Fairwood (a suspense mystery thriller) (12 page)

Simpson sighed, lowered his weary head to his chest. “I blew it all,” he said, psychically deflating, his voice ushered timidly into his chest.

“That’s a lot of fucking booze,” Cawley noted.

“Not on that. Listen, can I at least come in, just for a bit?”

They stared at each other, waiting to see who would break first. Cawley stepped aside, grumbling under his breath as his former partner, and former friend, stepped inside his house.

“I would offer you a drink,” Max said after gesturing for Simpson to sit down. “But I’m not sure that’s wise.” He realised how hypocritical he sounded, and how hypocritical he probably looked with the spilled glass on the floor and the half-empty bottle beside it.

“I’m fine thanks, although a cup of coffee--”

Cawley sat down, pretending he hadn’t heard.

“I’m fine,” Simpson repeated.

“So, what’s the problem? Did they increase the tax on cheap cider?”

Simpson groaned, a whispering sound that vibrated out of his closed lips. “There’s no need to be like that.”

“Like what?” he asked with a shrug, feigning obliviousness.

“I’m sorry for what I did, leaving you in the lurch like that, but this didn’t really have anything to do with you,” Simpson declared, getting heated. “It was
my
job,
my
life,
my
decision. You have no right--”

“If you’re trying to beg for a place to stay, you’re going about it all wrong.”

Simpson left a scowl with his old friend. He coughed, cleared his throat and then turned away, staring absently at the television, watching a reflection of the room in the glass. “I lost control. It wasn’t just the drink. I was using drugs as well, lots of them. Nothing heavy, just prescription stuff, my own at first, then, when the doctor wouldn’t refill my prescriptions…” he trailed off, received a knowing nod from Cawley. “Then the gambling started. I wasn’t really into it. It didn’t give me a buzz or anything, nothing like you hear from all these gambling addicts. I got nothing from it, but it helped to pass the time, keep my mind on other things.”

Simpson shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. He leant forward, clasped his hands together and rested them on his knees before staring at his twiddling thumbs. “I lost everything. Got into a lot of debt. Legal stuff at first, then the banks stopped giving me money. I went to a few loan sharks….” He sighed heavily.

“You’re a fucking copper,” Cawley said, unable to hide the disgust. “Or you
were
. You’ve seen what those bastards do to people who don’t pay, even to the ones who
do
.”

“I know, I know,” Simpson said with a furious nod. “But I was desperate. I needed the money to pay the bills--”

“And to gamble?”

“And that,” he nodded. “Yes. They started asking for their money back, getting violent. I had nothing to give them, kept using the fact that I was a copper to keep them away from me, but they stopped caring. My rent money, what little I earned, went to them. Then,” he shrugged. “I had no more to give. I kept them off my back for a while, but the bills were piling up; the rent was unpaid.”

“And you thought it would be a wise to quit your job?” Cawley asked, bewildered. “Your only source of income? Where’s the fucking sense in that?”

“I told you, quitting had nothing to do with this. I’ve wanted to quit for a while, if anything these problems delayed it.”

Cawley wasn’t convinced. He stared at his former partner, watched his absent eyes, then asked, “You still owe them money?”

Simpson nodded, “But it doesn’t matter,” he added. “It’s not much, not like it was. They won’t bother me for a while.” He gave Cawley a pleading look, Cawley could see the signs of impending tears in the corners of his eyes. “I need your help mate, I know what I did and I’m sorry, but I have nowhere else to go. I have no home, no family, no friends. I haven’t even eaten for two days. Please, I need your help.”

Cawley held his stare for an interminable time. He wanted him to think he was thinking it over, that there was a chance, a good chance, he was going to say no and kick him back onto the street. A selfish part of him, the part that had been hurt by his resignation and the abolishment of their partnership and friendship, wanted him to suffer. The truth was he had no intention of kicking him out.

“You can stay,” he said eventually, feeling the relief that gushed from Simpson’s pitiful soul.

13

“I like it, don’t get me wrong,” Pandora said, watching the emptiness outside her window, unable to shake off the creepy feeling that the old man would sneak into view again. “But something about it doesn’t feel right.”

“You’re not used to the quiet,” Dexter assured her. “That’s all it is.”

“Really?” she didn’t look convinced. “What about the people?”

Dexter gave her a gentle and dismissive shrug, his eyes on his phone. He barely knew how to use it but he knew when it was working and when it wasn't and now it was struggling to find a signal.

“Even the friendly ones seem a bit…” Pandora rolled her eyes, shrugged her shoulders. “Weird.”

Dexter looked up, stared at the back of her head in contemplation. He hadn’t told her about the conversation he’d heard in the bathroom and had no intention of doing so. She was already a little concerned, her love of the town, of the idyllic beauty and the silent solitude, was ebbing away. He didn’t want to add to that. As far as he was concerned it didn’t matter that the residents of Fairwood were a little weird -- it was to be expected from such a remote town -- what mattered was that they seemed to be the only people in the country who didn’t know who they were.

“I met a guy by the river,” she explained. “He was nice at first. Friendly. A bit like Dorothy, but then he turned.”

“Turned?”

Pandora looked at Dexter, nodded.

“How?” he wondered.

“I’m not sure exactly,” she said with a twisted face. “I mean he wasn’t mean or anything, jus
t a little
off
.”

“Off?”

“Yeah.”

“Hm.” Dexter held her gaze, lowered his eyes to the phone. “I think you need to relax,” he told her. “Give it time, you’ll settle in.” He tapped a few buttons, turned the phone off and on and then walked around the room. To the window, to the door.

“I can’t seem to find a signal,” he said eventually.

Pandora shrugged, “Gotta be something.”

“Dorothy did say there was no reception.”

“Here,” Pandora snatched the phone from his hand, sure he was just doing it wrong. She had bought him it for his birthday, replacing a plastic brick so old that the keypad may as well have been in Morse code. He was reluctant to use it at first but she persuaded him, only to receive random calls and blank text messages from him for the next few weeks.

She fiddled with it for a while, her eyebrows arching into a frown as she concentrated. She shook it, held it up. “No signal,” she said.

Dexter groaned.

“Who do you plan on calling anyway?” she wondered.

He shrugged casually. “No one. I was just going to browse the web.”

She shook her head, her mouth lifting into a small
o
shape. “Browse the web?” she parroted. “Where did you pick that one up from?

“What do you mean?”

“Two weeks ago you referred to it as the ‘inter web’, without the slightest grain of irony. A few months ago you were still calling it ‘
the email’”

“I’m learning,” he said with mock pride.

“You’re an embarrassment,” she said with a grin. “It’s a good thing I love you so much.” She gave him a kiss on the cheek, tossed the phone onto the bed. “I’ll get mine from the car, I think the charger is in the back.”

The day was turning orange as the sun dipped and the brightness muted. Pandora walked through the open door of the bed and breakfast and greeted it with a smile, sucking in a deep and enjoyable breath. It really was far from what she was used to, far from what she thought her ideal place would be, but Fairwood felt right to her. It felt like home.

She stood in the open doorway for a while, admiring her surroundings. The street ahead was silent and bare, the houses opposite -- a pair of stone-built semi’s set against picturesque gardens of summer grandeur -- seemed unoccupied. There was no activity through the windows, no one lounging in the garden, hoping to soak up what little sunshine remained. Down the road, beyond a sharp turn that preceded the track down to the river, she could see the brim of the sun as it lowered into a mass of trees -- its fading light streaking through like a grated fireplace.

The trees to the left -- a blockade that marked the end of the cul-de-sac -- drank the last drops of natural light and prepared to wallow in the bath of the half dozen fluorescents on the road ahead.

Her eyes were on the distance as she walked, admiring the view as the streetlights popped on, lightly colouring the greying town with synthetic life. It wasn’t until she crossed the empty road, walked the empty path, that she noticed that their car wasn’t where they left it.

She stood motionless for a while, a creased look of concern on her face as she tried to remember where they parked. She recalled their arrival into the town, she remembered the old man sitting on the path, remembered spotting the bed and breakfast and then --

She put her hands on her hips. This was definitely where they’d parked the car. She shook her head, offered one last glance to a day
, the beauty of which had been dimmed by worry, and then hastened back into the building.

“Did you go out today?” she asked when she returned to the room. She knew it was a stupid question; Dexter
had
gone out, he had gone out with her. He hadn’t taken the car, neither of them had, but the idea that it had been stolen, in a town as quiet and innocuous as Fairwood, was absurd.

Dexter gave her a creased frown.

“The car isn’t there,” she said, waiting by the doorway.

“What do you mean ‘
the car isn’t there
’?”

“What do you think I mean? The car isn’t where we left it.”

He rushed out to check for himself, dubious of the claim. The car wasn’t there, he looked up and down the street, raced to the corner to peer into the next street, but he couldn’t see it anywhere. It hadn’t occurred to him before, but he now noted that he couldn’t see
any
car anywhere.

He found Dorothy pottering about the kitchen, her bountiful face ablaze with heat and sweat. She gave them a warm smile when she saw them, a smile that quickly faded when she noticed how agitated they were.

“What’s wrong dearies?”

“I think our car’s been stolen.”

She looked confused for a moment. She gave a gentle shake of her head. “That’s not possible. This is Fairwood.”

He creased his face, “What's that supposed to mean?” he asked, unable to hide the frustration in his voice.

“We parked across the road,” Pandora cut in, the previous glimmer on her face now a hashed assortment of worry and panic. “It isn’t there.”

“Are you sure?” Dorothy asked.

“Of course we’re sure,” Dexter said abruptly. “It’s not there, it’s been stolen.”

“Stolen dear?” Dorothy didn’t seem nearly as agitated as Dexter was. “I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think so? Are you serious? It’s been stolen. It was there, now it’s gone.”