Cruel Comfort (Evan Buckley Thrillers Book 1) (4 page)

Early next morning Jacobson called
in to see him again. This time Evan had tidied away the bottle and glasses, and
his sleeping bag was rolled up out of sight behind the armchair. It was a
beautiful spring day and he had the window open. The sound of birdsong drifted
in from outside and the early morning sunlight slanted across his desk. A faint
lemony smell still lingered and mixed with the smell of freshly baked bread
wafting in from the bakery next door. Sat at his desk, Evan looked for all the
world like a conscientious, hard working P.I. getting stuck into his heavy
caseload. He was just about to look up his nocturnal visitor.

'You're looking a lot better than
last time I came up,' Jacobson said, dropping into the visitor’s chair. Evan
wished he wouldn’t keep sitting there; it made him think of Stanton.

'Yeah, I think I'm over the worst of
it,' Evan lied. He’d actually been feeling pretty good until Jacobson sat there
and reminded him of Stanton.

'Well I hope I'm not going to be the
one to spoil that, but there's something I think you should know about.'

'That sounds ominous.'

'It's probably nothing, but after
the seminar yesterday I came back here around ten p.m. to sort a few things
out; get ready for today.'

Evan hoped the surprise he felt
didn't show on his face. Jacobson must have come back while he was asleep and
he hadn't even woken up. He hadn't realized he'd been out so completely. He'd
have sworn he was only dozing. He got up and walked over to the window to try
to control the jumpiness he felt in his limbs.

'I was just about to leave when I
heard somebody outside in the corridor. I thought it must be you - I know
you've been keeping pretty late hours - and they were headed up here.'
Something about the way he said it made Evan feel sure that Jacobson knew he
was virtually living in his office. But there was no edge or accusation in his
voice; maybe it was just Evan's guilty conscience.

'So I locked up and then, on a whim,
I thought I'd come up and see if you wanted to go for a beer.'

Evan waited for him to go on, but he
already had a pretty good idea of what was coming next. He knew it hadn't been
him in the corridor outside Jacobson's office.

'When I got up here there was a man
outside your door, trying to look through the glass. I asked him what the hell
he thought he was doing. He turned round and walked towards me, starting to say
something or the other, and then suddenly he shoved me out of the way and ran
back down the stairs and out of the building. I ran down after him but he was
pretty fast and my knee isn't so great. He was already across the parking lot
by the time I got outside, so I gave it up. It would have been different in the
old days.'

Evan was horrified. He had slept
through the whole thing. The intruder - it had to be Hugh McIntyre - had found
him and got into the building and had been only seconds away from breaking into
his office. There'd been a scuffle in the corridor right outside Evan's door.
And he'd slept through it all. The minute Jacobson was out the door, the rest
of the whisky was going down the sink.

But what did McIntyre want? The
lights had been off in Evan's office and he'd been quietly asleep in his chair.
The office would have looked empty. Unless McIntyre had followed him to the
office hours earlier and waited outside all that time, he must have thought he
was breaking into an empty office. There must be something he thought Evan had
in his files that he wanted to get rid of. It couldn't be the photos because
the police already had the copies he'd made for Stanton.

Evan turned away from the window and
looked at Jacobson. 'What did he look like?' he asked. 'Actually, don't bother
trying to answer that - let me show you a picture.'

He opened up Stanton's file and
called up the photos which he hadn't got round to deleting yet. Unfortunately
his system was set up to show thumbnails of the images and Jacobson got a quick
flash of all the images before Evan was able to click on the one of McIntyre
and Stanton's wife outside the motel.

'Is that him?' he asked.

'That's him. No doubt about it. I
assume that's the guy who was fooling around with your client's wife. And
that's the wife.'

'You got it. Mr Hugh McIntyre in
person. One hundred per cent screwball.'

'What's all this about, Evan?'

'I have no idea. I thought the guy
just wanted to break a few bones, that sort of thing, but it looks like he's
after something else.'

'The photos?'

'Can't be. The police already have Stanton's copies.'

They both sat thinking it over. Evan
knew he didn't have anything else.

'Beats me,' Jacobson said, 'but I
think you need to be careful. This guy obviously means business. Whatever it
is, he wants it badly.'

He got up to go, but Evan stopped
him.

'There's something I want to ask -
or tell - you, Tom. McIntyre isn't the only strange visitor I've had recently.'

Jacobson gave him a look that
suggested he might be regretting his understanding attitude, and sat back down.
'Do I really want to hear this?'

'No, it's not connected. Or at least
I don't think it is.' Then Evan told him all about his elusive visitor and how
he had no idea who it could be or what she wanted.

'The thing is, Tom, you've been
really understanding and just generally great about this whole situation that
I'm in, and it crossed my mind that you might have steered some work my way.
Someone you know who needs my sort of services.'

Jacobson shook his head. 'No, it's
nothing to do with me. If I could help out that way, then I wouldn't hesitate
to recommend you - I've got my rent to think about after all. But I'm afraid I
can't lay claim to this one, Evan. It looks like you've got two mysteries on
your hands.'

After he'd gone, Evan had a couple
of jobs that he wanted to get out of the way before he did anything else.
First, he poured the rest of the whisky down the sink. It wasn't exactly that
he didn't trust himself, but it had kind of a symbolic feel to it as well. Then
he copied the Stanton photos onto another memory stick and mailed it to himself
at his apartment. The previous night's events had shaken him up more than he
cared to admit, and you couldn't be too careful.

With her address and license plate
number it didn't take Evan long to find out that the woman's name was Linda
Clayton. The name didn't mean anything to him, but he knew a good place to
start his digging. About five thirty he went downstairs to see Jacobson again.
Jacobson had lived in the area forever and would be a good source of local
information. He found him getting ready to go home and suggested they go for a
beer. Jacobson was more than happy to join him when Evan told him he’d
identified the mystery woman.

They walked to a bar called Arnold's just down the street. It was a beautiful old place, with original woodwork and
lots of historical stuff on the walls. Evan liked it because it was a
no-bullshit local bar. Not a
lounge
which is what everywhere seemed to
be called these days. You waited for a plane in a lounge, not drink beer.

They got settled up at the bar, and
the barman served them a couple of cold beers. Evan told Jacobson that although
he'd found out who his mysterious nocturnal visitor was, he still had no idea
what she wanted.

'Her name's Linda Clayton. I know
you've lived round here for about a hundred years so I wondered if you maybe
knew her. Perhaps she's been the lucky recipient of some of that famous root
canal work.'

Jacobson smiled. 'Well if she had, I
wouldn't be able to discuss her personal information with you...but luckily for
you, she's not a patient. I also happen to know exactly who she is.'

He drained his beer, put the glass
down on the counter and sat back in his stool.

'I know this is what they all do in
those crappy movies you watch,' Evan said, with a grin, 'but all you have to
say is
May I have another beer please, Evan
.'

He called the barman over and
ordered another round. 'I'm treating this as rent-in-kind you know.'

‘I also know why she came to see
you,’ Jacobson said.

‘I suppose you want me to line them
up on the bar. Just get on with it.’

'She's actually pretty well known
round here. Not exactly a celebrity but everyone knows who she is. And her
story.'

He took another long pull of his
beer and sat lost in his thoughts, almost as if Evan wasn't there.

'I don't exactly feel like I'm
drowning in a sea of facts here,' Evan said, waving his hand in front of
Jacobson's face.

Jacobson flinched slightly. 'Sorry,
I was just thinking back to when it all happened. It's like it was only
yesterday, but it must be ten years ago at least.'

He drained the second beer and
ordered another one for both of them. He was a big man but Evan reckoned he
might not be the only one sleeping in the office that night.

'As I said, it was about ten years
ago. Everything in Linda Clayton's life was rosy. Nothing out of the ordinary,
just your normal small town family. Happily married to a good man, name of
Robbie Clayton, with a great kid. Daniel.'

He swallowed thickly and cleared his
throat. He wasn't a sentimental man and Evan knew not to expect any kind of a
happy ending to the story.

'Then in the space of a month her
husband and the boy both disappeared. She's never recovered.'

Evan didn't really know what to say.
He knew more than most what it was like to lose someone you loved, but your
husband and your child in such a short space of time was unthinkable.

'So what happened?'

'Actually I've got that the wrong
way round.’ Jacobson said, clearing his throat again. ‘The boy disappeared
first and then the husband.'

'Were they connected?'

'Who knows. They must have been. They
both just disappeared off the face of the earth.’ He looked directly into
Evan’s eyes. ‘I'm sorry, Evan, I know this must be terrible for you.'

He was right, but he would probably
never know quite how much it hurt. For the second time in seventy-two hours
Evan had been transported back in time to a place that he didn't know if he
wanted to forget or live in for the rest of his life.

'I think it's obvious what she
wants,' Jacobson said, 'but why you and why now, I have no idea.'

Evan felt something rising up inside
him. A deep-seated resentment that he'd lived with for the past five years.
'Did the police do anything? I mean, a missing kid's important, right.
Something to be taken
seriously
' - it came out as a sibilant hiss - 'a
totally different kettle of fish to a missing adult. Someone who probably
chose
to run away.' He knew he sounded bitter, but he couldn't help it and he didn't
care anyway. Not after three or four or was it ten beers. Fleetwood Mac's
'Gypsy' was playing on the jukebox. Thank God it wasn't 'Sarah'. Even so, he
thought he was either going to get up and smash the machine into little pieces
or he was going to cry.

Jacobson put a massive hand on his
shoulder and squeezed, then just let it rest there. Evan took a deep breath and
rubbed his face. 'Page one of the manual states, and I quote, 'Do not form an
emotional attachment with the client'. How do you think I'd do on that score if
I take her on, Tom?'

'I think you'd give it your best
shot. And I think it would be good for you. Catharsis.'

Evan wasn't sure if the beers were
inhibiting his normal mental prowess or he just didn't know what the word
meant. Either way his vacant face gave him away.

'Just look it up,' Jacobson said.

'Did they get anywhere at all with
the kid? What about the father?' Evan said, pulling himself together a bit.

'They pulled out all the stops on
the kid as you'd expect, but they didn't get anywhere. They took a hard look at
the parents as they always do, and then when the father disappeared too, they
pretty well assumed that he'd done the kid in and then done a runner. But they
didn't find him either.'

Evan shook his head as he tried to
comprehend what Linda Clayton must have gone through. 'So Linda Clayton had to
live with the loss of her husband and son, and, as if that wasn't enough,
listen to all the whispered gossip that her husband had probably killed the
boy. Jesus wept.'

'That about sums it up. I'm sure you
know how unkind people can be. End result is, she's pretty much become a
recluse. You never see her out in the daytime. That's why she's been coming
round to your office at night.'

'I still don't understand why me.
I'm not what you'd call a famous detective. My reputation doesn't exactly
precede me everywhere I go.'

Jacobson was kind enough not to
point out the most simple explanation - that she'd probably tried everybody
else already. 'You'll have to ask her that when you meet her.'

Evan knew he was right. There was no
way on earth he was going to let this drop now. Even if Linda Clayton didn't
want to talk to him he wouldn't be able to walk away. Patterns he didn't want
to see wormed their way into his mind. He didn't want to think too hard about
the possibility of a connection between a young boy and a grown man disappearing
ten years ago and Sarah's disappearance five years later. Unfortunately, you
don't have much control over the things your subconscious decides to push to
the forefront of your mind. You just have to deal with them once they're there.

There was a loud crack as Evan’s
glass suddenly exploded in his hand. He’d been gripping it so tightly, it had
shattered. Luckily it was empty but a shard of broken glass cut him on the
palm. It wasn’t too bad and he sucked the blood out of it as the barman picked
up all the pieces.

Then he ordered two more of the only
answer he could think of at the moment. They weren't the last two either.

He couldn't get to sleep that night,
lying awake in his sleeping bag and thinking about the Claytons, and what might
have happened to then. That segued far too easily into morbid thoughts about
Sarah and what might have happened to her. His mind played horrible tricks on
him at times like these.

Had she deliberately left him? He
would get vague memories suddenly spring into his mind of a terrible argument
they'd had the night before she disappeared. The worst part was, he could never
swear for sure that it hadn't actually happened. He had a recurring nightmare
that he'd killed her and buried her in their yard. Then he'd sold the house and
forgotten all about it until now, when the new owners had dug up her body and
he was about to be caught. But whatever strange tricks his mind played on him,
there was always a common thread running through it all; that it was
his
fault
she was gone.

He hoped to God that Jacobson was
right and this case, if that's what it was, might provide some kind of
catharsis. But until it did, he lay there like he did most nights he was drunk,
listening to Steve Earle's
I'm Still in Love with You
on repeat, with
Iris DeMent's forlorn vocals cutting into him like a knife, twisting in his gut
and eviscerating him. It usually played through six or seven before he drifted
off, but that night he must have listened to it a dozen times before he finally
fell asleep.

            The glass panel in the door exploded inwards,
showering Evan with tiny shards of glass. A hand reached through the hole and
unlatched the door. Evan struggled to sit up in his sleeping bag but couldn’t
move his arms; they were trapped in the twisted folds of the bag.

            The door swung open and Hugh McIntyre stepped into the
room. He was dressed exactly as when Evan had last seen him, wearing just his
pants and without any shoes. His chest was broad and muscular, his stomach flat
and rippled, and he had a prominent bulge in the front of his pants. He was
sweating heavily and the salty, almost chlorine, smell of sex was coming off
him in waves.

He smiled contemptuously, his eyes
still wild, as he watched Evan’s pathetic attempts to free himself.

‘You should have reversed back over
me when you had the chance, you pervert,’ he said in a voice that sounded a lot
like Stanton’s. ‘That’s a mistake you’re going to live with for the rest of
your life.’

Evan tried to speak but nothing came
out. His mouth opened and closed uselessly like a goldfish. He watched McIntyre
as he walked slowly across the room, oblivious to the shards of glass as they crunched
and lacerated his feet. He twisted frantically from side to side trying to get
himself free, but the more he struggled, the more caught up he became.

With a shock he noticed McIntyre was
carrying a coil of thick rope – the sort Stanton must have used. Where the hell
had that come from? He hadn’t been carrying that a minute ago.

            Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. McIntyre
walked over to the desk and saw the bottle of scotch. The smile grew wider.

‘Even better,’ he said, throwing the
rope on top of Evan. He picked up the bottle and slowly unscrewed the cap. He threw
back his head and took a long pull on the drink. Mesmerized, Evan watched his
Adam’s apple bob up and down as he poured the whisky down his throat. Then he
stopped, stretched his arm out over Evan and upended the bottle.

            Evan tried to cry out but again nothing came. He watched
the amber liquid as it fell slowly through the air before splashing onto his
face and hair, the stinging liquid running into his eyes and throat, making him
cough and splutter. He threw his head from side to side but that just made it
go up his nose. He was choking. He couldn’t free himself. The bottle seemed to
be never ending.
It wasn’t like that when he was drinking it.
The whisky
ran off his skin and soaked into the sleeping bag and the carpet until he was
lying in a pool of it.

            McIntyre whooped and threw the bottle at the window, smashing
the glass and letting the chill night air in. He pulled a box of matches from
his pocket. He struck one and casually let it drop. Horrified, Evan watched it
as it tumbled through the air, slowly turning over and over. McIntyre struck
another one, then another.

            ‘Toot! Toot!’ he laughed, mimicking the sound of
Evan’s car horn. ‘Remember that, do you?’

            The first match landed in the pool of whisky on the
floor and spluttered out. The second one landed in Evan’s hair. So did the
third. The scotch ignited with a roar and Evan felt a searing heat crawl over
his scalp. He screamed and jerked himself into a sitting position. He looked
around him, the scream dying on his lips.

            McIntyre was gone. The door was closed, the glass
intact. The window wasn’t broken. His hair and his body were slick and sticky but
only with sweat. The sleeping bag was damp with sweat too. There wasn’t a rope
or any whisky. He’d poured it down the sink. It was just a dream. He ran his
hand through his hair and flopped backwards and lay staring up at the ceiling
waiting for his heart and his breathing to slow.