Dying Eyes (30 page)

Which meant that she wanted to go look at the shops and buy some new shoes later this afternoon.

The commute wasn’t too bad, though. He enjoyed people-watching these days, and boy, did some weirdos get on this bus. Currently, there was a man with an unshaven beard who reeked of alcohol, and an old woman rustling some sweet wrappers and muttering nonsense under her breath.

For all he knew, they were thinking the same of him.

The journey wasn’t too lengthy, either. He was at the police station in fifteen minutes, and the traffic wasn’t too bad. There were, however, a group of journalists gathered around the entrance of the station. He looked closely as he got off the bus and approached. They were harassing an officer as he climbed the steps. He held his breath as he approached the journalists and the entrance to the police station. As long as they saw his PCSO uniform, they wouldn’t bother him. Nobody gave a shit about a civvie.

Across the road, in front of the newsagents, he noticed the billboard drifting back and forth in the wind. On it, nothing more than the words
PENDLE HILL MASSACRE
in bold caps. Further down the street, he spotted people with newspapers, pointing at the headline. A group of college kids rushed past him as he approached the station.

“I reckon it’s those witches,” one of them said.

“Fuck off,” another said. “It’s a psychopath. Serial killer or whatever.”

And then their conversations drifted into the distance the further they got away from Brian.

Damn. Must’ve been a big case if it had kids engaging with the news.

He kept his head down as he walked towards the steps of the station, being sure to keep his PCSO badge proudly on display. If there was such a thing as proudly displaying a PCSO badge, that was. But he wouldn’t have to stay here for long. He’d go in, pick up his updated list of duties from the front desk, drag Scott out to stop him pretending to be a real police officer, then get the hell out of here.

The journalists largely ignored him. Chatted to one another and showed off each others’ photographs, like some e-journalist cock-waving activity.

“PCSO McDone! No chance you’ll be hopping back into the limelight to sort out this case, huh?”

The voice took Brian by surprise. He stopped in his tracks and looked over his shoulder. He recognised the voice from somewhere in the past. He looked at the faces. Unshaven. Glasses. Tired eyes. All of them looked like new, fresh blood. None of the ruthless old journos from the old days. Nothing more than wannabes from UCLAN following strict orders, too afraid to step out of line.

Except one. One he recognised very much.

David Wallson.

David lifted his weedy arm and waved. He was still wearing the same green coat as he had two years ago, back when Brian had last seen him. Back when Brian had squared up to him for poking his nose in his family matters during the Watson case.

All that was different about him was the large, bushy beard on his face, and the greying hair. Clearly loving life as a journalist.

“The new badge looks good, McDone. Not quite as snazzy as the DS one, mind. But good on you. Happiness beats status every time, right?”

A couple of the younger journalists beside David sniggered. Brian tensed his jaw and turned away. Fuckwits. Wallson was nothing but a slimeball. Had some sort of inherent disrespect for the police. Little did he know, the police were just waiting for the opportunity to stitch him up someday. Improper methods. Phone hacking. Anything they could manage.

Brian pushed open the station door and prepared to go get Scott.

“Can’t tell me you aren’t a little bit interested, can you?” David called. “Can’t tell me that the old DS inside you just died that day you got your assistant killed, right?”

Brian stopped. His stomach tensed up, as did every other muscle in his body. He turned around to face David. Something awoke inside him. The mention of Cassy. The attribution of blame he had to carry for her death. He’d put that all behind him. He didn’t want to remember, not now things were good.

“You’re a twat, David.” Brian shook his head. He wanted to go on down there and beat the uppity shit to a pulp, but he knew there was no use to that. Hannah wouldn’t like it, and damn, if Vanessa found out, there’d be all sorts of trouble with access to Davey. So a swear word had to do for now.

“Hey,” David said, grinning. “I’m just saying, that’s all. A good detective never truly fades away, does he?”

“Just leave me to my work. And I’ll leave you to…‌well, whatever it is you are paid to do.”

“I’ve got two media passes,” David said. “Two passes to the Pendle Hill crime scene. One of my friends called in sick, so it’s just lonely old me. Unless you fancy a ride.”

Brian frowned. “I feel really sorry for you, David. Don’t you stray too far off the path or those witches will get you.” He turned away from the crowd and pushed into the station doors.

“I’m heading up there at ten a.m. You know my number if you change your mind.”

The doors to the station slammed shut behind Brian as he walked across the room to the front desk. His heart was racing. His cheeks were sweating.

“You okay, Bri?” Jill, the desk assistant, asked. She was like a mother figure to the officers in here; a classic northern lass, always smiling, always open to listen to problems. She wore glasses around her neck on brown beads. In fact, Brian wasn’t sure he’d ever seen her wearing them as glasses properly. Strange idea of fashion.

Brian forced a smile and cleared his throat. “Yeah,” he said. He took a few deep breaths. He needed to chill. He couldn’t let shits like Wallson get to him. “What’ve you got for me today?”

“Let me see,” Jill said, taking as much time as ever to go through his documents. “Looks like you’re on Moor Park today. Just checking those kids aren’t hanging around, terrorising the neighbours. You know the drill. Brian?”

Brian stared back at the journalists at the entrance door.

“You sure you’re okay?”

He snapped out of his trance and smiled at Jill again. “Yes. Sorry. Just…‌just tired.” Grabbing the documents and stuffing them under his arm, he made a break for the cafeteria. “Now to pick up my lazy colleague.”

He walked away from the front desk and went to the cafeteria.

David Wallson stared in at him, through the window, smile on face.

“And so I told her, ‘It’s just not going to work out between us,’ y’know? I just…‌I don’t like dating smokers. Simple as that.”

Brian grunted every few seconds as Scott opened up about his latest failed pursuit of love. The pair of them walked down the main road beside Moor Park, keeping their eyes on the seemingly derelict grass for any sort of misbehaviour. Autumn leaves brushed along the floor in the breeze, as drivers in cars pointed at the pair of PCSOs in their stupid, emasculating uniforms.

“It’s not that I didn’t like her,” Scott said. He had these ethical debates with Brian on pretty much a weekly basis now, but really, it was as if he was just airing his thoughts for his own benefit. Brian only needed to grunt every few seconds; make himself known. That was enough for Scott. His bloody soundboard.

“I don’t know,” Scott continued, as the pair of them turned onto the pathway of the park and headed towards the play area, where homeless people often drank near and scared the kids. “Maybe I’m just one of those people who is destined not to meet anybody. Maybe Carly was the only one for me. And now she’s moved on.”

“I used to think the same,” Brian said, relieved to finally be able to offer some legitimate advice. “I wondered whether there was another way after…‌after Vanessa.”

“What did happen with you two? If you don’t mind me asking.”

Brian did mind Scott asking. He didn’t like to delve into that part of his past too much. But he had to tell the story every now and then. He just dressed up the facts a little. Played up to a few clichés‌—‌that did the trick. “I was a miserable drinker. We separated. And then…‌and then all the bad stuff happened at work.”

“The Nicola Watson case?”

“Yes. Yes. That case. Anyway, we…‌we tried again afterwards. But it was clear too much damage had been done. So I just focused on my boy. Focused on being a good father. And I stopped looking for love. Lo and behold, that’s when Hannah came along a few months later, and now, I couldn’t be happier.”

“Well, you hardly stopped looking for love, signing up to those dating websites.”

Brian raised his eyebrows. “Touché.”

Scott was silent for a few moments. They passed the play area, which was as empty as the rest of the park. The shadow of Preston North End Football Club’s stadium lingered over, once pure-white paint turned a dirty shade of grey. “Don’t you ever wish you could…‌you could go back to how it was?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” Scott said. He raised his arms and gestured around. “This, it must be fuckin’ banal for a former DS. It’s fucking banal for me, and I’ve never been higher on the ladder. Do you never wish you could go back to…‌I dunno. Detective work? I mean, this case with the bodies at Pendle Hill. Something like that not just set something ticking inside of you?”

Brian looked at his feet. He checked his watch‌—‌nine a.m. He’d been hoping Scott wouldn’t bring the Pendle Hill case up, but it was the talk of Preston, after all. “No,” he lied. “I…‌My family is more important now. I’m not good when I’m on a big case.”

Scott whistled. “Not what I heard. I heard you’re a fuckin’ dogged officer. Never let a lead tire. And you brought that Michael Walters nonce to justice in the end, eh? Even when the other officers wanted to back down, you brought him to justice.”

Brian tried to block the images of the past from his mind. Michael Walters and the horrible things he had done in the name of BetterLives. But the real culprit, Robert Luther. The real murderer of Nicola Watson, just without any evidence left against him. That’s what really forced him to step down from his higher role. He couldn’t be an intrinsic part of an institution that covered up for the highest bidder.

“I mean, hey, I’m just saying. Not trying to push you away or anything. Just sometimes wonder what goes through your head is…‌Ah, fuck. Dirty Dan’s here again.”

Scott jogged ahead of Brian, towards the old man in a grey coat sat on a park bench.

He had nothing on underneath his long, grey coat. His goose-pimpled erect cock was on display for any poor passer-by to see.

Usually, it amused Brian, seeing Dirty Dan like this. He was harmless enough. But today, his mind was elsewhere. He looked at his watch again. Five past nine. Fifty-five minutes until David Wallson headed to Pendle Hill with his spare media pass. The only window of opportunity he’d have to take a look at a crime scene that just wouldn’t stop niggling at him.

“You coming, Bri?” Scott asked.

Brian took a deep breath in. “Hey, I…‌Something’s come up. Do you mind signing for me and dealing with this? I shouldn’t be too long.”

Scott hesitated for a few moments then smiled. “Got it. Go do what you’ve gotta do.” He spun around and continued towards Dirty Dan, as a fountain of semen spouted out of Dan’s purple bellend.

Brian didn’t feel totally in control of his actions. He felt like somebody else was controlling him, pushing the buttons and directing his every move. He lifted his phone out of his pocket. Scrolled down to “Dickhead Dave”. Held his thumb over it for a few seconds.

No. He was being mad. What possible benefit would he gain from going to a crime scene like that? It would only make him restless. It would only make him want to solve it himself.

But there was nothing wrong with taking a look. He’d always found Pendle Hill an interesting location. There was nothing wrong with showing an interest in a big news story. Like a hobby, or something like that.

He looked on as Scott attempted to cover a hysterical Dirty Dan up, and lifted his phone to his ear.

The dialling tone rang just twice before David Wallson’s recognisable voice answered.

“If it isn’t Mr. McDone. Had a think about my offer?”

Brian tensed his jaw. He couldn’t actually believe he was doing this. “On one condition. That you pick me up from Moor Park, and you don’t write a fucking word about me in your rag of a paper.”

David laughed. “McDone, McDone. Why ever would I want to write a word about you?”

Brian hit the red button. Two seconds chatting to Wallson and already he wanted to throttle him.

He took one final look back at Scott and Dirty Dan. They were both sat down engaged in conversation now.

And then he walked down the path, towards the road, towards his rendezvous point.

There was nothing wrong with taking a look at Pendle Hill.

Just a little look.

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About the Author

Ryan Casey is the author of several novels, novellas and short stories. He primarily writes suspense thrillers, but also writes horror, science fiction and mystery. He revels in exploring complex, troubled characters in difficult moral situations, and is a sucker for a plot twist. His work includes the best selling Dead Days serial, the Brian McDone crime mysteries, Sinkers, The Hunger, Killing Freedom, What We Saw, The Watching, She Remembers, Something in the Cellar and Silhouette.

Casey lives in the United Kingdom. He has a BA degree in English with Creative Writing from the University of Birmingham, and has been writing stories for as long as he can remember. In his spare time, he enjoys American serial television, is a slave to Pitchfork’s Best New Music section, and wastes far too much of his life playing Football Manager games.

For more information go to
ryancaseybooks.com

About this Book

What secrets hide behind dying eyes?

With the Christmas and New Year chaos out of the way, it’s time for the Preston Police Department to put their feet up and return to normality.

But for DS Brian McDone, there is no respite from the frenzy. An unidentified young woman is found brutally murdered in a seedy section of the city, her body laced with bruises, her sharp fingernails digging into her palms. Her eyes are staring up at something in pure fear.