Dead End
Page 9
“How do you mean?”
“He treated her like dirt. That’s what I heard anyway. So tell me, is he going to spill all and help with your book?”
“He isn’t keen. It seems he has other things on his mind. Between you and me—” Dylan leaned in close, “—he thinks someone’s after him.”
“Like who?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
“Perhaps he’s right. Scum like him make a lot of enemies. Anyway, good to see you again. If you’ll excuse me—”
“Of course. Enjoy the rest of the night.”
“You, too.”
Weller headed back to the bar and spoke to the two heavies who’d been keeping a watchful eye on their boss. Weller had a quick drink, and the three left together.
* * *
It was almost midnight when Dylan parked his car on the drive, took off his wig and glasses, and walked into his house. Bev and the kids were in bed and Frank was nursing a glass of whisky while he watched the TV news.
Dylan took off his jacket and threw it over the back of the armchair. “Thanks for coming, Frank. I owe you.”
“Rubbish.” Frank turned down the TV’s volume. “It makes a change for me. Oh, I’m helping myself to your whisky, by the way.”
“I’ll join you.” Dylan’s attention was caught by the news item. “Brian Dowie? That name rings a bell. What’s that about?”
“His wife and teenage sons have been found. Murdered. He’s vanished into thin air and is currently a murder suspect. What’s left of his car has been found on waste ground. How do you know the name?”
“I don’t know.”
“He has his own car sales business. Quite successful, I gather,” Frank said. “Other than that, there’s not much information about him.”
“Perhaps we’ve bought one of Bev’s cars from him in the past then. I rarely forget a name.” He went to the kitchen for a glass and the bottle and tried to conjure up a face to put to the name. Brian Dowie wasn’t a particularly common name, yet Dylan couldn’t place it.
He refreshed Frank’s glass, poured himself a generous measure of whisky, and sat to tell Frank of the day’s events.
“So Archie was right about Weller wanting a word with King,” he said. “There was no other reason for him and his heavies to be at the dog track.”
“And if that’s the case,” Frank said, “would King really bother with you when he’s busy hiding from Weller?”
That thought had crossed Dylan’s mind several times. It didn’t feel right. And yet, apart from Goodenough, who was another who seemed unlikely to waste time threatening him, he was out of ideas.
“Bev and your mum are off to some Easter parade tomorrow,” Frank said, “so I’ll keep a close eye on them. From a distance, of course. I’ll be far enough away not to alert Bev and close enough to see if any sicko follows them.”
“Thanks. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this. And thanks for reminding me that it’s Easter tomorrow. I have flowers and chocolate in the car.”
He’d bring them inside later. First, he refilled their glasses and they settled down to talk over old times. There was nothing like two ex-coppers for putting the world, and especially the modern police service, to rights.
“Gone are the days when a copper could go out and bag a criminal,” Frank said. “And don’t even get me started on human rights.”
Dylan knew their views on that particular issue were in tune. “Your average crook has more rights than I’ve had whiskies, and your victim—”
“—has none at all. Yep, that about sums it up. The world’s gone mad.”
Chapter Fourteen
Apart from the fact there was less traffic on the roads than usual, it was impossible to tell it was Easter Sunday. Dylan had seen a few of the faithful gathering outside a church in their finery but, for most, it was just another day.
Dylan was back at Goodenough’s flat, but there was no sign of the man himself.
“I rarely see Chesney,” one of his neighbours said, “and I’m at home most of the time. He’s often away for days on end, sometimes a week or more. He seems nice enough, though. No trouble. Very quiet. The perfect neighbour, really.”
“When you see him, would you ask him to give me a call?” Dylan handed over his card. “I have money to give him—not mine, I hasten to add—and he’s proving difficult to find.”
“Of course. It could be days or even weeks before I see him though.”
“I understand.” Dylan thanked her and tried another neighbour. This one, an elderly man, wasn’t quite as impressed by Goodenough.
“An odd chap,” he said. “You can talk to him for an hour and still have no idea where he comes from, what he does for a living—nothing.”
“Talk to him often, do you?” Dylan asked.
“Good Lord, no. He must work away and use this as a weekend or holiday home. He’s rarely here.”
“You’ve no idea where he might stay the rest of the time?”
“None at all. I saw him once at Euston Station. He was catching the train north to Manchester. He was looking a little—well, shabby, to be honest. He had a large holdall with him too. Perhaps he works up north.”
That sounded unlikely.
No one knew anything about Goodenough, or Marshall, and Dylan left the building no wiser.
He headed to the home of Victoria Shelby. According to the escort agency, she’d attended a show with Goodenough and had paid a ridiculous amount of money for the privilege.
He found the address easily enough—a vast home set it its own gardens—and sat outside. For once, he didn’t have long to wait. A woman, probably early fifties, soon emerged, climbed into a silver BMW and drove off. Dylan followed.
They drove for about five miles, until she parked near the Underground station and headed for the trains. By the time Dylan had found the only other available parking spot and raced into the station, she was already at the machine buying a ticket.
He banged his hip against her. “I’m so sorry. I was busy looking at the map.”
“It’s fine.” Her voice was refined and slightly breathy.
“Hey, do I know you?” He rubbed his chin. “I’m sure we’ve—ah, I’ve got you now. You’re a friend of Chesney’s.”
Her eyes widened with surprise. Or embarrassment. “Well—”
“I saw you with him not so long ago. I was with my wife. It was my wife who wanted to see the show.”
“Ah.” Definitely embarrassment.
“I don’t suppose you’ve seen him in the last couple of days, have you? I’ve been trying to speak to him, but he’s not returning my calls. I hope he’s all right. I’m getting a little concerned.”
She blushed an attractive shade of red. “I haven’t. Sorry.”
“He’s a character, isn’t he?”
“Yes.” She gave him a tight smile. “Sorry, but I’m in a rush.”
“Will you be seeing him—?”
“No.”
“Ah. I see. I’m sorry it didn’t work out for you. You looked good together.”
“Sorry, I can’t help you.” The machine spewed out her ticket and she dashed off to the trains.
Dylan chalked that up to a waste of time and crossed the Thames to a very different property. This one was a modest semi with a beautifully tended but minuscule front garden. Garden was too grand a word as it was a small square of concrete. A mass of brightly coloured flowers blossomed in attractive pots of different heights though.
According to the agency’s computer, twenty-six-year-old Janice Filgrew lived here. The same Janice Filgrew who’d paid for three hours in Goodenough’s company.
He sat in his Morgan watching the property for a couple of hours and was rewarded when a young
woman of around the right age emerged with a canvas shopping bag dangling from her arm. She stopped to inspect the flowers by her front door, removed a couple of faded blooms and dropped them on another pot. Satisfied, she put her shopping bag over her arm and strode along the street.
Dylan followed at a distance, all the while wondering why the hell this young woman bothered with escort agencies. She was slim and attractive with a curtain of blond hair cascading over her shoulders. He had nothing against men or women using escort agencies but he couldn’t help thinking it smacked of desperation. Janice Filgrew had no need for such measures.
They’d been walking for about half an hour but hadn’t travelled far. She kept pausing to look in shop windows, most of which were closed for the Easter holiday, and spent around five minutes chatting to a young Asian girl she met.
She stopped outside a greengrocer’s, where the pavement was crammed with stalls laden with fresh fruit and vegetables. Dylan ducked into a nearby phone booth and watched her pick up a wire basket and fill it with oranges that she squeezed to test for ripeness, bananas that it took her a full five minutes to select, and apples. With the wire basket hanging heavy on her arm, she checked out bunches of flowers that had been put in large buckets of water. She finally chose a colourful arrangement and went inside the shop to pay.
Either there was a long queue or she stopped to chat because it was several minutes before she stepped into the sunshine again. When she did, she began walking back along the street toward Dylan’s phone booth.
The pavement was crowded and she was walking on the edge, close to his phone booth, to avoid pedestrians. He timed it perfectly. As she drew level, he pushed open the door and rushed out. The door missed her, but he startled her.
“So sorry,” he said. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, fine.” She laughed. “You gave me a fright, that’s all.”
“Sorry,” he said again. “Hey, don’t I know you?”
She gave him a wary look. “I don’t think so.”
“You look familiar and I never forget a face. It’ll come to me.”
She looked even more worried as he fell into step with her.
“Got it.” He gave her a triumphant smile. “I saw you with a friend of mine. Chesney.”
“Chesney?” Her face lit up. “You’re a friend of his?”
“Acquaintance. Funnily enough, I’ve been trying to speak to him for days and he hasn’t been returning my calls. I called at his place yesterday too but there was no sign of him. I don’t suppose you know what he’s up to, do you?”
“I don’t, but it’s odd that you should mention it. He promised to call me, and I’ve been getting a little worried myself.” She chewed on her bottom lip. “I hope he’s all right.”
“I’m sure he is. Perhaps he’s visiting family for Easter and hasn’t thought to tell us. You know what he’s like.”
“Yes.” It was clear that she didn’t.
“Here. Let me.” He took her shopping bag from her.
“Thanks.”
“Chesney was changing jobs the last I heard,” Dylan said, “so perhaps he’s busy with that.”
“He might be. To tell the truth, I haven’t known him long.” They moved apart to avoid a woman pushing a buggy while hanging on to a toddler. “I met him while I was out running,” she said when they were side by side again. “He knocked me off my feet—literally.”
“Oh?”
“Yes.” She was positively glowing at the memory. “I usually go for a morning run by the river. That particular morning, I was running one way, and he came round the corner from the opposite direction and collided with me. He knocked me flying. He picked me up, dusted me down and insisted on buying me a coffee. We chatted and—well, we just sort of clicked.”
Dylan nodded his understanding, but wasn’t sure whether to believe her or not. He would have staked his life on her being genuine if he hadn’t known for a fact that she’d paid good money to see him.
“I’m not sure he’d agree with that,” she said, “but I knew there was some connection between us. You just get those feelings sometimes, don’t you?”
“Yes, I suppose you do.” Love at first sight? Bev would have enjoyed this. It was straight out of the trashy romance books she read.
“We chatted over coffee then went our separate ways. I couldn’t get him out of my mind, though. All I knew was his first name and that he sometimes worked for an escort agency.”
“He’s quit that job now.”
“Yes, he said he was going to. Anyway, I went online and rang round them all to see if they had a Chesney on their books. It took ages but I eventually struck gold. They wouldn’t give me an address or phone number for him, understandable really, so I had to book a meeting with him through the agency.”
“Ah.” By his reckoning, she’d paid five hundred and forty quid for that meeting.
“We met up and had a wonderful time.” Her expression became nauseatingly dreamy. “Like I said, I knew there was a connection between us. We have so much in common—music, films, books, even a love of chocolate ice cream—and we just hit it off. There was a spark, you know?”
“I know.” He didn’t. “So you saw him again?”
“That’s just it. He said he was going away for a few days and would call me the moment he returned.” The worried frown was back. “It may be that he’s away longer than he anticipated, but I can’t help wondering if something’s happened.”
Dylan felt a rush of sympathy for her. He’d bet his life that any spark had gone unnoticed by Goodenough—or Marshall, or whatever his blasted name was. He would have sussed that Janice wasn’t wealthy enough to bother about. Flirting with women was what he did best, it was part of the job, but only the very wealthy would receive a follow-up phone call.
“I’m sure he’s fine. He travels a lot, so—” He shrugged.
“Yes, I know. He has itchy feet. That’s why he joined the army. I wonder—do you think he’s lost my number? I didn’t get his which, with hindsight, was pretty stupid of me.”
“He may have lost it, I suppose. He’s not the most organised of people, is he?”
“That could be it. I wonder, if you manage to get in touch with him, would you give him my number? Oh, I’m Janice, by the way.”
“Of course I will.” He juggled her shopping bag and took his phone from his pocket. “If I put it straight on my phone, I won’t lose it.”
She rattled off her phone numbers, landline and mobile, and Dylan duly noted them.
“He might—well, I don’t know how to put this,” Dylan said. “Did he tell you about his last girlfriend?”
“No.”
“Things didn’t work out,” Dylan said. “He doesn’t have feelings for her or anything like that, but I gather someone caused trouble for him—for her too. Did he mention anything about that?”
“Nothing at all. No.”
“Reading between the lines, I think the girl’s father got involved and decided he wasn’t suitable for his daughter. I gather Chesney was pretty angry about it. He didn’t tell you?”
She gave a sad shake of her head. “No.”
“I expect he’s forgotten all about it then. Not to worry. I’ll make sure he gets your phone numbers.”
“Thanks so much.” They reached her house with its sunny array of flowers. “This is where I live.”
“Right. Well, good to meet you, Janice. I’ll tell him to get in touch with you.” He handed over her shopping. “Take care.”
He wanted to tell her she wouldn’t be hearing from Goodenough, or Chesney, and he wanted to tell her that she deserved one hell of a lot better, but there were no words that she’d believe so he walked back to his car and drove off with a growing hatred for Goodenough.
He hadn’t learned a lot. Goo
denough was often away. No surprise there. He was ex-army, he ran by the river, presumably close to Janice’s home as she also ran there, and presumably near a coffee bar. And that was the sum of it.
Goodenough was a particularly callous individual but Dylan couldn’t imagine him making death threats. He certainly couldn’t see him as a killer. Perhaps if he were being paid well—but no, that didn’t make sense. If you wanted someone killed, you could walk into any of a handful of pubs in London and get the job done for next to nothing.
Of his two suspects, neither of which he could actually find, King had to be the most likely. He’d never killed anyone to Dylan’s knowledge, but he’d served time for waving a gun in a shopkeeper’s face. A scared shopkeeper would, quite rightly, hand over his worldly goods so it was impossible to say if King would have used his weapon.
But where to find him...
He was still convinced that King would find a way to see his kids. The pull of flesh and blood was too strong to be ignored for long. They were staying with Wendy’s mother so, as he had nothing better to do, and as he was fresh out of better ideas, he drove to her address.
It was an old and slightly shabby bungalow with a well-cared-for, if uninspiring, front garden. An eight-year-old Volvo sat on the front drive waiting for someone to clean it.
Dylan had been watching the property for close to two hours when a text message came through. “Your kids have had their faces painted, received eggs from the Easter bunny, followed a brass band and are now home. No oddballs around. I’m back at your place opening a bottle.”
Dylan wished he could join him.
Half an hour later, two boys emerged from the property. They didn’t go anywhere, just sat on the low garden wall and talked. Dylan’s heart went out to them. Losing a mother to illness was one thing, but how the hell did kids cope with knowing their mother had been murdered?
They weren’t outside long. Still looking aimless, they went back inside and closed the door behind them.
Just as Dylan t hought he might as well go home and share that bottle with Frank, a man walked smartly along the pavement and turned into the driveway. Leonard King!