Perfect Intentions: Sometimes justice is above the law (22 page)

Lauren was becoming frantic. She’d tried Dean’s mobile again this morning and this time the line had gone dead. His mobile was switched off now and Lauren was unsure what to do. She wished she had a number for Mark, but she had never wanted to ask for it—a clear act of disdain on her part. Grabbing her coat, she left her house and jumped in the car. She knew that her best chance of tracking Dean down was Mark. Even though it was a weekday, she knew where she would try first: The Tin Whistle.

As she pulled into the car park, she started imagining what she’d do if she found him in there, drinking and joking with Mark. She’d skin him. Marching through the door—almost knocking a man from his feet—she stopped a minute and scanned the bar. Over in the far corner by the pool table, Mark was standing with another of his friends, laughing raucously.

Mark stopped laughing as he saw Dean’s mother heading straight for him. He knew she had never approved of him and in a way he didn’t blame her for that—to him it proved her to be a good mother. Mark was the first to admit that he wasn’t a great influence; maybe if his mother had been a bit more like Mrs Matthews he wouldn’t be in the position he was now. Moving home month after month, unable to keep a job, and just scraping enough of a living by petty crimes to subsidise his meagre benefits money. He didn’t show much respect to anybody, but Mrs Matthews was different; he wanted her to like him. Even though she could barely keep the contempt out of her voice when speaking to him, he still enjoyed her attention.

“Hello, Mrs Matthews.” Mark’s voice, as ever when addressing Lauren, was courteous.

“Don’t you ‘hello’ me, you shower of shit. Where’s Dean? I’ve been ringing his phone for the last two days and the little bastard isn’t answering.” Mark was taken aback by her aggression.

“I haven’t seen him in a couple of days now. Why? Hasn’t he been home?”

“No, he bloody well hasn’t. No call to let me know he’s ok—nothing. So where is he?”

“I’m sorry, Mrs Matthews, I’ve no idea.” Mark’s voice was so earnest it caused Lauren to pause, and the colour drained from her face. Mark watched as she shrank in front of him, and all of a sudden he became concerned. Now that he thought about it, he hadn’t had so much as a text from Dean since the night he picked him up from the hospital, not even to tell him that Clare was all right.

“You said you saw him a few days ago—where?”

“Here, he went and bought some drinks from the off-licence and was heading toward home when I left him.”

“Oh God, what am I going to do?”

Mark, sensing she actually needed him for once, stepped up.

“What we’re going to do is get into your car and go straight to the police.”

Lauren looked slowly up at Mark, and for a moment he could have sworn he saw a flicker of gratitude pass behind her eyes.

“We?”

“Yes, I’m coming with you; I know you don’t think much of me, but he is my mate. Come on.”

Mark grabbed his coat from the back of the chair, nodded at his mates, and left with Lauren.

All three of his mates watched him leave, mouths open.

As Dean started to come to, his eyes felt heavy, as if they had been glued shut. Staring around him, he tried to work out where he was. It looked like a porta-loo. His hands and legs were bound and he had been gagged, which made his attempts to shout out useless, and as he struggled for breath, he started to black out again.

The next time he woke it was due to a noise: car tyres on gravel.

There was a car pulling up outside. Thinking that the prankster must have become bored with his stunt, Dean struggled to get himself upright.

The door opened slowly. Dean’s eyes struggled to adjust as they came into focus on the masked face now peering down at him. Suddenly he was struck blind as the mask clicked a torch into life and inspected the dishevelled Dean.

Dean tried to shout out, but the gag foiled the attempt.

Watching Dean, the masked stranger spoke softly.

“If you can promise to remain calm, I will remove the gag, and we can converse like the civilised people we are.”

Never taking his eyes off the mask, Dean nodded abruptly.

“Ok, then.” Pulling a knife out of what seemed like nowhere, the masked stranger leant forward slowly.

Natural instinct kicked in and Dean squirmed, trying to get away.

“Now, now, stay calm. You don’t want me to slip; you might get a nasty nick.”

Dean remained still and allowed the gag to be cut from him.

Dean took a few moments to stretch his jaw and get the saliva back into his mouth again.

“You’re the one the police are looking for, aren’t you? From the papers.”

His captor nodded slowly.

“You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?” Dean didn’t know why he felt so calm; he’d always known his life was leading up to a moment, but he’d never imagined this would be it. Now here he was, and he felt almost serene.

“First of all, have you any idea why you‘re here?”

Dean shook his head.

“It has come to my attention that you are heading down a slippery slope, Dean. Luckily for you—hard as that may be to believe at this moment—I don’t think you’ve gone beyond the point of no return. So I’m going to give you a chance of survival. Whether you accept this chance or not is entirely up to you.”

Deans mind was racing, but he kept his counsel. Something told him that a sudden verbal outburst would not be well received.

“Now, in order for you to survive, you’re going to need to remain calm, so I will administer an anaesthetic—only a little, but enough to knock you out.”

“What? You think I’m going to let you stick me with a needle?”

“Dean, I don’t think you have much of an option, and besides, if you go into this conscious, there’s a very real possibility that you’ll start to panic. And if that happens, there’s a good chance the air within this plastic box will run out sooner than either of us want and you’ll simply suffocate. If you are unconscious to start with, your breathing will remain, hopefully, slow and steady, giving your rescuers more of a chance of freeing you alive. Your feet and arms are bound, so your best hope is to remain calm and let me give you the anaesthetic, otherwise this discussion is over. Now, what’s your decision?”

Unable to speak his response, he slowly nodded.

“Clever boy.”

The masked stranger reached down into the bag and retrieved a syringe.

Lauren’s car screeched into the police car park and she and Mark jumped out of the car.

“Thanks for coming in with me; Alice’s still at work. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about and he’ll probably be there when I get home…”

Lauren was aware she was grasping at straws, but it was all she could do. Mark was keeping his counsel; he didn’t see any point in saying out loud what they both feared.

As they walked into the police station, Mark could feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He had been in this place more times than he cared to remember, and he was concerned as to how his presence might be received.

The door to the reception area swung open and a young WPC appeared.

“Can I help you?”

“Yes, my son—he’s been missing for two days now.”

“I see, what’s his name?” The WPC had pulled a pad out.

“His name’s Dean Matthews, he’s nineteen, and he hasn’t been seen since about eleven o’clock Wednesday night.”

“Ok, Mrs Matthews, do you have any recent photos of him?”

‘Photos? Oh, of course. No, sorry, I didn’t think to bring any, but I’ll go and get them now.’ She turned to face Mark.

“Do you want to stay here and fill them in on what you know? I won’t be long.”

Mark watched her leave and went to sit down to wait for her. As he was waiting, the door to the station swung open.

Holt looked round the waiting area before walking up to the desk. He gestured toward Mark

“What’s he doing here?”

The WPC looked unsure for a moment.

“He’s here with a Mrs Matthews—she’s here to report her son as missing.”

“So where is she now?”

“She went home to pick up some photos for us. Do you know him, then?”

“Oh yes, I know Mark.”

The WPC sensed his tone and decided not to question any further. Instead, she picked up her paperwork and returned to the back of the station, leaving Mark with Holt. Holt, sensing Mark was nervous, walked over and sat down next to him.

“It’s been a while since you’ve come here voluntarily, Mark.”

“Yeah, well, exceptional circumstances an’ all that.”

“Really? So what’s happened, then?”

“My mate Dean’s gone missing, and what with all the murders going on, I thought I’d come down here with his mum to report it.”

“Why couldn’t she come on her own? I don’t see why she’d need you tagging along.”

“Well, I thought she could use a bit of support.”

“Oh, don’t tell me you’ve suddenly acquired a conscience. My bullshit meter couldn’t take the load.”

“I know you don’t trust a single word I say, but it’s true—she’s a good person. Anyway, that ain’t the only reason I’m here; I was the last person to see him alive.”

“When?”

“Wednesday night. Look, Inspector Holt, is there any chance I could tell you something before Mrs Matthews gets back?”

Holt, who looked shocked by his conspiratorial tone, nodded.

“Follow me.”

Mark followed Holt through into an interview room and sat down.

“So what did you want to tell me?”

“First of all, I don’t want this going any further. I mean, I don’t want you to say anything to Mrs Matthews—she’s worried enough.”

“Well, let’s just see what you’ve got to say first, shall we?”

Mark looked unsure but continued.

“I got a phone call about seven Wednesday night; it was Dean, he wanted me to go and pick him up from the hospital.”

“Yes.”

“Well, I thought something was up with him, so I went to pick him up, and it turns out he was there with his ex. He said she fell down the stairs, but I don’t know, he seemed edgy.”

“Edgy how? Do you think he pushed her?”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to say either way; I just thought you should know. You know about Dean and Adam having a fight, but do you know why?”

“No, tell me”

“Well, I can’t be sure—Dean was quite touchy about it—but it might be worth looking up Clare Heathers, Dean’s ex—the one who ended up at the bottom of the stairs Wednesday night.”

“What connection do you think this Clare Heathers might have with Dean’s disappearance?”

“I don’t know, I don’t think she has anything to do with it, but there was something going on between Adam and Dean and I think it probably had something to do with her.”

“Really? Here’s what I think happened: Dean Matthews, the only person we’ve had that’s even close to a lead, has gone missing. He had connections to at least two of the victims and was becoming paranoid about it. You and he concoct this story in the pub one night to throw us off the scent—any of this sounding familiar?”

“You don’t really believe he had anything to do with this, do you? Come on, be realistic, he’s not an angel, but he’s no murderer.”

“No, I don’t believe he’s responsible for the murders, but I do think he may know something of use to the investigation, and, worryingly, I think the killer might have worked that out, as well.”

“So what are you going to do about it?”

“Everything we can to get him back in one piece.” Holt was rubbing at his brow, and Mark was made painfully aware of how desperate the situation was becoming. He had known Detective Inspector Holt for the best part of ten years on and off in a professional way, and not once had he ever seen him so rattled. At that moment, the WPC stuck her head around the doorframe.

“Sir, Mrs Matthews is back.”

Clare was sat in the middle of her living room, papers and folders and various books littering the floor around her. She was busy studying Freud and psychoanalysis. It was not really an accepted psychology anymore; it was taught more as an example of how not to practice.

Just as she’d decided that Freud was no more than a psychological sadist, the phone rang into life. Swiftly grabbing the phone, she hit the button to answer.

“Yep.”

“Oh, nice telephone manner.”

“What? Oh, Hannah, hi, sorry about that, I’m a bit busy at the minute.”

“I’m sure you are, but I need to tell you something.”

“What?”

“Never mind that, just let me in, would you?”

Getting up from the floor, Clare walked to the front door and opened it with the phone still to her ear.  Not waiting for an invitation, Hannah brushed straight past her, grabbing the phone away from her as she went. After hanging up, she put it down on the coffee table and waited for Clare.

Clare wandered back through into the living room.

“And hello to you, too. What do you want? I’m in the middle of some work.”

Hannah passed her eyes over the floor before looking up disapprovingly.

“So I see. It looks like a bomb’s gone off in Paper Chase. Jesus, Clare, have you ever heard of a table?”

Ignoring her, Clare went to put the kettle on.

“Well, seeing as how you’re here now, I could probably use a break. Do you want tea or coffee?”

“Tea, please.”

Bringing the two cups of tea back into the living room, she handed one to Hannah before sitting down.

“What’s all this about?”

“I’m glad you asked. You know Helen who works at The Tin Whistle?” Clare
stared  blankly back at Hannah.

“Well, I’ve known her since school, but anyway she was working yesterday and Mark was in.”

“Dean’s mate Mark?”

“Yes, and apparently some woman came in bawling about her son.”

“And?”

“It was Lauren Matthews.”

“Dean’s mum?”

“Apparently no one’s seen him in a couple of days.”

“Are you sure? No offence to your mate, but it’s a well-known fact that pissed people talk bollocks.”

“That’s what I thought, until I saw the news.”

Hannah picked up the remote and clicked the television into life. It was just past six and the local news was still busy reading the headlines.

“Possible fifth victim in the on-going murder case in Manning’s Town. Police have just released this photo of Dean Matthews, who hasn’t been seen since late Wednesday night. Police are anxious to speak to anyone who may have knowledge of his whereabouts.”

Clare grabbed the remote from Hannah and switched the television off. Sitting back down quietly, she stared into the distance.

“Clare, are you ok?”

“Every time things seem to be evening out, something happens. Things are never going to be normal again, are they?”

Standing up, Hannah walked toward Clare and sat down next to her, taking her hand. She looked Clare in the eye.

“No, hon, I don’t think they ever will be for you; you’ve been through too much. But you don’t honestly have any sympathy for him, do you? Clare, he pushed you down those stairs, he aborted your baby—don’t waste your time on him.”

“Hannah, he didn’t push me down the stairs, I told you he didn’t. It was an accident.”

“Yes, an accident that would never have happened if he hadn’t been here in the first place. Look, don’t worry about it, just go back to your work and I’ll call you in a bit, ok?”

Clare nodded and Hannah let herself out.

Glancing back down at her books, feeling more confused than she ever had, she slid back down onto the floor and proceeded to try to understand Freud.