Definitely Dead by Kate Bendelow (howl and other poems TXT) 📕

‘Just nipping to the storeroom to get some more paper from the printer,’ she called, desperate to be out of the office and away from him. She was cringing with the awkwardness of the conversation and incredibly suspicious of his sudden interest in her. Hopefully he’d be gone when she got back.

Andy watched Maya leave the office, a fake smile plastered on his face. Bitch, he thought as he reached for his phone. ‘Mr Donnelly, it’s me – about Maya Barton? She lives alone. Miller Court near The Eagle pub,’ he said hurriedly.

There was a long uncomfortable pause in which he could hear Aiden’s rasping breath down the phone. ‘Is that it?’ he said eventually. ‘What the fuck do I pay you for? Get your fucking finger out,’ Donnelly snarled before disconnecting the call.

Beads of sweat emerged on Andy’s forehead. He didn’t mind admitting that Donnelly terrified the shit out of him. Without even thinking of the consequences, he ran into Kym’s office and made his way to the filing cabinet in the corner of the room. He had acquired a spare key a long time ago and knew that amongst its contents, this was where Kym stored hard copies of all the staff’s personnel files. With a quick glance to double-check he was still on his own, Andy unlocked the cabinet and opened the top drawer. He deftly flicked through the manila folders until he found the one with Maya’s name on it.

Hands shaking, he photographed the contents. Not daring to waste time reading anything, he replaced the folder, carefully locking the cabinet back up. He finished processing the final photographic disc, grabbed his jacket and was out of the office by the time Maya returned. Andy sighed with relief as he started his car and drove out of Beech Field police station. He would ring Donnelly again and arrange to meet so he could show him the information on his phone. Donnelly wouldn’t thank him for texting the details and risk leaving a digital trail. God, he needed a drink.

39

Wendy Johnson was worried. She had not heard from her son, Ryan, for several days now and it was very unusual. God knows the boy had given her nothing but trouble over the years. He had brought the police to her door more times than she cared to mention, but despite all that, he had always been a good son. His recent stretch in prison had terrified him. He had changed while he’d been inside, so much so, he had vowed to her that from now on he was on the straight and narrow. She had genuinely believed him too, which is why his sudden silence was concerning.

Her worry had intensified further after hearing from her daughter, Chantelle, that Ryan had not been in touch with her either. The two of them had always been close and it was completely out of character for Ryan not to reply to any of Chantelle’s text messages. As far as Chantelle was concerned, Ryan had kept to his promise to stay out of trouble and wasn’t involved in anything she knew of. That said, Wendy had heard that Aiden Donnelly and Piotr Nowak were still sniffing around her son and trouble clung to that pair like a stray fart in a lift.

Wendy parked her battered old Ford outside Ryan’s flat and reached for the spare key he had given her when he first moved in. She had always kept hold of it in case Ryan was arrested again. That way she could go and check there was nothing incriminating in his flat before the police searched it. Sighing, she heaved herself out of the car and shuffled towards the front door. Her pink T-shirt barely scraped low enough to cover the top of her black leggings. Her greasy hair was scraped up into a large clip and her feet were ensconced in a pair of threadbare beige slippers.

She banged on the door, stuffing a strand of grey hair behind her ear as she waited. ‘Ryan, it’s Mam!’ she shouted through the letter box then stepped back to look for any signs of movement at the window.

Her heart sank a little more at the obvious stillness. He clearly wasn’t home. Where was that boy of hers? Sighing again, Wendy let herself into the flat. A pile of post and takeaway leaflets littered the hall. She kicked them to one side, calling Ryan’s name as she walked into the lounge. The place was in its usual state of disarray, but there was something different. Something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

As she walked into the kitchen, she automatically went to open the window to let some fresh air in. He was clearly back on the weed, which saddened her. He’d worked so hard to stay clean since coming out of prison. If he was back on the weed, what else was he taking and how was he paying for it? Just then the penny dropped, and Wendy realised with a sinking heart what was wrong.

Despite the overflowing ashtray and reek of stale booze, there was an undercurrent of something else. It had taken her a while to recognise the smell of disinfectant, something which always reminded her of the local pool and the swimming lessons she had dreaded as a child. She could smell it now in Ryan’s flat and it surprised her. Ryan normally avoided cleaning like the plague. There was something else, too, another faint odour. It had an underlying metallic tang that she could almost taste but couldn’t quite place.

Frantic now, she began to search the flat for clues of Ryan’s disappearance. Her heart sank at the sight of his cash card and mobile phone on the kitchen table. He wouldn’t have gone anywhere without taking them. Nudging the home key, she could see the list of missed calls from her and Chantelle. The phone was locked with a key