Dead End

by Shirley Wells

  “Where is everyone?” he asked.

  “Bev’s having a lie-down, Freya’s fast asleep and Luke’s staying the night at Tom’s.”

  “Is Bev okay?” The question sounded ridiculous as soon as it left his lips. She was having treatment for cancer. How the hell could she be okay?

  “Fine. Just a bit tired. So how’s your day been?”

  Like mother, like son. Neither of them were comfortable discussing Bev’s illness. Both were quick to change the subject.

  “Boring,” he said. “So who needs a drink? Frank?”

  “I’ll have a small one with you.”

  “I’m nipping out for a smoke,” Vicky said.

  “Great idea, Mum. I love you more when you’re stoned.”

  “Ha.” With bangles and beads jingling, she walked out the room.

  “Sorry about that, Frank. I did tell you she was mad, didn’t I?”

  “She’s a star,” Frank said.

  “That’s one word to describe her. Insane is another.”

  Frank grinned. “You could have done a lot worse.”

  “I could have done a lot better too. I’ll nip up and see Bev and then I’ll be back with the bottle.”

  He took the stairs quietly—that was another thing, he always tiptoed around now that Bev was ill—and pushed open the door to his bedroom.

  There had been no need for the softly, softly approach because Bev was sitting up in bed wide awake.

  She smiled and laid her book aside. “Hello, love. You had a good day?”

  “Boring.” He leaned across the bed and kissed her. “You?”

  “Yes, it’s been good. As your mum’s here, I thought I’d come to bed for a bit of peace and quiet and a read.”

  “Good idea.” He’d have been relieved to hear it if she hadn’t looked so pale and exhausted. “I’ll have an early night too. I’ll be up soon.”

  She nodded, still smiling. He couldn’t tell if the smile was forced or not, but he guessed it was. She was great at putting on a brave face but he knew the other emotions—like the depression and the abject terror—were never far from the surface.

  “Meanwhile, I’d better go and supervise our guests. Mum’s getting stoned, Frank’s getting drunk—”

  She laughed at that, and the carefree sound took him by surprise. “Getting drunk’s the only option when Vicky’s getting stoned.”

  “True. I might have to join him.”

  When he left Bev, he checked on Freya. She was lying on her back, her arms thrown out wide, an expression of pure happy innocence on her face. God, he loved her.

  He envied her too. How wonderful it must be to have no knowledge of cancer, of death threats, killers and drug dealers. Mind you, spouting gibberish to every passing dog, cat or pigeon probably became a tad boring after a while.

  He left her door slightly ajar and went downstairs to the kitchen for the bottle of whisky and a glass.

  His mother came back inside at the same time. She made herself a cup of some herbal concoction that she’d brought with her, and settled down to flirt with Frank while she drank it.

  It wasn’t the first time Dylan had noticed that she had to flirt with anything in trousers. She’d been a very attractive young woman and age had done little to mar her looks. She’d never been a great one for makeup, and although more wrinkles were evident these days and her hair was grey, she still had a certain charm and vivacity.

  “Right,” she said, getting to her feet, “I’ll love you and leave you.”

  “Do you want a lift home?” Dylan asked.

  “Good grief, no. I’m not in my dotage yet.” She grabbed a cavernous bag and slung it over her shoulder. “Good to see you, Frank. Night, both.”

  Dylan was still smiling when he heard the door close behind her. “I think you could be in luck there, Frank.”

  “She’s a star,” Frank said again.

  “Yeah, well, don’t panic. She’s not the marrying kind.”

  “Me, neither,” Frank said immediately—which, given that his three marriages had ended in the divorce courts, wasn’t strictly accurate. “So what have you learned today? Anything useful?”

  “I know that the latest rumour is that me and Pikey—one of us or both of us—was supposedly involved in setting up Rickman and King.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. Some bastard has put that story about, and Rickman’s supposedly out to get us.”

  “So Rickman’s responsible for these death threats?”

  “I don’t know, but it seems more likely than King. That bloke’s all talk. He might have shown a bit of bravado at his court hearing and threatened to get the two coppers who arrested them both, but I think he’s got his hands full avoiding Weller.”

  “And Rickman?”

  “According to King, Rickman’s wife overheard someone talking about how Wendy King, the late Wendy King, stole the cash and heroin that was found at her place. Her accomplice was one of the coppers who turned up at Rickman’s place after she made the anonymous phone call.”

  “Who’s putting that about?”

  “I don’t know, but the timing more or less fits. King said this came to light a couple of months before he was released—about the time that Bev first had those weird phone calls.”

  “Then it’s time to make this official,” Frank said. “Get the law involved, Dylan. They can see who Rickman’s talking to while he’s on the inside.”

  Dylan didn’t want to involve the police. He might ask Pikey for a few favours, off the record, but no way would he go grovelling to the force for help. He could manage this on his own.

  “That bit of info cost me five hundred quid.” And was possibly worth it. “King wants more cash, naturally. I was expecting him to suggest we meet tomorrow night, but he must have something on because he told me to meet him on Thursday. I need to find him and see what he’s up to tomorrow.”

  “Where’s he hanging out?”

  “That’s just it. I don’t know. He meets me on a bench close to his in-laws’ place—where his kids are living. Where he goes during the hours of darkness is anyone’s guess.”

  “So you need to get him before Weller does.”

  “Yes. I can only assume that as Weller is after King, and as Rickman is after me, stepfather and son don’t speak a lot. That fits with what Weller told me. I don’t suppose he wants his father’s bad name tarnishing his fully aboveboard business.”

  “Is it aboveboard?”

  “I shouldn’t think so for a minute.”

  “Anything else?” Frank asked.

  “Not really, no. I can’t find Goodenough, or whatever his name is, but I can’t see him bothering with me. I’ve more or less dismissed him.”

  “Hmm.” Frank took a long swallow of whisky. “Rickman’s a seriously nasty piece of work, Dylan.”

  “I know.”

  “If he’s after you both—”

  “I need to warn Pikey.”

  “Yes. And you need to find out who he’s in touch with on the outside. You need to do it fast too. If Rickman wants revenge, he’ll take it. You’ll be a dead man.”

  Dylan knew it. He hadn’t been too worried about King, he could handle him, but Rickman was a different matter altogether. He’d kill anyone, or have them killed, without batting an eyelid.

  Dylan decided a refill was called for.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Dylan had been at his office less than five minutes when the phone call came.

  “Mr. Scott?”

  “Ah, it’s you again. Yes, I’m still here. Still breathing.”

  “You won’t be for long. Time’s running out, Mr. Scott.”

  Dylan stood at the window, but there was no one outside using
a phone, loitering or looking suspicious. There were no distinctive sounds on the line, and the voice was too muffled to offer any clues.

  “Says who?” Dylan asked.

  “Says me. You’re a dead man walking.”

  “Is that so? And what—shit!” The call was over.

  There was no one in the street below who looked to be doing anything other than rushing from A to B. No one was paying any attention to his office, no one was stuffing a phone into their pocket—there was no one of any interest whatsoever.

  His mobile rang and a quick glance at the display showed him Pikey was calling.

  “Hey, what a lovely surprise. How’s life treating you, Pikey? Well, I trust?”

  “That’s more like it. You see? Even you can be polite when you try. Thank you, I’m well. Or I would be if some bastard wasn’t accusing me of being a dirty copper and setting up Rickman and bloody King.”

  Dylan knew how he felt.

  “It’s odd that it’s taken so long for the farfetched story of our involvement to come out,” Pikey said. “And it’s bloody coincidental that it’s come out at the exact time that King’s released.”

  “That’s exactly what I thought. I smell a big rat.”

  “Yeah. Me, too. Anyway, no one of interest has visited Rickman lately. His wife sees him, but that’s about it. Oh, and Phil Browne, every crook’s favourite lawyer, visited him twice. Other than that, nothing.”

  “Phil Browne. According to a reliable source—that’ll be Archie—he’s spending a bit of time with Mrs. Rickman, too.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  A thoughtful silence filled the phone line but produced nothing of value.

  “And King claimed he was staying with a mate temporarily.” Pikey gave him the address. “I doubt there will be any sign of him there, but you never know.”

  “Okay, thanks for that. Let me know if you hear anything else.”

  “I will. You do the same. And watch your back, Dylan.”

  He intended to but, before he could do that, he needed to watch hours of surveillance video. No envelopes had been delivered overnight but it struck him as odd, and more than a little coincidental that the phone call telling him he was a dead man walking had arrived so soon after he’d arrived. Someone must have been waiting for him.

  He went through the images as quickly as possible. If there were more boring tasks, he didn’t know what they were.

  The men refurbishing the soon-to-be dental practice in the office opposite finished work at eleven. Between then and one in the morning, dozens of people walked past the building on their way home from clubs or theatres. No one paid his office any attention.

  At a little before two o’clock, a young man laughingly pulled his female companion into the shelter of the wall. They kissed—and kissed. The chap soon had his hand inside the woman’s blouse. His other hand was lifting her skirt and sliding up her thigh. Just as Dylan thought he was about to witness a session of hot sex by his office door, the woman said something that looked to be a promise, grabbed the chap’s hand and dragged him away.

  He skimmed more footage but little happened between the hours of two and five o’clock. It was shortly after that the City began to come slowly to life.

  He was almost done and was expecting the next item of interest to be his own arrival at his office door when he saw him. It was a little after nine o’clock, around thirty minutes before Dylan arrived.

  The man stood tall. He walked up to the main door and tried the handle. It was locked. The receptionist that people who rented the offices paid good money for obviously hadn’t turned up yet.

  The man stepped back from the door and stood to gaze at the building for a few moments. Then he strode off.

  There was no mistaking his identity. It was Brad Goodenough. Or Chesney Marshall. Or whatever other damn name he’d taken a fancy to.

  “Bastard!”

  * * *

  There was a forlorn bench outside the ugly block of flats where King had claimed to be staying with an old mate. Dylan sat on it and watched the building, but his mind was racing in never-ending circles.

  He had no idea what he was doing here. He’d dismissed Goodenough as a possible suspect, but he’d been there, as bold as you like, standing outside his office.

  Frank had warned him not to get so obsessed with King that he ended up with a knife in his back. Perhaps he should take note.

  Yet here he was, waiting for King to make a move.

  What else could he do, though? He’d spent most of the day looking for Goodenough but the bloke was as elusive as King. Both men were hiding—one from a possible killer and the other from debt collectors and scorned women.

  Both were doing a bloody good job of staying underground too. London made a great hiding place.

  He didn’t know for sure that Goodenough was threatening him. Yes, he’d been standing outside his office that morning, shortly before he’d received that phone call. And yes, he’d probably delivered the photos of Dylan’s family. Probably. It was difficult to tell. Photo deliveryman had kept his face covered and had waved at the camera. Goodenough had stood there in broad daylight and hadn’t so much as glanced at the camera.

  He didn’t know that King was threatening him either. In fact, he was fairly sure the bloke was too preoccupied.

  As for Rickman, there was no knowing what fun and games he was organising from his prison cell. He believed that he’d been robbed and set up by two coppers. Yep, he was likely to be pretty pissed off about that. And an angry Rickman wasn’t someone to mess with. He had an unnerving penchant for samurai swords, for a start...

  “Are you looking for some action?”

  Dylan dragged his gaze from the concrete building and looked up into the young face of a blond-haired girl whose skirt wasn’t worth the effort. “Yes, but not the sort you’re offering, love. Besides, my wife can hear me thinking from five miles away. Sorry.”

  “Suit yourself. You know where to find me if you change your mind.” She tottered off on ridiculously high heels to offer action to some other guy.

  By the time darkness began to descend, Dylan had been offered great sex, at a price, by three prostitutes. And that was the height of the excitement.

  Lights spilled out from shops and with the glow from streetlights and car headlights, it seemed darker—and later—than it was.

  At a little after seven-thirty, Dylan thanked whichever god was smiling on him because leaving the concrete rabbit warren was none other than King. A dark hoodie kept his face hidden but Dylan knew it was him. He darted across the road, looking this way and that, like a cornered animal.

  Dylan followed, grateful for the chance to stretch his legs and do something. The streets were busy and he had to stay closer to King than he was comfortable with.

  They went to the Tube station. Once King had bought his ticket, he headed off for the Central Line. Dylan bought his own ticket and raced after him. He spotted King jumping on a train. Dylan managed to get in the next carriage before the doors closed and the train rumbled on its way.

  He could still see King.

  Five stops later, they abandoned the train. No wonder King had an affinity with greyhounds. He moved like one. He was wiry, lean and fast.

  They walked along streets, caught a bus and walked along yet more streets, these becoming increasingly rundown.

  Dylan didn’t have a clue where they were heading, only that it was one of those neighbourhoods where you needed to be armed and in company, preferably the company of a few prize fighters.

  When they came to a disused factory, Dylan crouched behind a low wall, the only thing offering protection from view. King, however, walked across the square of concrete between the long, low buildings. He paced. Up and down. Up and down.

 
; Long minutes passed, about thirty of them, before a large dark car drove slowly through the factory’s entrance. Dylan thought there were four men inside.

  King stood in the glare of the headlights, his feet wide apart as he tried for a Billy the Kid look.

  This was going to get ugly, Dylan was sure of it.

  The two men who’d been sitting in the back climbed out. The bulkier one was carrying a holdall. They left the doors open and walked over to King. Once facing him, they leaned against the bonnet of the vehicle.

  Dylan wasn’t close enough to hear what was being said, but it was only a very brief chat before King snatched the holdall. He slung it over his shoulder and began walking away, his steps getting ever quicker.

  The shorter man pulled out a gun and fired. His aim was impressive and King dropped to the ground like a stone. He was clutching his side and managed to crawl a few inches.

  The man with the gun raced up to King and, like Dylan, heard the approaching police siren. The chap grabbed the holdall, raced back to the car and jumped inside. The vehicle sped away in a cloud of dust.

  Three police cars, lights flashing and sirens blaring, raced through the gates, the tyres sending up a shower of gravel. All they found was King lying on the ground. The car was long gone.

  Dylan didn’t hang around. There was no need. Officers would get King to the nearest hospital or the mortuary, depending on which was appropriate. Either way, Dylan guessed his meeting with King had just been cancelled.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “I’m bored now,” Jimmy said. “You’re tiresome, tedious and you stink to high hell. You’ve been here for almost a fortnight, Brian, and you’ve outstayed your welcome. It’s time to say goodbye.”

  There wasn’t so much as a flicker from Dowie to indicate that he’d even heard.

  Jimmy lifted the crowbar and whacked it against the side of Dowie’s head. He heard Dowie’s jaw break. Or perhaps it was his skull.

  “I said I’m bored now.”

  Nothing.

  Jimmy didn’t have time for chitchat anyway. He had too much to do.