Deadly Shadows (A Dylan Scott Mystery)

by Shirley Wells

The breakfast had been good—a hot full English—but he would have preferred to eat in town and let someone else do the washing up. That way, he’d be free to ask questions.

  During last night’s taxi ride with Doll, he’d spotted what he suspected was Walter Topham’s farm. It was a run-down-looking place with a huge sign outside offering kittens and Border collie puppies for sale. He planned to see what the farmer knew about Farrah Brindle.

  Meanwhile, no matter how many plates he washed, the pile didn’t lessen. As for the cutlery, he swore everyone used half a dozen knives. On and on it went.

  The door opened and he turned, hoping Adrian had returned to help. It was Doll and someone else—the girl who’d been talking to Child and his son at that meeting in Leeds. The girl who claimed to be eighteen and was closer to fifteen.

  “You on your own, Davey?”

  “Yeah. Adrian’s gone off with Joe to do something in the chapel.”

  Doll nodded at her companion. “This is Anna Woodward. She’ll be staying for a while.”

  “Hi, Anna. It’s a surprise seeing you again.”

  Doll didn’t looked surprised or pleased to see Anna. She gave her a light shove in the back and said, “You may as well help with the washing up while you’re here. We’ll sort you out later.”

  “Okay.” The girl gave a beaming smile and joined Dylan at the sink. “Where’s the tea towel?”

  “Bottom drawer,” he said.

  Doll looked as if she wanted to linger but she turned on her high heels and was heard walking down the hall and out of the building.

  Anna was as good at drying plates as Dylan was at washing them. Which wasn’t very. She was a hell of a lot more enthusiastic though.

  “Why have you come here?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “Why have you?”

  “I got into a spot of bother with the law and needed a free bed for a few days.”

  “Me too. Well, I’m not in trouble with the police, but I need a bed. I was staying with a mate in Leeds but she didn’t have room for me. I thought I’d give this place a try, so I hopped on the train and here I am.” She looked as if she expected fanfares. She was out of luck.

  “You’ll find it boring.”

  “I can do boring.”

  Dylan doubted that. “Cold, too.”

  “I’ve brought plenty of sweaters.”

  “How old did you say you were?”

  “Eighteen.”

  “And how old are you really?”

  “Eighteen.”

  Dylan’s hands stilled in the soapy water as he looked at her more closely. This morning, she was wearing skintight jeans and a thick grey-and-white sweater. Long dark hair was tied back with black ribbon. Small gold earrings sparkled and her watch wasn’t cheap. She was well-spoken and obviously came from a good family.

  “I’d guess sixteen,” he said.

  “Well, you’d guess wrong, wouldn’t you?”

  “What year were you born?”

  There was the usual pause that people lying about their age always took to do the calculation. “Nineteen ninety-five.” She looked smug.

  He let it go, but he’d still bet his life that she was fifteen or sixteen.

  “What have you heard about this place?” he asked as he scrubbed the remains of fried egg from a plate.

  “Only what Joe and Hank told me. Why?”

  “Just curious. You haven’t heard about the two girls who vanished from here?”

  She frowned. “No. What—what about them?”

  “Put it this way, if I was a sixteen-year-old—or even an eighteen-year-old—girl, you wouldn’t catch me dead in this place. Two girls stayed here, Caroline and Farrah, and then vanished into thin air. The locals think they were used as human sacrifices. The police don’t have a clue what’s happened to them.”

  She’d visibly paled. That was good, but he doubted he’d done enough to shock her into going home to her parents.

  “I’d be careful if I were you,” he said.

  “What really happened to them?” she asked.

  “Who knows? Perhaps the locals are right and this place offers up human sacrifices to the devil every second Tuesday.”

  She carefully dried the plate she was holding and added it to the pile. “You’re trying to scare me.”

  “Nope. I’m saying I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes. I’d go home, if I was you. I’m sure your parents would welcome you back with open arms.”

  “That shows what you know.” The defiance was back. “I’m better off here.”

  “If you say so.”

  “What did she say your name was?”

  “Davey. Or Dave. Whichever.”

  “What did you do then? Why are you in trouble with the police?”

  “Nothing serious. I don’t suppose Anna is your real name, is it?”

  “That’s for me to know and you to find out, isn’t it?” Grinning at her wit, she nodded at the sink. “That water needs changing. These plates are coming out dirtier than when they went in.”

  She was right. Dylan let the water escape and refilled the sink with fresh.

  “I’m looking forward to giving out soup to the homeless,” she said suddenly. “That must be cool, mustn’t it?”

  “Not so much cool as downright freezing. It was minus two last night.”

  She rolled her eyes at what she thought was a joke. “It still must be good though. I’ve done a couple of nights on the streets. It was great.”

  His initial impression was right. She was a spoiled little rich kid. He’d bet she’d been given everything her heart desired and thought it would be fun to see how the other half lived. She’d imagine the have-nots partying the days and nights away. It was easy enough to do when you had a rich daddy at the end of a phone.

  He thought of his own kids. Freya, not yet a year old, was too young to know anything, but he hoped they’d instilled the right values in Luke. He thought they had. He couldn’t imagine Luke thinking it fun to sleep on the streets. Like a lot of youngsters these days, though, he had an easy life. He was ferried from football practice to cinema to fast-food outlet without question. He owned every gadget imaginable. All the same, he was a good kid. He knew the difference between right and wrong and he knew that fun didn’t come from any drug-induced high.

  He saw that her attention was on something outside. Correction. Someone.

  Hank Child was coming toward to the house with his usual arrogant swagger.

  “I suppose he’s another reason you’ve come here,” Dylan said.

  “Who are you? My bloody dad?”

  “I wouldn’t think so. Nineteen ninety-five—no. Not unless your mum’s an exotic dancer from Peckham.”

  She wrinkled her nose in distaste.

  “Hank’s a good-looking young man,” he said.

  “Gorgeous,” she said. “Nice with it.”

  Dylan wouldn’t go that far, but he declined to comment because the door swung open.

  Hank’s face lit up when he saw Anna. “So you decided to come after all? Hey, that’s great. When did you get here?”

  “About an hour ago. I caught the early train. It’s good to see you, Hank.” She fluttered long lashes at him.

  “You too.” Hank switched on the kettle and rested one hip on the worktop while he waited for it to boil. “Things are definitely looking up round here. Are you on your own?”

  “Yes.”

  “Better and better.” He winked at her. “D’you want a coffee?”

  “Please.” She smiled coyly.

  “Here—” Dylan slung clean cutlery on the drainer. “These won’t dry themselves.”

  Still smiling at Hank, she picked up the cutlery and started to dry it.

  W
hen the task was over, Dylan left her in the dubious hands of Hank. As she was only having a coffee with him, and as the place was buzzing with people, she wouldn’t come to much harm.

  There were probably more chores waiting for him, but he needed to escape.

  As he stepped outside, he wished he could leave the country. Egypt appealed to him. Anywhere warm was attractive. Lancashire was pretty, with white frost glistening in the weak sunlight, but the last word to describe it would be warm.

  He was about to head down the lane when Child appeared in front of him. “Where are you going?”

  “Didn’t I tell you? I need to check in at the local nick.”

  “Ah, right.” Child found that amusing. “Off you go then. We don’t want you upsetting the law, Davey.”

  “It won’t hurt them to wait. Did you want me for something?”

  “No. Go and keep the boys in blue happy. I’ll see you later.” Child was already hurrying into the house.

  Dylan walked at a brisk pace too. It was the only way to keep vaguely warm. He stepped it up and was soon jogging down the hill, being careful to avoid lethal patches of black ice.

  The sign outside what he assumed was Walter Topham’s farm still offered kittens and Border collie puppies for sale. Dylan walked up to the house and hoped he didn’t leave with a kitten in his pocket.

  “Yes? Did you want something?”

  Dylan turned to see a man in his sixties standing with his hands on his hips and a scowl on his face. Two black-and-white dogs stood by his side looking as if they fancied Dylan for lunch.

  “Hello.” Dylan walked closer. The bright-eyed dogs didn’t take their eyes off him. “I saw the sign for the Border collies. A friend of mine is looking for one and I wanted some more information. Are you the man to see?”

  The chap’s shoulders relaxed. “I am. Walter Topham. Know a bit about the dogs, do you?”

  “Not really, but my friend does. He’s had them for years.”

  “Not much point you looking at them then, is there? They’re from good working stock. Is that what he’s after? They’re not for pets.”

  “He has a smallholding.” Christ, it was early for the third degree. “Quite a few sheep.”

  Topham still looked suspicious. “How much land does he have?”

  “Fifty acres.” Dylan had no idea what fifty acres of land looked like. It was the first figure to enter his head. It seemed to satisfy Topham though, and that was the aim.

  “I can show you the bloodlines. You can pass it on. You’d better come inside.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Away!” At the sound of their master’s voice, the two dogs ran off out of sight.

  “Do you keep many sheep?” Dylan thought he might as well try to make conversation as they ambled toward the house.

  “I do.” Topham clearly wasn’t a great conversationalist. “You’d better give me a minute.”

  He went into the house, closing the door firmly on Dylan. Seconds later he was back. “Come on then.”

  They were greeted by yet another collie, this one old and grey around the muzzle. Dylan had assumed Topham had needed those few seconds to secure a dog that took objection to strangers, but this animal couldn’t have been more friendly. It licked Dylan’s hand with the gentlest of touches. Topham ignored it and walked into the untidiest, dirtiest kitchen—

  A goose, a bloody goose of all things, wandered into the room, ambled past the dog and waddled out of the room to God alone knew where. A goose!

  Topham paid it no attention.

  Dylan wasn’t a great believer in housework himself, but there had to be limits. The room was warm, thanks to an old black stove, but that was all it had going for it. A black kettle sat on the stove and two dirty towels hung from a rail at its side. A couple of chipped brown mugs waited to be washed. An old dresser thick with dust showed off equally dusty trophies and rosettes.

  “You may as well sit down,” Topham said as he hunted through drawers in the dresser.

  “Thank you.”

  Topham pulled out a ledger and opened it on the table in front of Dylan. He turned pages and then pointed. “That’ll give you the bloodlines. They’ll be good workers.” He pushed a grubby used envelope at Dylan. “You can make a note for your friend.”

  “Right.” He took a pen from his pocket and scribbled down what could have been a foreign language. He paused. “Sorry, did you say your name was Topham?”

  “I did.”

  “Ah, I’ve heard it mentioned. You were helping Farrah Brindle with her dog, weren’t you?”

  There was a long pause. “She brought her to work with the sheep a few times, yes.”

  “I don’t suppose you’ve heard from her since she vanished.”

  “Why should I?”

  “People think she’s taken off for the bright lights. I thought she might have worried about her dog—she might have contacted you for advice.”

  “No.”

  “It seems odd that she’d leave her dog, doesn’t it?”

  “Folk are odd. Give me dogs any day. You know where you are with dogs. Why are you so interested?”

  “Just curious. I’m staying at Moorside Refuge for a few days—”

  “We can do without places like that in the Clough.”

  “Oh? How do you mean?”

  “There have always been a few bad ‘uns in the Clough, but we know those. We don’t want people like that coming in and taking over with their strange goings-on.”

  “I haven’t seen any strange goings-on. I’ve only been there a few days, but even so, it all looks okay to me. I think they’re doing a good job, helping the homeless and suchlike.”

  “Ay. Well, maybe they are.” He nodded at the envelope. “Have you got all that?”

  “Nearly.” Dylan copied down more dogs’ names and numbers. “And like I was saying, I heard about Farrah because she stayed at the refuge for a while.”

  “She soon saw sense and went home. Right, they’re six weeks old so they won’t be ready to leave for another fortnight. I’ve got two dogs and two bitches left. Six hundred pounds each.”

  Dylan folded the envelope and put it in his pocket with his pen. “Can I see them? I can take pictures on my phone and send them to him.”

  “Suit yourself.” He put the ledger safely in the drawer and, without a word, walked out of the kitchen and down a long dark hallway to the back of the house.

  Leaning against the wall on a small shelf, their edges curling, were two black-and-white photos of a young girl with long blond hair falling around her face. In both, she was laughing into the camera and had her arm around her dog, a black-and-white Border collie.

  “Are you a photographer, Mr. Topham?”

  “What? No.”

  Dylan peered more closely. He’d thought the photos were of Farrah Brindle, but he was wrong. The girls could be twins but these photos had been taken years ago. Cars in the background were models from the seventies and eighties.

  “They’re very good,” he said.

  “A chap from the local paper took them. My daughter came second at a local trials. She should have come first but she dropped points at the pen. She was good with a dog.” He seemed to lose himself in a different world.

  “Does she still work with dogs?”

  “No. Right, it’s this way, if you want to see these pups.”

  There was no more time to study the photos of Topham’s daughter, but she was the image of Farrah Brindle.

  He followed Topham across a frozen yard to a ramshackle stable block.

  Topham pulled open an outer door and they stood at the edge of a small enclosure where a collie was fending off eight black-and-white puppies. Correction, there were seven black-and-white puppies and one white one.
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br />   “I’m not selling him.” Topham pointed to the white puppy. “I think he might be deaf.” He picked up a stick and prodded two puppies. “Those are the males and these—” He pushed the adult dog out of the way with his stick and poked two more. “These are the bitches. The other three are sold. Six hundred pounds. They’ll be good workers. I’ll have no trouble selling them.”

  It was dark inside the stable and Dylan doubted that anything would be recognisable in his photos, but he went through the motions for his fictitious friend. The pups posed obligingly and Dylan knew Topham was right. He’d have no trouble selling them. They were as cute as only puppies can be.

  “That everything?” Topham asked. “You’ve got my phone number, have you?”

  “No, I don’t—”

  “It’s on the sign on the gate. Right, good day to you.”

  Topham stomped back to the house, leaving Dylan to find his own way back to the road. He paused to make a note of Topham’s phone number before walking slowly back to the refuge.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Kennedy stifled another yawn. He’d worked all day in the garden, walked home to eat his fish and chips—he’d soon look like fish and chips—and walked back to the refuge. It was almost two in the morning and he was tempted to go home to his bed.

  Half an hour ago, Joe Child had left the building. He’d walked round the side of the house and then down the lane to the main road. It was unlike Child to walk anywhere when he had several vehicles at his disposal. Where the devil could he be going at this time of night? And why hadn’t he wanted to risk alerting anyone to his departure by firing a car’s engine?

  Child had been alone, walking quickly, and Kennedy would have followed but a light had come on in the chapel and he’d been too interested in that.

  His eyes were accustomed to the darkness, so he’d had no trouble creeping across the yard and to the chapel. He’d been standing there—listening for half an hour—and a couple of coughs and a single curse made him think that Hank Child was inside.

  Perhaps the Child family suffered from insomnia.

  Kennedy stifled another yawn. All was silent in the chapel and he was about to give up and walk home when the sound of the refuge’s front door being carefully closed alerted him. He pressed himself close to the chapel wall, out of sight, and saw the new girl—Anna, they called her—running across the yard and to the chapel.