“How old are you?”
“Eighteen.”
Never in a million years. Sixteen, possibly. Fifteen, more likely.
“And your parents are happy about you being up here?” he asked.
“Are they hell,” she scoffed. “My life will be over if and when I ever go home.”
“Are they violent too?” Child asked with a concerned frown.
She shrugged, but Dylan could see she was shocked by the suggestion. “Yeah.”
This, he’d bet his life, was a girl who’d never had so much as a gentle smack from her parents. She probably needed one too.
She turned to Child and gave him that winning smile. “I’ll be in touch, Joe. And thank you so much.”
As she skipped off, Dylan saw that she was clutching one of Child’s cards in her hand.
“Kids today,” Dylan said to Child. “They believe it’s their right to have constant happiness handed to them on a plate. How old do you reckon she was? Fifteen? Sixteen?”
“Eh? No. She said she was eighteen. Looked it to me. Anyway, what does it matter? The thing is, Davey, we don’t know how bad things are for her. An abusive boyfriend, possibly abusive parents—she’s got nowhere to go, has she?”
“Bollocks. She looked like a spoiled little rich kid to me.”
Child shook his head as if Dylan were the child. “We can’t judge—which is why we have to let people know that there’s always a safe place for them.”
Oh, yes. Come to the refuge and vanish into thin air...
The spoiled little rich kid hadn’t got far. She was currently by the hall’s exit, deep in conversation with Child’s younger son, Hank.
There was little to choose between Child’s sons, Gary and Hank. Gary was twenty-two, two years old than Hank. Both were tall, dark-haired, good-looking men. Dylan hadn’t exchanged more than half a dozen words with either of them—they considered themselves far too superior for such things—but he got the impression both could be sullen and arrogant.
He was about to intervene yet again, but the young girl gave Hank a smile that was rewarded with a hand put lightly on her left buttock before she skipped off. She was now clutching two of Child’s cards.
Chapter Thirteen
Sunday morning was cold and gloomy. Just like Dylan.
The day started badly, with everyone informed they must attend the prayer meeting. Unfortunately, Dylan wasn’t given time to conjure up a sudden heart attack so he followed everyone to the chapel. Some were lucky enough to have a chair. Others, like Dylan, were forced to sit on the floor.
Child had an identity problem. He couldn’t decide if he was Johnny Cash or the pope. He read from his Bible—on and on he went—and then suggested they all pray for those less fortunate. People who’d spent a night on the streets, and those who’d lost a loved one, were apparently in need of a prayer.
There was no heating in the chapel and Dylan had reached the stage where he’d kill for a warm bed. Before he climbed into it, he’d luxuriate in shaving off his beard, getting his hair cut, having a hot bath or shower and generally feeling normal. Or perhaps he should be grateful for the beard. It had to offer a little extra warmth.
Everyone else looked happy enough, as if there was nothing like a good prayer session before breakfast. Correction. Neither Gary nor Hank looked particularly pleased with life. They looked bored rigid, and Dylan could sympathise.
Child read Psalm 23. Even Dylan could have stumbled his way through “The Lord is my shepherd” without needing it written down.
“This afternoon,” Child said, “we’ll all be going into the town. We’ll set up the soup stall and give out leaflets. Everyone got that?”
It was an order, not a request, and Dylan would need to think up a good excuse. Perhaps it was commendable, but he’d bet those sleeping rough in Dawson’s Clough would prefer crack cocaine to soup and blankets.
After droning their way through “Rock of Ages,” a hymn Dylan always associated with funerals, they had another prayer. This was one of thanks to the Lord for bringing them all safely to this place.
Finally, just as Dylan had lost the will to live, it was time for breakfast.
Unfortunately, he was in the third sitting, so he still had time to kill. Sunday, it seemed, was a day of rest. Apart from cooking duties, no one was expected to do chores. Dylan was on the washing-up rota and he’d be grateful to get his hands in hot soapy water. Always assuming they had hot water in this place...
His stomach was grumbling at the thought of sizzling sausages, bacon and fried eggs. His head was telling his stomach to wise up.
He was deciding how to pass the time when the sound of a car coming along the drive had him turning around. It was the new Bentley Continental V8. Five-hundred-brake horsepower. Eight-speed gearbox. About a hundred and thirty thousand pounds’ worth of car. Dylan let out a whistle as its tyres crunched the gravel and its suspension bounced over the potholes. The driver must surely be lost.
Curious, Dylan wandered over to the front of the house and watched as the driver leaned across to the passenger seat, picked up a large brown envelope and put it in the inside pocket of a black overcoat before climbing out of the car.
“Good morning,” the chap said.
“Morning.” Dylan nodded at his car. “You have to be lost, right?”
A chuckle. “Not at all. I’m Gordon Riley, a friend of Joe’s.”
“Oh, right. Well, me too. I’m David, by the way.”
“Good to meet you, David. Any friend of Joe’s is all right in my book.”
Riley headed to the steps but, before he reached the door, Child pulled it open. “Gordon, you’re up bright and early.”
“Yes, I have a lot on today. How are you, Joe?”
“I’m good. You’ve met Davey, have you? Me and him go way back, don’t we, Davey?”
Dylan joined them. “Way back,” he agreed.
“Not quite as far back as me and you though, eh, Gordon?” Turning to Dylan, Child explained, “We were in the same bloody care home for years. Hell, wasn’t it, Gordon?”
“It was.”
“Gordon did all right for himself though,” Child went on. “He was the nerd. Always had his head stuck in a book. I used to call him Einstein, he was that bloody clever, and I was right.”
“Joe!” Riley’s smile looked a little uncomfortable. “Joe used to fight my battles for me, David. The clever kids, the nerds like me, were bullied. As I was short and wore glasses, I was a natural target. Joe looked after me and we became good friends. Still, it’s a long time ago and the bullies have all moved on.”
“Come on then,” Child said. “Let’s get in the warm. See you later, Davey boy. Don’t miss your breakfast, will you?”
“I won’t.” Dylan watched the two men disappear inside.
He could imagine Child being happy enough to fight another boy’s battles. He’d always enjoyed a good fight and if he couldn’t find one, he’d start one. It was a brave man who picked a fight with Child.
Child had also loved to be the leader. If a group of people were discussing anything, Child had to take charge.
Half an hour later, Dylan was sitting down to breakfast. His plate held sausage, scrambled egg, fried tomatoes and two rashers of bacon. There was also as much toast as he could eat. He could hardly believe his good fortune.
He felt better after he’d eaten, warmer too, and was soon joining Adrian at the sink to do the washing up.
“It always looks endless,” Adrian said, “but we’ll soon get through it. I find it quite therapeutic.”
Dylan would tell that to Bev the next time their dishwasher threw a wobbly. I’d wash the dishes, darling, but I’m sure you’ll find it therapeutic...
“Did you see that car?” Dylan plunged his hand
s into hot soapy water. “A chap just arrived in a Bentley, the new Bentley. Wow. It costs around a hundred and thirty grand.”
Adrian nodded. “Gordon Riley. I’m not into cars but I know that’s a nice one. He’s only had it a month or so. He calls here quite often.”
“Yeah? Why’s that?”
“Him and Joe were at school together—or something like that. Gordon has his own business and has done well for himself. He’s made a couple of generous donations to the refuge.”
“Good for him. How generous?”
“Oh, I don’t know the figures, but I do know Joe was very grateful.”
“I wish I could afford a car like that,” Dylan said. “Still, not much hope of that. I’d do the lottery but I can’t afford the ticket. What business is he in, this Riley chap?”
“Computer games. You know how these kids play shooting the baddies on their Xbox consoles and suchlike? His company does the games. I don’t know much about them, but they’re popular in the U.K. and America.”
“Where does he live? Locally?”
“No. He has a place in London, but he flies a lot. He has business meetings in New York and Germany that I know of.”
“I always knew I should have done better at school,” Dylan said with a rueful smile. “What I’d give for a car like that.”
“All cars are expensive to run these days,” Adrian said.
“True. I had an old banger but that had to go. The price of fuel is bloody ridiculous.”
“And then you’ve tax and insurance on top of that.”
“Yeah.” A plate slipped out of Dylan’s hands but he managed to catch it before any damage was done.
“Steady on,” Adrian said. “We don’t want any breakages.”
“It’s okay. I got it.” He took more care as he cleaned the next plate. This job did seem endless. “We’ve got free time now, haven’t we?”
“Yes. Why?”
“I fancy a walk into the town. I haven’t seen anything of it so I thought I’d go and have a look round. I can meet up with everyone when we set up the soup stall, can’t I?”
“Yes, of course. So long as you’re on Baker Street at three o’clock, you’ll be fine. I’ll see you there. You can come with me and take the leaflets round the town.”
“Okay, thanks. I’ll set off when we’ve finished here and I’ll see you at three.”
They ploughed on with plate after plate, mug after mug, until only the cutlery remained. Dylan refilled the sink with clean hot water, threw the cutlery in and began washing knives, forks and spoons.
Finally, it was finished.
Dylan dried his hands. “See you later, Adrian.”
“Don’t be late!”
Dylan stepped outside in time to see the Bentley disappearing into the distance. Damn, he would have liked another word with Riley. The brake lights flashed red briefly and then the car was lost from view.
He walked round the back of the house and saw the gardener, Kennedy, hard at work. The ground must be waterlogged but he was making easy work of digging a portion of the vegetable patch.
Dylan wandered over. “Good morning.”
Kennedy shoved the spade in the ground and turned over the soil.
“You’re doing a great job,” Dylan said.
Kennedy grunted in response.
“You live in town, do you?”
There wasn’t so much as a grunt this time.
“One thing I like about this place,” Dylan said, “is the breakfasts. I’ve just had bacon and sausage. It was great. You should move in.”
For a brief second their gazes locked. Kennedy’s expression seemed to say “When hell freezes over,” but as he couldn’t or didn’t want to speak, it was impossible to know.
Kennedy continued to turn over the soil with his spade. The sodden ground had to be heavy but he wasn’t even out of breath. He didn’t look strong, quite the reverse in fact, but he was clearly fit.
The spade suddenly paused. Dylan followed Kennedy’s gaze and saw that Gary Child was pacing outside the old barn with his phone held to his ear. It was impossible to hear what he was saying, but he looked angry.
“You can tell he’s Joe’s son, can’t you?” Dylan said.
Again, Kennedy looked at him. And again, his expression was impossible to fathom.
Dylan was about to give up with Kennedy. Or more accurate, he was about to wander off and see if he could hear what Gary was saying. But Child rounded the corner and headed straight for them.
“Ah, you’ve met Kennedy then, Davey,” he said.
“Well, we haven’t had much of a chat.”
Child snorted with laughter. “No, you don’t do chitchat, do you, Kennedy?” He spoke loudly, as if Kennedy was deaf. Perhaps he was. Either way, Child got no response from the man.
“Here—” Child held out a small box for Kennedy. “Fresh eggs.”
Kennedy put down his spade and took the box. He opened it, inspected the eggs, and grunted his thanks.
Child reached in his pocket and pulled out a crisp ten-pound note. “Take this, too. You’ve worked hard and we’re all grateful.”
Kennedy looked at the note for long moments before finally taking it from Child and putting it in the pocket of his trousers. Again, he grunted his thanks. At least, Dylan presumed it was thanks. How could you tell?
Child shook his head in amused despair. “Help me carry the leaflets down to the garage, will you, Davey?”
“Of course.”
As they walked to the stable block, Dylan wondered if he was losing his grip. He’d always considered himself a good judge of character, but Child was as big a mystery to him as Kennedy. The Child he’d grown to know and despise wouldn’t put so much as a penny in a charity box. A tenner and a box of eggs was nothing, but he’d had no need to give anything to the gardener...
“What’s wrong with Kennedy?” he asked.
“You tell me. I’m not sure if the poor sod is deaf and dumb or simply retarded. He turned up here out of the blue one day with a scrawled note asking if I’d allow him to work in the gardens. No payment necessary, the note said, but he wanted a garden to work on. It was signed Kennedy. No one knows if that’s his first name or last.”
“Where does he live?”
“In the town, I imagine. He always walks home in that direction. And don’t knock him. He’s a bloody miracle worker in the garden. You wouldn’t believe how untidy the vegetable plot was before he started. As crazy as he is, I’d hate to lose him.”
Child pulled open the stable door. Inside were several stacked cardboard boxes.
“We need to load up the Transit with these,” Child said. “We’ll be giving them out in town later today.”
“Okay.”
A leaflet was taped to one of the boxes and Dylan had a quick read. It described the work they did—helping the homeless—and assured everyone there was a bed at the refuge for them. A tear-out direct-debit form was conveniently provided so that people could help Child carry out his good work by making regular donations.
They picked up a couple of boxes each and carried them toward the garage.
“That’s some car your mate’s got,” Dylan said. “I always saw myself driving around in a bloody great Bentley. Lucky sod.”
“Money’s not everything, Davey boy.”
“It’s not? Bloody hell, you’ve changed your tune since we worked together.”
“I’ve seen the light.”
“Hey, and what about that bloke who tried to knife you while you were inside? I never heard about that. Who was that?”
Child grinned. “That was a little white lie, Davey.” More serious, he added, “I want to raise millions for the homeless—not only those in Dawson’s Clough but in the whole country.
We need donations, so I have to convince people, don’t I?”
“Con folk, you mean?”
“No—just make them give more generously.”
“Ah.”
“There shouldn’t be anyone sleeping on the streets in this day and age, should there?” Child spoke as if he cared. “The government keeps letting in all these bloody immigrants but that’s no good, is it? How can we take care of them when we can’t even take care of our own?”
Dylan was reminded of a night in London when Child, with half a bottle of whisky inside him, had picked a fight with a young Somalian. “I’ve done nothing,” the young man had cried as Child had kicked him.
“You’ve come to my country, you fucking black bastard, that’s what you’ve done.” Child had once described himself as “racist and proud of it.”
Seeing him handing over eggs and cash to Kennedy, it was easy for Dylan to forget how much he hated him.
“Dunno,” Dylan answered his question. “By the way, I thought I’d walk into town now. I haven’t had chance to see the place and I’d like a look round. I’ve arranged to meet up with Adrian at three. That’s okay, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but don’t be late. There’s a lot of work to be done today.”
“I won’t.”
When they’d finished stacking boxes in the large white Transit van, ready to be showered on the town, Dylan made his excuses and escaped. He didn’t go far. He walked down to the end of the lane as if he were heading for the town, then doubled back on himself. He kept close to the side of a high wall, where the trees hid him from view, until he was at the back of the refuge. His boots were caked in mud, and a black cloud threatened a downpour that would soak him to the skin.
He waited.
And waited.
He’d hoped Child and his band of followers would set off early—they had a soup kitchen to set up, after all—but it was almost two o’clock when the van and the battered Ford minibus carried them down the lane. From his vantage point, Dylan tried to count heads. He wouldn’t put money on it, but he thought he was the only one on the premises. Except for Kennedy, that is. The bloke had finished one patch of digging and started on another.
Deadly Shadows (A Dylan Scott Mystery) Page 9