Perfect Intentions: Sometimes justice is above the law (10 page)

Lauren Matthews was concerned. She’d thought she’d finally managed to get both her children on an even keel. For the last fifteen years it had felt like her life had been a continual balancing act, trying to divide her time equally between her job and her kids. But ever since they could walk, Dean and Alice had seemed to act as a tag team as far as trouble was concerned. Dean had come off the rails at school and Alice although less
trouble, seemed to rally whole-heartedly against any decisions she made as a mother. She knew in her heart that they were good kids, and in a lot of ways they could have been a lot worse, but being a single mum had meant she had to deal with every tantrum and bump in the road on her own, and it was tiring. Now, just as Alice’s obsession with sleepovers was starting to wane, Dean had become unpredictable again. He was out until the early hours every night, he was argumentative, and had been late for work every day in the last week. He was on drugs again—Lauren knew that for a fact—and she wasn’t sure if she was strong enough to go through it all with him again.

As Lauren sat at the kitchen table nursing a cup of tea, she heard the front door open and close. She regarded the clock: ten past three; it would be Dean. As if on cue, Dean stumbled into the kitchen, and when he saw his mum he gave a small smile.

“Why are you still up?”

“I was waiting for you.”

Ignoring her, he went to the fridge and grabbed the milk, taking the lid off and swigging it back. Replacing the top, he put the milk back in the fridge. He turned to his mother.

“Not going to bollock me for not using a glass?”

“Didn’t think I’d bother.”

“Good.” Dean turned to leave.

“Dean, I think we need to talk.”

“Really, about what?”

“Your behaviour. What’ve you been taking?”

“Tonight? Alcohol, good old legal alcohol.”

“And what about last night, and the night before, and the one before that? You’re hanging around with Mark again, aren’t you?”

“What’s it to you?”

“Oh nothing, nothing. That’s fine, become a loser again, why not?”

“Give it a rest, Mum.”

“Don’t you take that tone with me. If you think I’m going through all that shit again, you’re mistaken. You’ve got a roof over your head, a family that loves you, a job with good prospects, and you just want to piss it all away.”

“I’m not pissing anything away.”

“Yes, you are, you’ve started using this place as a doss hole again, ducking in and out at all hours. And as for your job—well, I say ‘your job,’ that’s if you’ve still got one.”

Dean became more alert at this.

“What do you mean by that?”

“I’ve had Jon Hamilton on the phone today.”

“Jon from the garage?”

“Do you know any other Jon Hamilton’s? And he told me you’ve been late every day this week, apart from today, when you didn’t show up at all. He says when you are in, you’re surly and uncooperative, and that on Wednesday he had to send you home ‘cause you were drunk. Drunk while working in a garage—honestly, Dean, I didn’t realise I was capable of raising such an idiot. It’s an eye-opener, it really is.”

Dean started moving toward the kitchen door.

“And where do you think you’re going?”

“To bed.”

Lauren sat and watched her son leave. She stared forlornly into her teacup. Getting up, she put the cup into the sink and reached up to retrieve a tumbler from the top shelf of the cupboard. Then, squatting down, she started rattling around at the back of the condiments cupboard, stretching her arm right to the back of the cupboard and finally locating what she was after. Pulling the vodka bottle out of its hiding place, she regarded its contents. There was only enough for a couple in there; she’d have to grab another bottle tomorrow. Emptying the remaining contents of the bottle into the glass, she took a swig.

Jesus, that’s harsh.

Wincing, she took another mouthful. She didn’t enjoy the taste, but it was the only thing that could guarantee her sleep at the moment. Once she’d finished, she washed the glass up and returned it to its rightful place. Then, taking the empty vodka bottle, she quietly let herself out the back door and pushed it down into the wheelie bin, making sure it was out of sight. Content it wouldn’t be
noticed, she went back inside and got ready for bed.

Dean managed to get into work by half past eight; considering he was supposed to start at seven, he was greeted with a scowl by most of his work colleagues. Pete bowled up to him

“For fuck’s sake, mate, I told you Jon was baying for your blood. What time do you call this?”

“Give it a rest, Pete, where is the fat bastard, anyway?”

“In his office. He’s on the phone at the moment, so give him a couple.”

“You want a cup of tea?”

“No, and I don’t think you should, either. That Astra needs a new set of spark plugs; if I were you, I’d get busy.” Pete handed Dean the spark plugs and returned to the inspection pit.

Dean had just opened the car bonnet when Jon stuck his head out of the office.

“Was that Dean I just saw stroll in?”

“Yep, he’s sorting the Astra out.” Pete pointed over to the other side of the workshop.

“Send him in, would you?” Jon closed the office door again.

“Dean, Jon wants to see you,” Pete shouted across to Dean.

Dean looked up and started toward the office.

“Good luck,” Pete offered as Dean opened the office door.

Jon was sat back in his chair.

“Sit down.”

Dean did as he was told.

“I want to talk to you about your attitude over the last week.”

“And I want to talk to you about ringing my house and worrying my mum.”

“Well, what could I do? You’re hardly ever here; your mates have tried talking to you—”

“Oh, you put them up to that, did you?”

“And you’re getting worse. Now, I like to think I’m a patient man, but your attitude is taking the piss.”

“Well here’s an idea: why don’t you, and all those pricks out there, take this job and stick it up your collective arses.”

Dean got up and slammed out of the office, walking past Pete to retrieve his jacket. As he walked out, he gave Pete the finger.

Dean wandered round to the pub and rang Mark. Within twenty minutes, Mark had arrived, and by the time they were on their third chaser, they’d come up with a plan.

“I’m telling you, mate, it won’t be a problem. I’ve got the brake fluid back at mine, you know where he lives—it’s a piece of piss.”

“All right, then, let’s do it tonight. Meet you back down here at eight.”

After necking the remains of their drinks, they left.

By the time Dean arrived back home, Lauren was furious. She’d had four vodkas since Jon had rung and told her what had happened, and she was fit to maim.

“I’ve had Jon on the phone again. He told me you’ve walked out of your job.”

“And?”

“You had a really good opportunity at that place, Dean.”

“We’ve done all this before, Mum.”

“You little fucker, don’t you take that attitude with me. You can’t carry on living here if you don’t pull your weight; even your little sister’s got a Saturday job, and I can’t support you forever. You’re nineteen now, Dean. Grow some balls, for fuck’s sake.”

Dean glanced over at the kitchen table and noticed the vodka bottle.

“Isn’t it you who’s always saying intoxicants don’t solve anything?”

“Don’t get smart with me—that’s cause of you, that is; it’s just easier than going to the doctor’s and getting sedatives.”

“Guilt trip now, eh? That’s a new tactic.”

“Guilt trip? That’d imply you’ve got a conscience, which you obviously haven’t. If you did, you wouldn’t be hanging around with that fucking Mark.”

“What?”

“Oh, don’t play the innocent with me; I know you’re hanging round with those losers again. Are you dealing drugs again? You’re not a minor anymore, so if you get nicked, you’ll be going to the big boys’ prison.”

Ignoring her protests, Dean disappeared up to his room.

“Hi Loretta, sorry it’s so late.”

“No problem, come on in.” Loretta opened the door wider to let Holt in.

“I’ll get the coffee on.”

Loretta went through into the kitchen as Holt made his way through to the lounge.

“I can’t sleep; I keep going over the crimes again and again.”

Holt spilt the contents of his folder onto the table.

Loretta came through from the kitchen holding two mugs, and placing coasters on the table, she slid one mug toward Holt. Holt was staring at each of the photos in turn, a look of incomprehension drawing across his face.

“Jimmy? Are you ok?”

“Yeah, it’s just seeing them—I mean, I must have spent most of the day poring over these photos, and they still shock me. Who could do these things to another human being? I thought I was a jaded old copper who couldn’t be shaken by anything, but here I am, wondering if the world has gone completely mad.”

“Well, take comfort in the fact that there are always patterns to find. Rarely do people commit these kinds of acts without there being a trigger point in their lives. Find that, and you’ll find the killer.”

“But what constitutes a trigger point? We all start out with a clean slate—what goes on to turn a person’s mind from an ordinary, functioning human to a demonic force of nature? Sometimes I imagine catching this guy and looking deep into his eyes, and do you know what I see? Nothing. No emotion, no soul, no empathy.”

“You have to remember this killer was once human; we need to find out what happened to make the switch. What did they see or hear to change them? Most serial killers tick quite a few of the same boxes: broken home, bullied as a child—”

Holt snorted at this.

“Sorry, I’m not trying to be rude, but you’ve just described nearly everyone’s childhood there.”

“Well, let’s try getting more specific. Serial killers are usually narcissistic, completely convinced the world exists purely to serve them.”

“And that’s every teenager I’ve ever met, myself included.”

Loretta smiled briefly.

“Ok, they are usually sociopathic as an extension of the narcissism. A sociopath is someone who is completely amoral, and although recognising that laws aren’t supposed to be broken, have no qualms about breaking them to achieve their objectives. Unfortunately they can blend effortlessly into society, making them difficult to apprehend.”

Picking up his coffee, Holt sat back in the chair for a moment, cradling the cup. Loretta watched him for a few moments.

“Right, lets get back to basics. Most serial killers are between the age of eighteen and fifty years old when they perpetrate their crimes. Over ninety per cent are male. They’ve usually already been the victim themselves as children either mentally, physically or sexually and this will have occurred at the hands of someone they should be able to trust; close family friends, family members maybe a parent. Many will have spent some time in institutions as children, they may have been abused or bullied during their time and this will have only served to isolate them further.”

“I suppose, if he had been institutionalised as a child, that may be why he feels the system’s failing. And that’s why he’s decided to try and—for want of a better word, rectify the situation himself.”

“That would make sense, but at the moment this is all conjecture. Have you found any potential links between the victims yet?”

“No, we’re still working on it.”

“How about the first victim? Have you managed to identify him yet?”

“No, we thought we had for just for the briefest moment this morning. A hysterical woman rang in to say her boyfriend was missing—turns out he’d been missing since last night, coincidentally at around the same time he’d gone down to the pub with his mates.”

Loretta leaned back in her chair for a moment and spotting the two empty coffee mugs, picked them up.

“I get the impression this is going to be a long night. Top up?”

Holt gave her a weary smile.

“Please.”

As soon as Clare was safely inside her flat, she put the shopping away quickly. She grabbed a glass and poured herself a generous measure of Bacardi. Her week seemed to be getting worse each day; the main reason was her growing paranoia. Since she and Hannah had received the messages on their phones, neither woman had slept properly. Clare hadn’t done any studying in weeks, and she was drinking heavily every night. A little part of her wanted Dean to ring, but they’d cut all contact since they’d split; all she kept doing was thinking how much simpler her life had been with him in it. She knew it was an over simplistic way of looking at things, but in her head Dean represented the part of her life before the assault. The only person Clare had told about the assault was Loretta, and Loretta had warned her about the need to cling on to any part of her ‘old’ life just to feel normal again. Loretta had also said how detrimental that would be in the long term. Clare knew Loretta was right but it didn’t stop her longing for her perception of ‘normality’.

As Clare went to retrieve the bottle of Bacardi, her landline rang, and thinking it would be Hannah, she answered without thinking.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Clare.”

“Dean?”

“Yeah, I was just wondering how you’ve been.”

Clare became defensive.

Did he know? Had he seen the website?

“Yeah, I’m fine, why do you ask?”

“Maybe ‘cause I haven’t seen you around in a while.”

“Well, we did split up, Dean.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Why are you ringing me, anyway?”

“Like I said, to see how you are.”

“I’m fine, thanks, so I’ll see you around.”

“So we can’t even be mates now? I thought women liked to try and stay mates with a bloke once they’d broken his heart.”

“Dean, we went out for three fucking weeks, and anyway, we’ve nothing in common.”

“Fine, well, fuck you, then.”

Across town Dean was pacing in his room, hanging up his phone he pushed it into his pocket. Taking the stairs two at a time he grabbed his jacket and slammed out of the house.

Well, that was it. Jon’s car was going to get properly done over now. Dean had made a promise to himself: if he could have had the choice between going to see Clare or going to meet up with Mark, Clare would have won. But seeing as she was being a complete bitch, he knew exactly what he could take his anger out on.

Dean saw Mark waiting for him in his car at the end of the street.

“I thought we were meeting back at the pub?”

“Nah, thought it’d be better if I met you here; we don’t need anyone overhearing us.”

“What have you brought?”

“Spray paint and brake fluid.”

“Right, let’s go.”

Dean jumped into the car and the two men set off toward Jon’s house.

As Dean and Mark pulled up outside Jon’s house, Dean saw that he had predictably left his car on the street—something he always did to allow his wife to use the driveway, and also to ensure her car couldn’t trap his in.

Getting out of the car, the two men circled the Bentley and set to work on it.

Five minutes later, satisfied that the car’s paintwork was ruined, they got back into Johnny’s beat-up Peugeot.

Jon was furious; he’d just gotten back home from a particularly arduous shopping trip with Joanne to buy his son, Harry’s, birthday present. They had been sniping at each other the entire time, including the hour-long round car trip it had taken to get there and back. Harry had wanted a new flat screen TV for his room, and they’d finally found the particular model Harry had had his eye on. When Jon had mentioned the model that Harry wanted and pointed it out to his wife in Dixon’s, Joanne had retorted,

“Are you talking about the TV or the shop assistant?” At that point, the pretty young girl who’d been serving them retreated, blushing furiously, and the manager had come over and finished the transaction. And that had pretty much set the tone for the rest of the evening.

They had decided to go in Joanne’s car upon her insistence that she thought he drove like a lunatic. As she had pulled her car back into the driveway, Jon’s eyes had moved to his Bentley. When he noticed his paintwork bubbling, his stomach dropped. Getting out of the car, he moved gingerly toward his Bentley, in absolute shock. He knew instantaneously who had done it; now, though, he knew he had the uncertain task of figuring out what to do about it.  As he was appraising the paintwork, Joanne moved up behind him.

“Spurned lover?” She could barely contain the humour in her voice, and Jon’s rage boiled over.

“Oh, shut up, you old bitch.”

Joanne’s smile was replaced by a sneer.

“Sorry, I forgot, you don’t have spurned lovers, do you? Just disappointed ones.”

Satisfied she had achieved the KO she was hoping for, she returned to her own car, locked it, and went into the house.

Reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket, Jon opened his phone and scrolled down to the number under Dean’s. Hitting ‘call,’ he waited for the recipient to answer. He was rewarded on the third ring.

“Hi, Lauren, is there any chance I could pop over?”

Lauren was confused, and, if truth were told, a little worried.

“Yeah, that’s fine, is there something wrong?”

“I think it’d be better if we spoke in person. I’ll be there in five.”

Jon hung up the call and crept quietly into the house. He could hear Joanne banging pots and pans around in the kitchen. Spotting Joanne’s car keys, he picked them up and quietly closed the door behind him. In the kitchen, Joanne heard her car engine spark to life once more, and rushing into the hallway, she saw that her car keys were missing. Absolutely furious, she returned to the kitchen and continued to peel the potatoes.

“Tea or coffee? Or do you need something stronger?’” Lauren could see the stress etched into his face.

“Well, I could use something stronger, but I’d better not; I’ve got Joanne’s car, and she’s annoyed at me enough at the moment without me wrecking her car, as well.”

“Well, if this is about Dean, and I’m judging it must be, I’m going to have a vodka.”

“Don’t let me stop you.” Jon watched as Lauren poured herself a generous measure into a mug.

“I didn’t know you drank.”

“Well, there’s a lot you don’t know, Jon.’ Jon took the verbal slap and sat down.

“So what’s the little shit been up to now?”

“He’s poured paint stripper over my car.”

“Really.”

“You don’t sound very surprised.”

“Well, I’m not. He’s been hanging round with Mark again.”

“Mark? Who’s Mark?”

“Sorry, I forgot you have absolutely no knowledge of the first eighteen years of your firstborn’s life.”

“Is this going to descend into a slanging match? Because I’ve just come from one of those, and I could do without another.”

Lauren sat back and finished her drink. Waiting for Jon to continue, she emptied the rest of the bottle into her glass.

“I was young—what did you want me to do? Drop out of uni and work in a dead end job for the rest of my life? At least this way I can give you decent money for him.”

“It’s all about fucking money with you, isn’t it? I had to drop out of
school; how many fucking options did you leave me?”

“All right, well, if that’s how it’s going to be, I’ll go.”

“Sit down.” Lauren’s voice was resigned

Reluctantly, Jon sat back down.

“I don’t know what to do anymore, Jon. That boy’s run me ragged recently, ducking in and out of here at all hours, fighting with his sister—I know he’s dealing again.”

“Dealing? How do you know?”

“Because it’s not the first time.”

“He’s dealt before?”

Lauren bit her tongue and nodded.

“So what do you want me to do about your car?”

“Look, don’t worry about it, the insurance can cover it.” Getting up, Jon felt in his pocket to make sure he had his keys.

Lauren was nursing her mug of vodka in both hands and was watching Jon with interest.  He’d hardly changed since they had first met; he had been 24 and absolutely stunning. When Dean had turned out to be the double of his father, Lauren was unsure how to feel about it. She loved Dean, but he was truly his father’s son, and Jon had hurt her. If it had been love she’d once felt for Jon, then none of it remained; all she now had was the bitterness she felt whenever she saw Joanne out with her children.

“What are you going to tell Joanne?”

“I’ll just say it was a disgruntled customer—not that it’ll matter she’s already decided it was a woman.”

“So who is your newest bit of skirt, then?”

Jon was caught completely off-guard.

“How do you know?”

“You’ll never change, Jon, all the time you’ve a hole in your arse.” Lauren said this with a smile, and just for a moment Jon saw the sixteen-year-old girl he’d fallen for all those years before.

Lost in their memories, neither one had heard the front door open. Dean, recognising Jon’s voice, crept toward the kitchen door.

“To be honest with you, Lauren, I think I’ve fallen in love.”

“I know you probably want to talk to someone about this, but I really would prefer it if you could choose anyone other than me.”

“Sorry, that was insensitive.”

“No, Jon, insensitive was when you dumped me and your child for another, more respectable, woman. Trying to make small talk to me about your most recent upgrade is tactless.”

As Dean listened just outside the door his stomach suddenly dropped.

Still reeling, he took a deep breath, calmed himself, and walked into the kitchen.

Jon and Lauren stopped abruptly and shot each other worried looks.

Dean could feel his mother and Jon’s discomfiture and realised he was enjoying it. He moved slowly and deliberately across the kitchen to the kettle, all the while feeling their eyes flickering between him and each other. Suddenly he became aware of the situation: here he was, in the kitchen with his mum and dad. ‘Dad’—now there was a word he hadn’t had much use for during the last nineteen years. The thought made him laugh.

Lauren had finished her drink and was now watching her son with keen interest. His brief snigger had alarmed her. It wasn’t his normal natural laugh; it was gruffer, and somehow more malicious. She knew at that minute that he had heard. That was why he was here in the kitchen now; he had needed her to know he’d heard them. She wondered briefly if Jon had worked it out, as well. Glancing at him, she assumed he hadn’t; he was also watching Dean, but with a mixture of confusion and annoyance.

Dean had started filling the kettle.

“Anyone else want a drink?”

Deans back was still towards hem, and neither replied. Dean turned to face them.

“Mum, would you like a cup of tea? Oh no, of course you’ve already got a drink.”

Lauren watched her son’s lip curl into a sneer. She hated this; she’d been finding it harder and harder to get through to him of late. Now she realised that the last vestige of any respect he might still have had for her had disappeared along with the vodka from the bottle in front of her.

“And what about you,
Jon
?” Dean had deliberately emphasised his name, and Jon stared back at him.

“Is that all you’ve got to say?” Jon’s voice was incredulous.

“Why? What do you want me to say?” Dean’s voice was steady, monotonous even, as he held Jon’s stare.

“I know it was you, you cocky little bastard. You trashed my car tonight, didn’t you? You’re lucky I haven’t rung the police—you’ve got your mum to thank for that.”

“Bastard. How appropriate, because, Jon, you see, I am a bastard, but I can’t really be blamed for that; some lowlife piece of shit knocked my mum up and fucked off. Yeah, I know, it’s amazing, isn’t it? The amount of shit some men can do and get away with.” Dean was leaning back against the worktop with his arms folded; he looked relaxed. This was only serving to rile Jon up more as he watched his eldest calmly make a cup of tea. Jon couldn’t believe the bravado of this boy who had caused thousands of pounds of damage to his car just hours earlier. Jon could see a younger version of himself; he was unequivocally attractive, slim but muscular, his hair falling around his unlined face. Jon felt a moment of jealousy; he had let himself go early. With the first flush of success in his business, he had believed in rewarding himself by eating lavish food, drinking the most prestigious scotch, and only smoking the very best cigars. As he worked so hard at work, he didn’t see why he should have to work at home, and exercise came under the heading of work, as far as he was concerned. Dean had inherited his mother’s frame, and as such was blessed with a fine metabolism and musculature passed to him by his maternal grandfather. Dean would fill out, but only with muscle. Jon knew, having met Lauren’s father before, that the man was predisposed to put on muscle, but he seemed completely incapable of putting on an ounce of fat. Jon looked his son up and down and felt a mixture of pride and jealousy. As far as Dean would be concerned, the middle age spread was just going to be something that happened to other people.