Dead End

by Shirley Wells

  “But you knew he’d been released from prison?”

  “I saw it mentioned.”

  “Where?” As far as Dylan was aware, news of King’s release hadn’t been deemed of interest to the media.

  “I can’t remember.”

  He was lying.

  “I saw him,” Dylan said, “but by the time I realised it was him, he’d gone. I didn’t get chance to talk to him.”

  “Oh? Where was that?” The sudden but oh-so-casual interest didn’t surprise Dylan.

  “At the dog track. He’s there every Friday and Saturday night. I’ll have to go again and make sure I catch him next time.” Dylan rose to his feet. “Right, thanks so much for your time.”

  “You’re welcome. And the best of luck finding him.” Weller’s smile was far more genuine now. “I didn’t even know dog tracks existed these days. Whereabouts is it?”

  “Wimbledon.” Oh, yes, Weller was interested. “By the way, Jason showed me around the gym. Really impressive. I’m thinking of joining.”

  “You won’t regret it. I could be biased, but I think it’s the best in London. I work hard to make sure it’s the best.”

  “It shows. You must have good staff. Running a place this size can’t be easy.”

  “It’s hard work, but I enjoy it. And now, I’m sorry, but I have an appointment.”

  Chapter Ten

  “I think we should get a dog,” Luke announced.

  Dylan groaned. “I should have guessed it was time for this conversation again. We haven’t had it for, oh, at least a week.”

  “Very funny, Dad. It would be so cool though.”

  “Freezing probably,” Bev said, “especially in the winter when you have to leave your nice warm bed at the crack of dawn to go walking.”

  Luke tutted at his boring, ancient parents. “Really, it would be ace. Tom’s dog is—”

  “—having puppies,” Dylan finished for him. “Yes, we know. But you don’t even like Tom’s dog.”

  “I do!”

  “You said it was a yappy little thing,” Bev said.

  “It can be. But the puppies won’t be like that. Tom reckons the dad will be the Labrador that lives three doors away. He’s a great dog.”

  “That’s just it, though, you don’t know who the dad will be. It might be another yappy little thing.”

  Luke shrugged at the logic of his dad’s comment. “I still reckon we should get a dog. I’ll walk it and feed it and do everything with it.”

  “Pay the vet’s bills?” Dylan asked.

  “Of course. So long as you give me enough pocket money.” Luke tried another angle. “All kids should have pets. I read about it. It’s good for them. I bet, when Freya’s older, she’ll think you’re so mean for not letting her have a pet.”

  Bev snorted with laughter. “She will not.”

  “You’re not home all day,” Dylan said, “so who’s going to look after it? And what about when you go to university?”

  “I don’t want to go to university.”

  Dylan didn’t want them getting into that argument again so he said nothing.

  “Why does what I want never count for anything?” Luke asked.

  “Because what you want puts demands on other people.” Dylan waited for more eye-rolling and wasn’t disappointed. “And because your savings wouldn’t even run to a can of dog food.”

  “When I’m finished with all this hospital stuff,” Bev said, “we’ll think about it. Okay?”

  “Really?” Luke asked.

  “Really.”

  “Wow. Way to go, Mum.”

  “And on that vague promise,” Bev said, “it’s time you scuttled off to your bed. You’ve still got homework to do before you go back to school on Wednesday, remember?”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  “And don’t spend half the night listening to music,” she said.

  “Okay, okay.” It took him a full ten minutes to gather up iPod, phone and earphones, but then he was gone.

  “You’re not seriously considering a dog, are you?” Dylan asked. “I mean, really?”

  “He’s wearing me down,” Bev said. “He’s wanted one for so long and—well, maybe when this hospital stuff is out of the way, I’ll be past caring. Everything will seem like fun.” Shadows flitted across her face.

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  She smiled, a tight, nervous smile. “There’s no point, is there? We’ve talked about it and talked about it. All we can do now is hope for the best. All eyes forward and trust in the Lord, as they say.”

  He nodded, and felt the relief wash over him. He hated talking about it. Frank was right in that he preferred to bury his head in the sand. Bev was right too in that they’d talked about it more than enough. They referred to it as this hospital stuff. It sounded far better, and much less terrifying, than chemotherapy or radiotherapy. They certainly didn’t utter the c-word. Hell, no. That one was definitely off-limits.

  “I think I’ll catch up on EastEnders.” She reached for the TV remote. “I’ve got three episodes recorded so that should put me in the mood for sleep. It’s been rubbish lately.”

  “Good idea.” Dylan refrained from asking why she watched something she described as rubbish. Instead, he switched on his laptop.

  The more he thought about Goodenough, the more curious he became. He’d found out easily enough that he was bad news, and certainly not suited to Pelham’s daughter, but he had no real idea what the bloke’s game was. He hadn’t cared until now.

  “Bev, have you had any more of those odd phone calls?”

  She shook her head, her mind on the soap. “No. Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, I just wondered.” He didn’t want to scare her. “Pikey was saying there had been a spate of burglaries in the area and I wondered if the two were connected. Probably not, but don’t forget to make sure all the windows and doors are locked, okay? They’re nicking stuff like TVs, DVD players, laptops—the usual. We can do without the hassle of having to go through the insurance company to replace it all.”

  “I will.” She turned up the TV’s volume, which translated as “Shut up and let me watch this rubbish.”

  He shouldn’t be too concerned because of the simple fact that, when someone wanted you dead, they killed you. They didn’t waste time trying to scare you with phone calls and mysterious deliveries of photos.

  Back to Goodenough—

  He’d rented a luxury apartment in an upmarket area of the City, all on the strength of two months’ rent in advance and a couple of fake references. The name he’d used was Gordon West. He’d taken off, owing rent and, needless to say, hadn’t been foolish enough to leave a forwarding address.

  “And now,” his landlord had said during their brief phone conversation, “the new tenant is moaning because debt collectors are knocking on the door at all hours of the day and night. The bastard bought TVs, leather sofas—you name it, the bastard bought it on these interest-free loans where you don’t pay a penny for twelve months. Gas, electric—the bastard owes everyone. Bastard. I hassled him for the rent, of course, but what can you do? The bastard tenants have rights coming out of their ears, but the landlord can do nothing. Do you know, if you go hammering on the bastard’s door asking for the rent a couple of times, you can be done for harassment?”

  “Yes, so I believe.”

  “Bastard.”

  “Indeed. And he definitely left no clues as to where he was going?”

  “If he had, I’d be chasing the bastard down myself. I asked the other tenants but they knew nothing about him. One reckoned he worked for one of those escort agencies.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. The sort where ugly women pay a good-looking bloke to take them out and have
sex with them.”

  “I know the sort. Any idea which one?”

  “She didn’t know. If she had, I’d have been hammering on the bastard door to get him.”

  It wasn’t much, but it was a start. Dylan had phoned a dozen agencies but wasn’t surprised to learn that no Brad Goodenough or Gordon West was registered on their books. He’d check out more, and he’d hang around their offices to see if Goodenough or whatever his name was showed up, but he dreaded to think how many such agencies operated in London.

  Dylan stared at his computer’s screen, flicking through photo after photo of Goodenough. He hoped inspiration would strike. It didn’t, probably because his mind insisted on returning to Leonard King. And Wendy King. And the identity of Wendy’s killer.

  He forced his mind back to Goodenough. He’d find him. It might take a while but even people who changed their names on a daily basis left paper trails as long as the M1. It was only a matter of time.

  Chapter Eleven

  Jimmy liked having his own space at Russell Street. The rent was low, which was no wonder when you looked at the state of the place, and the landlord lived in the Midlands. Jimmy had paid rent in advance, in cash, and so long as he made sure future payments were received on time, no one would bother him. It was his personal den.

  He reached behind the cooker, grabbed the plans and spread them across the kitchen table. They were held together with Sellotape but were accurate to the nearest millimetre. Scotland Yard. His heart thumped with excitement.

  Concrete barriers sat in front of ground-level windows as a countermeasure against car bombs. A concrete wall protected the entrance to the building, and the exterior was always guarded by armed officers as well as a generous smattering of security staff.

  But Jimmy had thought of everything. Nothing could go wrong. He was going to blow the building to smithereens. And soon.

  After an hour or so, he put the plans away—he’d memorised them long ago—and switched on the TV that he’d bought from a charity shop for twenty pounds. It was an old monstrosity but it worked. He flicked to the news channel. Some idiot in America had run amok with a gun, a train had crashed in India killing scores of people, lifeboats were searching for the crew of a fishing boat off the coast of Cornwall and, finally, came the piece of news he’d been waiting for.

  Details were vague because the story had only just broken. He wondered what had taken so long. No names were being released, probably because they couldn’t inform the next of kin, but at least there was a story.

  He pulled the TV from the wall socket, but that was no good. Even if he managed to drag it to the cellar without damage, he wouldn’t get a signal down there. The TV couldn’t go to Dowie so Dowie would have to come to the TV. It was an inconvenience but it couldn’t be helped.

  He switched the TV back on and stood, hands on hips to take several deep, calming breaths. There was no rush. They always milked breaking news stories to death so it would run for hours yet.

  Feeling calmer, he walked down the steps and into the cellar. Dowie was barely conscious. What a waste of space the man was. He was pathetic.

  Jimmy lashed out with his boot, kicking Dowie on the shin. It made him lift his head slightly and groan. He stank. He was soaked in his own urine and sweat.

  Tutting with disgust, Jimmy removed the noose from around Dowie’s neck. He released him from the chair, then bound his hands firmly behind his back with a plastic tie.

  Jimmy took the gun from the waistband of his jeans and held it to Dowie’s temple. “Make a noise, or a sudden movement, and you get a bullet.”

  There was no response.

  “Got that?”

  Dowie nodded. He looked as if he didn’t care. Jimmy would soon make him care.

  He didn’t want to use the gun as it would make too much noise, but he liked having it close. Few things beat a gun in an emergency.

  “We’re going upstairs.” Jimmy hauled him to his feet and cursed as Dowie’s legs gave way beneath him. “Get a grip. You stink of shit and piss and now you can’t even walk. Call yourself a man? You’re fucking pathetic.”

  Still holding the gun to Dowie’s head, Jimmy half pushed and half dragged Dowie up the stairs. It took long, frustrating minutes, and Jimmy was breathless when they finally emerged into the main room of the house.

  He pushed Dowie onto his knees in front of the TV screen. “A special treat for you tonight, Brian. We’re going to watch the telly together. Won’t that be fun?”

  Jimmy wished he could remove Dowie’s gag, but it was too risky. The idiot was sure to make a noise. The old man next door was so deaf he probably wouldn’t hear a bomb explode, but it was still too risky. Only an idiot took unnecessary risks and Jimmy wasn’t one of those.

  He should give Dowie a drink though. He didn’t want him passing out or, worse, dying. Not yet.

  Not taking his eye off his captive, Jimmy took a bottle of water from his bag, unscrewed the top and took a swig. “You see, Brian? It’s not poisoned.”

  He laughed as he yanked the tape from Dowie’s mouth. His lips were chapped and bleeding, but that was nothing. He put the bottle to Dowie’s mouth and squeezed so that water went everywhere. “There you go. Try to drink more slowly though.”

  When he’d had enough—when Jimmy grew bored at least—Jimmy took away the bottle, put on the cap, and threw it aside. He grabbed the reel of tape and put three fresh layers across Dowie’s mouth. The only response to this was a groan and a few tears rolling down his cheek.

  “You’re crying again.” Jimmy’s laughter was scoffing. “What a crybaby you are. I thought you were a man, not a pathetic girl. I ought to see if I can find the cartoons channel for you to watch. Or Disney. Oops, better not. They might be showing Bambi and that would set you off again, wouldn’t it?”

  Still chuckling, Jimmy switched on the TV and flicked through the news until he came to the 24-hour news station. They suffered a full five minutes of boredom as so-called experts discussed the likelihood of finding any survivors from that fishing boat.

  “I hope you’re paying attention, Brian. It’ll get better. Much better.”

  A couple of minutes later, the scene changed. A reporter stood at the end of Dowie’s road. The area had been sealed off and police cars and vans blocked any real view of the property. Cameramen had long zoom lenses and were doing the best they could.

  “As yet details are sketchy,” the reporter said, “but reports suggest that the bodies of a woman and two teenage boys have been found. A police statement is expected shortly and we’ll remain live at the scene to bring you more information as we get it.” The camera zoomed a little closer. “Although no formal identifications have been made, neighbours have told us that the house belongs to a Brian Dowie, his wife, Diane, and their two sons.”

  A high-pitched keening sound, muffled by tape, came from Dowie. He began to struggle but Jimmy had him secure.

  “The whereabouts of Mr. Dowie are unknown at this time. We don’t believe he’s at the property but, as I said, we’re dealing with speculation as we await a formal statement from officers at the scene.”

  Jimmy grinned at that. “I wonder if you’re a murder suspect, Brian. No need to worry. The police won’t find you.”

  Dowie spluttered and howled through his taped mouth. He struggled. He tried to kick out. He rocked back and forth on his knees. It was all a waste of energy.

  “You’re making the whole house smell,” Jimmy said. “It’s time you went back to the cellar. I’ll bring you out again tomorrow when they have more information about your wife and kids. Your very dead wife and kids.”

  Chapter Twelve

  When Dylan arrived at his office on Saturday morning, the first thing he spotted was the brown envelope lying on his desk with the rest of his mail. The other envelopes, all from people
trying to sell him things he didn’t need and couldn’t afford, went straight in the bin. The brown envelope, hand delivered, was opened very carefully.

  Inside was a single colour photo of Bev and the kids. Bev was carrying Freya and looked about to strap her in her car seat, and Luke was laughing at something Bev had said. Bev had turned and was looking straight at the camera.

  Unless Dylan was very much mistaken, the picture had been taken at the same time as the others. Bev was wearing the same clothes.

  He slipped the photo and envelope into a plastic evidence bag. “Bastard!”

  Pikey had called yesterday afternoon with the news that Leonard King had been released without charge. Apparently, he had a rock-solid alibi for the time of his ex-wife’s murder that CCTV footage had backed up. Was it coincidence that, shortly after his release, Dylan received another photo?

  The photo could have been delivered any time between five-thirty yesterday afternoon and nine o’clock this morning. Meaning that Dylan had a mere fifteen and a half hours of video footage from his new security camera to look through.

  Thankfully, he had time to spare. The Gunners didn’t have a game this weekend so he could waste the whole day. No change there...

  He made a coffee and sat at the computer to watch the comings and goings outside his building’s entrance. His first floor office was opposite one that had recently changed hands. A dentist was setting up a private practice and was in the process of upgrading the space. As it was a rushed job, tradesmen were working long into the night. They might help stave off the boredom.

  The camera gave him a good view of the mailbox, as he’d intended, and should have captured anyone putting an envelope inside it.

  He’d been through about two hours of footage when Frank called.

  “How’s it going, Dylan?”

  “Badly.” He told Frank about King’s release and about the photo delivery. “King was a fairly harmless small-time crook, but he’s spent the past eight years behind bars mixing with the lowest of the low. Who knows what happens to a bloke like that? His anger will have had plenty of time to fester. Maybe he’s spent those years dreaming about revenge on those he holds responsible. Like me.”