Dead End

by Shirley Wells

  “It’s possible.”

  “It is, and I don’t like it. I can’t do anything about it either because I’m too busy watching Bev and the kids. I can check a few things out while the kids are busy, and while Bev’s at the hospital or something, and that’s it. I told you I tried to persuade her to go away, yes? That would have been easier all round, but no, she wouldn’t have it. Anyway, I’m getting someone on the case, someone to keep an eye on them. There’s a chap I know, an investigator—”

  “I’m not doing anything.”

  “Sorry?”

  “I’m not doing anything, Dylan. Christ, I never am these days. I can easily spend a few days in the City. In fact, I could do with a change of scene.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Of course. I’ll throw a few things in a bag and get the next train south. Now. Today. Just find me a B&B or a cheap hotel nearby and I’ll sort out a hire car.”

  Dylan didn’t know what to say. He’d feel far happier if he knew Frank was keeping a watchful eye on Bev. On the other hand, the fact that Frank was worried enough to leave his Lancashire home did nothing to lessen his unease.

  “It’s probably nothing to do with King. It’s more likely to be some crank out to scare me.” He didn’t know if he was trying to convince Frank or himself.

  “It’s possible. There’s no point taking chances, though.”

  “No. Well, why not stay at our place then? I can tell Bev you’re down in the City to—”

  “Oh, no. She’s got enough on her plate right now. I can easily check into a nearby B&B.”

  “It’ll be fine. Really. She’ll be glad of the company.” And it would be so much easier to keep an eye on her and the kids.

  “Are you sure? Then tell her I’m down there trying to catch up with old colleagues to organise a reunion. But will she really be okay about it? It would make life easier, but I don’t want to put her out.”

  “Truly, she’ll be glad of the distraction. I’ll put it to her and see what she says.”

  “Okay. If she doesn’t like the idea, and I wouldn’t if I were her, find me a B&B nearby, will you?”

  “I will.” Dylan was still a little lost for words. “Thanks. I really appreciate this, Frank.”

  “I should be thanking you. A bloke can get thoroughly sick of kicking his heels all day. And don’t worry, no harm will come to Bev while I’m on watch.”

  Dylan knew it. He could think of no one he’d trust more. “Thanks, Frank.”

  As soon as he ended the call, he called Bev.

  “Hi,” she said. “You okay?”

  “I’m good. I’ve just had Frank on the phone. He’s coming down to London for a few days to catch up with old colleagues and arrange a reunion. He asked me to recommend a B&B or a cheap hotel.”

  “What? But why doesn’t he stay with us? We’ve got room—well, until your mum stays over. Even then, one of them could have the sofa.”

  “I did suggest it, but he thought you had enough to deal with. He didn’t want to intrude.”

  “Tell him that’s nonsense. I’d love to have him here. Tell him the spare room’s ready and waiting for him.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course. I adore Frank, you know I do. He’s such a gentleman, isn’t he?”

  “Oh, yeah.” A gentleman who’d reduced many a hardened criminal to tears.

  “I’ll give him a call myself and tell him we’re expecting him.”

  “That would be good. Thanks. So what are you up to today?”

  “Not a lot. A bit of tidying up—well, a bit more if Frank’s coming. The house is a tip.”

  “The house is fine. Don’t overdo it. You’re off work because—”

  “I know, I know. Don’t worry, I’ll take it easy. Your mum’s here and she’ll make sure I do.”

  His mum being there was the reason he’d felt able to come to his office this morning, although God knows why he thought the presence of a stoned old woman would keep the nutters at bay. He felt as if a weight had been lifted from him now. He hadn’t realised how much he’d been worrying about Bev’s and the kids’ safety until Frank had offered to keep an eye on them.

  He returned to his video footage with renewed enthusiasm.

  It was tempting to skip the early hours as he couldn’t imagine anyone delivering mail before seven or eight in the morning. However, he plodded on.

  At a little after five-thirty, the security light came on as a man approached the building. He took something, presumably a brown envelope although the image wasn’t clear enough to see, and put it in the mailbox. He stood back, lifted his covered face to the camera, and waved a gloved hand. Arrogant, conceited sod.

  “I’ll get you, you bastard,” Dylan muttered.

  He viewed the footage a dozen times or more, but learned little. His early morning postie was wearing dark running trousers and trainers, a dark hooded top, a balaclava and gloves. He could have been black or white, old or young. Yet he walked with a confident swagger and didn’t have the gait of an old man. On the contrary, he looked fit.

  He paused the footage and stared at the screen. Then he ran down the stairs from his office and into the shared reception area.

  “You don’t have a tape measure I could borrow, do you?” he asked the girl behind the desk.

  “I do, but it might take me a while to find it.” She hunted through the drawers in her desk, pulling out old magazines, toffees, several bottles of nail polish and a hair brush. “Here it is.”

  She handed over a chunky metal tape. Dylan was impressed. “Thanks.”

  He went outside and measured the distance from the bottom step to the sign that listed the offices inside the building. By his reckoning, the man who’d delivered the photo was six feet two.

  He returned the tape and went back to his office. Even if the six feet two was accurate, it didn’t help a lot. King was tall. So was Goodenough. So were thousands of people.

  He supposed he’d ruled out very short suspects. Not that he’d had any of those.

  He rewound the footage and watched it again. And again. Did it look like King? This man appeared broader. It had been a chilly night though and King would look bulkier beneath several layers of clothes.

  God, he hated mind games.

  He grabbed the photo of Goodenough from the chaos on his desk. He was broad shouldered, but was he the man who’d delivered that envelope and had the cheek to wave at the camera? It was impossible to say.

  Dylan hunted down his ridiculously long list of escort agencies in the area and took off. Anything had to be better than sitting at his desk.

  He managed to waste the morning and most of the afternoon going from one agency to the next, showing people his photo of Goodenough, waiting for the inevitable head shaking, thanking them and going on his way.

  Then, just as he was thinking of calling it a day, the routine changed. This stunningly gorgeous girl wasn’t shaking her head.

  “Yes, I know him. That’s Chesney.” She tapped the photo. “He’s no longer on the books though. He left a week ago. In a way, it’s a pity because he was very popular and good for business.”

  “Chesney? Do you have a surname?”

  “Marshall. Chesney Marshall.”

  “An address?”

  “Probably, but I can’t give you that.” She looked worried. “Has he done something wrong?”

  “Not that I know of but I really, really need to find him.”

  “Hang on a minute.” She looked through records on her computer, tapped her fingers on the desk and then seemed to reach a decision. “Here.” She scribbled down an address on a square of paper and handed it over. “If anyone asks, you didn’t get that from me. I shouldn’t do it, but hey, he wouldn’t do me any favours.”

&n
bsp; “Oh? Didn’t you get on?”

  She clearly regretted her words and actions. “Not particularly.”

  Dylan gave her a sympathetic smile. “I can’t say I’m a fan, either. He’s a bit too full of his own importance for my liking.”

  “That’s it exactly. He thinks he’s God’s gift to the universe.” She warmed to her theme, just as Dylan had hoped. “He’ll be utterly charming so long as he thinks there’s something in it for him. If there isn’t, he won’t give you the time of day. I don’t meet many of the escorts, there’s no need as it’s all done by phone or online, but he was always coming here for a moan. He couldn’t believe that he wasn’t getting many bookings. We told him he was getting more than anyone else, but he still complained. And then, when women did book him, he sometimes didn’t turn up. He always claimed something more important had come up. He was only here a couple of months and I was glad to see the back of him. I’ll tell you something else,” she said, dropping her voice to a whisper, “his name isn’t—” She broke off, realising she’d said far too much.

  “It’s okay. I didn’t think it was Marshall.”

  “I overheard him on the phone once,” she said. “He didn’t know I was there, and I heard him call himself by something other name. I can’t remember what, something unusual, but it certainly wasn’t Chesney.”

  “Goodenough? Brad Goodenough?”

  She looked surprised. “That’s it, yes.”

  “What else did he say during that phone call?” Dylan asked.

  “I can’t remember. Nothing that registered. It was just the way that he used that different name. What a poser.”

  Dylan nodded. “Perhaps he didn’t want people to know he was working for the agency.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Was he in a relationship? Seeing anyone?”

  “He’s married. At least, that’s what he said. Never mentioned her—well, not very often. Sometimes, if he was in a good mood, he’d jokingly call her the boss. If he knew he’d got a sexy woman to spend the evening with, he’d say the boss wouldn’t like it if he got up to any hanky-panky.”

  “And did he? Get up to any hanky-panky?” Dylan had assumed that was the whole point.

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. Officially, our escorts don’t offer any sexual favours. We cater for visitors to the City mainly, women who want to go out for a meal, take in a show or simply see the sights with a handsome, intelligent man. But if the escort chooses to make a bit of cash on the side—well, that’s up to them.”

  “What’s the going rate? The official rate.”

  “One-fifty an hour. Eight hundred for a full day.”

  “You’re kidding me. Hell, I’m in the wrong job. I reckon if I got in shape—”

  “No need to worry about that. Believe me, we’ve got a lot worse than you on the books.”

  Dylan wasn’t sure if he should take that as a compliment or not. “You don’t know his wife’s name or anything?”

  She shook her head. “You said he’d done nothing wrong. Why are you so keen to find him?”

  “I’m helping someone out. If by any chance you bump into him, could you ask him to give me a call. Tell him it’s about Miss Pelham. And tell him there’s money in it for him.” He handed her his business card.

  “Oh, my God. This is serious, isn’t it?”

  “No, not really.”

  “I’ve never met a real P.I. before.”

  “You haven’t missed much.” Dylan began to cough. An irritating cough that simply wouldn’t stop. “Sorry.”

  “Are you all right? Would you like a glass of water?”

  “I’d love one,” he managed to gasp between coughs. “I had a cold and I’m damned if I can get rid of this cough. Sorry.”

  “I’ll get you a glass of water. Won’t be a tick.”

  She went, as Dylan had guessed she might, into a small room that backed off this minuscule reception area. He’d assumed she must have tea—and coffee-making facilities somewhere.

  Still coughing, he made the most of her absence by leaning over the counter to look at the computer screen. Goodenough’s details were still visible. Dylan only had a few seconds, just enough to take a picture of the screen showing the names and addresses of two women who’d booked time with Chesney. Both addresses were local, despite most clients supposedly being visitors to London.

  “There you go.” She returned and handed him a large glass of water.

  “Thanks.” He coughed once more and drank the water. “And thanks for your help with Chesney. I appreciate it.”

  “You’re welcome. And you didn’t get that address from me, okay?”

  “What address?”

  She was grinning as he drained the glass of water. He thanked her again and left the building.

  Rush hour traffic would make the trek across the City impossible in his car, so he parked it and took the Underground. He knew, as sure as he knew that night followed day, that Goodenough wouldn’t be at the address she’d given him. He couldn’t afford not to check it out, though.

  He’d thought Goodenough was married, thought he’d seen him removing a wedding ring. So what was his game? Presumably he used a fake name and found rich women to charm, promised them a happy-ever-after, got as much money out of them as he could and then scarpered. He wouldn’t be the first to make a living in such a way, but that sort of lifestyle didn’t fit with death threats. People like that lived on a diet of hope. They were chancers. They were too busy charming everyone they met in the hope that a friendship would be financially rewarding to bear to a grudge. They were greedy but they weren’t dangerous.

  Much to his amazement, he arrived outside the property in time to see the man himself. Goodenough was climbing into a taxi. Dylan waved his arms and shouted, but the cab sped off. If he’d come in his car—

  If he’d come in his car, he’d still be an hour away.

  Sod it.

  At least he knew Goodenough was at this address, though. It was one of several exclusive apartments that boasted good security. Places like that didn’t come cheap.

  Sod it.

  There was nothing else for it. He might as well make the return journey across London and get his car.

  As he walked to the Underground station, he phoned Bev.

  “Frank’s just arrived bearing wine,” she said. “We’re about to crack open a bottle.”

  “Lucky you. I’m jealous. I’ll be home late, by the way, so don’t bother waiting up.”

  “What are you up to? Have you got another woman in tow?”

  “Ha. You’re more than enough trouble for me. I’m still looking for this chap. I told you about him. Take good care of Frank, okay?”

  Dylan would have liked to go home and mull things over a glass of wine or a couple of beers with Frank but, unfortunately, he had more important matters to attend to.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The greyhound-racing track was even busier tonight because a hen night was in full swing. About fifty females of assorted ages, all loud and all wearing pink sashes with Tart, Slapper or similar slogans emblazoned on them, were getting more and more drunk. Men flocked around them and it was doubtful that the girls would need to buy any drinks.

  Dylan had a pint and immediately wanted another. That was the thing about alcohol, though. If you didn’t want another, there was no point to it. He thought of his Morgan, decided that a drink-driving charge was the last thing he needed—apart from a nutter out to kill him, of course—and bought what had to be the most expensive bottle of water in London.

  His day hadn’t been a complete waste of time. Frank had arrived, and that was something Dylan wouldn’t forget in a hurry. He owed his one-time boss. He’d also discovered that the crazy delivering photos to his office was around the six-feet-t
wo mark, and he had another alias for Brad Goodenough as well as an address. He’d even seen the bloke briefly. All in all, he’d had a reasonable day.

  He walked around, sipping water from his bottle, watching everyone. Some serious money was being placed on the dogs’ backs. A race started every fifteen minutes or so and Dylan wouldn’t have minded a share of the bookies’ takings. He couldn’t see the attraction for anyone else though. The track was 480 metres long, the speeding dogs became a blur and the race was over in seconds. Why bother?

  It was more interesting watching the hen party. The bride-to-be almost screamed the place down when she backed a winning dog.

  The last race of the evening was about to start when Dylan spotted the man he’d come to see. He pushed his way through the crowd to stand face to face with John Weller.

  “What a surprise,” Dylan said, offering his hand.

  “Oh, it’s—” Weller feigned thought as they shook hands. “It’s Williams, isn’t it? Bill Williams?”

  “That’s right. What brings you here?” As if he didn’t know.

  “It’s all your fault.” Weller spoke with forced merriment. “Like I said, I thought the dog tracks had died out years ago. After speaking to you, I thought I’d come along and have a look for myself. I must say, it’s quite an experience.”

  “It certainly is.”

  “What about you? I suppose you’re still looking for Leonard King?”

  “I was, but I’ve just seen him.”

  “Oh? He’s here then?” Sharp grey eyes scanned the crowd.

  “He was. He left about ten minutes ago so I’m afraid you’ve missed him.”

  Weller shrugged. “I’m not the one looking for him.”

  Yeah, right.

  “I suppose you’ve heard the latest,” Weller said. “His ex-wife was killed, and he was taken in for questioning.”

  “He can prove he wasn’t involved.”

  Weller shrugged again. “I suppose he can. They released him pretty fast. It makes you wonder, though, doesn’t it?”