Dead End

by Shirley Wells

  Rickman was dead. He’d been murdered, Dylan would stake his life on that, but it was a job for the police, not him. He didn’t care one way or the other.

  King knew the truth about the night of his arrest so he wouldn’t waste his time threatening coppers. No, he’d be too busy taking care of the woman in his life.

  Goodenough was dead too, and although Dylan felt sorry for Cass Pelham, he knew she was better off without him. She’d get over him and find someone who was more interested in her than her bank balance.

  There were many secrets being buried and many lies being told, but none of it mattered to Dylan. He could relax. It was over.

  Chapter Forty

  Frank slapped Dylan on the back. “You can get back to real work now.”

  “Thank God for that. I need to do work that stands a chance of paying a few bills.” He needed to concentrate on Bev too. They’d see another specialist.

  “This could be mine.” Frank nodded at the train trundling up to the platform.

  “Looks like it. Thanks for coming down, Frank. I appreciate it. Bev’s enjoyed having you around too.”

  “Any time. It’s been a nice cushy break for me. Think of me next week trying to knock my neglected garden back into shape.”

  “Yeah, well, take it easy.”

  “You too. I’ll be thinking of you. You and Bev. I hope—well, you know.”

  “Yeah.” Dylan didn’t want to talk about it and he was grateful to Frank for understanding that. “Be seeing you, Frank.”

  Dylan stood to watch until the train chugged northward. He half wished he could get on it and be carried away. The idea of working in the now-familiar town of Dawson’s Clough was unbelievably appealing. Life was lived at a different pace there, people were more open—but if he were there, his problems would be sure to follow.

  Thankfully, Bev had slept well last night. He knew that because he’d spent six hours tossing and turning and trying to figure out the conundrum that was Lenny King and Max Rickman.

  No matter how often he told himself it no longer mattered, he couldn’t abide all the loose ends. And during those sleepless six hours, he’d figured it out. Possibly.

  When Frank’s train was out of sight, Dylan left the station, returned to his car and drove across the City to Weller’s gym. The car park was crowded but Weller’s car with its distinctive personalised registration plate was sitting in a reserved spot by the main entrance. Good.

  Dylan strode inside the building and was struck again by the high-tech space-age look of the place. Today, a ridiculously tall young woman was standing behind the reception desk.

  “I’m going up to see John.” Dylan took the stairs two at a time before she had chance to argue.

  He stood outside Weller’s office for a moment and straightened his jacket. Scruffy T-shirt and battered leather jacket would look out of place in the office, but at least he’d be comfortable. More comfortable than Weller, he hoped.

  He took the car key from his pocket, pulled in a deep breath and barged in.

  Weller’s secretary opened her mouth to speak, realised Dylan wasn’t planning on listening, and put her body in front of him to physically deny him access to Weller’s space.

  Dylan reached around her and pushed open the inner door. Weller, sitting behind his desk, looked up in amazement.

  “I’m sorry, but—I did try to tell him. He gave me no chance,” his secretary babbled nervously.

  “A quick word, if I may,” Dylan said.

  “It’s fine.” With a wave of his hand, Weller dismissed his secretary.

  Dylan closed the door after her, and stood, arms folded, with his car key dangling from his finger.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Williams? I can only spare you two minutes, I’m afraid.”

  “Two minutes is fine.” Dylan strode to the window and peered out at the car park below. “It’s about your mother. I’m curious about her so-called accident.”

  Whatever Weller had expected him to say, it clearly wasn’t that. “What the devil does that have to do with you?”

  “That’s how it all started, isn’t it?” Dylan stepped closer to Weller’s desk and rested his hip on the edge. “You called the ambulance that night, didn’t you? That must mean you know exactly what happened. Now, let me take a stab in the dark. Your mother was having an affair with Lenny King and she told Max she was leaving him. Max took exception, and they had a fight. Max turned nasty, she ran, and he mowed her down in his car. You called the ambulance and vowed vengeance on him and your mother’s lover. How am I doing so far?”

  “I—that’s preposterous. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Weller’s face was white beneath the tan.

  “Oh, I think you do. Now, let’s move on to the night Lenny and Max were arrested. Lenny wasn’t at Max’s little factory to discuss a driving job, was he? Of course he wasn’t. Max had put Sarah in a wheelchair and now it was time to punish Lenny. All poor Lenny knew was that Sarah had been hurt in a hit-and-run accident. He wouldn’t have known that the driver was none other than Max. So when Max said he wanted to discuss a driving job with him, Lenny would have thought of the money and gone along. He won’t have known that Max planned to kill him. Hey, I bet your stepfather was a dab hand with a samurai sword.”

  “Get out!”

  “Ironically, you had no idea of your stepfather’s intention either. All you knew was that the two of them would be together at Max’s drug factory. So you decided to kill two birds with one stone and set them both up. That way, both your stepfather and your mother’s lover would be out of your life. Or, more important, out of your mother’s life. So, unbeknown to you, you probably saved Lenny’s life. Amusing that, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t have the remotest idea—”

  “You had someone—your loyal secretary probably—call the police and mention a domestic dispute at your stepfather’s place. The coppers turned up and found a drug factory, just as you knew they would. Lenny and Max were taken into custody, tried and found guilty, and sent down for a few years.”

  “This—this is madness.”

  “So, as far as you were concerned, all was hunky-dory. Until Lenny was released, that is, and you find that he and your mother are still much too close for your liking. So Lenny really has to go. You can’t find him, though, can you? You visit his ex-wife, Wendy—”

  Weller launched himself out of his chair. “Who the fuck are you? You’re not a writer. Who are you?”

  “You’re right. I’m not a writer. I’m not the police either. But to get back to my story, you visited Lenny’s ex-wife—”

  “So?”

  “Her death was an accident, was it?”

  Weller turned on a snakelike smile. “You think you’re so fucking clever, don’t you? Well I promise you this, you’ll never prove I had anything to do with it.”

  “You’re probably right, but let me continue. You eventually find Lenny—probably at your mother’s house because that’s where he was hiding out—and promise him money. For what, though? That’s the question, isn’t it?”

  Weller grabbed a handful of Dylan’s jacket and pulled him close. “It’s time you left. Get out. Now.”

  Dylan pulled himself free of Weller’s grasp. “Perhaps you offered him money to leave your mother alone. That’s feasible, I suppose. Not that you could actually give him the money, could you? Of course you couldn’t. You don’t have any, do you? You see, I’ve been looking into this place.” He threw out an arm to encompass the gym. “It’s not doing quite as well as you like to pretend, is it? Despite the cash that your mother’s ploughed in, you’re in debt. I suppose that means she’s short of cash too. So perhaps you offered Lenny money to leave her alone, or leave the country. Being skint himself, and knowing your mother didn’t have any, he would have j
umped at the offer. So you send your henchmen along with a holdall, stuffed with newspaper probably. They have orders to shoot to kill, but they only wound him and—”

  “You can come up with all the crap you like but you won’t prove a thing.”

  “Your mother knew you’d set up Max and Lenny, but she couldn’t bear the thought of her darling son being sent down, or—and this is probably more accurate—being the victim of Max’s or Lenny’s revenge. So she invented a tall story about discovering that Wendy King and the arresting police officers were responsible.”

  “You think you’re so fucking clever, don’t you?” Spittle landed on Dylan’s face. “What proof do you have? None. You have none because there is none. Now get out of my office while you can still fucking walk.”

  “I don’t suppose it matters now, does it? After all, Max is dead. Lenny saw to that. I’ve no evidence, of course, but I’d bet my life that Lenny arranged that neat little heart attack. And now, with Max out of the picture, King and your mother will sail off into the sunset and live happily—”

  “Over my dead body!”

  “Ah. So what are you going to do? Make sure your henchmen don’t miss this time? That’s the thing, isn’t it? When you’ve killed once, it’s easy to do it again. You had Wendy killed so having Lenny killed—”

  “—will be fucking easy. Too right it will.”

  “I have to admire you, I suppose,” Dylan said. “You set up Max and Lenny and managed to get them sent down—”

  “You’ll never prove it.”

  “You had Wendy killed. You put Lenny in hospital—”

  “They won’t miss next time, you can bet your life on that.”

  “And you won’t rest until he’s dead, will you?”

  “No, I won’t.” Weller returned to his desk and, unless Dylan was very much mistaken, touched something beneath it.

  “I guess it’s time I was going,” Dylan said. “As you said, I can’t prove anything—”

  When the door burst open, the biggest, ugliest brute Dylan had ever seen filled the gap between him and freedom. The chap had no neck. A huge head sat on massive shoulders. A suit jacket was stretched across enormous biceps.

  Dylan put the key ring in his pocket and offered up a silent prayer.

  “Ah, I’ve seen you before. You were supposed to kill Lenny King. May I suggest a bit of target practice?”

  “Sort it,” Weller muttered.

  The first punch completely robbed Dylan of air and the second punch was even more vicious. He managed to dodge the third punch, and, better still, kick his assailant where it hurt. While the thug was bent over gasping, Dylan made a dash for freedom.

  He smashed the glass on the first fire alarm he came to and, with bells ringing all around him, joined the panicked throng of keep-fit freaks trying to leave the building.

  A quick look over his shoulder told him that the ugly brute had recovered and was following—at an impressive place.

  Dylan ran on and vowed to get back in training. When you spent half your life upsetting people, it made sense to be capable of outrunning them.

  He escaped the building and pulled welcome fresh air into his lungs. He was racing toward his car, but a quick look over his shoulder told him the thug was too close. Instead, he ran across the car park and on to the main road. A few people stopped to stare. Most moved out of the way.

  Then Dylan spotted a uniformed bobby and he headed straight for him. Gasping for breath, he stopped in front of him. “Could you direct me to the nearest Tube station, please?”

  “Of course, sir. You need to carry on along this road and take the first left. Five hundred yards on, you’ll see the entrance.”

  Dylan saw that his pursuer had stopped. Their gazes locked and, after a moment’s hesitation, the thug decided against a chat with the law. He turned and headed back to the building.

  Dylan thanked the copper and went on his way. He kept a safe distance from the gym for another hour, then crept back for his car.

  The drive back to his office was without incident and once there, with fingers crossed for luck, he took his special car key from his pocket and attached it to his computer.

  “You’ll never prove it...” The video was dodgy, to put it mildly, but Weller’s voice was clear enough.

  “We’ll see about that, sunshine.” Dylan picked up his phone and tapped in Pikey’s number. He had to leave a message. “Give me a bell when you pick this up, Pikey. I’ve got a present for you.”

  With the satisfaction of a job well done, or a job finished at least, Dylan began to sort out the papers that littered his desk. He didn’t actually do anything with them, other than put them in a neat pile in a filing tray, but he always felt better if his desk was clear.

  Whether the police would gather enough evidence to build a case around Weller, he had no idea. He no longer cared. Nor did he care about King and Sarah Rickman. It was—finally—over.

  He had a couple of jobs to do, jobs that paid bills, but he’d take a holiday of sorts. He’d put his mind to more important matters. First, he’d persuade Bev to see another specialist, or to at least accept the treatment on offer that would possibly give them more time. He’d spend his days with her and convince her that they’d fight this bloody awful disease together. Not only fight it but beat it.

  His phone rang and, expecting to hear Pikey’s voice, he picked it up without looking at the display.

  “Dylan Scott? It’s payback time.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  Dylan reached out for his phone to check the time. 3:18 a.m.

  He gave his pillow another thump, but sleep refused to have anything to do with him.

  “What’s the matter?” Bev asked.

  “Nothing. Go back to sleep.”

  “I might be able to if you’d stop fidgeting. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” Everything.

  Bev switched on the bedside light. “I’m wide awake now.”

  “Sorry. Do you want something? Tea? Coffee? Glass of wine?”

  “I want you to stop fussing as if I’m an invalid. I’m perfectly capable of getting myself a drink if I want one.” She reached for his hand and gaze it a squeeze. “And I want you to calm down. Chill out, for God’s sake.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Is this anything to do with me not wanting to pump my body full of chemicals and live like a zombie for however long it takes?”

  “It’s more to do with you refusing to take an expert’s advice and—”

  “What? Oh, come on, Dylan. That expert said himself that, if it were him, he’d probably feel the same.”

  He couldn’t argue with that. They’d had a long and extremely depressing discussion about the quality of life. “But surely, each day is precious.”

  “It is. So long as I know what day it is. If I’m a dribbling vegetable who doesn’t even know her own name, then no, it’s not precious. It’s hell.”

  “You won’t be a dribbling vegetable.”

  “Too true I won’t,” she said, “because I’m not going down that route.”

  “Then will you at least see another specialist?”

  Her sigh was long and patient. “The scans don’t lie.”

  “Maybe not. I’d still like to see what someone else can suggest.”

  She gave him a resigned smile. “Okay, I’ll see someone else.”

  And now she was humouring him. “I don’t see how you can be so calm and bloody accepting about it. If it were me—”

  “If it were you, I’d respect your wishes. As it’s me, you can damn well respect mine. And for your information, if I am calm and bloody accepting, it’s because I have no sodding choice. My children are going to have to face life without me and I’m fucking angry about that. There are t
imes when I’m scared shitless and—” She leapt out of bed and tore her dressing gown from the hook on the back of the door. “Do you know what I’m going to do now? I’m going to have a drink. A bloody big one. Because, hey, it’s not going to kill me, is it?”

  “Mine’s a whisky,” he tried to joke, but she’d already stomped halfway down the stairs and probably hadn’t heard him.

  Cupboard doors were slammed in the kitchen, a bottle was banged down hard, the kitchen door was yanked shut. Her returning step on the stairs was thunderous.

  She marched into the bedroom, scowling, and thrust a bottle of Scotch and a glass at him. “Think yourself lucky I don’t bloody throw it at you.”

  “Thank you, O mighty one.”

  “Piss off.” A reluctant smile forced its way to her lips.

  Dylan poured himself an overlarge measure of whisky and took a grateful gulp. Life usually looked better through a whisky-induced haze. “Sorry,” he said, as she climbed into bed beside him and took a sip of her red wine.

  She groaned. “Don’t let’s turn this into Love Story, okay?”

  “What?”

  “The book, remember? The film. ‘Love means never having to say you’re sorry.’ She died. Everyone wept buckets. End of.”

  It meant nothing to him, but it wouldn’t have been “end of.” People would have been left behind to cope with the fallout.

  “My point,” she said, “is that I want to remain as fit as I can for the time I have left. That could be months or, more unlikely, years. But however much time I have, I want it to be quality time. I want the kids to be able to remember me as a fully functioning human being. Is that too much to ask?”

  “Of course not. But you can’t say that you wouldn’t be a fully functioning human being if you accepted the treatment.”

  “Without a crystal ball, I can’t know what the end will be like. I can’t see it being good, though.” She reached for his hand and gave it a squeeze. “What I’d really like, Dylan, is something quick and easy. A swift bullet through the brain would be good.”

  “Oh, yeah, that would be great.”