Dead End

by Shirley Wells

  So much for Barcelona. “That’s good then.”

  A taxi came into view and she waved frantically until it slowed to a stop. “Goodbye. And thanks for taking the time to call in.”

  Dylan held the door open until she was inside and heard her ask the driver to take her to the hospital. The taxi pulled away and Dylan returned to his car.

  He’d watched Cass’s address when working for her father and he decided another trip to Kensington was in order.

  It would be quicker to take the Tube, but Dylan couldn’t be bothered and the journey didn’t take as long as he feared. He was soon parked as near as he could get to the Georgian house behind Kensington High Street. An attractive house, it even had wisteria climbing over its walls. It suited Cass’s personality.

  He sat in his car and tried to decide on his next move. The house was no doubt alarmed to the hilt so he couldn’t break in. He’d have to ring the bell and see what happened. If anything.

  He was about to get out of the Morgan and do just that when the door opened and Brad Goodenough emerged carrying two suitcases. He stood them by the door as he locked the property, then he turned and strode briskly away with a case in each hand.

  Just as Dylan thought he’d been spotted, Goodenough crossed the road. Then Dylan saw a grey BMW with the registration plates bearing the number Bev had given him.

  He watched as Goodenough threw the cases on the back seat.

  Dylan left the Morgan and ran across the road. He grabbed Goodenough as the bloke was about to get in the BMW.

  “What the—? Oh, it’s you again. It’s a small world, isn’t it?”

  “Two small for both of us.”

  “I’m sorry about your car, but—”

  “Oh, please. Don’t tell me it was an accident.”

  “It was exactly that. I did have a small chuckle to myself when I realised it was your car, driven by your wife, but yes, it was an accident. Nothing more.”

  “And I suppose you’ll be more than happy to tell that to the insurance company and the police.”

  “Of course. I gather there’s some confusion with the insurance company, but I’ll sort that. It was an accident. I apologise, okay?”

  “No, it’s not okay. It was no accident that had you standing outside my office, it was no accident that saw you drive into my car, and it was no sodding accident that once I exposed you to Pelham for the shit you are, I started receiving death threats.”

  Goodenough looked impressively shocked. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I’ll explain later. Meanwhile, you and I are taking a little trip. To the nearest police station.”

  Goodenough jerked back suddenly and delivered a vicious kick that had Dylan staggering into the road and risking death.

  Goodenough was quick, too bloody quick, and by the time Dylan had recovered enough to drag in a lungful of air, the BMW had burst into life. Dylan staggered toward it, but it roared down the road.

  Shit, shit and shit.

  Dylan ran back to the Morgan, which was facing the wrong way, and executed a U-turn that had an orchestra of car horns blasting out. He put up an apologetic hand to the driver behind him and concentrated on catching Goodenough.

  He thought he’d lost him but when he was level with the Underground station, he spotted the BMW at the lights. There were only half a dozen cars separating them at the moment.

  They turned left onto Earl’s Court Road and when Dylan saw the signs for Heathrow Airport, he wondered if Goodenough was taking a trip to Barcelona after all.

  They joined the M4 where, for once, traffic was moving freely. Goodenough was making the most of this rare phenomenon by ignoring all speed limits. Either he didn’t know about the speed cameras or he didn’t care.

  Dylan managed to gain on him, thanks to some lucky gaps in the traffic, so that there were now only three vehicles between him and Goodenough.

  Traffic slowed a little as they approached Heston Services. Dylan wondered if he should pull off the motorway for fuel. The Morgan’s gauge was worryingly close to empty. If he did that, he risked losing Goodenough. If he didn’t, he risked being stranded on the hard shoulder.

  His head told him to stop for fuel. After all, there was nothing to worry about where Goodenough was concerned. He was a coward, one who liked to scare people who crossed him, but Dylan didn’t believe he was a killer. Rickman, yes. If that crazy bastard had taken a dislike to you, you were dead. No argument. But there was little to fear from Goodenough.

  Dylan’s head told him all this, but his heart chose to ignore everything and risk being stranded on the hard shoulder.

  Traffic slowed to around forty miles an hour and Goodenough snaked across to the inside lane and veered onto the slip road to make up more ground. He put his foot down just as a truck left the service station and obscured Dylan’s view—

  All hell broke loose.

  Drivers slammed on their brakes, hazard warning lights flashed and car horns sounded. Glass smashed and metal crumpled.

  Dylan had a split second to swerve to avoid the car in front, but the driver following him didn’t react as quickly and Dylan was slammed forward in his seat as a small Nissan ploughed into the back of the Morgan.

  After the carnage, there was an eerie silence.

  When he was certain that all vehicles were stationary, Dylan got out of the Morgan and ran back to check on the driver of the car that was currently attached to the rear of the Morgan.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “I—I don’t think so.” The elderly woman was badly shaken. “I don’t know what happened. It was all so fast.”

  They both looked up as police sirens were heard. A couple of patrol cars must have been based at the service station and they switched on flashing blue lights to accompany the sirens.

  Dylan was itching to see if his assumption that Goodenough had caused the pileup was correct, but he didn’t feel able to leave the old lady on her own. Although she was speaking normally, her eyes looked a little too glazed for his liking. She was probably in shock.

  Ambulances were on the scene amazingly quickly and paramedics were soon going from car to car to inspect the wounded.

  As soon as he was able, Dylan left the elderly lady with a capable looking young paramedic and ran through twisted wreckage to where Goodenough’s car, now missing its roof, was jammed beneath the truck.

  He couldn’t get close because police were keeping people back. Paramedics were having to hang back, too, which probably meant they were waiting for fire crews with cutting gear.

  If Goodenough had survived the impact, Dylan would start to believe in miracles.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Dylan’s lunch was spectacular. He’d hardly eaten yesterday because he’d been stuck on the motorway, so today he’d dived into a bar offering “home-cooked pub grub” and ordered steak and ale pie with mash. And it was spectacular. There was no other word for it.

  He had a pint to go with it. Sadly, as he was driving, he had to refrain from ordering a second.

  He refused to feel guilty about Goodenough. Maybe he’d seen the Morgan in his rear-view mirror and maybe he hadn’t. It had been his choice to take a short cut on the motorway, though. His choice to break all motoring laws and smash into a truck. His choice to assault Dylan and make a run for it in the first place.

  Dylan was idly glancing through his newspaper, his empty glass in front of him, when Pikey rang.

  “We still don’t have an ID for your Mr. Goodenough,” Pikey said, “but I can tell you that he was flying to Barcelona under the name of Andrew Bowson. That’s not his real name either, by the way. Not only that, he was taking a lot more than your usual shorts and sun cream with him. In the bottom of one of his suitcases was a very nice stash of jewellery.”

&n
bsp; Dylan groaned. “Let me guess, jewellery that belonged to Cass Pelham.”

  “Got it in one. She usually kept it at the bank but she’d brought it home to get it valued. It was in the safe, of course, but Goodenough had seen her lock it.”

  “That seems odd, though, Pikey. He’d moved in with her. He would soon have copped for a lot more than a few bracelets.”

  “Yeah, but these few bracelets were insured for a cool five million. One pendant thing alone was worth over a quarter of a million apparently.”

  “So he decided to cut his losses, grab a few million pounds’ worth of jewels and hide out in Barcelona for a bit?”

  “It seems like it. If he’d driven more carefully, he might have made it too.”

  If he’d driven more carefully, Dylan would have stopped him boarding any plane.

  “Two hours it took them to cut him out of his car,” Pikey said.

  “I know. I was stuck on the motorway for the duration.”

  Police had needed witness statements, and then Dylan had faced the task of getting his car towed away. This morning had been spent listening to a long list of work needed on his poor Morgan and arranging a hire car for the couple of weeks the work was expected to take.

  “There’s a suggestion he was ex-army so we’ll soon have an ID for him,” Pikey said. “As soon as I hear, I’ll give you a bell.”

  “Thanks. Not that it matters too much. He’s dead, that’s good enough for me.”

  “Ha-ha. Very droll.”

  “The gods appear to be smiling on me,” Dylan said. “First Rickman’s murdered—”

  “Has a heart attack.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Then Goodenough drives his car under a truck. I might have another pint to celebrate the fact that I won’t be getting any more death threats.”

  “You do that. Oh, and if Sheila asks, I’ve had a word with you, okay? Don’t forget.”

  “I won’t. You’ll get lots of Brownie points, mate, because I can give Bev all the space she needs now...”

  Given that he’d eaten a huge meal, Dylan reckoned he could pass a breathalyser test on two pints. He’d risk it.

  With his glass full, he tried to get back to his newspaper but it didn’t hold his interest. His mind was too busy on other things.

  Goodenough was dead.

  So why the hell couldn’t he relax? Goodenough had been standing outside his office checking out the building, right? No way had he been looking for the travel agent that used to operate from the building. Driving his car into the Morgan—no way could that have been an accident. Of all the cars in London—no, that was taking coincidence to a whole new level. There could be no doubt that Goodenough had been out to scare him. It had worked too, damn it.

  Goodenough had been pissed off enough when Dylan put the proverbial spanner in his future plans to play games with him. Payback time. Yes, Goodenough had been responsible for those stupid phone calls and photos. There could be no other explanation.

  It was over.

  When he left the pub, he returned to his hire car and drove halfway home. Then, on an impulse, he turned the car around and drove to Sarah Rickman’s home.

  She opened the door to him immediately and, although she was dressed in black as befitted a grieving widow, she hadn’t worked too hard on the heartbroken part.

  “Hello, Bill. You’ve heard about Max then. Come in.”

  Dylan followed her wheelchair into the sitting room. All was neat and orderly. Two empty coffee mugs sat on the table.

  “Yes, I heard.” He sat down without waiting to be invited. It seemed more polite given that she had no option but to sit. “What’s the real story, Sarah? I heard it was a heart attack but we both know that’s not right.”

  “What do you mean?” She didn’t give him chance to respond. “It’s been on the cards for a while, I’m afraid. There was talk of him having a heart bypass operation not so long ago, but Max wasn’t keen. He was a brave man, frightened of no one, but he didn’t like the thought of surgery. The doctors told him it was only a matter of time unless he gave up the cigarettes.” She reached into her skirt pocket and pulled out a tissue. “And now he’s gone.” She gave a theatrical sniff.

  “So it would seem. And you have no idea who got to him?”

  “No one got to him, Bill. He’s been ill for years.”

  “What does Lenny think about it?”

  “Lenny? Leonard King? I don’t know what—”

  “Come on, Sarah. Stop messing around.” Dylan stood and strode to the door. “Lenny? You can come out now.”

  If Sarah Rickman hadn’t started shouting hysterically at Dylan, King might have stayed put. As it was, he dashed down the stairs like a knight in shining armour to protect his woman from danger.

  “You?” He frowned at Dylan. “What do you want? How did you know I was here?”

  The coffee mugs had given him a clue. “It’s a long story, Lenny. How about you tell me how you got to poor old Max.”

  “I’ve already told you.” Sarah didn’t give King the chance to respond. “He’d had heart problems for years and it simply gave out. Why, only a fortnight ago I told my lawyer that I was worried about Max’s health and wondered how we could persuade him to have the operation.”

  “For the sake of convenience,” Dylan said, “we’ll assume that the lawyer in question is your old childhood friend Phil Browne. Yes? And we’ll assume that he helped to get the deed done. Yes?”

  “How did you know I was here?” King asked again.

  “Just a stab in the dark, Lenny. So how did you get to Max? I suppose Phil Browne has a few friends on the inside. Friends that have a reduced sentence thanks to having him as their defence lawyer. How much did it cost? A pretty penny, I’ll bet. Although, I don’t suppose Max was too popular, was he? Perhaps people were queuing up to put something in his food. It was a neat job, I’ll give you that.”

  “Exactly what are you suggesting?” Sarah demanded.

  “I’m suggesting that the two of you, with Phil Browne’s help, had Max murdered.”

  “Rubbish,” King said.

  “I think it’s time you left, Mr. Williams. How dare you come into my home—into Max’s home—?”

  “I’m only surprised it took you so long,” Dylan said. “Of course, with you inside, Lenny, and you playing the lonely wife, Sarah—”

  “Get out!” Sarah was frantically circling in her wheelchair.

  “And, of course, it must have taken a lot of planning,” Dylan said. “After all, Max had warned you, hadn’t he? He’d made—what shall we say?—contingency plans. If anything happened to him, or if he was involved in an accident, his men would have killed you both.”

  “Get out!”

  “You’re no writer, are you?” King said. “Who the fuck are you?”

  “Is that how you ended up in your wheelchair, Sarah?” Dylan asked. “Did he find out about your affair with Lenny? Did you tell him you were leaving him? Did he decide that what was his stayed his?”

  He could see from her shocked expression that he’d painted an accurate picture.

  “Are you the filth?” King asked.

  “Me? Good God, no. Do I look like a copper?” Dylan laughed that off. “Let’s just say I have a vested interest in this case. So tell me, now that you’ve done away with Max, what do you intend to do?”

  “We haven’t done away with Max, for fuck’s sake,” King said. “And where we’re going now is none of your fucking business.”

  “What about the night of your arrest, Lenny?” Max asked. “Exactly who did set you up?”

  “You know—”

  “I know it wasn’t your ex-wife and I know those coppers weren’t involved. So who was it?”

  “How would we know?” Sarah asked. “All I can te
ll you is what I heard. The same as I told our lawyer, the same as I told Max—I heard that it was Wendy and those coppers. Maybe one of them, maybe both.” She was shaking as she spoke.

  “Oh, you can do better than that, Sarah. I think you know exactly what happened that night.”

  “All I can tell you is what I’ve heard.” She took a breath. “Look, me and Lenny have wanted to be together for bloody years. That’s not a crime, is it?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I would have stayed with Max—I take my marriage vows seriously. I won’t pretend to be sorry that he’s dead, but that’s not a crime either. And yes, me and Lenny are going to be together. And that’s it. There’s nothing else for you to know.”

  “Those coppers had nothing to do with it, did they?” Dylan said.

  “Maybe. Maybe not.” King shrugged.

  They knew. They both knew the truth behind that arrest all those years ago.

  They’d both keep quiet too.

  “I thought it odd that those coppers were involved,” Dylan said. “I’ve done some checking up on them and they seem straight. Neither of them are living the high life.” To put it mildly.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Sarah said. “It’s over. Maybe it was Wendy, maybe not. Maybe those coppers were involved, maybe not. Lenny’s done his time, Max is gone—it’s over.”

  “You couldn’t have known about Sarah’s so-called accident, Lenny. Well, you’d have known she’d been hit by a car and was in hospital, but you couldn’t have known Max was driving that car. If you had, you wouldn’t have gone round to his little factory to talk about a driving job. There was no job, was there? Max was out for revenge.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Sarah said. “Anyway, what does it matter now? It’s over.”

  She knew, all right. They both did. They weren’t planning on talking, though, and Dylan supposed he couldn’t blame them.

  As he left the house, with the happy couple still protesting their innocence, he echoed Sarah Rickman’s words. It’s over.