. He put down his glass and licked his lips. “I can tell you you’re not the only one looking for him though.”

  “Oh? Who else wants him?”

  Instead of answering, Archie straightened his perfectly straight tie and preened a little. Dylan took the hint and took two twenty-pound notes from his wallet. “What do you know, Archie?”

  “Word on the street is that John Weller wants a chat with Lenny King.”

  “Who?” The name meant nothing to Dylan.

  “Rickman’s stepson. His wife’s lad by her first marriage.”

  “Got him.” Dylan delved back in his memory. “He’d be—how old now?”

  “I dunno. Thirty perhaps. Something like that. He’s opened up one of these flashy gyms where you have to be stinking rich to go on one of his running machines. Mercedes driven by stick-thin women fill the car park.”

  “What does he want with King?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine. I don’t reckon it’s good though seeing as how King’s gone into hiding.”

  “This gym Weller owns,” Dylan said. “Is it clean?”

  “As far as I know. I think his mother owns half of it—Rickman’s wife.”

  “Are they still married?”

  “Technically, yeah. He’s not likely to meet anyone else, is he? Mind, neither is she when you stop to think about it. And to hear her talk, you’d think she was Cleopatra waiting for her Romeo.”

  “Juliet?”

  “Is it? Yeah, probably. Anyway, I hear she has a bit of male company. Despite everything, she’s still a looker and she’s a good ten years younger than Rickman.”

  “Any names?”

  “Not that I’ve heard. Phil Browne’s a regular visitor, I gather, but I don’t think there’s anything in that.”

  “As in Phil Browne the lawyer?”

  “That’s him.”

  Browne was more crooked than any of the people he’d ever defended in court. He was a damn good lawyer if you were lucky enough to be able to afford him. Many a criminal had walked free thanks to his efforts. But even Browne’s talent hadn’t been enough to keep Rickman from a cell.

  “To tell the truth, I always had a bit of a soft spot for her,” Archie said, taking Dylan completely by surprise. “She had a lot to put up with and money’s not the answer to everything, is it? Well, not in her case. She’s always seemed like a fun person though, despite everything.” Perhaps thinking he’d said too much, he cleared his throat and took a swig of whisky.

  Odd to think of Archie fancying Rickman’s wife, especially when he was old enough to be her father. Still, whatever floats your boat...

  “What was the word on the street about King and Rickman’s arrest, Archie?”

  “That was the interesting thing.” Archie emptied his glass, savouring every last drop of whisky. “Everyone believed they’d been set up but no one had any idea who was behind it. I never heard so much as a whisper as to who might have grassed them up.”

  Archie toyed with his empty glass and, again, Dylan took the none-too-subtle hint. “Same again?”

  “You’re a true gent, Mr. Scott.”

  It was several minutes before Dylan had their drinks in his hand, not because the pub was busy but because the barmaid was more interested in the soap being shown on a small TV above the bar. She’d mastered the art of watching the TV and dispensing spirits measures at the same time, but she couldn’t do it at speed.

  “Thanks.” Dylan took his change from her but her eyes didn’t leave the screen.

  Archie’s eyes didn’t leave the double whisky Dylan put on the table in front of him either. He took a slow appreciative sip.

  “They say half a million quid was found at King’s flat,” Archie said.

  “Then they’re exaggerating.” It was a little over a quarter million. “King claims it was planted. Any ideas?”

  “Like I said, I’ve heard nothing. Except that the money was stolen from Rickman.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, that’s common knowledge. But as to who set them up, no one knows. It could have been anyone. Someone shifting as much heroin as Rickman was bound to make plenty of enemies along the way. Besides, he’s an evil piece of work.”

  “True.” None of this was helping him find King. “What about King’s friends? Who are they? I know his wife divorced him so I don’t suppose he’s hiding out there.” According to prison records Pikey had looked at, she’d never once visited him inside. “He’s got a couple of teenage boys, though, hasn’t he? He must want to see them.”

  “He might, but I reckon they’ll be strangers to him. His wife would have nothing to do with him after that little lot was found in her flat.”

  Dylan could still remember Wendy’s reaction when the booty had been found. She’d alternated between shock, a raging anger and tears.

  “I don’t suppose she told the kids what a great dad they had,” Archie said. “I bet he doesn’t see them now.”

  Archie could be right, but he’d still bet King would want to see them, if only from a distance. Dylan made a mental note to follow the sons and see if King showed up. “He must have other friends. Other places to go.”

  “I can’t think of anyone special. He won’t be able to keep away from the dogs though.”

  “Dogs?”

  “Yeah, greyhound racing. He’s addicted to it. He might be hiding from Weller, but I’ll bet he’ll still be trackside. Anyway, I can’t see Weller worrying him too much. He’s barely out of short trousers.”

  “You said he was thirty.”

  “Yeah. Just a kid.” Archie lifted his glass. “But if I wanted to find King, that’s where I’d look. The dog track.”

  “Are there still greyhound tracks around? I thought they’d all closed down.”

  “Wimbledon,” Archie said. “Every Friday and Saturday night. It’s the last track left in London and I expect that’ll be gone soon.”

  It wasn’t a lot to go on, but it was better than nothing, and it wouldn’t hurt him to look at some dogs tomorrow night.

  Dylan pulled another two twenty-pound notes from his wallet and handed them over. “Give me a call if you hear anything, will you, Archie? Anything about King, Rickman or anyone else involved.”

  “Of course I will, Mr. Scott.” Archie gave him a toothless grin. “You know me, I’m always happy to help in any way I can.”

  Chapter Four

  “This wine’s gone to my head.” Bev switched off the TV and returned the DVD to its case. “Good film though.”

  “Hugh Jackman,” Lucy said. “How could it be anything else?”

  “If only all men were made that way.”

  “And how is Dylan?”

  “A pain in the arse.” Bev snorted with laughter. “Hey, we can manage another glass, can’t we?” She picked up the bottle and pulled a face on seeing less than half an inch in the bottom. “I’ll open another.”

  She bumped into the wall on her way back from the kitchen but no damage was done. The bottle survived.

  “Dylan’s okay really. Driving me mad, but I suppose he’s on a hiding to nothing. I long for a bit of sympathy from him and then I can’t abide him fussing. On the very rare occasions that he wants to talk, I don’t. When I want to talk, he’s out of here before I’ve drawn breath. And he’s still trying to understand why women can’t run marathons twenty-four hours after having a hysterectomy.”

  “They have no conception, do they?”

  “None whatsoever. I’d love to see them cope with childbirth. They’re always at death’s door when they have a cold.” She filled their glasses to the brim with red wine. “So
tell me all the gossip. Who’s doing what with whom?”

  “Nothing’s happening. Really, it’s all quiet.” Lucy laughed at Bev’s expression. “I have no gossip at all. Nothing. Zilch.”

  “Some friend you are.”

  “You’re missing being at work, aren’t you?” Lucy said.

  “I am, yes. It was lovely at first—well, apart from recovering from a hysterectomy—but I hate not seeing anyone normal. The only people I talk to are doctors and kids. So yeah, I miss the normality of work. I’d love to get up in the morning—”

  “Without a hangover?”

  “That would be a bonus.” Bev grinned. “But I’d love to walk into a classroom and do battle with thirty kids tomorrow.”

  “It won’t be much longer now.”

  “But before then, I’ve got the chemo and I hate the thought of my body being pumped full of chemicals. The side effects can be horrendous. I’ll die if my hair drops out.”

  Lucy nodded. “It’s scary stuff.”

  “Terrifying. I’m a nervous wreck. I might not look it with all this wine inside me, but I’m stressed to hell. I’m taking it out on Dylan and the kids too. Dylan—well, you know what he’s like. It’s water off a duck’s back to him. But I shouldn’t let it make me snappy with the kids.”

  “Freya’s too young to understand and Luke’s old enough to know that when people are ill, they get snappy. Don’t feel bad about it.”

  Bev supposed Lucy was right. No one sailed through cancer without getting tense and stroppy. Perhaps she was being too hard on herself.

  “If you want to be snappy with me, you know where I am.” Lucy patted her arm. “Seriously, I’m always here if you need me. You know that, don’t you?”

  “I do, thanks. I’m okay with you because—”

  “Because we’re always drunk?”

  “No, because I don’t have to pretend. You know I’m scared witless, and I don’t have to pretend otherwise. With Dylan and the kids, I try to act normal. It’s bloody difficult at times.”

  “Then stop pretending.”

  If only it were that easy. “If I admit I’m scared, Dylan will panic. As it is, he can keep telling himself that I’ll soon be back at work and life will return to normal.”

  “It will, Bev. You’ll see.”

  Sitting here with Lucy, a glass of wine in her hand, Bev could believe that. She could laugh at her silly fears. When she woke in the early hours though, everything was different.

  It was the same when she was talking to doctors and nurses. They were so calm, so matter-of-fact, that worrying seemed such a ridiculous waste of time. Once she was away from them though, she wanted to yell at them that she wasn’t just another patient, that this was her life in their hands.

  No one understood how she felt. The kids couldn’t, it wasn’t possible. Dylan certainly couldn’t. Even Lucy—how could anyone know how she felt?

  “Did I tell you that Dylan wanted me and the kids to go away for a while?” she asked.

  “No.” Lucy frowned. “How do you mean? Go where?”

  “That’s exactly what I said. Honestly, he’s being more weird than usual at the moment. He said he thought I needed a change of scene, and he thought the kids would enjoy it. How he imagined we could just take off, I have no idea. I’d have to come back every ten minutes for all these blasted hospital appointments.”

  “It sounds a nice idea—an Easter break. I expect he thought you’d relax more away from home.”

  “Maybe. But he’s fussing more too, and it’s so unlike him,” Bev said. “It’s as if he feels he needs to keep watch over me in case I fall apart. It’s driving me mad.”

  The front door opened.

  “Talk of the devil,” Lucy said. “Unless Hugh Jackman’s popping in for coffee.”

  “God, I wish.”

  Dylan was shrugging off his jacket as he walked into the living room. “Hi, Luce. Everything all right?”

  “Great, thanks.”

  “We were hoping you were Hugh Jackman,” Bev said.

  “I was hoping you’d be sober, but you can’t win ’em all.”

  For some reason that escaped Bev, she and Lucy found that unbelievably funny and rolled around on the sofa with tears running down their faces.

  Chapter Five

  Carol wasn’t sure what woke her in the early hours of Sunday morning. She lifted her head from the pillow and heard George’s distinctive purring. He sounded like a cross between a wheezy steam train and a vacuum cleaner.

  “I hope you’re not going to pee on the carpet again.” She pulled the duvet up to her chin and reached out to Jimmy. Except he wasn’t there.

  She fumbled in the dark for her phone and the display lit up to tell her it was 4:24 a.m. She switched on the light and was about to call out but, not wanting to wake the kids, she got out of bed, pulled on her dressing gown and went downstairs.

  She’d expected Jimmy to be sitting in the kitchen with a coffee, or perhaps a beer, but all was quiet.

  “Where the hell—?” She went to the porch and counted the shoes that always provided an obstacle course for people trying to get in or out the house. Jimmy’s running shoes were missing. “I don’t believe this.”

  As well as being wide awake, she was bloody annoyed now. What sort of idiot went running at four in the morning?

  She hated conflict, hated telling Jimmy what he should and shouldn’t be doing, but this was ridiculous. No one in their right mind had to run at this hour. It wasn’t as if he worked and needed to fit in his exercise before spending a day in an office. He had all day to run. Just like he had all day to paint the sitting room, retile the bathroom, fix the cooker housing and the landing window, and all the other jobs he’d promised to do. Mostly, she had no idea how he filled his days, but he certainly didn’t do anything useful.

  Not for the first time, she wished he was back in the army. She’d had her own routine then and it had suited her and the kids. She got them to school, opened her hairdressing salon, chatted to her clients about forthcoming summer holidays, new fashions and celebrity gossip, banked her takings and came home in time to make sure Matthew and Ewan did their homework and were ferried to friends’ houses or various social events. Life had been simple. Uncomplicated.

  Now, with Jimmy home, there was no order to anything. It was ironic that he was the one who liked everything to run with military precision and yet life had been chaotic since he arrived home.

  The worst of it was his moodiness, and the way the kids couldn’t do anything right. Ever since Ewan had decided he wanted to join the police force like his granddad, Jimmy hadn’t had a good word to say to his son. It couldn’t be that he had anything against the police—well, other than his belief that they were all lining their pockets—so it had to be that he resented Matthew being closer to his grandfather than his own father. And given that Jimmy was so strict and snappy with him, that wasn’t surprising. Jimmy loved to complain that both kids always asked her if they wanted to go somewhere, but that wasn’t surprising either. They knew damn well that if they asked Jimmy he’d say no just for the hell of it.

  She knew she should make allowances, but it was so difficult. She wasn’t good at dealing with mental health problems. She should be, given the number of books she’d read on the subject, but she wasn’t. Depression, panic attacks, suicidal thoughts—she’d never experienced anything like it so couldn’t put herself in Jimmy’s shoes. Whenever she tried, she failed.

  It was all so—sudden, too. One minute, life had been ticking along happily and the next, Jimmy had been discharged from the army suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. It had come out of the blue and none of them had adapted well to the change. She’d been thrown out of her depth and felt helpless.

  Maybe she should be grateful there wasn’t a wo
man involved. At least, she didn’t think there was. She wasn’t blind, she knew Jimmy still liked to flirt with anything wearing a skirt, but as far as she knew it hadn’t progressed past the flirting stage for a few years.

  The last time he’d had an affair, Carol’s sister had accused her, probably correctly, of being naive. Any fool would have been able to tell, she’d said. Was it happening all over again? He was spending a lot of nights away again, coming and going at all hours.

  It was a little before six when his car pulled up outside, and she was still sitting at the table.

  He walked into the kitchen with his car keys swinging from his fingers. “What are you doing up?”

  “Wondering where the hell you are.”

  “I’ve been for a run.” He spoke as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

  “In the car?”

  He smiled at that. “I drove out to the river and did seven miles alongside that. It’s the best time to run—nice and quiet, no one around.”

  Was she naive to believe him? She no longer knew.

  “Don’t look like that,” he said. “The doctor would give me a gold star. Exercise releases all the happy endorphins. It’s good for me.”

  Then perhaps she needed to go for a run because she was far from happy.

  She couldn’t argue that he wasn’t in great shape. He was. Tall and well muscled, there wasn’t so much as an ounce of spare flesh on him. He could run for miles and he was strong. The army’s fitness regime had kept him in top shape and she wouldn’t want him to sit around getting fat now that he was home.

  She had to believe him. Either way, there was no point arguing with him and making him angry.

  “Let’s go to bed,” she said. “We can have a lie-in, breakfast in bed with the Sunday papers...bliss.”

  Chapter Six

  Dylan had only spent a few months behind bars so he couldn’t say how King was feeling, but the first thing he’d wanted on his release was to be with his wife and kids. King didn’t have a good relationship with his ex-wife, so it was said, and so the speed with which she’d divorced him would indicate, but he must still want to see his kids. Children were like an extra limb. They linked one generation to the next. Without them, it was impossible to feel whole.