Saint Joe.
“His wife—” Owen paused for a long moment to choose his words with care. “She’s more difficult to fathom, I find. She claims to have a gift.”
“Dead people talk to her.” Dylan nodded.
Owen quirked a dark bushy eyebrow. “You believe that?”
“No, of course not.”
“Have you seen her at one of her—performances?” He said the word performance with obvious distaste.
“No. Have you?”
“No.” Owen gazed into the depths of his teacup. “I believe people pay to see her. The money’s ploughed back into the refuge and to ministering to the town’s homeless, so that’s good, of course, but even so, it doesn’t feel right. I’m not completely happy with that.”
“How else are they going to fund the refuge?” Dylan asked.
“Well, I don’t—”
“I’m serious. Where does the money come from? I know they grow their own vegetables, but there’s a huge property to maintain, big cars to run, people to feed and clothe, the homeless to feed... Exactly where does the money come from?”
“Donations mostly, I believe. We had a joint fundraising event—half the proceeds for the church and half for the refuge—and it was hugely successful. As you’ll know, Joe would make a great salesman. He has the gift of the gab and people give generously. Even with half the proceeds, the church has benefited more than ever before.”
“Selling cakes? A bookstall? That wouldn’t cover the costs of running the refuge.”
Owen shrugged that off. “He has a benefactor, I gather. An old friend—an old wealthy friend.”
“Who’s that?”
“I don’t know. It’s none of my business, so I haven’t discussed it with Joe. It’s hearsay.” He’d been frowning, but his expression cleared. “Look, David—whatever your name is—Joe is doing a lot of good work. He helps those with problems and I can only commend that. I wish there were a few more like him around.”
Dylan was glad there weren’t. “You said you knew Farrah very well. How come?”
The frown was back. “She used to attend my services with her parents.”
“So you’d have a couple of words with her at the church door as the family was leaving? How would you know someone well from that?”
There was a slight hesitation. “We were trying to start up a choir, and Farrah was involved with that. There were meetings—we were keen to get the choir up and running for the Christmas carol concert. The school’s music teacher was helping to organise it.”
“Right. And you got to know her well through that?”
“Yes.” There was a slight hesitation. “Also, she came to me—to chat. Her grandmother and her aunt passed away in the space of six months and she sometimes called in to talk about that.”
“Ah. So you spent time alone with her?” That made more sense. “Was she close to her grandmother and aunt?”
“Yes. Their deaths hit her quite hard. Death is difficult for youngsters to deal with. She spoke of death a lot, and of course she wanted answers that I couldn’t give her. She wanted guarantees that her relatives would be watching over her, that they’d be together in heaven and that she’d see them again when she died. We talked a lot. I tried to offer what comfort I could and talk through her concerns.”
“So she wasn’t as happy as people claim, was she? If the deaths of close family members hit her so hard, she couldn’t have been.”
“She was a clever, sensible girl. She was happy enough. Sad about such a tragic loss, especially one coming so soon after the first, but I’d describe her as happy. She certainly wasn’t depressed.”
“In your opinion.”
“In my opinion, yes.”
“Did she see anyone else? A doctor perhaps?”
“Not that I know of.”
“What made her turn to you?” Dylan asked.
“People do. That’s what I’m here for. People come to me every day with spiritual problems.”
“How did they die?”
“Both had cancer. Her grandmother was in her sixties but her aunt was only forty-three. It’s hard to take.”
“But you believe you helped her?”
“I do, yes.”
Had he? Dylan could imagine him offering his religious spiel, spiced with fitting Bible quotes, and assuming the young girl was taking every word as gospel.
“What else did she talk about when she visited you?”
“Many things. Her dog mostly. She was besotted with the creature. She used to spend time with Walter Topham. He’s an old farmer—has a lot of success at sheepdog trials. She was training her dog to work with sheep.”
“You said many things. What did she talk about other than her dog?”
“Schoolwork, music, fashion—the usual things on a teenager’s mind.”
Owen was old enough to be the girl’s grandfather, so why in hell’s name would she discuss such things as music and fashion with him?
“How does she get on with her parents?” Dylan asked.
“Very well. As I said, she’s a good girl.”
“Yet she moved out and went to live at Joe’s refuge.”
Owen smiled at that. “Just a silly phase she was going through. They had the usual parent-teenager rows. Farrah wanted more freedom. Given the choice, I think she would have moved in with Walter Topham. He had dogs and sheep—she would have been happy enough with that. Her parents didn’t approve. Also, her friends were partying, whereas her parents insisted, quite rightly in my opinion, that she was too young. Farrah moved to the refuge, where she was perfectly safe, made her point and then returned to her home comforts.”
“Did she visit you during her spell at the refuge?”
“Several times, yes. She used to walk over the hills with her dog.”
“Did she talk about the place?”
“She did. At first she found it fun and exciting. She was treated as an adult and she made friends there. The novelty of having chores to do soon wears off though.” Owen smiled again.
“You say she made friends. Who with?”
“I don’t remember names, but the women, or girls, were all friendly. You’ll discover for yourself that everyone gets on well.”
Dylan emptied his cup, aware of Owen watching every breath he took.
“Look,” Owen said at last, “I don’t know what you’re doing here, but if you’re looking into the disappearance of Caroline and Farrah, there’s nothing I can tell you. There’s nothing Joe can tell you, either. You’re barking up the wrong tree. You have to remember that Farrah had nothing to do with the refuge at the time of her disappearance.”
“I haven’t forgotten.” Dylan wasn’t sure how much more time he could spend in these subzero temperatures. “What’s your theory then, Bill? Where do you think the two girls might be?”
“I don’t know. They won’t be together—they didn’t know each other and they’re as different as chalk and cheese—but I have no idea. Teenagers being teenagers, I imagine they’ve headed off for the bright lights and will scurry home when the gilt wears off.”
“Where’s the dog?”
“Sorry?”
“You said she was besotted with her dog. Is it with her?”
“No. No, it’s with her parents.”
“So you believe that despite being besotted with the animal, she’s abandoned it? You’re not worried about the girls at all?”
“Of course I’m worried. Teenagers are easily led astray. Let’s face it, all sorts of horrors come from life in the big cities. Drink, drugs, prostitution—of course I worry for them. I pray, as does my congregation, for them every week.”
If praying did any good, Dylan would offer up a quick one and save himself the discomfort of more night
s in that freezing shed.
He was getting nothing from Owen. As far as the vicar was concerned, Child was a saint and the two girls were enjoying the high life in some unknown city. Dylan remained unconvinced. On both counts.
It was time to go. He’d find himself a nice warm pub and a long cold drink, and chat to the locals. Someone would know something. They always did.
Chapter Ten
Bev held the phone to her ear and rolled her eyes at the health centre’s recorded announcement. “Press One for urgent, on-the-day appointments...” That was a waste of time because you needed to be near death to get an on-the-day appointment, especially on a Saturday. Even if it were possible, she couldn’t face seeing a doctor today. He’d probably tell her she had liver poisoning after last night’s outing with her best mate, Lucy. They’d demolished a couple of bottles of wine too many.
She eventually opted for option three and listened to the phone ring out at the other end. She could imagine the receptionists filing their nails, discussing what they’d watched on TV last night or—
“Grosvenor Medical Centre. Helen speaking. How may I help you?”
“Oh, hi. Could I make an appointment with a doctor for as soon as possible, please?”
“Just a moment.” Helen tapped on a computer keyboard. “Monday at two-thirty with Doctor Cavanagh?”
At two-thirty on Monday she’d be trying to make thirty pupils fall in love with the works of Tolkien. She had more hope than expectation. “Is there anything later? With a female doctor, if possible?”
“Just a moment, please.” More tapping on the keyboard.
“Five-thirty on Monday afternoon with Dr. Singh?”
“That’s fine. Thanks.” With any luck she’d be pain-free by then and could call and cancel. She hated visiting the health centre. Everyone looked germ-ridden. Colds and coughs were rife. She refused to even pick up one of the magazines in the waiting area for fear of catching some bug or other.
“What name is it, please?”
“Mrs. Scott. Beverley Scott.”
Having confirmed her address, Bev scrawled Monday at 5:30 on the back on an envelope and returned the phone to its cradle.
Right. She’d push it from her mind until Monday. There was no point getting in a state about it. It was probably nothing. Perhaps she’d pulled a couple of muscles, one in her stomach and one in her back.
She sifted through mail that sat on the kitchen table, awaiting Dylan’s return. It was mostly junk and she knew he wouldn’t bother to open it. She might as well cut out the middleman and throw it straight in the recycling box.
She wished she had company. Usually, she longed for solitude, but today she would have liked to have the kids around. Luke was at the football with Dylan’s ex-colleague though and Freya was fast asleep.
She should make the most of the quiet and do something constructive. And she knew just the thing.
She made herself a coffee, carried it upstairs to their bedroom, set the cup on the dresser and opened Dylan’s wardrobe. She’d been threatening to sort it out for months. Every time she mentioned it, he said he’d do it himself. He never had and never would. She’d make the most of his absence and gather up a load of his clothes to throw out. He never wore half the stuff in there but he refused to throw anything out. Some items were so awful that he wouldn’t dare wear them in her presence.
She took out the lot and spread everything across the bed. This would be fun, far better than worrying about odd pains or checking lists of symptoms online. Health forums on the internet were great for putting your mind at rest. They were also awesome at convincing you that you had any or all of the rare terminal diseases mentioned. She’d forget it.
The first item to end up on the pile to throw out was an old blazer. She’d always hated it. He wasn’t a blazer sort of man. Next was a woollen jacket that she couldn’t remember seeing him wear. He had enough suits to clothe the entire population of Shepherd’s Bush. On the rare occasions he needed one, usually for weddings, funerals or christenings, he always bought a new one on the grounds that his others were old. If that was the case, and it might be, although they’d be old and unworn, they needed throwing out. It was the same with ties. He had dozens of the things, all taking up space and all seldom worn. He was a jeans, shirt and jacket man.
She was pleased with her progress and she’d stake her life on his not noticing they’d vanished.
Satisfied that she’d set aside as many clothes to discard as she dared, she turned to the shoes, all thrown haphazardly on the wardrobe’s floor. She could be even more ruthless here.
A white box shoved in the far corner caught her eye and she grabbed it. She hadn’t looked at their wedding photos for years. The expense—and she’d insisted they hire a top photographer—should have had her looking through the album every day. During the first year of their marriage, she’d probably looked through it a dozen times. Then, on the first couple of anniversaries, she’d refreshed her memory. Since then, it had lain here, shoved out of the way and forgotten.
She pushed Dylan’s clothes aside and sat on the bed to open it. The first photo, taken as Dylan pushed her ring onto her finger, took her completely by surprise, not so much because they looked ridiculously young, but more because they were deliriously happy. Young and in love—it was as if nothing in the future could possibly blight those beaming smiles.
Almost seventeen years on, they didn’t smile so much. They were happy, she supposed, but life was a merry-go-round of paying bills, acting as Luke’s unpaid chauffeur and fitting life and work around Freya’s odd sleeping patterns. There was little time left to smile.
They should get out more. Dylan’s mum, their chief babysitter, was only a short bus ride away and she was more than happy to spend the night if necessary. They should make the most of her, go out and smile as they used to, enjoy life...
They could have a romantic weekend away. Dylan wasn’t the most romantic of men—in fact, he wasn’t in the least romantic—but even he couldn’t fail to be moved by a weekend in Paris. Freya would be celebrating her first birthday in March, so she was old enough to stay with her grandmother for a night.
Forgetting photo albums and the clothes strewn across the bed, she went to her computer to research hotels in Paris that offered romantic getaways. Hopefully, Dylan would soon be home again and they could take off for the City of Love.
She was mentally enjoying an evening in a Parisian wine bar when the phone rang.
“Hello?” There was no answer but she had the feeling that someone was on the other end. “Hello? Is anyone there?”
There was a click and the line was dead. She dialled 1471 but the number had been withheld. A lot of call centres had withheld numbers. Perhaps someone had been phoning from a switchboard, realised they had the wrong number and were too shy, or too rude, to say so.
She forgot about it and returned to that wine bar in Paris.
Chapter Eleven
Dylan had been in some dives in his time but the Jolly Sailor beat the lot. It had two things in its favour. One, it sold beer. Two, it was showing the Arsenal versus Manchester United game on a huge TV screen.
Other than that, it was a dark, dingy, soulless place. Trade was brisk, so the landlord had to be doing something right, but it was one of those places where you wiped your feet on the way out. The carpet, grubby and badly worn, hadn’t seen a cleaner since Moses was a lad. The bar was sticky with spilled beer and the glasses had long forgotten how to sparkle. Still, the place sold beer and it was showing the Arsenal game (no score yet). And he only had time for a very swift pint.
He’d ended up here because it was the first place he came to that promised warmth after leaving the vicarage. He wasn’t sure he’d achieved anything from his meeting with Bill Owen. More important, he couldn’t be certain that Owen wasn’t frien
dlier with Child than he let on. He didn’t trust either of them.
It was a pity he couldn’t watch the full game, but at least Luke would be enjoying it. His lucky son would see the game and return to a warm comfortable home. Dylan, on the other hand, had to miss even the televised game to get back to the refuge in time to set off for Leeds with Child, Doll and whoever else was going to the meeting.
He’d be interested to see how much money they made from tonight’s outing. He’d be interested to see Doll talking to dead folk too. If Dylan were dead, she’d be the last, the very last, person he’d chat with. Her main interests were, or had been, sinking gin and seeing how short she could wear a skirt.
He was engrossed in the game (still no score) when the man on the stool next to his swung round and spilled his beer all over Dylan’s jeans.
“I’m terribly sorry. Here—” The man was about to dab the excess from Dylan’s legs but clearly thought better of it. “Excuse me. Could we have a cloth over here, please?”
The barmaid eventually threw a grubby grey cloth at them.
“Thanks.” Dylan lightly mopped up the beer. Even in this state, his jeans were cleaner than the cloth. “It’s nothing to worry about. They’ll soon dry.”
“Let me get you a pint,” the chap said.
“No, really. It’s fine. It was your beer, not mine.”
“Go on. It’ll make me feel better.”
“In that case, thanks.” He had time for two quick pints. Just.
As his companion ordered their drinks, Dylan thought how out of place he looked when compared to the other customers. He was too well spoken and too well dressed for the Jolly Sailor.
“Thank you,” Dylan said as a full pint was put on the bar in front of him.
“My pleasure. And I’m sorry. It was clumsy of me.”
“Think nothing of it. And thanks again.” Dylan was curious about this well-spoken stranger. “I’m new to these parts but I thought I’d see if I could find a decent pub. I can’t say this one’s my cup of tea. No offence, but it’s a bit too—”
Deadly Shadows (A Dylan Scott Mystery) Page 7