Cruel Comfort (Evan Buckley Thrillers Book 1)

by James, Harper

  'Beats me,' Jacobson said, 'but I think you need to be careful. This guy obviously means business. Whatever it is, he wants it badly.'

  He got up to go, but Evan stopped him.

  'There's something I want to ask - or tell - you, Tom. McIntyre isn't the only strange visitor I've had recently.'

  Jacobson gave him a look that suggested he might be regretting his understanding attitude, and sat back down. 'Do I really want to hear this?'

  'No, it's not connected. Or at least I don't think it is.' Then Evan told him all about his elusive visitor and how he had no idea who it could be or what she wanted.

  'The thing is, Tom, you've been really understanding and just generally great about this whole situation that I'm in, and it crossed my mind that you might have steered some work my way. Someone you know who needs my sort of services.'

  Jacobson shook his head. 'No, it's nothing to do with me. If I could help out that way, then I wouldn't hesitate to recommend you - I've got my rent to think about after all. But I'm afraid I can't lay claim to this one, Evan. It looks like you've got two mysteries on your hands.'

  After he'd gone, Evan had a couple of jobs that he wanted to get out of the way before he did anything else. First, he poured the rest of the whisky down the sink. It wasn't exactly that he didn't trust himself, but it had kind of a symbolic feel to it as well. Then he copied the Stanton photos onto another memory stick and mailed it to himself at his apartment. The previous night's events had shaken him up more than he cared to admit, and you couldn't be too careful.

  CHAPTER 7

  With her address and license plate number it didn't take Evan long to find out that the woman's name was Linda Clayton. The name didn't mean anything to him, but he knew a good place to start his digging. About five thirty he went downstairs to see Jacobson again. Jacobson had lived in the area forever and would be a good source of local information. He found him getting ready to go home and suggested they go for a beer. Jacobson was more than happy to join him when Evan told him he’d identified the mystery woman.

  They walked to a bar called Arnold's just down the street. It was a beautiful old place, with original woodwork and lots of historical stuff on the walls. Evan liked it because it was a no-bullshit local bar. Not a lounge which is what everywhere seemed to be called these days. You waited for a plane in a lounge, not drink beer.

  They got settled up at the bar, and the barman served them a couple of cold beers. Evan told Jacobson that although he'd found out who his mysterious nocturnal visitor was, he still had no idea what she wanted.

  'Her name's Linda Clayton. I know you've lived round here for about a hundred years so I wondered if you maybe knew her. Perhaps she's been the lucky recipient of some of that famous root canal work.'

  Jacobson smiled. 'Well if she had, I wouldn't be able to discuss her personal information with you...but luckily for you, she's not a patient. I also happen to know exactly who she is.'

  He drained his beer, put the glass down on the counter and sat back in his stool.

  'I know this is what they all do in those crappy movies you watch,' Evan said, with a grin, 'but all you have to say is May I have another beer please, Evan.'

  He called the barman over and ordered another round. 'I'm treating this as rent-in-kind you know.'

  ‘I also know why she came to see you,’ Jacobson said.

  ‘I suppose you want me to line them up on the bar. Just get on with it.’

  'She's actually pretty well known round here. Not exactly a celebrity but everyone knows who she is. And her story.'

  He took another long pull of his beer and sat lost in his thoughts, almost as if Evan wasn't there.

  'I don't exactly feel like I'm drowning in a sea of facts here,' Evan said, waving his hand in front of Jacobson's face.

  Jacobson flinched slightly. 'Sorry, I was just thinking back to when it all happened. It's like it was only yesterday, but it must be ten years ago at least.'

  He drained the second beer and ordered another one for both of them. He was a big man but Evan reckoned he might not be the only one sleeping in the office that night.

  'As I said, it was about ten years ago. Everything in Linda Clayton's life was rosy. Nothing out of the ordinary, just your normal small town family. Happily married to a good man, name of Robbie Clayton, with a great kid. Daniel.'

  He swallowed thickly and cleared his throat. He wasn't a sentimental man and Evan knew not to expect any kind of a happy ending to the story.

  'Then in the space of a month her husband and the boy both disappeared. She's never recovered.'

  Evan didn't really know what to say. He knew more than most what it was like to lose someone you loved, but your husband and your child in such a short space of time was unthinkable.

  'So what happened?'

  'Actually I've got that the wrong way round.’ Jacobson said, clearing his throat again. ‘The boy disappeared first and then the husband.'

  'Were they connected?'

  'Who knows. They must have been. They both just disappeared off the face of the earth.’ He looked directly into Evan’s eyes. ‘I'm sorry, Evan, I know this must be terrible for you.'

  He was right, but he would probably never know quite how much it hurt. For the second time in seventy-two hours Evan had been transported back in time to a place that he didn't know if he wanted to forget or live in for the rest of his life.

  'I think it's obvious what she wants,' Jacobson said, 'but why you and why now, I have no idea.'

  Evan felt something rising up inside him. A deep-seated resentment that he'd lived with for the past five years. 'Did the police do anything? I mean, a missing kid's important, right. Something to be taken seriously' - it came out as a sibilant hiss - 'a totally different kettle of fish to a missing adult. Someone who probably chose to run away.' He knew he sounded bitter, but he couldn't help it and he didn't care anyway. Not after three or four or was it ten beers. Fleetwood Mac's 'Gypsy' was playing on the jukebox. Thank God it wasn't 'Sarah'. Even so, he thought he was either going to get up and smash the machine into little pieces or he was going to cry.

  Jacobson put a massive hand on his shoulder and squeezed, then just let it rest there. Evan took a deep breath and rubbed his face. 'Page one of the manual states, and I quote, 'Do not form an emotional attachment with the client'. How do you think I'd do on that score if I take her on, Tom?'

  'I think you'd give it your best shot. And I think it would be good for you. Catharsis.'

  Evan wasn't sure if the beers were inhibiting his normal mental prowess or he just didn't know what the word meant. Either way his vacant face gave him away.

  'Just look it up,' Jacobson said.

  'Did they get anywhere at all with the kid? What about the father?' Evan said, pulling himself together a bit.

  'They pulled out all the stops on the kid as you'd expect, but they didn't get anywhere. They took a hard look at the parents as they always do, and then when the father disappeared too, they pretty well assumed that he'd done the kid in and then done a runner. But they didn't find him either.'

  Evan shook his head as he tried to comprehend what Linda Clayton must have gone through. 'So Linda Clayton had to live with the loss of her husband and son, and, as if that wasn't enough, listen to all the whispered gossip that her husband had probably killed the boy. Jesus wept.'

  'That about sums it up. I'm sure you know how unkind people can be. End result is, she's pretty much become a recluse. You never see her out in the daytime. That's why she's been coming round to your office at night.'

  'I still don't understand why me. I'm not what you'd call a famous detective. My reputation doesn't exactly precede me everywhere I go.'

  Jacobson was kind enough not to point out the most simple explanation - that she'd probably tried everybody else already. 'You'll have to ask her that when you meet her.'

  Evan knew he was right. There was no way on earth he was going to let this drop now. Even if Linda Clayton didn
't want to talk to him he wouldn't be able to walk away. Patterns he didn't want to see wormed their way into his mind. He didn't want to think too hard about the possibility of a connection between a young boy and a grown man disappearing ten years ago and Sarah's disappearance five years later. Unfortunately, you don't have much control over the things your subconscious decides to push to the forefront of your mind. You just have to deal with them once they're there.

  There was a loud crack as Evan’s glass suddenly exploded in his hand. He’d been gripping it so tightly, it had shattered. Luckily it was empty but a shard of broken glass cut him on the palm. It wasn’t too bad and he sucked the blood out of it as the barman picked up all the pieces.

  Then he ordered two more of the only answer he could think of at the moment. They weren't the last two either.

  He couldn't get to sleep that night, lying awake in his sleeping bag and thinking about the Claytons, and what might have happened to then. That segued far too easily into morbid thoughts about Sarah and what might have happened to her. His mind played horrible tricks on him at times like these.

  Had she deliberately left him? He would get vague memories suddenly spring into his mind of a terrible argument they'd had the night before she disappeared. The worst part was, he could never swear for sure that it hadn't actually happened. He had a recurring nightmare that he'd killed her and buried her in their yard. Then he'd sold the house and forgotten all about it until now, when the new owners had dug up her body and he was about to be caught. But whatever strange tricks his mind played on him, there was always a common thread running through it all; that it was his fault she was gone.

  He hoped to God that Jacobson was right and this case, if that's what it was, might provide some kind of catharsis. But until it did, he lay there like he did most nights he was drunk, listening to Steve Earle's I'm Still in Love with You on repeat, with Iris DeMent's forlorn vocals cutting into him like a knife, twisting in his gut and eviscerating him. It usually played through six or seven before he drifted off, but that night he must have listened to it a dozen times before he finally fell asleep.

  The glass panel in the door exploded inwards, showering Evan with tiny shards of glass. A hand reached through the hole and unlatched the door. Evan struggled to sit up in his sleeping bag but couldn’t move his arms; they were trapped in the twisted folds of the bag.

  The door swung open and Hugh McIntyre stepped into the room. He was dressed exactly as when Evan had last seen him, wearing just his pants and without any shoes. His chest was broad and muscular, his stomach flat and rippled, and he had a prominent bulge in the front of his pants. He was sweating heavily and the salty, almost chlorine, smell of sex was coming off him in waves.

  He smiled contemptuously, his eyes still wild, as he watched Evan’s pathetic attempts to free himself.

  ‘You should have reversed back over me when you had the chance, you pervert,’ he said in a voice that sounded a lot like Stanton’s. ‘That’s a mistake you’re going to live with for the rest of your life.’

  Evan tried to speak but nothing came out. His mouth opened and closed uselessly like a goldfish. He watched McIntyre as he walked slowly across the room, oblivious to the shards of glass as they crunched and lacerated his feet. He twisted frantically from side to side trying to get himself free, but the more he struggled, the more caught up he became.

  With a shock he noticed McIntyre was carrying a coil of thick rope – the sort Stanton must have used. Where the hell had that come from? He hadn’t been carrying that a minute ago.

  Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. McIntyre walked over to the desk and saw the bottle of scotch. The smile grew wider.

  ‘Even better,’ he said, throwing the rope on top of Evan. He picked up the bottle and slowly unscrewed the cap. He threw back his head and took a long pull on the drink. Mesmerized, Evan watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he poured the whisky down his throat. Then he stopped, stretched his arm out over Evan and upended the bottle.

  Evan tried to cry out but again nothing came. He watched the amber liquid as it fell slowly through the air before splashing onto his face and hair, the stinging liquid running into his eyes and throat, making him cough and splutter. He threw his head from side to side but that just made it go up his nose. He was choking. He couldn’t free himself. The bottle seemed to be never ending. It wasn’t like that when he was drinking it. The whisky ran off his skin and soaked into the sleeping bag and the carpet until he was lying in a pool of it.

  McIntyre whooped and threw the bottle at the window, smashing the glass and letting the chill night air in. He pulled a box of matches from his pocket. He struck one and casually let it drop. Horrified, Evan watched it as it tumbled through the air, slowly turning over and over. McIntyre struck another one, then another.

  ‘Toot! Toot!’ he laughed, mimicking the sound of Evan’s car horn. ‘Remember that, do you?’

  The first match landed in the pool of whisky on the floor and spluttered out. The second one landed in Evan’s hair. So did the third. The scotch ignited with a roar and Evan felt a searing heat crawl over his scalp. He screamed and jerked himself into a sitting position. He looked around him, the scream dying on his lips.

  McIntyre was gone. The door was closed, the glass intact. The window wasn’t broken. His hair and his body were slick and sticky but only with sweat. The sleeping bag was damp with sweat too. There wasn’t a rope or any whisky. He’d poured it down the sink. It was just a dream. He ran his hand through his hair and flopped backwards and lay staring up at the ceiling waiting for his heart and his breathing to slow.

  CHAPTER 8

  There wasn’t any more sleep for him that night so he was up early the next day. He started researching the case, but soon realized he wasn't going to find out much more than Tom Jacobson had told him the night before. The newspaper archives told a familiar story with the media's rapidly dwindling interest mirroring the lack of any palpable progress by the police. The only piece of information of any use that he could find was the name of the chief of police ten years ago; Matt Faulkner.

  He knew he was given to seeing the faults in anything the police did, but he couldn't help but feel that they'd been far too quick to pin the blame for the boy's disappearance on the father, once he too disappeared. He made up his mind to go to see Faulkner, and try to get more information out of him before doing any more digging himself. If Faulkner talked to him he could save himself a lot of unnecessary legwork. He would have liked to talk to Linda Clayton first - if he could talk to her there was a better chance that Faulkner would talk to him - but she hadn't made any attempts to contact him.

  It didn't even cross his mind that he wasn't actually working for her. Somehow it had turned into a personal crusade.

  He decided his best bet was to drive out and try to talk to Matt Faulkner immediately. Faulkner had retired some years ago and was now living in a trailer park on the outskirts of town. Evan didn't bother ringing ahead as he wasn't sure Faulkner would agree to talk to him, particularly since the case wasn't what you’d call his finest hour.

  The man who was locking up the trailer door as Evan walked up certainly didn't look like Evan expected him to. The trailer park wasn't the greatest place he'd ever been, but if he thought Faulkner was going to be sitting around his trailer all day in a wife beater and grubby old pants, drinking beer and smoking, he couldn't have been further from the truth.

  Faulkner was mid sixties with short, steel gray hair and a flat, square face. He was tall and slim and looked like an advert for healthy living. He looked like he was on his way to the gym.

  'I'm on my way to the gym,' he said when he saw Evan approaching. 'I don't want to buy whatever it is you're selling.'

  'I'm not selling anything, Mr Faulkner. I'd like to ask you a few questions.'

  'Sorry, I don’t do surveys. I'm in a bit of a hurry actually. Can you come back another time? Maybe four or five years.'

  'It's about one of
your past cases.'

  Faulkner clearly wasn't expecting that reply. He looked at Evan suspiciously. 'What, you want to write my memoirs?' he snorted.

  'No, it's just one case I'm interested in.'

  Faulkner's eyes narrowed. Evan had the impression he knew which one it was going to be. 'And which one might that be?'

  'Daniel Clayton.'

  Evan couldn't be sure but he thought Faulkner stiffened when he heard the name.

  'As I said, I'm in a hurry.' He started walking towards his car.

  'Linda Clayton hired me to look into the case,' Evan blurted out. He didn't know what made him say it, but it got Faulkner's attention. He stopped and looked at Evan, raising his eyebrows.

  'You sure about that?'

  'Of course I'm sure. Why else would I be here?'

  'You tell me, son. It's just that as far as I know, Linda Clayton gave up on that boy years ago. Gone soft in the head too, if you ask me.'

  'Losing a son and a husband in the space of a few weeks can do that to a person.'

  Faulkner nodded. He had a tight expression on his face. He seemed to be assessing Evan, weighing him up. Maybe he was embarrassed by what he'd just said about Linda Clayton.

  'Okay, I'll give you five minutes, for all the good it'll do you.'

  He walked back to the trailer and unlocked the door. 'Come on in. I don't want to talk about it out here.'

  Evan was surprised for the second time that morning as he entered the immaculately kept trailer. Obviously it showed on his face too.

  'What did you expect?' Faulkner said, 'Empty beer cans and overflowing ashtrays all over the place? Isn't that how trailer trash live?'

  'Do you live here alone?' Evan asked, inadvertently digging himself into the hole even further.

  'Yeah, but the maid comes in every morning and tidies up after me.'

  Evan could feel a flush creeping up his face. His ears felt impossibly hot. He wasn't sure what to say.