Dead End

by Shirley Wells

  “That’s brilliant. Thanks.”

  “Are you thinking there are suspicious circumstances surrounding his death?” She looked so hopeful that Pikey laughed.

  “No, it’s just something someone said. But no, he had a dodgy heart that was sure to give up sooner or later. Thanks for this though.” He folded the paper and shoved it in his pocket. “And now I need to get home or my life won’t be worth living.”

  He was stopped twice more before he managed to exit the building, but then he was driving home. It was only a little after eight o’clock so Sheila wouldn’t give him too much grief. She’d remind him a few times that this was her birthday treat, her three-week-overdue birthday treat, but it would be fine.

  He strode inside, apology for his lateness on his lips, and thought at first that the house was empty. Every light was on, but there was no sign of anyone.

  “Sheila?” He stood at the bottom of the stairs and shouted. “Laura? Kay? Anyone?”

  He was halfway up the stairs when Laura emerged from her bedroom, pulling out earplugs and wrapping them round her phone as she did so. “Oh, hi, Dad. I didn’t hear you come in.” She gave him a high five. “Got to dash. I’ll see you later.”

  “Hang on a minute. Where’s your mum? Or your sister?”

  “Kay—” The way she said her sister’s name was enough to tell Pikey that his daughters were at loggerheads. That was the norm, these days. They fought just for the hell of it. “Kay is out bowling with—wait for it—Lennon Court.”

  “Lennon. Isn’t he the one you—?”

  “Oh, Dad. Puh-lease.” She tossed back long, dark hair. “She’s welcome to him. They make a great pair, I’m sure.”

  “Right.” There was no point arguing but he felt sure Laura had fancied her chances with Lennon. “So where’s your mum?”

  “You expect her to tell me where she’s going?” There was another toss of her head before she frowned and adding grudgingly, “She did mention something. She was going somewhere, can’t remember where, but it was close to Bev’s so she’s probably still there. You know what those two are like when they get together. Hey, I thought you two were going out tonight.”

  “We are. We’re eating out at the new Italian place. It’s a late birthday treat for your mum.”

  “That sounds like fun. Not. The place will be heaving with geriatrics.” She reached up to give him a peck on the cheek. “Enjoy. I’ll see you later, Dad. Or in the morning.”

  “What about you? Where are you dashing off to?”

  “All the way to Chloe’s.” She grinned up at him. “Do you want to see me safely across the road?”

  “Get out of here!”

  She gave a burst of laughter and raced off. Pikey stood at the window and watched her cross the road and run past three houses to Chloe’s. Just as Chloe’s dad opened the door to her, Laura turned and waved. Pikey had to smile as he waved back.

  That was the trouble with kids. One minute they were the cutest things that ever lived, little beauties who hung on your every word, and the next minute they thought they had the answer to life, the universe and every other damn thing.

  He switched off several lights—Laura must have grown tired of saving the planet—and was about to go upstairs for a shower when Sheila walked in. She threw a bag on the table in the hall and looked at him as if she’d never seen him before.

  “Sheila? What’s wrong?” His mind raced with a dozen possibilities, all of them connected to the crackpot who was threatening Dylan.

  “I need a cigarette.” She took a breath, strode to the kitchen and pulled open the cupboard door to reveal her not-so-secret stash of tobacco. “When did you last speak to Dylan?”

  “Sorry? Well, this morning. Why?”

  “And what did he say about Bev?” She opened the back door, lit her cigarette and inhaled deeply. “Seriously, what has he said about Bev?”

  “Nothing. He hasn’t mentioned her, I haven’t asked—why?”

  She rounded on him. “So you didn’t know her cancer had spread?”

  “Oh, no.” He hadn’t known, and he couldn’t believe it. God, poor Bev. Poor Dylan, too. “No, of course I didn’t know. I would have told you. When did they find out?”

  She took a deep pull on her cigarette. “When was the last time he mentioned Bev’s cancer?”

  “Ages ago.” Pikey couldn’t remember. “Probably before she had her hysterectomy. It’s not the sort of thing you discuss, is it?”

  She took another pull on her cigarette before flicking it into the dark night. The brief red glow died as it hit damp grass with a sizzle.

  “God, Keith.” She closed the door on the night air and slipped her arms round his waist. “They’ve told her there’s nothing they can do.”

  “What?”

  “I know. I can’t take it in.”

  “Who’s told them? That’s absurd. She’s so young.”

  “They saw another specialist this morning. A private one. Dylan thought—hoped—” She took a breath that turned into a sob. “There’s nothing anyone can do.”

  Pikey couldn’t believe it. Dylan had said nothing. Not a word.

  “I knew she had chemo lined up,” Sheila said, “but I thought that was more a precaution than anything else. I thought it was just to zap any nasty cells left around after the operation. I had no idea.”

  “Me neither.”

  “But I don’t think they did, either. And I suppose we shouldn’t be surprised that Dylan hasn’t said anything. According to Bev, he’s pretending it isn’t happening.”

  Pikey could understand that. He’d probably feel the same. “How is she?”

  “Pissed off with Dylan.”

  “No change there then.”

  She smiled. “Apparently, apart from pretending it isn’t happening, he’s fussing around her constantly. She says he won’t leave the house unless he knows someone’s with her. It’s driving her mad.”

  “Well, that’s—”

  “So unlike Dylan it’s laughable,” she said.

  He’d been about to say “understandable,” but Sheila was right. It was unlike Dylan to treat Bev like an invalid. In normal circumstances, he wouldn’t, but these circumstances weren’t normal. Pikey wasn’t mentioning death threats to Sheila, though.

  “I don’t know what to say.” He was at a complete loss. “To you or to Dylan,” he added.

  “There’s nothing we can say, is there? That’s the worst of it. Everyone’s so helpless.”

  He hadn’t realised he’d been holding his breath and he let it out on a long sigh.

  “You could have a word with Dylan, though,” she said. “He’ll take notice of you, love. Tell him to give Bev some space. Really, he’s doing her head in right now. It’s making her feel worse about everything. Will you do that? Will you talk to him?”

  “I’ll try, but you know what he’s like. Once he’s made up his mind...” He let the sentence trail away. No way could he tell Dylan to give Bev some space, not when there was a nutter on the loose. Pikey didn’t think there was any real reason for concern simply because, when people wanted you dead, they killed you. It was only when scare merchants were at work that you received crank phone calls and photos. All the same, there was no point taking unnecessary risks.

  “Thanks, love.” She gave him a quick squeeze, then pulled back to look at him. “I’m not really in the mood to go out. Are you?”

  He was too shocked to know how he felt. “Not really, no.” On the other hand, worrying about Bev and Dylan would help no one. “I’m not in the mood for staying in and moping, either. Let’s go out. The table’s booked and we need to eat. And anyway, who’s to say that nothing can be done? Surely, there’s always something. More chemo. More radiotherapy. Another operation. Miracles happen every day in hospitals
.”

  “Of course they do,” she said. “That’s what I told Bev. I mean, she’s so young. And so fit.”

  “Exactly. Come on, we’ll go out. We’ll raise a glass to Bev’s health and hope for some better news soon.”

  Sheila gave a small smile at that. “Knowing Bev, she’d insist we raise more than one.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Bev always liked hospital appointments as early in the morning as possible. Until it came to keeping those appointments. She’d felt like death this morning.

  Still, it was over now, and she walked out of the hospital and into surprisingly warm sunshine. Frank had driven her here and suggested she meet him in the gardens.

  Sure enough, he was sitting on a bench watching everyone with that calm, assessing gaze of his. She wondered if it were a case of once a copper, always a copper. Dylan watched people in exactly the same way.

  “Hi,” she said, sitting on the bench beside him.

  “Everything okay?” he asked.

  “Fine. What are you doing? Watching the grass grow?”

  “Making the most of this sunshine. It was monsoon-like when I left Lancashire.”

  “I’m glad you’re back.” It meant Dylan didn’t fuss quite so much.

  He looked at her long and hard, as if he expected to see cracks appear. “You sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m good. Who wants to grow old anyway? The only advantage I ever saw in that was being able to drive people mad by pretending to be deaf. And gathering a collection of decrepit cardigans.”

  “And smelling of wee.”

  She snorted with laughter. “You see? The advantages are few and far between.”

  They sobered as a couple, probably in their fifties, walked past. The woman was inconsolable. She had her head buried against the man’s shoulder as they walked, and her sobs were heartbreaking.

  Bev guessed the woman had received the same news she had, and she wished she could take her by the hand and reassure her. She could tell her that the shock, the sadness, the terror, the anger and the grief would pass in time. She could tell her that, gradually, a peaceful acceptance would take over.

  Bev remembered the doctor telling her something similar. He’d tried to convince her that the mind and body came to a state of acceptance. She hadn’t believed him at the time. In fact, she’d told him to fuck off.

  “It’s not death that bothers me,” she said. “That’s the easy part. It’s the preliminaries that are a tad of a worry.”

  He nodded his understanding.

  “What I dread is being a dribbling vegetable, wetting the bed or worse.” She shuddered and pushed the thought away. It wasn’t going to be that way. She’d make sure of that. “But at least I get to say goodbye to people, to put my affairs in order, and make my wishes known. There will be no arguments about my funeral because I’ve written out a list of things I want. There will be a strict dress code for a start. No one, but no one, will be allowed to attend my funeral dressed in black.”

  “I’ll bear it in mind.”

  “Do that, Frank. I want it to be a celebration of my life.” Bev was adamant on that score. Life had treated her well—a great childhood, a fun time at university where she’d met lifelong friends, a rewarding job, and marriage to a man she still loved with a passion. A man who’d given her the most precious gifts of all, two wonderful children. “I want the best party ever!”

  She’d had a good life and she intended to make sure she had a damn good death too. Her life. Her death. That seemed fair.

  She hadn’t told Dylan yet, mainly because he wasn’t ready to hear it, but she’d become a paid-up member of DIGNITAS. As such, and being of sound mind, and having the mobility to self-administer a drug, she could obtain an accompanied suicide in Switzerland.

  She might not need it. Many people who contacted DIGNITAS died peacefully in their own homes. It would be there as a safeguard, though. If things got too bad, too unbearable, it would be there. She would go to Switzerland, swallow a lethal barbiturate, fall asleep within a few minutes and drift quietly into death. That was the way to go. It was her chosen way to go.

  “Can we do a detour on the way home, Frank?”

  “Of course. Where to?”

  “There’s a shop—”

  “Not more cushions.”

  “No! You’ve been talking to Dylan too much.” She slipped her arm through his as they left the hospital’s gardens. “There’s a coat I’m going to buy. A fabulous velvet coat. Purple velvet. It’s ridiculously expensive, and probably too outrageous for me to wear, but do you know what? I don’t give a damn. That coat’s mine...”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Dylan’s first call of the morning was at Goodenough’s flat and he was more than ready to kill the bastard.

  Frank had returned, thank God, meaning Dylan could safely leave Bev’s side. Although given her state of mind, she’d probably welcome the odd homicidal maniac in her life. But with Frank looking out for the nutters, Dylan could get back to work. He’d warned Frank that Bev was tired of people fussing around her and had started lying about where she was going and what she was doing. If she hadn’t said she was going with his mother to visit friends, Dylan wouldn’t have left her alone, and that bastard Goodenough wouldn’t have got close to her.

  Dylan had called his motor insurance company and told them about the “accident.” Unsurprisingly, they hadn’t yet been able to trace Goodenough’s details. The bloke didn’t pay rent, he changed his name as often as most men changed their shirts so why in hell’s name would he bother with such incidentals as car insurance?

  Dylan hammered on the door to Goodenough’s flat and was surprised when the door swung open.

  “Yes?” The woman looking at him was probably early sixties—definitely not Goodenough’s type—and she had a clipboard in her hand. Looking past her and into the flat, he saw an empty room. The furniture had gone and the walls were bare.

  “I’m looking for Brad Goodenough. Chesney Marshall.” Dylan felt as if he’d come to the wrong address.

  “He’s left, I’m afraid. Can I help? I’m the owner of this apartment.”

  “Left?”

  “Yesterday.” She nodded.

  “That was a bit sudden, wasn’t it?”

  “Very. He called at my place, paid the rent up to date, returned the keys and left.”

  Dylan had an even stronger feeling of turning up at the wrong place. If there was one thing Goodenough didn’t do, it was pay rent he owed.

  “Any idea where he’s gone?”

  “Not really, no. He’s flying to Barcelona, today I think, but that’s probably just for a holiday. I only know that because I saw his flight ticket.”

  “You don’t have a forwarding address for him?”

  “Sorry. I did ask about his mail, but he said there wouldn’t be anything important.”

  Well, there was a surprise. Not.

  Damn it. Dylan had been looking forward to rearranging Goodenough’s face. Still, Barcelona was a decent distance away. If indeed he was going to Barcelona and not just brandishing flight tickets as a front.

  “What about his car? Have you any idea what happened to that?”

  “Sorry. I didn’t even know he owned one.”

  He probably didn’t. Dylan had seen him driving a grey Alfa Romeo which had been hired for two days. The car that Goodenough had conveniently driven into the side of the Morgan had been a grey BMW. Bev swore she’d written down the registration number correctly, but when Dylan had checked it out, that particular number belonged to a Suzuki that had been scrapped six months ago. When questioned further, Bev admitted that Goodenough had recited the number while they’d been drinking coffee and she’d made a note of it without checking.

  As he wal
ked away from the building, despair settled around him. A great investigator he was when he couldn’t even keep track of Goodenough’s movements.

  There was no need to panic yet though. Frank would be keeping an extra close eye on Bev and the kids, and Dylan could look after himself. They weren’t in danger.

  He jumped in the Morgan and drove to Cass Pelham’s shop. Again, he wasn’t expecting her to be on the premises and again, he was proved wrong. This time, though, she wasn’t alone. She pulled on a jacket and picked up a light tan leather handbag.

  Her assistant approached Dylan with a beaming smile in place. “May I help you, sir?”

  “Actually—” he nodded at Cass Pelham who was heading for the door. “I wanted a quick word with Miss Pelham.”

  Cass stopped to look at him and Dylan could see her trying to remember where they’d met before.

  “I came in for a present for my wife. It was our wedding anniversary and you very kindly gave me a silk scarf.”

  A smile broke out, although she looked exhausted. Dark smudges surrounded eyes that were red and looked as if they’d spent several hours crying.

  “Of course I remember. You’d had problems with your in-laws and have been living happily ever after. Did your wife like the scarf?”

  “She was thrilled with it.” It was still in Dylan’s car because he’d forgotten all about it. “I was passing so I thought I’d call in to thank you in person.”

  “I’m so pleased. Thanks for taking the time to call in.” She tried to give him a smile. “Sorry, but I’m in a rush. I need to visit my father.”

  “Ah yes, how is he?” Dylan walked to the door and held it open for her. “You said he’d had a stroke, if I remember.”

  “Yes.” They stepped onto the pavement. “Actually, there have been complications. But he’s a fighter. I’m sure he’ll be okay.”

  So that was why she looked as if she hadn’t slept. “I hope so.”

  “Thanks. I worry about him, that’s all. But I’m sure he’ll be fine.” That seemed to be her mantra. “And life’s not all bad. At least I have Brad. He’s moved in with me—until my father’s stronger.”