As he returned to his desk, the young constable waved at him. “I’m not sure if I’ve found out anything interesting or not,” she said. “I’ve still got a few more names to check, but there’s a chap here, a James Oxford, who was on the same course as the other three. He didn’t complete it because he wound up in trouble—drugs. But he lives fairly locally, and he’s recently been discharged from the army suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder.”
“Have you got an address?”
She scribbled it on a scrap of paper and handed it over. “I’ll carry on checking out the others.”
“Thanks. I’ll see if I can find him,” Pikey said. “Meanwhile, give me a call if you find anything interesting, okay?”
She nodded, already concentrating on the task at hand.
“Thanks,” Pikey added. “Good work.”
Checking out Oxford would give him something constructive to do, but it didn’t feel right. Pikey had no connection to that training course whatsoever so why had he been told it was payback time?
Chapter Forty-Five
Jimmy felt a little better when he’d put the van in the garage, and better still when he let himself into the house.
He’d rushed this, simply because he’d been eager to get his man, and he’d made mistakes. He’d merely intended to watch the house, to see what time Dylan Scott left, and had been taken by surprise to see him running back. He’d had to have him. There couldn’t be any more mistakes, though. He had to think clearly, slow down, do everything right.
Phoning DS Pike had been a spur of the moment thing and probably a mistake. The thrill of finding his number on Dylan Scott’s phone had been too much and he’d had to call him. It was too soon, though, because he knew nothing about Pike yet. Pike would be a crook, he was too close to Scott not to be, but Jimmy needed to know more about him. It didn’t matter, though. It might have been a mistake to call him, but it didn’t matter. Let Pike worry for a while...
Jimmy took the stairs to the cellar and had to put a hand to the wall to steady himself as a dizzy spell brought the floor rushing up to meet him. Had he eaten? He’d skipped breakfast, that was nothing new, but he couldn’t remember if he’d eaten last night or not. It didn’t matter. He’d get something later. This was only a quick visit to make sure he’d tied Scott securely.
He had. There was no escape for Scott.
The man looked ridiculously calm. Dowie had spent most of the time crying like a baby, Lowell had almost exploded with rage, and now Scott, damn him, looked perfectly relaxed. Jimmy would soon change that. He’d soon have him begging for mercy. It would be pointless, of course, but Jimmy would enjoy humiliating him.
Scott did have one thing in common with the others. There wasn’t so much as a hint of recognition in his eyes. They’d all forgotten him. They neither knew nor cared what he’d had to go through while they—
“You don’t remember me, do you?” Jimmy said.
Scott nodded and still looked infuriatingly calm.
“What? You think you know who I am?”
Scott nodded again.
“I don’t believe you,” Jimmy said. “What’s my name then, eh? Tell me.”
Fuck it. This was probably a ploy to get Jimmy to remove the gag. It would be okay. No one would hear Scott. Besides, if he started yelling, Jimmy would knock him unconscious again.
He yanked off the tape. “Go on then. Tell me my name.”
“James Oxford. It’s been a long time, Jimmy.”
Jimmy was too shocked to speak. No one remembered him. He’d been forgotten. Left on life’s scrap heap.
“How have you been?” Scott asked.
Jimmy couldn’t answer. Keep calm. Keep calm. He put layer after layer of tape around Scott’s mouth. Then, without saying a word, he walked up the stairs, locked the cellar door and went into the kitchen.
As he splashed cold water over his face, he wondered why everything was going wrong this morning. When had it started?
He hadn’t slept properly for weeks now, and seemed to manage easily on two hours a night, so, as he’d been wide awake, he’d decided to drive to Scott’s house and watch. All had been fine until, shortly after seven o’clock, Scott had left the house to go for a run.
Jimmy hadn’t known if that was usual for him or not. He’d stayed in his van and, when he’d seen Scott returning, he’d taken his chance. He’d whacked him over the head, bundled him into the back of van, and driven here.
Scott had been conscious but very groggy, and had been reasonably easy to tie up.
Once confident he was secure, Jimmy had driven home.
It was Carol. That was when everything had started to go wrong. As soon as he knew she’d been snooping through his stuff, as soon as he knew he’d have to suffer the “you’re ill” discussion. He wasn’t fucking ill, for Christ’s sake. Disagreeing with the general view didn’t make you a basket case. He was not ill.
Then on the drive here, traffic had been against him. Scott—he knew him, he recognised him, he looked as if he were the one in control of this situation.
Everything was against him today. Every damn thing.
Jimmy made himself a coffee, black because he still had no milk at the house, and carried it outside. A fine drizzle was falling but he didn’t care. In fact, he quite liked the cooling effect. He stared up at the dark clouds—one was the shape of a dragon—and drew in slow, deep breaths.
He jumped when what sounded like gunfire turned out to be his neighbour’s door closing.
Sweat broke out on Jimmy’s brow as he nodded over the fence at the old man.
“Got company, have you?” his neighbour asked.
“What? Oh, yes. We’re doing some work.”
“I thought I heard you. I was down in the cellar clearing out some old rubbish. Football programs mostly. I’ve got a lot going back to the 1950s. My daughter tells me I should sell them on one of these World Wide Web places. Well, I don’t know about that. I’ll leave her to sort it out. It’ll save her a job when I’m gone.”
Jimmy nodded.
“Well, I’d better take Toby for his walk,” the chap said, fondling the old dog’s ears. “He can’t go far these days—well, neither can I—but he plays up if we don’t stick to our routine.”
“Right.” Why didn’t the bloke piss off?
“Dogs are like that, aren’t they? They like their routines. Mind you, I suppose people are the same. Do you have a dog?”
“No. Cats. I have cats.”
“Ah. I can’t say that I’m a cat person. They’re independent things, aren’t they? Aloof some might say.”
“I suppose they are. Anyway, I’d better get back to it.” Jimmy marched back into the kitchen to finish his coffee in peace.
The way everything was going today, he might have known he’d get stuck with that old fool. He’d have to remember not to make too much noise in the cellar once the old man was back home though. Still, for the moment, he could do as he liked.
Feeling better, he drained his mug, put it in the sink and returned to the cellar. It was about time Scott learned the gravity of the situation.
Scott was still managing to look calm. It had only been three hours though. He was probably still in shock. Or suffering from concussion.
He yanked the tape from Scott’s mouth. “So you remember me, do you?”
“Of course. What I don’t remember is anything happening that might lead you to do this. I don’t remember Brian Dowie or Gerry Lowell doing anything either. Now, a lot of water’s passed under the bridge since then—”
“Too true it has.”
“But as far as I recall, we got along well enough. What’s with all this?” He nodded at his tied feet.
“You think we got along well? Bloody hell, that’s a joke.
Don’t kid yourself that I liked any of you. I’ve never known such a smarmy, arrogant, conceited load of wankers.”
“I thought we were an okay bunch.”
“You three—you thought the world was yours for the taking. You thought you’d be police officers until something better came along. It was just a game to you, wasn’t it? A way of passing the time. Not me. I would have been a good copper. I was capable, honest, trustworthy—I would have been a decent copper, not like you lot. All bent, the three of you. All dismissed in disgrace.”
At last, Scott registered surprise.
“Oh, yes,” Jimmy said, warming to his theme, “I’ve checked up on you. Dowie tampered with evidence—well, it was never proven but you can bet your life he did—Lowell took a backhander, and you—”
“I was a damn good copper.”
“You were dismissed in disgrace!”
“Yes, because an evil piece of scum, a habitual offender, came up with the bright idea of claiming I’d used excessive force during an arrest. On paper, I’m a disgraced copper. In reality, I’m not. I was a damn good copper and proud to carry the badge.”
Jimmy spat on the ground. “All of you dismissed from the force for not being worthy and yet I—” He could barely get the words out quickly enough. “I would have been good. One of the best. But no, I wasn’t allowed to prove it, was I? You three passed everything with flying colours and I never got the chance to prove myself.”
“Time plays tricks on the memory, Jimmy, but weren’t you arrested for carrying drugs? Wasn’t that why you were kicked off that training course?”
“All my life, I’ve had to hear what a great copper my father was. Well, he wasn’t. Oh, he’s got the full retirement package and everyone thinks he’s a hero, but he did nothing. All those years on the force and he was nothing. Yet, still I have to hear that he was the world’s best copper and that I couldn’t even get through the training.”
“You made a mistake, and you paid the price. That’s all. Nothing to do with us.”
“Even now that he’s retired, he’s still the best copper ever. All because he talked some smackhead down from a multi-storey car park. The fucker wouldn’t have jumped anyway. He was only attention seeking. But, oh no, my father talks him down and his photo is splashed all across the newspapers. If it had been me, I’d have jumped to get away from the tosser.”
“Your father sounds like a good man.”
Jimmy spat on the floor. “So what happened to me? I was forced into the fucking army, that’s what.”
“Forced? Wow. Who held the gun to your head, Jimmy? Not me. Was it Dowie? Lowell perhaps?”
Jimmy refused to listen to more of Scott’s wisecracks. He looked for his crowbar but couldn’t find it so he grabbed the hammer and smashed it down on Scott’s foot. The smart arse could take that.
“You’ve got worse than that coming to you. You think you’re so fucking clever, don’t you?”
Scott was quiet. His foot was probably broken. Good.
Jimmy walked around the cellar, breathing deeply, calming himself, until he felt able to sit opposite Scott.
“It’s not that I couldn’t handle the army,” he said. “I can handle anything. It wasn’t what I wanted though. That’s the point. I’m out now, of course. Glad to be away from it really. I mean, why would anyone want to spend their time in a shithole like Afghanistan? What’s the point? They’re uncivilised bastards—leave ’em to it, I say. What’s the point of me getting blown to pieces, eh? What good will that do? It’s a shithole. But you’re missing the point. The point is that I would have made a good police officer. A bloody good one. Far better than my old man. You three—you had the chance and you blew it. All of you. You were a waste of time whereas I never had the chance. You fucked up. You thought—everyone thought you were superior to me. You weren’t. You’re all trash. You fucked up big time. You were—”
He dragged in a breath. Scott would think he was crazy if he didn’t pull himself together.
“I’m going to get all you coppers.” His voice sounded better now. More calm. More in control. “You know Scotland Yard? I’m going to blow the place to smithereens. I’ve had the plans for a while. As for making a bomb, that’s child’s play—”
“No, Jimmy. You’re not going to blow up anything. The police are on to you. They know you killed Dowie and Lowell. They know what you have planned.”
“Liar. You’re a fucking liar.”
Jimmy wrapped layer after layer of tape around Scott’s face. He didn’t care if the bloke could breathe or not.
“You’re a fucking liar. They know nothing. I’ve seen them on the TV. Fucking clueless. I know what I’m doing, and I’m going to blow Scotland Yard to—”
A loud bang plunged the cellar into darkness. Jimmy was trembling. Part of him knew that it was only a light bulb that had blown, but the other part of him was rendered immobile. He was back there, back in the hot hell of Afghanistan.
He had no idea where his flashlight was. All he had was a tiny spot of light from a gimmicky torch on his key fob.
He switched it on and, still shaking, stumbled up the stairs to the cellar door. Daylight almost blinded him and he leaned against the wall, taking in long, deep breaths.
When he’d recovered sufficiently, he found his flashlight and a new light bulb. He left them on the kitchen table. There was no need to waste light on Scott. He could rot in the dark.
Chapter Forty-Six
Pikey hammered on the door to what he believed was Oxford’s house. There were no signs of life.
He walked round the back of the house and peered through a window. All he saw was a typical family kitchen. Four photos of two boys were attached to the fridge door with magnets. A trail of crumbs surrounded a toaster. Two plates, a mug and a glass waited to be washed. A pair of trainers had been slung over the back of a chair, a phone charger sat idle on the table, and a small square of fabric embroidered with the words Home Sweet Home hung on the wall.
He tried the back door, then returned to the front of the house and banged on that door again.
“If you’re looking for Carol, she’ll be at work.” The owner of that voice, a dark-haired woman in her late fifties or early sixties, was regarding him with suspicion from the other side of the low wooden fence that acted as boundary between the properties.
“Carol? I’m really looking for James Oxford. Do you know where he might be?”
“No. I don’t see much of him. He could be anywhere.”
At least he had the right address. “Carol’s his wife, yes? Where does she work?”
“Up the road there.” She pointed to the top of the hill where all Pikey could see were more houses like this one. “When the road levels off,” she said, “you’ll see half a dozen shops on the left-hand side. The hairdresser’s is Carol’s.”
“Thanks. I’ll try there.”
He drove up the hill and grabbed a parking space outside the various shops. The hairdressing salon, A Cut Above, nestled between the post office and an Indian takeaway.
Pikey went inside. One woman had her hair wrapped in pieces of silver foil, another was reading a magazine under a contraption that Pikey assumed was a dryer, and yet another was having her hair washed by a young girl.
Supervising it all was an attractive woman who came forward with a smile on her face. “Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Carol Oxford.” He showed her his ID and saw the colour drain from her face.
“What do you want?”
“Could we have a word, please? In private?”
She turned to the girl at the basin. “I won’t be long. You’ll have to cope without me for a minute, okay?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Come with me.” Carol took the stairs two at a time and pushed open the door t
o a tiny room crammed with a small table, a washing machine, towels and cans of hairspray and plastic containers of shampoo. “It’s Jimmy, isn’t it? What’s he done?”
When confronted by police officers, people usually assumed the worst, thought of accidents, and asked what had happened. Carol, however, had asked what her husband had done.
“I’m not sure that he’s done anything,” Pikey said. “Can you tell me where he is?”
She bit on her lower lip and shook her head.
“When did you last see him?”
“This morning. At breakfast. Before I came here.” Her arms were wrapped tight around her body. “What do think he might have done?”
Pikey didn’t answer that. “You’ve no idea where he is now?”
“No. I asked where he was going, but he wouldn’t tell me. We had words, you see.”
“Oh?”
She leaned against the washing machine as if she needed the extra support. “He’s not well. Um, post-traumatic stress disorder, they call it. I found out that he hasn’t been taking his medication and—well, we had words. He stormed out the house.”
“Okay.” Pikey gave her an encouraging smile. “I assume he has a phone? Will you give me the number?”
“He never answers it.” She took her own phone from the pocket of her tunic, looked up the number, then grabbed a pen and business card from her other pocket and jotted it down.
“Thanks. Does he have a car? Can you give me the registration number?”
She nodded and wrote down the number beneath his phone number. “He has a van too. He’s just bought it and I don’t know the number. I can’t remember it.”
“That’s okay. What sort of van is it? Big? Small?”
“A Transit. Old. White. A bit rusty.” She sucked in a nervous breath. “He, um, helps with army reservist training and said he needed it for that. For carrying men and gear around.” She lifted the lid on a box that said it contained hair colour and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. “Do you mind?”
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