She smiled. “At least it would be fast. Or a car accident. Not a messy one, though.”
They sat in silence, lost in their own morbid thoughts. Dylan needed to lighten the mood and he knew just the thing. “I’ve got something for you. Don’t go away.”
He leapt out of bed, grabbed his dressing gown and went out to his car.
When he returned to the bedroom, Bev’s wineglass was almost empty, but her eyes lit up when she saw the bag in his hand.
“Oh, my!” She laughed. “Where did you steal the bag from?”
“I didn’t steal it.”
He handed it over and she opened her gift as if she were handling the crown jewels. “Oh, my God. This is—this is freakin’ awesome.” She ran her fingers lovingly across the silk. “This is—wow. This is the best thing ever. It’s utterly, utterly gorgeous. Cass Pelham. Wow.”
It was a scarf. A pink scarf. Dylan was glad she was pleased with it, but when it came down to it, it was only a scarf.
“How did you get this?” she asked. “I know for a fact that you didn’t walk into the shop and buy it.”
“How can you possibly know that?”
“Because I know you far too well. There’s no way in hell that you’d pay the sort of money this cost.”
She did know him too well. In his eyes, only a complete idiot would pay more than a fiver for a scarf.
“It’s a long story,” he said. “But I’m glad you like it.”
“Like it? It’s simply—gorgeous. The colour is perfect. Wow—what a gift. I love it. Thank you.” She wrapped it gently around her neck, smiling like a five-year-old trying on her mother’s makeup. “And this is exactly what I mean. What if I were so ill that I couldn’t appreciate the pleasure of wearing something so beautiful?”
Dylan stifled a groan. They were back to the subject that would dominate every second of every day. “You won’t be.”
“Dylan?”
He didn’t like the sound of this. “Yes?”
“If I get—you know, in a really bad state—”
“Let’s wait and see what happens, shall we?”
“Yes, but if I do, I’m going to Switzerland. An assisted suicide. DIGNITAS.”
Dylan felt the bile rise in his throat. No way. He was shocked that she could even contemplate such a thing.
“I’ve researched it, paid my membership fee and done the paperwork,” she said.
He didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer.
“It’s expensive but—” She left the sentence unfinished.
“We’ll see another specialist,” he said, and he drained his glass. “Come on, drink up. We need some sleep.”
Car accidents, bullets, assisted suicides—what the hell had got into her?
“And I don’t want you grieving,” she said. “It wouldn’t suit you and it would depress the kids. I’ve had a great life, Dylan. Celebrate that fact when I’m gone, okay? Don’t you dare make our kids miserable. They’re the most precious things in the world and they don’t deserve that.”
“Drink up.”
When her glass was empty, she switched off the lamp and settled down. Dylan breathed a sigh of relief as she rested her head on his chest and prepared to sleep.
“Of course,” she said into the darkness, “you could save yourself a lot of money and slip some cyanide in my wine.”
“Goodnight, Bev.”
He could feel her smiling against his skin. “Love you, you grumpy old bastard.”
“Love you, too. Even when you talk complete and utter bollocks.”
Chapter Forty-Two
Dylan’s narrow escape from Weller’s thug had reminded him how out of shape he was, but he’d never felt as determined to go running as he had this morning. Perhaps he’d finally lost his grip on reality and was going mad.
Either way, on only a single cup of black coffee for breakfast, he was doing the five-mile run that, not so long ago, hadn’t even left him breathless. Half a mile in today and he was knackered.
A good run would get his thoughts in some sort of order, though, and God knows they needed it.
How could he have got everything so spectacularly wrong?
Goodenough was dead. Definitely. Dylan had seen the fire crew cutting his body from the twisted metal of his car. No way was Goodenough making calls from the mortuary.
Rickman was dead. Medical experts had confirmed that he’d been suffering from heart disease for several years. Dylan believed them, but he was also convinced that King had somehow arranged his swift end. Dead from natural causes or murdered, Rickman wasn’t making threatening calls from the mortuary, either.
King would spend his future with Sarah Rickman—always assuming Weller didn’t get to him first.
Weller.
Weller didn’t know Dylan Scott from Adam. He didn’t resent the coppers who’d turned up to arrest his stepfather. On the contrary. So it was unthinkable that he might be responsible for those calls. Wasn’t it?
His thoughts ran round in a tangled mess, with Bev right in the centre.
Words failed him there too. If he couldn’t make sense of those threatening phone calls, he certainly couldn’t get on the same wavelength as his wife.
He couldn’t put himself in her position, but he felt certain he’d want to cling to every precious moment of life. So what if he threw up a bit? At least he’d be with his family for a little while longer and, during that extra time, anything could happen. One of these days, someone would stumble across a cure for cancer—nothing was so certain, and who was to say it wouldn’t be next month or even next week?
And if she thought that he was telling their kids that he’d taken her to Zurich to die, she had another think coming. The idea was preposterous.
He stopped, hands on his knees, to catch his breath, but his lungs struggled to take in the necessary amount of air.
On the opposite side of the road, a newsagent’s was doing a brisk early morning trade.
Dylan staggered across the road, grateful he’d had the sense to put some cash in his pocket.
He took a bottle of water from the fridge and held it against his forehead as he joined the queue to pay. He was almost at the till when he saw the newspaper headline.
Police are concerned for the safety of Gerald Lowell (41) who has been missing from his home since...
Gerald Lowell? He’d heard that name before. What was that other name, the one he’d heard mentioned on TV when Frank was there? Brian Dowie. Gerald Lowell and Brian Dowie.
Oh, shit!
He grabbed a copy of the newspaper and paid for it along with his water. Outside, he read the report in full.
Shit!
He punched in Pikey’s number but, as was so often the case, had to leave a message.
“Gerald Lowell—missing person—his wife has been murdered. Just seen it in the paper.” He could barely breathe, let alone talk. “Brian Dowie—another missing person—his family killed. They were both on the same police training course as me. Give me a ring, mate, will you? I need to know what happened to others on the course.”
He’d known Brian Dowie’s name was familiar. Two decades had passed but now, he could even picture the bloke. Average looking, had the gift of the gab and, according to the newspaper, had been running an extremely successful car sales business until his disappearance.
Lowell hadn’t been average looking. He’d been a tall, good-looking bloke. Overconfident perhaps, a ladies’ man definitely, and always ready with a quick retort.
Dylan drank his water and threw the empty plastic bottle in a nearby wastebin along with the newspaper.
He ran on, taking a short cut, and as his feet pounded on the pavement, he tried to think back to that training course. Memories were dim. Over the past twenty
years, attendees had been more or less forgotten.
He could remember silly things, like half a dozen of them climbing a creaking drainpipe to a nurses’ residence, and wandering around for days with fellow would-be coppers talking in police speak.
A few names came back to him but none that stood out.
Somewhere in the house, wherever Bev kept old, never-to-be-seen-again photos, there was a picture of them graduating. He needed to see the faces and, hopefully, remember the names.
More important, he needed to get home. The last quarter of a mile was taking an age. He must get home. Dowie’s wife and two sons murdered, Lowell’s wife raped and drowned—
His train of thought was splintered by a cracking pain on his skull. There was a blinding flash of white light. Then nothing.
Chapter Forty-Three
“Has that bloody cat peed on the carpet again?” It seemed to Jimmy that the house permanently reeked of cat piss.
“Probably.” Carol scooped George into her arms and stroked him. “I’ve made an appointment with the vet for six o’clock this evening. I think his kidneys are on the way out.”
“It stinks in here.”
“It does not.”
“Have it your way. I need to go—”
“Just wait five minutes. I need a word with you.”
He was too shocked to utter a putdown, but who the hell did she think she was to monitor his movements?
She was busy shooing the kids out of the house, making sure they had everything they needed and handing them an apple each to eat on the way to the bus stop.
“They’re old enough to get themselves off to school,” he said.
Matthew was limping as if he’d had a leg amputated. He hadn’t even broken his leg, just bruised it, but from the fuss he was making, anyone would be forgiven for thinking he’d been fatally wounded.
“They are. And they do.” She ruffled their sons’ heads. “I just like to send them off with a dash of mother’s love.” She laughed at the faces they pulled then gave them each a kiss. “Have a good day, boys.”
“See you.”
“Bye.”
Jimmy might as well have been invisible for the notice they paid him. That suited him. He had other things on his mind at the moment.
When they had the kitchen to themselves—apart from an incontinent cat—Carol went to the tall kitchen unit and pulled out three, four, five bottles of tablets. She slammed them down on the table in front of him. “Discuss.”
Jimmy bit back on his anger. Later, he’d make it abundantly clear what he thought of people snooping through his things. Later. Right now, he had things to do.
“I don’t need them.”
“And the doctor’s told you that, has he? No, I thought not.” She folded her arms. “I knew there had been a change in your behaviour. Everything was going along okay and then, all of a sudden, you grew snappy with everyone and everything. You’re moody, sullen, withdrawn from us all—”
“Oh, don’t kid yourself that a few tablets will make me look at the way you mollycoddle those kids and think it’s wonderful. You treat the kids—and me—like bloody five-year-olds. You think everyone should do exactly what you want. Well, I’ve got news for you, sweetheart. Some of us have minds of our own. Now, if you’ve finished, I need to go.”
“Where?”
“It’s none of your damn business. I’m sick to death of this. It’s like working in a bloody factory and having to clock on and off every time I move. Bloody hell.”
“You’re sick, Jimmy.”
“Sick of living like this.”
“I think we need to sit down and have a chat with your doctor about—”
“We? We need to do nothing. You need to go and cut women’s hair and I need to get out of this house.” He grabbed his holdall. “I’ll be back when I’m back.”
He marched out of the house, giving the door a satisfying slam as he did so.
How bloody dare she search through his personal possessions? He should have flushed those tablets down the toilet. No way was some Indian doctor on God alone knew what sort of exorbitant salary telling him what to swallow. Doctors collected their money and spent the day writing out prescriptions. It was all too easy. He neither wanted nor needed them. They made him sluggish and sleepy whereas he needed to be mentally alert at all times.
He drove away from the house, but he couldn’t relax now. She’d screwed up everything. He had to be in the right frame of mind and he wasn’t. He was edgy. Anxiety was beginning to creep in. Bloody woman.
Every traffic light was against him. He longed to drive through them all but, knowing his luck, the police would pull him up.
A woman pushing a buggy while hanging on to a small child dawdled across the road in front of him. Jimmy revved the engine and longed to mow them down.
He rolled down the window. “Get out of my way, you stupid bitch!”
When she was finally out of his path, he roared off, but immediately slowed down again when he remembered that he didn’t want to get stopped by the police. His nerves were fizzing. He must stay calm.
When he finally stopped the van outside the terraced house that felt more and more like home to him, his hands were shaking so badly he struggled to remove the key from the ignition.
Chapter Forty-Four
A sexy young nurse leaned across Pikey, treating him to a glimpse of cleavage. Only his shirt and her black uniform lay between his skin and hers. And still all he wanted was to escape.
He hated dentists. Hated them with a passion.
The chair was adjusted so that he was able to move into a sitting position.
“There you go. Just hand these in at reception.” The dentist handed him his records, a sterile swab and a list of instructions on what to do following an extraction. “If you have any problems, give us a call, but I’m sure it will be fine.”
“Thanks. And thanks for seeing me so quickly. I appreciate it.”
“That’s what we’re here for.”
Pikey handed in his records at the desk, paid the bill and left.
It was bliss to be away. Hopefully, he wouldn’t have to go near the place for at least six months.
He switched on his phone, saw he had a message, and was about to listen to it when a call from an unknown number came in. “Yes?”
“Am I talking to Detective Sergeant Pike?”
“Who is this?”
“Guess what, sergeant. It’s payback time.” There was a gurgling sound, possibly laughter.
Pikey’s brain was as numb as his mouth. This couldn’t be happening. It had to be a joke. And yet— “Who the fuck are you? How did you get my number? What do you want?”
“You’re the next on my list. See you soon, sergeant.” The connection was cut.
The bloody anaesthetic had numbed Pikey’s brain. He couldn’t think straight.
He strode along the street and to the car park, calling Dylan’s number as he did so. It went to voicemail. “Give me a ring as soon as you pick this up, mate. It’s urgent.”
He remembered the message someone had left and hit the button to listen. It was Dylan.
“Gerald Lowell—missing person—his wife has been murdered. Just seen it in the paper.” Dylan sounded as if he were running a marathon and Pikey struggled to catch it. “Brian Dowie—another missing person—his family killed. They were both on the same police training course as me. Give me a ring, mate, will you? I need to know what happened to others on the course.”
Pikey slammed the car into gear and drove out the car park. He tried Dylan’s number twice on the short drive to the station, but he wasn’t answering.
Shit. This was no harmless crank out to scare Dylan. This was a maniac who’d already killed several people...
“This is urgent,” he told her. “I need to see the powers that be but I want you to drop everything and dig out a name for me. Dylan Scott, ex-copper—he attended a police training course with Gerald Lowell and Brian Dowie.”
Her eyes widened at the mention of the missing persons. “Is this Dylan Scott a suspect?”
“What? No, of course he’s not. I need the names of every other person on that course, okay? I need to know where they are now, I need to know—everything. Okay?”
She was already sitting at her desk and tapping away at her computer.
As Pikey went upstairs, he tried Dylan’s number again. And left another message. “Answer your bloody phone, will you? We’re probably wasting time chasing down the same info.”
He needed coffee to get his mouth functioning normally again and wash away the taste of blood, and he needed every scrap of information they’d gathered on the Lowell and Dowie cases. There would be a ton of paperwork to check out.
He wasted precious time telling the senior investigating officer what he knew, and almost as much time trying to get a coffee from the machine. In the end, a hefty kick had the machine delivering.
“They’re coming to look at it later,” a voice shouted across to him. “About time too.”
“Anything come in overnight?” Pikey asked.
He nodded at the computer. “Be my guest.”
While Pikey checked the incident log, his companion chewed on a Mars bar while taking a call from a man who believed illegal immigrants were being housed next door to him.
“I’ve had all sorts already this morning.” He swallowed the last of his Mars bar. “An unidentified flying object hovering over St. Mary’s Primary School, a so-called killer dog that turned out to be a Labrador stalking a butcher, another sighting of Elvis. Illegal immigrants being shipped into Russell Street in a white van is about as normal as it’s got so far. I suppose I’d better get it checked out.”
Pikey smiled and nodded, drank the sludge the machine passed off as coffee, and tried Dylan’s number again. Nothing.
Dead End Page 26
