Dead End

by Shirley Wells

  “What’s with the van?” his father asked. “That’s a waste of money, isn’t it?”

  Whose fucking money was it to waste?

  “I need it for the training. There’s a lot of gear to carry.”

  “I’ll come out and have a look at it. I bet I could have got you a better deal from my mate.”

  “I got a good deal.” No way was his father seeing the van, not while Lowell was lying in the back. “I need to go.”

  “No proper job yet then?” his father asked.

  “Too busy with other things at the moment.” Jimmy felt his jaw tighten. “There’s plenty of time.”

  “If you want to be kept by your wife, then yes, there’s plenty of time. Most men wouldn’t be happy with that, though. They’d feel embarrassed.”

  Jimmy glared at Carol, and she flashed him another look that warned him not to pick a fight.

  “I’m going.” He didn’t even bother to give Carol the usual goodbye kiss. He just went, slamming the door after him.

  Once in the van, he felt the tension leave him. He liked to be alone these days. People couldn’t nag him and he could think clearly. Yes, he was much happier with his own company. The best thing to do was forget that his father existed.

  He drove to the terraced house and put the van in the garage. Darkness was falling, but he sat in the van for another hour, waiting until it was completely dark, before he hauled a now conscious Lowell from the van and into the house.

  Judging by the way it dragged along the ground, Lowell’s ankle might be broken. Jimmy didn’t care one way or the other.

  He was heavier than he looked, though, and sweat was pouring off Jimmy when he finally got him into the cellar and shoved him into the chair that Brian Dowie no longer needed.

  He missed Dowie. Still, the fish off Beachy Head had hopefully enjoyed a tasty meal.

  Jimmy went through the same routine with Lowell as he had with Dowie. He made sure he was tightly bound and gagged, then fixed the noose around his neck.

  “Push the chair forward or backward and you’re a dead man,” Jimmy told him. “Got that? We don’t want any accidents, do we?”

  Jimmy, happy that his captive was safe, went upstairs to the kitchen and made himself a coffee. He had to drink it black because he hadn’t got any milk in. That was the trouble with thinking on your feet. Although you got the important things right, it was all too easy to forget the small stuff. It didn’t matter, though. Black coffee was okay.

  Everything was fine. He’d been thrown off kilter having Lowell handed to him like that, and he was always rattled at the sight of his father. But he’d sorted it. All it meant was that Lowell was in the cellar a few days earlier than anticipated. That was no big deal. It simply gave Jimmy more time to enjoy him.

  He went down the steps into the cellar. He’d scrubbed the place with gallons of bleach, but it still stank. It was a sickening mix of Dowie’s excrement and fear. He was glad he didn’t have to spend too long down here.

  He pulled up a chair and sat opposite Lowell. The bloke looked more angry than scared. His eyes bulged from their sockets.

  “Oh, don’t worry,” Jimmy said. “I’m not another gay basher. Mind you, those blokes who did you over didn’t look as if they were either. What was all that about? Did they accuse you of teasing them? Did they resent the fact that you only went in that bar to see what was going on before you went home to your wife?”

  Lowell groaned and spluttered behind his gag. At one point, Jimmy thought the bloke was choking.

  “You don’t recognise me, do you? No one does.” Jimmy drew an invisible pattern on the stone floor with the toe of his boot. “I’ll tell you my name, Gerry. Still Gerry, is it? Or, now that you think you’ve made it, do you prefer to be called Gerald? Gerry’s an all right sort of name, isn’t it? It’s not a gay name. Anyway, as I said, I’ll tell you my name. Perhaps with a hint or two you’ll remember me, eh?”

  Jimmy suddenly became aware of the old dog barking next door. He’d never heard him bark before but the dog sounded as if he were taking on half a dozen intruders.

  Jimmy left Lowell and went upstairs to investigate. He stood in the lounge with the lights off and soon saw the cause of the disturbance. Three young lads, about sixteen years old, were kicking a couple of empty tin cans along the pavement.

  They soon moved on and the dog was quiet again. Jimmy was surprised that the old animal had heard them or cared about them.

  Jimmy returned to the cellar and resumed his seat in front of Lowell.

  “Are you sitting comfortably, Gerry?” Jimmy chuckled. He took the small knife from his pocket and ran the blade along his finger. He’d been meaning to sharpen it for ages but that was something else he hadn’t had time for. It was too blunt to cut butter but he’d have to persevere with it. It was either that or go back upstairs to the kitchen and he couldn’t be bothered.

  He knelt in front of Lowell and cut the shirt and jacket from Lowell’s arm. Hacked was a better description as the blunt knife was as good as useless.

  He flung the material to the floor, eyed up Lowell’s tanned arm—courtesy of a recent holiday in Greece—and mentally planned his design.

  “Tell you what, we’ll have some fun with this,” Jimmy said. “I’ll spell out my name but it’ll be a bit like Hangman.” He spluttered with laughter. “Hangman. That’s good, isn’t it? There’s you with a noose round your neck and we’re about to play Hangman.”

  Jimmy’s burst of laughter lasted a full two minutes, until he had to wipe the tears from his eyes. Lowell didn’t get the joke.

  “Didn’t you ever play that game?” Jimmy asked. “You get a number of blanks—imagine you got five dashes followed by five dashes and had to guess the missing letter. Okay? Say your first guess was S. Now, if the other person filled in the first letter of the first five dashes and then the third and fifth letters of the second five dashes, you might take a guess at Stone Roses. You got that? Hey, I’m sure you’ve played the game before. The thing is, with my game, it’ll be a little different. I’ll give you a letter, right? Then you have to guess at my name. I’ll give you the letters randomly though. So, you tell me when you’re ready to take a guess and, when you’ve got it right, I’ll stop giving you the letters.”

  He ran the blade of the knife along his thumb. “The blade’s not very sharp. Sorry about that.”

  He put the knife to Lowell’s arm and cut at the skin. Lowell protested behind his gag as the blood oozed.

  “Look, I’ve apologised about the knife, okay? It’s not my bloody fault I ended up with you earlier than I thought. Christ, look what you’ve made me do. That looks a mess.”

  Jimmy carved some more, wiped the blood away, and carved some more.

  “I know, I know, it looks like a wonky O. Well, it’s not. It’s a D, okay. That’s your first letter. D. You have a think, Gerry. Meanwhile, I need to get out of here for a bit. This cellar stinks.”

  Jimmy needed fresh air. And food to settle his stomach. He’d walk along to the fish-and-chip shop and see if they had any chicken. He really fancied chicken and chips.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Dylan was having breakfast—a strong black coffee—when Bev came downstairs. She was wearing her dressing gown and a tired expression.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Fine. Just tired. Shattered in fact.”

  “Didn’t you sleep?”

  “Like the dead, but I’m still tired.”

  “Do you want a coffee?” he asked. She looked as if she hadn’t slept for a week. There was no colour in her face apart from a dull grey. “Or shall I make you a cup of tea?”

  “I don’t know what I want.”

  “Go back to bed,” he said, “and I’ll bring you a coffee up.”

  “No, I’ll
drink it down here.”

  He poured her coffee and put it in front of her. She looked ill—she was ill.

  “What are your plans for the day?” she asked.

  “Oh, this and that. There’s plenty to keep me busy.” His reply was deliberately vague because the truth was that he didn’t have a plan. A chat with Goodenough would be good if, and it was a bloody big if, he could find the bloke.

  The man he should be watching was Rickman. Yet Rickman was safe enough behind bars and it was impossible to know who he was speaking to on the outside. Visitors to Rickman were rare, his wife was the main one, but who knew what phone calls he made?

  Issuing orders to have someone killed would be easy enough for a man like Rickman.

  And yet—Dylan was certain that, for Rickman, this would be personal. He’d want to do the deed himself. He’d want to unleash his fury on the people who’d conned him in person. Besides, if he wanted someone killed, he’d have them killed. What would be the point of the scare tactics? Why bother making phone calls and having photos taken? It simply didn’t add up.

  What a bloody mess. Rickman, King and Goodenough all had reason to want him to suffer. Of the three, however, only one, to his knowledge, had been spotted outside his office. Goodenough.

  Goodenough had to be responsible for the stupid phone calls, but Dylan couldn’t picture him as a killer...

  “What about you?” he asked.

  She gave him a wan smile. “I’ll probably sleep all day. Mind you, if I do that, I’ll be awake all night.”

  Dylan wouldn’t bet on that. She looked as if she needed to sleep for days.

  “I expect it’s the stress of all this hospital stuff,” he said. “No one sleeps properly when they’re stressed.”

  “Could be.” She didn’t sound convinced. “Anyway, I can go back to bed anytime. Your mum’s coming over this morning.”

  “Good.”

  She walked to the window and gazed out. “It’s going to be another nice day. I might sit in the garden and read a book.” She drank half an inch of coffee and then groaned. “It’s no use, love, I’m going back to bed. I’ll see you tonight.” She leaned across and dropped a kiss on the top of his head. “And I promise I’ll be awake by then.”

  Dylan sorted the kids out—not that Luke needed any sorting out other than a few prods and reminders that time was passing quickly. Freya, too, was in a particularly sunny mood and needed little other than a few smiles.

  Frank came down for breakfast looking his usual wide-awake self, then Dylan’s mother arrived and Dylan decided he might as well leave them to it.

  As he had no better plan in mind, no plan at all in fact, he drove to Goodenough’s flat. The upside was that he didn’t have to wear a disguise when hunting Goodenough. His wig was a good one, but he still didn’t trust it to stay put in the gentlest of breezes and God knows what a heavy downpour would do to it.

  He rang the bell with C. Marshall written beside it and received no answer. He rang a random bell, and an elderly woman answered the intercom.

  “Hello,” Dylan said, “I’m trying to get hold of Chesney Marshall. You wouldn’t happen to know if he’s around, would you?”

  “I saw him come in about ten minutes ago,” she said. “You’ll have to try his bell again. Mind you, if he’s in the shower, he won’t hear you. I know I don’t. The bells aren’t very loud at the best of times. Sometimes, I don’t even hear mine over the radio. I keep saying they should do something about it.”

  “Okay, thanks. Sorry to have troubled you.”

  Dylan tried Goodenough’s—or Marshall’s—bell again. Still no response.

  He decided to sit in his car for a while and then try again. Perhaps, after all, Goodenough was taking a shower. Or perhaps he was ignoring all strangers at the door in case they turned out to be debt collectors or worse.

  Less than two minutes later, Goodenough emerged from the building. He wouldn’t have had time to leave the shower and dress so that particular explanation was out.

  He jumped in a car, about twenty grand’s worth of sleek, dark grey Alfa Romeo, and drove off.

  Dylan followed. He couldn’t afford to keep hiring cars, but definitely needed another. He supposed he could use Bev’s Vauxhall while she wasn’t using it, but he liked his own car. The speedometer had stopped working long ago and, as yet, he hadn’t got around to having it fixed so he didn’t know when he was breaking speed limit (frequently) or how many miles his beloved car had done (one hell of a lot).

  Thankfully, traffic rarely moved quickly in London and he was able to keep a safe distance behind Goodenough’s car while still keeping him in sight.

  Twenty minutes later, Goodenough drove into a multi-storey car park and Dylan followed. Dylan parked at the far end, got out of his car, and followed Goodenough down the steps to street level.

  As they walked, Dylan realised they were heading in the direction of Pelham’s daughter’s shop—or boutique as she liked to call it. She was rarely there as she liked to concentrate on her designs and the business side of things and leave staff to concentrate on selling her outrageously priced fashions.

  They walked on until, sure enough, Goodenough ducked inside her boutique.

  Dylan stayed back, pretending to be engrossed in the expensive houses offered for sale by a nearby estate agent.

  At least it explained why Goodenough hadn’t contacted Dylan about the money he supposedly wanted to give the bloke. If he was still in touch with Cass Pelham, he’d know damn well there was no money.

  Minutes dragged by until Dylan began to wonder if he’d missed Goodenough. He’d expected the bloke to walk in, ask if Cass was around, be told she wasn’t and go on his way. Perhaps he’d used the back entrance.

  Twenty-five minutes later, Goodenough emerged. He was straightening his tie which struck Dylan as odd. Well, unless he’d had hot sex with whoever was manning the shop.

  Dylan was torn between following Goodenough and venturing into the shop. He watched Goodenough head back in the direction of the car park and he opted for the shop.

  It was a double-fronted property with silver lettering spelling out Cass Pelham’s name. In one window was a dress—no price shown because if you had to ask you couldn’t afford it—a handbag and a matching pair of shoes. In the other window was a tasteful display of more handbags and silk scarves.

  He pushed open the door and stepped inside the plush interior. On the rare occasions he’d had the misfortune to shop with Bev, he’d seen her fight her way through rail after rail of clothes. Here, there were only a few items on display. There wasn’t a price tag in sight either. There was certainly nothing so tacky as a Sale sign.

  A young slim woman stepped through a door wearing a bright smile.

  “Hello. May I help you?” she asked.

  It was Cass Pelham. Her father had said she was heartbroken, but she didn’t look it. She looked disgustingly fit, well and happy. Her smile was genuine, her eyes bright and full of life.

  “I don’t know. My wedding anniversary is coming up and I wanted to buy my wife something—different.” Dylan had a mental picture of bills piling up and money flying out. “It’s no use me choosing her a dress or anything like that as I’d be sure to get it wrong, but I thought perhaps a scarf or a bag or something.”

  “What a lovely idea. Would you like to look around?”

  “Thank you.” There was hardly anything to look at. “I don’t suppose you could help me choose.”

  She smiled. “I’d be delighted. What can you tell me about her age, her skin and hair colour, the colours she likes to wear—”

  All he wanted was a confounded scarf. And he didn’t really want that. “She’s forty, blond, fair-skinned and she wears—well, a lot of blue. And black.” He’d never really thought about it before.

 
“Right.” She began running her hands through a rail of silk scarves.

  “Are you married?” he asked.

  “Not yet.” She gave him a bright smile. “Soon.”

  “Ah, congratulations. A pretty girl like you—what’s taking him so long?”

  She chuckled at that. “It’s not him. Brad would happily whisk me off to the registry office at lunchtime but, well there are other things to consider, aren’t there?”

  “Without exception,” he agreed. “I can’t begin to tell you the problems my wife and I had when we announced our engagement. We’ve been married for ten years now, but wow, we ruffled some feathers. Her father wasn’t keen on me and—”

  “Really?” Her interest was piqued. “We have a similar problem. I keep thinking we should marry and let other people live their own lives, but Brad thinks we should wait until—” She let the sentence hang in midair but Dylan could guess only too well that Goodenough wanted to wait until Pelham died, until his will was read and he had confirmation that Cass Pelham was indeed worth a small fortune.

  “My wife and I didn’t have the patience to wait.” Dylan smiled at her.

  “And did her father come round to the idea of your marriage?” she asked.

  “He died, I’m afraid. Oh, it wasn’t the shock of his daughter marrying me,” he added. “He’d been ill for some time.”

  “I see.” Her hand stilled on the scarves as she mulled this over. “Our case really is very similar, you know. Brad has always felt—well, a little inferior. I come from a wealthy background and Brad thought that, to get me to see him, he had to pretend to be living a very different life. Silly really. I’d marry him tomorrow if all he possessed was the clothes he stood in.”

  “He lied to you?” Dylan tried to sound outraged.

  She gave a tiny shrug. “He led me, and my father of course, to believe that he owned property—well, it wasn’t really a lie, was it?”

  Um, yes.

  “All he wanted,” she said, “was for me and my father to think well of him. I keep telling him that it’s the person that counts, not the possessions, but it’s hard for him. He had a difficult start in life. You see, his mother died when he was young and his father was a strict disciplinarian. He believed Brad should join the army and, although Brad did, and was good at his work, it was never what he wanted. He’s not an army sort of man, if you know what I mean. But he’s done with all that now. As for the rest, the pretending, we’ve sorted it out.”