No Safe Place (Joe Hunter Thrillers Book 11) (14 page)

A second passed, and another.

It had never been his plan to drown Quinn. No, he had to make things look as if Quinn was behind his own departure. He was reaching to tug Quinn out the water, when the smaller man’s eyes suddenly snapped wide, and he erupted upwards, gurgling out a stream of water that had invaded his throat. Relieved, but undeterred from his mission, the man grasped Quinn’s hair and pushed him under once more. He held him for a count of ten, before again tugging him to the surface. Quinn’s eyes rolled in their sockets; he coughed and spluttered but was still alive, though now sufficiently weakened.

The man grabbed Quinn’s right wrist first, dug the tip of the blade into the radial artery and sliced lightly upwards towards the elbow. Blood jetted for the ceiling. Unavoidably it spattered the man’s coveralls, but it didn’t matter. He must avoid getting blood on his boots though. He pushed Quinn’s arm under water, and immediately grabbed at Quinn’s right wrist. He repeated the cutting, making tentative slashes, but then a final time with more effort and determination, as if Quinn had dithered at first before making the decision to end it all and had started with that wrist. Gore again squirted, but already there was a lessening in the blood pressure, so it didn’t jump as high. It still got on the wall and over the faucets before the man shoved the bleeding arm under water. Lastly he dropped the knife between Quinn’s legs. Quinn made a futile attempt at grabbing the knife, but as well as the arteries the tendons had been damaged, and his fingers wouldn’t work to close on the hilt. The man stood over him, pressing him gently at the centre of his chest to keep him submerged in the bath. The blood pulsed from Quinn, steadily turning the water scarlet. As Quinn should have regained cognizance from his near drowning, equally his mind closed down through lack of oxygenated blood reaching his brain. He made the occasional feeble attempt at rising, and one time his left arm slapped out of the bath, spilling droplets on the floor, making the man step away. But he was going, and his dying was in near silence.

Things had gone to plan, his killer thought, and once he’d placed the other items he’d brought, and ensured there was no incriminating trail back to him as he left, then he could be home in time for dinner. He was glad, because murder proved hungry work.

‘So? The wanderer returns, does he?’

Rink was ready to leave by the time I got back to the Clayton house. He didn’t say as such, but I knew he was mildly pissed that the few hours he was happy to spell for me had turned into a long day. What could I say? It wasn’t as if I’d taken a liberty with his generosity, things had simply overtaken me since the moment I approached Tommy Benson and he’d took to his heels. It was unavoidable that I ended up in an interview suite before being sprung by Bryony and Holker. After that, the time we’d spent at Benson’s house had grown much longer after the discovery of the shredded note, which Holker subsequently discovered reflected the exact wording in an email sent via the iPad he’d seized from Benson’s bedroom. Once that was done, and Holker called in the result, a warrant was obtained to conduct a full search of the property. Holker wanted to supervise the search; I wanted to get out of there. In the end a compromise was struck, and Bryony drove me back to where I’d abandoned my – or rather Rink’s – ride outside the laundromat earlier, before she returned to the house off Nebraska Avenue.

While driving me to the Ford, Bryony had shared a hypothesis.

‘Whoever is behind the emails is being clever or extremely stupid. From the look of things, they’ve been paying Benson to be a middleman for them. But choosing a semi-illiterate punk to pen the messages for them is nuts, particularly if they had to supply the wording like that. If it was unavoidable that he do it for them, you’d think they’d ensure that Benson fully destroyed the handwritten note afterwards.’ She looked across at me, inviting my opinion.

‘Maybe he was given clear instructions to destroy it, but Benson didn’t follow them. You saw the state of his house; he’s not one for menial tasks like cleaning up. Maybe he thought that ripping the letter was enough, and it was too much effort to do anything else.’ I shrugged. ‘He probably never expected to be found out. He’d trashed the letter, and if he hadn’t been flattened by a van, there was no way anybody would have gone to his house and found it. The iPad is something else. He went to the trouble of setting up an anonymous Hotmail account, and I’m guessing that the SIM card is stolen or untraceable, so that tells me there was some effort made at keeping his involvement secret. I’m betting the iPad didn’t belong to him; the same person who put him up to sending the emails, and to going to Clayton’s house those times, supplied it.’

‘That’s what I think,’ said Bryony. ‘But I’ve no idea why.’

I told her about my visit to Wild Point Bait, and how the owner had told me he’d let Benson go. ‘He mentioned there being a conflict of interests. I didn’t push him at the time, and maybe we should confirm it with him, but I’m betting Benson was doing work for someone else in the bait and tackle trade. Someone who has also got a personal beef with Andrew Clayton.’

‘The prime suspect being Parker Quinn. I told you Clayton tried to buy him out, right? Quinn resisted though, but theirs has been a shaky business relationship since. Is it too far-fetched to believe Quinn is trying to have Clayton implicated in Ella’s murder? If his wife’s murder was pinned on him, and Clayton imprisoned, Quinn would have the business all to himself again.’

‘There was the presence of Quinn’s hair in the glove Benson dropped that time,’ I admitted.

‘Transference could have taken place if Quinn also supplied Benson with the gloves. If Quinn had him throw that brick through the door, he’d have made sure the guy didn’t do anything stupid like leaving fingerprints for us to find. Ironic that by doing so he’d give us evidence more damning.’

I exhaled. I still didn’t buy it. I knew that Bryony didn’t either, but what tenuous evidence she had was certainly pointing towards Quinn.

‘Once we’re done at Benson’s place,’ Bryony said, ‘next stop will be a visit with Parker Quinn. The previous search didn’t turn up anything that implicated him in sending the messages, but that was then. Before we had anything to compare against. For one thing, I’d like to seize a sample of his handwriting to compare against the letter we found.’

As she pulled the car on to the lot outside the now locked and shuttered laundromat, her cell phone rang. She pulled up shy of Rink’s Ford and took out her phone. Her eyebrows went up. ‘Holker,’ she told me, and hit the answer button. I could have got out and walked the few short yards to the Ford, but I hung on.

‘You’re kidding me?’ she said after making brief greetings with her partner. I looked at her for clarification, but she held up a finger, asking me to wait. ‘Well,’ she went on, ‘that certainly changes things doesn’t it? Look, I’m dropping Hunter now. I’ll be back with you in no time.’

She ended the call, and looked over at me. Her eyes were dizzy by whatever Holker had told her. With the freckles, the pixie haircut, and the way her nicked bottom lip pouted slightly, she looked about twelve years old.

‘What?’ I prompted.

She blinked slowly, and emotions played across her features, and I couldn’t tell if she was relived or bemused.

‘Holker found a gun. It was wrapped in cellophane and hidden in the crawlspace under Benson’s house. It’s too soon to say, and we’ll need ballistic reports back, but the model matches one of the two guns used in the shooting of Ella Clayton. It looks as if Benson was there when she was murdered, Joe.’

‘Or he was given the gun to hide,’ I cautioned.

‘Yeah, there is that. But if his benefactor is the same person who gave him the iPad and has been paying him to cause trouble, we might be close to identifying what really went on that night. Evidence always pointed at more than one man, hence the home invasion crew theory, so maybe Benson went along with the killer that night. Rounds from two different guns were dug from the walls don’t forget, and there were faint footprints from more than one pair of boots. It looks as if we might have gotten a break here.’

I opened the door, and was about to get out. Bryony reached across and laid her fingers on my forearm, halting me.

‘Joe, despite how Holker comes across at times, he said to tell you thanks. If you hadn’t followed this lead we wouldn’t be anywhere with the case just now.’

I didn’t know how to answer. Accepting thanks from Holker was akin to accepting an offer of cash from a loan shark – I dreaded to think what the return payment terms were.

Bryony smiled. ‘I should say thanks too.’

‘You should get back to Benson’s place,’ I told her.

‘Yeah,’ she said, but it didn’t stop her leaning across and pulling my face to hers. She kissed me on the lips. Chastely. ‘That’s just for starters,’ she promised.

I drove back to the Clayton house in a mixed mood. I don’t know how I felt about what had gone on that day: I was saddened that a man had died, but any guilt I felt towards Benson’s needless death was tempered somewhat by the knowledge he could have been personally involved in Ella’s murder. I was happy that the detectives had got a break in their case, and that I’d helped get them there. But I was also slightly concerned that all emphasis would now be placed on Parker Quinn. I’d met the man only once, but he hadn’t struck me as a violent man, or even anyone who could contemplate murder, let alone organise one. There was something decidedly wrong with the scenario, and there were clues in the case that just didn’t sit in the correct row for me. The damned missing ring still bugged me. If it was found at either Benson’s house or Quinn’s then I’d be happier to go with the consensus that the two men had been working together to discredit Andrew Clayton. But somehow I didn’t think it would be. The only thing that left me feeling mildly happy was the lingering feeling of Bryony’s kiss on my lips, and the promise of more to come.

My happy mood was leavened as I pulled up at the house and saw the steepling of Rink’s brows as he strode towards me, making the quip about the wanderer returning.

‘You wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had,’ I said as I walked to meet him.

‘Bet it was more eventful than mine,’ he griped. ‘Things have been so quiet, it was actually a highlight of the day when the kid got home and I got some conversation.’

‘He ask you about pinkie deals?’ I asked.

‘Yup. Then he asked if it made us blood brothers. When I told him it was similar he went and got a pin and wanted to prick our thumbs.’

‘You didn’t go that far?’

‘I told him that drawing blood wasn’t necessary…unless you’re a vampire.’ Rink grinned. ‘He told me I was funny. Not sure he was paying me a compliment.’

‘Is Andrew home yet?’ I passed over the car keys.

‘Got back a few hours ago. Didn’t have much to say to me. But that was OK.’ Rink took a surreptitious glance over his shoulder to check he wasn’t overheard. Not that he was fearful of Andrew’s wrath, but the guy was paying our wages. ‘The guy’s a prick. He brought take-out Chinese food for him and the boy. Didn’t offer to share.’

‘He’s a prick because he didn’t give you any of his noodles?’

‘No. He’s a prick in general.’

Rink headed for the car, and I felt it was a good time to walk with him. With Tommy Benson out of the picture, my guard duties needn’t be as vigilant as before.

‘Find anything interesting?’ I prompted.

Rink stood beside the car, looking back at the big house. ‘Diddlysquat, brother. But that isn’t to say there’s nothing there. I managed to snoop around but didn’t want to disturb anything in Clayton’s private rooms. Maybe you’ll get a chance next time he goes gallivanting.’

Gallivanting was a word Rink had learned from me. He thought it highly funny, and often poked fun at me for what he termed my strange Olde English vocabulary. This was the same guy who called people he didn’t like
frog-giggers
and enjoyed knocking them
catawampus
. And who’d found
diddlysquat
during his snooping around the house.

‘Who knows how that will pan out?’ I offered a regretful shrug. ‘Not sure how long we’re going to keep this as a paying gig. See, the thing is, it looks as if the guy who was hassling Clayton won’t be a problem anymore.’

A line appeared between Rink’s brows, making the epicanthic folds in his eyelids deepen. ‘You did have a more eventful day than me, then?’

I told him about Tommy Benson getting himself splattered on the highway, and what was subsequently found in his house and how the cops were now heading over to grab Parker Quinn.

Rink looked down and to one side. He wasn’t seeing the crushed shells on the drive. ‘I get where you’re coming from. Cole won’t require protection if the bad guys are out of the picture.’ He shrugged. ‘I guess Clayton will be glad to see the back of us: he was only going along with us being here for appearances sake.’

‘I might be able to get one more night out of him,’ I said.

‘Maybe I shouldn’t leave yet, in case you need a lift back home.’

‘No. Get yourself off, Rink. You’ve been here longer than you should’ve been already. I’m going to go in and tell Clayton what happened with Benson; then I’m going to tell him to expect a visit from Bryony and Holker. They’ll probably come by once Quinn’s in custody, to update him.’

‘OK. You’ve got my number. If you do get kicked out on your butt, gimme a call. I’ll come fetch you.’

I smiled. ‘When you do, I’ve a great shaggy dog story for you.’

He raised his thick eyebrows.

‘Bet you don’t believe me when I tell it,’ I said.

‘Hunter, when it comes to you, nothing surprises me.’

He drove away, and I stood outside until he was out of sight.

Then I went to tell Andrew Clayton the news, and try to gauge his reaction to it.

Once inside, I went directly into the sitting room. Clayton wasn’t there, but Cole was. He was up late, but tomorrow wasn’t a school day, so maybe his dad allowed him more leeway with his bedtime. He was sitting on the floor, his crossed legs under the coffee table, one elbow braced on its top while leaning over some open jotters. The boy glanced up at me from under his mop of wavy hair, and his mouth quirked into a smile. But that was all the attention I received. He immediately went back to his drawing. I watched as he poked out his tongue, deep in concentration as he tried his hardest to get things right. I moved towards him, glanced over his previous works of art depicting costumed superheroes battling monsters. They were damn impressive for a kid of his tender age. ‘That’s a fine talent you’ve got there, Cole,’ I said.

‘My mom showed me how,’ Cole said.

‘Then she had a great student. They’re cool drawings.’

‘Not really.’ He shrugged off the compliment, bent back to the task. I understood why he wasn’t too enthusiastic about accepting praise, because he was in fact tracing images from a comic book, and transferring the drawings to the jotter pad. I recalled completing similar art projects when I was a kid, overlaying tracing paper on somebody else’s picture and making a line drawing of it. Flipping over the tracing paper, I would then follow the lines, pressing just hard enough to transfer the faint mirror image to a fresh piece of paper, that I’d then fill in with my own flourishes with felt-tipped pens and coloured pencils. It was good to see in this age of electronic devices that some kids still enjoyed good old-fashioned arts and crafts.

‘Is your dad around?’ I asked.

Without looking up from his latest masterpiece, Cole aimed his pencil over his head. ‘He’s in his den,’ he said, and the impression I got from his tone, he felt his dad spent too much time in there, or maybe that it was because Cole didn’t get to spend it with him.