‘And DI Bell did this all on his own, did he?’
The car lurches and bumps into the clearing, its headlights catching a manky old caravan. Rusty, and forgotten. Which is what makes this the ideal spot.
Ding-Dong’s Volkswagen Passat is already sitting there, parked opposite, the engine running.
Rose pulls up next to it.
He’s behind the Passat’s wheel, wiping the heel of his hand across his eyes. As if now was the time to start getting squeamish. Nope. Too late for that.
She hauls on the handbrake, gets out, and walks over to the Passat. Opens the driver’s door. ‘Ready?’
Ding-Dong just nods. Probably doesn’t trust himself to speak without blubbing.
Typical.
‘Leave your wallet and the suicide notes on the passenger seat.’
He bites his bottom lip and does what he’s told.
‘Come on, Guv: best get it over and done with.’ She snaps on a double pair of blue nitrile gloves and leads him around to the boot of her car. Well, not her car. The car she ‘borrowed’ from outside Rod Lawson’s house. The one that’s going straight to the dismantlers, soon as they’re done here.
Rose pops the boot open and frowns down at the star of the show: Rod Lawson, groaning and grunting away. Ugly, hairy sod that he is, all dressed up in Ding-Dong’s Tuesday best. Hands cuffed behind his back, high-viz limb restraints securing his knees together. Welclass="underline" no point taking any risks, is there?
‘Grab his legs.’
Ding-Dong doesn’t move.
‘I’m not doing this all myself. It’s your arse I’m saving here!’
Finally, he nods, and together they wrestle Lawson out of the boot, across the litter-strewn clearing, and into the caravan.
The car’s headlights ooze through the grimy windows. Not enough light to read by, but enough for what they need. Inside, the caravan’s filthy: most of the units twisted and broken, graffiti and stains on the walls, the door torn off the chemical toilet. The burnt stubs of roaches and scraps of scorched tinfoil make it pretty clear what this place has been used for.
Rose kicks an empty two-litre of supermarket-brand cider out of the way, sending it skittering and booming its hollow plastic song under the table, where it bounces off the pile of firewood stacked there.
Between them, they get Lawson propped up on the table. He wobbles a bit, but he stays there. It’s OK: doesn’t have to be for long.
She marches over to the car, grabs two of the green plastic petrol cans from the Passat’s boot, then makes another trip for two more.
Ding-Dong still hasn’t moved — standing there with his bottom lip trembling. Staring at Lawson.
Rose gives him a shove. ‘Get the shotgun.’ And finally, he stumbles out.
Poor old Hairy Roddy Lawson. The Sandilands Sasquatch. Wobbling away on a manky table, in a manky caravan, parked in a manky clearing. The huge egg growing on his left temple is all red around the edges — not yet darkened into a proper bruise.
‘I got...’ Ding-Dong climbs into the caravan, clutching the shotgun against his chest in his ungloved hands. He clears his throat and tries again: ‘It’s...’ He fidgets with the gun, staring at it, avoiding the drug dealer in the room. ‘It was my dad’s.’
Why do men have to be such babies?
Rose arranges the petrol cans around the caravan. No point opening them yet — want the thing to burn, not explode.
Ding-Dong is still standing there.
‘Sooner the better, Guv.’
A thick greasy tear fights its way over the bags under his eyes, rolls down his cheek and into his beard. ‘I can’t.’
Babies, the lot of them.
‘Fine. We’ll go arrest Sally MacAuley for murder instead. That what you want?’
‘I never...’ full-on sobbing now, ‘I never wanted... any... of this!’
She sighs. Puts her hand out. ‘God’s sake, give it here.’
The shotgun is cold and heavy in her hands as she swings it around and pulls the trigger. No hesitation. No sodding about.
BOOOOOOOOM! It makes the whole caravan vibrate as most of Rod Lawson’s head disappears. Like popping a water balloon full of tomato soup. The air reeks of butchers’ shops and fireworks, a high-pitched whistling screech in her ears.
Ding-Dong’s mouth falls open. Eyes wide. Tears pouring down his cheeks.
She shoves him towards the door. ‘Come on, out. Get out of here, now!’
Have to admit, without the head, Lawson looks a lot more like Ding-Dong. The clothes help, of course. Now: time for the finishing touches. She uncuffs his hands, opens the ziplock bag of jewellery and dresses him up in Ding-Dong’s rings, watch, and bracelet. Double checks everything is where it should be as bits of skull and teeth and scalp and brains drip down the rear window.
Done.
She has one last look at him. Shrugs. ‘Nothing personal.’
Then Rose unscrews the caps from all the petrol cans, tips three of them over, and hurries outside with the fourth — leaving a trail of unleaded behind her. As soon as she’s at a safe distance, she stops. Takes out a book of matches, cups her hand to shield one as she lights it, then holds it to the puddle at her feet.
Blue and yellow flames race towards the caravan, leap the steps and WHOOMP! The skylight and windows blow out, spinning away into the darkness. Then the fire takes hold and Rod Lawson’s funeral pyre pops and crackles as flesh and plastic and fibreboard go up.
She tosses the empty petrol can in through the door. Turns.
Ding-Dong is on his knees, arms wrapped around his head, sobbing.
Poor old sod. And all because he couldn’t say no to Sally MacAuley...
Rose walks over and pats his shoulder. ‘Come on, let’s get you on that boat.’
The recording light blinked as Sergeant Savage frowned. ‘I only found out what Ding-Dong had done when he Skyped me on Thursday. Completely out of the blue. He didn’t mention anything about an accomplice, but... I don’t know. Maybe? Be impossible to prove, though. After all this time.’
Logan stared at her. ‘Really.’
‘I genuinely thought he was dead. When I identified his remains, I thought that was him on the mortuary slab.’ She sighed. Shook her head. Pity poor me. ‘I was going to come forward, after he called, but it’s all been such a shock...’
Of course it had. And it was about to get much worse.
Logan pulled a sheet of paper from his folder and placed it on the table. ‘If you hadn’t heard from him, then why is there a big list of calls between your Skype account and his over the last two years?’
She pursed her lips and sat back in her chair. Crossed her arms again. ‘I think I’m going to want to speak to my lawyer before I answer any more questions.’
‘What a surprise.’
Tufty followed Logan out into the corridor and clunked the interview room door shut behind him. ‘What do you think? Do you think she was in on it? I think she was in on it.’
Logan grunted, turned, and limped off down the corridor, his crutch making its irritating clunk-scuff, clunk-scuff noise all the way to the stairwell.