Not bothering to keep quiet, he stormed across the hall and slung open the door, ready to let fly at Andy, but the couch was empty.
He looked towards the doorway to the kitchen and saw his brother standing with a fork in one hand and plate in the other. Standing! Not sitting, or crawling, but standing.
“Oh fuck,” Andy said. “What are you doing home?”
“Never mind why I’m here, when did you learn to walk again?”
Andy grinned. “About a year ago. I thought I’d surprise you.”
Jon felt the blackness rise. He had to stop himself from reaching out and strangling the little shit. “You bastard. You’ve nagged and moaned at me non-stop and you’ve been able to walk all this time? You fucking bastard.”
“I’m the bastard?” Andy said. “Who put me in a wheelchair in the first place?”
“But you’re not in a fucking wheelchair now, are you!”
“Would you prefer it if I was?” Andy said. “Is that what you want? A cripple for a brother?”
“No! Of course not, but…oh what’s the point. Now that you can walk I’m off. You can get a job and take care of yourself. You’d better tell them down at the social that you’re not entitled to benefits.”
Andy shrugged and forked a portion of rice into his mouth. He swallowed and grinned. “I’ve no intention of telling them. Why should I?”
“Because if you don’t, I will,” Jon yelled.
Andy pushed past him and flopped onto the couch.
“No you won’t.”
Jon whipped round. “Yes, I bloody well will.”
“And get done for fraud?” Andy said.
“Why would I get done? You’re the one claiming benefits you’re not entitled to.”
“Really? What about the carer’s allowance you’ve been claiming all these years?”
“But I didn’t know you could walk,” Jon said.
Andy swallowed another mouthful of food. “Prove it. I’ll tell them it was all your idea. I’ll say you made me pretend to be disabled so that you could claim for me. I’ll have them so much on my side I’ll get a pat on the head and you’ll get jail time.”
Jon heard the front door open. Now what?
“Andy, you there, mate? I’ve got a parcel for Jon the postie delivered upstairs by mistake.”
As Gordon came into the room Jon saw his eyes widen.
“Oh shit,” he said. “What are you doing home during the day?”
“I fucking live here,” Jon said. “Don’t tell me you’re in on this, too?”
Gordon grinned. “Course I am. It was me that got him walking again.”
“Gordon set me a whole load of exercises. He used to be a physio,” Andy said, “but he gave it up. Found out he could get an easier life without working.”
Jon turned and thumped the wall until his rage passed. As he spun back, he saw the grins on both faces and the anger surged again.
“Get out,” he said to Gordon. “Fuck off out and don’t come back.”
Gordon held out a small package. “Look, it’s no good taking it out on me. I just came down to deliver this.”
Jon snatched the package and slung it against the far wall, watching with satisfaction as it slid down and dropped behind the sideboard. He turned to Andy.
“Was that something else you’ve ordered using my fucking credit card? Well that’s going to stop. You want stuff, pay for it yourself.”
He whirled back to Gordon. “What the fuck are you still here for? I told you to get out. Go on, fuck off. Wait! Before you go, I want the key Andy gave you.”
“What key?”
“Gordon, you’ve both been treating me like a moron, but no longer. I closed the door when I came home. The only way you could have got in here now was by using a key. So hand it over. And don’t bother leaving any more stupid notes for me to find.”
“What notes?”
“What notes?” Jon mimicked. “You know full well what I’m talking about. Now hand over that key.”
Gordon grinned and held it out. “You need to lighten up a bit, mate.”
“And you need to fuck off, mate.”
Jon waited for the sound of the front door closing, then turned to Andy. “Are you going to stop claiming benefits and try to get a job?”
Andy shook his head. “Nope, don’t see why I should.”
“They’ll look into it if I give up the carer’s allowance, which I’m going to do. I’m not a thief and I’m not going to claim for something I’m not entitled to.”
Andy stood up and sauntered through to the kitchen. “I told you, Jon, you do that and I’ll tell them it was your idea all along. In fact, I might even tell them I was never disabled in the first place, that it was all part of a scheme you hatched so that I could claim compensation for the accident and you could claim carer’s allowance.”
“I could kill you right now,” Jon hissed.
Andy laughed. “You couldn’t lift a finger against me and you know it. You’re a weakling, Jon, always have been and always will be. You let those idiots at work walk all over you and sit at home whimpering about it instead of smacking that fucker Iain in the head like he deserves. You’ve put up with me making your life hell for all these years and done fuck all about it. You won’t kill me because you’re too fucking useless.”
“Don’t be so sure, Andy. Right now I could stick a knife in you.”
Andy picked up the breadknife and held the handle out. “Go on then. I won’t even put up a fight.”
Jon reached out, every fibre in his body willing him to take it and stab his brother, but his hand fell back to his side. He couldn’t do it. Tremors wracked his body. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t function. He had to get away. Walk away and never come back. He turned and somehow made it to the front door.
“See,” he heard Andy yell. “You haven’t got the nerve.”
Stumbling out through the gate he realised he hadn’t shut the front door. Automatically, he turned to go back and close it. Then he realised Andy could do it. Andy could walk! Let him worry about keeping the place secure.
He had no idea where he was going, but when he found himself outside the pub, he went in. Desperate for a friendly face, he needed to be with other people. Now wasn’t a time to be alone. Even a disinterested face would do. Just so long as he wasn’t with anyone who hated him, used him, or wanted to make a fool of him.
There were only a few customers in. He’d expected more, but then remembered it was the middle of the afternoon. Walking up to the bar, he perched on a stool and slung his keys on the counter. They skidded off and landed on the other side of the bar. As had happened so often in the past, the flimsy catch on the binder sprang open and the keys scattered.
He might have known that would happen, Jon thought. It had been that kind of day.
Bradley came over and picked up the keys and holder. “How many times now have I collected your keys from the floor?” he asked with a smile.
“Too many. Did you ever find the one that went missing a few weeks back?”
Bradley nodded. “I gave it to your neighbour, Gordon, when he came in the next day. He said he’d pass it on to you. Didn’t he?”
“He must have forgotten about it,” Jon said, but that knowledge just added to his anger. Bloody Gordon. No wonder he’d handed over the key so readily. He’d had another one in reserve.
“Anyway,” Bradley said, handing the keys over for Jon to reassemble, “you’re in early. What can I get you?”
“A pint of cyanide would be magic.”
Bradley smiled. “It can’t be that bad surely. Who’s been raining on your parade this time? That prick from work?”
Jon shrugged. “Nothing out of the ordinary from him, but he’s the reason I came home early.”
Bradley finished pouring a pint and placed it on the mat in front of Jon.
“Well, something’s rattled your cage. If you want to talk, I’m all ears. If you don’t, no problem, I’ll push off to the
other end of the bar and leave you to wallow.”
“Sorry, I don’t know whether I’m Arthur or fucking Martha today.”
Bradley grinned. “If you’re fucking Martha, don’t do it in here; we’ll lose our licence.”
Jon laughed and choked on the mouthful of lager he’d been about to swallow.
“That’s better,” Bradley said. “Come on; tell Uncle Bradley all about it.”
All the rage and frustration came to the surface and Jon blurted out all his woes, from not getting the job in Leicester he’d wanted so badly, to what he’d found when he’d arrived home.
Bradley’s eyebrows shot skywards. “Bloody hell, you mean he can walk? Doesn’t need the wheelchair at all?”
Jon shook his head. “Nope and what’s more, when I told him to own up to the social and tell them to stop his benefits, the bastard turned on me and threatened to stitch me up.”
Bradley shook his head and glanced down the bar where a customer was waiting. “I just need to serve that bloke. I’ll be back,” he said.
By the time he came back, Jon’s anger had reached boiling point. He barely waited for Bradley to reach him.
“For fuck’s sake, Bradley, Andy kept it from me for a whole year. A whole fucking year, the bastard played me like a fool. Every night when I got home from my shitty job I ended up spending an even shittier evening listening to Andy going on and on about how I’d ruined his life. Ruined his life? He’s fucking lucky to be alive.” He swigged back the last of his pint. “I’ll tell you this much, if I got the chance and thought I could get away with it, I’d kill the fucker and not think twice about it.”
He got off the bar stool and picked up his keys.
“Where are you off to now? I don’t think you should go home in the mood you’re in. Why not stay and calm down for a bit.”
Jon laughed, but felt more like crying. “Home? I haven’t got one. Don’t worry, I’m not going to do anything to the little rat. I think I’ll move into a B and B for a bit. I’ll go back now and pick up some stuff and then leave Andy and his great buddy, Gordon, to laugh their arses off at making a fool of me.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Paolo pulled another report in front of him. Pages and pages of what had been done so far and not one single piece of evidence to help them get to grips with the case. What was he missing? The answers were in there somewhere, he just had to find a different way of looking at things.
His phone rang, giving him a welcome opportunity to push the paperwork to one side.
“Storey,” he said, not recognising the number on his LED display.
“Detective Inspector? This is Constance Myers. I think I might have found something of interest for you. I’m afraid it doesn’t include all the names you asked me to look for, but I have found a case where everyone apart from Edwin Fulbright is mentioned.”
Paolo felt a shiver along his spine. At last!
“Could you fill in the details, please, Ms Myers?”
“Mr Bishop was acting on behalf of a young man by the name of Jon Miller who had been charged with dangerous driving and driving under the influence of narcotics. While he was driving, he caused the death of a woman, Grace Simmonds. Also, as a result of the accident, his younger brother, Andrew Miller, was left paralysed from the waist down. Mr Bishop instructed Mr Wittington-Smythe to act for Mr Miller in court. Mr Miller’s defence was that the narcotic had been prescribed for him by Conrad Stormont. Mr Stormont had been standing in as his psychiatrist while Professor Edwards was on leave.”
“Ms Myers, you are a star. This is exactly what we needed. Could you give me the dates and court docket numbers? I’ll get one of my team to track down the court transcript.”
She read out the details. “But that case doesn’t cover everyone on your list. I’m sorry, I’ve searched and searched. There is no connection in our files to a Mr Edwin Fulbright. Not in this case or any other we have been able to uncover.”
Paolo smiled. It didn’t matter. They already had a connection to the surgeon. Edwin Fulbright had saved Conrad Stormont’s life when he’d tried to commit suicide. As much as Paolo’s gut instinct told him Stormont wasn’t the killer, he had to follow the evidence trail and that was pointing firmly to the disgraced ex-psychiatrist. All they had to do now was find him.
“Thank you so much for your assistance, Ms Myers.”
“You’re welcome. If it helps to find the monster who killed one of the kindest men on the planet, that will be thanks enough.”
Paolo said goodbye, saddened at the heartbreak in her voice. Too often in his life he heard that same tone and knew there was nothing he could do to ease the pain for those who’d lost a loved one, other than find the person responsible.
He got up and went out into the main office to let his team know what Constance Myers had uncovered. He rapped on the board to get everyone’s attention.
“Listen up; we’ve finally had a bit of a breakthrough. Andrea, I want you to get a trial transcript from ten years ago.” He handed over a piece of paper. “I’ve written down the details, including the court docket numbers. We need to know everything that happened in that trial. It was because of that case that Conrad Stormont lost his licence, but, even more interestingly, three of our victims were involved in the case. The fourth, as we know, was the surgeon who saved Conrad Stormont’s life.”
“Are you saying you think Stormont’s our man?” asked Dave.
Paolo wanted to say yes, but something still niggled, holding him back.
“It looks that way, but I’m not convinced. It’s almost as if he’s being set up. Everything points to him as the guilty party, but I just don’t buy it. Why has he waited ten years? I can understand him having a grudge against Professor Edwards if he lied about his notes and Stormont lost his licence as a result. At a stretch, I can understand him wanting to kill the man who saved his life when all he wanted to do was end it. But if that’s the case, why not kill them ten years ago? And why kill Bishop and Wittington-Smythe? Because they acted for the accused who’d been given the wrong drugs? We’re missing a big piece of this puzzle. When we find it, maybe things will slot into place, but in the meantime, no, I’m not convinced.”
A couple of hours later a tap on his office door made him look up to see Katy grinning at him.
“Hi, Dad,” she said, coming into the room and almost dragging a young man with her.
“Danny, this is my dad. Dad, this is Danny. I’ve told him you might be able to help his brother.”
Paolo was about to tell Katy he could do no such thing when the boy’s obvious embarrassment stopped him. Damn Katy and her lame ducks. Now what had she let him in for. He gestured to her to close the door and pointed to the two chairs in front of his desk.
“I’ll listen, Danny, but the chances of me being able to do anything at all for your brother are pretty remote.”
“That’s what I thought,” Danny said, turning a brilliant shade of scarlet and standing up.
Paolo held up his hand. “Sorry, I didn’t mean that to sound as dismissive as it came out. Let me hear your story. I might at least be able to point you in the right direction to find someone who can help.”
Danny subsided onto the chair, looking as though he would rather have escaped while he had the chance. He gave Katy a pleading look, but she shook her head.
“Honestly, you’ve got nothing to fear from my dad. If he can help Mark, he will. If he can’t, he’ll tell you and no harm done.”
Something stirred in Paolo’s brain, but before he could pin it down, Danny sat forward.
“My brother’s in juvenile detention, but he was stitched up. He didn’t do anything. Well, he did, but he didn’t know he was doing it. Oh, what’s the point? I can see on your face what you’re thinking.”
Paolo smiled. “Really? And what’s that?”
“You probably think my brother was involved with a gang and said he was carrying the drugs for someone else. Well, he wasn’t part of any gang, but
he was carrying drugs, only he didn’t know that’s what they were. He was just delivering a parcel for our stepdad. He’s the one who should’ve been locked up, but instead Mark got picked up and no one believed him when he told them what had happened.”
Before Paolo could react, Katy jumped in.
“So, you see, Dad, we need you to make the authorities listen to Mark. The real drug dealer is still on the streets and has a whole team of kids Danny’s age and younger working for him.”
Paolo already knew what the answer would be, but wanted to hear it from Danny.
“What’s your stepfather’s name?”
“Carl Hunt,” Danny said as the name echoed in Paolo’s head at the same moment.
Paolo smiled. “You’re Daniel Stormont. I’ve been looking for you.”
Danny jumped up again. “Why? You’re not stitching me up like Mark. I’m out of here.”
“No, wait,” Paolo said, trying to avoid the look of suspicion in Katy’s eyes. “I promise you I’m not planning anything. I’ve met your stepfather and I believe you. I’ll try to help your brother, if I can.”
Danny stood, clearly unconvinced. “Well, if it’s not to stitch me up, what did you want with me?”
Paolo gestured to the chair. “Sit down, please. Would you like a drink of some kind?”
Danny sat, but shook his head. He looked as if he’d run at the slightest provocation.
“What about you, Katy? Cool drink for you?”
“No, thanks, Dad. Let’s just get to the point. I’ve brought Danny here to ask for your help and you spring that on us. No wonder Danny’s suspicious. I’m feeling that way myself.”
Paolo took a deep breath. “Right, I’ll set things out from my side and then you can fill me in on what happened with your brother, okay?”
Danny stared at him, without moving, but then gave a nod so slight Paolo wasn’t even sure he’d seen it. As the boy hadn’t got up again, Paolo decided to take that as affirmation.
“Right, I cannot go into details, but we are investigating a series of killings that appear to be connected.”
Call It Pretending (#3 - D.I. Paolo Storey Crime Series) Page 18