Dylan gave her shoulder a sympathetic squeeze and she turned her face into his chest and cried all the harder.
“She was such a lovely person.” She choked out each word. “Who could do this to her? It’s not fair. She was my best friend and I’m going to miss her so much.”
He had more questions for Clare and he wished now that he’d had the good sense to ask them before they saw the grave. As it was, he led her, crying all the way, to his car. He opened the door, pushed her gently into the passenger seat and walked round to sit behind the steering steel. And still she cried.
Dylan hunted round for the pack of tissues he knew had been in the car a week or so back. Just as he was mentally cursing Bev for throwing those out too, he found them. He opened the pack, pulled one out and handed it to Clare.
“Thank you.” She took it from him, blew her nose and reached for another. Six tissues later, she seemed to have pulled herself together. “Sorry, Dylan.”
“Don’t be. She was worth a few tears.”
“She certainly was. She was the best friend anyone could have. I miss her so much.”
Dylan decided he might as well ask his questions. “Did she ever mention a chap called Danny Thompson to you?” At her blank expression, he added, “He runs a wine bar in the town. She used to visit it now and again.”
“No. Sorry, but the name means nothing to me.”
“According to him, she used to go there, get drunk and take a cab home. Not often, just every few weeks or so. Does that sound like something Prue would do?”
She smiled and her eyes filled with fresh tears. “God, yes. We were always telling each other we needed to grow up. She never will though, will she? Yes, that sounds like something she’d do. You know when life gets a bit much? You go and get drunk and, the next morning, you’re too concerned about your hangover to care about anything else.”
Dylan smiled at that. “She didn’t mention the wine bar to you?”
“No.”
Prue Murphy had been the most tight-lipped person ever.
“Danny Thompson,” Dylan said, “the owner, said she’d mentioned something to him about all the decent men being married, gay or both. Is that something she would have said?”
“Yes.” A genuine smile curved her lips. “Sometimes, usually when we’d had a drink or two, we’d sit and man-watch as we called it. We’d rate them—God, that sounds bad, doesn’t it? It was only a harmless bit of fun though. We’d watch men and say ‘Married,’ ‘Gay,’ ‘Desperate,’ ‘Boring’ and, if a miracle happened, ‘Drop-dead gorgeous and available.’ It was just harmless fun.”
“Do you think she might have been involved with anyone?”
“No one I knew about.”
“Might she have been involved with a married man? Was that something she would have told you?”
“She wouldn’t have told me because it wouldn’t have happened. No way would Prue have had anything to do with someone else’s husband. We both knew the odds of that working out—zero. No, there would be too much pain involved for all concerned.”
The thing about most people, Dylan thought, was that they knew things about their friends they didn’t realise they knew. Everyone did. He’d bet she knew a lot about Prue if only she’d take the time to think back and read between the lines.
“You okay?” he asked, and she nodded.
“Yes. Thanks.”
He fired the engine and pulled away from the church in the direction of the town centre. She’d said she’d have a walk round before catching the train home. It had been a long journey to put those flowers on that sodden ground.
“So, Clare, if you had to describe Prue to me in half a dozen words, what would you say?”
She thought for a moment. “I’d say she was kind, generous, funny and smart. She loved art, loved great designs. She loved dogs and cats and was terrified of cows. She could cook but rarely bothered. She was loyal. She loved her parents. She hated pretentiousness. She was no one’s fool. She never forgot my birthday, not once, and was always surprised when I remembered hers. She thought of others before herself.” She sighed. “I can’t think of a bad thing to say about her.”
He’d gathered that. Perhaps Prue really had been as wonderful as people said.
“What about her sister, Maddie?” he asked. “I know you’ve only met her once, but Prue must have spoken about her. What sort of person does she strike you as?”
“Jealous.”
Surprised, Dylan gave her a sideways glance.
“Prue dismissed that as nonsense,” she said, “but nothing will ever convince me that Maddie isn’t—wasn’t—jealous of Prue. Everyone loved Prue whereas people found Maddie difficult. Jealous, bitter, cruel, selfish—” She shrugged. “I don’t know her, Dylan, so I’m not qualified to comment, but from things Prue used to say, that’s how I’d describe Maddie. Prue, on the other hand, would defend her sister to her last breath. Once, and this made me so mad, Maddie fixed Prue up with a lad who was—well, let’s say he had special needs. Prue was about sixteen at the time so Maddie would have been twenty-one. Maddie had been saying for weeks that she had this friend who was dying to meet Prue. So she arranged this date and Prue went along. Prue would do anything for a quiet life. And there was this young boy, about fifteen. Maddie thought this hysterically funny and Prue spent hours trying to explain to her sister that, actually, it wasn’t funny to play jokes that involved a kid with special needs. In the end, of course, Maddie was the one left fuming because Prue had a great time with—Adrian, his name was. She took him to the funfair the following day, I remember, and they stayed friends. But that’s Maddie. Cruel. And jealous.”
Dylan didn’t know what to make of that. If he thought of Maddie, he thought of that blasted blue bedroom. He couldn’t remember ever thinking her cruel, jealous or selfish. She’d been fun. She wasn’t a bundle of laughs these days, but why would she be? Her sister had died, her parents were in bits, she had funerals to arrange, police to deal with—no one would be fun under those circumstances.
God, there was now’t so queer as folk, as people were fond of saying.
They’d arrived at the bus station and Dylan stopped the car. “If you walk through that alley, you’ll find yourself in the shopping centre. Then, if you come back here, you can get the free bus to the station for your train.”
“That’s great. Thanks so much, Dylan.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yes.” She didn’t look it. “Yes, I’m fine. Thanks.”
“You have my number?”
“Of course. And if I think of anything else, I’ll give you a call. And you, if you find out anything, will you let me know?”
“I will.”
Dylan watched her walk in the direction of the alley where a sign read To the Shops. She stopped as she reached it, lifted her bag higher onto her shoulder, seemed to take a deep breath, and strode off. He watched until she was out of sight.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Dylan was lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling and trying to picture himself on a boat with a friend. He was imagining enjoying a bottle of wine with Frank beneath the stars on a boat that was rocking gently on a calm sea. He went below to fetch more wine, came back and was in time to see Frank attacked and knocked overboard. Someone came at him with a fire extinguisher, smashed it into his shoulder and sent him into the water. What would he do? With his boat heading back to shore, he’d do his damnedest to find Frank and, when that proved fruitless, he’d concentrate on swimming to dry land. So far so good. Then what would he do?
Easy. He’d call 999 and say “Some bastard just tried to kill me.”
Why hadn’t Jack McIntyre done that?
He didn’t know. He did know that Clare Finch had given him something to think about. She’d been far more helpful than she could have known and had sent his mind in a completely new direction.
“Your mum’s acting strange,” Bev said.
“What?” Damn
it, he’d lost his train of thought now. “Oh, well, that’s good. It would worry me if she was acting normal.”
“I’m being serious.”
“So am I.” Dylan had been under the impression that they’d come to bed to get some sleep but Bev sat up and switched on the lamp.
“Think about it,” she said. “Boris is planning to ride a Harley along Route 66. That’s Vicky’s dream holiday and her dream man. Just imagine all the weirdos she’d meet. Hell, she might even meet Bob Dylan.”
“Bob’s probably getting a bit old to ride a Harley.”
“Just think if she met him, though. I mean really met him as opposed to seeing him at a concert. She’d die a happy woman.”
Knowing he’d get no sleep for a while, Dylan sat up. “But she wouldn’t meet him.”
“I know. Yes, I know. But she’d be sure to meet lots of like-minded people on a trip like that. It’s her ideal holiday, right?”
“Probably,” he said.
“And Boris has to be her ideal man, right?”
“I don’t know. He might be, he might not. How would I know?”
“He is.” She wasn’t going to argue the point. “So, tell me this. If he’s so perfect for her, why isn’t she seeing him again? And she isn’t. I asked her and she was adamant.”
“How would I know? Maybe he squeezes toothpaste from the top. Perhaps he likes to dress up in women’s clothes. How would I know, Bev? If he does nothing for her, that’s it. There’s nothing we can do about it.”
“I have my own theory.”
“Really?” He was definitely getting no sleep till this was sorted. “Do tell.”
“I think she’s figured out that he’s your father and I think she’s putting an end to it before anyone else realises. It would get too complicated for her, wouldn’t it? You know what she’s like.”
He knew what she was like all right. As mad as a box of blasted frogs. He couldn’t imagine for one moment that Boris was his father though. There were no similarities at all as far as he could see. They were about the same height and had the same colour hair, although Boris’s was showing a lot of grey mixed in with the dark, and that was all. That could apply to half the male population.
“It’s the eyes,” Bev said.
“What?”
“You and Boris. You have the same eyes.”
“Rubbish.”
“Have it your way.” She switched off the lamp and settled down again. “Night.”
Goddamn it. He was wide awake now.
He thumped his pillow into submission and lay on his back staring up at the darkness again. Boris was about the same height as he was, he had the same thick dark hair, and Bev thought they had the same eyes. That meant nothing. Bev swore that Freya looked like his mother whereas Dylan couldn’t see the slightest resemblance. There were millions of men walking the planet who were as tall and dark-haired as Dylan. Millions. Okay, so Boris had been in Turkey at the same time as Dylan’s mother, at the same time that Dylan had been conceived, but so what?
None of it mattered anyway. Boris had been given the brush-off, and it was unlikely any of them would see him again. He’d be forgotten. Dylan had survived forty years without knowing his father’s identity and he could easily survive another forty.
Bev was right, though. It was strange that his mother wasn’t out buying a crash helmet and hoping to get her kicks on Route 66.
Dylan knew where Boris lived. He could pay him a visit, maybe have a chat. Not that it was an easy subject to bring up. “By the way, Boris, did you shag my mother forty years ago?”
He pushed the extremely distasteful image from his mind and concentrated on more important matters, like why Jack McIntyre hadn’t gone to the police.
A small element of doubt surfaced. Perhaps, in the same situation, Dylan would have gone it alone. It had to be far easier to find a killer if that person believed you were dead. Also, as soon as the police told the world you were alive, who’s to say the killer wouldn’t try again—and succeed this time?
Who had wanted McIntyre dead? Assuming someone had, of course. Who had broken into Prue Murphy’s home and killed her? And who had ended sixteen-year-old Kevin Mills’s life in such a brutal fashion?
He needed to start with Kevin Mills’s murder and work backwards. He’d return to Dawson’s Clough and start asking questions. Detectives would be doing the same thing, of course, but they had rulebooks to follow. Dylan didn’t.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Dylan stopped the Morgan outside Maddie’s home in time to see her in a very tight embrace with Eddie Bryson. They were in the lounge, standing by the window and on show to anyone who happened to look inside. Maddie spotted him first and stepped back from Bryson.
Dylan got out of the car, strode up the front door and was about to ring the bell when it swung open.
“You’re early, Dylan.”
They’d arranged to meet this evening, but Dylan was heading back to Dawson’s Clough and had decided to call here on his way. She didn’t look pleased about the change of plan.
“Hi, Maddie. Yes, sorry about that. I’m driving north so I thought I’d call in here on the off chance you were in.” He looked past her to Bryson. “Hello, Eddie.”
“Dylan, how are you?” Bryson strode forward, his hand outstretched.
“I’m good, thanks.” Dylan shook his hand and wondered just how close Bryson and Maddie were. He didn’t seem her type. Neither did Tim Chandler though. All the same, that embrace had seemed extremely intimate for a Monday morning.
They all walked into the kitchen. Maddie looked tense and upset.
“How are you getting on?” Bryson asked. “Have you any idea who might have done such a thing to Maddie’s poor sister?”
“I have a few leads.” God, he was sounding like a copper now. A lying copper.
“That’s good. It will be a relief to all concerned if you can find out what really happened.”
“Time will tell,” Dylan said.
“You may as well hear this, Dylan.” Maddie stood with her back to them both, staring out the window. She spun round to face them. “I think Tim was having an affair with Prue.”
Dylan was too surprised to speak and silence stretched between them until Bryson spoke. “And I think you’re imagining it, Maddie.”
So was that it? Eddie had been consoling Maddie? It was all perfectly innocent?
“What makes you think that?” Dylan asked.
“This.” She opened a fist that had been tightly clenched to reveal a brass button. “Tim claims to have lost this when he went to Portugal. If that was true, how did I find it among Prue’s possessions?”
Interesting. “What does Tim say?”
“He denies everything. Well, he would, wouldn’t he?” Maddie paced the length of the kitchen with the button held before her like a trophy.
“How can you be sure it’s the same button?” Dylan asked.
“I just know.”
“It seems unlikely,” Dylan said, “that Prue would have an affair with her own sister’s husband.”
“That proves how much you know about her.”
Jealous was how Clare Finch had described Maddie. Had Maddie been so jealous of Prue that she’d imagine Prue capable of stealing her husband?
Prue hadn’t been happy having an affair with a married man, Dylan was fairly sure of that. Clare Finch had confirmed it. Danny Thompson had said she’d visited his wine bar and complained that all the decent men were married or gay. Dylan had assumed she’d been referring to McIntyre. Perhaps Tim Chandler had been on her mind. Perhaps Prue had been involved with Chandler.
“He claims,” Maddie said, “that he must have lost it when we visited Prue before Christmas, but I don’t think he was wearing his blazer then.”
“You don’t sound too sure,” Dylan said.
“How the hell can I be expected to remember what he was wearing three months ago?”
“I have to go.” Bryson gave Dylan a regretfu
l smile. “Nothing personal, Dylan. I have an appointment and I’m running late as it is. It’s been good to see you though.” He put a hand to Maddie’s face. “You’re imagining things, sweetheart. Tim loves you, I know that. Now, stop worrying. I expect it’s the stress you’re under right now. You’re getting worked up over nothing.”
She nodded and gave him a weak smile.
Bryson gave her a quick peck on the cheek, took car keys from his pocket and was gone.
The phone rang out and a frown crossed Maddie’s face. Then, in an instant, the frown was replaced by a smile. “I’ll ignore it. Sorry, Dylan, I sound a right old misery, don’t I? It’s just that nothing seems to be going to plan at the moment.”
“Life rarely does.”
The phone stopped ringing.
“I know.” She slipped her arm through his. “So what do you have to tell me?”
Dylan wondered if this was what middle age was all about. Twenty years ago, he would have been in Maddie’s bed and to hell with the consequences. His older and possibly wiser self was busy trying to make sense of her. Her moods changed in a split second and he realised he didn’t know her at all. Perhaps he never had.
What about the mental image he had of Prue? Was that even close to accurate? Everyone he’d spoken to adored her but he’d only spoken to her friends. None of those friends had a bad word for Prue. Or a good one for Maddie.
“You asked me to come,” Dylan reminded her. “I don’t really have anything to tell you. I’m heading back to Dawson’s Clough though.”
“Why?”
“A teenager, Kevin Mills, has been murdered and I think his death is connected to Prue’s in some way. He was at the church when we buried Prue. I don’t know why or how, but I’m sure there’s a connection.”
“Because you saw him at the church on the day of Prue’s funeral?” Her tone was mildly scoffing.
“Yes. And because two murders in Dawson’s Clough is stretching the realms of coincidence too far.”
She tapped her foot on the floor. Tap, tap, tap. “When will you be back?”
Dying Art (A Dylan Scott Mystery) Page 18