He’d thought Owen had gone when the singing ended, but the vicar was in deep conversation with Child. They were both looking at Dylan as they spoke. They had to be talking about him.
The soup kitchen closed, and Ivy wandered over to Dylan for a quick smoke. She took a deep pull on her cigarette and sighed with pleasure as she exhaled.
“I keep meaning to give them up,” she said, “and I will. Just not today.”
“They’re not cheap these days,” Dylan said. “Very bad for your health too, of course.”
“I know. Still, something’s got to kill you, hasn’t it? I’d hate to give up the ciggies and then get knocked down by a bus. What a tragic waste that would be.”
Dylan smiled at her logic. “Joe’s got a good singing voice, hasn’t he? I was impressed. Better than the vicar’s, at any rate.”
Ivy snorted with laughter. “My cat’s got a better voice than the vicar’s.”
“He seems a nice enough bloke though, and he gets on well with Joe. They were having a right old chin-wag.”
“Were they?”
Ivy had been standing fairly close to Child and Owen. Close enough to hear their conversation, unless they’d kept it deliberately hushed.
“Yeah. I wondered if they were talking about Farrah. I gather the vicar was friendly with her.”
“I think she did see quite a bit of him, yes.” Ivy put her cigarette to her lips and inhaled. “A lot of the town’s youngsters see a lot of him. He helped raise money to keep the Girl Guides group going. He used to help out with the local youth club too. Not many kids went to it. Well, you wouldn’t, would you? Not much chance of a quick snog behind the bike shed, with the vicar looking on.” She wheezed with laughter. “I can see that vicars have to get on well with the youngsters these days. After all, they’re the congregation of the future. I think he takes it all a bit too seriously though. He likes to make out he’s young and trendy when, really, they’d have far more respect for him if he was just himself.”
Smiling, Dylan nodded.
“I’d love to know what happened to Farrah,” she said. “She could be a little madam, like most her age, but she was a good girl. Like I told you, I reckon there was a man. Isn’t there always a man?”
“Any idea who it might have been?”
“Me?” She seemed surprised by the question. “None at all. My guess is, he was married. At that age, us girls like to shout about our conquests. If we’re tight-lipped, you can bet your life he’s married. Men like that have it easy, don’t they? They promise young girls the moon and the stars, and they’re daft enough to fall for it hook, line and sinker. For all that, I would have thought Farrah had more sense. I suppose I can’t claim to have known her well, but I liked her a lot.” She chewed on her bottom lip. “I do hope she’s all right.”
So did Dylan.
He also hoped everyone’s favourite vicar hadn’t blown his cover. If Owen had squealed to Child—well, he didn’t know what would happen. He only knew that life without a tongue wouldn’t be a laugh a minute.
He handed out more leaflets and wondered if there could be a more pointless task. Most of them would end up blowing around the streets with the discarded burger wrappers.
“Hello there. It’s David, isn’t it?”
Dylan was surprised to see Malcolm Brindle and even more surprised to see the attractive woman with her arm linked through his.
“Hello. Good to see you again.” Dylan looked at the woman and waited for an introduction.
“This is my wife, Clare. Clare, this is David Young, the chap I told you about, the one who’s staying at Moorside Refuge.”
Her face lit up and she put out a slender hand. “Good to meet you, David. You’re doing such good work at the refuge.”
Dylan made appropriate noises, but he was still surprised that Brindle was married to this beauty. Tall and elegant, she was wrapped in a knee-length red woollen coat and black boots. Fair hair was short and well cut. A pair of small gold studs adorned her ears. Only if you looked closely could you see the shadows beneath her eyes and the tenseness around her mouth.
“Malcolm has a dental appointment,” she said, “and I’m nipping into the coffee shop to wait for him. Would you join me? I’d love to hear about the refuge.”
He’d wanted an excuse to talk to Clare Brindle and he was being offered it on a plate. “Of course. Thank you, I’d love to.”
Brindle glanced at his watch. “I’d better get a move on, darling. I’ll see you in about half an hour.” He gave her a quick peck on the cheek. “Good to see you again, David.”
“You too.”
He strode off and his wife smiled fondly. “Rather him than me. He needs an extraction and the very thought makes me shudder. Quick, let’s get out of this wind.”
The coffee bar was only a short distance away, and they were soon sitting at a table by the window. A young girl came to take their order.
“Cappuccino for me, please,” Clare said with an enquiring look at Dylan.
“I’ll have the same. Thanks.”
“So tell me about the refuge,” Clare said when they were alone. “As Malcolm told you, our daughter spent a few weeks there. I think she found it an eye-opener, but she enjoyed herself. You’re doing such marvellous work. If there were more Christians in the world, we’d live in a much better place, wouldn’t we?”
“Without doubt.” She looked fragile. Elegant and attractive, but fragile, like a rare piece of porcelain that could so easily be smashed into a million pieces.
“I always think it sad that the parable of the Good Samaritan is known by all yet understood by so few,” she said. “The lawyer asked Jesus, ‘And who is my neighbour?’ and still people don’t understand, do they?”
Bollocks. They needed to get off the religion talk before Dylan was rumbled. She’d probably studied theology, and Dylan’s recollection of the Good Samaritan story he’d been told at primary school had dimmed to almost nothing over the years. Hadn’t some bloke been robbed and left for dead, and been ignored by lots of people until someone, the Good Samaritan of the story, took pity on him?
“There are still too many priests and Levites, aren’t there?” she said.
Priests wore long black robes and got involved in child-abuse scandals. But Levites? Dylan didn’t have a clue. They sounded like little hairy creatures with sharp teeth and long tails.
“There are.” Best to agree with her and change the subject. “What made your daughter choose to stay at the refuge? Was it simply the chance to help those less fortunate?”
“She met someone who told her all about the place, and the lifestyle appealed to her. She’s always loved a cause. If there’s anything to protest against, like fox hunting, roads being built through open countryside, animals being used in experiments, Farrah’s there. She has strong views on everything and it infuriates her to think that she lives in a country where people aren’t provided with food and shelter.”
The waitress put two coffees in front of them. “Is there anything else I can get for you?” On being told there wasn’t, she gave them a beaming smile and left them alone.
“She had her dog with her,” Clare went on, “and I gather she used to skip the Bible study classes and the services. Penny’s a collie and she needs a lot of exercise, so I suppose Farrah would deal with her dog when study classes were on. She’s a practical person. She’ll do whatever it takes to help the homeless but—well, it was the same with church services. She thought them a little self-indulgent and believed people should spend their time raising money for sick children, the homeless and the elderly rather than sit in church and talk about it.”
“She has a point.”
“I’ve made her sound like a saint and she isn’t that. She’s just a normal teenager with a normal teenager’s hopes, dreams and tantrums.�
�� She smiled at the latter, then seemed to hug herself. “The night she vanished—she said she was meeting up with a couple of friends and would be home by eleven. Of course, we checked with her friends and they’d made no plans. We think—we think she was meeting a boyfriend that she hadn’t told us about.”
She spooned the chocolate dusting from the top of her coffee with a hand that trembled.
“What about internet chat rooms?” Police would have checked, but he like confirmation. “Did she spend a lot of time on Facebook or Twitter?”
“No. She had a Facebook page, but it was just a means of keeping up with friends. She didn’t use it often because she didn’t have time. She took Penny for long walks before and after school, she sometimes worked at the town hall when there were functions on—oh, and she spent a fair bit of time with a local farmer. He’s a strange one but Farrah adored him. He’s an experienced sheepdog handler and Farrah hoped he’d help her train Penny to work with sheep. She was an outdoors type and didn’t spend much time at her computer. The police took it away to see if they could find anything, but they couldn’t.”
Dylan nodded. “She’s thought of fondly at the refuge. There’s a woman, Ivy, who worries about her.”
“She mentioned Ivy. Said she was lovely.”
“She is. How did Farrah get along with the others? How about the family—Joe, Doll, Hank and Gary? Did she like them?”
“I think so, yes. She wanted more freedom than we’re prepared to give her. Her friends are allowed to stay out late and do as they please. Farrah isn’t. It came to a head when she wanted to go to a dog show in London on her own and stay the night. She’d already checked out a hotel that allowed dogs. We wouldn’t let her go, there were a few arguments and she moved to the refuge. We couldn’t stop her, and between you and me, we thought it would do her good. And, of course, we knew she’d be safe there.”
That was more than Dylan knew. No one was safe at that place.
“When she came back, she was more like her old self,” Clare said. “We thought any problems had been solved.”
“You say you believe she was meeting up with a boyfriend. Can’t her friends come up with any names?”
“No. Her friends are a sensible bunch, and I know they realise how serious this is and would tell us, but no. If there was a boyfriend, she kept him secret from everyone.”
“Even the vicar?” Dylan asked. “We were chatting and he said he and Farrah were close. I’m surprised she didn’t mention anyone to him.”
Clare stirred her coffee round and round before she answered. “I don’t think they were as close as he likes to believe. She always thought him something of a fuddy-duddy. She felt a little sorry for him because so few people turned up for his services, but I don’t think they were close.”
“Ah.”
“People are reluctant to turn up for his services,” she went on with a forced smile, “because they’re long, drawn-out and totally uninspiring. I should go, I know I should, especially as he keeps Farrah in his prayers, but I just don’t have the heart right now.”
“I’m sure he understands.”
“Sorry,” she said with another smile that clearly took tremendous effort, “you don’t want to hear about our problems. I wanted you to tell me about the refuge.”
“Don’t apologise. I’ve heard a lot about Farrah, so of course I’m interested. It must be so difficult for you. But as the Lord says—” Bugger. He’d forgotten. Something about God never giving us more problems than we can bear? Nope, it had gone. He gave her a beaming smile. “The Lord says many things that offer comfort. Farrah is in our prayers at the refuge. As are you and your husband, of course.”
“Thank you. It means a lot. Faith is a great help in times like these. It’s funny but whenever I pick up my Bible, I’m constantly drawn to Luke 15, verse 9.”
She waited expectantly, but all Dylan could do was pretend to ponder. They’d be here till Christmas if they waited for him to guess what little gem Luke 15 offered. “And that is—?”
“The lost sheep, of course.”
“Of course. It’s one of my favourite passages too. I’m no good at the numbers though. Dyslexic,” he added.
“Oh, really. I have a friend who’s the same. She’s fine with letters but the numerals give her problems.”
“That’s it exactly. Luke 15,” he said. “I’ll remember that. I’ll read it at our next service at the refuge.”
“Thank you so much. I suppose the repentance of sinners isn’t relevant, but it’s the whole idea of straying and being welcomed back to the fold that appeals to me.”
“I fully understand.”
The coffee bar’s door opened and Brindle strode inside. Pleasantries were exchanged, with great difficulty on Brindle’s part because his mouth was numb, and the meeting was over.
“It’s been lovely to meet you,” Clare said as they parted. “I hope we’ll see you again.”
“Likewise. I hope you have good news about Farrah soon too.”
He strode back to the soup kitchen, hoping he hadn’t been missed and hoping the job was over for the day. He also hoped Child wasn’t sharpening a knife.
* * *
It was difficult getting Child alone but, that evening, at a little after eight o’clock, Dylan finally managed it. He’d been watching and waiting, and when he saw Child cross the yard to the chapel, he grabbed the newspaper he’d bought and followed.
His breath clouded in front of him. Above, a clear sky dotted with millions of stars promised yet another cold night.
Child was doing nothing when Dylan stepped into the dimly lit chapel. Nothing. He was simply staring at the back wall. Deep in thought maybe? Wondering what he should do about Owen’s little bombshell? Deciding on the best way to dispose of a private investigator who was pretending to be his best pal? There was only one way to find out.
“Hey, Joey.”
Child spun around. Light from a couple of flickering candles made him look grotesque. “Davey.”
The greeting gave nothing away.
“Have you seen this? My God, I couldn’t believe it.” Dylan waved his newspaper in front of him and moved closer to a candle. “It’s Christian Fraser. You know who he is, don’t you?”
“Of course I do. I’ve been a friend to those boys for years.” He glanced at his watch. “In fact, I’m heading over to see them now—to see if there’s anything I can do. Those three—two boys have known tragedy, haven’t they? First their father, now their kid brother.”
“Heading over there?”
“Yes. They live in Manchester these days. As they’re less than an hour away, I often see them.”
Dylan reached into the pocket of his jacket and brought out a half bottle of whisky. “Fancy a drop, Joey? I had a flutter on the horses and thought I’d celebrate.”
“Still gambling?” Child sneered. “You’ll never learn, will you?”
“I never get in over my head, you know that. Here, have a drop.” He thrust the bottle at Child. “So you’re friends with the Fraser lads? Until I saw this in the paper, I didn’t even know he had any sons.”
Child took a swig of whisky from the bottle, wiped the top and handed it back. “Thanks. They were only kids when you were around. They’re a few years older than Gary and Hank. I took them under my wing after their dad was murdered.”
“Wow. I didn’t know that. I didn’t realise you and Barney were mates.”
“We weren’t. How could we be, when we worked for different sides? I felt for those boys of his though. You didn’t go to Barney’s funeral, did you? I did. I thought I should. It was a sad do. Three boys left without a father. They had their mother, of course, but a boy needs a man in his life, don’t you think?”
As an only child who’d been brought up by an unmarried mother, a crazy
unmarried mother at that, Dylan couldn’t argue with him. The Fraser boys’ mother was probably a bit more normal though.
“Well, yeah. So you still keep in touch with them?”
“Yes.”
“I always thought our old boss, McCoy, had something to do with Barney’s murder. Didn’t you?”
Child shrugged. “I’ve no idea who was behind it. No one was ever caught.”
“No.” And if Dylan were a gambling man, which he wasn’t, he’d bet he was standing opposite Barney Fraser’s killer. The brutality of it, the removing of the bloke’s tongue while he was still alive, boasted Child’s trademarks. “I always assumed though. Didn’t you ever hear anything?”
“Not a whisper.”
“And now this,” Dylan said, shaking his head. “Someone has it in for that family. What’s it all about, do you reckon?”
“No idea.”
“You must have some inkling. Did the sons take over where their father left off?”
“Drugs? No, they’re clean. They own a chain of nightclubs in the North. Some in London too—well, Barney owned most of them, but these days, they’re clean.” Child glanced at his watch again. “And now I need to offer a quick prayer for those boys. If you’ll—”
“Yeah. No worries.” Dylan turned to leave, then stopped. “According to this—” he tapped the newspaper, “—he was killed while we were at that nightclub. It was the night we met.”
“I know.”
“Makes you think, doesn’t it?”
“It does. And now I need to pray.”
“Of course.”
Child was a cagey sod. In the past, Dylan had managed to hold conversations with him. Not now.
He still didn’t know if Owen had blown his cover. Child had given nothing away, but he wouldn’t. He wasn’t that stupid.
He left Child to his prayers—yeah, right—and walked back to the side of the house. He kept watch and when, ten minutes later, Child set off—presumably to console those poor boys—he returned to the chapel.
Deadly Shadows (A Dylan Scott Mystery) Page 14