She let herself into the building and Kennedy heard muffled voices. He couldn’t make out the words but he recognised the voices. Anna and Hank Child must have agreed to meet. She was giggling. He was talking in a low, coaxing voice.
There were no prizes for guessing what they were up to.
Hank Child was insatiable. Kennedy wondered if he’d been the same at that age, but he knew he hadn’t. Chance would have been a fine thing. He’d thought about sex a lot, like any other young man, but he hadn’t gone through women the way young Child did. He hadn’t had the looks that Child did, for a start. Women of all ages liked to look at Child. The more they looked, the taller he stood and the more arrogant he became. And they loved it. Often, he’d bring women back to the chapel after a night on the town. He’d call a taxi for them early the next morning. The young women would be all over him, demanding to know when they’d see him again. He liked to play hard to get. “I’ll call you,” he’d say as he bundled them into the waiting taxi. Kennedy doubted he ever did.
He listened more closely. He heard Anna’s voice raised. Child’s voice was petulant. Moments later, there was moaning—
The cat slunk by, too intent on a good night’s hunting to pay him any attention. The possibility of a fresh mouse was far more tempting than a stroke behind the ears.
Another half hour ticked silently by. The chapel door opened and Child and Anna emerged, their voices hushed.
“Tomorrow night?” Anna asked in a whisper.
“Maybe. I’ll see you around.”
“Don’t I get a good-night kiss?”
Kennedy didn’t hear Child’s response, but she didn’t get her kiss. She had a smack on the bottom before he strode off, and she hurried across the yard and let herself in through the front door.
Kennedy might as well go home. Waiting for Child senior to return was pointless because he could be out all night.
A dark shadow moved. All was quiet but a figure—a man—was striding across the yard and to the lane. The new chap. Davey Young. Where was he sneaking off to?
Kennedy followed at a safe distance. Like Young, he could move silently. Unless he tripped on one of the lethal holes in the track.
Young walked purposefully down to the main road, unaware that Kennedy was watching his every step. Instead of turning to the left and in the direction of the town, Young turned right. About six miles of open countryside stretched that way. All he’d see—if it hadn’t been too dark to see anything—were the forbidding moors.
Curious, Kennedy followed. The distance was difficult to gauge, but he’d guess they walked no more than half a mile. A car was parked in the lay-by. Its lights flashed briefly. Young quickened his pace and got in the car.
The engine fired and drove off.
Kennedy made a mental note of the registration plate and watched the taillights vanish round a bend.
Chapter Eighteen
“Did you get out all right?”
Dylan leaned back in the passenger seat and relaxed. Frank’s car was clean, comfortable and blessedly warm. Bliss. “Yeah. If anyone says anything, I’ll tell them I couldn’t sleep and decided to go for a walk.”
“Have a look in the glove box,” Frank said. “There’s a treat for you.”
It was enough of a treat to be warm until he found the half bottle of single malt whisky. “Hey, you’re a star.”
“Can’t have you soft southerners drinking the cheap shite, can we? Help yourself. I’ll drive over the hill and park at the back of the football ground.”
There were no glasses so Dylan took a swig from the bottle. It ran down his throat, generously warm. It was like nectar, compared to the cheap blended crap Davey Young drank.
“Do you want some?” He offered the bottle in Frank’s direction.
“No, I’m driving.” He grinned. “I might spill some.”
Dylan smiled at the old joke. It felt good to be comfortable, and to be himself.
Frank drove into the car park behind the football ground and killed the engine and lights. No one else was around at this late—or early—hour.
Frank took the bottle and enjoyed a quick drink.
“I have an interesting snippet,” he said as he handed it back, “but tell me how you’re getting on first.”
Typical of Frank. He always liked to keep you in the dark.
“I’m getting on depressingly slowly. Do you know a farmer called Walter Topham? He breeds and works sheepdogs.”
“I know of him, yes. Why do you ask?”
“I have a feeling that he’s not all he claims to be. Farrah Brindle used to visit him to get help training her dog to work with sheep. I called on him, on the pretence of being interested in puppies he has for sale, and while I was there, I spotted a photo of a girl who’s a dead ringer for Farrah. He claims it’s his daughter.”
Frank nodded. “I expect it is. I heard that Farrah had spent time with him, so I checked him out. I can’t remember his daughter’s name now, but she was killed. Car accident. She’d passed her driving test a fortnight earlier and was showing off with her friends. She and a girlfriend were killed instantly. Two lads in the back survived with cuts and bruises.”
Dylan winced. Given that to cope with, Topham was entitled to be a moody, curmudgeonly old bugger.
“He’s married then?” There had been no signs of a woman’s touch at the farm.
“Divorced. His wife went off with someone else not long after the accident.”
A double whammy. No wonder Topham found it easier to deal with dogs than people. All the same—
“He wasn’t keen to talk about Farrah. He wasn’t keen to talk about anything, even the puppies he was selling. And there was a bloody goose wandering about the kitchen as if it owned the place.” He stretched out his legs and pushed Topham from his mind. “Did you manage to find out anything about Bill Owen?”
“Nothing exciting,” Frank said. “He seems okay. Been here for years, well respected, popular, will probably end his days here. There’s never been a hint of scandal about him. Not so much as a parking ticket.”
“Farrah used to call on him. She lost an aunt and a grandmother to cancer, apparently, and used to visit him for spiritual guidance. He also claims that she talked of her dog, and about fashion and music. Seems a bit odd, doesn’t it? He’s old enough to be her grandfather. Why the hell would she talk music and fashion with him?”
Frank shrugged. “People treat vicars differently. They see them as one step down from God. For some people, talking to the vicar is almost as good as having a chin-wag with the Almighty.”
Dylan snorted at that. “Has he any links with the refuge or anyone there? I know the church and the refuge held a joint fundraising event, but that’s all anyone will admit to.”
“None that we could find. Rhodes and the boys are checking more thoroughly, but I don’t think they’ll find anything. It’s the same with Gordon Riley. There’s nothing of interest there either.” Frank paused as a set of car headlights lit up the car park. The driver was merely turning round though and soon vanished from sight. “Riley was at the same care home as Child. A grim place it was too, by all accounts. Riley was there first and was bullied constantly. Child arrived, an angry little sod, and took on the bullies. I gather Riley used to do his schoolwork for him by way of payment.”
“Child has always loved a good fight.”
“I know. Riley left at about the same time as Child ran away. He did well for himself. He’s a clever bloke and now owns one of the biggest computer-games companies in Europe.”
“The education in the care home was that good?” Dylan was sceptical.
“I doubt it. No, I think Riley had the good sense to sniff out top experts in their fields.”
“So he and Child have been mates ever since?”
“It does. And if Riley’s as respectable as he makes out, why would he want a friend like—”
“—that murdering bastard Child? Exactly. I don’t know. I do know that he’s made a healthy donation to the refuge in the past. Perhaps he’s still haunted by all that bullying and wants to repay Child for fighting his battles for him.”
“Perhaps.”
They lapsed into silence. Dylan took another swig of whisky. “Do you know anything about a bloke called Kennedy who works at the refuge? He’s a gardener. The story is that he pitched up one day with a note asking if he could work in the gardens. Child gives him a tenner and half a dozen eggs now and again, and that’s that.”
“The name means nothing to me. Why do you ask?”
“He doesn’t speak. People told me he’s not quite right in the head.”
“And?”
“And I heard him talking to a cat. He sounded well-spoken, well educated.”
“Kennedy? Is that his first or last name?”
“No idea. No one seems to know anything about him. I only overheard him talking to that cat when I should have been doling out soup to the homeless. He must have thought he had the place to himself.”
“That’s interesting. I’ll see what I can find out. I’ll put Rhodes onto it.”
Yes, let Rhodes and his sidekick do some work. While he was risking frostbite in that confounded shed, they left their lovely warm offices for their lovely warm beds.
“Also, a young girl arrived at the refuge today. She claims to be eighteen, but I reckon she’s closer to fifteen or sixteen. Home Counties accent. She calls herself Anna Woodward but I doubt that’s her real name. She met Childs senior and junior at that meeting in Leeds. I’d say she was a spoiled little rich kid. She says she’s escaped a violent boyfriend and has been staying with a friend in Leeds. I’ll try to take a picture with my phone and send it to you. Get them to check out missing persons, will you?”
“Will do. Meanwhile, keep an eye on her.”
“I’ll do my best. I don’t want anyone disappearing while I’m on watch.” He took a long, slow swig from the bottle. “So what do you have, Frank?”
Frank rubbed his hands together like a conjurer about to pull a white rabbit from a hat. “The night you arrived—when you met Child at that nightclub?”
“What about it?”
“There was a body found in a nearby alley.”
Dylan nodded. “I know. Rhodes told me—I gather it inconvenienced them. I’ve read about it in the paper, too. So?”
“He’s finally been identified. You remember Barney Fraser?”
“Sure do. Had his tongue removed, beaten to death possibly, probably, by our hero, Joe Child.”
“The very one. Well, the dead body found in the alley? One Christian Fraser—youngest son of Barney.”
“You have got to be bloody kidding me.”
“No. They found out who he was a couple of hours ago.”
“And Child hasn’t been arrested yet?”
“I’m not sure he’s even been spoken to. There’s a bit of a problem there.”
There would be. “Go on.”
“The barman at Tempo confirms that Child arrived at the club at seven-thirty. Fraser junior was killed between about nine and ten o’clock.”
“I was with him at about ten-thirty.”
“Exactly. But just because Child has a neat little alibi, it doesn’t mean he isn’t involved in some way.”
“Why does Child go to Tempo every Thursday night anyway? What’s the attraction there?”
“It’s full of smackheads,” Frank said in a matter-of-fact way. “He likes to be around people with problems, to see if he can help.”
“That’s bollocks.”
“I know that and you know that, but that’s his story. Perhaps he likes to give himself an alibi while his henchmen beat people to death.”
“No way. It would kill him to miss out on giving someone a good send-off.” Child would do his own dirty work—and enjoy every brutal second.
“What was Fraser junior doing in the Clough?”
“No one knows yet. They only got an ID a couple of hours ago. He and his two brothers live in Manchester these days, so it’s not far from home for him. I’ll let you know when I hear anything more.”
“Do that. I’m curious.” Another car pulled into the car park, turned and drove out again. “I’d better get back before I’m missed. Back to that bloody awful shed. Still, at least the breakfasts are good.”
“There you go then.” Frank fired the engine and drove out of the car park. “You can’t have everything, you know. That’s the trouble with you soft southerners, you struggle to cope with a little hardship.”
“Ha.”
“Oh, did I tell you my good news?”
“No. What’s that?”
“The lovely Esme is moving out on Monday.” Frank smiled his satisfaction.
Esme was Frank’s neighbour, the woman who had longed to become the fourth Mrs. Willoughby.
“Has she given up on you then?”
“Seems like it,” Frank said. “Of course, I’ll miss her fruitcakes. And her apple pies. It’ll be nice to walk round the garden without her lying in wait to thrust her cleavage in my face though. Just keep your fingers crossed that her house sale doesn’t fall through.”
“I wonder who’ll be moving in. Maybe you’ll get lucky, Frank.”
“Pah. As you’re so often telling me, there are two sorts of luck. I’m better on my own now. I’ve done the matrimonial stuff and it’s hard work.”
Dylan couldn’t argue with that.
“I’d better drop you here.” Frank slowed the car to a stop. “No point getting too close.”
“Thanks. I’ll be in touch.”
Dylan left the warm comfort of Frank’s car and huddled deep inside his coat for the cold walk back to the refuge.
Chapter Nineteen
Dylan knew he should get a kick out of helping those less fortunate, but all he got was bored and frozen. Most of those queuing for the hot potato-and-leek soup merely wanted to save themselves a trip to McDonald’s. None looked as if they’d spent the night shivering on a park bench. Most were better dressed than he was.
The “soup kitchen” was a Transit van with a hob powered by a noisy, smelly generator. Ivy and Sharon were busy ladling the soup into polystyrene cups from a huge pan.
Child stood to the side, behind a small table almost hidden by leaflets telling people how God loved them and how they should give themselves to God. He was doing his usual speech about how God had chosen him, and a good crowd had gathered. Coins chinked satisfyingly as they landed in a large bucket on the table.
A couple of uniformed police officers strolled past. They took no notice of Child, presumably because they were used to seeing him there. Perhaps they were grateful that he had such an attentive crowd. While people were listening to Child they weren’t shoplifting or mugging old ladies.
A man strode past, hesitated, dug in his pocket and threw a five-pound note in the bucket.
“God bless you, sir.” Child broke off from his speech to thank the stranger.
Dylan was handing out leaflets that offered shelter at the refuge and prayer to anyone in need. They also begged for donations, of course. He thrust a leaflet at a passerby.
“Why, thank you, David.”
Dylan looked up into the long face of Bill Owen. “Oh, hi. Are you here for the performance or the free soup?”
Owen smiled. “I had no idea Joe would be here today. I’ve been up at the hospital, visiting a member of my congregation.”
“Well, today’s soup is potato and leek. I can recommend it.”
“Thank you, but I’ll save it for those in need.”
“Can I have a quick look?” Dylan nodded at the newspaper tucked beneath Owen’s arm.
“Of course. Help yourself.”
News of Christian Fraser’s murder filled the front page. Dylan quickly scanned it but discovered nothing he didn’t already know.
“Thanks.” He handed it back. “By the way, I meant to ask you about that farmer, the one Farrah Brindle went to with her dog. Topham’s his name, right?”
“That’s right.” Owen wore a puzzled frown.
“I heard his daughter died in a car accident.”
“Indeed she did. That was shortly before I arrived in the parish. A tragedy, to be sure. What makes you ask about him?”
“I met him,” Dylan said. “I thought he was a miserable old devil and I was quite rude to him. Then someone told me about his daughter and I felt guilty. This chap said his wife left him soon afterwards.”
Owen nodded, still wearing that frown. “So I believe.”
“I don’t suppose he’s much of a churchgoer.”
“No. I’m afraid not.”
“Well, look who’s here.” Child gave a smiling bow. “Reverend, how about we lead these people in a hymn?”
“What? Oh, yes, of course.” Owen walked to stand beside Child, who muttered something in his ear.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Child said, “please join us in singing ‘Rock of Ages.’”
Not again. Dylan wondered if Child knew any other hymns. Murdering bastard.
At least Child could hold a tune, which was more than could be said for Owen. Given that it was a bitterly cold late afternoon in a shopping centre, the crowd did an impressive job. People enjoyed singing along, and when it was over, they dropped donations in the bucket and went on their way with lighter hearts.
Dylan’s own heart would be lighter when this charity stint was over. There was still some way to go though. Before they could leave the town, they had to search out those sleeping rough and give them blankets that had been bought from a local wholesaler and were almost useless. They were far too thin to keep the cold Lancashire nights at bay.
Deadly Shadows (A Dylan Scott Mystery) Page 13