THE DOMINO BOYS (a psychological thriller)

by D. M. Mitchell

  He struck her again, this time a punch to her stomach, and she collapsed onto the bed, groaning with the pain. He launched himself on top of her, turning her over and pinning her down on the bed. ‘Small fry, huh? How’s this for small and insignificant?’ He grabbed her arm and pinned it behind her back. She yelped. ‘I could take you right now,’ he said close to her ear, reaching up her dress and hooking his fingers in her panties, yanking them down. He groped the soft, warm flesh of her bottom. ‘And make no mistake, I will have you.’ He punched her between the shoulder blades. Once, twice. She screamed. ‘Go ahead. There’s no one here to listen to your blubbering.’

  ‘You think that makes you a big man, hitting a woman?’ she said, her voice muffled by the duvet.

  He made as if to hit her again, but his fist remained poised in mid-air. He reached behind him and took one of her stockings out of the suitcase. He tied up her hands behind her back with it, pulling the knot tight. He flipped her over. She stared at him defiantly, blood streaming down her nose. He screwed another stocking into a ball and stuffed it into her mouth, folding a light cotton blouse into a strip and fastening the sleeves around her mouth.

  ‘We had a good thing going, Camellia,’ he said. ‘But now you’ve ruined it for me.’ He stepped off the bed, bent down close to her face. ‘Ruined it! What is it with women? Don’t they know what’s good for them? Look at me, look at my looks; I could have any bird I like, Camellia. Do you really think I wanted to shack up with a frigid bitch like you? Marcus, you, your parents, you all thought I wasn’t good enough for you. You know nothing. I’m going to be big one day, you’ll see.’ Then he laughed. ‘But there again you won’t see. Because I’m going to have to take care of you, just like I did with Marcus. And I swear that bastard two-faced Roche will get what’s coming to him when he’s finished shipping out my goods. Can’t people simply keep their big mouths shut? What happened to loyalty?’

  Her eyes were glossed with terror. She groaned, her body in pain. Donnie Craddick slapped her lightly on the cheek. Smiled like a cat playing with an injured sparrow. He went to the curtains and returned seconds later with the curtain cord. He secured her to the headboard so that she could not move off the bed.

  ‘Stay here and be quiet, there’s a good girl,’ he said. He went out of the room.

  She heard the key in the lock and the soft metallic clunk of her imprisonment.

  Barry Stocker lifted the huge garage door and the light blinked on, revealing three cars parked side by side.

  ‘Mickey Craddick liked his BMWs,’ said Steve Roche behind him.

  Barry pressed the button on the key fob he had and one of the BMW’s sidelights flashed. ‘Guess we’ll take the blue one then.’ He opened the car’s door and got inside, started her up and drove it outside into the failing evening light, turned on the headlights. Roche got into the passenger seat while Barry dropped the garage door.

  Roche touched the knife resting in his coat pocket. He was good with knives. Grew up with them as a kid, learnt how to use them effectively, for the best results. He felt more comfortable with a knife than he ever did with a gun. Noisy, cumbersome things. He told Donnie Craddick that he should leave the choice of method used to eliminate Stocker to him. After all, it was his trade. Trust a professional. But Craddick was in a real state, all heated up over something, insisted that he use the gun on him, make sure it had Stocker’s prints all over it, so Roche didn’t hang around to argue. Tosser. No finesse about the man. Craddick was a certified loon, the only thing Donnie and his old man had in common. Anyhow, whatever the method he was going to use tonight it was good that Stocker had to go. One less person that knew about the money. Ginetta would appreciate that little gesture, he was sure. Put him in his good books for when Craddick was gotten rid of and he took over the Craddick patch.

  ‘Hurry up, Stocker,’ Roche snapped impatiently. ‘I’ve got things to do.’

  Barry scrambled back inside. ‘Where are we going this time of night?’

  ‘It’s none of your business. Have you still got the gun Donnie gave you?’

  ‘Sure I have,’ he said. ‘Useless without the bullets. You know where they are?’ Barry was determined to bide his time, get the bullets back. Then he’d let Craddick have it. He wouldn’t screw up next time. Wouldn’t bottle out.

  ‘Why’d you think he did that, Stocker, eh? Give you a gun without bullets.’

  ‘I dunno,’ he returned.

  ‘Guess he wants to make you know what it feels like to be a man without a prick attached, Stocker.’

  Better than being a prick without a man attached, thought Barry sourly. ‘Very funny, Roche,’ he said under his breath.

  ‘I’m getting bored of this conversation, Stocker. Just drive, will you?’

  Barry said OK, drove down the gravel drive to the gates. They swung open.

  Parked outside, blocking the exit just like before, was DI Lavery’s blue Ford.

  ‘I don’t believe this joker!’ said Roche. ‘What’s he doing here?’ He unconsciously touched the spot where the knife hung heavy. ‘Get rid of him.’

  Barry got out of the car just as Lavery vacated the Ford and came up to the gate. ‘We need to get out,’ said Barry. ‘If you want Donnie Craddick he’s back at the house.’

  Inspector Lavery strolled up close to him. ‘Beautiful evening, eh, Mr Stocker?’

  ‘Sure.’ He said uncertainly.

  Steve Roche got out of the BMW. ‘What is it this time, Lavery?’ he said.

  ‘In a hurry to get somewhere, Mr Roche?’

  ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘What do you want? I’ve got business to attend to.’

  Lavery raised a brow. ‘I’ll bet you do. Late-night shopping trip, Mr Roche? Run out of milk?’

  ‘Another time, Lavery. What do you want?’

  ‘I want Mr Stocker here,’ he said.

  ‘Eh?’ said Barry.

  ‘What do you want him for?’ said Roche.

  ‘This way, Mr Stocker,’ said Lavery. ‘To the car.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Don’t argue.’

  As Barry got close to the Ford, Lavery grabbed him. ‘Hands on the roof of the car.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Now!’ he demanded.

  Barry did as he was told.

  ‘What’s going on?’ said Roche.

  Lavery began to search Barry. His hands went to Barry’s pocket and pulled out the gun. ‘Well, well, well! What do we have here?’

  ‘It’s not loaded or anything!’ Barry protested.

  ‘Have you got a license for this, Mr Stocker?’

  ‘No…’

  ‘In the car,’ Lavery snarled. The sort of snarl you didn’t argue with.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard,’ said Lavery firmly. ‘Get in the back of the car.’ He opened a door and bundled a confused Barry into the Ford. He slammed the door on him.

  ‘Where are you taking him?’ asked Roche.

  ‘We want to ask him a few questions.’

  ‘You can’t do that!’ Roche protested.

  ‘I can do what I like, Mr Roche. I’m the law.’

  With that Lavery got back inside the car and drove quickly away.

  ‘Shit!’ said Roche, thumping the air.

  ‘But I haven’t done anything wrong,’ said Barry from the back seat.

  Just keep quiet and everything will be all right,’ said Lavery.

  ‘This isn’t the way to the police station.’

  ‘We’re taking a little detour,’ he said.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘I’m protecting you.’

  ‘I don’t need protection.’

  Lavery grinned. ‘Yes you do.’

  ‘From Donnie Craddick?’

  ‘From yourself,’ he returned.

  The car left the lights of Overthorpe behind and headed out into open country. It was dark now, the car’s headlights cutting a bright swathe down the deserted road. It took a right, down a small road.


  ‘Where are you taking me? This isn’t the police station.’ Barry began to get panicky.

  ‘You wanted to kill Mr Craddick, didn’t you?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Don’t mess with me, Barry. You wanted to use the gun.’

  ‘Has Alfie been talking to you?’ He thumped the seat. ‘He shopped me to the police! The little bastard shopped me to the police!’

  ‘Then it’s true?’

  ‘I ain’t saying anything till I get a lawyer. I’ll kill that so-called friend of mine when I see him…’ he fumed.

  ‘Shall I take that seriously, too? I get this feeling about a person and you hardly seem like a mass murderer.’

  ‘Anyhow, the gun’s empty,’ he said. ‘Check for yourself. How can I kill someone with an empty gun? And you can’t arrest someone for just thinking about killing someone. Hell, half the country would be locked up if so.’

  ‘Fair point. Ever thought that someone might be planning to kill you?’

  He frowned. ‘Are they?’

  ‘Is your passport still valid, Mr Stocker?’

  ‘What? What are you going on about?’

  ‘I asked you a question,’ he returned firmly. ‘Is your passport still valid?’

  ‘Yes. What’s that got to do with anything? And who wants to kill me? Craddick?’

  Laverfy didn’t reply. The car came into a small village and Lavery pulled up outside a cottage tucked away on its own. The street was empty, two streetlamps the only source of light.

  ‘Where are we?’ said Barry worriedly.

  ‘Where we need to be,’ he replied enigmatically. ‘Follow me, Mr Stocker.’

  Lavery vacated the car and opened the rear door of the Ford. Barry was reluctant to get out. ‘Are you working for that guy Ginetta?’

  Lavery grinned. ‘You have an active imagination. Come on, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.’

  He got out, nervously looked about him, but meekly followed Lavery to the cottage door. He stepped inside, the harsh light from the tiny hall bathing Barry’s concerned features and emphasising them.

  ‘You’ve got the wrong guy,’ said Barry as the door closed behind him.

  ‘Most definitely the right one,’ Lavery replied. ‘Through there, into the living room.’ He gestured with his open palm.

  Barry did as he was told, went cautiously into the living room.

  A man rose from a seat. Came forward.

  ‘Hi, Barry,’ he said.

  It was Duncan Winslade.

  * * * *

  19

  A Loaded Question

  ‘It’s a beautiful morning,’ he said, standing by the curtains and looking down onto the grounds of Red House. Alfie Parker’s white van was just coming through the gates. 10.00 a.m. precisely. He smiled smugly. It felt good to have people under your thumb. ‘Shame you’re not up out of bed and about to make the most of it.’ Donnie Craddick went over to the bed. Looked down on Camellia Lucas’ still, bound form. She glowered up at him. He bent close to her, wiped a finger over her cheek. She flinched a little.

  ‘She’s here, Mr Craddick,’ said Steve Roche from the open bedroom door.

  ‘I’ve got to go now,’ Craddick said to Camellia. ‘Got to see a rather charming lady. She’s about to write a piece about me for her newspaper. But I’ll be back. You can bet on that.’

  Roche was grinning from the doorway. ‘Mr Craddick tells me you and me are going to spend some quality time together later, Camellia.’

  ‘OK, let’s get down to business, Roche,’ said Craddick, ushering him out of the room and closing the door. ‘Any news on Stocker?’

  ‘None. I’m checking up but not sure where he’s being held.’

  A deep groaning sound came from his throat. ‘I should have taken care of him earlier.’

  ‘I did tell you…’

  ‘Forget him for now. Have you sorted my money?’

  ‘I’ve got it downstairs for you. You’ve got a week to pay it back.’

  Craddick smiled. ‘No problem.’

  ‘But we’ve got other issues. Staff issues…’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about, Roche?’

  ‘Those two guys you hired as minders.’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘They legged it. Last night.’

  ‘Why, for Christ’s sake?’

  ‘Seems the incident in the grounds unnerved them.’

  ‘I needed them to come with me when I meet with Ginetta. I’ll be going without protection otherwise.’

  ‘You’ve got me,’ Roche assured.

  ‘I need more!’ he screeched.

  ‘You can’t get the staff these days…’

  ‘Damn their hides! When this is over I want them punished.’

  ‘That list is growing, Mr Craddick.’

  ‘Are you questioning me?’ Roche shook his head meekly. ‘Find me someone else, someone who isn’t afraid of their own shadow.’

  ‘I can’t find anyone that soon.’

  ‘Then as soon as you can, moron!’ he barged past Roche.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Craddick,’ said Susie Storey as Craddick entered the room. She reached out a hand to shake.

  ‘You can call me Donnie, please.’

  ‘Donnie it is.’

  The reporter had a large black sports bag slung over her shoulder. ‘That looks heavy; let me help you with it,’ he offered.

  ‘That’s fine, Donnie. I’m used to lugging this around; it’s my camera and recording equipment. We have to be head cook and bottle washer these days. The paper used to employ their own photographers but what with the cuts they’re a luxury and largely a thing of the past. Is this where we’re going to do the interview?’

  They were in a drawing room. The sunshine was slanting in through the tall windows, casting hot panes of blistering light onto the carpet. A tasteless, ornate, gold-painted statue of a half-naked woman appeared to be sunning herself in the early-morning beams.

  ‘I dunno. Is this OK?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, for the interview, yes, but for the photograph I think it would be good to have you posed against something more office-like. You know, give you a sturdy businessman’s air. I remember your father showing me to his office when I interviewed him. Is that still available?’

  ‘Sure it is. Let me take you to it.’

  ‘Great!’ she said, shouldering the bag and following him.

  ‘There,’ he said, opening the door, ‘how’s that?’

  She stepped inside the room. Her eyes widened in pleasure. ‘This hasn’t changed. I’ll put my stuff down here,’ she said, placing it by Mickey Craddick’s desk. ‘Your father liked his books,’ she said, looking across at the bookcase crammed with leather-bound volumes.

  ‘Not a bit. Those are for show. My father used to brag that he’d read two books his entire life; the first was a Famous Five novel, and the other wasn’t.’

  ‘Oh. He told me otherwise.’

  ‘He would. Shall we get on? Where do you want me?’

  Susie reached into the holdall and took out a notebook and pen and a small recorder. She placed the recorder on the desk. ‘Here will do nicely,’ she said, indicating for him to sit in his father’s chair. He smiled and sat down, tried to make himself comfortable. But he never felt comfortable sitting in his father’s chair. She sat opposite, looking across the desk at him.

  ‘Right, let’s get on with the interview.’

  ‘It’s a bit formal, isn’t it? Me behind the desk. It’s like I’m about to interview you.’

  ‘I think it makes you appear – how shall we say – dominant.’

  He raised a brow. ‘You like dominant men?’

  ‘Sometimes. When it suits me.’

  ‘I can be dominant if you like.’

  She grinned. ‘I’m sure you can, Donnie. She opened up her pad and hit the record button on the machine.

  ‘What say we get together after the interview?’ he said. �
�We can go out for a meal or something.’

  ‘I thought you were going to get married, Donnie.’

  ‘I’m not married yet,’ he said. ‘Anyhow, my fiancé has gone back home. I’ve been left all alone in this big empty house.’

  ‘I doubt a man like you is afraid of a big empty house, Donnie.’ She tested her pen on the paper. ‘OK, maybe we can go out some time. I’d like that. But first I need to get that interview.’

  ‘I’m all yours,’ he said, leaning forward, his elbows on the desk, his chin supported on a bridge made by his interlocked hands. ‘Be kind to me in that article, won’t you?’

  ‘You have my word, Donnie. It’s hard to be unkind to a man like you.’

  ‘You flatterer,’ he said.

  ‘That makes two of us.’ Her eyes shone.

  ‘Who’s that with you?’ Steve Roche called over to Alfie Parker.

  Alfie was in the process of unloading the carpet cleaning equipment from his van parked by the rear door.

  ‘His names Dickie Sugden,’ he replied.

  Dickie paused at the van’s door. A large, heavy cardboard box in his hands. ‘Hello,’ said Dickie.

  ‘He’s been helping me out here for a few days. He’s not got any work and since he’s built like an ox and I’m getting on a bit I thought he could help me clean all these bloody carpets. Do you know how long this is going to take me?’

  ‘I don’t care,’ said Roche. ‘Donnie told me to tell you that you can’t work today.’

  ‘Why not? I’ve got the bedrooms to finish off.’

  Roche sneered. ‘Just do as I say, Parker. Donnie’s being interviewed in his father’s office. He doesn’t want disturbing.’

  ‘Can I drop off these boxes first? Save me doing it tomorrow,’ said Alfie.

  ‘Whatever,’ said Roche. ‘Then get your arse out of here pronto. Donnie doesn’t want you around today.’

  Alfie motioned for Dickie to bring the box inside.

  ‘What’s in the boxes?’ questioned Roche.

  ‘They’re full of bottles of cleaning fluid. You want to check?’