Dead End

by Shirley Wells

  For all he knew, Goodenough could be on one of his many trips away from home. He didn’t know what else to do, though, and he couldn’t stand to be at home, so he was waiting—ready to hammer the truth out of Goodenough if necessary.

  As for everything else—he couldn’t think about it. The feelings of helplessness were too overwhelming. He was supposed to take care of his family, to protect them from danger, yet this—

  He knew he had to confess to Bev that he’d overheard, he knew he must persuade her to see another specialist, one who knew what he was talking about, and he knew he had to stay alive. Some moron threatening him when his family needed him was not an option.

  Hours passed. Residents came out of the building, presumably heading for shops or offices, but there was no sign of Goodenough. The longer he waited, the angrier Dylan became. He was angry at the world in general.

  The door opened and there he was. Goodenough stood for a moment, as if marvelling at the beauty of a cloudless blue sky, or perhaps he was merely counting the days until he got his hands on Cass Pelham’s money.

  Dylan grabbed him and slammed him back against the wall—hard.

  “What the hell—?”

  “I would have rung the bell, but I thought you’d ignore it again.”

  “What? Who are you? What do you want with me?”

  “You know exactly who I am.”

  “What? No, you’ve got the wrong man. I don’t know who you want, but it’s certainly not me. I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

  If Goodenough was telling the truth, and Dylan wouldn’t trust him as far as he could throw a double-decker bus, that was disappointing. The man currently topped his admittedly pathetic list of suspects.

  “Then I’ll have to introduce myself. Let’s go inside and talk,” Dylan suggested.

  “But I can’t—”

  Dylan slammed him into the wall again. “Don’t fuck with me, sunshine. Not today. You would not believe the mood I’m in. Even I don’t believe the fucking mood I’m in. Get inside. Now.”

  “I don’t know who you are—”

  “You’ll soon find out. Inside.” Dylan pushed him back toward the building’s main door. “Keys.”

  Goodenough took a bunch of keys from his pocket and opened the door with fingers that shook.

  “We’ll go to your flat,” Dylan said.

  “You really think I’m going to allow you into my flat?”

  “I certainly do.” Dylan gave him an obliging shove in the direction of the lift.

  “Right, that’s it. I’m calling the police.”

  “Good idea, Mr. Goodenough. Or is it Mr. Marshall? Call the police and save me a job.”

  Goodenough appeared to have a change of heart, just as Dylan had expected, and opened the front door.

  The flat was large and airy, and furniture was of the designer-tag expensive type. A huge flat-screen TV took up most of one wall. Audio equipment was discreet and would cost a fortune.

  “Nice TV.” Dylan gave it a tug, checking that it was firmly fixed to the wall.

  “Don’t—” Goodenough grabbed him.

  “Why? Isn’t it paid for? No, I don’t suppose it is.” Dylan yanked at a CD player, sending cables flying, and threw it on the floor. “I don’t suppose that was paid for either.”

  “Stop! For Christ’s sake, stop! Tell me what you want.”

  Dylan paced around the room before standing at the window to admire the view.

  “My name’s Dylan Scott.” He swung around but Goodenough’s face remained convincingly blank. “I’m a private investigator. But you know that, don’t you?”

  “Of course I don’t know it. I told you, I’ve never seen you before. You’re confusing me with someone—” His expression changed. “Oh, wait. Ah, yes, I’ve got you now. You’re the man who supposedly has some money for me.”

  So he’d received the message from someone. The helpful girl at the escort agency perhaps. “That’s right.”

  “There is no money, though, is there?”

  “No. There’s no money.”

  Goodenough squinted at him. “You’re the chap Cass’s father employed to check up on me.”

  “Right again.”

  “So what do you want with me now?”

  Dylan took a grainy black-and-white photo from his jacket pocket. It was slightly crumpled, but Goodenough was easily recognisable. “I want to know that this isn’t you standing outside my office?”

  Goodenough checked out the image then looked at Dylan as if he were insane. “That’s me standing outside a building wondering what happened to the travel agent’s office.”

  Travel agent? The travel agent that had moved premises two months ago? The travel agent that had operated from the soon-to-be dental practice office?

  “Which travel agent?”

  “Lounden’s.” Goodenough handed back the photo.

  Dylan didn’t believe him. He’d studied those CCTV images time and time again and he was convinced that Goodenough had been looking at windows, at security, trying to fathom out the best way to gain entry.

  “I’ll ask again—what do you want with me now?” Goodenough’s shrug was impressively careless.

  If Goodenough wasn’t threatening him with imminent death, then Dylan didn’t want anything from him. What did it matter if he owed money to more people than could fit in Wembley stadium? What did it matter if women fell for Goodenough’s charm and willingly gave him their worldly goods?

  It didn’t. Or it shouldn’t have. Yet, Dylan had a mental picture of a smiling young woman giving an expensive silk scarf to a stranger. “I want to hand you over to the nearest judge,” he said. “Fraud. Deception.”

  “Now, look—”

  “What’s your real name, by the way? I’m sure a judge would want to know. It’s not Goodenough, is it? It’s not Chesney Marshall—”

  “Do you want money?” Goodenough asked.

  Dylan laughed at that. “I’m probably one of the few people in the country who doesn’t want money from you. Which, considering you don’t have any yet, is somewhat fortunate, isn’t it?”

  “So what do you want? Look, I’ve done nothing wrong. I occasionally work for an escort agency because I need the money, and because I’m not proud of that, I tell people that my name’s Chesney Marshall. I haven’t cheated anyone. I owe a couple of people, true, but they’ll get their money. I’ve told them that.”

  “When?”

  “What’s it to you? Why don’t you tell me exactly what you want?”

  “I want you to keep away from Cass Pelham for one. In fact, if you go anywhere near her—”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “She deserves better. She’s a decent person, from a decent family, and what you’re planning is theft.”

  “Theft? I’m planning to marry her. We’ve cleared up all misunderstandings. I simply told a few lies—”

  “Told a few lies?” Dylan gave a snort of laughter that didn’t quite manage to conceal his anger. “You’ve used a fake name and obtained money by false pretences. You’re planning to make wedding plans, get your hands on her money—and then what? Go back to your real wife? I’m assuming you’re married?” His ring finger was bare but Dylan was still convinced he’d once seen him remove a gold wedding band. “Save your lies. I’ll find out for myself.”

  Goodenough looked too confident and smug for Dylan’s liking so he grabbed him by his shirt and slammed him against the wall.

  “I’m feeling in a very generous mood.” That was a lie. “I can’t be bothered with you and your greed, and I’m giving you the chance to get out of my sight. Preferably out of the country. I’m going to be watching you like a hawk, though, and if you go within a hundred yards of Cass Pelham, I’m taking you str
aight to the law. Is that clear?”

  They both knew the law would struggle to touch him. Any half-decent lawyer would see to that.

  Dylan gave him a punch in the ribs that had him doubled over. “Is that clear?”

  Goodenough gasped and nodded. “Yes.”

  “Get back to your real life. It’ll be a lot safer for you.” Dylan punched him again.

  “All right. All right.”

  He must have hit him harder than he’d thought because Goodenough slumped to the ground.

  “I’ll see myself out,” Dylan said. “And don’t forget, I’ll be watching your every move from now on.”

  Dylan walked out of the building convinced of two things. One, Goodenough was a coward, one who could happily use scare tactics and send death threats, but he wasn’t a killer. Two, he should have left him with a few less teeth.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Jimmy had always been fascinated by the way other people lived and he was enjoying every moment of being in Lowell’s home.

  As a kid, he’d had no real friends. Other children had fallen into two groups, one that his parents disapproved of and the other made up of kids who took great delight in bullying the copper’s son. His dad had been a strict disciplinarian, one who’d never believed in giving Jimmy credit for anything. If Jimmy was awarded an A in schoolwork, his dad would demand to know why it wasn’t an A+. If he was caught reading anything his father considered frivolous, he was ridiculed. If he attempted to wear any clothes that were vaguely fashionable, he’d been deemed a nancy boy.

  Jimmy’s mother, older than her husband by eleven years, had grown up in a vicarage and took her religion very seriously. She was more gentle with Jimmy but certainly no fun. She was too busy striving to keep her husband happy—meals on the table the second he walked into the house, neatly pressed shirts to wear, a tidy house, well-kept garden—to take much notice of Jimmy.

  In Lowell’s house, on the other hand, there was evidence of a much-adored-but-spoiled child. Samples of the brat’s artwork—brightly coloured daubs—were held against fridge and freezer doors with magnets. Her bedroom was a mass of soft toys. She had an iPad, lots of books, a wardrobe crammed with clothes, and photos of the dog stuck to the walls.

  It was a shame about the dog, but Jimmy had been left with no choice. The spaniel had been friendly enough—too friendly, in fact. Instead of objecting to finding a stranger in the house, it had insisted on wagging its tail and jumping at Jimmy in excitement. Putting the rope around the dog’s neck had been simple enough. It was a shame, but the animal hadn’t suffered for long. Jimmy had carried the dead weight into the field at the back of the house and placed him under a tree.

  The master bedroom was huge and dominated by a super king-size bed. Given the amount of time Lowell spent hanging around gay bars, Jimmy wondered if it saw much action.

  A walk-in wardrobe, bigger than Jimmy’s own bedroom, housed rails of clothes—Lowell’s on the left and his wife’s on the right. The clothes bore labels from designers that even Jimmy had heard of. Some were protected by dust covers and some were still in dry cleaner’s bags.

  One dressing table, Lowell’s, held only a hairbrush and two dishes, one for loose change and one for cufflinks. The other was covered in creams, potions, lipsticks, makeup brushes and a host of other beauty products. It also held a framed photo of Lowell and his wife on their wedding day, along with several of their daughter at various ages.

  Jimmy wandered downstairs and into a second living room. This one housed an upright piano and he guessed the little girl would be having lessons. Lined up on top of the instrument were a dozen framed photos of the happy, smiling family. Jimmy picked them up and looked at them in turn.

  A sudden clatter made him jump. He crept to the front door and gave a small laugh of relief when he saw the flyer from a nearby pizza store. From the side window, he saw a young woman, a bag slung over her shoulder and a couple of dozen leaflets in her hand, walking down the drive.

  Jimmy fancied a cup of tea, but that would be pushing his luck too far. Or would it? He’d just have to make sure he washed the cup thoroughly.

  He filled the kettle and switched it on, then hunted through cupboards until he found a box of Earl Grey teabags. He made his tea, added a touch of semi-skimmed milk, washed the spoon and returned it to the drawer, and went into the lounge to sit and enjoy it.

  This was as good as having sex in the open. The risk of being caught more than tripled the pleasure. Years ago, he and Carol had often enjoyed sex in the great outdoors. That had stopped, though. Carol always had an excuse at the ready—usually the kids, or the weather, or a headache. A pity. Still, there were plenty of women willing to oblige where she refused.

  Having finished his tea, he returned to the kitchen and scrubbed the cup clean.

  He took his camera from his pocket and flicked the On switch. It was only a cheap one but the flash was decent, the pictures were acceptable and, most important, he could put it in his pocket. His SLR would have been much better, of course, but it was far too bulky to carry around.

  For his first picture of the kitchen, he used the self-timer and captured himself standing by the breakfast bar. He moved on, snapping everything that caught his eye. He was careful not to use the flash near the windows as he didn’t want busybodies wondering what was going on. It was unlikely as they would assume Mrs. Lowell was at home.

  He had fun in the bedroom. When her underwear was spread across the bed and arranged to his satisfaction, he took several arty shots. He was pleased with the result and couldn’t wait to download them to his computer.

  He’d just finished returning the scanty items to the drawers when he heard the front door open and close. “Fuck!”

  Careful not to make a sound, he crawled under the bed. For all the hours the cleaner spent at the property, she clearly didn’t believe in vacuuming under beds. The dust was thick. Jimmy hoped to God it didn’t make him sneeze.

  He heard voices—adults, females—drift upstairs.

  “Sam? Sam, where are you?” He could tell Mrs. Lowell was calling the dog. “Sam?” There was the rattle of something that could have been a tin of dog biscuits. “Sam, come here!”

  The other woman said something that Jimmy didn’t catch.

  “No, he’ll be fine. He must have dashed out when we came in. He does that, but he doesn’t wander far. He’ll soon come back and there’s no point shouting at him because he’s gone deaf.”

  There was more conversation that Jimmy didn’t catch, then Mrs. Lowell was speaking again. “Christ, I don’t know what to do. I know something awful has happened, I know it. The police know it too. They’re taking it very seriously.”

  “What about the hospitals, love?” This woman sounded older. Her mother perhaps?

  “All contacted again this morning. Nothing.” There was a sob in her voice. “What will I tell Emily? She keeps asking where he is, and I keep telling her he’s had to go away to work and will be back soon. How can I tell her that her dad’s—gone?”

  Jimmy didn’t catch the other woman’s response.

  “Every time the phone rings—every time the doorbell goes—I think it’s the police coming with bad news. I know it’s coming. I know he’s dead.”

  The older woman made soothing noises as Mrs. Lowell wept for her missing husband.

  Mrs. Lowell was a looker and Jimmy would have been more than happy to console her.

  It was no use, he couldn’t stay under the bed. The dust would make him start coughing, and it was too claustrophobic.

  The door to the en suite bathroom was ajar. Was it too risky? The small room offered no real hiding place but it was unlikely she’d take a bath or shower until her companion left and, if either of them needed the toilet, they’d use the downstairs cloakroom or the family bathroom. It was a little
dangerous perhaps but he was in the mood for taking risks. In any case, he couldn’t stay under the bed.

  The bathroom had a pleasant enough smell—fresh pine, he’d guess. Here, the cleaner did her job because it was spotless. The chrome gleamed as did the white porcelain washbasin and shower tray. He draped a dark blue towel over the glass shower screen and hid behind that. She might wonder about the towel but, by then, it would be too late.

  During the hour or so he spent in the shower, the phone rang fourteen times. It was impossible to hear their voices now, but Jimmy guessed that journalists were eager for news on her missing husband. Perhaps the police were calling to say there was no news.

  The shower was too uncomfortable and Jimmy knew he must revert to plan A. A bit of dust wouldn’t hurt him. Christ, he’d swallowed enough of the stuff in Afghanistan. He wasn’t thinking about that, though. Instead, he’d look forward to the pleasure ahead.

  Before taking up position beneath the bed, he quietly opened the bedroom door and stepped out onto the landing. When he looked down, he saw her. She was carrying two cups to the kitchen but she didn’t look up.

  She was exactly his type. Tall, slim, elegant—classy. Pert breasts that weren’t too big or too small. Long, long legs. It was her class that appealed, though. She was graceful in speech and movement. God knows what someone like her saw in a bloke like Lowell. Still, there was no accounting for taste. Later, he’d show her what a real man could do for her. He grew hard at the thought.

  It was thinking about her body, about her hair, and the way she moved, that made him forget all about the dust beneath the bed. He lay perfectly still, his eyes closed, fantasising about her. He could even imagine the way she might smell. Fresh, sexy and classy.

  He lost all sense of time. It could have been minutes or hours before he heard the front door opening and closing. The other woman had gone. Jimmy was alone in the house with Mrs. Lowell.

  He could hear the chink of crockery being put in the dishwasher. The radio was switched on and almost immediately switched off again.