Fairwood (a suspense mystery thriller) (24 page)

Pandora listened with an ear to the door; she worked out where Dorothy's face was and then slammed her fist hard into the wood. The shock rocked through her hand and hurt her wrist. She heard Dorothy scream in shock and move away from the door.

“You’re going to rot in hell for this, you bitch!” Pandora told her.

Dorothy regained her composure. “Just open the door, dear. This has all been a big--”

“
Fuck you
!” Pandora spat. Dexter put a hand on her shoulder, squeezed gently and tried to usher her away. “We’re going to go to the police, tell them all about your sick little games.”

Dorothy laughed. The motherly tone gone from her voice. “The police? Are you also going to tell them who you are, that you’re wanted for robbery and murder?”

The reply stumped Pandora, she exchanged a worried glare with Dexter. On the other side of the door Dorothy had translated their silence.

“That’s right,” she said. “We know all about you.”

“We’ll let you rot,” Pandora said, changing tact. “Or we’ll burn this place to the ground and cook all of you fuckers alive.”

She expected a horrified response, they were wanted for murder after all and if Dorothy knew that, then she surely wouldn’t put the deed past them, but Dorothy didn’t sound shocked at all. She laughed.

“What the fuck are you laughing at?” Pandora spat.

“
You’ll leave us here
?” Dorothy said in a menacing tone that cut through the thick door and reverberated through Pandora’s soul. “You can’t leave,” she stated simply. “You’ll never win.”

After the laughter subsided, after the silence that followed, Pandora opened her mouth to offer something in reply, anything, but Dexter pulled her back before she could regain her composure.

Dorothy and her sadistic friends were still laughing when Pandora and Dexter left the house.

30

When the night came it brought a cruel chill with it. Cawley zipped up his jacket until he could feel the cold zipper pressing against his larynx. He dug his chin inside the felt-lined interior, breathed in the musty smell of a coat that hadn’t been worn in three weeks and hadn’t been washed in three years.

He stretched his eyebrows to peer at Simpson, standing in front of him with a wide grin on his face. He had knocked back a few whiskeys, saying he needed some Dutch courage. Cawley couldn’t believe the difference he was witnessing in his partner and didn’t know if it was down to denial, his current freedom, his constant inebriation, or a combination of all three. He didn’t mind, he liked the new Andrew Simpson -- his random, almost bipolar swings and his sudden lust for life was intoxicating.

He turned away from him, towards the back window of the building. He’d seen something shift across, something black moving quickly out of his periphery. He lifted his head from his cocoon and gestured towards Simpson who immediately stopped trying to pick the lock on the back door.

The window was heavy with dust, an almost impenetrable layer which blocked any light from entering the building. He saw the movement again and realised it was his own reflection, the movement of his hands as he stuffed them in his pocket and then used them to pull his friend back.

“What is it?” Simpson whispered, his wide grin switching into an alert and darting glance.

Cawley released his grip on Simpson’s elbow, shook his head to indicate it was nothing, not wanting his former partner to know he was scared of his own shadow. He’d always been the forward and reckless one of the partnership, not because he was crazy, mainly because Simpson had been so withdrawn and distant.

He heard a click, a sound that echoed like a heavy-handed clap in the silent night. Simpson turned to him, the smile back on his face. He pushed the door open, it swung on the hinge with an awkward grating noise that Cawley was sure had been heard by everyone within a two mile radius.

Simpson gestured for Cawley to enter.

“You sure about this?” Cawley whispered as he pushed past and sucked in a breath of air from inside the pub.

Simpson shrugged casually. “Bit late to turn back now, isn’t it?”

Cawley threw a quick and concerned glance over his shoulder, towards Simpson. He was ready to react but silenced his objections when he heard muffled noises filtering through the dust inside the dark interior.

He threw a finger to his lips, gestured for Simpson to follow him. They both crept inside -- wary of each footstep, cautious not to make a sound -- and pinned their ears to the air, listening to the occasionally frantic and constantly worried voices from within.

***

The scenes of Fairwood were painted with an ominous brush when night set in. The once picturesque trees, standing tall and proud before expanses of green fields, stretched like skeletal fingers over the landscape; the houses, grandiose and imposing in the daytime, loomed like malevolent castles against the greyed backdrop.

Dexter and Pandora stumbled out of the house and onto the street, lit by the halo of a stuttering streetlight. He held onto her for support, she held onto him. The blind led the blind on a wavering line, down the street and around a sharp corner that ushered them away from the house that had held them captive.

The cold wind froze Dexter’s throbbing ears, probed into his spinning head. He struggled to maintain a clear mind but knew he had to keep going, even if he didn’t know exactly where he was heading. They weren’t safe in the town, couldn’t turn to anyone nearby. He doubted he would be able to find his car or make it very far on foot, but he didn’t let himself dwell on that, didn’t want to face the consequences.

They couldn’t go back the way they came in. They didn’t want to track past the houses and out in the open. They needed to find another way, preferably through the green expanse where no one could see them leave.

Pandora watched Dexter with bleary, bloodshot eyes as they scuppered away from the street, into the shadows of a line of trees that bordered an embankment. He looked at her, exchanged a brief smile in which he tried to hide the futility of their situation.

He slipped, lost his footing. His hand still gripped hers, he didn’t want to let go and his instinct forced him to keep hold even when he felt himself fall. His feet kicked out and he hit the ground backside first, feeling a volley of moist earth splatter the back of his pants as the bottom of his spine shuddered under impact. Pandora fell to her knees beside him, her kneecaps sinking into the earth.

He moved to stand and she followed, but he stopped her, held her down. A flashlight beam danced a dozen metres ahead of them, skipping and whirling like an obese and merry firefly. He held a finger to her lips, gestured for her to be quiet and still.

They pricked their ears to the air, tried to listen beyond the sound of their own trepidation, the beating of their own heavy hearts. They heard the rustling of cautious feet, of someone careful of each step they made, checking their surroundings intently after they made it.

The trees were thick above and around them, the torchlight wouldn’t be able to pick them out of the darkness if it happened upon them, but after a few seconds Dexter motioned to Pandora to stand. They needed to leave quickly; the torch carrier was headed straight for them.

***

A beam of light broke underneath a slit in the door ahead of them, stretching a radiant yawn onto Cawley’s feet and ankles. The voices, filtering through with more cohesion than before, came from the other side.

He recognised the voice of the owner, Sellers; he seemed both annoyed and worried, two emotions that pleased Cawley when he recognised them in his abrasive tone. There was a good chance he was on the right track, a good chance he had rattled his cage. There was also a good chance that the current conversation had nothing to do with Cawley or the case, a notion that the detective soon dismissed.

“The pig knows,” Sellers said with disgust.

“You’re paranoid.” Cawley recognised the whiny voice of the youngster, the same one who had been there earlier in the day. “He don’t know nowt,” he said confidently.

“You sound confident,” Sellers said with a hint of derision.

“I got a good read on ‘im, ‘es just like the others, don’t know shit.”

“The kid has a point,” someone piped up, Cawley didn’t recognise the voice. “So what if he knows something’s up? What’s he going to do?”

“Exactly,” the cocky youngster chimed.

Cawley nearly jumped when the silence was interrupted by a loud crack, followed by the hasty movements of a chair scraping on the floor.

“What the fuck!” the kid screamed. “
You hit me
!” he said, answering Cawley’s unasked question in a high-pitched tone of disbelief.

“You’re pissing me off,” Sellers stated simply. “You’re not taking this seriously. I don’t think you understand,” his tone took on a serious note. Cawley imagined him leaning forward, drawing a sinister smile on his face and aiming it at the arrogant teenager. “If he
does
suspect something, if he
does
have any reason to think we’re bullshitting him, he’ll be on us like hair on soap. This is a big case, the whole world has eyes on Bleak and Bright and every copper in the country wants their name on the front pages. If he’s onto us he’ll stop at nothing to get answers.”

Cawley flashed a curious look towards Simpson who replied in kind.

“This is all
your
fault,” Sellers continued. “If you hadn’t flapped your fucking mouth to your idiot friends and inbred family--”

“Hey! Don’t talk about my--”

Another crack, this time followed by a loud thump as the youngster toppled off his chair and crashed to the floor.

Cawley reached forward, eager to see something, anything. He needed to know who was in the room, needed to confirm the mental images of a conversation that could prove vital to the case. He grasped the door handle; it felt cold and stiff in his hand. He squeezed down in small increments.

“You’re a fucking liability.” Sellers was furious, his voice filled with a fiery aggression and a wetness which indicated he was spraying his target with spittle as he loomed over him. “I knew I should’a killed ya, if it wasn’t for you then--”

The sound of a squeaking door stopped Sellers short. Cawley released his hand from the handle, cursed under his breath and gave his partner a worried and regretful stare.

A few seconds passed before the conversation started up again.

“Anyway,” Sellers was saying, “that’s all done now, we have to forget about it and move on.”

“Agreed,” the youngster said.

Cawley scrunched his face as he listened, something didn’t sound right.

“So,” someone else jumped in, their voice sounded strangely distant, “anyone watch the game last night?”

Cawley turned to Simpson but before he could arch his eyebrows in curiosity the door ahead of him was yanked open. A bath of light washed over him and he stood, rooted to the spot like a rabbit caught in the headlights, staring at the three figures. The one in the middle, the only one he hadn’t seen before, was pointing a shotgun at his face, smirking over the top of the barrel.

“Detective Cawley,” Sellers said, appearing from behind the three men. “Good to see you.”

Cawley gulped, stared at each menacing face in turn, lingering on the youngster to the right of the gunman. His right eye was quickly swelling shut and his nose leaked blood onto the top of a swollen lip, but the smile on his face suggested all his Christmases had just come at once.

***

Dexter had Pandora's hand gripped in his as he scuttled sideways, keeping low and strafing through the trees. He squeezed tightly, needing to keep her close. Her hand became slippery and clammy as a coating of sweat from both their palms lubricated their grip.