Dead End

by Leigh Russell

  ‘You doing your paintwork?’ the cashier asked as he was fiddling with coins. It wasn't easy with gloves on. As if it was any of her business, he thought, but he knew better than to draw attention to himself so he returned her smile and nodded. A man buying white paint on a busy Saturday was nothing remarkable. She wouldn't remember him.

  He bought extra cans of paint, enough to repaint the cellar twice over. He stored all but one of the tins in the cupboard and grinned. Here he could regain his sense of order in a world that had gone spinning out of control. Occasionally it crossed his mind that what he was doing was pointless because it wouldn't bring her back, but he had always been there for her. He couldn't stop now.

  The doctor was responsible for two deaths so it was right that he should be executed. It would be soon.

  PART 4

  ‘What hands are here! Ha, they pluck out mine eyes.’

  Shakespeare

  42

  GUY

  Joe rolled over in bed but couldn't sleep. At the back of his mind he knew he had to get up soon or he'd be late for work. His boss had already been dropping hints about redundancies, regrettable but unavoidable.

  ‘Joe!’ Bethany called from the kitchen.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Get up!’ She came in and yanked at the duvet.

  ‘Oy, stop it!’

  ‘It's nearly half past seven. You'll be late if you don't get up soon.’

  He rolled lazily onto his back. ‘You could join me.’

  Bethany threw the duvet on him again. ‘In your dreams.’

  ‘Yes, there's always that.’

  ‘Come on, I've made breakfast.’

  ‘Now you're talking.’ He hauled himself upright and groaned. He'd gone to bed far too late the previous night, completely wasted. He was surprised not to be suffering a worse hangover. Bethany hadn't wanted to watch the display at the recreation ground this year.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘That woman.’

  ‘What woman?’

  ‘You know. They found some woman's body there in the trees a couple of weeks ago.’

  ‘So? She won't still be there, will she? They don't leave bodies lying around for rats and foxes.’

  ‘Shut up. That's disgusting.’

  ‘Well, what do you suggest then? You want to set off a few damp rockets in the back yard? Like next door aren't going to complain.’

  In the end they met their friends at the recreation ground as usual to watch the organised display, and drank far too much. It had been a good night. Bethany leaned over and kissed him but before he could grab hold of her she wriggled away and he soon heard her busy in the kitchen again. With a sigh he rolled out of bed.

  ‘Someone's dumped a guy in the front garden,’ Bethany said as Joe sat down. He watched her manoeuvre sausages out of the pan onto a plate.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Someone's left a guy in our front garden. Bloody cheek. You can see it out of the kitchen window.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ He gazed at her, bleary eyed.

  ‘Just what I said. A guy – you know, a guy for a bonfire. Some kids have left one out the front.’

  He shook his head and started chopping up his sausages. ‘Why?’

  ‘I don't know.’ She sat down, cradling a mug of coffee in her red hands. ‘I suppose they're going to pick it up later. It must be for a bonfire at the weekend.’

  ‘I mean why leave it in our garden?’

  ‘How the hell would I know? Perhaps it was on their way somewhere. I suppose they thought we wouldn't notice.’

  Joe tucked into his breakfast. ‘I'm going to move it,’ he announced as he scraped the last of his ketchup off his plate with the edge of his knife.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That guy in the garden.’

  ‘Where will you put it?’

  ‘I don't know. What difference? I don't want a load of bloody kids tramping around in our garden. Why don't they keep it in their own garden? I'll put it on the pavement. They're lucky we're not having a bonfire of our own this year or I know exactly what I'd do with it.’

  ‘Be careful,’ Bethany warned him as she collected his plate.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I saw a programme on the telly. Some arsehole parked a car on someone else's drive and buggered off on holiday and the people in the house were told if they moved it they'd have to pay for any damage.’

  ‘That's bollocks.’

  ‘I'm telling you, it's true. I saw it on the telly.’

  ‘Well, this isn't a car, it's some kids’ guy. And if they don't want it damaged, they shouldn't have left it in our garden. It's ours now, technically.’

  ‘No, it's not. I told you –’

  ‘Don't worry. I'm only going to put it on the pavement. But it's not staying in the garden. I don't want kids tramping around out there.’

  Joe stepped outside, whistling. It was a lovely fresh morning. He saw the guy straightaway. Half concealed behind a shrub it was leaning against the fence, a hood pulled low over its face. It was quite lifelike, in proportion and everything. He walked over to grab it under the armpits and was surprised to find it stiff and surprisingly heavy.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Joe gasped. ‘What the hell are you made of?’ He dropped it with a bump that dislodged the hood, revealing a horrific mask with gaping black holes for eyes. The rest of the face was very realistic, apart from the colouring, a kind of mottled grey, but as he leaned closer Joe saw the skin was pimpled and stubbly. He stepped back in surprise and caught sight of a grey hand, nails bitten to the quick.

  ‘Oh my God!’ He leaned forward and touched the guy on the cheek. There was no longer any doubt that he was looking at a dead body. He glanced at the empty eye sockets and looked away quickly, tears prickling at the corners of his own eyes. ‘Jesus Christ!’ He turned and ran into the street pulling his mobile phone from his pocket, fingers shaking as he punched the key three times. ‘Police?’

  ‘Hold on caller, I'm putting you through.’

  ‘Police? I've – he's – there's a body in my garden. It's – he's a boy. He's dead. And someone's left it – him in my front garden. Oh God it's disgusting. Please, please come and take it away.’ A dreadful thought struck him. ‘Can you come and remove it before Bethany sees it? She'll go mental. She thought it was a guy for bonfire night.’

  ‘What's your address, caller?’ Joe gabbled the details. ‘And your name, sir?’

  ‘Joe Merton. I'm a plumber,’ he added inconsequentially, desperate to cling on to something normal. The voice on the line assured him a patrol car was already on its way and as he hung up he heard a siren. He felt better at once. Now they would come and remove the body and he could forget about it. The dead boy was nothing to do with him, after all. Whoever had killed him had dumped him in Joe's garden, that was all. People probably left their rubbish in other gardens all the time.

  Only most people didn't have dead bodies to dispose of.

  43

  GRIEF

  Mrs Mitchell's poorly-dyed blonde hair cut in a loosely curling bob looked as though it hadn't been brushed for days. From a distance she could be mistaken for a much younger woman, with her turned up nose and large childlike eyes that gazed plaintively from beneath her fringe, but close up her face was lined, her eyes weary with age or sickness. She raised her head and looked anxiously from Geraldine to Peterson and back again. ‘Have you found my boy?’

  Geraldine hesitated. However many times she lived through this scene she knew she would never get used to it. Viewing the dead was harrowing but at least their suffering was over; for the living the anguish had only just begun. It didn't make it any easier, Mrs Mitchell being an invalid. She would find it hard to occupy her mind with other things.

  ‘I'm so sorry, Mrs Mitchell –’

  ‘You have to keep looking. You can't give up now. You have to find him. I've still not heard from him and it's nearly a week now since he went out to the party at Gary's and –’

  �
�Mrs Mitchell,’ Geraldine interrupted her. She imagined the distraught mother watching the clock, counting the hours since she had last seen her son.

  ‘If he wants to go – break away, leave all this –’ she gestured angrily at her wheelchair, ‘tell him it's alright. I don't mind. He's young, he should be out there having a good time, having fun. I've told him so many times. A boy his age shouldn't be stuck at home with his mother every evening. He's got his own life to live. Tell him I can manage –’ She broke off. ‘Something's happened to him hasn't it? Something's happened to Vernon.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Mitchell. I'm very sorry to have to tell you this, but Vernon won't be coming home again –’

  ‘Don't talk nonsense. Of course he will. He doesn't have to live here, he doesn't need to feel responsible for me, but he has to come back. He has to come and see me. He has to –’ She was crying too hard to speak.

  ‘There's no easy way to tell you this. Vernon was found last night. I'm so sorry, Mrs Mitchell. Your son's dead.’

  ‘No!’

  Geraldine took a deep breath. ‘His body was found early this morning. We have strong reason to suspect your son was murdered.’

  Mrs Mitchell's eyes glittered. ‘You can't be sure. A body could be anyone. Some drunk or more likely a drug addict. God knows there are enough of them –’

  ‘It's Vernon, Mrs Mitchell.’

  ‘Just because he hasn't come home this week. He could have had an accident. He might be off with some girl, or asleep. He probably drank too much on Saturday. You know what boys are.’ She made a pathetic attempt to laugh. ‘What you're suggesting, it's crazy.’

  ‘Mrs Mitchell, please listen –’

  ‘I'm telling you, it's not Vernon. This body you found, it's not Vernon, it can't be. I'd know if it was. You said this person was murdered. Well, there you are. Who would want to kill Vernon?’ She shook her head. ‘If you knew him, you'd realise what a stupid idea that is.’ Geraldine let her talk, giving her time to take in the information about her son's death. ‘The body hasn't even been identified, has it? Just because he didn't come home the other night. I wish I'd never reported him missing. Just because some mugger had Vernon's wallet on him you've gone jumping to conclusions –’

  ‘He didn't have a wallet with him.’

  ‘There you are then! It could be anyone. You can't come here telling me Vernon's dead. It's an outrageous idea. What makes you think it's him? How do you even know what he looks like? You show me this body of yours. Go on. Take me to it. Let's sort this out right now.’ She was trembling with rage.

  ‘Mrs Mitchell, I'm afraid we will have to ask you or a near relative formally to identify the body but you do need to prepare yourself. It's Vernon.’

  ‘How can you say that, when you've never seen him?’

  Geraldine and Peterson exchanged an uneasy glance. ‘Mrs Mitchell, Vernon came to the police station recently on two occasions.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I spoke to him myself.’

  ‘Why? He wasn't in any sort of trouble. My Vernon was never involved in anything – like that. All he ever did was work and worry about me. Work and worry, that was all he ever knew.’ Tears rolled down her cheeks.

  ‘He came to see us to report an incident.’

  ‘What incident?’ Mrs Mitchell's eyes were puzzled now, suspicious. ‘He never said anything to me about it.’

  ‘I'm sorry, Mrs Vernon, but we can't discuss that with you yet. We're involved in an investigation.’

  ‘So Vernon came to see you and instead of protecting him you let him go out on the streets and be killed? Why didn't you keep him safe? Why didn't you take care of him? Why didn't you tell me? Or let me look after him. He's my son.’

  Geraldine hesitated.

  ‘We receive a lot of information from the public –’ Peterson began.

  ‘He's my son!’ The suspicion had vanished, swallowed up in that deep cry of anguish. ‘My son!’

  The front door slammed and a voice called out, ‘Halloo! Anybody home!’ The cheery greeting cut across the room like a slap. The door burst open and Carol Middleton entered.

  Ruddy from the cold, her face fell when she saw her distraught sister and the police. ‘Janice! What on earth's happened? You look terrible.’

  Mrs Mitchell shook her head. ‘Nothing, Carol. It's nothing. It's not Vernon. It's not Vernon.’ She began to rock in her chair shaking her head violently from side to side. As she did so she gave vent to a long wail.

  Carol turned to Geraldine. ‘I'd like you to leave, now. My sister's not a well woman and mustn't be upset.’

  Geraldine shook her head. ‘I'm sorry, Mrs Middleton.’

  ‘Oh my God.’ Carol sat down in an armchair with a thump. ‘What's happened to Vernon?’ Mrs Mitchell's wailing increased in volume and Carol ran over and threw her arms around her sister's shoulders. ‘Don't get in a state, Janice, we'll sort this out. Whatever trouble he's got himself into, I'll find him the best lawyer. The best. He's been under pressure. He's been led astray –’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He's a good boy,’ Carol continued.

  ‘No, it's no good – you can't –’ Mrs Mitchell began to choke.

  ‘Calm down, Janice. Come on, deep breaths. We'll get through this. I'm here. Now,’ she turned to Geraldine, her eyes blazing. ‘I'd like you to leave and in future you can deal with me. Leave my sister alone. She's not in a fit state to deal with stress, as you can see. Now Janice, whatever's happened, I'm sure we can sort it out. We'll get him the best legal –’

  Geraldine made no move to leave. ‘I'm very sorry to have to tell you Vernon's dead.’

  ‘Dead? Vernon?’ Carol fell back into her chair. ‘Is it true?’

  Geraldine inclined her head. ‘I'm so sorry. Will Mrs Mitchell be all right? If you'd like me to call her doctor –’

  ‘I'd like you and your sergeant to leave. Now!’

  ‘Someone will have to come and identify the body. Perhaps you…’

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course. Now please, leave us alone.’

  ‘We would like to ask Mrs Mitchell a few questions when she feels ready.’

  ‘Questions? Why?’

  ‘We have reason to believe your nephew was murdered.’

  Geraldine nodded at Peterson and they made their way to the door. Geraldine turned as she was leaving. ‘I'm so sorry for your loss,’ she mumbled miserably.

  ‘Jesus,’ Peterson grumbled as they walked to the car. ‘Talk about shooting the messenger. I thought we were supposed to be the good guys.’

  44

  CORPSE

  ‘An unusual corpse,’ Paul Hilliard announced as they entered the room.

  ‘What does a usual murder victim look like?’ Kathryn Gordon asked. ‘I thought –’ She stopped abruptly, catching sight of the body lying on the stainless steel mortuary table. For a moment they all stood gazing down in silence.

  ‘Oh my God,’ Geraldine said.

  Peterson spoke at the same time. ‘Bloody hell. What have you done to the poor boy?’

  ‘That's how he was found,’ Paul replied quietly. ‘The extent of the mutilation wasn't apparent until we'd cleaned him up but you can see for yourselves. Whoever killed him removed both eyes.’

  Geraldine tried to connect the sightless figure in front of her with the boy who had been to see her at the police station. The body was pale, lying rigid on its back where it had been placed. While some corpses seemed relaxed in that position, almost as though they were sleeping, Vernon Mitchell looked tense and awkward. Her gaze travelled reluctantly to his face, the eye sockets pools of congealed blood.

  Kathryn Gordon was the first to recover. ‘Do you think this is the work of whoever killed Abigail Kirby?’

  Above his mask, Paul frowned. ‘It's hard to be sure but it looks like it. We have a similar set of injuries – a blow on the back of the head with a blunt instrument, sufficient to knock the victim out but not kill him instantly. If the cerebral bleed from the head wound hadn't
killed him, he would in all likelihood have suffered irreparable brain damage. There are the similar patterns of bruising on the upper arms as we observed on Abigail Kirby's cadaver, and he was tied up, before he died.’ He pointed to Vernon's wrists and ankles where fine darkish lines were clearly visible, like grim tattoos on the pale flesh.

  ‘And what about this business with the eyes?’ the DCI asked. ‘What can you tell us about that?’

  ‘The eyes were removed while the victim was still alive.’

  Peterson let out an involuntary groan and hurried from the room. Geraldine registered the sergeant's distress but was too engrossed in what Paul was saying to pay him any attention. As she listened she stared at Vernon's face, thinking back to the boy who had been to see her at the station, anxious but alive, and his mother's accusation. Geraldine should have taken Vernon's fears seriously and offered him police protection. If she had made the right decision then, he would still be alive now.

  ‘It must have been excruciating,’ Kathryn Gordon said. ‘This was not only murder, but torture.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ the pathologist replied in an even tone. ‘There are traces of a strong sedative in his blood. I'll be able to tell you more when the tox report's back, but the drug might have acted as an analgesic. Vernon might have suffered very little pain.’

  ‘Oh, well that's all right then,’ Peterson snapped as he rejoined them, pale and drawn. ‘A considerate killer. We can all go to sleep happy now.’

  Paul ignored the interruption. ‘So in answer to your original question, yes, I think we're probably looking at the handiwork of the same killer. It's another neat job. The left eye was removed while the victim was still alive – there was a lot of bleeding. By the time the right eye was removed, the victim was dead. The cause of death was cerebral bleeding, and the shock of the blood loss probably speeded up the process.’

  ‘Abigail Kirby had her tongue cut out as she lay dying. Vernon Mitchell's eyes were removed as he was dying. What the hell's going on here?’ Peterson sounded agitated. ‘This is –’ He stopped, lost for words. ‘It's hideous. It makes no sense.’