Fairwood (a suspense mystery thriller) (19 page)

He knew the man had left it there to toy with him. He was a sadist and clearly got his kicks from fucking with him. How else he got his kicks, and with whom he got them, Dexter didn’t want to ponder.

He smacked his chapped lips together, ran a heavy hand over them.

He heard the door at the top of the stairs open, heard the sound of slow footsteps descending. He saw the female legs again, the chubby thighs and the dusty sandals. This time they didn’t stop on the second step, didn’t turn around, change their mind and leave the cold basement.

The woman was smiling; her chubby face seemed to be brimming with delight. She was carrying a plate, held out in front of her like an offering to a revered god.

“I brought you some food,” she said warmly, flashing a look of pride as she showed him a freshly made baguette, bursting with a range of meat and vegetables. She couldn’t have looked more motherly, with a warm smile on her ruby cheeked face and an apron around her waist; she was the beauty to her husband’s beast, the Jekyll to his Hyde. Dexter almost felt sorry for her.

She took the stale sandwich away, put it on top of the chair that her husband had sat on. She slowly handed the plate to Dexter, like a cautious child handing a piece of broken bread to the mouth of a timid animal, waiting for it to snap.

“What is this?” Dexter couldn’t stop himself form asking.

“
This
, dear?”

He cringed at the word
dear
. Images of Dorothy forced themselves into his head. The high-spirited, homely woman, who had led them into the arms of their kidnappers. She may not have been the one who abducted them, may not have been the only one who plotted to do so, but something told Dexter that she played a big part in it.

“You’re feeding me?” he asked.

“I just want to make sure you’re healthy. You need to keep your strength up.”

“Why?” he wondered. “What do you plan on doing with me?” He thought of evil witches in gingerbread houses, of curious children and large ovens.

She looked offended. “I just want to make sure you’re okay. You look a bit pale. You haven’t eaten all day.”

He nodded unsurely and reached forward, gentle taking the plate from her hand. She beamed a proud smile, straightened up, cupped her hands and placed them in front of her, staring expectantly as he prepared to take his first bite.

He was hungry, desperately so. The alcohol, the beating and the worry had stripped his stomach and he was desperate to fill it. He could smell the peppered meat, the mayonnaise and the rich cheese all compacted into the warm and fresh bread. He took a big bite, then another, before long he had eaten through a quarter of the sandwich, barely pausing to breathe or chew.

She watched him the whole time, a smile of enjoyment on her face as he tucked in. He gave her a courtesy glance of appreciation at one point, even mumbled his muffled gratitude.

His dire hunger made the sandwich taste better than anything he had tasted in a long time. He tore through the warm bread, the rich cheese and mayonnaise, the roasted vegetables and the preserved meats with the savagery of someone eating his final meal. He stopped halfway through; he tasted something strange, something that didn’t fit. Something pungent, almost chemical. He began to chew slowly as he worked it around his mouth; the taste was faint but definitely there.

He took another bite, a big, hearty one. This time the taste was stronger and was accompanied by a bitter and burning smell. He recoiled, pulled back mid-bite. What he initially thought was a string of melted cheese sucked out of the sandwich and hung from his mouth. It was off-white, flecked with numerous colours and spotted with various blotches from the sauces.

He lifted it from his chin, stared at it. He pulled it out of his mouth, straightened it out. The stench and the taste were overpowering now and it certainly wasn’t cheese. He looked up at the grinning woman; saw a look of something less homely in her smile.

“What is it?” he asked as he studied the food-encrusted object.

“Underwear,” she said simply.

He saw it then. It was a pair of knickers, small and thin with a frilly lace around the edges. Between the blotches of red sauce he saw a large stain, caused by a liquid that had soaked the underwear and had left its mark with a jaundiced blotch.

“Your girlfriend’s to be exact,” she said.

He looked at her, his eyes wide with horror.

“She pissed herself this morning.” She paused, a grin exploding into hysterics on her face. “Did you enjoy?”

The homely, motherly expression had completely gone from her face, she looked evil, devious. He was angry, but too shocked to express it. The old woman was in hysterics, she backed away, disappeared up the stairs leaving Dexter alone with his tainted sandwich and an awful taste in his mouth.

24

Detective Inspector Cawley got all the information he could have hoped to get from Bat-shit Barnes, and this time he believed her. She said that she had seen the bandits at Rosie’s Point. They had parked near the edge. She had been admiring the view; he had been staring intently at a map in his lap.

She said she didn’t know who they were, something that would have typically roused suspicion in Cawley considering the bandits had been national news for weeks, but after he’d been inside her house, after he’d witnessed a distinct lack of televisions, computers or any access to the outside world other than the front door which let the stink out and the air in, he believed her.

After letting the dogs run wild on the road she stopped by
Stubbies for a drink. She had been in the pub before, often dropped by for a quick drink, she knew the bartender. He was usually friendly with her, she suggested that he even flirted with her a few times (this Cawley
did
find hard to believe) but this time he had stopped her at the door, wouldn’t even let her inside.

She noticed that the glass in the door was broken, she saw blood and signs of struggle all over the entrance, but she couldn’t see inside, couldn’t see anyone else nearby. He ushered her away before she could question him. He even watched her leave, making sure she didn’t turn around and try to enter the pub again.

“The car park? Cawley had enquired.

“Empty.”

“Anyone else there, any potential witnesses?”

“Witnesses? You don’t believe me again?”

“Witnesses who saw the fight, not you.”

“Oh. No. I just saw him.”

It was late by the time Cawley left Barnes to her dogs -- three scruffy things that she kept in the kitchen -- and her madness. He planned on going straight to Stubbies and harassing the bartender to tell him the truth, but a phone call stopped him.

He had been counting his missed calls from Clarissa at the time -- she had racked up double digits and had also left him a few voicemails and expletive riddled texts. The call was from Simpson and he sounded drunk, no doubt he had found Cawley’s stash of cheap whiskey and vodka. “Your wife’s here again,” he slurred. “She looks pissed off and she brought a big ugly friend.” 

“But I took her key,” Cawley noted.

Simpson made an apologetic noise. “That may have been my fault. I let her in. In my defence, I didn’t know it was her--”

“It’s okay,” Cawley cut in.

He had heard the protestations of Sandra’s brother, heard a drunken Simpson turn to him and shush him before saying, “I think you should get here before they rob you blind.”

Cawley got there as fast as he could, driving like a madman through the traffic. He didn’t need to deal with this right now, he had a solid lead on the case, he was potentially the first police officer in the country to find out where the bandits had spent the hours following their robbery and murder, but again his ex-wife was sticking her head in where it didn’t belong.

He was furious by the time he arrived at the house. He didn’t bother to lock the car after he got out, didn’t even pull the keys from the ignition. He was glowering, almost growling, as he stormed his way to the open front door and the broad back of Jonathan Meadows that blocked the path into his house.

“What the fuck is it this time, eh?” he barked.

Jonathan turned around, peering down at Cawley from his thick brow. “No need for language like that,” he warned in the tone of a headmaster warning his pupils from running in the hallway.

“It’s my fucking house,” he spat in retaliation. “I’ll fucking swear if I want to.”

Sandra slipped behind her brother, using him as a blockade.

“What are you doing here?” he asked her.

“I’ve come for my stuff.”

“Again! Really?” he looked around, his arms wide open. “What the fuck else could you possible want? I have nothing left to give you. Here,” he stepped back, ripped off his coat and threw it to the floor. “You want the clothes off my back, is that it?” he took off his shoes, kicked them across the entranceway and into the hallway where an amused Andrew Simpson watched on with a smile on his face and a glass of vodka and coke in his hand.

Jonathan tried to object, Sandra didn’t flinch. He saw her poke her head out from behind her brother, saw the sniggering look on her face as she watched her former husband lose his mind.

Cawley stripped down to his underwear, the chill of the disappearing afternoon was strong enough to cut through his high blood pressure and flushed skin. “There!” he spat, throwing his arms and legs open, looking like a pudgy Vitruvian man. “Or is that not enough for you, eh? Do you want my dignity as well?”

Jonathan, anticipating what was coming, tried to step forward, to stop Cawley, but it was too late. Cawley ripped off his underwear and tossed them over his shoulder, onto the driveway.

In the living room Andrew sniggered and continued to drink his vodka and coke, looking from face to face to see who would make the next move. Behind Cawley, beyond his pale, goose-pimpled buttocks, an army of neighbourhood voyeurs cracked open their curtains to sneak a peek; some brazenly stood at their front doors, one, an elderly woman who lived a few doors down and had been walking her dog, stopped at the end of the driveway to get a better view.

“You’re perverted,” Jonathan said, his desperation to stop Cawley from undressing quickly turned into disgust.

“Fuck you!” Cawley thrust a finger at him. “This is
my
house. If I want to swear at the top of my lungs and get bollock naked, I fucking will.”

“Move that finger away from me before I break it off,” Jonathan said, staring at the end of Cawley’s accusing digit.

“How about you get the fuck out of my house before I throw you out?”

He saw a flare of anger in Jonathan Meadow’s eyes, knew exactly what he had planned before he set that plan into motion. Cawley wasn’t strong, he wasn’t fit and he wasn’t quick, he was in his youth but those days were well behind him, whereas Jonathan was in the prime of his youth. What Cawley did have over the big man, was experience. He knew his type, knew that big men like him used intimidation over anything else; they rarely got into fights because they rarely faced a foe who wanted to fight them.

He saw the heavy, inexperienced punch coming long before it had a chance to hit. Cawley simply ducked out of the way, revelling in the rush of air he felt above his head as the big man’s fist missed its target. The missed punch threw him off balance, nearly toppled him over. When Cawley straightened up he saw the shock in Jonathan's eyes.

He hit him. It wasn’t as heavy as his missed punch had been; it wasn’t as strong. But it was quick, effective and on target. Jonathan crumbled like he was made of precariously placed paper cards. He lay at Cawley’s feet, still conscious, but with no idea what had just hit him.

“Get the fuck out of my house,” Cawley told his ex-wife. “And if you come back again--”