“How would I know? She’s not mine so she can do as she likes, so long as she behaves herself under my roof.”
“So you’ve no idea where she was going after she phoned you?”
“No.”
“She didn’t mention anyone she might be meeting?”
“No.”
“She rang you to let you know she was safe?”
“Yes.”
“Why would she do that? You said yourself she was free to do as she pleased. Why would she bother phoning you?”
“Money, I expect. That’s all kids want from you. I expect she thought her mum would answer. As it was me, she’d know better than to ask. There was no point giving her any because she was a wasteful cow.”
Whenever he saw people like John Taylor, Dylan despaired for the state of the country. What chance did Caroline or any other child have when their parents, or stepparents, didn’t give a damn? Where did it end? If Caroline had children, how could she love them when she’d never been taught what love was?
“What about Child?” Dylan asked. “I assume he was questioned?”
“Yes. He couldn’t have been more cooperative,” Rhodes said. “Even said we could search the premises if we wanted. All we had to do was say the word.”
“And did you say the word?”
“Too right we did. A fat lot of good it did us, though. We found nothing.”
Child wasn’t stupid, not when it came to hiding stuff from coppers.
“You got a warrant?”
“Yes, and that’s another thing,” Rhodes said. “We have to do everything by the book, Dylan. He’s an expert at dodging the law, so—”
“Don’t worry. I won’t mess up the chance of securing a safe conviction. I’d love to see Child behind bars.”
“Good. We want you to find out exactly what’s going on at that commune. There must be something there that we missed.” Rhodes returned to the table and handed over the folder. “I suggest you read through this. Any questions, just ask. Then it will be up to you. By the way, Frank Willoughby’s on his way. He’ll be here shortly.”
“I’ll look forward to it.”
“He was your boss, wasn’t he?” Miller asked, clearly curious as to why ex-Detective Chief Inspector Willoughby, a hero in this nick, would be spending time with a disgraced copper.
“For a while, yes.”
“Get along well, did you?”
“Very well.”
It was a lie, but Dylan didn’t like the way Miller asked his questions. He was treating Dylan as if he were a criminal, not someone about to try to solve one of their cases for them. Besides, these days he and Frank were the best of mates.
“Right, we’ll leave you to it,” Rhodes said. “If you need anything, just shout.”
Dylan looked straight at Miller. “Another coffee would be good.”
“Of course. We’ll see to it,” Rhodes said.
When the two officers left the room, Dylan read through the pertinent facts. There would be file after file of paperwork, but this was Rhodes’s copy of what he considered the most important facts in the girls’ disappearance.
John Taylor’s name cropped up repeatedly. Officers had been called out to his property several times in the past to sort out domestic disputes. It seemed as if Taylor’s wife could give as good as she got, because Taylor had once ended up in hospital with a fractured skull after she found a more creative use for her saucepan.
A coffee arrived courtesy of an unsmiling Miller. “Room service is off duty now.”
“Is that so?” Dylan replied.
“Yes. And don’t think we all wanted you in on this case. Most of us can do without the help of bad coppers.” He wrinkled his nose as if there were a rotten odour under it.
Dylan leaped out of his chair and grabbed the detective by the lapels of his jacket. “You call me a bad copper again, sunshine, and you’ll have to shove your toothbrush up your arse to clean your teeth. Got that?”
A knock on the door preceded Frank’s arrival. He did a double take, but whether that was due to Dylan’s appearance or the fact that he had his hands around Miller’s throat was difficult to say. Probably the latter, because his eyes narrowed as he said, “Nice to see you’re getting along so well.”
“Wonderfully well,” Dylan said. “We’ll be exchanging bodily fluids next. Isn’t that right, Detective Sergeant Miller?”
Dylan let the man go. Miller straightened his collar and, red-faced, nodded at Frank before leaving the room.
“What was that about?” Frank asked when they were alone.
“Just me taking exception to being called a bad copper. I suppose I should be used to it by now.” Or if not used to it, he should be able to take it without resorting to violence. “It’s fine. Forget it. How are things with you, Frank?”
“I’m in great shape.” He patted Dylan on the shoulder. “It’s good to see you. Even if you do look like a cross between a tramp and an eighties fashion guru.”
“I tried to tell them that David Young wouldn’t be sporting the same look these days. These glasses looked ridiculous years ago and they’re even more out of place now. As for this beard—no way would he put up with it. I swear something’s already taken up residence in it. My head’s itching too. I think I’ve had a reaction to the dye.” He gestured at the chairs. “Have a seat. I’d offer you a coffee but Miller said room service is off duty.”
Frank sat down and Dylan wondered exactly how fit he was. A heart attack had forced him to retire from the force, and Dylan couldn’t help thinking he looked a little frail. Or if not frail, then pale and weary. Still, there was no point pushing the issue because Frank would insist they go out and run a marathon before lunch.
“I suppose it was your idea to bring me up here,” Dylan said.
Frank looked taken aback. “On the contrary. I was dead against it. I still am. Oh, no, don’t think for a minute that you’re getting tied up with Joe Child with my approval. I think it’s a crazy idea.”
Dylan frowned at him. “Why?”
“Because you’re known in these parts, for one thing.”
“But I—”
Frank waved away Dylan’s interruption. “I’m not saying you’re the celebrity you like to think you are, but you’re known. It’ll only take one person to recognise you and it’ll get nasty. Child, in case you’ve forgotten, is one dangerous bastard.”
“Allegedly.”
“Have you forgotten Barney Fraser?”
Fraser, a thug who’d been known to have half of London living in his pocket, and one who’d trodden on the toes of drugs baron McCoy once too often, had been found with his tongue cut out. He’d bled to death in an old warehouse.
“Child had an alibi,” Dylan said.
Frank snorted at that. “No. A bunch of crooks swore he was with them all weekend.”
Dylan couldn’t argue with that. Fraser’s murderer had never been brought to justice. The clever money had Child down as the killer, but there was no evidence to secure a conviction.
“What brought him up north anyway, Frank?”
“I expect he’d made too many enemies down south. The force has nothing on him, or nothing new, but he’ll have made enemies. Either that or the property prices brought him here. You get a lot more buildings and land for your freshly laundered money up here.”
That was true. If you could afford a mansion in east Lancashire, you’d run to a broom cupboard in London.
“I thought both girls had vanished from Child’s place,” Dylan said, “but the second girl, Farrah, had returned home and had been living with her parents for a month. Maybe Child has nothing to do with her disappearance at all.”
“It’s possible.”
“But unlikely?”
Fra
nk thought for a moment. “I don’t know. I do know that Child will be involved in some get-rich-quick scam.”
“Aw, you’ve no heart. I was picturing him on his knees, begging forgiveness from his Lord for all sins committed.”
“The bastard would be on his knees if I got my hands on him.” Frank expelled his breath. “So what’s your story?”
“I’ve supposedly come north because my girlfriend left me and because I did a job with a mate that got a bit too hot to handle. I caught the train to Manchester, fell asleep and ended up in Dawson’s Clough. On being told I didn’t have a ticket past Manchester, I got into an altercation with a ticket inspector and have been arrested for assault. As I need to kick my heels until my court case comes up, I’m begging for free board and lodging.”
Frank nodded. “Child went along with it, did he?”
“He doesn’t know what I’ve been arrested for, or that I’m due in court, but yes, he seemed convinced. Why shouldn’t he be? As far as he was concerned, it was just a chance meeting in a bar. He was keen to make himself known to me. He gave me his card and said Doll—remember Doll?—would love to see me again.”
“I remember Doll, yes. If you upset her in any way, three ugly brothers would make sure you lived to regret it.” Frank shook his head. “I’m not in favour of arming Britain’s coppers, but I wouldn’t send a dog into that place. Watch your back.”
“I will. What’s the setup there? Any ideas?”
“It’s a big place, an old farm with lots of barns and assorted outbuildings. He put down a deposit and took out a mortgage on it. It was almost derelict, but they’re renovating it. We’re supposed to believe everyone works together—cooking, cleaning, building, painting, whatever needs doing. There are about thirty people living there including Child, the lovely Doll and their two sons.”
“How old are the sons now?”
“In their early twenties. Chips off the evil block, I suspect.”
“So is it a family affair? Have they all found God?”
“So they’d have us believe.”
They talked for another hour, speculating on what Child could be up to, but that’s as far as they got. Speculation.
“Fair hair makes you look gay too,” Frank said in a matter-of-fact way.
“Thanks. Any more compliments?”
“None for the moment.” Frank chuckled before growing serious again. “Just be careful, Dylan. Child is an evil bastard. End of.”
Chapter Four
Dylan was knackered. Since a ne’er-do-well like David Young wouldn’t be forking out for taxis, he’d decided to walk to Child’s place. Three miles had sounded nothing until he realised there was a steep hill to be climbed. Wind tugged at his spiky hair and his confounded beard, and a few icy spots of rain trickled down his neck. As rain and spectacles didn’t mix, he’d taken off his glasses and shoved them in his pocket.
He was soon standing at the end of a curving lane about five hundred yards long. A wooden hand-painted sign welcomed all to Moorside Refuge and reminded those in doubt that God loved them.
Dylan leaned against a stone wall, removed one of his trainers and took out a sim card hidden beneath the thin insole. The wind immediately snatched it from his hand. Thankfully, he managed to put his foot on it as it landed on the ground, getting a soggy foot for his trouble.
With the card safely installed, he switched on his phone. Four messages waited—one from his mother and three from his wife. Usually, it was the other way round. It was his mother who called him a dozen times a day.
“Just calling for a chat,” she said. “Speak soon.”
As there was no point to that call, he deleted her message and called Bev.
“Hey,” she said, “how’s it going?”
“It’s all good. I’m about to go in and get myself a bed. How are things down there?”
“Oh, so-so.”
He waited for more, but nothing was forthcoming.
“Something wrong?” He hoped not. Sorting out a family crisis wasn’t an option right now.
“No, not really.” She sighed. “It’s just that I’ve got that pain again and I don’t feel great. What do you think it can be?”
“Bev, I love you to death, sweetheart, but my knowledge of female reproductive organs is zero and I’d like to keep it that way. Make an appointment now, while it’s on your mind.”
“Why should it be anything to do with my reproductive organs? Honestly, isn’t that typical of a man.”
And wasn’t it typical of a woman to take offence when someone stated fact. “What else is down there, other than reproductive organs?”
“Well, I don’t know.”
“I don’t either. I’m not a doctor.”
She grunted something that he didn’t catch, which was probably as well.
“Perhaps I will call the health centre. Well, I’ll do it tomorrow. Your mum’s having the kids tonight so I’m hitting the town with Lucy. I’ll phone the health centre tomorrow when—”
“You’ve sobered up?”
“Probably,” she said, and he could hear the amusement in her voice. “You know what Lucy’s like.”
He did. He also knew what Bev was like. A couple of glasses of wine and she was anyone’s. She’d been known to throw up in taxis, pass out in hedges—
“Apart from that, everything’s fine here.” She sounded brighter. “Luke’s miffed because you won’t be taking him to the football tomorrow. I’ve told him you’ll probably be back for the next game. Do you think you will?”
“We’ll see.” Getting inside Child’s life was one thing. Finding out what he was up to was something else entirely. Perhaps he was as innocent of any wrongdoing as he claimed. After all, Farrah Brindle hadn’t lived at the refuge for a month before she went missing. “I’ll do my best, but I’ve called Pikey and he’s more than happy to take Luke. He said he’d call and collect Luke and the tickets around noon tomorrow. Is that okay?”
“Oh, that’s good of him. Yes. Luke will be thrilled.”
Pikey, or Detective Sergeant Pike, was a good copper, and an even better friend. If he and Dylan had been working together the night Dylan arrested that piece of scum—
They hadn’t so it was no use going over it. Water under the bridge...
They’d remained good friends though, and Bev got along well with his wife. They should get together and catch up over a few beers.
“How’s Freya?” he asked. “She okay?”
“She’s good. As cute as ever.”
He smiled at that. His daughter was noisy, wilful and demanding, but yeah, she was cute. “Okay. If you need me, leave a message. I’ll check my phone as often as possible and I’ll ring when I can, but don’t worry if you don’t hear from me for days. And make an appointment with the doctor.”
“I will. Be careful, won’t you, Dylan?”
“It’s my middle name.”
“Love you.”
“Love you too.” He ended the call, removed the sim card and returned it to his trainer. With David Young’s sim card installed, he put on his glasses, slung his holdall over his shoulder and walked up to Child’s refuge.
The lane was thick with mud in places, which, given the amount of rain the region had seen recently, wasn’t surprising. Deep, water-filled ruts would smash the exhaust on any low-slung vehicles.
Sheep grazed in a field off to his left. To his right was a smaller field. In front of him was a large stone house surrounded by sprawling outbuildings. Together the land and buildings, even taking into account the low property prices in Lancashire, had to be worth close to a million. Child must have taken out some mortgage.
Views were spectacular. From its vantage point high on the hill, the refuge peered down on the town of Dawson’s Clough. Tall chimneys served
as a reminder that the cotton mills had once brought great prosperity to this area. Behind the town loomed more barren hills that were breathtakingly beautiful on rare sunny days and, as Dylan knew from bitter experience, bleakly hostile when the rain and snow came, as it so often did to this corner of east Lancashire.
A woman with iron-grey hair and a face wrinkled with age was feeding chickens in front of the house. She was wearing a blue skirt, a multicoloured cardigan and purple Wellington boots. The chickens clucked around her feet as she tossed out food.
Welcome to Hippies R Us. His mother would have loved this place. She’d never shaken off her hippie tendencies. She’d never even tried. He could see her in this setting, smoking a joint while she fed chickens...
“Welcome,” the woman said.
“Thanks. I’m looking for Joe. Is he around?”
“He’s in the chapel. Come, I’ll show you.”
She threw the rest of the food to the chickens and, with the empty bucket dangling from her arm, set off for one of the buildings. She slid back a heavy wooden door and called out, “Joe, there’s someone to see you.”
She stepped back to let Dylan pass in front of her. He did so, and when he turned to thank her, she’d vanished.
“Davey!” Child rushed forward. “What a surprise. Good to see you!”
Half a dozen men of various ages paused for a moment to look at Dylan before continuing with their respective tasks.
The chapel was obviously a work in progress. Plasterboard was being fixed to the old stone walls. Cables dangled everywhere, and two freestanding halogen bulbs provided light. At the far end was an altar. Or, more accurate, an old trestle table covered by a heavily embroidered cloth that was held in place by two large brass candlesticks sitting at either end. Odd mixes of chairs, some wooden and some plastic, were stacked in a corner.
“You too, Joey.” Dylan dropped his holdall at his feet. “I’m in a spot of bother.”
Child rolled his eyes. “I’m not surprised. You can’t go waving broken bottles at the filth, you know.”
“It’s not that. Well, yeah, it probably is. Resisting arrest and all that bollocks. But did I mention I fell asleep on the train and ended up here? I got into a bit of trouble with the ticket inspector. He was giving me hell for not having a ticket past Manchester, and I couldn’t get him to see that I hadn’t wanted to be on his bloody train past Manchester. To cut a long story short, we had a bit of a coming together and he’s pressing charges. I’ve been in court this morning. A trial date’s been set for February the fourteenth.”
Deadly Shadows (A Dylan Scott Mystery) Page 3