Dead End

by Shirley Wells

  “Ah, young love. I remember it well. What’s she like?”

  “No idea. I know her name’s Charlotte because I heard Tom teasing Luke about her but, other than that, I know nothing. She could have two heads for all I know.”

  “You should tell him to introduce her to us over the holiday.”

  “So you can be nosy?”

  “Why else?”

  Dylan smiled at her honesty. “I’ll suggest it, but he’ll probably die of embarrassment.”

  “Probably. Right, I’m off to my bed. Don’t forget to set the oven timer because we’ll be in a mess if it’s not cooked. It would be the devil’s own job picking up takeaways for so many people. There will be the three of you, me, Frank, Pikey, Sheila and the girls, Lucy and her bloke—eleven.”

  “It’ll be good.” In some ways, Dylan was glad that so many would be sitting down to lunch with them. And Bev would have loved it. Part of him wished he could drive off to the hills and spend the day alone, though.

  “It will. You okay, love?”

  “Yep.”

  “Christmas is a funny time of year, isn’t it?”

  “Hilarious. You work all year to pay for it, you clutter up the house with decorations, send cards to people you haven’t heard from since last Christmas, eat too much and drink too much—yeah, it’s hilarious.”

  “Ha. I’m delighted to hear the festive spirit is alive and well. Okay, I’ll see you in the morning. Early. I’m off to bed now...”

  When he ended the call, Dylan went online for advice on how to roast a turkey.

  The first file he saw when he switched on his computer was Brad Goodenough’s. Dylan never deleted anything, just in case, but he decided to file it somewhere else. Before he did that, he opened it for one last look.

  Goodenough’s real name was Colin Bloomfield. He came from a good family, had a good education, joined the army, served ten years and left with the Ministry of Defence’s blessing. It was then that his longing for the highlife began. Perhaps he enjoyed the freedom of civilian life. He loved people and parties, expensive clothes, hotels and fast cars. He must have thought he was set up for life when he drove away from Cass Pelham’s house with a pile of jewellery. He would have known that tracing Brad Goodenough would be a difficult task, and he would have assumed that Cass would make a claim for the theft through her insurance company. Luckily for her, she hadn’t needed to. Unluckily for her, the love of her life was dead.

  Dylan still didn’t feel guilty about that. Goodenough hadn’t been making death threats or photographing his family, but he’d been a deceitful, money-grabbing piece of work.

  As he closed the file on Brad Goodenough, deceased, he wondered how Cass Pelham would be spending the holiday. Her father was making a good recovery so perhaps she’d spend it with him and try not to dwell on what might have been, or what she thought was going to be.

  He wondered how Leonard King and Sarah Rickman would be spending their Christmas too. According to Archie, they were heading to the sunshine and getting married.

  “Love’s young dream,” Archie had said with a scoffing laugh.

  Dylan couldn’t imagine Sarah living abroad because she’d want to be near her son. John Weller was currently in custody awaiting trial, but he wouldn’t be tasting freedom for a long time. Sarah would be back to the ordeal of prison visiting again.

  There was still nothing to suggest that Max Rickman had died from anything other than a heart attack and, reluctantly, Dylan had to accept that.

  As for Jimmy Oxford—

  Dylan left his computer and went to the kitchen to pour himself a drink. He found it impossible to think about Oxford without a bloody big drink in his hand.

  For all he knew, Oxford would enjoy turkey with all the trimmings followed by carol singing around a tree. He was incarcerated in a secure psychiatric unit and Dylan had no idea what the inmates did for entertainment.

  He’d known of course that any lawyer in the land would prove Oxford hadn’t been responsible for his actions. Dozens of reports had been submitted, all from psychiatrists with more letters after their names than in their names, all saying the same thing. Oxford was crazy.

  Christ, Dylan could have told them that.

  Shoving him in a padded cell was the easy option, though. Responsible for his actions or not, and he’d seemed pretty damn responsible to Dylan, he should be made to pay for what he’d done.

  Yet how could he? Oxford could be torn apart limb by limb, something Dylan fantasised about, but that wouldn’t help. Nothing could ever make up for what he’d done.

  Dylan hadn’t needed the autopsy to confirm that Bev’s death had been mercifully quick. The surveillance camera he’d had installed outside their home had shown Oxford breaking in and racing out seconds later. Dylan supposed he should take comfort from the fact that she hadn’t been raped like Dowie’s and Lowell’s wives. He couldn’t take comfort from anything, though.

  Let it go. Eight months had passed since Dylan had climbed out of the hell that was Oxford’s cellar and into an entirely different sort of hell. He had to let it go or he’d end up as crazy as Oxford.

  He carried his drink into the sitting room and stared at the tree with its hypnotic flashing lights. The room shouldn’t feel so alien because it was exactly the same as it always had been—but with a little more dust, dog hair and clutter. The carpet Bev had taken weeks to choose, and was then adamant that the colour she’d chosen was oatmeal whereas this one was biscuit—something Dylan never did understand—needed a good clean. The TV that Bev had always claimed was too big for the room needed a flick with a duster. The cushions, an obsession of Bev’s, needed straightening.

  He heard a burst of laughter as Luke came down the stairs. There were a few whispered words to end the call and then, still shoving his phone in his pocket, Luke returned to the sitting-room.

  “Was that the girlfriend?” Dylan asked.

  “She’s just a friend.” Luke’s face turned the colour of beetroot again. “So about this film—shall we watch it? It’s supposed to be good.”

  “Yes, why not? Oh, by the way, your gran thought—”

  “Don’t call her Gran. She hates it.”

  “Of course.” His mother thought it made her sound old and had banned all use of the word. “Vicky says you should bring—Charlotte, is it?—to meet us over the holiday.”

  “Oh, Dad. That’s gross.” Luke lunged for the TV remote. “Are we watching this film or not?”

  “Yes. I just thought I’d mention it.”

  “There’s no need. Anyway, I haven’t got time. It’s the party, then I’m going to the bowling alley with Tom. Plus there’s the big game on Boxing Day—hey, I can’t wait for that, can you?”

  “I can’t.” A game of football on Boxing Day had always been the highlight of the holiday.

  “Right, it’s starting,” Luke said.

  They settled down to watch what had to be the worst film ever made. Almost two hours of complete, utter garbage. It didn’t manage to take Dylan’s mind off Oxford. It didn’t take his mind off anything else either. But at least the zombies looked a little more convincing when he’d refilled his glass.

  If you enjoyed films where you started off trying to guess the zombie’s identity and then realised that the entire cast was made up of the undead, perhaps it wasn’t too bad.

  In fairness, they probably missed half of it as keeping Bozo from eating the tree before Freya saw it was a full-time job.

  “That was rubbish,” Luke said as the final credits rolled. “Everyone said it was good, too.”

  “You see that red button on the remote? It’s an off button.”

  “Ha-ha. I used to say that to Mum, but she never took any notice. She really watched some rubbish, didn’t she?”

  Dylan couldn’t a
rgue with that. “I think even she would have drawn the line at that pile of dross we just sat through.”

  Luke grinned. “Probably.”

  Bozo raced around the room with a piece of tinsel in his mouth. “Christmas is going to feel a bit strange, isn’t it?” Luke said.

  “Yes. Yes, it is.” It wouldn’t be the best Christmas ever—how the hell could it be?—but he’d do his best to make sure the kids were distracted, laughing and happy. There would be a house full of people determined to do the same thing. It would be okay.

  And later, he’d drink himself to oblivion...

  “Do you talk to Mum?” Luke’s voice was barely more than a whisper.

  Dylan nodded. “All the time. You?”

  “Yeah.” Luke looked a little embarrassed. “It’s a bit silly really, isn’t it? I mean, it’s not as if dead people can hear us.”

  “Who knows? Perhaps they can, perhaps they can’t. I like to think your mum can.”

  “Yeah. So do I.” Luke picked up Bozo’s ball and bounced it across the room for the dog to chase. “Still, we’re doing pretty well, aren’t we? I bet she’d be amazed if she could see us.”

  Dylan was completely taken aback by that. He always felt as if he were drowning in treacle, somehow surviving from one day to the next. But, thinking about it, Luke was right. They were doing okay.

  Never mind man’s best friend, Bozo was every man’s worst nightmare, but Dylan would forgive the dog anything because he’d done so much to help Luke come through this hell relatively unscathed. There had been many times during the long, dark months following Bev’s death that Dylan had thought Luke would never communicate again. It was Bozo who’d helped him through his grief and, for that, Dylan would be eternally grateful to the dog.

  Luke’s phone trilled, alerting him to a message. A flush of colour and a smile that was quickly hidden told Dylan that the girlfriend was chatting to him.

  Luke tapped a few buttons and hit the send key. “Right,” he said, “I’m off to bed. Don’t forget to do your Santa thing and put Freya’s stocking at the bottom of her bed.”

  “I won’t.”

  It was ridiculous because Freya was too young to understand, but it was tradition. Even at this early age, she apparently needed to know that Santa had visited. It wouldn’t matter to her and Dylan guessed that regardless of the presents she received, she’d smile her way through the day. She was the happiest of souls, constantly smiling.

  Dylan owed his daughter. It was Freya who got him through the days, probably because she was so small and so vulnerable that he was always holding her. Some days, he clung to that scrap of humanity as if his life depended on her.

  “Hey, it’s nearly midnight. Happy Christmas, Dad.”

  Dylan hugged him. “Happy Christmas, Luke.”

  Bozo trotted off with Luke, and Dylan was alone. He went to the kitchen, poured himself a large drink and stared out the window into the darkness.

  He hoped Bev would think they were doing okay. He hoped she’d approve of what he and their friends and family were doing. She’d wanted them to grab life with both hands and not waste time grieving. She’d wanted them to remember her and be happy.

  “What I’d really like, Dylan, is a quick bullet through the brain...”

  On that fateful day, it had been pure chance, a spur-of-the-moment thing that had seen Luke and Freya leave the house to stay with their grandmother. If they’d been in the house when Oxford had turned up with his gun—

  Golden sparks lit up the sky as a firework exploded. That lone rocket was followed by several more until the sky was a riot of blue, red, silver and gold.

  It was Christmas, a time when people showed goodwill to their neighbour. Peace on earth and all that. Dylan was the world’s biggest cynic when it came to religious festivals but even he had to admit that Christmas always brought with it hope for the future.

  He lifted his glass. “Luke’s right, sweetheart. We’re doing okay...I’ll make sure our kids have a good Christmas. Which reminds me...” He returned to the sitting room and his computer, and checked out turkey roasting times.

  He heard frantic footsteps pounding down the stairs, and Luke’s voice. “Bozo? Bozo, no! Don’t you dare. Oh, my freakin’ God!”

  Dylan went into the hallway in time to see Bozo race back up the stairs with something in his mouth. Lying at the foot of the stairs was the turkey. The one-legged turkey.

  “How did he get that?” Luke asked in utter wonder. “It was right at the back of the counter. And covered in foil.”

  “More to the point—”

  “Yeah.”

  They stared at the turkey for a full minute before Dylan picked it up.

  “It won’t poison anyone,” Luke said. “If we give it a good wash, no one will ever know.”

  “The missing leg might hint that all’s not as it should be,” Dylan pointed out.

  “Isn’t there a shop open where we could buy a turkey leg?”

  “It’s Christmas morning. So that’s a no.”

  “We could tell everyone we got hungry and decided to cook a turkey leg.” Luke grinned. “They’ll be mad at us, and they’ll think we’re crazy, but that’s probably better than telling them Bozo’s had his teeth round their lunch.”

  “Hmm. Okay, unless we can come up with anything better during the night, we’ll go with that one.” They celebrated their solution with a high five. “Happy Christmas, Luke.”

  “Happy Christmas, Dad.”

  * * * * *

  Detective Dylan Scott is surrounded by mystery. See how it all began with the first three books in the series—available now!

  Presumed Dead

  Dylan Scott has problems. Dismissed in disgrace from the police force for assaulting a suspect, he has no job, his wife has thrown him out and—worse luck—his mother has moved in. So when Holly Champion begs him to investigate the disappearance of her mother thirteen years ago, he can’t say no, even though it means taking up residence in the dreary Lancashire town of Dawson’s Clough for the duration.

  Although the local police still believe Anita Champion took off for a better life, Dylan’s inquiries turn up plenty of potential suspects: the drug-dealing, muscle-bound bouncer at the club where Anita was last seen; the missing woman’s four girlfriends, out for revenge; the local landowner with rumored mob connections—the list goes on. But no one is telling Dylan all they know—and he soon finds that one sleepy Northern town can keep a lot of secrets.

  Dead Silent

  Ten months ago, Samantha Hunt set off for work...and was never seen again.

  Despite the statistics of cold cases, Dylan Scott wants to believe the young woman’s alive—and not just because her father, his client, is desperate to find his missing daughter before he dies of cancer. By all accounts Sam was a lovely girl, devoted to her younger stepsisters, well-liked at her work, in love with her boyfriend.

  But as usual not everything is as it seems in sleepy Dawson’s Clough. Sam’s boyfriend has a violent past. She may have been having an affair with her boss. And Dylan can’t shake the feeling that her stepfather is hiding something. Meanwhile, someone is trying to scare Dylan off the case.

  Who wanted to silence Sam, and why? The truth turns out to be worse than anyone expected...

  Silent Witness

  After his ex-wife bled to death in a bathtub covered in his fingerprints, the case against Aleksander Kaminski seemed open and shut. Though sentenced to life in prison, he swears he’s innocent, a claim supported by his current wife.

  Private investigator Dylan Scott finds himself drawn back to dreary Lancashire in a search for justice. The evidence against Kaminski is damning, but having been unjustly jailed himself, Dylan is compelled to pursue the case; if there’s even a small chance the man is innocent, he has
to help. The other obvious suspect—the victim’s second husband—has a watertight alibi. But Dylan has a strong hunch that as usual, there’s more going on than meets the eye in Dawson’s Clough.

  Connect with us for info on our new releases, access to exclusive offers and much more!

  Visit CarinaPress.com

  We like you—why not like us on Facebook: Facebook.com/CarinaPress

  Follow us on Twitter: Twitter.com/CarinaPress

  About the Author

  Shirley was born and raised in the Cotswolds, where her headmaster wrote on her school report—Shirley is content to dream her life away.

  Years later—as an adult living in Cyprus—it dawned on her that this wasn’t necessarily a bad thing and that fellow dreamers, in the guise of fiction writers, had been getting away with it for centuries.

  A move to the Orkney island of Hoy followed and, during the twelve years she spent there, she wrote short stories as well as full-length romantic fiction for UK women’s magazines.

  She’s now settled in Lancashire, where the Pennines provide the inspiration and setting for her popular mystery novels. She and her husband share their home with an ever-changing selection of deranged pets, who often insist on cameo roles in Shirley’s novels.

  When she isn’t writing, Shirley loves reading (anything and everything), listening to live music, watching TV, eating chocolate and drinking whisky—though not necessarily at the same time. She’s also a season ticket holder at Burnley Football Club and can often be seen in the biting wind and pouring rain cheering on her favourite team.

  And she’s still content to dream her life away.

  Where no great story goes untold.

  The variety you want to read, the stories authors have always wanted to write.

  With new releases every week, your next great read is just a download away!

  Keep in touch with Carina Press:

  Read our blog: www.CarinaPress.com/blog