Murder-De-Sac Read online

  MURDER-DE-SAC

  JIM BENNETT

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  For Amy

  Chapter One

  ‘I’m telling you, he’s doing something unnatural to it’.

  ‘It’s a junction box, Mrs McGrath'.

  ‘What does that have to do with anything? It doesn’t mean that he can’t be putting it to a wicked end’. Mrs McGrath’s stick remained firmly planted in the gap between Julie's front door and the jamb.

  While some people acquire the art of being a nuisance, Julie was sure that Mrs McGrath had been born a master. She never referred to Julie by name, nor was there any preamble of pleasantries. Each time she knocked on the door, she would launch into her newest request, as if they were continuing their previous conversation.

  ‘What is it that you think he’s doing?' Julie glanced at her watch for the seventh or eighth time. She really should have known by now that her neighbour wasn't one for subtleties. If Julie wanted to impress that she was in a hurry, she'd need to write it on her hand and slap it across the old dear's face.

  ‘Do I look like Alexander Graham Bell to you? I haven’t the foggiest what he’s doing, but I know wrong when I see it’. She turned on the spot to face the supposed villain and near shouted ‘but that man is wrong’.

  It may have been Julie’s imagination, but the man, who had been working at the junction box on the other side of the road for about thirty minutes now, appeared to tense his back. Perhaps he could feel the glare of an increasingly agitated septuagenarian bearing through his cheap, grey-knit jumper. As she turned to face Julie again, Mrs McGrath's eyes lingered on the recycling box full of empty bottles of the cheap supermarket plonk. Julie wasn’t sure if it was the scene that was unfolding on her doorstep or the shame of her overindulgence, but she began to blush.

  ‘Okay Mrs McGrath, there’s no need to shout'.

  ‘That’s the problem with your generation. You never want to shout about anything. If good folk stand idle, then we’re only a hop, skip and a jump from Hitler being in Number Ten again’.

  ‘I don’t think that’s how it happened’.

  ‘It’s all the bloody same to me, I’m Scottish’.

  Julie thought about explaining that Scotland had in fact played as much of a role in the Second World War as England. But seeing as Mrs McGrath had apparently lived in an alternate history where the Führer and the British Prime Minister were one and the same person, it didn’t feel entirely relevant.

  As ever, Mrs McGrath’s appearance was slightly disheveled. In the style of Her Majesty during her visits at Balmoral, her hair was entombed by a red patterned neckerchief. The covering had been donned with such haste that mad wisps of grey, blonde hair escaped from its front. Her eyes had the haunted quality of a soldier who had spent a night on watch, waiting for some inevitable hammer of doom to drop.

  'I don’t understand what you want me to do about it’.

  ‘What could a stubby thing like you do about it? I want to use your phone'.

  ‘My phone?'

  ‘Yes, your phone. Hurry up, will you woman?' She bustled forward. Julie only relented when the pair had been standing nose to nose for several seconds and it had become clear that the interloper wasn’t going to relent. With the rubber grip at the end nearly entirely worn away, the bottom of Mrs McGrath’s stick made a nasty scratching noise against the tiles with every other step.

  ‘Why can’t you use your own phone?' Julie remained standing next to the open door hoping that her guest would take the hint that this wasn't an open ended visit.

  'It's not been working'.

  'It's not been working? Have you let anyone know?'

  'How would I do that when I don't have a phone?' Mrs McGrath asked, becoming exasperated. 'I bet you would have sent them a letter. Playing right into their hands'.

  Her eyes darted around the hall looking for a handset. After several seconds of not succeeding, she gave Julie a pointed look. When this didn’t work, she gestured with her hands, hoping to reiterate the pressing nature of the situation that they found themselves in.

  Julie pointed to the cordless device on the small table near the door and Mrs McGrath snatched it up. 'For the love of Christ, what's this abomination?' She put it to her ear and took it away again twice in quick succession. 'How do you get a tone?'

  Frustrated with herself for again giving up ground so easily, Julie took a step towards Mrs McGrath and took the phone from her. She fought the urge to close the door to the living room, hiding the general chaos that lay beyond. However, the look of disapproval on the old woman’s face was so complete anyway, a messy living room probably wasn’t going to make much difference. The few guests that Julie did receive always gave plenty of notice, providing plenty of time to tidy the place up. The times of unexpected visitors popping in for a glass of wine were long since passed. She hadn’t fallen out with anyone, or made a conscious decision to stop making plans with people. At a certain point in the last few years, a social life became something that happened to other people.

  'You're not calling 999', Julie said, handing the phone back.

  'I bloody am', said Mrs McGrath holding the phone to her ear again before she dialed.

  'It's not an emergency'.

  'It won't be if someone pulls their finger out'.

  As she waited to be connected, she errantly began to pick the paint that was peeling off the wall. 'This has seen better days, hasn't it?' Her hand movement suggested she was referencing the entire property, not the hall alone. 'Lovely woman used to live here. Mrs Jenkins'.

  'Quite friendly, were you?' Julie asked, feeling increasingly agitated.

  'Never saw her. Riddled with arthritis. Twice a day you would hear the stair lift going and that was your lot. What's that husband of yours doing with himself?' she said, eyeing the now shabby skirting boards. ‘Too high and mighty for a bit of DIY?'

  There was a silence for a few moments.

  'He died', said Julie in a small voice. Mrs McGrath didn't respond, so Julie pressed on.

  'Don't you remember? You were putting your bins out when the funeral procession left the house'.

  Mrs McGrath made a noise of acquiescence that most would reserve for off hand comments about the weather. Julie remembered it well. The clattering sound of the lid hitting the bin was so incongruous against the eerie silence of the street that Greg's mum had let out a shocked little laugh. Mrs McGrath had taken no notice of the slow line of black cars exiting the lane. Clearly she had more important things to be concerning herself with, such as rogue agents dabbling in junction boxes. The day had passed by like a haze, much like the rest of that period, although punctuated with odd little moments of normality or absurdity.

  The old woman started muttering 'come on', over and over again and tapping her cane against the floor with increasing rapidity. It didn't look as if Mrs McGrath was going anywhere soon. Julie left her in the hallway and started to collect her belongings, ready to leave. She placed her handbag in the hall. Each time she put an item inside, it gave her an excuse to ensure that no mischief was being done. Well, no mischief aside from the nuisance phone calls and the denuding of the wall behind the telephone table. Ju
lie moved with more flourish than normal, clattering as she went with the hope of impressing on the impassive old goat that she was in fact in a hurry.

  Julie would ordinarily do her make up in the hall mirror. It was at just the right angle and had the best light. But seeing as Mrs McGrath was currently billeted in front of it, she had to make do with the mirror in Harry's room. Even in his formative years, her son had been tall, so Julie found herself stretching to see her face to apply the obligatory lick of lipstick. This small exertion made the muscles at the back of her legs groan and she felt herself going faint. She perched on the side of her son's bed and put her hand to her brow.

  It was still made, despite the fact that Harry hadn't been home for months now. She thought about the last time he had called several weeks ago. Julie was always careful not to impress herself on her son, and as usual, the conversation had only lasted a short time. Still, she could feel the urgency with which he wanted to return to his friends, how much re-entering her sad life even for a few moments was drawing him away from the better things in the world. At least he hadn’t attempted to read her of his god awful short stories, all of which centred around a young man who hadn’t known anything of the world until he went on a fantastic journey and found himself. Julie thought that Harry should really start branching away from the autobiographical and try to use his imagination now. Otherwise when he turned forty, he’d be writing tales about some pillock working in an office who writes painfully pedestrian fiction in his spare time.

  Her forehead had a clammy heat to it and she felt giddy. The morning after it always seemed like a good idea to drink less, that was probably the point of a hangover. What was a bit more difficult was holding on to that feeling when you get home from another pointless day of work and are gasping for some small respite.

  She stood again and considered her reflection. There was no avoiding it, she looked middle aged. At some point without realising it, she had opted for the haircut favoured by every other woman who had given up on life a little bit. Bobbed and feathered with some token highlights applied to the crown, it was easy enough to spritz with some dry shampoo and make it appear that she had made an effort. Sitting on the bed, she could feel the way her weight distributed itself, bunching around the middle and crowding her. When her thickening thighs had begun to press against the seams of her work trousers a few years ago, she hadn’t felt the need to replace them.

  Her eye was drawn to one of the photos on the shelves that surrounded the room. All three faces beamed at her from the frame, Greg with an arm around Julie and Harry a piece. Losing your husband of 20 years would be to most people one of the most upsetting things to ever happen to you. Julie had been distraught, and she missed Greg and the life they had together so palpably that sometimes she thought she might choke on it. But behind all that, she knew that there was a more general discontent to her that she would struggle to define, not that anyone would be interested. Her work wasn’t satisfying, but that wasn’t a recent development. She now had an empty nest, and if she was honest, her and Harry had never been that close. Greg’s death had been the stone that dislodged some other sadness in her life, and ever since then, she hadn’t quite managed to rally herself.

  'I don't care which one of them I speak to'. Julie could hear her guest saying from downstairs, After a few seconds, this was followed by 'fine, which one has the best response times?' and finally 'oh for goodness sake, the police then, let me talk to the police'.

  She made her way back down into the hall, pinning her name badge to her shirt as she did. Her hope was that this would remove any semblance of doubt from Mrs McGrath's mind that she was planning to leave the house imminently. What Julie failed to appreciate was that her visitor was well aware of the contrast between the two women's priorities, and yet still felt no compulsion to leave. Mrs McGrath had now managed to remove a square foot of the paint from the wall. Greg had applied it in his usual slapdash fashion. At least it had covered the brick underneath, which Mrs McGrath had now managed to expose. When this had failed to hold her attention, she had started to use her stick to remove the grout from between the floor tiles.

  Julie steeled herself to make the situation plain to the old woman, but was interrupted by a voice coming from outside.

  'Excuse me love', said the telephone engineer, sticking his head through the open door, 'I need to check the line at your neighbours'. He was addressing himself to Mrs McGrath. 'I can’t get an answer. Do you know whether anyone's home?'

  Before Julie could intervene, Mrs McGrath was slamming the phone on the table and marching towards him. 'No one is home sonny', she said, pointing at him threateningly, 'because I am making sure that you don't succeed in your ill deeds'.

  He looked confused. The man must have been something of an optimist. Instead of fleeing the scene like anyone with any common sense would do in the face of an armed and clearly unhinged geriatric, he stood steadfast and attempted to explain himself.

  'Someone reported a fault on the line?' he asked more than said.

  'Who did?' The old lady asked.

  'I don't know, I don't work on the phones'.

  'Oh!' Mrs McGrath exclaimed, becoming excited. 'He's changing his story already. I thought you were supposed to be from the phone company', She turned and gave Julie a smug smile, as if this one piece of information proved her hypothesis entirely.

  'No I mean I don't answer the phones. You know, when people call with the problems they're having'.

  'You're very clever. Got an answer for everything haven't you?'

  He didn't seem so sure of himself now, but persevered anyway. 'I think I've got it sorted. If I could just look at the port in your house…', but before he could finish, Mrs McGrath had lunged towards him.

  'That's your game then, is it?' she said, brandishing her stick at him. 'Trying to get into a defenceless old woman's house on some nonsense pretext before you rob her blind'.

  Cowed, the man took a step backwards and fell down the two steps which led to the garden. It took him a moment to regain his composure, at which point he scarpered away from the house with some speed.

  'I've got your number sonny', she shouted from the door, 'just you wait'. She stormed back into the hall and picked the phone up again.

  ‘Was that really necessary?' Julie asked as the startled man clambered back to his vehicle.

  ‘He had a bit of Shipman about him. You could see it in his eyes’.

  ‘The concern was that the telephone engineer was going to prescribe you a lethal dose of something?' Julie said, admonishing herself for buying into this backward narrative.

  ‘I didn’t mean it literally’, Mrs McGrath said with genuine codescention in her voice, ‘and he’s not a telephone engineer’.

  ‘How do you know he isn’t a telephone engineer?'

  ‘He had ladies', hands’.

  'Mrs McGrath, I need to go to work'. Julie said, recognising the impasse that they had reached. ‘Are you almost done?’

  'Leave me the keys. I'll bring them round later'.

  Julie didn't want to leave this woman in her house. Then she thought about it for a moment longer, and spending any more time with Mrs McGrath was definitely the greater of the two evils.

  ‘Post them through when you’ve locked up’, Julie said, placing the keys on the table next to the phone and leaving the house. She didn’t think she could face seeing Mrs McGrath again today.

  The telephone engineer was now talking to Brian across the road. When he saw Julie walking towards him, he bolted back to his van and locked the door behind him. Julie thought this was slightly unfair, given that at worst she had been an engaged spectator.

  'Hello sweetheart', Brian said, before Julie could get into the car and pretend she hadn't heard him.

  'Morning', Julie said, hastily searching for her keys.

  'How's the most beautiful girl in the world?' His voice was lurid, positively dripping with sleaze.

  'Yes fine thank you. How's the leg?' She
didn't really care, but wanted to fill the conversational void before Brian could wheel out any more of his cringey terms of endearment.

  'Oh I'm battling on my lovely', he said, putting more weight on his good limb. Brian had that body type unique to middle aged men. A great rotund belly sat atop two spindly little spider legs. He looked as if he had been drawn by a toddler who didn't yet fully understand the human anatomy.

  One leg was currently housed in a support boot, with a pair of NHS crutches propped up against the wall next to him. For reasons beyond comprehension, he had chosen to wear a pair of khaki shorts that far from flattered him. The tight cap which sat on his melon sized head and the polo shirt open to the bottom button around his trunk sized neck were, in Julie's opinion, also ill advised. His high blood pressure gave him the ruddy complexion of one who spent their time wandering through the moors, rather than leaning on his front gate and making his female neighbours uncomfortable.

  'Lovely shirt that, love'. Brian said. 'What colour is that, red?'

  'It is, yes'.

  'And your hair's looking nice. Bit blonder than normal, is it?'

  'Maybe', Julie said, when the answer was definitely no. She really should feel flattered that someone was trying to complement her, even if what they were saying wasn't flattering in the slightest.

  The conversation stalled and they stood looking at each other for a beat too long for Julie to just get in the car and leave.

  'It's been a while, hasn't it? The leg I mean?' Julie asked, hoping for a brief response, although now thinking about it, Brian really had been in that boot for a very long time.

  'You have to be thankful though darling. Some have it much worse'. He nodded to the accessible vehicle that was parked outside the house next door, number 32. Faces with differing levels of animation were peering at them out of the windows. Some had fixed expressions, staring at some random point in the background. Others demonstrated a level of excitement that would only have been appropriate if they were on their way to Disneyland Paris.