Dead End

by Shirley Wells

  That belief had Dylan sitting in a red hired Peugeot within viewing distance of Wendy King’s house early on Sunday morning. He couldn’t use his own car because it stuck out like a—well, like a 1956 Morgan in Daytona Yellow. As much as he loved it, he had to admit that it was worse than useless for surveillance work.

  He wasn’t sure if King would recognise him after all these years. He kept telling himself that too many years had passed, yet he knew damn well that if someone had helped put him behind bars, he’d recognise them. It wasn’t worth taking unnecessary risks so he’d pulled out an old disguise that he’d used a few times in the past. Disguise was perhaps a flattering description for the long brown wig and the rimless, nerdy-looking glasses, but they would help.

  Wendy had moved house twice in the years since King’s arrest. She’d gone from a flat above a kebab shop that had its windows smashed every other fortnight to this extremely desirable three-storey Victorian semi in Notting Hill that had to be worth somewhere between a million and a million and a half.

  When their husbands wound up in prison, wives usually struggled to make ends meet. They didn’t, as a rule, end up with a better lifestyle. It was possible that a relative had died and left her some money, or perhaps she’d had a win on the Premium Bonds or the Lottery.

  Or perhaps the cash found in the flat at the time of King’s arrest had been the tip of the iceberg. Maybe, after all, King had been up to his neck in dealing and had amassed a small fortune that Wendy felt able to spend.

  In a perfect world, King would walk up to the front door and his children would race into his open arms. The world wasn’t perfect, though, so Dylan continued to wait.

  All in all, he’d had a pointless week. Not pointless from the bill-paying side of things because he’d finished and been paid for a couple of small jobs, but pointless from a finding-the-sicko-making-death-threats side of things.

  Last night’s visit to the dog track had been a waste of time. When Archie had said King liked to be “trackside,” Dylan had imagined standing by a rickety fence in the cold and rain with a group of old men in flat caps. He’d never been to a greyhound-racing meeting in his life and the whole experience was a complete surprise. The grandstand was covered, enclosed and glass-fronted, although you could step outside if you wished. There was no shortage of food and drink. Hell, there was even a tapas bar. People were more smartly dressed than he’d expected too, probably because it was a venue of choice for some wanting to celebrate birthdays, stag nights or hen parties. TV screens were everywhere so you couldn’t miss your dog racing past the post—or not. But the poor dogs who gave their all week in and week out seemed of secondary importance to the party atmosphere.

  It had been a mildly interesting evening but, as King had been nowhere in sight, a waste of time. And that was another thing that niggled away at him. He’d seen a mug shot of King and had found a couple of photos taken at the time of his trial on the internet, but other than that, Dylan was relying on his memory. He wasn’t a hundred percent sure he’d even recognise him after all this time. His hair had been dark and quite short. He’d been tall but thin. Scrawny even. On the back of his neck he had a tattoo, the Tottenham Hotspur Football Club emblem with Spurs Till I Die beneath it. If he was wearing a high collar, however, that would be of no help whatsoever.

  It was no use. He couldn’t sit still any longer. Unfortunately, though, despite having little else to think about, he still hadn’t come up with a convincing story as to why he wanted to see Wendy’s ex-husband.

  He left his car and strolled the few yards along the quiet street to Wendy’s house. The small front garden was immaculate. He knocked on the door and didn’t have long to wait. A woman wearing an impressive amount of gold jewellery—watch, bracelet, necklace and earrings—opened the door. She was wearing black trousers and a red shirt that showed off her slim figure. Blond hair surrounded an attractive face.

  “Mrs. King?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Bill Williams.” He gave her a beaming smile, and she looked, unsurprisingly, blank. “My publicist contacted you.” Still she looked blank, as well she might. “About the book I’m writing?”

  The latter had a suspicious frown marring her attractive features.

  “Sorry,” he said, “I can see there’s been a mix-up. My publicist was supposed to get in touch with you and arrange a meeting. According to her, I’m due to meet you for a chat at—” he glanced at his watch, “—two o’clock. You know nothing about this, do you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I’m really sorry about this. Let me introduce myself. I’m Bill Williams, the author. I’m currently working on a book about prisoners who’ve been wrongly convicted and I was hoping to feature your husband’s case.”

  She visibly paled at that but managed to gather herself enough to say, “Ex-husband. And he wasn’t wrongly convicted.”

  “Well, no, but some people think it was a setup.”

  “Then they’re wrong. The police found the evidence. It was real enough, believe me, because I was there when they found it.” She began to close the door. “I have nothing to say to you. In case you haven’t heard, I’m divorced. I no longer care what Lenny does. It’s nothing to do with me.”

  “Right, I can understand that. And I’m really sorry for any misunderstanding. Perhaps you could let me know where I might find your husband?”

  “I don’t know where he is. And I don’t care.”

  “He hasn’t been to see you since he’s been released? You do know he’s been released, don’t you?”

  “Oh, yes, I know. And no, he hasn’t been anywhere near. He might be a lying bastard, but he’s not completely stupid. After what he put me through, he knows not to show his face anywhere near me.”

  “I thought—his children. Doesn’t he see them?”

  “No. They’re better off without him.” Again, she tried to close the door and again, Dylan pushed against it to stop her.

  “I’ve read up on his case and I think it might make an interesting story. What if it was a setup? What if he wasn’t involved with Rickman—other than to be paid for driving? The more I think about it, the more convinced I am that he served far too long a sentence. What if someone proved he was set up?”

  “They won’t, and it’s no skin off my nose either way. Look, I’ve got nothing to say to you and I’m busy.”

  “Fine. I’m sorry to have bothered you. If he does get in touch, could you tell him I’m looking for him? My number—”

  “He won’t.” This time, she managed to slam the door in his face.

  Dylan was at the end of the drive when he turned and saw Wendy through the ground-floor window. She wasn’t paying attention to him. She was too busy talking on her phone. Interesting that she’d felt the sudden need to make a phone call.

  Or perhaps someone had called her.

  Dylan walked slowly back to his car. He hadn’t seen any sign of the children all day and he’d heard nothing while standing on the doorstep. The sun was shining, albeit weakly, so he would have expected King’s sons to have been outside making the most of it. Perhaps they were out for the day. If they were, they’d left early. Perhaps they were away for the weekend. Perhaps they were spending part of the school holiday with friends or family. Or even their father.

  Wendy King was young, slim and comfortably off so it was surprising that she hadn’t remarried. Perhaps she wasn’t as anti her husband as she claimed. She might have divorced him for show while being grateful for his having provided financially for the family. Maybe she loved him today as much as she had on their wedding day. For all Dylan knew, he could have been hiding in the house.

  At a little before six that evening, a large dark car pulled up outside the house. The driver, a woman in her mid-forties, got out and opened the doors. Dylan watched as two, three, four teenage boy
s tumbled out and raced to the front door.

  An hour later, two of those teenagers followed the woman back to the car and left.

  Soon after, Wendy’s two sons emerged from the house, took cycles from the house and pedalled away. There was no movement until they returned at a little after half past nine.

  All lights in the house were extinguished before eleven o’clock. With everything in darkness, Dylan decided he might as well admit defeat and go home.

  * * *

  Monday came and went and Dylan wasted most of it either watching Wendy’s house or following her sons to the shops and back.

  Tuesday morning found him outside the house for the third day running. And he was annoyed. Fucking annoyed.

  Photographs that had been hand delivered to his office at some point during Sunday night or Monday morning sat on the passenger seat next to him. Thoughts of stable doors and horses bolting came to mind, but a security firm was busy installing cameras at the front door of his office building. Too little too late probably.

  The same firm had already installed security cameras at his home. He’d given Bev a cock-and-bull story about getting the system cheap and, thankfully, she’d been too preoccupied to do anything but smile at what she described as toys for the boys.

  Dylan had changed vehicles and today’s surveillance was taking place from a blue van. He was still wearing the brown wig and glasses. Actually, he thought longer hair suited him.

  At eight-thirty, King’s sons left the house on their cycles. Dylan followed them. They talked and laughed as they made their way to the nearby park to meet up with a group of other kids. There was no sign of King so Dylan returned to his spot outside Wendy’s house.

  What felt like hours but was only forty minutes later, the postman walked up the drive and dropped mail through the letterbox.

  This was madness, but Dylan was fresh out of better ideas. Archie was no help. Dylan had promised him a lot of cash if he could find King, but even he’d drawn a blank.

  “He must be dead,” Archie had said. “That’s the only thing that would keep him away from the dog track.”

  Storm clouds gathered and the rain came in biblical proportions at noon. It hammered on the van’s roof so that Dylan struggled to hear himself think.

  A car pulled up outside Wendy’s house, and a well-dressed man, possibly in his forties or fifties, it was difficult to tell, climbed out and headed to the front door. Dylan didn’t recognise him, and the photos he managed to take weren’t much help. The chap’s face was averted, his coat collar was turned up against the rain and he was walking quickly to avoid a soaking. Dylan had a clear photo of the car’s registration plate so that was something.

  Five minutes later, the man emerged. Dylan clicked away with his camera as the chap trotted back to his car and jumped inside, but none of the pictures would give up the man’s identity. Sodding weather.

  Minutes turned into hours. He would have expected Wendy to go shopping, visit friends or her hairdresser, or do one of the dozens of other things women did with their spare time, but there was no movement.

  He took another look at the photos that had been delivered to his office. One showed Bev and the kids at the front door of his house. Another showed Luke messing around with a football in the front garden. Yet another was of Bev standing inside the house with Freya in her arms.

  He’d kill the sick bastard who’d taken them.

  A motorcycle roared up the road and stopped outside Wendy’s home. The rider pulled off his helmet and—was it King? Dylan couldn’t be sure but the man who strode up to the door looked a likely candidate.

  A car drove past, momentarily blocking Dylan’s view so he didn’t see the front door open. It was impossible to know if the man had been welcomed inside by Wendy or if he’d used his own key.

  Dylan checked his watch. It was 2:45 p.m. He’d give them five minutes and then confront the pair of them. He’d look pretty silly if it was Wendy’s boyfriend or a pizza delivery, but he’d be seriously pissed off if it was King and he missed him.

  Less than a minute later, the man ran out the house, pulling on his helmet as he did so, jumped on the bike, fired it into life and sped off down the road at well above the legal speed limit. Shit.

  Dylan didn’t have a hope in hell of catching him. He left the van and marched up to the house. He rang the bell. Nothing. He rang it again. And again.

  He tried the front door and was surprised when it swung open. He stepped into a spacious hallway.

  “Hello?” He stood at the bottom of the stairs. All was silent. “Hello? Mrs. King?”

  He found her in the kitchen.

  She was lying on the floor with one leg bent at an awkward angle. Her face was unmarked, but her head was resting in a pool of blood. Dead eyes stared at the ceiling.

  Chapter Seven

  Dylan pushed open the door of his local pub. “Hey, it’s just like old times.”

  Pikey wasn’t convinced, or particularly happy with the arrangement. “I don’t remember the three of us drinking together.”

  “True,” Dylan agreed. “I think we were too busy getting bollocked by a certain detective chief inspector.”

  “Will you two shut up and buy me a pint?” Frank said. “That’s another problem with you soft southerners, you talk too much.”

  Frank—ex-detective chief inspector Willoughby—walked up to the bar and gave the beers on offer a critical eye. Despite having retired from the force on health grounds, he stood tall and erect. His suit was a perfect fit, and his black shoes had been polished to within an inch of their lives. Frank still had standards.

  When Dylan had heard that Frank was making one of his rare visits to London from Lancashire and could spare time for a drink, he’d immediately phoned Pikey to see if he could join them. Dylan had worked several cases in Lancashire—the not-so-sleepy northern town of Dawson’s Clough would forever haunt him—and he’d been glad of Frank’s help. Pikey, however, had shown no enthusiasm whatsoever for a cosy drink with their ex-boss. Dylan could understand that. When they’d worked together on the force, the arrival of Detective Chief Inspector Willoughby had soon turned into their worst nightmare.

  These days though, Dylan was pleased and proud to call Frank a friend. He was sure that Pikey would soon accept that their boss had changed—mellowed—over the intervening years.

  Pikey looked smart in a crisp white shirt and blue tie, too. Dylan had gone for the more casual look, or scruffy as Bev preferred to call it, with T-shirt, jeans and a leather jacket that had to be at least ten years old.

  He bought their drinks and they took a table in the corner where they could talk without being disturbed or overheard.

  His local had changed hands three times in the past two years and a quick look round told him that, yet again, he didn’t recognise anyone. It had been a decent pub once but the current owners had tarted it up, started serving food at odd hours and, worse, felt the need to adorn the place with flags and bunting for any old reason. It had been impossible to move for waving leprechauns and inflatable pints of Guinness for the two weeks leading up to St. Patrick’s Day. He often thought it a pity that English pubs celebrated Paddy’s Day with gusto yet usually ignored their own patron saint. Poor St. George was lucky if anyone bothered to hoist a flag.

  “I can only stay for a quick one,” Pikey said, “so you’d better get to the point, Dylan. What’s going on?”

  “There’s this for starters.” He slapped a brown envelope on the table. “This was hand delivered to my office.”

  Frowning, Frank opened the envelope and pulled out photographs of Dylan’s wife and children. “Christ.”

  “As you can see, I’ve dusted them for prints,” Dylan said, “but there’s nothing. That’s not surprising. A kid of five would know not to leave fingerprints.”

/>   “And you reckon this is the work of Leonard King?” Frank sounded doubtful.

  “Most of the folk we helped put away threatened to get us,” Pikey said, “but, of those, only King has recently been released.”

  “I’ve been told it’s payback time,” Dylan said.

  “Has this caller made noises about your family?” Frank asked.

  “No, but I struggle to believe the calls and the photos are unconnected.” He took a swig of beer. “I’d hate to think I had two nutters after me.”

  “So where’s King now?” Frank asked. “Still missing?”

  “We’ll soon have him.” Pikey sounded more confident than he looked. “He’s wanted in connection with his ex-wife’s murder.” He waved a dismissive arm as Dylan tried to interrupt him. “Yes, yes, I know he didn’t kill her, but we’re still dragging him in.”

  “Tell me about that,” Frank said.

  “I’d been watching the house for days, hoping King would show up,” Dylan said. “Wendy had a visitor at about ten o’clock yesterday morning. Male, well dressed, probably mid-forties, although I didn’t get a good look at his face. Rain was lashing down and he kept his head averted. He stayed for five minutes and then left. I got the car’s registration but, guess what. It had been reported stolen from a supermarket’s car park half an hour earlier and was later dumped a couple of miles away. Nothing happened at the house until King rode up on a motorbike—at least, I’m fairly sure it was King—at a quarter to three. He was there for less than a minute before he raced off. As I didn’t have a chance of catching him, I went inside to question Wendy. I found her on the kitchen floor. She’d been dead for a few hours so there’s no way that King could have killed her.”

  “The doc reckoned she died between nine and eleven,” Pikey said, confirming this.

  “Did you call it in?” Frank asked, and Dylan nodded.