He’d spent hours gazing at the twenty stories of anonymous stainless-steel-clad office block. It was being sold off soon, although he couldn’t imagine anyone would want to buy it. People didn’t realise it was such a crap building. All they saw was the revolving sign that news reporters always stood beside to deliver their stories. It revolved fourteen thousand times a day apparently, but who the hell cared? Inside the hallway, the so-called eternal flame had flickered for years alongside the names of all officers who’d died while on duty. When Jimmy’s plan came to fruition, they’d be able to add a few more names to that particular list.
He forgot the inhabitants of Scotland Yard and mentally ticked off everything he knew about Lowell. On the surface, Lowell was happily married to Janette. It was his second marriage and he had three kids. The two teenage girls from his first marriage lived with their mother, and he had a seven-year-old daughter, Emily, from his second marriage. It was odd then, at least Jimmy thought it odd, that Lowell hung around gay bars. He’d leave his office, spend an hour or so in a nearby gay bar, making a drink last an hour, watching the other customers, and then he’d go home to his wife, daughter and dog, a springer spaniel named Sam.
Home was a large five-bedroom house which, judging by the number of hours the cleaner worked, was spotless. Caterers were employed when the Lowells held one of their regular dinner parties. They enjoyed a good life.
Lowell’s business was above board, supposedly. He’d started in a low-key way, lending small amounts of money here and there. Business had taken off, though, and over the years he’d made a fortune. When the banks wouldn’t lend them money, people went to Lowell. He was a good talker and easily convinced people that his extortionate interest rates were reasonable given the risks he took. Countless people had lost their homes to Lowell. A lot had lost everything.
Lowell didn’t care about that. He was too busy enjoying his perfect life with his perfect family.
Jimmy had a quick flick through the newspaper he’d bought. There was little of interest in it, just a couple of paragraphs about Dowie. Police were still appealing for information regarding his disappearance. His burnt-out car had been found and, although the article was short on information, it seemed to Jimmy, reading between the lines, that police believed Dowie had done a runner, burned his car, returned to murder his family, and set off for a new life.
They’d never find him. Jimmy would make sure of that.
He folded the newspaper and finished his coffee. It was five minutes to one, almost time for Lowell to take a lunch break. Jimmy ordered another coffee and a chicken salad sandwich. It arrived at the exact moment that Lowell emerged from his office.
“Thanks.” The waitress scurried away and Jimmy watched Lowell stride the twenty yards from his office to the café.
Jimmy bit into his sandwich then watched, horrified, as Lowell stopped beside his table.
“Do you mind?” Lowell asked.
Jimmy looked around. This was out of the ordinary as Lowell always—always—took an inside table. Now, Jimmy’s was the only table with empty chairs. He did bloody well mind, but what could he say? “Be my guest.”
“Thanks.” Lowell pulled out the chair opposite and sat. “This good weather soon has the outside tables filling up, doesn’t it?”
Jimmy nodded and picked up his newspaper. He didn’t want conversation. He needed to observe. As he pretended to check the evening’s TV-viewing schedule, he took a calming breath. It didn’t matter where Lowell sat. Not really. Usually, it took him around twelve minutes to eat and drink, and then he strolled back to his office. Today would be no different—except he would spend those twelve minutes in Jimmy’s space.
The waitress came over. “Hello, there. What can I get you?”
“You’re looking particularly lovely today, Carmen. I’ll have the usual, please.” He gave her a smile and a wink and she walked off with a definite sway to her hips.
So Lowell was on first-name terms with the staff. So what? As he’d been having lunch here for so long, that wasn’t surprising.
Jimmy had always loathed the man’s conceit. Hated his arrogance. He wouldn’t be so bloody sure of himself when Jimmy had finished with him.
The “usual” was soon brought to the table. A prawn sandwich with side salad and a large cappuccino.
Jimmy could remember the first time he saw Lowell. Even two decades ago, Lowell had been convinced that he had something special, some gift that people couldn’t resist.
Lowell wouldn’t recognise Jimmy. Jimmy never forgot a face, though, and the one opposite him was little different to the one he’d seen all those years ago. On that first meeting, a crowd of around twelve had been gathered in a pub. Lowell had taken up position on a barstool and everyone had stood around him, acting as his audience. He’d called everyone mate or buddy as he’d told jokes and shared amusing anecdotes. People had wanted to be his friend. Jimmy hadn’t. He’d hated him even then.
As Jimmy ate his sandwich and sipped his coffee, Lowell took his phone from his pocket and hit a single button.
“Hi,” he said when his call was answered. “Everything okay?”
Jimmy listened as Lowell chatted about domestic matters for a couple of minutes. Presumably he was talking to his wife.
“Okay, sweetheart. I’ll see you later. I have a meeting that could go on a bit but, with luck, I’ll get away by seven. See you then.”
Lowell ended the call and returned his phone to his pocket. He ate his food, drank his coffee, and signalled to the waitress for his bill. He left the cash on the table, with a generous tip, got to his feet, nodded and smiled at Jimmy, then strode back to his office.
All in all, he’d been away from the building for fourteen minutes. Nothing unusual about that.
Jimmy would bet that, despite what he’d said, Lowell would get away from the office by five-thirty or six at the latest. He’d then spend an hour in the gay bar down the road before going home.
Jimmy would be watching. He’d watch Lowell’s every breath until it was time to make his move.
Chapter Seventeen
After an unseasonably warm day, the temperature had dropped dramatically and Dylan wished he’d had the sense to bring his jacket. He wasn’t sure King would show up, and the idea of sitting on this bench with the chill breeze biting through his shirt wasn’t appealing.
King seemed to have fallen for his farfetched story of being a writer, but Dylan needed to be on his guard. If King discovered his true identity—
He’d cross that particular bridge when he came to it. For the moment at least, King would be too busy hiding from Weller. At least, Dylan hoped he would.
Dylan was early but he’d wanted to see if anyone was keeping an eye on King and, more important, logging his own movements.
The circle of grass—Dylan refused to call it a park—was deserted, apart from a pair of pigeons hunting for crumbs. Away from the green, on the other side of the spindly trees, people rushed from office to bar to home. Car horns blared, and an ambulance’s siren shrieked. Buses and taxis ferried people around the City. People were too busy getting on with their lives to pay the grass or Dylan any attention.
Six o’clock came and went. As did six-fifteen. At twenty-five past, King appeared from nowhere and sat beside him.
“You got the cash?”
“I told you, I can’t get any until I know if your story’s worth printing.”
“Fuck you!” King jumped to his feet.
“Wait. I’ve got a small amount—think of it as a down payment. Five hundred.”
“Five hundred? Are you fucking joking?”
“You get to take it whether your story’s worth writing or not. Look at it this way, if you have as much to tell me as you claim, it’ll make a great story that I’ll be able to write up quickly. If it’s that go
od, believe me, my publisher will want it in the bookstores before you know it.”
Sighing dramatically, King sat again. “Let’s have it then.”
Reluctantly, very reluctantly, Dylan took the cash from his wallet. It grieved him to hand over five hundred pounds for nothing. Well, probably for nothing. King might tell his story, and he might tell the truth, but that was unlikely to help Dylan.
King counted the money, grunted his thanks or disgust—it was difficult to tell which—and pocketed it.
“So the cash found at your flat on the night on the arrest was definitely stolen from Rickman?” Dylan asked.
“Yep.”
“Who took it? Who the hell would be brave enough to steal from Rickman? How did they do it? And who made the call to the coppers that night?”
King sneered. “Who do you think?”
“If I knew that, I wouldn’t be asking. Come on—this is bullshit.”
“My ex-missus.”
“Sorry?”
“Wendy.”
“Your ex-wife set you up?”
“Yep.”
“Are you sure?”
“Oh yes, I’m sure. She didn’t take the money herself, someone else did the dirty work, but she hid some of it where the filth would find it, along with the heroin. And she phoned the cops.”
Dylan leaned back on his bench. It was feasible, perhaps. That call had been made by a woman. “But why?”
“To make some money for herself and to get rid of me. Two birds with one stone, you could say.”
“She got her husband, the father of her kids, put away?”
“Yep.”
“What proof do you have?”
King’s head jerked up. “Proof? You want fucking proof? I can’t give you that, can I? She’s dead. You do know she’s fucking dead, don’t you?”
“Yes. Who killed her? Did you have anything to do with it?”
“Of course not. I could have, though. God, if I could have got my hands on her—but no, I had nothing to do with it. I have no idea who did it.”
“What about Weller?” Dylan asked. “He’s after you, so maybe—”
“Who says he’s after me? I don’t know nothing about that.”
“Oh, believe me, he’s after you.”
“Like I said, I don’t know nothing about that.”
“Maybe he thinks you stole that money from his stepfather. Maybe he went to Wendy’s house looking for you.”
“Dunno.”
As soon as Weller’s name was mentioned, King clammed up. Why?
This was madness. Who killed Wendy King, who stole money from Rickman, and King’s innocence or otherwise was of no interest to Dylan whatsoever. Yet he was intrigued. He’d always been a sucker for a story.
“So,” he said, “you’re telling me that your then wife, Wendy, stole money and heroin from Rickman, with an accomplice, and then made an anonymous phone call to the police about a fictitious domestic dispute in the knowledge that you and Rickman would be caught red-handed?”
“Yep.”
“I heard that it was less than two minutes between that anonymous phone call being made and those two coppers turning up?” He knew that was true because he and Pikey had been so close to the property in question.
“Yeah. Two detective sergeants no less. Like they’d go and sort out a bloody domestic, eh? Of course, everyone fell for it because London was in chaos that night. There were bomb scares and God knows what else going down. We thought those two bastards got lucky. If we’d been dealing with a couple of plods, we could have sorted it.”
“How?”
“Rickman had weapons there.”
Including two samurai swords. “Guns?”
“Knives. We’d have sorted it.”
“Killed them?”
“Yep. If that’s what it took.”
“So why didn’t you kill the detectives? What’s the difference?”
“The bastards were too quick for us, that’s why.”
Too quick and too experienced. In short, too bloody good.
“So you’re out to get them now?” Dylan asked.
“Yep. Well, Max is. It’s Max really. I’ll be right behind him though.”
“Hang on a minute. What do mean? Max is inside. What the hell can he do?”
King tapped the side of his nose. “He has contacts on the outside. Lots.”
Dylan didn’t doubt it. All the same—
“Years have passed,” Dylan said. “How do you know those coppers are still around. Maybe they’ve retired, maybe—”
“They’re still around. One’s still a copper.”
“What about the other?”
“He gave it up soon after, so I heard. He’s a private investigator these days.”
Shit.
“Sounds a bit odd to me,” Dylan said. “I mean, why, if Rickman’s so keen to get them, hasn’t he done anything about it before now? Let’s face it, he’s had years to plan his revenge and it’s not as if he’s been busy with a demanding social life, is it?”
That sneer curled King’s mouth again. “Like I said, we fell for it.”
“Fell for what?”
“We thought it was coincidence that two detectives turned up. It’s only recently that we’ve found out.”
“Found out what?”
“The bastards were in on it.”
“What?” Christ, he’d heard it all now. “You reckon the detectives who arrested you were involved?”
“Yep.”
“How? Why?”
“Why? To get their hands on a share of the loot, that’s why. You show me a copper and I’ll show you a fucking crook.”
“Okay. So how?”
King took a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from his pocket and took an age to light one. He inhaled and blew out the smoke. “A couple of months before I got out of prison, Max’s missus was at a nightclub and she heard a couple of blokes talking about it. They were saying that, as soon as I was out, I’d be sure to get the truth out of Wendy—the truth being that she—and one of those coppers—set me up.”
Unbelievable.
So unbelievable that Dylan was almost lost for words. Almost. “So Rickman’s wife overhears a bit of gossip in a nightclub’s toilets—”
“She was at the bar.”
“Wherever. She overhears a bit of gossip and Rickman—and you—take it as gospel and decide that those two detectives stole cash and drugs from Rickman and set you up?”
“Give me a better idea. How the hell would that cash have got to my flat if Wendy wasn’t involved, eh? Who else would have known that I’d be at Rickman’s place that night, eh? And those coppers—they had to be involved. Otherwise a couple of plods would have turned up.”
Put like that—
“That’s your lot.” King stood up and tapped the cash in his pocket. “If you want more, you need to pay up. The next instalment costs five grand. Up front.”
“Hang on a minute. When you said Rickman had contacts, that he was out for these coppers, what do you mean? What’s he doing?”
King tapped the cash in his pocket again. “Same time on Thursday night.”
“How many times have you spoken to Rickman since you got banged up?”
“Eh?” King looked confused.
“I’m wondering how you know what Rickman’s thinking of doing?”
“I’ve talked to him often enough. Like I said, if you want more, be here the same time on Thursday night.”
He strode off, looking left and right and over his shoulder as he did so.
Dylan wanted to go home and share a drink with Frank, but he had no choice but to follow King.
It was easier said than done.
Every time a bus came into view, he expected King to leap on it, but King kept on walking, all the while checking over his shoulder, ducking into shops, walking into the Underground stations and taking a different exit. They walked for three-quarters of an hour until King suddenly ran into a Tube station and jumped onto a train as the doors closed.
“Shit.” Dylan had lost him.
* * *
By the time Dylan stopped the car on his driveway, he was more than ready for the drink he’d been promising himself all day. His mind was still reeling from King’s fictitious offering. He’d give a lot to know who’d started the story about him and Pikey being involved in the mess that was King’s life.
He pushed open the front door and waited for the noise to greet him. All was quiet.
His mother, dressed in long skirt, T-shirt and cardigan in every colour of the rainbow, was sharing the sofa with Frank. No one else was around.
“Talk of the devil,” his mum said. “I was telling Frank how it’s a miracle you ever came into the world.”
Dylan groaned. Once she got started on the horrors of childbirth, or the horrors she’d had bringing him into the world at least, there was no stopping her. Dylan swore he could walk his way through a degree in gynaecology.
Frank was grinning, but he hadn’t heard the story a million times already. Besides, he had a glass of whisky in his hand and Vicky Scott was far easier to deal with when alcohol was being consumed.
“That’s why he’s an only child, Frank. I wouldn’t want to go through that again. And can you imagine inflicting two like Dylan on the world?” She cackled with laughter.
Dylan had given up trying to work out who his father might be, but he’d often wondered what life would have been like if his mother hadn’t found herself in lone parent mode. Given that she’d spent her time smoking marijuana and drifting from one commune to another chanting Love and Peace, it could be anyone. A waiter in Turkey, a bullfighter in Spain—anyone.
She drove him to the edge of insanity, but for a reason that had always eluded him, he loved her dearly. And he had to admit that it was useful to have a willing babysitter at the end of a phone. A crazy dope-smoking babysitter wasn’t every parent’s dream, but it didn’t seem to have harmed his kids. Yet.
Dead End Page 11
