Dead End

by Shirley Wells

  “It’s fine,” she said.

  “No, it was totally irresponsible of me.”

  Their coffees arrived and, while they drank them, he asked her dozens of questions about her life. He was only making conversation and trying to take her mind off the stupid incident, she knew that, but he seemed interested in her answers, interested in her.

  Half an hour flew by in what seemed like seconds.

  “It’s time I went home,” she said.

  “Me, too. And once again, I’m sorry. Oh, wait—” He slapped his hand to his forehead and took a pen from his pocket. He searched his other pockets then walked over to the counter and asked for paper. When he returned, he sat down again and wrote, in a very neat hand, his name, address and phone number, as well as the name, address and phone number of his insurance company.

  Bev couldn’t believe she’d been so wrapped up in his attention that she’d forgotten the need for insurance details. Feeling all kinds of a fool, she wrote out the same information for him.

  “It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Beverley Scott,” he said. “I just wish it could have been in better circumstances. Are you sure you’re all right to drive?”

  “I’m fine. Really. And thanks for the coffee.”

  Bev was pleased to complete the rest of the journey without incident. Just as she drove into their road, her phone chirped into life. The display told her that Dylan was calling her. She couldn’t answer it while driving so she ignored it.

  Their house came into view—and her own car was parked on the driveway. Damn it. He was home.

  She hadn’t had chance to switch off the engine before the front door opened and he strode out, his phone still in his hand.

  His gaze went from her, to the dent in his beloved car, and back to her. Frowning, he opened the door for her. “Are you all right?”

  “Fine.” She grabbed her handbag and got out. “And it wasn’t my fault.”

  He put a gentle finger to the dent, as if checking the depth. Then he stroked the long scratch.

  “A chap drove into me. He was coming out of a parking space and I was in a long queue of traffic.” She inspected the paintwork. “Sorry, love.”

  “It’s nothing much. So long as you’re okay, that’s all that matters.”

  She stifled a snort of laughter. Had she not been ill, he would have hit the roof and treated her to one of his long and oft-repeated rants about how women should be banned from the bloody roads. “I’ve got his insurance details. We’ll soon get it sorted.”

  “Good. So where have you been?” He followed her inside.

  “Hampstead Heath,” she said. “I’ve had a really great day—well, apart from the obvious. It makes such a change to have a day to myself that I thought I’d make the most of it.”

  “You said you were going with Mum and Freya.”

  “I know, but I changed my mind. I fancied a day to myself.”

  They sat and shared a coffee, Luke came home from school, and then Vicky and Freya came home.

  Bev looked at her family, all chattering at once, and thought how much she loved them. It had been bliss to have a day to herself, but it was good to be surrounded by them all.

  It was later, much later, when Bev remembered to give Dylan those insurance details.

  “I’ll sort it.” He took the piece of paper from her and a look of blind fury crossed his face. At least, that was what she thought it was. It was gone so quickly that she wondered if she’d imagined it.

  “What’s wrong, Dylan? That’s everything you need, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Yes, it’s fine. So tell me again exactly what happened.”

  She hadn’t imagined it. Every muscle in his body was suddenly tense.

  “I was sitting in a line of slow-moving cars,” she said. “He was reversing out of a parking spot, a really tight one, to try to pull in behind me. But—he explained it to me afterwards—his phone rang. It had fallen into the passenger footwell. He reached across for it, lost concentration and hit the side of the Morgan.”

  He nodded as she spoke, almost as if he was trying to hurry along the story.

  “He was really nice about it,” she said. “He bought me a coffee. He said he wanted to make sure I was calm enough to drive home.”

  “Did he indeed?”

  “Yes. That was nice of him, wasn’t it? Is there something wrong?”

  “No, nothing’s wrong.” He let out his breath. “Let’s just hope that your nice Mr. Goodenough’s insurance policy is up to date.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  “To be honest, Gerry, I’m bored with this. Hangman’s a stupid game and you probably wouldn’t guess my name if I give you all the letters. You wouldn’t remember it anyway. You haven’t spared me a thought over the years, have you?”

  The stench in the cellar was unbearable thanks to Lowell’s excrement. It was turning Jimmy’s stomach.

  “I’ve given you an O, a D, another O, an R—you’re still no closer, are you?” Jimmy was feeling decidedly queasy. “I need some air.”

  He left Lowell in his own filth and walked up the stairs and out into the back yard. Several deep breaths began to clear the smell from his nostrils, and he started to feel a little better.

  The main problem was that he’d grown tired of Lowell. He’d had fun with Brian Dowie, but Lowell was different. Whereas Dowie had been a snivelling wreck, Lowell was angry. Jimmy wasn’t experiencing the same thrill or the same sense of power.

  Later, he’d look at his plans for Scotland Yard, and that always excited him. Okay, so the building was filled with civilians and perhaps wouldn’t make the point he’d intended, but it would still be big news. He could imagine the blanket coverage media crews from all over the world would give him when Scotland Yard was blown to smithereens.

  Before he moved on to Scotland Yard though, he had things to deal with. He needed to move faster. Tonight, he’d get rid of Lowell. He’d enjoy it, of course, but he was eager to move on.

  It was strange but, at the time, he’d been a little disappointed with Mrs. Lowell too. Now, though, he got a thrill just by looking at the photos he’d taken. Being in her house, alone with her, had been one of the best experiences ever. Even now, he could smell the dust beneath her bed. He could smell her shampoo, the soap she’d used in the shower—

  Police had no clues as to her killer’s identity. They made noises about following several leads, but the truth was, they were clueless. The daughter was being cared for by relatives, so they said, but Jimmy wasn’t interested in her.

  He’d dispose of Lowell tonight, give the cellar a good wash with strong bleach, and get it nice and clean for his next victim. Meanwhile, he’d spend a few more minutes in the crisp fresh air.

  His phone rang and, irritated, he took it from his pocket and glanced at the display. Carol.

  He almost answered it so that he could tell her not to bother him, but there was no point. She knew that.

  He pushed his phone back in his pocket. It beeped to let him know he had voicemail. He ignored that too. It beeped again.

  He grabbed his phone and punched the buttons to hear exactly what piece of trivia she thought warranted his attention. That was half the problem between them these days. It would be a different story if he were still in Afghanistan. She wouldn’t be able to bother him every five minutes then. Now that he was home, she had to discuss every detail of her life with him.

  “Jimmy, it’s Matt. He’s had an accident on the football field at school. He’s okay, but they think he might have broken his leg. I’m at the hospital. Call me when you pick this message up, will you?”

  No, he damn well wouldn’t. What was the point? He wasn’t a surgeon. He couldn’t mend a broken leg. If Jimmy were still fighting for Queen and country, he wouldn’t be able to drop
everything, would he?

  Besides, what was a broken leg? Nothing. The injuries he’d seen—many of his comrades would have been happy to escape with only a broken leg.

  He pushed all thoughts of his family from his mind and returned to the cellar.

  “Tell you what, Gerry, I’ve had an idea. I have plans for you, but first, I’m going to indulge you. I’m going to show you my photos. Oh, don’t worry, they’re not the usual boring holiday snaps. You know the sort. ‘That’s me in front of the Taj Mahal, that’s me chatting to the Greek waiter, that’s me standing next to a pelican in Cyprus—’ No, these are much better than that. You’ll like them.”

  He’d printed out a dozen ten-by-eight-inch pictures. He took the stairs two at a time, grabbed the folder, and returned to sit in front of Lowell. He was too close to the human pile of excrement, but he’d have to put up with that.

  “Here—” He held out a photo of himself standing in Lowell’s kitchen. “Thinking about it, I suppose they are a bit like holiday snaps. Here I am standing in your kitchen.” The idea made him chuckle. “Here’s another. This is your dead dog.”

  He saved the best till last.

  “What about this one? This is your wife—she drowned.”

  Jimmy could hardly hear his own voice over the noises coming from behind Lowell’s gag. He was making all sorts of strange, angry protests.

  “I didn’t touch her,” Jimmy said. “Well, I touched her, obviously. To be honest, Gerry, I’ve had better shags. She wasn’t responsive. A bit skinny too. Classy, I’ll give you that, but a bit thin for my taste. But I didn’t use a knife on her or anything like that. No, after I’d had sex with her, I drowned her. I made it easy for her.”

  Jimmy wasn’t sure if Lowell protested so much that he fell forward or whether the man gave in and pushed himself forward so that the noose tightened around his neck.

  Of course, Jimmy could easily have saved him. All he had to do was drag Lowell upright again.

  What was the point though?

  Jimmy watched, fascinated, as Lowell drew his final breath. It hadn’t taken as long as Jimmy had expected. It was a neat, clean and fairly quick job.

  “Thanks, Gerry. You’ve saved me a lot of work.”

  All Jimmy had to do now was wait for his nosy neighbour to take his dog for a walk. Then he could fire up the chainsaw.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  “Let’s go to the Heath,” Bev said.

  “Okay.” Dylan edged his way to the inside lane of traffic and took a left turn. “It’s a nice day for it.”

  A nice day for it? What sort of moron would say such a ridiculous thing? The sun was shining from a cloudless blue sky and the spring air was warm, but it was a shit day for anything. Especially a discussion about Bev’s health.

  They’d left the clinic in silence and Dylan had driven them halfway home without saying a word. The words to convey his feelings simply didn’t exist.

  “Do you remember the day Luke lost his kite?” Bev asked, and she was smiling.

  “Yeah.” He tried to return the smile but had no idea if he was successful or not.

  “We’ve had some lovely days there, haven’t we?”

  “Yeah.” Days when the future was all theirs. Days when the biggest problem they’d had to face was finding enough money to pay the mortgage. Days when they’d fought like tigers then kissed and made up in the best way possible. Days when they’d assumed they’d muddle on through life until old age came to meet them.

  Now, halfway to old age, life was shit. Complete and utter shit.

  They drove on to Hampstead Heath in silence and, when they got out of the car, Dylan was relieved when his phone rang. He needed to talk to anyone about anything. Anyone but Bev. Anything but the hateful c-word.

  “Pikey, how are you doing?”

  “I’m in excellent spirits, mate, and I have some good news for you.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yep. You won’t believe this but our favourite drug dealer, Max Rickman, is no more. He’s deceased. As dead as the wonderful old dodo.”

  “Dead?” It took several moments for Pikey’s words to sink in. “How? What happened?”

  “A massive heart attack.”

  “No way. I’ve never heard such bollocks.”

  “I said you wouldn’t believe me. It’s true though.”

  “No. Someone’s made it look like that. Someone close to Lenny King.”

  “I’m not so sure, Dylan. He’s had a couple of minor ones in the past year. He’s a heavy smoker too.”

  “I know, but—no, never in a million years.”

  “Either way, that’s the official verdict.”

  Dylan hadn’t told Pikey about the conversation he’d heard between King and Mrs. Rickman. He hadn’t told anyone. He hadn’t imagined it though. Somehow, and God alone knew how, King had managed to get the deed done and make it look like a heart attack.

  “Just accept that it’s good news,” Pikey said. “I always feel like celebrating when a piece of scum like Rickman shuffles off this mortal coil.”

  “Me too.”

  “Anyway, I thought you’d want to know.”

  “Thanks, Pikey. If you hear anything more, let me know.”

  “Will do. So what are you up to at the moment?”

  He looked at Bev. She was waiting patiently for him to end his call. Her foot was tracing circles on the pavement. “Oh, not a lot. I’ll call you later.”

  Dylan ended the call, switched off his phone and tucked Bev’s arm tucked through his. “Where to?”

  “Let’s walk for a minute or two.”

  The silence persisted as they walked. What was there to say? Dylan had pinned all his hopes on one of the best cancer experts in the country. Now, with those hopes dashed, he felt adrift. There seemed nothing tying him to the real world. He didn’t want anything to do with the real world.

  “Let’s sit here,” Bev said, and he felt his stomach execute a sickening backflip.

  They sat, watching the world go by, for a couple of minutes.

  “It wasn’t all bad news,” Bev said.

  But it was. There hadn’t been the thinnest shred of good news.

  “As he said, I could have months yet. Even years.”

  “I know. And with the treatment—”

  “I’m not so sure about the treatment, Dylan.”

  “What?” He stared at her, convinced he must have misheard. “But of course you are. He said it could prolong—”

  “I need to think over what he said. Yes, those drugs might give me a few more months. They might also have me wandering around like a zombie. I don’t want the kids to remember me like that. Or you, for that matter.”

  She slipped her arm through his and rested her head on his shoulder. “Can you imagine how awful it would be for the kids if they had to watch their mother die a long, slow, lingering death in front of them? Yes, I might survive a little longer, but at what price? I want to live, Dylan. I don’t want to merely survive.”

  “You don’t know that the drugs would do that to you, for God’s sake. They could add years to your life. Surely, that’s what you want.”

  “Not if I’m going to be too ill to be of any use.”

  Dylan refused to listen to this. “We’re seeing him again next week so we’ll wait to hear what he says about it. I’m sure he’ll make you see sense.”

  “I need time to mull it over.”

  She wasn’t thinking straight, and Dylan couldn’t blame her. She’d soon realise that the treatment on offer could make a huge difference to her life. Not to have the drugs—well, it was unthinkable. It would be a slap in the face for him and the kids. It would feel as if she didn’t care about them.

  “We’ll see what he says.” Hi
s voice was clipped, but he couldn’t help it.

  “We will. But I’m fairly certain I won’t be taking those drugs.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Bev, that would be crazy. Surely, you’ll want to do everything in your power to stay with us.”

  “Yes, but not at any price. I’ll give it some thought, and we’ll see what he says at the next appointment.”

  He wished his mother was with them if only to try to make Bev see reason. Bev, however, had decided that just the two of them should see the specialist. His mother, always willing to go along with whatever Bev wanted, had announced she had plans anyway and wouldn’t be able to accompany them.

  “Come on.” Bev tugged on his arm. “You can buy me an ice cream.”

  Carry on as if everything were normal? Pretend this hell wasn’t happening?

  Sometimes, it was easy to do that. Bev was young and clever, funny and witty. She loved her teaching work, she loved him and the kids, she loved going out with her mates and getting drunk. It seemed unthinkable that she could be so ill...

  “Okay.” Dylan held his tongue. He’d make sure the specialist drilled some sense into her though.

  Meanwhile, he’d buy his wife an ice cream and hope and pray for one hell of a spectacular miracle.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  “Sergeant Pike, may I have a quick word?”

  “It’ll have to be very quick, er—” Pikey smiled encouragement to the new constable whose name he’d already forgotten.

  “Joanna Fry,” she said. “Everyone calls me Jo.”

  “Keith Pike. Everyone calls me Pikey. Except my wife. She calls me Keith when she’s in a good mood, but she’ll be calling me all sorts of unrepeatable things if I don’t get home PDQ.”

  “I understand. It’s just that I have the list of names you wanted. People seen with Max Rickman over the last couple of weeks.”

  “Yeah? Jo, you’re a star.”

  Beaming, she handed him a single sheet of paper. “His wife’s on the list, and a chap called Browne, that’s his lawyer, but other than that—sorry, it’s just other inmates.”