Buried Slaughter (31 page)

“What did happen when I was sleeping anyway, Daddy?”

Brian glared at Vanessa and cleared his throat. “You don’t want to know just yet, kid. You really don’t. Now, who’s for a burger?”

Chapter Thirty Four

Over the following two weeks, Brian took a holiday from his PCSO duties. Paid leave, classed as “stress-related” due to how close to home the crimes of Scott Collins were. He was keeping his job in the long term‌—‌that was a positive. The police had interviewed Brian a few times recently, he having worked with Scott for well over a year, but the questions were only routine. At times, the interviewing officers seemed stunned themselves that Brian had never had any idea of the sort of man Scott was.

Truth was, he hadn’t had an idea. Not at all. Scott was fantastic at wearing a face of normality, that was for certain.

He was a methodical and organised planner and killer. From the bits and pieces Brian heard leaking from the police department and in the media, he’d cleaned himself up at every scene with a horrifying precision and attention to detail. A new fear was being stirred by the
Lancashire News
‌—‌the fear of the killer. Were you living next door to one? Working with one? Sleeping with one? Well, you’d only find out when your head was chopped right off and served up to the gods!

Brian and Hannah lay on the sofa watching television. It was early in the day, but they’d decided to stay in the lounge last night. “Decided” was the wrong word, actually. It just sort of happened. They’d stayed up, made love, then cuddled and chatted on their comfy sofa watching late-night quiz shows complete with sign language readers right into the night. They were like teenagers right now.

Probably the closest he’d ever come to feeling like a bloody teenager again, anyway.

Brian hadn’t slept much. He’d just sat back and stared over at the window, watching the colours of the night sky change from black to dark blue, to the red of morning and now to the grey of day. It was around 8 a.m. now. He’d have to get some kip at some point, but he just hadn’t felt it last night.

He wanted to sit there with Hannah in his arms, in front of the open log fire, grateful for what he had.

Sure, he was getting soft. But getting soft felt much better than getting old, depressed, alone.

Hannah was much better company than a razor blade to the wrist.

And that was high praise.

The sound of metal rattling in the hallway made Brian jump. Hannah opened her eyes too.

“What was that?” she mumbled, her eyes only half-open.

“Post, I think,” Brian said, his heart pumping. It was a little early for the postman, and he hadn’t heard his van, or his usual annoying whistling. He kissed Hannah on her forehead and placed her to one side with a cushion underneath her. “I’ll just go check on it.”

Stretching his legs, Brian walked out of the living room and into the hallway. The clock by the door ticked on. The roads still sounded quiet outside, ready for the business of just another working day.

On the brown, bristly doormat, there was just one sole envelope. Large. Thick, by the looks of it.

And on the front, it simply had the words, “Brian McDone”.

Brian approached it and picked it up. His name had been handwritten. The first thing he thought of was those old question marks he used to receive. Scott Collins, taunting him all along.

He started to turn the envelope over. It couldn’t be Scott. Scott was in a coma, and was destined to wake up in a vegetative state. And when he did, he’d spend the rest of his life in a maximum-security hospital for the criminally insane. He couldn’t have sent this letter.

When he turned it over, he realised there was more handwriting on the back of the envelope. Started off in blue pen, but as the words faded away, a stark black pen replaced it. He read the words and walked back towards the living room.

Dear Brian McDone,

I’m writing with regards to my husband, David Wallson.

I know my husband had a friendship with you. In the end, I think you were one of the few people he could call a friend, in fact.

When clearing out his things, we found this in his drawer. I did not open it because he would not have wanted me to (he always kept surprises and work stuff in this drawer).

I can only hope that it is some use to you.

With Regards,

Eve Wallson.

Brian read the handwritten note a few times. His heartbeat returned to a normal pace.

Eve Wallson. David’s widow. Mother of David’s kid, who’d grow up without a dad.

She must have hand-delivered this, whatever it was. Hand-delivered it, especially for him, in spite of all the grief she and her family must be experiencing.

As Brian stepped back into the living room, he tore open the top of the envelope. As he did, he noticed an image inside. An image that he’d seen before, when he’d been sitting in David Wallson’s car.

Robert Luther and Nicola Watson, arms wrapped around one another.

It was the evidence that David Wallson had promised Brian. The evidence of the wrongdoings of BetterLives and the police.

The evidence that Brian was right about Robert Luther all along, and that Cassy Emerson did not therefore die for nothing.

“What is it?” Hannah asked, leaning over the sofa in her long, white pyjama t-shirt.

Brian looked at her in the eye. “It’s…‌it’s something David Wallson promised me. The evidence, remember? The evidence that I…‌BetterLives. Robert Luther. His end of the deal.”

Hannah’s eyes narrowed. It wasn’t the smiling, celebratory reaction that Brian had expected. “And what do you think?” she asked.

Brian looked down at the envelope, partly torn at the top. He rubbed his fingertips against its smooth surface. He could prove himself right. Go to war with the police and the press. Bring the cover-up to justice, once and for all.

He crouched beside the fireplace. The coal was still warm from the night before, still glowing orange and giving off heat. “I think I’d just be picking at an old scab. A scab that…‌that David Wallson was a great guy to give me the opportunity to pick at, but a scab that’s healed over.”

Hannah nodded. Now, she was smiling. “Do the right thing, Brian. Not the right thing for anyone else, but for you. I know what it means to you.”

Brian gulped and held out the envelope. The handwritten note from Eve Wallson was upside-down now, as he dangled it in front of the fire. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned from this case, it’s that some secrets are best left buried in the past.”

He tossed the envelope onto the hot coals. It started to yellow and curl immediately. “Scott Collins believed that the past held a grudge and was right to hold a grudge. I believe that the future offers a second chance.”

“And this is nothing to do with that Detective Inspector job you’re hoping to apply for?”

Brian’s cheeks heated up as he watched the corners of the envelope blacken and curl into themselves. “Maybe a little bit. But only partly, though.”

Hannah rose from the sofa and wrapped her arms around Brian’s neck. She stared at him with her luscious, chocolate-brown eyes. “I think you’ve done the right thing. For yourself. For everyone.” She kissed him on the lips.

Brian smiled. The envelope crackled behind him. “Y’know, I think today would be a good day for an engagement party.”

Hannah cringed. “Truth be told, I’ve never really liked parties. Shall we just get a takeaway later and watch the footy, or something?”

Brian’s smile widened. He felt a warmth growing inside him. “On second thoughts, takeaway and footy sounds a perfectly viable alternative.”

What Next for Brian McDone?

To read the next book in the Brian McDone crime mystery series,
Nameless Kill
, click here to get started:
http://smarturl.it/NamelessKill

Or turn the page for an exclusive excerpt of the third book in the series.

***

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Nameless Kill (Brian McDone, #3) Excerpt

Prologue

Little Jimmy Cox never went too far out of his mummy’s sight. But that one time he did, on 1
^st
May 2014, he’d remember it for the rest of his life.

It was a warm day on Avenham Park in Preston. Jimmy had an ice cream, which was melting faster than he could eat it, dripping down his arm in a cold, sticky line. He thought it was pretty cool because he looked like a kind of weird monster with all white lines down his arms. The evil Ice-Cream Man! Not the scariest name for a monster, but he could make it scary. Make people turn into ice cream and melt, then gobble them all up.

His little legs were starting to ache around the knees as he walked another step and another step, his left hand dangling free from his mum’s. He felt pretty cool about this as he walked past the older kids lying on the grass, the smell of sun cream drifting off their bodies as the warm, boiling sun pelted down on them. He felt cool as he looked at the older boys with their tops off kicking around a football, laughing, pointing at girls in their bikinis. Jimmy smiled at them as he walked along. Smiled at how cool he must look with his ice cream. Smiled at how cool he must look, not holding his mummy’s hand.

“Oh, Jimmy, look at the state of you.”

As he stared across the green grass of Avenham Park, filled with sunbathers, football players, girl-watchers, he felt his mummy’s hand grab his left arm and dab the ice cream from the fingers of his right hand with a yellow tissue. He looked at her. Looked at her red cheeks and the watery sweat on her head. Her disappointed face as she wiped his fingers with the tissue. He felt his cheeks going red. He wouldn’t look cool anymore. He wouldn’t look cool to the boys or the girls on the grass.

“Mummy, get off!” he said. He made sure he said it as loudly as he could as he tried to yank his hand away from Mummy’s tight, warm hands. He looked to see if anyone on the park had noticed as his face felt even more fiery. But they just looked at the football. Looked at the girls. Looked at books. They hadn’t noticed yet. They hadn’t noticed his mummy showing him up, which was good.

“Someone’s mard,” he heard his mum say, his face reflecting in her dark sunglasses. She grabbed hold of his left hand when she’d cleaned the ice cream dripping down his arm. “Now get the rest of it finished before it all trickles away.”

Jimmy looked back at the boys and the girls on the big field. He listened to them chattering and he wanted so bad to chatter with them. To play with them. They looked cooler than the people in his year at school. The people that threw stones at him and pushed him over outside the classroom. They were smiling. They looked friendly. He wished he was one of them. He wished one of them would just notice him and see how cool he really was.

“Best get you back to your dad’s,” Mummy said. She was looking ahead, now. Smiling at one of the topless boys coming her way. He smiled back at her, and she twirled a finger around her brown hair like she did when Daddy used to make her laugh. “Don’t…‌don’t want you to be late back, do we?”

Jimmy looked at his ice cream cone, which was soggy from the melted ice cream. His stomach sank. Going back to Daddy’s meant going back to school tomorrow. But he just wished he could have a longer Easter holiday. A few more days to come to the park and try and play with the older boys and girls. The ones who were cool. The ones who smiled and were happy.

He took a bite of the cone. It didn’t taste as nice as it had before, all sloppy because of the melted ice cream. And he couldn’t get school out of his head either. How warm he’d be with his blue school jumper on. How the other children would laugh if Daddy made him wear his shorts on a hot day. But these boys were wearing shorts on the park. They were wearing shorts, and their friends weren’t laughing at them. They were all laughing with each other. Maybe he could join them. The Shorts Gang. Maybe he could tell them about the Ice Cream Monster and they’d understand and laugh and joke with him.

Jimmy heard something bounce on the concrete path up ahead. He looked over and saw a blue lightweight football bouncing over the path from the field, bouncing towards the long grass to the left of the path, bouncing towards the dip by the trees and the stream.

Jimmy looked. He saw one of the boys looking at the ball, then looking at him.

He held his breath. He didn’t even think.

He didn’t think, other than:
This is it. This is how they will like me. I’ll help them!

He let go of his mummy’s hand and he ran across the path towards the ball, which bounced further onto the long grass and the dip beside the trees.

“Jimmy, come back here!”

He heard his mummy’s words but he ignored them as he ran after the bouncing blue ball. He kept his eyes on it. He could imagine the kids behind him looking at him and thinking,
Woah, how fast is he?
He could imagine himself getting the ball, booting it back to them better than Luis Suarez. He could imagine them lifting him on their shoulders and running him around the park and never letting him go to school again.

Jimmy felt the long grass brush against his legs. The ball was still ahead, but it was getting further away. Rolling down the grassy hill and towards the stream below. He’d have to watch out. He’d have to be like those men on the nature programmes that Daddy watched. He’d have to be brave and save the ball from drowning.

He found himself sprinting down the grassy hill faster than he’d ever ran in P.E. He couldn’t stop himself, the stream getting nearer. The ball was in the water now. It was moving down the water. He’d have to run down the stream. Run down, save it, then climb back up the mountain and to the top and everyone would love him. He could hear voices behind him. His mummy shouting out. He knew she’d be annoyed, but it didn’t matter. He was going back to Daddy later. Daddy wouldn’t tell him off. Daddy would just laugh and open another can of Carling.