Dead End

by Shirley Wells

  He ran up the stairs and outside to the garage. His first job involved the back of his van. He’d brought a roll of industrial-strength polythene sheeting and he covered every surface with it.

  Next, he took the dozen heavy-duty black plastic bags he’d bought into the house. His chainsaw sat in the yard primed for action.

  While carrying it into the house, he saw that a few drops of petrol had leaked. He gave it a quick wipe and hoped it didn’t let him down.

  “Doing some work?” a voice asked.

  Jimmy spun round to see his elderly neighbour peering over the wooden fence that separated the two yards. Nosy bugger.

  “I’m getting it ready to take to a friend’s house. He has some logs to chop up for next winter.”

  The chap nodded, but said nothing. The deaf old sod probably hadn’t heard.

  “Can’t stop,” Jimmy said, and he hurried inside, clutching the chainsaw to him.

  How deaf was the old chap? The saw made a hell of a lot of noise, and if he heard it, he’d know Jimmy wasn’t chopping up logs.

  It didn’t matter. The old man would be taking his dog out soon—you could set your watch by them—and Jimmy would do it then. Meanwhile, he’d relax with a coffee. He’d drink it in the yard so he could see when man and dog set off.

  He took one of the kitchen chairs outside and sat on that as if he were enjoying the sunshine.

  He wondered briefly what Carol and the boys were doing. He’d guess that the boys were waiting for Carol to finish at the salon before asking her to take them to tonight’s entertainment. She was far too soft with them. He’d have to start spending more time at home and instilling some discipline in them.

  Their grandfather, Jimmy’s dad, thought they were the best kids ever born but he’d change his mind if he saw them on a daily basis. “Nancy boys,” he’d call them, just as he’d called Jimmy. He’d ask them if they were gay, just as he’d asked Jimmy.

  Jimmy loathed the bloke. He was civil to him for his mum’s sake, but he hated him. Hated him.

  Even now, he could hear his mocking laughter. “You? In the army? You won’t last five minutes. Or perhaps you will. I’ve heard it’s full of gays now. They’re that desperate, they’re letting anyone in.”

  If he could see him now, if he could see the wretch in the cellar, he wouldn’t be laughing. He wouldn’t call him a nancy boy then.

  Jimmy wished it was his father in the cellar. He’d love to have the conceited, cruel bastard at his mercy. He’d give anything to hear him beg.

  The door to the adjoining house banged closed.

  “Off for a walk then?” Jimmy said.

  “The dog can’t go far these days,” the old chap replied.

  Neither of them could go far. The short distance they travelled always took them an age, though.

  Jimmy watched until man and dog were out of sight. Then he went back inside, picked up the chainsaw and descended to the cellar.

  “Like I told you, Brian, it’s time to say goodbye. I hope all your affairs are in order.” That made him laugh, but Dowie didn’t seem to appreciate the joke. There was no reaction, not so much of a shudder.

  Jimmy put a finger to Dowie’s neck. There was no pulse. The skin was cold.

  “You useless fucking twat. Jesus. You wouldn’t last five minutes in the army.” Jimmy was furious. He’d intended to have fun with Dowie. There was no hope of that now. “Useless fucker. Just give up, eh? The going gets a bit tough and you give up and fucking die. That’s great. Just fucking great.”

  Thinking about it, Jimmy supposed he wouldn’t have had much time for fun anyway. He needed the job done before his neighbour returned.

  He untied the ropes from around Dowie’s neck, arms and legs and Dowie dropped to the floor.

  Jimmy checked for a pulse again, but it was no use. The bloke had been dead for hours.

  He pulled the cord on his chainsaw and gave a little smile of satisfaction as it growled into life. He’d known it wouldn’t let him down.

  Sweat poured off him as he worked. It wasn’t as easy as he’d thought it would be. He had to stop twice to vomit. The smell was unbearable too. He’d seen worse than this in Afghanistan but, all the same—

  He carried on with the task. His heart thumped. Sweat dripped into his eyes.

  When the task was done, he put the body parts into the black plastic bags, tied them securely and carried them, one or two at a time depending on the weight, to his van.

  He locked the house, jumped in his van and drove off with the windows open.

  His first idea had been to dump Dowie’s body in the Thames, but it was too busy. Instead, he’d decided to drive to the coast. It was ages since he’d been to the seaside and he was looking forward to it. Perhaps he’d visit Brighton. Or maybe he’d go to Beachy Head, where everyone went to commit suicide. He could throw Dowie off the cliffs.

  It would be late when he got there, but he liked it better that way.

  He’d drop Dowie into the sea. Piece by piece.

  Chapter Twenty

  Dylan picked up his phone and tapped in Mrs. Rickman’s number.

  “Hello?” She answered on the second ring.

  “Mrs. Rickman?”

  “Yes.” There was a frown in her voice.

  “My name’s Bill Williams. I don’t know if you’ve heard but I’m a writer, and I’m currently researching a book about criminals who’ve been wrongly convicted.”

  “I’ve heard.”

  He waited for more but nothing was forthcoming. Presumably her son had spoken to her about him.

  “I was wondering if I could have a chat with you,” he said. “About your husband and Leonard King. Obviously, I know your husband wasn’t wrongly convicted, that he was dealing drugs, but rumour has it that both men were set up.” There was a long, long silence. “Mrs. King?”

  “You can’t pay attention to rumours, Mr.—?”

  “Williams. Bill. I know that, but I’ve heard a few things recently that make me wonder.”

  “Like what?”

  “That’s what I’d like to talk to you about.”

  Another long silence.

  “Perhaps I could buy you dinner.” He’d be broke at this rate. Or more broke. “I can tell you what I know and then you can make up your mind whether or not to talk to me.”

  “Okay,” she said at last. “Les Deux Salons. Seven o’clock this evening. I’ll make the booking.”

  “Right. Good. Thanks. See you there.”

  She cut the connection before he’d finished the sentence.

  He looked up Les Deux Salons on the internet. As it was in Covent Garden, the French restaurant was apparently the place to go for pre-theatre dining. Thankfully, it didn’t look too pricey. A burger at McDonald’s would have suited Dylan better but at least she’d agreed to see him.

  He thought about calling Pikey to see if there was any change in King’s condition, but he knew Pikey would call him if there were.

  King would live. He’d lost a lot of blood and had needed an operation to remove the bullet, but he was probably in the safest place.

  His story was that he’d been heading to a boxing club he’d joined when two men had stopped a car and accosted him. He claimed to have no idea why they’d picked on him or what they’d wanted.

  It was all bollocks, of course. King had been waiting for those men, and Dylan would bet his life that the holdall had contained money or drugs.

  Police had been looking into Weller’s affairs, which is why they’d been so interested in the vehicle involved and why they’d reached the scene so quickly. The car belonged to Weller. He’d reported it stolen, had a watertight alibi, as did all his staff, and was totally in the dark as to why it might have been used in such a manner.

&nb
sp; It was all nice, neat and convenient. And it was complete bollocks.

  Dylan wished he could get out of his office. Work was continuing at a pace in the soon-to-be dental surgery across the corridor, and it was difficult to think straight with all the noise caused by workmen hammering and banging. Soon, the noise would be of the dentist’s drill variety and Dylan wasn’t sure which was worse.

  He couldn’t escape though because he needed to look through hours of footage taken from the cameras outside his home and office. It was a job he could only do for an hour or so at a time. Any longer and his brain went numb and saw what it wanted to see rather than what was actually there...

  * * *

  Les Deux Salons was better than Dylan had expected in many ways. The menu was more tempting and varied than he’d found in other French restaurants. Or perhaps he was simply hungrier than usual.

  He was a few minutes early but, true to her word, Mrs. Rickman had make a booking and Dylan was quickly shown to their table. He didn’t have long to wait.

  The breath left his body in a shocked whoosh when he saw her arrive. He recognised her face from old photos he’d seen, but he hadn’t realised she was in a wheelchair.

  He stood up as the waiter escorted her and her chair to their table. “Er—good to meet you, Mrs. Rickman. Thanks for seeing me.”

  She was fifty-two but she clearly tried to hide that fact behind well-cut blond hair, expertly manicured fingers and carefully applied makeup. Her trim figure suggested that this evening wouldn’t be as expensive as Dylan had feared. She was wearing a simple black dress, a gold necklace, gold watch and two diamond stud earrings.

  “As you’re buying me dinner, you’d better call me Sarah,” she said when her chair was in the most comfortable position.

  “Thank you. As you know, I’m Bill.”

  He wondered what she saw when she looked at him. A bloke whose brown hair needed a good cut and a bloke who had no taste whatsoever when it came to buying spectacles. At least, he hoped that’s what she saw. Better that than a bloke whose wig was slipping.

  Either he was staring too hard or the shock was still etched across his face because she gave him a knowing smile. “Don’t worry, Bill, it’s only my legs that are knackered. The rest of my faculties are in perfect working order.”

  “Ah. Right. Sorry, I didn’t mean to—I didn’t know.”

  “Really? You haven’t done your research very well then, have you?”

  “Apparently not.”

  “An accident,” she said. “I was still in hospital when Max went to trial.”

  How the hell hadn’t he known? Thinking back, Archie had said something that should have alerted him. “Despite everything, she’s still a looker...money’s not the answer to everything, is it? Well, not in her case.”

  He remembered Rickman’s trial, but he couldn’t remember hearing that the bloke’s wife had been in hospital.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  She gave a small smile and said, as if she’d had to explain it too many times in the past, “I was hit by a car.”

  “Oh?”

  “A hit-and-run driver. We never did find out who was responsible. I’d probably had too much to drink so perhaps it was my own fault. Now then, let’s look at the menu.”

  The trouble with meals—at least, the trouble with meals when women were involved—was the time it took to get down to the important conversation. Men could discuss business while eating fish and chips in the street, or over a plate of pie and chips in the local pub, but women insisted on making a song and dance of it all. Bev was exactly the same.

  It took an age for Sarah to choose a wine to drink while she perused the menu. She ordered a third-of-a-bottle carafe of white wine. “That way, I can sample the other wines as the evening goes on,” she said.

  If it took her that long to decide on the first carafe, they’d be here all night. She’d also be very drunk if she went through the entire list. Still, that probably wouldn’t be a bad thing. There were few things better than alcohol for loosening tongues.

  He ordered a beer to pass the time.

  He declined a starter but she insisted on having beetroot salad with crumbled goat’s cheese or some such thing. Then came the ordeal of ordering a main course. Dylan ordered the duck, and after a great deal of deliberation she settled on what had to be the most expensive thing on the menu, grass-fed veal chop.

  She was reasonably good company, though, and, under different circumstances he would have enjoyed himself. He could see why Archie was a tad smitten.

  However, Dylan needed information from her and it was difficult when she insisted on talking of TV programs, films she’d seen recently, mobile phones and everything else.

  “I’ve always loved the cinema.” She was downing wine as if it were about to be banned from the land and was already a little tipsy. “It’s always been my treat. Of course, it’s not the same these days. When I was a teenager, you could barely see the screen for smoke. Now that smoking’s banned everywhere, you have to endure people eating popcorn, chocolate or ice cream. People never used to talk during a showing either.”

  “I rarely go to the cinema,” he said, “so I wouldn’t know. I prefer to watch films on TV. That way, I can pause it to get a drink and watch it when I feel like it.”

  “It’s not the same, Bill.”

  “No, I don’t suppose it is. More convenient though. You don’t have to get dressed up to go out—”

  “You don’t have to get dressed at all,” she said, her eyes meeting his.

  She was flirting with him. He was ten years younger, which ought to mean he could do better, but a small part of him was flattered. The sensible part of him was curious as to why she’d bother. Clearly, she wanted something from him.

  When she took a mouthful of grass-fed veal, he took a breath and launched in. “So you knew about the book I’m working on. I suppose your son told you?”

  “He mentioned it, yes. Not that he’s interested,” she said quickly. Too quickly? “Him and Max have never been close. Not Max’s fault. Not John’s really. John idolised his dad and never really got over losing him. Or never got over seeing me with someone else. It’s not that he’s jealous exactly—it’s more that Max was a stranger to him, just someone who came to live with me.”

  “Does he have a family of his own?”

  “John? No. He hasn’t married. There’s only me.” She smiled proudly at this.

  The bloke was thirty.

  “I heard—and I’ve heard so many rumours that it’s difficult to know what’s truth and what’s fiction—but I heard he was after Leonard King.”

  There was the briefest of pauses as she sought her answer. “No. Why would he be?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he wants the money that he believes King stole from his stepfather.”

  “I don’t know who’s told you that, but it’s ridiculous. John knows Lenny didn’t steal it. And as I said, John doesn’t care about Max. They never grew close, it’s as simple as that. He hasn’t even been to see Max inside. Not once.”

  “So he’s not looking for King?”

  “Of course not. It’s ridiculous.”

  “One of John’s cars was involved in something, wasn’t it? King was shot and I heard—”

  “The car was stolen.” Her tone was icy. “Someone was out to make it look as if poor John was involved. He wasn’t. Of course he wasn’t.”

  “But it’s not surprising that people believe it to be the case. After all, a lot of money was taken from his stepfather and if he believes King stole it—”

  “He doesn’t. Even if did, why bother? John’s doing all right for himself.” Her face was crimson as she spoke and Dylan knew she was lying.

  “With the gym, you mean?”

  “It’s actu
ally a health and wellbeing centre, but yes. He studied business at college, you know. He has his head screwed on the right way and is doing really well.”

  Dylan didn’t believe her. He’d have to get hold of the accounts. “You own half of it, don’t you?” he asked.

  “Yes.” Her tight smile thawed the icy glare a little. “That’s how John likes it. Me and him doing everything together.”

  “Ah. And I suppose it gives you something to pass the time until Max is free.”

  “That’s it exactly. Besides, I want an income too, you know. It hasn’t been easy since Max was arrested.”

  He’d assumed she could live out the rest of her days in comfort on the fortune Max had made before he was sent down. Perhaps that wasn’t the case.

  “Of course,” she said as if she could read his mind, “everyone thought Max was coining it in. He wasn’t. That operation he was involved in—and I knew nothing about that, trust me on that one—was new and he didn’t make much money at it.”

  “And yet someone stole half a million quid from him?”

  She gave him a sharp look. “It was a quarter of a million.”

  “I heard half a million. I heard that the police only found some of it.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Is it true?”

  “I have no idea. In any case, it didn’t really belong to Max. It was money he owed. We never had that sort of money.” She was looking distinctly rattled now—and drunk.

  He ordered more wine for her.

  “You’ll have me tipsy, Bill.”

  That was the idea. Not that he wanted to be responsible for her getting hit by speeding cars.

  He let her concentrate on her food and wine and was surprised when she ordered a dessert. She looked like a woman who counted calories. He was impressed with the food and the service, though, and would bring Bev here one night. She’d love it.

  “So who made the phone call to the coppers the night Max and King were arrested?”

  She snorted at that. “That’s easy. Who wanted her husband out of the way?”

  “Sorry?”