Dead End

by Shirley Wells

  “I had to. I didn’t want her sons returning home to that.”

  “They’re staying with Wendy’s mother,” Pikey said. “Other than that, I don’t know much about it because it’s not my case. Everyone’s looking for King, though, so we’ll soon have him.”

  “I had a quick look round before I called it in. There wasn’t much to see, but it’s possible she may have known her killer and let him into the house. But the way the kitchen looked—two stools overturned, knives on the floor—makes me think she put up a fight. There were no opened cupboards or drawers to suggest her killer was looking for something.”

  “It’s a bit bloody odd,” Pikey said.

  “Too true. But there’s a lot of odd stuff going on in King’s life right now,” Dylan said.

  “But why Wendy King? And why now?”

  Dylan didn’t have a clue. “According to a reliable source, Rickman’s stepson is after King. That same source reckons King must be dead if he’s managing to keep away from the dog track. Then his wife’s murdered—”

  “With that little lot going on,” Frank said, “you’d think he’d have far more important things to do with his time than try to rattle one of the coppers who helped put him behind bars.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” Dylan said. “But who the hell else can it be?”

  “Any other ideas?” Pikey asked.

  “None.” Dylan had thought and thought and drawn a blank. “My job involves upsetting people. It could be anyone. For a start, I have to pay the bills and to do that, I occasionally have to sink very low and do the worst job in the world.”

  “And that is?” Frank asked.

  “Proving the infidelity or otherwise of spouses.” One of his recent cases came to mind. Discretion had been the name of the game and Dylan wasn’t even sure that Brad Goodenough knew he’d been investigated let alone by whom. If he did know, though, he’d be pretty pissed off with Dylan. “A chap asked me to investigate the bloke his daughter was planning to marry. He thought the prospective fiancé was after his daughter’s considerable bank balance and he was right. The father was relieved, the daughter was broken-hearted and the fiancé was—well, I can only assume he was less than pleased. I’m not sure if he knew I was responsible for outing him though. And wanting me dead seems a bit extreme.”

  “The world’s full of crazy bastards,” Frank said. “Who is he?”

  “A chap by the name of Brad Goodenough. But he’ll probably be as difficult to find as King. He’d been renting a property under a false name and I gather he’s a bit of a gigolo. He has a penchant for rich women.”

  “Don’t we all,” Frank said.

  “Yeah.” Dylan grinned. “I could be wrong, but I bet Goodenough is using yet another identity and eyeing up another rich future wife.”

  “You need to find out, mate.” Pikey drained his glass and got to his feet. “Sorry, but I really do have to go. There’s an Easter fundraising thing on at the school and my name will be mud if I miss it. It’s good to see you again, Frank. Actually, yes it is good to see you.”

  “Christ, don’t go all soft on me,” Frank said.

  “No danger of that. Good to see you too, Dylan. I’ll keep you posted.”

  They watched Pikey leave the pub and Frank decided they needed more beer. He chatted to the barmaid for a couple of minutes before bringing their drinks to the table.

  “Don’t get sidetracked by King,” Frank said. “Yes, he threatened to get you when he was sent down, but that holds true for a lot of criminals.”

  “I know.”

  “His wife’s murder is all sad and tragic, but a team of perfectly capable coppers is looking into that. What you can’t afford to do is get wrapped up in King and ignore other suspects. You might be dealing with a harmless crank, but you might be dealing with a bloody psychopath.”

  Dylan accepted the truth of that. He needed to go through the file of every case he’d ever worked on and draw up a list of possible nutters. It would be one hell of a long list.

  “So how’s Bev?” Frank asked.

  “Oh—you know.”

  “Yes, I suppose I do.” Frank gave him a knowing look. “And how are you coping with it? Burying your head in the sand, I imagine.”

  Dylan was about to deny the charge, but Frank was right. It was easier to push it from his mind. If he didn’t talk about it, if he could stop himself thinking about it—

  “Something like that,” he admitted.

  “So you keep busy.” Frank nodded his understanding and obligingly changed the subject. “Tell me about this chap whose engagement you foiled. What’s his name again?”

  “Brad Goodenough. And no crap jokes about him not being good enough.” Dylan took a long, slow drink of his beer. “My very wealthy client’s daughter had been dating him for three months. A typical whirlwind romance. On the surface, Goodenough was charming, more than comfortably off and totally besotted with said client’s daughter. The truth was that the flat he supposedly owned was rented under a different name—possibly his real name and possibly not. The Porsche he drove was borrowed from an older woman he was having an affair with. He’s a charmer. A handsome charmer. Women fall under his spell and he makes the most of it.”

  “What’s he doing now?” Frank asked.

  “Charming other women, I imagine. I found out enough—and had photographic evidence of his infidelity—for my client. Given the high profile of my client, he didn’t want to press charges and he certainly didn’t want any publicity. Instead he had a ‘never darken my door again’ chat with Goodenough, paid me for services rendered and that was that. End of. At least, I assumed it was end of.”

  “How much are we talking? Financially, I mean?”

  “Millions. My client’s getting on a bit and, when he pops his clogs, his son and daughter stand to inherit the lot. The daughter is doing well in her own right too. With her father’s backing, she set up her own fashion label. Goodenough has lost out on a fortune.”

  “There you go then,” Frank said. “There’s another name for you. So far you have King and Goodenough. Dig some more and I’m sure you’ll come up with more names. Just watch your back.”

  “And on that cheerful note, it must be my round.”

  He’d hoped Frank would dismiss it, that he’d remind him that people who wanted to scare you made phone calls and sent notes, and those who wanted to kill you did just that. Frank hadn’t dismissed it though, and try as he might, Dylan couldn’t shake off his growing sense of unease. Or perhaps dread was more apt.

  He had a really bad feeling about this.

  Chapter Eight

  Jimmy zipped his holdall and hoisted it onto the kitchen table.

  “How long will you be away this time?” Carol asked.

  “Four days. No longer. Well, I hope it’s no longer. I’ll call you.”

  “You’re spending more time in Somerset than you are at home. Still—” she smiled at him, “—at least it keeps you out of mischief.”

  “How do you know?”

  Laughing, she lifted her hands to his shoulders and kissed him. “It had better be keeping you out of mischief. Seriously, Jimmy, I’m glad you’re able to do this. You should be proud of yourself. A lot of ex-army bods think the reservists are beneath them. It’s good that you’ve volunteered to help with their training.”

  “Yeah, well.” He shrugged off the compliment, kissed her back and then grabbed his holdall. “Call me if you need me, okay? Otherwise I’ll see you soon.”

  “Take care, Jimmy. Hey, you’ve remembered to pack your medication, haven’t you?”

  “Of course. Stop worrying.” Stop fucking nagging!

  Jimmy marched out of the house with his bag slung over his shoulder. He took car keys from his pocket, flicked the button to unlock the doors and t
hrew his holdall onto the back seat. He climbed inside, fired the engine and reversed out of the drive.

  Nickelback’s “Rockstar” was playing on the radio and he cranked up the volume and sang along. He felt good. Alive and free. Birds must feel this way every day, he thought. “I’m as free as a bird,” he told the radio, and the knowledge made him laugh.

  Freedom had been a long time coming. It was exactly a week since he’d taken Dowie, much longer than he’d wanted to keep him. All was good, though. Police hadn’t even found Dowie’s car yet. In fact, they didn’t seem to be taking the bloke’s disappearance too seriously. They soon would but, for now, that suited Jimmy.

  Because of roadworks, a journey that shouldn’t have taken longer than five minutes lasted for over twenty. He parked his car a couple of streets away and walked the rest of the way to Russell Street. After making sure no one was around, he opened the garage door and checked his van. All was as it should be and he went round to the rear of the house and let himself in.

  Several flyers for local fast-food outlets had been pushed through the letterbox, and Jimmy dropped them in a black bag he’d filled with rubbish. He opened the cellar door, switched on the light and walked down the stairs. The smell clawed at his belly. It was a mix of damp walls, stale urine and worse.

  “Ah, you’re awake.” He gave Dowie a beaming smile. “I should have provided you with a radio. You’ve missed some great music.”

  Dowie groaned behind his gag and his chin flopped down onto his chest.

  Jimmy wondered if the rope round Dowie’s neck was right. Yes, it must be. If Dowie so much as tipped his chair forward, he’d hang himself.

  “I’ve brought you some water though. See how I look after my friends?” Jimmy unzipped his holdall, reached inside and pulled out a litre bottle of water. After unscrewing the cap, he yanked the tape from Dowie’s mouth and shoved the bottle between his lips. Dowie coughed and spluttered. “Look at the mess you’re getting in. Drink slowly. Breathe. That’s it. A mouthful at a time.”

  Dowie was drinking like a dying man, which he was, and Jimmy took the bottle away.

  “Who are you? What do you want? I’ll give you anything. Anything.”

  “You really have no idea who I am, do you? Don’t worry, I’ll jog your memory soon.” Jimmy carefully replaced the bottle’s cap before putting fresh tape across Dowie’s mouth. He put on three layers, all overlapping, just to be sure.

  “I’ll be spending the night here,” he said. “You’ll enjoy that, won’t you? It’ll make a change for you to have some company.”

  A fat, solitary tear rolled down Dowie’s face.

  Jimmy wondered if he’d cope with the smell. He’d called every day, but he’d only stayed long enough to check on Dowie and give him a quick drink of water. The thought of putting up with this stench for any longer made him nauseated. Still, he’d have to put up with it. So would Dowie. This wasn’t a luxury hotel with en-suite facilities. Dowie would have to sit in his own shit and piss, and Jimmy would have to try to ignore it.

  He pulled up a chair and sat opposite Dowie. “I wonder if the car business is doing okay without you. I wonder how your wife is coping too. Do you think she misses you? Do you think the police are searching for you?”

  Dowie groaned.

  “Well, let me tell you, they’re not looking too hard. She didn’t report you missing for days, you see. And why not? Because she thought you set off for the office as usual, then went to Cardiff for a few days to look at a possible new dealership you were thinking of buying.” Jimmy clicked his teeth. “Tut, tut, Brian. What a tangled web you tried to weave. Leave the wife behind, spend a few days shagging your mistress and return to unsuspecting wife—a nice plan, but I’m afraid it won’t work this time. You see, you won’t be returning to your unsuspecting wife.”

  Indignant noises came from behind Dowie’s taped mouth. It was impossible to guess at what he was trying to say. Jimmy didn’t bother.

  “I expect there have been other women over the years,” Jimmy said. “There are women you marry, aren’t there, like your lovely wife, but there are also women you must have. You don’t love these women, but the sex is refreshingly different, and, hey, it’s good to know you can still pull the birds. I know I’m right. I’m sure you love your wife in your own way.” Jimmy got to his feet. “Anyway, I haven’t come to lecture you on fidelity. Who am I to do that? My point is that the police won’t be looking for you. Not yet.”

  He walked up the stairs and into the kitchen. The sun was trying to shine. It might be a nice day after all.

  A crop of dandelions was thriving in the back yard. That was the thing about weeds. Very few plants would fare well between old paving slabs, but dandelions took over and provided a carpet of yellow. He’d have to pull them up. It was a pity, but he didn’t want neighbours complaining about seeds blowing into their gardens. That was unlikely as the house on his left was empty and the one on his right had an untidier yard than Jimmy’s. An old man lived in it with an equally old dog. They limped off for walks together occasionally.

  Jimmy filled a tin mug with coffee and carried it down the steps to the cellar. He took up position on the seat opposite Dowie and blew across the surface of his drink.

  “I would have made you a cup, but you wouldn’t be able to drink it, would you?” He took a sip. It was good and strong, just as he liked it. “So what shall we talk about? Me? There’s not much to say really. I’m married to Carol—she has her own hairdressing salon. She’s good at her job. Pretty too. She hasn’t let herself go like some women do. She still takes care of herself.” He smiled. “Sometimes her hair is blond and sometimes it’s dark. Occasionally, she puts a red streak in it. I think she does that to see if I’ll notice. I always do, of course, but sometimes I pretend I haven’t.”

  Dowie’s expression was glazed. There was no flicker of life in his eyes.

  “Like you, I have two sons,” Jimmy said. “Matthew and Ewan. They’re good boys really. Well, for teenagers. Kids have it easy these days, don’t they? I’m sure yours are the same. It was different in our day, wasn’t it? Still, perhaps change isn’t such a bad thing.”

  He finished his coffee and put the tin mug on the floor by his feet. He leaned back in his chair, feeling relaxed and perfectly at ease.

  “What else can I tell you? Let me think. I’m what you’d call between jobs at the moment. I was discharged from the army on medical grounds. If I said I was sorry about that, I’d be lying. Oh, there’s nothing wrong with me, by the way. Nah, I’d had enough. Simple as that. The army’s okay, but there’s more to life, isn’t there? It’s good to be home in a lot of ways. I need to get a job, but not yet. I have things to do first. Are you listening to me, Brian? Are you?”

  Jimmy walked over to the really damp part of the cellar and picked up his crowbar. He whacked it against the palm of his hand as he returned to stand in front of Dowie.

  “I’ll soon make you pay attention.”

  He swung the crowbar hard against Dowie’s knee. Dowie spluttered behind his gag, his eyes rolled and then his head slumped against his chest. Jimmy leapt forward in case he had to stop Dowie hanging himself, but there was no need. He was unconscious. Christ, the bloke wouldn’t last five minutes in the army.

  Jimmy threw the crowbar aside and went upstairs to the kitchen. He’d get out in the sunshine and pull up some dandelions to pass the time. He hated the waiting.

  By four o’clock, the yard was tidy. There was nothing in it apart from two wheelie bins and a black bag filled with weeds.

  He was admiring the neat space when his elderly neighbour returned with his dog. It was difficult to tell which of them was closer to death. The chap had to be pushing ninety and the dog was stiff, had a large lump on its belly and had milky eyes.

  “You moving in?” the man asked.

  “Not per
manently.” Under normal circumstances, Jimmy wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like this.

  “What’s that?”

  “I said not permanently.” The bloke was deaf—good. Jimmy could make as much noise as he liked in the basement. “I’ll be coming and going for a few weeks.”

  The chap nodded and limped into his own house with the dog walking stiffly beside him.

  At five o’clock, Jimmy wandered down the street and bought fish and chips that he ate from the wrapper as he walked back to the house.

  He went to the cellar and thought about giving Dowie more water, but couldn’t be bothered. The bloke pissed him off too much. He was snivelling like a baby most of the time. Tears and snot mingled on the tape across his mouth.

  “We’ve talked about me, Brian,” he said. “What about you? Let’s talk about you, shall we? You’re one of the self-made rich, aren’t you? You started buying cheap cars that were advertised in the local rag, doing them up and selling them on at a profit. You’ve done well for yourself, haven’t you?”

  Dowie’s only contribution was the occasional groan.

  “There was that accident, wasn’t there?” Jimmy said. “Not your fault perhaps, but who knows? If you hadn’t been drinking, perhaps that little girl wouldn’t have ended up with broken legs. We’ll never know, will we? Still, you paid the fine and accepted a driving ban. I don’t suppose that meant much to her parents. Or perhaps they were too relieved that she was alive to care about you. If she’d died, you would have been on a far more serious charge. Death by dangerous driving. You’d have done time then, that’s for sure.”

  Dowie’s head lolled on his chest and Jimmy gave up on conversation.

  The evening dragged. It was tempting to leave early, around midnight, but he managed to stick to his plan. At exactly two o’clock, he left the house, and quietly took the van from the garage.

  As he was driving off, he saw that an upstairs light was on in his neighbour’s house. Perhaps it was true that, when you got old, you didn’t need so much sleep. Or, more likely, you had to keep getting up for a piss.