Dead End

by Shirley Wells

“Go ahead.”

  “Thanks.” She lit the cigarette and pulled the drug into her lungs. “He sometimes does the training in Somerset. Except—” She took another pull on her cigarette. “He was supposed to be there recently, in Somerset. For four days. That’s where he said he was. Except—except one of my customers swore she’d seen him coming out of the fish-and-chip shop on Russell Street. She swore it was Jimmy. I told her she was mistaken but perhaps—” Her eyes swam in moisture.

  A white van. Russell Street. Hadn’t someone called the police about that this morning? Something to do with illegal immigrants?

  “Sometimes,” she said, “he goes out in the middle of the night. He says he’s been running. He says he drives the car to the river and runs along there.”

  “Okay. Thanks.” Pikey handed over his card. “Will you call me as soon as he gets home or as soon as you know where he is?”

  She pocketed his card. “It’s Afghanistan, that’s what did it. There was an accident—a roadside bomb. Jimmy was okay, physically at least, but several of those alongside him were killed. He has terrible nightmares.”

  “Okay,” Pikey said again. “Just call me if you hear from him.”

  She stubbed out her cigarette and followed him down the stairs. Pikey left her sorting out her customers and pretending to them that all was well. She knew, though, just as Pikey did, that everything was far from well.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Dylan couldn’t hear any signs of movement from the floor above. Perhaps Oxford had left the building.

  His eyes had had time to adjust to the darkness, but he still couldn’t see anything other than slightly darker shapes. While Oxford had been talking, Dylan had taken note of everything in the room and had mentally calculated distances. The stairs, by his reckoning, were six feet from his chair. Opposite him was the chair Oxford had sat in. To his left was a rusty old boiler that didn’t look as if it had been used since Noah built the Ark. About twelve feet from his chair was a large cardboard box and, lying on top of that, was an old hacksaw. It had been impossible to see, even with the light on, if it boasted a usable blade. He’d have to hope so as it was his best chance of escape.

  All he had to do was get to it without hanging himself.

  What sort of crazy bastard put a noose around his victims’ necks? The answer to that, of course, was the Jimmy Oxford sort of crazy bastard.

  Dylan hadn’t got to know the bloke well enough all those years ago to form an opinion. He’d never stopped to think about him, but he’d seemed a normal young recruit. A bit quiet perhaps. A bit out of his depth and, now Dylan came to think about it, somewhat lacking in social skills. As far as Dylan could remember, though, there had been nothing to suggest he was this fucking crazy.

  Dowie was missing presumed dead. Lowell was missing presumed dead. Dowie’s wife and two sons were dead, as was Lowell’s wife. Dylan was dealing with the worst sort of crazy, the deadly sort of crazy, and he had to get out.

  What the hell had possessed him to leave Bev and the kids and go for that senseless morning run? Having received the warning phone call, he should have stayed home to protect them. He’d had too many warnings, though, and he’d believed, wrongly, that time was on his side.

  No matter what, he had to make sure that Oxford didn’t get to his family. And worrying about them wasn’t helping. The only way he could protect them was by getting out of this hellhole.

  His only option was to tip his chair back and hope to Christ he didn’t hang himself. If he moved forward, or sideways, he’d be a goner. If he tipped his chair backward slightly he might, just might, manage to escape the noose. But if he was wrong—

  If he stayed where he was, he was a sitting bloody duck. Soon to be a dead sitting duck. He had no doubt on that score.

  His only chance of escape was to tip his chair backward a little. Except he couldn’t. The good thing was that his feet—and he was sure one was broken—just about touched the floor. The bad thing was that no way could he tip his chair back a little. Once he exerted any pressure, it would overbalance and take him with it. Unless, of course, the noose did its job, in which case it was academic anyway.

  Nothing ventured—

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Jimmy was fizzing with excitement. The van’s windows were down and he could hear police sirens in the distance. He guessed where they were going and chuckled to himself. They were too late. The deed was done, and the gun was safely hidden in his jacket pocket.

  “You’re always one step ahead, Jimmy.” He slapped the steering wheel with satisfaction as he drove.

  Ten minutes later, he drove the van into a car park. He pulled on the uniform of a local courier service—its previous owner no longer had a use for it, Jimmy had seen to that—and sat with the helmet on his lap.

  He switched on his new phone and made his first call. No one would be able to trace it. No one would bother. “Any information I give you is confidential, right?”

  “Of course.”

  Jimmy couldn’t fault the Anti-Terrorism hotline. Very polite. “It’s just that I don’t want my family knowing I’ve called the police,” Jimmy said.

  “We understand that.”

  “My sister married a Muslim, you see, and I’ve had my suspicions about him for a while now. He’s bought large quantities of chemicals that he keeps in a lockup garage, and he’s been vague about what he needs them for. Now, like I said, I don’t want my family—him especially—knowing I’ve spoken to you. I’ve taken photos though and I’ve recorded a conversation I heard him have with one of his friends. I’ll get those to you.”

  “That would be—”

  “I can’t talk now. I’ll send the photos and recording to you by courier. They’ll be with you within thirty minutes. Shall I just address it to the Anti-Terrorism officers? Or would you rather give me a name or a reference number? I think this needs looking into urgently.”

  Jimmy ended the call with a rush of satisfaction. He couldn’t believe how easy it was. No way would he get into Scotland Yard—breaking into Buckingham Palace and having tea with the Queen would be easier—but he could send a package inside. They checked out everything thoroughly, of course, but it would be too late by then. The very second that the package entered the building, Jimmy would act.

  He put the phone in his pocket, bought his parking ticket, checked and double-checked that it was visible to traffic wardens and other nosy folk, then set off for the Underground station with his package.

  This was it, the moment he’d been planning for months.

  Jimmy pictured himself walking away from the exploding building. He could see himself clearly, walking tall and proud, a cloud of dust and debris engulfing everything in his wake.

  When it was done, he’d return to Russell Street and wipe the smug smile off Scott’s face. He couldn’t wait to tell Scott about his successful day.

  Scott wouldn’t believe him at first. That didn’t matter, though, because Jimmy had the photos to prove it.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Dylan’s chair went back with a crash, and his head hit the concrete hard. His hands, tied behind his back, took a lot of weight, but at least he was free of that noose. Success. All he had to do now was get himself and the sodding chair to that hacksaw.

  His wrists screamed in pain as he used his hands to inch his weight across the concrete floor. There was no knowing how long Oxford would be away. Hopefully a long time because it was going to take an age to reach that hacksaw, even assuming he could find it in the dark.

  Sweat poured off him. His right foot wasn’t painful, more numb, but he couldn’t so much as flex it. It had to be broken.

  Bastard.

  He moved at a sluggish snail’s pace toward the far end of the room with his arms about to leave their sockets. His neck wa
s struggling to take the strain.

  His chest burned with the effort. In fact, every muscle in his body, except those in his right foot, was protesting. Loudly.

  The dominant smell in the cellar was petrol. He’d spotted a chain saw so perhaps it was that. He could smell bleach, too.

  He had no idea where he was—he could still be in London or out in the country, in a terraced house or detached, a shop—not that it mattered. Until he could free himself from the ropes, he couldn’t pull the sodding tape from his mouth so he couldn’t scream for help. That was assuming there was anyone within earshot.

  He wriggled forward, like an upside-down snail, and wondered what he could actually do if he managed to get to the far end of the room where the hacksaw sat. His mouth was out of action, his feet were tied and one was useless anyway, and his body weight was resting on his hands. Getting to the hacksaw was one thing. Being able to do anything with it was something else entirely.

  He had to think of something though, and fast. Dowie and Lowell had probably died in this cellar. Their families had died in their homes. Oxford was one out-of-control psycho who meant business.

  What Dylan would do if Oxford came back now, he had no idea. To say his options were limited was putting it mildly. Psychology wasn’t Dylan’s strongpoint so he couldn’t hazard a guess at Oxford’s next move. The bloke was certifiable, obviously, but until someone put him in a padded cell where he belonged, there was no knowing what he was planning.

  His knuckles touched the remnants of his mobile phone so he knew he was almost at the far end of the room. Oxford hadn’t been content to remove the SIM card. Instead, he’d had to jump up and down on the phone like a hysterical five-year-old throwing a tantrum.

  Dylan reached the box, managed to knock the hacksaw to the ground and then tipped himself and his chair onto his side. If he could somehow grab the damn hacksaw, and if it had a usable blade, he might—and it was a big might—be able to saw through the ropes.

  He didn’t think the door was locked. Oxford was too unstable to make a decent job of kidnapping anyone. He’d almost hit the ceiling when that light bulb popped.

  Having said that, he’d proved himself a competent murderer. Police, as far as Dylan was aware, were still no wiser on the identity of Dowie’s and Lowell’s family’s killer.

  Dylan refused to speculate on that. He had to get himself free and mobile.

  Trying to do anything with the hacksaw soon proved a non-starter as the rusting blade disintegrated within seconds. Time for Plan B.

  He’d noticed an old tap fixed fairly low down on the wall. The tap was rusting badly, and probably hadn’t seen water for fifty years, but the pipe might be jagged enough to cut through the ropes around his feet.

  He shuffled his way across the damp floor, feeling the wall with his good foot until he found the tap. Luck was with him because the tap was only about a foot from ground level, the same height as his feet sticking out from the chair.

  He began a slow sawing motion. His left foot had to do all the work as his right foot was useless. At times it hurt like hell and at other times it was numb. He kept up the sawing motion, although it was impossible to say whether his ropes or the tap would give way first.

  He felt the rope give slightly and, encouraged, continued the action with his legs. Persistence paid off when the rope finally gave way and he was able to wriggle his feet free.

  The chair was still attached to him, thanks to the ropes holding his arms behind his back and those around his middle, but he managed to stand on his good foot. He hopped backwards, throwing as much weight as he could against the wall. Every bone in his body hurt like hell, but he knew the chair was flimsy. Piece by piece, it gave way.

  With the chair in pieces around him, he was able to free his hands from their ropes. He yanked the thick tape from his mouth, coughed a couple of times, and drew in a breath.

  He’d done it. He was free.

  He dragged himself up the steps, turned the door handle and thanked the gods when it opened. The light shining along the hallway blinded him briefly but it was oh, so welcome.

  His foot dragged uselessly behind him as he shuffled from room to room of what was an almost empty house. Getting up to the next storey was easier on his backside, he discovered, but there was no sign of Oxford. The only things hinting at anyone ever having been in the building was a sleeping bag, several bottles of bleach, an old TV, a jar of coffee and a mug and spoon.

  The back door swung open at his touch and he stepped out into a small back yard. In the adjoining yard was the welcome sight of a uniformed copper. He was talking to an old man.

  “Hey!” Dylan hopped to the fence.

  The young officer was busy talking into his radio but he broke off. “A word, please, sir.”

  “No time. I’m an ex-copper, Dylan Scott. DS Pike will vouch for me. James Oxford, the man who killed Brian Dowie’s family and Gerald Lowell’s wife, kidnapped me. He’s on the loose and you need to find him fast.”

  “I told you.” The old man prodded the officer’s chest. “I told you he was up to no good.”

  “You’ve seen Oxford?” Dylan asked him.

  “Several times. He drove off in his van a couple of hours ago. He’s up to no good. I’ve known that for a while. That’s why I called you lot this morning.” He nodded at the young officer. “You took your time doing something about it.”

  “Do you know the van’s registration number?” Dylan asked.

  “I already told them that when I phoned. Like I said, I know the letters. TOB. They stuck out because my old dog’s called Toby.”

  “There you go,” Dylan grabbed the officer’s arm. “Get everyone finding that van and Oxford. I don’t know if he’s armed, but he’s definitely bloody dangerous.”

  “Sir, I need—”

  “And I need to get home. Where the hell am I anyway?”

  Police sirens cut through the air. Dylan had to lean on the officer and let him take most of his weight as they made their way to the front of the building.

  Three patrol cars raced along the road and pulled up outside the house. Dylan had no idea what they were doing here, but he was relieved to see them. If necessary he’d steal one of the cars and drive it home.

  All but one of the officers went past him to search the property. The remaining officer opened his mouth to speak but Dylan didn’t give him chance. “Before you ask, no, I don’t have time to answer questions. I need to get to my family.”

  “Dylan Scott? That’s being taken care of. A patrol car’s on its way. Meanwhile—” he looked at Dylan’s foot, “—it looks like we need to get you a hospital.”

  “Later. I need to get home.” Nausea washed over him. He was close to passing out. “Phone. Give me your phone. I need to speak to DS Pike urgently.”

  “We need to—”

  “Just give me your bloody phone.”

  The young officer found Pikey’s number and hit the button before handing his phone to Dylan.

  “It’s me,” Dylan said, as soon as he heard Pikey’s voice. “Long story, short version. I’ve escaped from Jimmy Oxford’s cellar, but he’s on the loose and he’s fucking dangerous. We need officers at our homes looking out for our families, mate, because he’s out to get you too.”

  “It’s in hand. A car’s on its way to your place as we speak. He called me to tell me it’s payback time, but my place is empty, so it’s fine. Sheila and the girls are safe enough. But as to where he is...I had a chat with his wife and she mentioned him being seen on Russell Street. She also mentioned a white Transit-type van. When a man called us from Russell Street and mentioned a man in a white van, we put two and two together.”

  “Yeah, well, he’s nowhere near Russell Street now.”

  “I know. His van’s been seen on CCTV. I’m on to it now. So what�
��s his problem?” Pikey asked. “I know he’s been discharged from the army suffering from stress, but what exactly is his problem?”

  “Coppers,” Dylan said. “His dad’s a bit of a hero in the cop world, I gather. Jimmy was chucked off that training course and ended up joining the army, whereas me, Lowell, Dowie—all bent, all a disgrace to the badge. He would have been a good copper, yet he was sent to Afghanistan, blah, blah. The sick bastard has big plans though. He reckons he’s going to blow up Scotland Yard. He almost had a coronary when a light bulb popped in his cellar so God knows how he’d cope with a bomb, but he’s crazy enough to try anything.”

  Chapter Fifty

  Pikey had been optimistic when Oxford’s van had been spotted on CCTV nearby, but that was ten minutes ago and they had no idea where he was now. He’d drive round for a while. Maybe Oxford had parked up.

  What a bloody day. It seemed an age since he’d been lying back in the dentist’s chair listening to the creaking, cracking and general protests of a tooth being yanked out of his mouth. At least the pain had died down. Either that or he’d been too busy to think about it.

  Still, at least he was safe. Sheila and the kids were safe. Dylan had escaped the lunatic. Officers would have arrived to keep watch on Bev and Dylan’s kids just in case Oxford showed up there. Everything was under control.

  He drove on, hoping for someone to call him with details of another sighting of Oxford’s van, but all was quiet.

  He was passing a small car park when he spotted a large white vehicle at the end farthest from the road. He doubled back on himself and drove into the car park.

  And there it was. Oxford’s van.

  He called Jo Fry while he looked at it.

  “There’s a ticket that he bought at—” he checked his watch, “—only seven minutes ago.” He put a hand to the van’s bonnet. It was still warm. “It’s paid up till the end of the day. There are clothes lying in the passenger footwell. Jeans and a jacket. He must have changed. A disguise perhaps? A uniform? A copper’s uniform?”