Dying Eyes (22 page)

Michael stared right through Brian in the room’s perfect silence. Was he on to him? He smiled. “I believe I do. It’s upstairs. You’ll give me a moment, won’t you? I’ll go get it for you.”

Michael scooted out of the kitchen. The sound of his feet clattering up the steps echoed through the ceiling, the floorboards creaking above Brian’s head.

Brian glanced around as the floor above continued to creak. A dining area at the other side of the kitchen worktop, and a conservatory style extension with wooden floorboards and a large, cream leather sofa. Brian peeked through the kitchen door to check he was still alone.

As he reached the conservatory area, with various potted plants resting against the windows, he spotted a few books on the coffee table. Aristotle, the latest Clive Barker book, and a little grey notepad with a bookmark sticking out of the top.

The creaking continued above Brian’s head. He looked over his shoulder again. He had time just to have a look inside the pad, didn’t he? Just a glance?

He scooped the pad into his hand and flipped it open to the bookmark.

Inside the yellowing pages was a list of dates, organised meetings with various charities and individuals. Brian flicked through. The children’s hospital. Westholme Psychiatric Clinic. Fair enough. Places in which BetterLives would be interested.

He looked closer between a few of the lines and saw a star and smiley face, with initials below.

28
^th
Nov - * :)

P.R.H.

P.R.H.
Preston Royal Hospital.

Brian examined the notepad. More lists of dates. More smiley faces and initials.

W.H.B

B.B.F

He needed something. Surely, there must be something.

More creaking above his head.

Pembrokeshire Garage.

He stopped, his heart racing.

Pembrokeshire Garage
.

P.G.

The garage from the photographs. He’d seen it before, of course he had. Disused nowadays. Old family business that closed down years ago. But why did Michael Walters need to visit there? And what were the smiley faces all about? Why did BetterLives need the garage?

He shut the book and placed it on the table. He turned around and almost fell back as he looked at the kitchen door.

Michael Walters stood in front of him, holding a DVD in his hand.

They stared at each other for a moment, Brian’s whole body shaking and his mind frozen.
Think, Brian. Think.

“Just…‌Clive Barker. Not a fan. Never been a fan‌–‌”

“I’m of the rare camp that actually thinks his work has improved in recent years.” Walters looked down at the books.

He knew.

Brian could only smile and nod. “Right, right.”

The creaking. Definitely still creaking upstairs.

“I don’t believe you’ve met Rex, my Rottweiler, have you?” Michael asked.

Brian’s hands shook.
Rex.
How many other secrets was Michael Walters hiding?

“He gets awfully active when he smells new people in the house. Very protective. Anyway…” Michael reached for his notepad and aligned it with the edge of the table. “The DVD. It’s here, if you want to watch it. Nothing you don’t already know, though.”

Brian grabbed the DVD and stuffed it in his jacket pocket.

“Again, I am truly sorry for my lapse in judgement, Officer.” Michael’s eyes narrowed as they scanned Brian’s face.

“Not a problem.” Brian walked towards the door. “Not a problem. I’ll be in touch. It’ll all be sorted soon. Thanks for your honesty.”

Michael fluttered his eyelashes as Brian stepped out of the kitchen towards the front door. The walls of the hallway swallowed him up. The pictures of Michael Walters and his wife glared back at him. He slipped his shoes back on his feet and fumbled around with the front door. It wouldn’t open. The creaking. Rex.
Fuck. Open. Open.

“You know, it’s a real shame, about Nicola.” Michael reached over Brian’s shoulder and slid the lock open. He could feel Michael’s breath on his neck. “Such a life-affirming young girl. Life-affirming, yes. I do hope you get to the bottom of this, Officer.” He smiled at Brian and moved back from the door as Brian turned the handle with his shaking hand.

“I thought you never spoke to Nicola Watson.” Brian stepped out into the rain and wind, the faulty streetlight flickering above his head.

Michael stood in his doorway and stared at Brian. “I…‌What I meant to say, was that I got the impression that she was a bubbly girl. Goodnight, Officer.” He shut the door, and his silhouette disappeared out of sight.

Brian rushed to his car and threw himself inside. He took a moment to find his breath, rubbing his cold hands against his tingling, hot neck.

He switched the engine on and looked at the digital clock‌–‌21.48
.
It would take him ten minutes to get to where he needed to go. He pulled his phone out of his pocket. Another two missed calls, this time from Vanessa. He’d ring her later. He’d call the police as soon as he found what was in there. But Walters suspected him. He knew he suspected him. That look of knowing. Catching Brian sneaking around in his books.

Brian revved up the engine and pushed his foot against the accelerator, turning out onto the main road. There was only one place on his mind right now.

Pembrokeshire Garage.

What was BetterLives hiding that was worth Nicola Watson’s life?

Chapter Twenty Nine

Pembrokeshire Garage looked just like it did in Nicola Watson’s photographs.

Rain lashed down as Brian rushed over to the metal gating surrounding the garage. A rusty No Entry
sign dangled on the fencing outside. His boots splashed in the murky puddles as he ignored the sign and jogged closer to the garage, its blue paintwork giving way to an onslaught of damp and moss.

“Pembrokeshire Garage: First For All You’re Motoring Needs”. To those who noticed it, the grammatical error of “You’re” had become a part of the garage’s urban allure back in the day. The owners weren’t the sort of people you’d want to point that sort of thing out to. Fat Steve‌–‌links with some of the major North West gangs. “Posh toff bastards,” he’d say. “We’ll say ‘your’ ‘owever we bloody want.” Fat Steve was right about one thing; he probably could spell “your” however he wanted, seeing as he was locked in prison these days. After his arrest, the business had collapsed. Fat Steve’s kids closed the place up, having decided running a small business was more effort than it was worth in this economic climate. Another place lost to the new world.

Until Nicola Watson’s photographs.
P.G.
Michael Walters, sneaking inside. What did it all mean?

When he reached the entrance to the garage, Brian pushed against the door, padlocked shut.
Damn it.
But the padlock was interesting. It shone in the rain, not a scratch on its surface. Newly installed.

Somebody didn’t want anyone to see what was inside.

Brian let go of the lock, sighing as he turned back towards the road. His phone vibrated against his leg. Unknown number. Someone selling something. They always called at this time. Ten-fucking-p.m. He hit the red button and tucked it back into his pocket before arching his neck to look over the top of the building, scanning for some sort of entrance.

Down the side of the garage, he saw stacks of old tires, various tools, and a window. Small, but…‌could he fit through it? He wasn’t
that
big, was he?

He rushed to the frosted glass window and looked over his shoulder as a car passed by, splashing rain up onto the pavement. Was he insane? He crouched down to pick up a rock, covered in woodlice, on the floor. He dropped it to the ground before tutting and picking it up again. Seriously, was he going to break in? What if somebody saw him? How would he explain that?

He bit his lip and shut his eyes.

Glass cracked in front of him.

When he opened his eyes again, he couldn’t help but smile, like a child enjoying great success at a game of ‘Knock a door, run’. He’d made a pretty clean job of the window. He scanned the surrounding area again; no movement other than the rain in the yellow glow of the street lamps. When he saw he was clear, he clawed at the shards of glass spiking upwards from the window ledge, covering his hand with the bottom of his sleeve as he cracked them out of place.

When the ledge seemed clear, he rubbed the back of his hand against the window one final time to check for any loose pieces before propping his head through the glass. The room was pitch black, with a smell of damp, old cardboard.

Was he actually going to do this?

Fuck it.
Might as well finish the job.

He groaned as he stuffed his upper body through the gap. In a moment of sheer terror, he thought he wouldn’t be able to pull his stomach through. What a sight that would be. It’d be on one of those video-sharing websites.
Robbery Gone Wrong.
A cop’s fat arse sticking out of a window, legs waving all over the place. Desperate not to let that happen, he thrust his body in through the gap and held his breath as he tumbled into the garage, landing shoulder-first on the dusty concrete floor below. He winced and clutched at his shoulder but breathed a sigh of relief as he saw the glow of light and rain outside.

He was in.

Finally dragging himself to his feet, Brian grabbed his phone, but the dim screen light didn’t reveal much. Cabinets with untouched folders stacked on top of one another. Dusty surfaces and cobweb-covered tyres. Movements, just out of sight. No. Nothing there. Just him. He held his hand out as he edged through the room, searching the walls for a light switch.

When he finally found one, he pressed it, ready to be bathed in light.

Nothing.

Fuck
. The electric‌–‌probably switched off years ago. Fat load of use he was. He had a torch in the car, too. Idiot. Absolute idiot.

Then he remembered the app Cassy had installed for him. He thumbed the screen of the phone.
You better not have bloody deleted it.

“God, thank you.” He grinned in victory as the Flashlight app beamed to life on his phone.

Maybe apps were all right after all.

He squinted around the room. Nothing visible. More dust. More tyres. Folders and tools scattered around on the floor. Scrunched up papers. He stepped into the centre of the room, every footstep kicking up a cloud of dust.

Something caught his eye near his feet. It glowed in the flashlight; it was small, hard, and unlike anything else around. He grabbed it and turned it over. An Action Man figure. The one with the spacesuit.
Weird
. Not the sort of thing you’d expect Michael Walters to be into.

He gulped as he walked over to the desk and reached into the box of videotapes.
Recess
.
Hey Arnold.
Cartoon after cartoon.

Then, handcuffs.

And a camera.

Brian’s body tensed up as he picked up the camera. The walls felt like they were closing in around him. His hands shook as he flicked the “on” switch.

The camera booted up immediately.

Brian threw it to the ground and collapsed to his knees, heaving.

He wasn’t sure how long he had been on his knees. All he could think of was the pictures. The images.

It could have been Davey…

No. It wasn’t Davey. Don’t think of things that way.

He reached for the camera again with his shaking hand and threw it back into the box of videos as if it was coated in venom. His head throbbed. Nicola Watson knew. She knew what Michael Walters was doing‌–‌what he was doing in the name of BetterLives‌–‌and he killed her for it.

He needed to get out of here. He needed to call Cassy, call the police. Someone. Anyone. He needed to stop Walters, right now.

Brian sprinted over towards the window, stumbling over the Action Man figure, and threw the video box out of the window before pulling himself up. Pain shot through his shoulder as adrenaline pumped through his arms. He winced as a shard of glass nipped at his hand. He tumbled right through the window, into the hard stones and puddles below. A group of nearby youths in hoodies laughed.

“Top lad,” one shouted. “Fucking top lad!”

Dicks
.

He had to ring Cassy. He had to warn her. He went into his contacts list and hit Cassy’s name.

One ring.

Come on. Answer. Answer.

Two rings.

This was serious. It was‌–‌

“Hello?”

“Cassy, I…‌You need to…‌Cas, just listen‌–‌”

“Woah. Slow down, Brian. What’s going on with you?”

Brian rubbed his eyes, the taste of metal in his mouth. His left palm streamed with blood.
Shit
. Vanessa would suspect him. The hospital would ask to see his arm, and they’d know what he’d been doing.

No. Focus. Deal with that later.
He needed to get this sorted. He needed to get the case solved.

“Cas, it’s the case…‌Michael Walters. You need to get a team down there right now, because I’ll be there waiting‌–‌”

“Wait,” she said. Brian heard voices and the clinking of glasses on the other end of the line. “I’m out at the moment, remember?”

Brian pushed the metal gate to one side and jogged towards his car, his entire body drenched in rain and mud. Her date with Ryan. Of course. “Cassy‌–‌it’s him. He killed Nicola Watson. The pen drive that Scott dropped‌–‌it’s the information Nicola was trying to hide. She knew about him, Cas. She knew what Michael was doing, and he killed her because he couldn’t risk it coming out. He couldn’t be found out.”

“You still aren’t making sense. Do you want me to put you through to Price?”

Brian sat back in his car and rubbed a hand through his wet hair. “Michael Walters was exploiting BetterLives to access various organisations. Children’s hospitals. Orphanages. He was doing nasty things, Cassy. Things no one should ever have to see. Cassy…‌I have the camera here. I have the evidence. He’s sick. Nicola knew. She knew all along. Just get someone down to Michael’s place right now.”