Dead End

by Shirley Wells

  Dylan didn’t think Sarah Rickman was the type of woman to be cowed by her husband. He’d thought she had more sense. On the other hand, most people found it safer to keep on the right side of Rickman.

  “What about Phil Browne?” Dylan asked. “You said she’d been seen in his company, right?” Dylan had seen that for himself.

  “So they say.”

  “What’s all that about then?”

  “From what I’ve heard, they’ve been friends for years. If I’m remembering right, they were neighbours and went to the same school. I mean, we’re talking years here. Now, whether they’re just friends or whether—well, you know. Although, with her in a wheelchair—” Archie took a thoughtful sip of beer. “I’m not sure what sort of works and what doesn’t, if you get my drift.”

  “I get your drift, Archie.” Given the way she’d been fluttering her eyelashes at him, Dylan would guess that everything “worked” fine.

  “Perhaps he just keeps her company now and again,” Archie said. “I don’t suppose she saw much of him when Rickman was around because he’s one jealous bloke. As they’re friends, he probably wants to make sure she’s doing okay while Rickman’s inside.”

  “That’s a cosy picture you’re painting there,” Dylan said. “Browne’s more crooked than a spiral staircase.”

  “That’s as maybe but I wouldn’t mind swapping bank accounts.”

  Dylan wouldn’t either. “Have you got one, Archie? A bank account?”

  Archie grinned and winked. “No way. I don’t trust them buggers. No, I can take care of my own money, thank you very much. I’ve no need of banks. Not that I have much to worry about. Still, as long as I can eat, drink and sleep under a roof of sorts, I’m content.”

  And rob the odd electronics store. Archie had a dark fascination with TVs, DVD players and anything else he could offload quickly.

  He thought about what Archie had told him. It wasn’t much, and certainly not worth the cash he’d have to hand over to keep him sweet.

  “So basically, Weller tried to kill King after having offered him cash for something?”

  “My gut says he’s up to something and I always listen to my gut. It tells me when I’m hungry, when I’m thirsty—”

  “Same again?” Dylan asked, already on his feet.

  “Like I say, you’re a real gent, Mr. Scott. They don’t make them like you anymore, that’s a fact...”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Phil was in the outer office, signing a couple of letters his secretary had printed out, when Dylan Scott walked in. For a moment, all Phil could do was stare at him. What in hell’s name was he doing here?

  “Long time no see, Mr. Scott,” he said at last. “Did you want to see me?”

  “Just a quick chat, Phil.”

  “You’d better come inside. I can spare you a couple of minutes.”

  Phil’s office was considered old-fashioned by some, but it offered an impression he liked. A mahogany desk almost sank beneath the weight of dusty tomes. Yet more books lined one wall from floor to ceiling. The carpet was quality, but well-worn. Everything about the office shouted old school, respectable and trustworthy.

  “How are you doing, Phil?” Scott asked. “Still keeping the guilty on the streets?”

  Phil smiled at that. Insults had never bothered him. “Have a seat.”

  Scott sat in an old, worn leather captain’s chair. The mahogany desk separated them.

  “How’s civilian life treating you?” Phil asked. “You’re a private investigator these days, I believe.”

  “I am.”

  “It was a shame—what happened to you, I mean. It always worries me when good police officers are brought to their knees by criminals. If you’d come to me—”

  “Even you couldn’t have got me off that charge, Phil.”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  “The powers that be needed to show Joe Public that complaints about their officers, no matter how bloody farfetched those complaints might be, are taken very seriously indeed. Even you can’t compete with police politics.”

  Phil merely shrugged, but he would have liked to have taken on the system. He could have won Scott’s case, he was sure of it. He knew a few in high places who weren’t averse to the odd handout. Everyone had their price.

  That was history, though. Scott had been thrown in a cell and served his time. Phil was more concerned about the present, and, more specifically, what the hell Scott was doing in his office. “So what can I do for you, Mr. Scott?”

  “A writer wants to talk to me,” Scott said. “A chap by the name of Bill Williams. I wondered what you’d heard about him.”

  Williams was a damn nuisance. They could do without him—and Scott for that matter—sniffing around. “Me? Why would I know anything about him?”

  “Because he’s spoken to your clients and friends. I gather he’s interested in Rickman’s and King’s arrests all those years back. A little bird told me that he’d had a chat with Rickman’s wife too. You’re friendly with her, aren’t you?”

  Phil took his time answering. “I’ve heard he’s asking questions, yes. So what? It’s no big deal. Let him write his book.”

  “He seems to be under the impression that the officers who arrested King and Rickman that night were somehow involved.”

  Phil smiled at that. “Were you?”

  “You know damn well we weren’t.”

  “I wasn’t there, Mr. Scott. All I know is what my client told me, and he claims he was set up by someone. Maybe it was you.”

  “Cut the crap, Phil. No coppers were involved and you know it. Now, tell me, why is this being stirred up now? Why is Williams on the scene now? Why has a story suddenly emerged about coppers being involved? Why now?”

  “I’ve no idea.” That was partly true. He had no idea why Williams was hunting down a story for his book.

  “What about your client’s wife? You’re friendly with Mrs. Rickman, aren’t you?”

  “We go back a long way, yes. I knew Sarah long before Rickman married her.”

  “You were her first husband’s lawyer, yes?”

  “I was. God rest his soul.”

  “And I bet you’re her son’s lawyer too.”

  “I am.” Weller, the stupid, spoilt little brat, was causing him headaches on a daily basis.

  Scott leaned back in his chair, hands linked behind his head. “When people start asking questions about me, Phil, I start asking a few questions of my own. And what do I come up with?”

  “You tell me.”

  “I hear rumours about your client, John Weller, being after King. I hear he promises King money. I hear he shoots—”

  “Oh, come on.” There were many times when Phil wished Weller had never been born. Covering up his stupidity was becoming a full-time job. Albeit a lucrative one. “My client’s car was stolen. Shortly after being reported as stolen, it was used in an incident involving Mr. King.”

  “So someone’s trying to frame Weller?”

  Phil shrugged. “Or it was plain coincidence. Who knows?”

  “Right, have it your way. I also hear rumours about your friend, Mrs. Rickman, and the car that put her in a wheelchair.”

  “Oh?”

  “There’s a whisper on the streets that Max was driving that car.”

  “I don’t know where you get your gossip from, Mr. Scott, but that’s all it is. Gossip. Now, if there’s nothing else, I have a meeting I need to attend.” Phil rose to his feet and gathered up a pile of random files from his desk.

  Scott was also on his feet. “I have a busy schedule myself, Phil. People to see, questions to ask. This writer chap, he believes my life is in danger. He reckons someone—someone like Rickman or King perhaps—is seeking revenge.”


  “Then I suggest you watch your back, Mr. Scott.” Phil ushered him out of the room. “I don’t know anything about it. And I need to get to my appointment. Good seeing you again though.”

  Phil closed the door behind him and stood at the window where he had a good view of the street below. He was still watching Scott stride briskly along the street when he called Sarah’s number.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “Here.” Carol thrust a newspaper at Jimmy and jabbed a finger at an item ringed in red ink. “That would be perfect for you.”

  Jimmy read the notice under Situations Vacant. “Security? In a department store?” He tossed the newspaper on the table. “You are joking, I assume?”

  “No. What’s wrong with that? It would be easy enough. All you have to do—”

  “Is walk round lingerie and homeware all day waiting until someone slips the odd bra or saucepan lid into their pocket. No, thanks.”

  “The pay’s not bad.”

  Jimmy grabbed the newspaper, read it again and threw it back on the table. “It’s only just above minimum wage.”

  “Yes, but that’s not bad these days. And it’s sensible hours. No silly shifts or anything. I think you’d be good at it.”

  “A chimp would be good at it given an hour’s training.”

  “But the money would be useful and—”

  “Is that all you think I’m good for? The best that I can do?”

  “No, of course not. But until something better comes along—”

  “I’ll starve first.”

  “Oh, thanks very much. So me and the kids have to starve along with you, right? Just because you’re too stubborn—”

  “I said no.” Jimmy refused to argue about it. No way was he applying for a job that useless old men always ended up doing.

  Carol slammed a saucepan full of potatoes on the hob, then pushed past him to get plates ready to be warmed. Her lips were a tight line of anger.

  “I’m out tonight,” Jimmy said. “I’ll be late so don’t bother waiting up.”

  “Nice that some of us can afford to go out. Matt? Ewan? Are you doing homework?”

  A chorus of “Yes” drifted through from the lounge. They wouldn’t be doing homework. They’d be larking around, winding each other up until a fight broke out. Carol couldn’t see it though. To her, they were saints in the making.

  “Have I got time for a shower?” Jimmy asked.

  “Yep. No job, no life, no kids to deal with, no meals to cook, no washing to do—you’ve got all the time in the world, Jimmy.”

  He hated her when she was in this mood. And all because he refused to apply for a dead-end job in a crumbling old department store.

  He didn’t bother to reply, but ran up the stairs, pulled off his clothes, tossed them on the floor, and switched on the shower. After a second or two, he stepped under the hot water and waited for the tension to leave his neck. He rolled his head, left and right, and shrugged his shoulders to loosen them. As the day’s grime was rinsed away, he began to feel better.

  By the time he’d dried off, pulled on clean jeans and T-shirt, he felt almost human. Sometimes he wondered if he’d ever wash away the sweat, sand and grime of Afghanistan. It had seeped into every pore. But better not to think about that.

  Carol and the boys talked all through dinner as if he didn’t exist. They talked of school, of a film that was being shown on TV later, about the neighbour’s cat beating up George every time he put a paw outside, about whether Bird’s Eye fish fingers were better than other brands and a whole host of other stuff. They laughed, they talked—he might have been invisible.

  Part of him was annoyed, bloody annoyed, but another part was grateful to be left alone. It gave him time to think, and to look forward to the evening ahead. All the same—

  “I am here, you know,” he said.

  A silence fell over the table.

  “Cat got your tongue?” He grinned at that. “Well, we’ve got enough cats. See if one of them has walked off with your tongue.”

  No one laughed. They all stared back at him as if he’d escaped from the nearest lunatic asylum. That had to be Carol’s fault. She was poisoning his children against him. He could imagine what she told them—that he was happy to let her work but wouldn’t get a job himself, that he didn’t want them hanging around with their grandfather—

  He put down his knife and fork. “This is great fun, but some of us have things to do. I’ll see you all in the morning.”

  He grabbed his holdall and left the house to three polite goodbyes. All the tension returned to his neck and shoulders as he climbed in the car and drove.

  As usual, he parked some distance away from Russell Street and walked the rest of the way. He was about to check that his van was still safe in the garage when he realised his neighbour was trying to attract his attention.

  “I hope you haven’t had an intruder,” the old man said, “but I heard noises coming from your place this afternoon. I wondered if I should call the police. Wasn’t sure what to do.”

  “No need for the police.” Noises? What the hell was he on about? Only Lowell could make a noise and if he moved, he’d hang himself. “I’ve got an old generator I’ve been playing around with. It’s a bit noisy. Sorry about that.”

  “Ah. I wondered what it could be.”

  “Just ignore anything you hear. There will be a bit of that because I’m doing some work on the old place before I move in full-time. As for intruders, there’s nothing here worth pinching.”

  “Right. I thought I’d better mention it.”

  “Yes. Thank you. But there’s nothing to worry about. Goodnight.”

  Still cursing his nosy neighbour, Jimmy let himself in and went straight to the cellar. The sight that met him stopped him in his tracks. Lowell had managed to tip the chair over so that he was now lying on his side. He must have been struggling because he’d kicked over an old oil drum.

  He wasn’t kicking now. Nor was he dead. How the hell had he managed to tip over the chair without hanging himself? Jimmy was sure he’d tied that noose properly. Yet it dangled from the ceiling. Useless.

  “You’ve been making some noise, I hear,” Jimmy said. “Too quiet down here for you, eh? I knew I should have left a radio for you. What do you like to listen to? Arty crap like they have on Radio Three or Four? Radio One perhaps? Jazz? Blues? Or perhaps you’re a Planet Rock type?”

  Jimmy heaved Lowell and chair back into position. Lowell was far from dead. Anger sparked in his eyes.

  Dowie had been a soft touch. He’d spent most of his time down here in tears, the great big baby. Lowell was different. He was furious and determined. Jimmy would have to make doubly sure he was secure. Not that he could go far. The cellar door was always locked so even if by some miracle he managed to untie himself, he wouldn’t get out of the cellar. Even so, Jimmy felt a little unnerved.

  He put more ties around Lowell’s wrists and ankles and stuck more tape around his mouth. After checking and double-checking that the noose was correctly positioned, he sat in his chair opposite Lowell and tried to relax.

  What with Carol being moody about jobs, his father calling at the house whenever he felt like it, being forced to bring Lowell here earlier than he’d planned—it was no wonder he was feeling the stress.

  Everything was under control, he reminded himself. He was in charge. It was fine.

  “Right, we’ll forget about the noise you made for now. But don’t do it again, okay?”

  Lowell’s response, muffled by his gag, was a low guttural sound like something a trapped wolf might make.

  “Calm down,” Jimmy said. “Everything’s okay. We’re going to carry on with our game. So, what do we have? Just a D and that D looks like an O because you made me get it wrong.”

 
Jimmy had sharpened his knife and he ran it lightly across his thumb.

  “Tell you what,” he said, “we’ll pretend it is an O to make it easier. Forget it was ever a D, okay? From now on it’s an O. Got that? And now I’ll give you another letter.”

  Jimmy put his knife to Lowell’s arm and began to cut. The D that was now an O was a mess. The skin was red and swollen around it and it looked nothing like the vision Jimmy had seen in his mind. Perhaps it was simply taking longer to heal than he’d thought. Or perhaps the knife had been too blunt. This letter would look better.

  “Now, I appreciate you can’t see your arm, but I’ll tell you what the letters are and, when you guess correctly, I’ll let you see my handiwork. Is that a deal?”

  Blood dripped onto the cellar floor as he slowly, carefully, carved the letter D. This was much better. He made it deeper and wider than the O.

  He moved away from his handiwork to look into Lowell’s face. His eyes were red and streaming yet his anger almost burned Jimmy.

  “You’re different to Dowie,” he said. “He was as quiet as a lamb. I could have done anything to him. Well, I did. But there was no fight in him at all. What a useless waste of space. Still, it’s come good in the end. He’s at the bottom of the sea now—food for fish and whatever else lives down there. A shark or two might be fighting over him for all I know. That’s good, isn’t it? It’s nice to know he served a purpose after all.”

  Jimmy returned to his work. He wiped the blood away with the flat of his hand. The D was perfect.

  He realised his mistake and raced up the stairs to scrub his hands clean. Lowell might do more than watch the gays. He could be HIV positive for all Jimmy knew.

  He pulled on a pair of latex gloves and returned to his task.

  “I’m going to have to redo that O,” he said. “It’s a mess. Probably because my knife was blunt.”

  He worked away until the O was the same size and depth as the D.

  “Tell you what, I’ll give you another letter today. A bonus letter. Okay? Another O.”