Dead End

by Shirley Wells

  He held his breath as he heard her light tread on the stairs. Then she was in the bedroom, standing only inches from him. He could see the black high-heeled shoes she wore.

  The bed sagged as she lay down. Then he heard her begin to cry.

  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d wanted a woman this much. Only a mattress separated them now and it was almost more than he could bear. His longing was a physical ache, one that he could do nothing about yet.

  He had no idea where her daughter was. Perhaps she was staying with her grandparents. For all he knew, someone might be bringing her home any minute. He couldn’t take any risks and would have to stay where he was until Mrs. Lowell settled down for the night.

  But to have her so close, to hear her breathing—

  The phone rang again and she snatched at the extension on the bedside table. She didn’t say anything, just listened, and then slammed it down. He’d bet it was a journalist eager for a story.

  The phone kept ringing and she kept sobbing.

  Then she got off the bed, left the room and padded downstairs. A door opened. “Sam? Sam? Where are you?”

  Darkness eventually fell, but it felt like hours before she finally came upstairs again. She went to the bathroom and he heard the shower running. She was making herself ready for him.

  Soon, he promised himself. Very, very soon.

  She returned to the bedroom and let her towel drop to the floor. He could see her feet, small and perfect with the nails painted a pale pink.

  Finally, she got into bed and switched off the lamp. Jimmy was surprised she couldn’t hear his heart hammering. No matter how he tried, he couldn’t steady its racing beat.

  He gave her an hour or so, but he could tell she wasn’t sleeping. No way could he wait any longer.

  He slid out very quietly from under the bed. All was in darkness, but he’d memorised the layout of the room. He was safe enough.

  He climbed onto the bed and she let out a scream before he managed to clamp his hand against her mouth. She was naked, which took him by surprise. He’d seen silk nightdresses when he’d looked through her drawers and he’d expected her to wear one of those. He’d been hoping for the sheer lilac one and he felt let down.

  He lay on top of her, one hand against her mouth, and the other fumbling with his trousers. She struggled, but she was a lightweight and easy enough for him to control.

  “We’re going to have some fun,” he promised.

  He struggled one-handed to pull his jeans around his knees and soon pushed himself inside her. Still she struggled. Her legs kicked out, her arms pummelled his back.

  He didn’t care. He had to be inside her. He pushed, deeper and deeper, ignoring her muffled protests.

  Sweat poured off him as he thrust into her. It dripped off his forehead onto her.

  “You’re spoiling everything, you ungrateful cow,” he said. “Stop struggling and enjoy the moment.”

  He lost his erection—her fault—and he had to slap her about a bit.

  He fumbled about in the dark for the lamp and finally managed to switch it on. “That’s better. I can see you now.”

  She continued to fight him, her eyes tightly shut, her face contorted into a mask of horror.

  He rolled her over so that she was lying on her stomach, her face in the pillow. That was much, much better. He was soon hard again, and he took her from behind.

  When he’d finished with her, his overriding emotion was disappointment. Her lack of reaction had been pathetic. He wished he could leave her on the bed and walk out of the house.

  There was no point getting sloppy, though, so he dragged her into the bathroom. She screamed all the way, but Jimmy was past caring. He held onto her while he filled the bath. When he considered it deep enough, he lifted her into it, pushed her head under the water and held it there until she stopped struggling.

  It didn’t take long. In fact, the old dog had put up more of a fight. Still, she hadn’t suffered...

  He returned to the bedroom, stripped the sheets from the bed, carried them downstairs and put them in the washing machine. When he was satisfied that the machine was doing its work, he left.

  He stepped out into the cool night air, checked his pocket for his camera, and drove home.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Dylan always felt as if he were stepping into a fantasy land, one where fairies lived happily at the bottom of the garden, when he walked into his mother’s flat. Bells tinkled and pieces of glass danced in the light as the door opened and closed. Everywhere was a rainbow of colour and there had to be at least a hundred candles dotted around the place. At least she’d be okay in a power cut.

  “What are you doing here? Is Bev all right?”

  “You know how Bev is, Mum. And so do I.” They fought their way past a stone pixie and what Dylan called a disgusting feather thing and she called a dream catcher into the kitchen. “I overheard her telling you that if anyone so much as mentioned the word terminal to me, she’d kill them.”

  “Oh.” Her hand reached out to clutch at his arm and her eyes suddenly swam in a pool of tears. “Oh, Dylan.”

  “Don’t start crying,” he warned her. “If you start, I’ll have to join you.”

  She wrapped her arms around herself and bit on her bottom lip to keep all signs of emotion locked in. “We’ll get through this, love.”

  “We will. I’ve made an appointment for her with a Mr.—a chap whose name I’ve already forgotten and can’t pronounce anyway. Sri Lankan. An expert. Wednesday at ten o’clock.” He couldn’t seem to string a sentence together and was aware of his words coming out like gunfire. “It might be best if you came along. Is that okay?”

  “Of course. This chap—he’s a private consultant?”

  “Yes. It’ll be expensive if she needs a lot of treatment but, to be honest, I couldn’t give a flying fuck about that. Sorry.”

  She shrugged off the apology for his language. “I couldn’t give a flying fuck either.”

  She reached for a joint, already rolled and sitting in a pottery ashtray, and lit it. Dylan was tempted to join her but he knew from experience that the drugs didn’t work.

  “We’ll get by. We can sell this place—” She gestured to her flat. “I have some savings too. Not a lot, but it all helps. So long as Bev gets well again, we’ll get by.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t know why she doesn’t want you told.”

  “Like she said, I’m bloody useless. She’s right, I am. The thought of having to stand by and watch her suffer—” he shuddered, “—terrifies me.”

  She nodded, having known that already.

  “Or coping without her,” he said. “I can’t even begin to think about that.”

  “I know, love.”

  Dylan paced the small, cluttered room and wished he could take off and run for miles.

  “The doctor was nice,” she said. “He promised that, these days, no one will die in pain.”

  Dylan shrugged that off. How the hell did doctors know? They weren’t the ones dying.

  “As for the kids,” he said. “Freya’s too young to know what’s going on, but God knows what the news will do to Luke.”

  She took a deep drag on her joint, but not before Dylan had noticed the fresh tears that sprang to her eyes.

  “I don’t suppose there’s any alcohol in this place?”

  “No, sorry. Oh wait. Actually, yes, there might be.” She got down on her knees and opened a low cupboard that looked to contain nothing but pots and pans. “Here you go. A bottle of brandy leftover from Christmas.” She handed him a bottle that was covered in dust. “It doesn’t go off, does it?”

  “Who cares?” As he couldn’t find a glass, and as she was too busy smoking her cannabis and fighting
back tears, he poured a measure into a thick white mug and took a swig.

  “Have you told Bev that you know?” she asked him.

  “Not yet. Tonight,” he said vaguely.

  “Yes, you need to. Especially as you’ve made this appointment.”

  “How’s she been with you, Mum?”

  “Oh—worried about how you and the kids will manage. Reasonably okay. A bit detached, if I’m honest. It’s as if it’s all happening to someone else and she’s just going through the motions. Denial, I suppose. How’s she been with you?”

  “She’s going around the place with a forced cheerfulness that’s driving me insane.”

  “She’s making a diary for Freya and Luke—one each, I think. She wants to make sure they remember her when they’re grown up.”

  For a second, Dylan thought he was about to vomit. The moment passed and he took another drink of brandy to settle his stomach.

  “All we can do, love, is remain positive. Perhaps this Sri Lankan chap will come up with something. Although as the cancer’s spread—but there, we don’t know what they can do these days, do we? They can cure all sorts of things. Modern medicine is filled with miracles.”

  Dylan hoped so. For all their sakes.

  “I can’t really stop, Mum, because I’ve got a load of stuff to do. I just wanted to tell you about the appointment on Wednesday. Come over to our place, will you? We’ll leave about eight-thirty. No, make it eight o’clock. Traffic will be murder at that time of day.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Thanks.” He emptied his mug and immediately wished he could empty the bottle. “I know I don’t say this often enough, but I do appreciate you being around and helping out all the time.”

  “Struth, don’t go all soft on me. It’s mutual, love. I appreciate being able to treat your house like my own and see my grandkids whenever I want. There’s not many daughter-in-laws who’d be so—so good. Bev’s one in a million, you know.”

  He nodded, but didn’t feel able to comment on that. “I’ll see you on Wednesday.”

  He strode out, and managed to catch his head on that bloody stupid feather thing before knocking his knee against the stone pixie. Any burglar who broke in here deserved a sodding medal.

  * * *

  Four hours and several strong coffees later, Dylan was being searched extremely thoroughly before being allowed to see Max Rickman.

  It was difficult to say whether Dylan hated prisons more than hospitals or vice versa. Both places gave him the creeps. Here, the smell wasn’t of disinfectant and rotting vegetables, it was male sweat, testosterone and pure undiluted evil.

  The majority of the other visitors were women, many with children clinging to their hands. He’d never thought prison a good place to bring children, but he’d never thought it right that fathers shouldn’t see their kids either.

  As soon as he spotted Rickman—a model prisoner by all accounts—he was taken back to that arrest, and those samurai swords. He’d had no doubt at the time that Rickman would have taken great pleasure in using them. He felt the same now. There was something dark and malevolent about Rickman. Thankfully, however, there was no spark of recognition in his expression. In fact, there was nothing. His eyes, a dark brown, were like mirrors. All you saw when you looked into them was your own reflection. There was no emotion in them. Nothing.

  “Bill Williams,” Dylan introduced himself. “Author. I’m writing a book—”

  “I know who you are.” Rickman’s voice was one long wheeze from years of chain smoking.

  “I assumed you would. Your wife or stepson will have mentioned the book I’m writing, yes?” Rickman didn’t answer so Dylan ploughed on. “My problem is that all I’m hearing is rumours. I need facts and—” he gave Rickman a smile, “—who better to talk to you than you?”

  “What facts?”

  “The night of your arrest, Leonard King was only there to discuss a driving job with you, is that right?”

  “He was there. That’s all that matters.”

  “And you were both caught in the act because someone—and I’ve heard rumours to suggest that the someone was King’s wife and a couple of police officers—set you up. Is that right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And those same police officers, detectives, turned up to arrest you both. Yes?”

  “That’s right.”

  Dylan gave another smile. “I wouldn’t want to be in those coppers’ shoes when you get out.”

  Rickman’s face was totally expressionless. “Me neither.”

  “How long is it till you get out, by the way?”

  “I’m in front of a parole board in a couple of months.”

  “That’s good then. I’ve heard you’re a model prisoner—you should do okay.”

  A cruel, cold sneer tugged at Rickman’s mouth. “Yeah.”

  “I imagine you’ll be straight after those coppers when you get out?”

  “Yep.”

  “Or will you get them beforehand? Wendy King—well, someone’s already got to her, haven’t they?”

  “Yeah.” Still Rickman’s expression gave nothing away.

  “Not your doing, was it?” Dylan smiled, trying to make light of the question.

  A nerve twitched in the man’s neck. “Nope.”

  Dylan wasn’t sure whether to believe him or not. He had the best alibi in the world but Dylan wouldn’t be in the least surprised to learn that Rickman had decided he wanted revenge on Wendy.

  So how long before he wanted revenge on the two detectives he believed were involved?

  “It was your wife who found out about Wendy and the coppers, wasn’t it? And only recently. I spoke to her—your wife, I mean—well, you’ll know that. Funny how the truth has taken so long to come out.”

  “Shit always floats to the surface.”

  Actually, it didn’t, but Dylan wasn’t going to argue with him.

  “I knew,” Rickman went on, “that all I had to do was bide my time and wait for someone to talk. I’m a patient man. And I’m safe enough here.” That cruel half smile again. “There are too many people making sure I don’t meet with a sudden—accident.”

  Dylan didn’t have to wonder if this man was capable of driving a car straight at his wife. He knew he was. “Talking of accidents, there are more rumours floating around. About your wife and the so-called hit-and-run driver.”

  Rickman’s expression darkened. “Like what?”

  “Like it was you who drove the car. Like she was leaving you for someone else.”

  “Yeah, well, we all know where that story came from, the little shit that is John Weller.”

  “Your stepson? Why would he start rumours like that?”

  “Why? Because he’s a little shit.” That, as far as Rickman was concerned, was reason enough. “Look, there’s no story for your fancy book. I was arrested, I’ve served my time, almost, and that’s it. If anything needs sorting, I’ll sort it.”

  “Have you started sorting it? Have you warned those coppers that you’re out to get them?”

  “Why bother? They’ll find out soon enough.”

  Dylan had thought from the start that Rickman would do his own dirty work. It was personal for him, and he’d enjoy doing it himself.

  “Was it one copper or both of them? I mean, were they both in on the act?”

  “Both.”

  Which didn’t explain why Dylan had received death threats and Pikey hadn’t.

  They talked for another hour, but Dylan heard nothing he didn’t know. He was glad when it was time to leave.

  “Good luck with the parole board. Your wife, I know, is hoping you’ll soon be free.”

  “Oh, she certainly is.”

  It was there again, that crue
l, dangerous sneer, the one that said a lot of people needed to watch their backs when the model prisoner was released from his cell. Including Sarah Rickman.

  * * *

  Dylan was glad to escape the confines of those prison walls. He ought to go home and talk to Bev, but he was a great believer in not doing now what you could put off till later.

  He drove across the City to Sarah Rickman’s house. There was more to her relationship with Max Rickman than met the eye, he was sure of that.

  He rang the bell, heard it echo through the house, and waited. Just when he was about to give up, he saw movement through the small glass pane in the door.

  The door swung open and she was smiling up at him from her wheelchair. “Well, hello. This is a nice surprise. Come on in.”

  The words were welcoming enough but the smile looked forced. “Thanks.”

  He stepped into a wide hallway and followed her wheelchair into a large sitting room. The air outside was strangely oppressive for April, but all her windows were open and the room felt pleasantly cool.

  Oak floorboards were well polished and cream sofas were inviting, but the furnishings had a tired look to them. Everything looked a little worn and shabby.

  “What can I do for you, Bill?”

  “I’ve had a chat with your husband,” he said.

  “Oh? How is he? Still bearing up? I haven’t seen him for a fortnight.”

  “He seems well enough. I gather he has a meeting with the parole board soon.”

  “Yes. Fingers crossed it goes well for him.”

  “Indeed. You must be counting the minutes.”

  “Of course.” The reply was automatic, but she wrung her hands together as she spoke. “So what can I do for you?”

  “I’m having a few problems with the story,” he said. “I keep hearing odd rumours. For instance, there’s a rumour going around—well, it’s about your accident.”

  “What about it?” She didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, she gave him a bright smile. “There’s not much to say about it. I’d had too much to drink, and decided I needed some fresh air.” She gave a tinkling little laugh that echoed around the room. “That’s the silliest thing to do when you’ve had a few drinks. I walked down the drive and out onto the road, and, the next thing I know, I’m waking up in hospital.”