Dead End

by Shirley Wells

  The streets were as quiet as they always were in the early hours of the morning and he was soon parking a short distance away from Dowie’s house. He pulled on a pair of latex gloves, grabbed his small shoulder bag and kept within the shadows of walls and tall trees as he walked.

  The house was in darkness as he’d expected. High up on the front wall, two lights flashed from a white box. Jimmy shook his head in disgust. Any burglar worth his salt would recognise a fake alarm when he saw one. People who saved money by not having the real thing fitted asked for everything they got.

  He walked up to the front door, ran his hand beneath one of the tubs of flowers, and smiled as his gloved fingers touched metal. Twice he’d seen Diane Dowie put something beneath this tub and he’d guessed it was a spare key for emergency use. Security at Dowie’s car business was as tight as a duck’s arse, but his home would be easy for any novice burglar to enter. Jimmy wasn’t complaining, though. He’d been prepared to cut glass in the conservatory and gain access that way, but a key was as good as a welcome.

  He tried the key in the front door, but wasn’t surprised when nothing happened.

  He crept round to the back of the house. He’d have put money on it fitting the conservatory door, but he was wrong. It opened the door that led into the kitchen. He was soon inside the house and he switched on his small torch. It was far too easy. No wonder burglars made such good livings.

  He stood for a moment, relishing the silence. The only sound was an irritating ticktock from the kitchen clock.

  He walked soundlessly along the hall. The stairs were thickly carpeted and he climbed them slowly, being careful to put his weight on the outer edge so as not disturb any boards that might creak.

  On the landing, he stood still. Weeks ago, he’d looked round a house that was for sale farther down the road. The layout was identical and he guessed that the door on his right, the master bedroom, would be where Diane Dowie was currently enjoying her beauty sleep.

  The door was slightly ajar and he took a step forward and peeped inside. His torch gave him enough light to see a lump under the bedclothes. He didn’t want to shine the torch on her face, but he was confident it was her.

  He entered the room and stood over her for a moment. She was sound asleep.

  When he slammed his hand across her mouth, she woke with a terrified start.

  “Don’t scream,” he warned. “If you make a sound, I’ll hurt your children. Got that?”

  She nodded, her eyes wide.

  He removed his hand just long enough to gag her with an old towel. She struggled, but was easy enough to hold. He took his handcuffs from his pocket and looked around. In the end, he had to drag her from the bed and cuff her to the radiator.

  “Not a sound,” he whispered.

  She nodded again, her eyes like saucers.

  He left the room, his steps silent on the thickly carpeted landing, and walked into one of the other bedrooms. He wasn’t sure which son was sleeping here because the light from his torch was too dim. They both looked the same, though, and it didn’t matter either way.

  He checked his knife’s blade briefly then ran it through the boy’s neck. It was so quick that Jimmy wasn’t even sure the boy woke up before he died.

  There was blood everywhere and he had to be extra careful as he walked into the next bedroom.

  This boy woke up but, again, he was dead almost instantly.

  Satisfied, Jimmy returned to the master bedroom.

  Diane was curled up in a tiny ball, tears rolling down her face. Her whole body was trembling. She looked scared, vulnerable and far more sexy than he’d expected.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll go easy on you.”

  Later, he’d put his knife through her main artery. First, he’d have some fun.

  Chapter Nine

  Dylan still had mixed feelings about his office. It had been Bev’s idea, and he thought it too big, too flash and far too expensive. It looked good when clients visited, made him appear far more important and successful than he really was. The only other thing in its favour was the view from his first floor window. He wasted far too much time watching the activity on the street, and looking down on the comings and goings at the coffee bar on the opposite side of the road. Today, people were risking the outside tables, a hint that spring had arrived.

  He swung his chair away from the window and returned his attention to his computer. His file on Goodenough was small. Very small. It hadn’t needed to be anything else though. Rodney Pelham had contacted him, said he had doubts about his daughter’s fiancé and asked him to check out Goodenough. Dylan had watched the bloke, with very little enthusiasm, and soon had enough information to justify Pelham’s fears. He’d passed on the information to Pelham, been paid, and thanked his lucky stars that a particularly mind-numbing job was over.

  Photos he’d taken stared back at him and, again, he was struck by the size of Goodenough. He worked out a lot and had muscles to prove it. He was a vain man, always immaculately dressed, who often paused to check his reflection in shop windows. Dylan had seen him with two women, both of whom had looked awestruck to find themselves in his company.

  Dylan had also seen him remove a wedding ring. What was that about? Was he pretending to be married so that the women of the moment didn’t get any ideas about relationships and a future? Or was he married and about to commit bigamy with Pelham’s daughter? Maybe he’d had no intention of marrying her. It was possible he’d been planning to extort money from her or—

  Dylan didn’t know. At the time, he’d neither known nor cared. He’d had enough information for Pelham and he was happy with that. Now, he began to wonder.

  He didn’t even know Goodenough’s real name.

  Dylan tapped Pelham’s mobile number into his phone. When it was answered, it sounded as if Pelham was in a wind tunnel.

  “Hi, it’s Dylan Scott. Are you able to talk?”

  “I am, Dylan. Is there a problem? Sorry,” Pelham said, “but I’m on the golf course and it’s as windy as hell.”

  “No. No problem.” Try as he might, Dylan couldn’t picture Pelham on a golf course. The bloke was old and frail. He struggled to walk and there was no way he’d have the strength to swing a club. “I just wanted—”

  “Sorry, can you repeat that?”

  “I wondered if Brad Goodenough knew that you’d used me to investigate him.”

  “Goodenough? Um—I’m not sure. I don’t think I mentioned your name. I may have. Is that a problem?”

  “No. No problem.” Pelham said something that Dylan didn’t catch. “Sorry?”

  “I think I may have referred to you as Mr. Scott when I showed him the photographs.”

  “Right. Okay, thanks for that.”

  “Is that it?”

  “I’m trying to find him—a different case altogether. You haven’t heard from him, have you?”

  “I certainly haven’t. I made it quite clear that he’d be wise not to show his face round me—or my daughter—again. As you know, he left his flat—owing rent, no doubt—and vanished, thank God.”

  “Yes. Okay, thanks. How’s your daughter, by the way?”

  “Still moping, but she’ll get over it.”

  The line was too noisy to endure any more social niceties so Dylan ended the call.

  He was no further forward, but he knew he needed to investigate Goodenough a little more thoroughly. As Frank had said, he’d look ridiculous if he was busy investigating King when Goodenough, or whatever his name was, put a knife in his back.

  His phone rang and he hit the button to answer. “Hey, Pikey. What’s new?”

  “I’m well, thanks, mate. Thanks so much for asking.”

  “You’re always well so there’s no need to ask. And why wouldn’t you be? You have a grea
t life. You’re living the dream.”

  “Ha. Anyway, I thought you’d like to know that King’s been found. He’s currently helping us with our inquiries into his wife’s murder.”

  “Excellent news.” King hadn’t killed his wife—she’d been dead for hours before he turned up at the house—but Dylan was more than happy for him to stay in a cell for a while. If he was locked up, he couldn’t stick a knife in Dylan’s back. “Keep him there as long as possible.”

  “It’s not my case, but I’ll let you know.”

  “Thanks.”

  “How are you getting on?” Pikey asked.

  “I’d do a whole lot better if I knew what—or who—I was looking for. I’m about to visit John Weller’s gym and check that out.”

  “I had a cursory look into that and it all seems above board. It’s probably a case of like father, like son though. Weller’s real father was into every scam going, and a known drug dealer. He was gunned down in front of their house—some sort of territory war—when Weller was twelve years old. I’m not sure how the son would turn out given a father like Weller and then a stepfather like Rickman. Let me know if you find anything interesting.”

  Dylan promised to do exactly that. He ended the call, grabbed his jacket, picked up his car keys and left the confines of his office.

  Traffic was snarled up and it was almost an hour later when he parked his Morgan in the vast car park belonging to Weller’s gym. Neighbouring cars were of the pricey variety.

  The building was ultra modern. Glass and steel captured the light and threw it back at him.

  Stepping inside the building was like boarding a luxurious spacecraft. It was minimalist, plush and reeked of money. He passed a tall mirror, and his reflection caught him by surprise. It wasn’t only the wig and the glasses. He looked taller, thinner. It must be one of those flattering mirrors Bev swore they put in clothes shops.

  He wandered round the vast reception area and paused to read a poster offering special discounts. If he joined the gym today, it told him, he could enjoy his first twelve months’ membership for a special price of only—only?—eighteen hundred pounds.

  For that sum, he’d be entitled to six one-to-one sessions with his personal trainer, a check-up with the gym’s own doctor, a course of Pilates and use of the facilities whenever he chose.

  The young man behind a curving marble desk had finished his phone call and Dylan walked over to him. Up close, it was obvious that the man’s tan was fake. He was probably early twenties and his huge muscles rippled beneath a T-shirt bearing the gym’s distinctive logo. He was a great advert for the gym, but Dylan still reckoned he could floor him if the need arose.

  “Good morning. What can I do for you? If you’re thinking of joining, we have a special offer on right now.”

  “Yes, I’ve been reading about it,” Dylan said. “I was hoping to see John Weller, but I’m really impressed with this place. I need to get in shape and I’ve had a look at a couple of other gyms. Neither were a patch on this. So yeah, although I’d like to see Mr. Weller, I wouldn’t mind a look round while I’m here.”

  “Just a minute.” He picked up a phone, tapped a number and waited. “Hi, I’ve a gentleman in reception who was hoping to see Mr. Weller. Any chance of that?” He sounded doubtful. “Right. Okay. Hang on a sec.” He took the phone from his ear and looked at Dylan. “Can I ask what it’s about?”

  “It’s personal,” Dylan said. “If you could say that Bill Williams would like five minutes of his time, I’d be grateful.”

  This information was relayed to the person on the other end of the phone and Muscle Man’s face broke into a smile as he finished the call. “You’re in luck. Mr. Weller’s out of the building at the moment, but his secretary tells me he’s due back in the next few minutes and she’s managed to find you a five-minute slot for twelve o’clock. That gives you forty minutes to look round and me forty minutes to convince you to join up. I’m Jason, by the way.”

  “Excellent. Thanks very much.”

  That had worked out far better than he’d hoped. An audience with John Weller and the chance to snoop round the gym.

  Jason led them to a huge room that was Dylan’s worst nightmare. Row upon row of static cycles, treadmills and rowing machines promised more pain than a body should have to endure. He liked to keep fit—he didn’t, but he liked the idea of it—but he’d never seen the point to this. Of the countless machines, five were in use. In use, as always seemed the case, by young, ridiculously fit people who didn’t boast so much as a gram of surplus fat. Most were listening to music through earphones as they worked those muscles. For the price of membership these people could buy a real cycle and get some fresh air and enjoyment from their exercise.

  “We’re quiet at this time of day,” Jason said. “It’s a different story in the early morning and early evening. There’s nothing like a good workout to get the adrenaline flowing before a hard day at the office, is there? Well, perhaps a good workout to get rid of the stress after that hard day. There’s always a machine free though. Don’t worry about that.”

  Dylan wasn’t. Far from it. “Very impressive.”

  “You’ve seen nothing yet.”

  Their next stop was a much smaller room that still boasted some decent equipment.

  “We have several trainers and coaches,” Jason said, “so you get the same treatment as modern day athletes. These rooms are for the one-to-one consultations. We also offer several classes, catering for everything from strength and condition to dance. We offer kickboxing, yoga, Pilates, Zumba—you name it, you’ll find it here.”

  They walked on with Jason talking all the while. Dylan was only half listening. He was more interested in the layout of the building and the siting of any security cameras. The latter were rare.

  He was shown the swimming pool, the sauna, the massage rooms and the bar.

  “This is a short cut back to the reception.” Jason pushed open a door marked Private and led the way through a long narrow corridor that had several doors off it.

  “Where do all these doors go?” Dylan asked.

  “That’s just storage. We keep old or faulty machines there, stationary supplies, that sort of thing.”

  Which didn’t explain the need for two security cameras in such a narrow corridor.

  “I’ve never had a need to go in there so I can’t say how much stuff is there. You need a card to get in.”

  Dylan had already noticed that. Interesting.

  “So what do you think?” Jason asked as they returned to the room housing all those machines.

  “It’s very impressive. I’m busy for the next couple of weeks but as soon as that’s out of the way, I’ll have a serious think about joining.”

  “You won’t regret it.” Jason seemed satisfied. At least he wasn’t pushy.

  Five minutes later, Dylan was being escorted to the first floor of the building by Weller’s secretary.

  “I’m afraid Mr. Weller has a tight schedule today,” she said, “so he can only spare five minutes.”

  “That’s perfect. Thank you. I appreciate it.”

  She knocked on a door, waited until a voice invited them to enter, and stepped inside. “Mr. Williams to see you.”

  “Thank you.” Weller was another good advertisement for the gym and his tan was real enough. His muscles weren’t so evident, but he looked streetwise and mean despite the smart suit and silk tie. He wore a ridiculously large gold ring that drew the eye to the adjoining finger and its missing tip. “Take a seat.”

  “Thanks. And thank you for seeing me. I’m very grateful.” Dylan sat in a blue leather reclining chair opposite Weller. An oblong glass desk covered the space between them. Very nice.

  “How could I refuse? I’m curious. What can I do for you, Mr. Williams?”

  “Bill,
” Dylan said.

  Weller nodded, but there was no invitation to call him John.

  “I’m an author,” Dylan said, adjusting his glasses. “True crime. I’m currently working on a book about people wrongly convicted.” Weller’s expression was darkening with each word, but Dylan pushed on. “I’m interested in your stepfather’s case. I’m not saying he was wrongly convicted, of course, but there are rumours that the whole thing was a setup. Also, his accomplice, Leonard King, might have been innocent.”

  “You’ve come to the wrong place.” Weller’s words were clipped. “Rickman is nothing to me other than the man my mother was foolish enough to marry. I haven’t seen him for years and we were never close. He’s a fool who put drugs on the street and he paid—is currently paying—the price.”

  So there wasn’t much love lost between stepfather and son.

  “Yes, I appreciate that,” Dylan said. “But what about Leonard King? There’s a rumour that he was set up, that he hadn’t known he was walking into your stepfather’s drug factory, that he knew nothing about the cash and drugs found at his home.”

  Weller smiled, and it had the effect of dropping the room’s temperature by five degrees. “Set up? Of course he wasn’t. God, who puts these stories around? He stole money and drugs from my stepfather, that much is obvious. It was found in that slum of a flat he called home, for God’s sake. Look, all criminals like to protest their innocence, Mr. Williams. And it hardly matters now, does it? He’s done time in prison and he’s now free to do as he chooses.”

  “True, but stories of faulty convictions sell books. I’d still like to talk to Leonard King.”

  “Then talk to him, but all you’ll hear is the usual pack of lies about the money being planted at his flat.”

  “My problem is that I have no idea where he is. Can you help with that?”

  “Me?” Weller laughed. “Why would I know where he is? All he is to me is a name.”

  “You can’t even take a guess where he is now?”

  “No.”