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The Essence of Evil

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by The Essence of Evil (retail) (epub)


  ‘Who supplied Jimmy?’

  ‘I’ve no idea where he got the stuff. But I do know he got into trouble because of it before.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ Easton said.

  ‘He was thrown out of the bar, a few weeks ago. He was with Natalya at the time. Some other guys turned up and a fight broke out. The bouncers sorted it all, turfed the lot of them out. That was the last time I saw Jimmy.’

  Easton and Dani turned to look at each other. The conversation was certainly taking an interesting turn. Dani was now regretting setting up the meeting in such an informal way. She wasn’t far from stopping proceedings right then and starting over.

  No, don’t rattle them. Just carry on, see what else these two can give. Carry out the formalities some other time.

  The slight nod Easton gave suggested he was thinking the same thing.

  ‘Can you give us anything else at all so we can try and track this Jimmy down? An address?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ Rebecca said.

  Laura shook her head.

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘I dunno really. He was tall. Looked athletic. Square jaw, stubble. He was handsome but… there was always something off about him.’

  ‘Natalya told me he was a footballer. Not like Premier League or anything. I think it was Tamworth he played for. Used to, anyway.’

  Dani and Easton looked at each other, both clearly thinking the same thing. Easton riffled through the file he had on the desk with the info on the missing persons he and Dani had been perusing before Rebecca and Laura had arrived. He found what he was looking for.

  ‘Do you recognise this man?’ Easton asked, pulling a photo out of a plastic wallet and pushing it across the desk. It was a large colour picture of Paul Reeve – the ex-boyfriend of the missing Grace Agnew. Dani had read in the profile that Missing Persons had pulled on him when they were investigating Grace’s disappearance that he used to play for Tamworth football club.

  Both girls stared at the photo.

  Rebecca frowned. ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘That’s him. That’s Jimmy. How did you know?’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Following the confrontation with Ethan the previous day, Grant hadn’t bothered going back to work, instead spending the time at home with Mary. Their daughter, Annie, was staying at a friend’s house until late into the evening. Grant had called Professor Langley, his boss at the university, who knew about the recent stress and trouble Ethan had caused Grant and his wife, and had been happy to help Grant rearrange his diary for the rest of the day and find cover for the two lectures he was missing. Grant had been a diligent worker for years so he felt he had a decent amount of goodwill with Langley, though he would avoid testing exactly how far the goodwill would stretch if at all possible.

  It turned out, as Grant had guessed, that the police who had arrived on the scene moments after Ethan had scarpered were called by one of the neighbours, who’d reported a domestic disturbance. The two PCs, who Grant felt were somewhat out of their depth, had initially treated Grant with outright contempt, believing him to be the culprit of the disturbance, and of the clear bruising to Mary’s face. The officers had split Grant and Mary up while one of them chatted quite forcibly to Mary, trying to persuade her to come clean about her husband and press charges against him. The officer with Grant had toed a similar hard line, and seemed reluctant to believe his account of events, given the absence of the mysterious Ethan who had escaped from the scene in such timely fashion. The police had been called to the house more than once recently because of disturbances caused by Ethan, not to mention the other misdemeanours they had on record for him, from drunken assault to possession of drugs to speeding, but none of this seemed to influence their view of Grant as the likely guilty party. It was true that this was the first time that Ethan had been violent to his mother, which as far as Grant was concerned was a new low.

  Only after some time, and when the officers had conferred, did they finally come to accept that they’d misread the situation. Both were then apologetic, but still determined to make an arrest, and it had taken a lot of persuasion by Grant and Mary to get the officers to agree to not take the matter any further. Neither Grant nor Mary wanted Ethan arrested and banged up, however increasingly despicable his behaviour was. Plus, Grant knew he himself wasn’t wholly blameless for the fracas, given he had lunged at his son. Ethan wouldn’t get another chance though – not from the police, and not from Grant and Mary.

  Once the police had, somewhat reluctantly, headed on their way, Grant and Mary had sat in the lounge for hours, sometimes in silence, sometimes talking about the good times, Annie – their teenage daughter – and her plans for the future. They talked a bit about when Ethan was younger and a seemingly normal boy. Unsurprisingly, they’d dwelled on the bad too, discussing what had gone wrong and what they could do to change the nineteen-year-old man Ethan had become.

  At his relative young age could they still change him?

  The answer was that they had to try.

  Annie hadn’t arrived home until after ten p.m., by which point Mary was already in bed, and Grant hadn’t the heart or the strength to explain what had happened to her. The following morning his daughter had left for school before Mary was up, and Grant reluctantly headed off to work. The day passed by in a blur, and he found himself unable to properly concentrate, so he left work earlier than usual and arrived home minutes before Annie returned from school, just after four p.m.

  Following less than thirty seconds of chat with her dad, she promptly locked herself away in her bedroom, once again without seeing Mary. Her lack of social interaction with her parents was nothing more than would be expected of a fifteen-year-old girl, Grant and Mary had previously decided. She wasn’t another Ethan-sized problem in the making, just a teenager who preferred the company of her friends and her music and her phone to her boring and clueless parents. Really, Annie was a sweet girl and plenty mature enough for her age.

  So just where had everything gone wrong with Ethan, then? It was a question Grant had asked himself constantly for a while now. Ethan had never been particularly troublesome as a younger child – he was simply a typically boisterous boy who enjoyed playing rough and tumble and tormenting his little sister. Only when he was fourteen had he changed from a hyperactive boy to an out of control young man with a beef against the world. There had been no one catalyst, no spark, no trauma or suffering or loss which had caused his degradation from boy to loser. Ethan was just Ethan.

  Grant still lived in the vague hope that perhaps his son would grow out of his arsehole stage. That he’d find a good job and a nice girlfriend, and would settle down and become a real man. As the days and months wore on, that dream felt further and further from reality. But it was still a dream that Grant clung to. Largely because he couldn’t fathom how the current situation would ever end with a positive outcome.

  How much further into the mire could they spiral?

  ‘Shall I fix us some pasta?’ Mary said, coming into the lounge.

  He saw the look of despair still on her face.

  ‘Sure,’ Grant said. ‘Honey, you have to believe that this isn’t our fault. It just isn’t. We tried everything to get things right with him.’

  ‘Did we?’ Mary asked. By now the swelling around her eye had turned purple, the eyelid was swollen almost shut.

  ‘You know we did.’

  Ethan had been aggressive towards them both before, and he’d bordered on violence, squaring up to his dad more than once. But he’d never lashed out at them like he had the previous day. Certainly never hit his own mother. That was a new low from which Grant struggled to see a return.

  Mary shook her head. ‘I used to think that too, but it’s just not true, is it? It can’t be. If we’d really tried everything, then that wouldn’t be our Ethan.’

  In reality Grant felt the same; that he and Mary were the ones to blame.

  * * *

  Thirty minutes later Grant and M
ary were sitting at the breakfast table in their lavish country-style kitchen, silently eating bowls of penne arrabbiata, a favourite of Grant’s. The irony wasn’t lost on him that the literal translation of the fiery sauce’s name was ‘angry’.

  As Grant began to wipe his empty bowl clean with a piece of bread, Annie finally made an appearance in the kitchen doorway, some fifteen minutes after Mary had called her down.

  ‘Mum!’ Annie shouted, when she saw Mary’s face. ‘What the—?’

  ‘Come and eat your tea, sweetie,’ Mary said, the look on her face suggesting she was as embarrassed by the bruise as she was sad or angry.

  Annie stormed over and plonked herself down on a chair, her cheeks reddening.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me something was wrong? What happened?’

  ‘We didn’t want to worry you.’

  ‘What’s going on, Mum? Why have you got a black eye?’

  Mary looked over to Grant for help.

  ‘Ethan came over yesterday,’ Grant said.

  ‘Ethan hit you?!’ Annie shrieked. ‘That piece of sh—’

  ‘Language!’ Grant shouted.

  ‘Sorry,’ Annie said, hanging her head. ‘I just can’t… I can’t believe he’d do that. God, I really hate him.’

  Mary shook her head. ‘Don’t say that. He didn’t mean it.’

  ‘Yes he did,’ Grant said. ‘He knew exactly what he was doing. Don’t you stick up for him now.’

  Mary huffed and got up from her seat. She snatched Grant’s empty bowl away from him and padded over to the Belfast sink that looked out over the large back garden.

  ‘Why would he do that?’ Annie asked Grant, quietly.

  ‘Best not to think about it. He certainly won’t get away with it again. The police wanted us to press charges.’

  ‘The police were here again? Why are you only telling me this now?’

  Grant didn’t really have an answer for that. Mary said nothing, doing a good job of keeping herself out of the conversation.

  ‘Why didn’t you press charges?’ Annie asked.

  ‘Because he’s still our son. Your brother.’

  ‘Are you sure about that? Maybe he was swapped at birth or something.’

  Annie smiled mischievously and Grant reciprocated.

  ‘I can still hear you both,’ Mary snapped from the sink, clearly not impressed.

  ‘Seriously, Annie, don’t worry about Ethan. We’ll deal with it. And he would never hurt you.’

  ‘You reckon?’

  ‘Of course,’ Grant said, but as soon as the words had passed his lips he realised there had been an edge to Annie’s response. ‘Wait, what do you mean? What has he done to you?’

  Annie shook her head and looked down at her food.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ she said.

  ‘Just tell me.’

  She said nothing.

  ‘Annie, damn it, tell me!’

  Grant’s raised voice made Annie jump and Mary rushed over and put her arms around her daughter.

  ‘Don’t you take this out on her,’ Mary said.

  ‘Fine! I’ll tell you. Even though I told him I wouldn’t.’ Annie paused and looked away. ‘You know where he’s staying now, right?’

  ‘With a friend, that’s all he told us,’ Grant said.

  ‘His name’s Jimmy,’ Annie said. ‘He’s way older than Ethan, like twenty-five or something. He’s a complete…’

  She paused again and looked at her dad. Clearly she’d thought twice about whatever word she’d been about to use.

  ‘…Oh, I don’t know, he’s just so sleazy and slimy, and horrible.’

  Grant was vaguely aware of Jimmy because he’d been to the house once or twice to pick Ethan up in his car when Ethan had still lived there. He was an out and out loser, as far as Grant was concerned – cocky and arrogant. Probably one of the popular kids back in his school days. Such kids sometimes forgot to grow up.

  ‘What is it, Annie?’ Grant said.

  ‘Look, I can’t say much, because I wasn’t there, but Jimmy is always taking girls back to his place; he thinks he’s a real stud. My friend, Olivia, slept with him.’

  ‘With Ethan?’

  ‘No! With Jimmy.’

  ‘She’s only fifteen!’ Mary blasted.

  ‘I know! But he picked her up in a bar. Maybe he didn’t know.’

  ‘What? Wait, since when have you—’

  ‘I wasn’t with her, Dad. I don’t go to bars. But Jimmy doesn’t care how old they are. He’s so creepy. Apparently Ethan was there too. In the bar, and in the apartment. He’s always there. They’re like a sleazy duo. Their place is a proper bachelor’s pad. They both take different girls back there all the time. That’s what I was told, anyway.’

  Grant shut his eyes, trying to block the unwelcome images that were forming in his mind. What on earth was wrong with Ethan?

  ‘All the boys at school think it’s hilarious,’ Annie said. ‘They’re always making fun of me, calling Ethan a paedophile.’

  Grant squirmed at the word. The more he heard, the more he felt queasy. He didn’t know what to say. Mary looked similarly frozen.

  ‘He’s not. Is he, Dad?’

  ‘No, Annie, of course he’s not. That’s a horrible thing for them to say.’

  ‘I just wish he’d grow up and get a life,’ Annie said, and Grant truly was with her on that one.

  The doorbell chimed and Grant looked over at Mary. He didn’t know why but he was filled with nerves all of a sudden. Was it the thought that it might be Ethan at the door? Or the police again? He really didn’t know.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ he said.

  Grant walked through the hallway towards the front door. It was still light outside and as he approached he noticed out of the porch window who was standing on the front step. Ed Francis. The nosy neighbour.

  What was he doing there? Come to gloat about the police’s appearance yesterday? Or to find out some more of the details, some juicy gossip to pass on to the other busybodies in the street?

  Grant shook his head to clear his thoughts before he opened the door.

  ‘Hi Steven,’ Francis said, peering over Grant’s shoulder. ‘Not a bad time, is it?’ he asked, and it sounded like he hoped the answer was yes.

  ‘Course not,’ Grant said, acting relaxed and nonchalant. ‘Why would it be?’

  ‘What? Oh, no reason.’

  Grant resisted rolling his eyes. What had Francis expected him to say? To give him all the gory details of yesterday’s incident with their out of control son?

  ‘Yeah, anyway,’ Francis continued in his annoying southern wide-boy accent, ‘the reason I popped over was, I noticed the other day, when you were cleaning out your garage, that you had a set of golf clubs in there.’

  This time Grant had to try really hard not to roll his eyes. Was there anything this guy didn’t see?

  Francis stopped talking and Grant wondered what he was waiting for.

  ‘Yeah. And?’

  ‘Oh, I just wasn’t sure if you’re still a golfer or not.’

  ‘I was never much of a golfer, to be honest, but I play every now and then.’

  ‘Great. The thing is, I just joined a new club. You know the Belfry?’

  Did Grant know the Belfry? That world-renowned golf club just down the road that had hosted the Ryder Cup four times? Oh yeah, that rang a bell. Even someone who didn’t know a birdie from a bogey had heard of the place. This was typical Francis. The guy and his wife had only moved to the area a couple of months ago but from the little Grant could make of the two they were out and out show-offs. Fancy cars, fancy clothes. Fancy golf club. Always trying to rub their wealth in other people’s faces. Perhaps that was why Francis was always snooping about the place. He was determined to make sure he was the most overtly rich and fashionable person on the street.

  Grant had no idea what Francis did for a job. He was younger than Grant was, probably in his early forties. He didn’t seem to have a regular office job,
never left the house first thing in a suit or anything like that.

  Snoopy neighbour? Look who’s talking, Grant thought, realising then how much attention he’d been paying to Francis over the last few weeks.

  Takes one to know one.

  ‘Yeah, Ed, I know the Belfry.’

  ‘Awesome. Well, you know, if you fancy a game? I don’t know that many people down there yet, but I could introduce you to some of the crowd. Would be good to get to know you a bit better, us being neighbours and all.’

  ‘I’m a bit busy this week to be honest,’ Grant said.

  ‘Oh, right, yeah. But I’ve actually got a game first thing tomorrow, eight a.m. I noticed before that you’re normally around Wednesday mornings, aren’t you?’

  Grant clenched his jaw for a couple of seconds. Francis was right. Did he miss anything? Wednesday was Grant’s quietest day, and he usually either worked from home all day or headed to the university only after lunch.

  ‘Yeah, ok, why not?’ Grant said, surprising himself somewhat, but in a way it felt easier to just agree and get Francis to bugger off. ‘Would be good to dust the cobwebs off the clubs.’

  ‘Nice one,’ Francis said, looking over his shoulder to Grant’s old Merc. ‘We can pop over there in my Range Rover. Only had it a couple of weeks though, so we’ll have to be careful not to get it too muddy, but there’s plenty of room in there for the two of us and our bags.’

  ‘That’s no way to talk about my wife,’ Grant said.

  Francis didn’t seem to get the joke. Really Grant wasn’t sure why he’d even attempted the humour. Was it because on some level he was trying to impress the flash Francis?

  ‘I’ll pick you up just after seven?’ Francis said. ‘That’ll give us time to get down there and warm up a bit.’

  ‘Not a problem, I’ll see you then.’

  Grant went to push the door closed and Francis once again looked over Grant’s shoulder, no doubt looking to see if there was anything of interest happening within the madhouse.

  There wasn’t.

  Grant shut the door and returned to the kitchen. Annie had already disappeared and Grant felt a little uneasy that the awkward conversation with her had been left unfinished. Mary was just finishing cleaning up.

 

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