Something Wicked (4 page)

‘That’s Nicholas around eighteen months ago,’ Richard said, counting on his fingers. ‘That was taken eight or nine months before he disappeared.’

‘Was he living at home?’

‘Yes – my wife and I have a place in Prestwich. He lived with us while he went to college. He was talking about university and had a girlfriend. There was no reason for him to go
off, let alone for anyone to do anything to him. He was just a normal kid.’

‘Did the police ever come up with a motive or a theory?’

Another shrug. ‘Not that they ever told us. They didn’t seem to have a clue.’

Andrew glanced over Richard’s shoulder, catching Jenny’s eye as she peered over her glasses towards him, probably reading his mind. She was seemingly naturally gifted at everything
else, so telepathy wouldn’t be a push. Jenny turned back to her monitor without a word.

‘We’ll need a few initial pieces of information from you,’ Andrew said. ‘Nicholas’s full name, his date of birth, national insurance number, details of any bank
accounts. If he had a mobile phone and you know the number, that would be good. Ditto for personal email addresses and any social media accounts, that sort of thing. If you don’t know it,
then fair enough – but anything you can give us will be helpful.’ He nodded towards the other desk. ‘Jenny will take your details and if there’s anything you don’t
have on you, you can either phone in when you get home, or drop us an email. Everything that comes in and out of here is encrypted at our end, so don’t worry about security. Will you be in
tomorrow afternoon?’

Richard nodded. ‘I’m retired, so I can always be in.’

He leant forward, extending his hand but Andrew hesitated before shaking it. ‘I know it’s awkward but . . .’

‘Oh, don’t worry about money,’ Richard replied. ‘I know it’ll cost – but you can’t put a price on your son, can you? We just want some closure. It
sounds dreadful, I know, but if he’s dead we’d rather know – otherwise my wife and I are going to spend our days staring at the front door and hoping.’ He paused to swallow.
‘Do you have children?’

Andrew shook his head.

Richard smiled weakly. ‘Then take my word for it: there’s nothing worse than watching your child walk out of the front door and never coming back.’

Nine thirty-five in the morning was a very specific time. Violet Deacon could have told Andrew to come around at half past like a normal person. It was an accepted fact of life
that people worked in even blocks of time. Preferably, things happened on the hour. If that was impossible, then half past. At a push, quarter past or quarter to. It was the done thing, but
apparently not for Violet Deacon. Still, her husband was driving thirty miles out of his way to visit prostitutes, so Andrew should probably give her some slack.

He parked outside her house at precisely nine thirty-four, hoping she’d forgive him the extra minute. He would have preferred to give her the report at his office but she’d
insisted she couldn’t leave the house. The road was wide and straight, a boy racer’s dream, with bare autumn-racked trees swaying gently on either side in perfect rows. It was the
type of tranquillity that could only exist thanks to busybody residents’ groups with tape measures and clipboards. Still, good for them – if it was left up to the council, they’d
plonk down a bunch of mismatched red-brick abominations as higgledy piggledy as possible in the name of ‘community housing’.

Andrew got out of the car and looked both ways along the street: it was the kind of place you’d retire to. Peaceful and still, except for the TV engineer at the far end who was grappling
with a tangle of cable, while simultaneously keeping a fag on the go. Smokers: the ultimate multi-taskers. Although it was probably good they could do more than one thing at a time considering
they’d die of lung cancer ten years before everyone else. Best cram it all in as soon as possible.

The Deacons’ house was a sprawling mass of bricks and glass, three storeys high, with a double garage and a driveway with paving slabs so perfectly even that it could have been laid by a
mathematician, albeit one with big shoulders. Bay windows too – you couldn’t be upper middle class if you didn’t have curvy glass at the front of the house. A hosepipe slithered
its way along the manicured lawn, with banks of pristine tufty jade grass surrounded by empty flower beds waiting for winter to come and go.

Andrew double-checked the address against the appalling scrawl of biro written on his hand and then made his way up the drive, satchel slung over his shoulder. It looked more professional to
carry a bag, even if it did contain only a laptop he wouldn’t need, a charger for his old phone, the file for Violet, a notepad and a pen which may or may not actually work. It wasn’t
what was in the bag that was important – it was the promise of what
might
be in the bag. For all his potential clients knew, it could be full of important surveillance gear, or
technology so advanced it would blow their minds.

The doorbell made a deep bing-bong as Andrew checked his watch: exactly nine thirty-five. Moments later, the door creaked open, revealing the lightbulb-shaped Violet Deacon – bulbous on
the bottom, small head at the top. Her dyed brown hair was clamped to the top of her head in a loose bun, while she had poured herself into a pair of leggings that did no favours either for her or
the straining cotton.

Andrew stood to the side as she poked her head out of the front door and looked both ways. ‘You didn’t see anyone out there, did you?’ she asked.

‘Only some cable guy down the street.’

She nodded shortly, stepping aside to let him in. ‘Bunch of nosy sods round here. That Mrs McIntyre across the road is always sticking her beak in other people’s business. You can
see her every day sitting in her window, spying on everyone going past, hoping she’ll get a bit of gossip to report at their Friday coffee mornings. It’s like they’re winding down
to death one coffee at a time. Old bags.’

Violet was in her early forties but looked older, a permanent yawning weariness etched on her face. Andrew didn’t reply, allowing her to lead him along a photograph-laden hallway. He
spotted Stewart and Violet in most of them, along with a boy in varying stages of adolescence. Here we are in Paris: snap. Here we are somewhere with elephants: snap. Skyscrapers, beach, sunshine,
trees, next to a pool, holding up cocktails to the camera – all of the usual holiday pictures were there. They were one double thumbs-up away from a photo bingo full house when Andrew reached
the kitchen.

A chunky unit sat in the centre of the room. Rows of pots and pans hung above, with the sides flanked by cabinets and counter tops. Everything was made of a glimmering black marble-type
material, heavy with sharp edges and comfortably enough to crack open the head of a child who’d already been told to stop running. There was a health and safety officer somewhere with corks
and polystyrene just waiting to come in and make the place safe. As well as the hallway door they’d entered through, there was another leading towards the garden and a third slightly ajar
that led into another part of the house.

Violet plonked herself on a stool on the other side of the unit, making a vague gesture towards the seat on the opposite side. ‘So, you found out what he’s getting up to,
then?’

Andrew reached into his bag, thumbing aside the laptop and plucking out the file. ‘First, I should make sure that you definitely want to hear this.’

He eyed her closely, looking for any sense of alarm or worry. Instead, she scratched her ear. ‘Go on.’

Andrew opened the cover of the file and slid it across the counter, tapping his finger on the top sheet. ‘I’m afraid it’s bad news, Mrs Deacon. We tracked your husband’s
car to this establishment. All of the details are in there; timings, photographs. We don’t have anything of the actual . . . act . . . but there should be more than enough
evidence.’

He sat back, waiting for either a torrent of denials and disbelief, or a tsunami of anger. Instead, he got neither.

‘So it’s just some brothel out Huyton way, then?’

She sounded almost disappointed.

Andrew was about to reply when the third door squeaked open, revealing a scowling teenager, all hands in pockets and slouchy, as if he was missing a vertebra or five. In a flash, his hands were
raised, a finger jabbing accusingly at Andrew. ‘Are you the prick who’s trying to drive my dad away?’

With a creak of the stool, Andrew was on his feet, taking a half-step away as the young man continued towards him. Violet leapt up, rounding the unit with a series of sidesteps, like a drunken
crab. ‘Jack, what have I told you about listening into other people’s conversations?’

He ignored her, trying to manoeuvre around his mother’s frame, finger still raised. He had deliberately greasy dark hair, smeared to the side as if he had been standing sideways in a wind
tunnel, plus jeans hanging low around his backside and a long-sleeved top with a band logo that Andrew vaguely recognised.

‘You bender. What’s any of this got to do with you, eh? Sticking your nose into other people’s business—’

He was interrupted by a crisp, clean slap across the face that cracked around the room, like a backfiring car. This time, it was Violet jabbing the finger. ‘You have no right to be
listening in to my private conversations. I don’t care if it is half-term – we’re not going over this again. Now go upstairs and get out of my sight. I don’t want to see you
again today.’

The pair stared at each other, gesticulating fingers at the ready, as if they were fencers ready for a swordfight.

Jack caved first, peering around his mother one final time to sneer at Andrew
before turning on his heels and heading into the hallway. Seconds later, the front door banged closed, making it feel as if the entire house was in danger of collapse.

Violet stayed standing for a few moments, before smoothing down her top and sighing her way back to her stool.

She didn’t look up from the counter: ‘Do you have kids?’

Andrew retook his seat. ‘No.’

‘Don’t. Honestly, fifteen-year-olds are the worst. Well, not compared to thirteen-year-olds, but you know what I mean. Well, you don’t but . . .’

Andrew got it.

Violet yanked a flexible tap towards her and filled a glass with water, downing half of it in one and wiping her mouth with her sleeve. ‘It’s really not his fault; he’s had to
put up with this his entire life. I would have left Stewart years ago but decided to keep things together for Jack, at least until he leaves school.’ She paused, holding a hand up to indicate
the house. ‘It starts getting messy when you have to divide things up too. I do a lot of the paperwork for the businesses – the clever stuff.’ She slid the file back and leafed
through to the second sheet with a stifled yawn, before continuing as if she hadn’t stopped. ‘Sometimes you settle for second-best because third- or fourth-best is even worse and
first-best doesn’t exist.’

Andrew wasn’t sure if he should say anything, so he let Violet read. She flicked through the top few sheets before clapping the file closed, muffling another yawn with her hand.

‘Jack’s at an awkward age,’ she added. ‘He has been for a few years. His father’s behaviour doesn’t help, then I make sure I have my say too and he’s
stuck listening to us fight. Poor kid.’

Another pause.

‘What was the place like?’ she asked.

‘Which place?’

She made bunny ears with her fingers. ‘The massage parlour.’

Andrew scratched his face, a little embarrassed. ‘All red and pink and it stank.’

Violet nodded. ‘To be honest with you, I really don’t mind the sleeping around. If he wants to do what he does with a bunch of Eastern European girls then it saves me a job. I just
wish he was more discreet about it. It’s no example to be setting to his son.’ She swallowed. ‘
Our
son.’

Andrew usually knew when to keep quiet, and this was one of
those occasions. Sometimes letting a client rant was the best thing for it. If anyone had reason to, it was Violet Deacon.

She had another sip of water before continuing. ‘I found condoms in his car door the other week, then there are the text messages he gets. He dives for his phone saying it’s someone
from work before he’s even looked at it, then spends the rest of the evening grinning to himself. Prostitutes I can deal with; I just don’t want him falling in love. Not yet,
anyway.’

Andrew thought about asking but felt better of it.

Violet peered up from the counter and met his eyes with a steely gaze of determination. ‘Oh, I know what you’re thinking – how weird this all is, why I’m letting it go
and so on. I’d be thinking the same. Don’t worry, I’ll be leaving him one day, just not yet. Like I said, I do the books for his companies. I know where the bodies are
buried.’ She finished her water. ‘Not literally, of course, but I know plenty to bring him down. I’m just biding my time.’ She patted the folder. ‘This is everything I
need for now. I might come back to you for help again in future – you never know when a good investigator might come in handy. One day, there’ll be divorce proceedings and the more of
this, the better.’

She blinked, sighed and stood, offering her hand. ‘Sorry about Jack. I’ll have a word when he comes back. I didn’t know he was there, if I did—’

Violet stopped as a whooshing boom of fury erupted from somewhere towards the front of the house, as if an articulated lorry had steamed past far too quickly. They looked at each other for a
moment before Andrew turned, dashing through the hallway towards the front door. Through the dimpled glass at the front of the house, he could already see the ominous glow but the actual sight was
still a shock as Andrew pulled open the front door. At the bottom of the driveway, his dark blue Toyota was parked where he’d left it, bright orange flames blazing through the gaps around the
bonnet, eating into the cold morning.

The fire officer stood with a single hand on his hip: short and stout like a teapot. He eyed Andrew suspiciously, the words ‘insurance scam’ clearly at the front of
his mind.