Numb: A Dark Thriller (16 page)

22

For the first time that Riley could remember, Nash was dressed in a tracksuit. 

Usually he wore a suit, sometimes just trousers and a dress shirt, but nothing less casual than that. Riley considered that maybe the light fabric was more comfortable for his injury, the sling holding up Nash’s left arm obviously there to ease the weight on his shoulder that had taken a few bullets. Or maybe he just didn’t care to wear his best clothes today. He certainly didn’t look his best in terms of health. He looked pale and tired and his eyes that usually burned with vigour and strength appeared weakened somehow. They just stared... as if looking right through you. Maybe it was the painkillers. Maybe it was the grief. Then again, maybe the marble had rolled off the table and he’d lost his mind and gone mad. A loss as big as he’d suffered could do that easily. Whatever it was, Mike Nash looked crazed.

He strode into the room, followed by Turner. McCabe and Howden laid their pool cues against the wall and took a seat, like school children settling down when the teacher entered the classroom.

Purvis handed Riley his drink and sat down as Nash stopped next to the pool table. He gently rolled the black ball into the corner pocket with his free hand and smiled.

Game over!

“You want a drink?” Turner asked him.

Nash shook his head.

Riley sipped his water as Nash stared at each man in turn. He knew that look well, had seen it many times at work in the eyes of drunks and drug addicts and people who weren’t in control. People who were unpredictable. People who were dangerous. Nash obviously wasn’t in the right frame of mind for dealing with the situation right now. But he was in charge. He was the boss. What he said went. As always.

“Okay,” Nash then said to himself. “Good.”

McCabe and Howden exchanged looks of confusion. Riley and Purvis did the same. Only Turner acted like Nash hadn’t spoken and took a seat in the corner of the room, rubbing his brow and looking like the energy had been sapped from him. He’d probably realised on the way over here that Nash had flipped.

Nothing was said for what seemed like minutes before Howden opened his big mouth without thinking of what to say first.

“You alright, boss?”

Nash’s head snapped round. He stared the bigger man straight in the face as if he wanted to kill him. But when he spoke, his voice was soft and controlled. Like a drunk trying to walk straight, Riley could tell Nash was concentrating on sounding calm rather than it coming naturally.

“I got shot,” he said. “But I’ll be alright.” He looked at Purvis who suddenly seemed nervous. “Thanks for watching the girls last night.”

“No, problem,” Purvis replied.

Nash then turned to Riley and said, “Thanks for going after them. You did good. You tried.”

Riley nodded. Didn’t say anything. He wanted to see where Nash was going with this little ramble as he turned to McCabe.

“Turner tells me you got some info.”

“Yeah, boss,” McCabe said.

Nash sat down. Crossed his legs and settled into his leather seat. Then he said, still eerily calmly, “So do we know who these fuckers were?”

“More than that,” McCabe said. “I took a trip over to the north side of the river. I know a few people over there who I can trust who have no links with Dainton. A few of them had heard rumours about these two dumb fucks who apparently had just accepted to take you out for five grand. Brian Wilcox and Marlon Tennant. No one thought to say anything because the two guys were bullshit druggies who were known to tell a lot of porkies. Well, I got their address, but when I turned up there guess what?”

Nash shrugged, as if he wasn’t interested. His eyes were gone.

“Place was up in flames,” McCabe said. “Two fire engines there, police, the lot. It’s been on the radio this morning that two bodies were found inside. You can bet your bollocks it was them.”

“At least they got what they deserved,” Purvis said before glancing at Riley. He obviously assumed that McCabe had taken care of the loose links as soon as possible. It made sense. This Wilcox and Tennant had
failed. Maybe getting torched was punishment, and that kind of punishment was the kind McCabe dished out. But if he was behind this then what was he planning for his next move since Nash had survived?

“So who got to them before us?” Riley asked, playing dumb.

“Dainton.” McCabe said. “It looks like he wasn’t happy that they missed.”

“He’s
not
gonna be happy that they missed,” Turner said. “He’s going to regret paying them to do this in the first place.”

Strangely, Nash giggled at this. But the giggle didn’t die out. It stopped abruptly and his face fell straight in an instant.

“Yes, he is,” he said.

“So, what do you want us to do?” Turner asked.

Nash got to his feet. Reached over the bar and grabbed a bottle of brandy. After pouring himself a large measure, he downed half of it and held it in his mouth for a few seconds before swallowing. He swished the rest around the glass.

Riley, along with everyone else in the room, waited patiently for him to answer the question.

“I want it made it clear to Dainton that his days are numbered,” Nash finally said. “Just a warning for now.”

“You want a message sent?” asked McCabe.

Nash nodded. Stared off into the distance, like he was deep in thought. When he spoke, his voice was again soft and flat, the words falling out with little emotion.

“I want Dainton to feel what I’m feeling,” he said. “I want him to lose something close to him. Then I want to destroy his businesses. Then I want to make him live in fear, knowing that I’m coming after him. Then, after...” Nash struggled with the words. His lip quivered. He drank more brandy, as if it would give him strength. “... after Michael’s funeral, we take that fucker down and make him wish he’d never been born.”

“So what Kind of message do you want sending?” Turner asked.

The messages Nash liked to send could stretch from a verbal warning to a brutal torture depending on the crime. Shooting his son was definitely up there with the worst possible things to do and Riley assumed the message wouldn’t be a nasty phone call.

Nash poured another drink.

“He killed my son,” he said and giggled again, as if he found it funny because it sounded so unreal. Then his face turned serious. He stared down at the floor. When he spoke again, his voice was no longer soft. The words came out in a growl. “I say we take an eye for an eye.”

23

Detectives Davison and Burns had spent most of the day interviewing friends and neighbours of Wilcox and Tennant to try and find a link between Dainton and the two of them, anything to suggest that
he
was the one that paid them to do the drive-by. Wilcox and Tennant were both known to the police and both had died suspiciously the same night Nash was attacked. There was an obvious link.

They had no luck, however. Nothing. All lips were sealed and all eyes were blind. Nobody had heard any rumours about a hit on Nash and neither man had let anything slip before becoming crispy bacon in the fire. No one had seen anyone leave the flat just before the fire broke out either.
“Aaah the fuckers wos probably pissed an’ left a fag burnin’
” was how one wonderfully drunken old man who lived a few doors up had put it. It seemed that everyone around here suspected nothing but an accident and the investigation had hit a bit of a dead end.

But then forensics called with some news.

Wilcox and Tennant’s flat hadn’t been totally gutted by the fire. The door to the bathroom had been closed and the flames hadn’t taken hold before the fire and rescue service had arrived and doused the flames. Forensics had found hairs on a sponge and in the plug hole, hairs that could match some of those found in the abandoned Peugeot. They’d also found two razors and had tagged them as evidence and whisked them off to the labs to search for traces of blood on the blades to see if they could find a match to the blood in the passenger seat.

Davison was pleased. She knew Wilcox and Tennant were the shooters. She didn’t need proof of it. But the hair and blood
would
match and make them prime suspects, and their previous links with Dainton’s firm now gave her an excuse to pay the man himself a surprise visit.

So, as the time neared three o’clock, the two detectives decided to make one last call of the day, and as the car followed the curve of the river towards the coast, the DS was glad to be away from the tatty flats and run down council estates and was looking forward to see how the other half lived.

Quayside Manor was a luxurious housing complex not far from the harbour on the north side of the river. Set back from the main road and accessed via a private tarmac track, the properties were all detached, set in their own private grounds, boasted up to six bedrooms and three bathrooms and sold for well over a million pounds.

As they pulled up in front of the huge iron gates that protected Dainton’s property, Davison ran her eyes over the house and wondered why a single, elderly man needed so much space and security.

The modern looking mansion was set in three acres of garden and the walk from the perimeter gates to the front door would probably take someone close to five minutes. The house itself was white bricked, built on three levels and seemed to have more windows on its facing wall than a whole row of terrace houses combined. Off to one side was a smaller building that Davison assumed to be a guest house. Off to the other, there was a giant conservatory that she assumed held a heated swimming pool. Tall trees ran around the perimeter of the garden, as if to hide the house from the neighbouring properties.

“And they say crime doesn’t pay,” Burns said as he stopped the car. “This place must cost at least two million.”

“Speaking of crime,” Davison said, “it looks like our Mr Dainton is careful to prevent it.” She pointed up to the security cameras either side of the gate.

Burn’s stooped. Looked up through the windscreen. “Are we meant to say cheese?”

Davison didn’t laugh at her colleague’s attempt at humour. She climbed from the car and approached the intercom system on the gates, ignoring the camera lenses bearing down on her.

When she pressed the ‘CALL’ button there was no noise, but a flashing green light told her that it had worked.

A second later, a woman’s voice filtered through the speakers.

“Hello, can I help you?”

Davison knew by the polite tone that this woman was obviously hired help; a housekeeper, or a maid, or a cook, or something.

“Hello, my name is Stephanie Davison, I’m a detective with the Thirnbridge police force.”             

“Police?” The woman sounded shocked.

Davison held her badge up to one of the cameras. “Here’s my ID.”

“Are you holding it up to the cameras?”

“Yes.”

“I wouldn’t bother, my dear. All they do is record. The monitors are in Mr Dainton’s study. I can’t see you from where I am.”

“I see.” Davison put her ID away and leant closer to the intercom. “I’m here with my partner detective Burns. We’d like to speak with Mr Dainton, if it’s possible.”

“Detectives, you say?” the woman said. “Has there been an accident?”

“We would just like to speak to Mr Dainton regarding a current investigation,” Davison said. Dainton was obviously home. If he wasn’t, the woman would have said so by now. Instead, she was asking questions, trying to get an idea why the police were visiting so she could inform her employer who could work on his alibis and excuses in the few minutes it would take them to reach the front door. “Can you please tell him we’re here?”

There was brief moment of silence. Then: “Yes. I... I’ll go and tell him. Would you be so kind as to wait there a moment?”

“I would appreciate it if you could open the gates so we could make our way up to the house,” Davison replied.

Another pause. Then: “Of course.” The lock on the gates beeped as they clicked open. “I’ll go and inform Mr Dainton that you are on your way.”

Davison climbed back in the car and Burns drove slowly up the driveway towards the house. Once there, they noticed that the front door was already open, and standing on the marble steps was a thin man in his late sixties. He had short greying hair and a goatee beard. His skin was tanned. He was dressed in a white shirt, the top two buttons left undone to reveal the gold chain around his neck. His sleeves were rolled up too, as if to show off the expensive looking watch on his left wrist and the gold bracelet on his right. His trousers were jet-black and looked made to measure and his leather shoes were immaculately polished so that they reflected the cream of the marble steps. He was wearing dark glasses, even though the sun had disappeared behind the heavy clouds over an hour ago.

“Mr Dainton,” Davison said as a formal greeting as she stepped from the car.

“Nice to see you again, detective,” Dainton replied.

Despite the fact that they’d met on several previous occasions, Davison introduced herself and Burns.

“Yes, I remember your name, detective,” Dainton told her. “I never forget a face or a name.” He turned to Burns. “You’re new though. You weren’t part of the last squad who tried to put me away.”

“We’d like to ask you a few questions, if you wouldn’t mind,” Burns said, professionally.

“Not at all. Come in.”

They followed him through to the living room and Davison quickly took in her surroundings; cream walls; hardwood floor; three piece suite; drinks cabinet. There was no television, only a house phone on the wall. Above them, as expected, a chandelier hung perilously from the ceiling, its droplets catching the light and reflecting off the walls and floor in dabs of shimmering white. Soft music came from small, round speakers on the far wall. Something with violins and piano. Something classical. Nothing you’d hear on MTV.

“Drink?” Dainton asked as he ambled over to the drinks cabinet.

“No thank you,” Davison replied. “We’d rather just ask you the questions.”

“Of course.” Dainton sat down on the sofa. Leant back. Stretched out his feet. “How can I help?”

“There was an attempt on Mike Nash’s life last night,” Davison said. “I take it you’ve probably already heard.”

“Yes, I did hear something on the radio earlier,” Dainton said.

“I bet you hear more than what’s on the news,” Davison said. “You know a lot of people. That’s why we’re here. We were wondering if you knew who was behind it.”

Dainton smiled, showing two rows of straight, white teeth. Dentures or caps, Davison couldn’t decide.

“You think I had something to do with it, don’t you?” Dainton said.

Davison shrugged, as if to say, “
You tell me.
”

“Why would I waste my time shooting at someone like Mike Nash?”

“Who said he was shot at?” Burns said.

“The news.” Dainton never flickered as he answered. He wasn’t going to be caught out by cheap tricks like that. “If you think I was involved then why aren’t you here to arrest me?”

“This is just an enquiry, sir,” Davison said. “We aren’t accusing you of anything just yet.”

“I see,” said Dainton. “Not
yet?
”

“Where were you last night?” She knew it didn’t matter where he’d been. It was just an opener.

“I was here at home, as usual.”

“We never asked you what time.”

“It doesn’t matter what time. I was here all night. Mrs Wilkinson can vouch for me. She’s my housekeeper and resides in the guest house. Used to share it with her husband who was my gardener. He died last year, poor man. A stroke. But she would know if I’d left or not as I would have to pass her window.”

“Do the names Brian Wilcox and Marlon Tennant mean anything to you?” Davison watched Dainton’s face for any hint of recognition; a little twitch of the nose or flick of the eyes. Maybe he’d lick his lips or scratch his chin as he lied and said he’d never heard of them.

“No,” he said. “Should they?”

“Yes,” replied Davison. “They were part of a group dealing in Ecstasy who were arrested by Thirnbridge police a few years ago, remember? Of course you remember, because you were suspected of paying for the merchandise to be transported over from the Netherlands for less than a penny per pill. The dealers who were caught worked for you. But you got off due to lack of evidence. No one would give any against you.”

“That’s because there was none,” Dainton said. “And you were part of that investigation, weren’t you, detective Davison? I bet it didn’t look good on your record when I wasn’t charged with anything.”

No, it didn’t
, she thought.
I should be inspector by now.

“Just answer the question, please,” Davison asked. “Have you heard of them?”             

“No, I don’t recall a Brian Wilcox or a Marlon Tennant,” Dainton said. “Next question.”

“Wold you say that you and Mr Nash are business rivals?” Burns asked.

Dainton laughed. “Everyone is a business rival.”

“But you have had - how can I put it? -
conflict
with him before,” Davison said. “Several years ago there were rumours of a gang war between you and him.”

“Do I look like I involve myself with
gang wars
?” Dainton said, snobbishly. “I’m a businessman, and a semi-retired one at that. I have no reason to harm Mr Nash. Why would I?”

“Because he’s earning a lot of money. Money that
you
could be making if he was out of the way.”

“I’m not interested in making more money. Like I told you, I’m semi-retired.”

“And what is semi-retirement, if you don’t mind me asking?” Davison queried.

“Exactly how it sounds. I own several small businesses, all of which are managed on a day to day basis by employees. I pay wages and make profits but very rarely am I needed to attend meetings or deal with staff.” Dainton shuffled in his seat. He was getting uncomfortable with the questions. “Before you pry anymore into my personal life can I ask why you chose to come here and question me if you have no evidence to link me with this crime? Is that even allowed?”

“We’re just exploring every avenue,” Burns said. “Plus, we know that you and Nash haven’t exactly seen eye to eye over the years and so-”

“So you put two and two together and made five.” Dainton got up from his seat. Crossed to the drinks cabinet. Poured himself a gin and tonic. Sipping it, he said, “Look, I’m being honest with you. I heard about the shooting on the news this morning and assumed Nash had made recent enemies that were willing to go as far as killing him to get what they want – whatever that may be. I, however, have no problem with the man. He runs his little empire and I run mine.”

“I thought you were retired?” Burns interjected.

“S
emi
-retired. In the past Mr Nash and I have competed for businesses opportunities but that’s the way of the world. I have no reason to harm him. Now, if that’s all...?”

Davison knew that was it. If Dainton was some two-bit druggie or a common thief then she could haul him down to the station for more thorough questioning. But seeing as he could afford the best lawyers who were probably in the same Masonic lodge as the prosecuting judge, then without real evidence there was nothing she could do. But she’d gotten what she’d come here for. She’d unsettled his cosy little world at the very least.

“Thank you, Mr Dainton,” she said. “We’ll see ourselves out.”

“Not at all,” he replied and smiled his fake teeth smile again. “What kind of host would I be if I didn’t see you to the door?”