Deadly Shadows (A Dylan Scott Mystery)

by Shirley Wells

  He was pulling his darts from the board. “The best of three, is it?” he asked his companion.

  “Okay. And the loser buys the winner two pints?”

  The pub was warm but Malcolm’s blood still ran cold through his veins. Taylor was worrying about a darts game, of all things. He looked happy and carefree, as if he didn’t care about anything, including his missing stepdaughter. If the original suspicions of the police were correct, what was he? A rapist? A kidnapper? A killer?

  If he had done something to his stepdaughter, who’s to say he hadn’t done the same to others? Who was to say he hadn’t done the same thing to Farrah? Perhaps the police weren’t quite as clueless as he’d thought. Maybe there was a link between the girls.

  Malcolm was finishing his third pint when Taylor took a dirty padded jacket from a hook and shrugged it on.

  “See you tomorrow night,” he said, slapping various mates on their backs.

  As he headed out of the pub, Malcolm drained his glass, thanked the barmaid and set off in pursuit.

  He didn’t know where Taylor lived. His address could have been in the local paper when the police had released him, but Malcolm hadn’t paid attention. He’d had no need to because Farrah, his beautiful Farrah, had been safe and well. Taylor’s detention at the police station and the whole saga of his missing stepdaughter had been nothing more than a news item that hadn’t touched him in any personal way.

  It was only this evening that he’d thought Taylor might be guilty of something, that he might be responsible not only for his stepdaughter’s disappearance but for Farrah’s too.

  Taylor walked into the fish-and-chip shop. Malcolm lingered outside, pretending to look at the small ads posted in the adjoining newsagent’s window.

  Taylor left the shop, tucking in to a mountain of chips, and walked slowly along Packer Street. Malcolm followed from a safe distance. This part of town was well lit so it was easy enough to see him. There were plenty of people about heading for a night out.

  Malcolm had no idea why he was following him. Confronting him was out of the question because men like Taylor had a habit of talking with their fists. He’d find out where he lived, he supposed. That would be something.

  One of Malcolm’s neighbours was the crime reporter at the Chronicle so a word with him might be in order. He might know more about Taylor and his brush with the police than had been reported in the local press.

  Taylor finished his chips, crumpled the paper into a ball and kicked it into the gutter. Filthy pig. There was a litter bin less than fifty yards away.

  They walked on, past that bin and onto the Derby estate. Some of Malcolm’s pupils lived on this local-authority housing complex, so he knew all about the residents. Most were on benefits, many fraudulently, and police were called out to break up fights or carry out drugs raids on an almost daily basis.

  They passed a house that had been splashed in graffiti. Grass that hadn’t been mown for years was littered with kids’ toys and empty beer cans. A wooden fence at the side had been smashed. Malcolm shuddered and slowed his pace. There was no one around, and he was glad of that, but he didn’t like being in this area.

  Taylor turned up a pathway and let himself in to a house at the end of a row. Malcolm hung around at a safe distance, watching lights go on inside.

  After a minute, Malcolm walked on and stood outside number 16 Carston Avenue. There were no children’s toys to be seen in the garden, no plants or pots. Again, the garden was an overgrown mess. People like Taylor would wait for the council to mow the grass. If the council didn’t do it, it wouldn’t get done. Simple.

  Malcolm began the walk home. He lived a couple of miles from Carston Avenue, in an area where lawns and hedges were immaculate, and where new or nearly new cars waited on driveways to be washed and polished every Sunday.

  He could have taken a taxi from the town centre but he preferred to walk and think. It was easier than going home and seeing the pain and despair etched deep on his wife’s face.

  Almost an hour later, he let himself into his home, flicked on the light switch and received a halfhearted greeting from Penny. Realising he was alone, Penny padded into the kitchen and lay on her bed.

  Clare was out, thank God, so he didn’t have to face her yet. She must have gone to her library group. She insisted it wasn’t his fault, but he couldn’t stop blaming himself. Farrah was his little girl, the child he’d held close on the day she was born and promised to take care of. He’d let her down.

  He went straight to the drinks cabinet, poured himself a large whisky, threw himself down on the sofa and closed his eyes. Penny wandered into the room and let out a soft whimper. The dog was lonely, bored and lacking in exercise. It was impossible to wear her out and the walks he and Clare gave her weren’t appreciated by the dog. She wanted Farrah’s company and that was that. Malcolm had thought of visiting Topham and asking for his help and advice, but he kept putting it off. He wanted as little to do with the farmer as possible.

  Police now believed, or said they believed, that Farrah’s disappearance was connected to that refuge. They were wrong, Malcolm was sure of it. No, he’d bet his life that Taylor was involved in some way.

  Malcolm knew where he lived and where he drank. The police might have failed but he wouldn’t. Somehow, he’d get the truth out of him.

  He’d planned to print out more flyers, but instead he switched on his computer and searched the internet for information on chloroform. That was the answer. If he could get enough to somehow render Taylor unconscious—although he had no idea how he’d get Taylor to a place where this might be feasible—he could tie him up and beat the truth from him. He needed to get a gun. That should be easy enough if he asked in the right places. After all, criminals had no trouble getting them. With a gun held to his head, Taylor would talk.

  Of course, he didn’t want to kill Taylor—

  A ripple of anger burned through him. That was exactly what he wanted to do. He wouldn’t though.

  He glanced across at the bureau, where three silver-framed photos of his daughter sat. She looked happy, laughing and carefree. In one, she had her arm round her beloved dog. Penny was wearing a rosette she’d won at a local agility competition, and Farrah couldn’t have looked happier. Her eyes shone. She looked content in the knowledge that all was right in her world. Or that her dad would make everything right in her world.

  “I will, sweetheart. I will make it right. I promise.”

  Chapter Six

  Bill Owen clearly knew his way round the refuge, because he went straight to a room that had to be used as an office by Child. Dylan followed, trying and failing to come up with a reason why private investigator Dylan Scott might be calling himself David Young. He needed a reason good enough to stop Owen blowing his cover.

  The office was as cold as the rest of the house. A crucifix hung on the only wall that had been plastered. The other walls were bare stone and they looked damp. A cheap wooden desk sat near the window, and four chairs clustered around an empty fireplace. A bookcase held a selection of tatty paperbacks. A black leather-bound Bible, not particularly well thumbed, had been abandoned on a small pine table.

  It was dark outside, but thanks to the patrol car’s headlights it was easy enough to see Child talking to the two officers. The conversation looked to be friendly.

  “What did Joe say your name was again?” Owen sat in the chair closest to the window. “David, was it?”

  “That’s right. David Young.”

  Owen was around sixty, tall and gaunt, with dark hair and steel-grey eyes. His face was long and his teeth large. Dylan would bet those equine features had earned him the nickname Trigger at some point in his life.

  “And what brings you here, David?”

  The emphasis on the name was clearly to show that Dylan wasn’t fooling him. He�
��d have to tough it out and deny all knowledge of private investigators.

  “To tell the truth, I’m a bit down on my luck. I’ve run into a spot of bother with the law and I need to stay in the area until my court case comes up. Joe and I go way back—we used to work together down in London and he offered me a bed here.”

  “That was good of him.”

  “Yeah. He’s a good mate. Mind you, no offence, but this God stuff isn’t for me. Each to their own, of course, but it’s not my scene.”

  “Perhaps Joe will change your mind.”

  “Not a chance.” He smiled at the vicar. “What about you? I can see from the dog collar what you do for a living. Do you work round here?”

  “Yes. I’ve been here for fourteen years.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, I’ve married and christened many people in the Clough. Buried a few too, of course.” His gaze locked with Dylan’s.

  Shit. He knew damn well that they’d met at Kevin Mills’s funeral. They’d only spoken for a couple of minutes, ten at the most, yet Owen recognised him despite the hair, the beard, the glasses and the scruffy clothes.

  “I’m sure you have.” Dylan nodded toward the police officers. “What can that be about?”

  “The missing girls, I imagine.”

  “Girls?”

  “Haven’t you heard?”

  Dylan shook his head. “I only arrived in the town yesterday and I’ve spent most of the time since stuck in the local nick. What girls are these then?”

  “A young girl stayed here for a while and simply vanished. More recently, another girl who’d spent a month here before returning to her parents is also missing.”

  “Both girls missing? From here? That’s a coincidence, isn’t it? No wonder the filth are sniffing around.”

  Owen’s knees were pressed tight together. “Many people who come here have problems so it’s not that much of a surprise. Youngsters are searching for something and older people are running from something. They’re a bit like you, David. You’re only here because you have problems in your life, aren’t you?”

  “I suppose so. Did you know either of them?”

  “One, yes. Farrah comes from a good family, but I’m afraid she went off the rails as teenagers are wont to do. She used to be a regular at my church with her parents, but that stopped. I suppose, like many teenagers, she was feeling stifled and wanted a taste of freedom. She was only here a month before she returned to the safety of her home.”

  “And then vanished?”

  “So it seems.”

  “But the police are asking Joey about her?”

  “I imagine so. I suppose they think that if she’s in trouble, she’ll return here. Of course, I could be wrong and they could be here on other business.”

  As he spoke, the patrol car fired into life and drove slowly away from the house toward the main road.

  Seconds later, Child joined them. He was rubbing his hands together for warmth and Dylan wondered why he didn’t think about heating this godawful building.

  “Bill here has been telling me about girls who’ve gone missing,” Dylan said. “Is that what the filth were here about?”

  “Were you panicking, Davey?” Child smiled. “Don’t worry, they didn’t so much as mention your name.”

  He noticed Child hadn’t answered his question. “Good. I’m sick of having them on my back all the time. So what were they here for?”

  “They were asking about poor Caroline and Farrah, and sadly, I couldn’t tell them anything. I’d like to think that the girls would get in touch with me if they had problems, but there’s been nothing so far.”

  “Were they friends with each other?” Dylan asked.

  “No. They never even met. Caroline upped and left and didn’t say a word to anyone. She was a quiet, secretive girl though. She didn’t say a lot to anyone. Farrah, of course, had already left here and gone home, thank goodness. That kid has a bright future ahead of her, so I’m glad she saw sense and returned to her parents.”

  Child sat down at his desk and looked enquiringly at Dylan. Whatever business he had with Bill Owen was clearly private.

  “Right,” Dylan said, getting to his feet, “I’ll go and get myself settled in. Good to meet you, Bill.”

  “You too, David. Come and see me sometime.”

  It sounded like a threat of the “tell me what you’re up to or I’ll tell everyone exactly who you are” variety.

  “Thanks. I will.”

  Chapter Seven

  Dylan wished he were a smoker. If it weren’t for the price of the things, he’d take it up tomorrow. He was convinced smokers had better social lives than more healthy mortals. They huddled together, united in their habit, and struck up conversations. He’d watched his mother stroll off to smoke a joint, and within minutes she’d make lifelong friends with like-minded druggies.

  He didn’t smoke though, so he’d have to put on a convincing performance as a lover of fresh air. And the air didn’t come much fresher than this. It wasn’t raining but the sky was heavy with cloud and no stars were visible. A gusting north wind was moaning.

  He’d seen the man currently puffing on a hand-rolled cigarette earlier. He’d been working on a large vegetable plot, but Dylan hadn’t had chance to speak to him. He was late fifties or early sixties, thin and gaunt, and wore waterproof overtrousers and what looked to be a filthy black coat. As the only light came from a grubby lantern by the front door, it was difficult to tell.

  “David Young.” Dylan put out his hand, but after looking at it long and hard, the chap gazed up at the night sky and ignored both hand and Dylan.

  “I’ll be staying here for a few days.” Dylan tried again, but there was no response. “Have you been here long?”

  “Ugh.” Whether that was a yes or no, Dylan had no idea. He wasn’t about to find out either, because the chap tossed his cigarette butt to the ground, used a heavy boot to extinguish it and began walking away from the house and up the lane.

  He must have been carrying a torch because a spot of light soon danced in front of him as he walked.

  Dylan was about to go back inside when another man came out for a smoke. This one he recognised. It was Adrian, one of the men he’d be sharing that confounded shed with.

  Dylan nodded at the tiny dot of light moving along the lane. “I tried to start a conversation with him, but he wasn’t interested.”

  “He doesn’t speak. He nods and he’ll grunt a bit, but that’ll be your lot. He’s not all there in the head, if you know what I mean.”

  “Ah. What’s his name?”

  “Kennedy. Whether that’s his first or last name, I have no idea. He doesn’t live here, but he comes and helps out now and again. He turned up one day and started working in the garden. Just like that. Joe let him stay. He arrives when he feels like it, does a few hours’ work and then buggers off again. I don’t know if Joe pays him or if he does it for the love of it. He doesn’t speak to anyone and no one speaks to him. As I said, he’s an odd bugger.”

  Yet another stray welcomed to the fold by Child. “I won’t take offence then.”

  “So what about you, Davey? Is it Davey or Dave?”

  “I’ll answer to anything. Joey calls me Davey. He always has.”

  “Of course, you two go way back, don’t you?”

  “Yup. We worked together years ago. We had some times, I can tell you.”

  “So what brings you here?” Adrian asked.

  “Didn’t Joey tell you? I had a spot of bother with the law.” Dylan stamped his feet to try to bring warmth to them. “I ended up here by mistake—fell asleep on the train to Manchester—and bumped into Joey. I had no idea he’d moved to this godforsaken place.”

  Adrian smiled at that. “It’s not so bad
. Do you like hill walking?”

  “Nope.”

  “That’s a pity. It’s perfect round here for a long hike. I enjoy it. You get some fantastic views from the top. It’s good for you too.”

  “I’m sure it is.” In Dylan’s experience, things that were good for you were unpleasant in the extreme. Tramping these barren moors would be no exception. “What’s your story, Adrian? How did you end up here?”

  “My wife and I split up. She went off with another bloke and I ended up living alone. I hated it and was spending all my time in the pub. That’s no good for you, is it?”

  Dylan smiled and nodded sympathetically, but it didn’t sound such a bad life.

  “One night, I was in a bar in town, Tempo—they do cheap drinks until ten—and I got talking to Joe.”

  “Yeah? Me too. I went into Tempo because of the cheap drinks. That’s where I bumped into him.”

  “He’s there every Thursday night. Anyway, he told me about this place and it sounded great. It is great. A week later, I moved in. I’m an electrician by trade so I’m helping turn that old barn into a chapel.” He drew in a huge lungful of cold night air. “I love it.”

  “It’s all the religious stuff that puts me off,” Dylan said.

  “I wasn’t too keen at first. I’m a Christian, but I only used to go to church at Christmas and maybe Easter. It’s okay though. Joe doesn’t ram it down your throat all the time.”

  “That’s something, I suppose. I’ll see how it goes before I decide how long to stay. I hear Joe takes soup and blankets to the homeless in town. I wouldn’t want to be sleeping on the streets in this sodding weather.”

  “Me neither. Yes, Joe does a lot of good work.”

  Saint Joe? No, Dylan couldn’t swallow that one.

  “I’m only surprised he can afford to be so generous,” Dylan said. “I know everyone helps out with the chores, but there’s no money coming in, is there?”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. We sell fruit and vegetables at the local market once a week. Some of the women bake bread and cakes, and those are sold too. It’s quite the cottage industry.”