He had no idea what Child had been doing in there, but he’d stake his life on it not involving praying for anyone’s soul.
He lit the biggest candles he could find and searched every centimetre of that chapel. It didn’t take long, because the place was little more than an empty shell. The floor was concrete, so no hidden floorboards. Nothing had been hidden beneath the plastic chairs or under that makeshift altar. Toolboxes contained—unsurprisingly—tools. There was nothing.
So what was Child’s game?
Chapter Twenty
“He’s on his way.”
Ben looked at his brother. His only living brother, he thought with a sickening thud in his gut. “Okay, and this time, we need some answers from him.”
“Yeah.”
“Maybe Chris was right,” Ben said. “Perhaps he has lost his bottle.”
“He hasn’t.”
“How can we be sure? I say we ask someone else to find out what the fuck is going on.”
“There is no one else.” Mark reached for the whisky bottle and refilled his glass. His hands were shaking. Not surprising, really. Receiving death threats, then hearing that your kid brother had been beaten to death, did that to a man.
Ben took the bottle from him and refilled his own glass. “We need to do something now—before we’re found dead in an alley.”
“I know, I know.”
It was no use. Ben couldn’t sit here and wait for Joe to arrive. He needed to be doing something. Anything. “I’ll go and see what’s happening downstairs.”
“Nothing’s happening.”
“I’ll go anyway.”
After draining his glass, Ben left the office and went down the stairs to where life was carrying on as if everything were normal, as if his kid brother hadn’t been murdered on the street. Music blared out, and people were dancing, laughing or chatting, and it was possible to believe that Christian would walk through the door and say, “Joke!”
He’d always been the comedian in the family. As the youngest, he’d been spoiled rotten by their parents. To their mother, he was the baby. Even their father, knowing that Ben and Mark would take over the business, had treated him differently. It was if he’d been put on the earth merely to be indulged. He’d never been scolded or nagged. They’d all loved him and they’d all spoiled him.
Ben strode across to the bar. Trade was brisk, mainly thanks to a stag night. The groom-to-be was clearly a popular bloke as he had around a hundred friends enjoying his last night of freedom.
For all Ben knew, Christian’s killer could be in this room. It must have been someone who’d known Christian well, someone he’d confided in, someone who’d known he was going to Dawson’s Clough to see Joe. But who could have known? It had been a spur-of-the-moment decision.
Ben went over and over their last conversation. It had been ridiculously brief because Christian had been on the train coming home from London.
“I’m going straight to see Joe. You will not believe what that bastard did.” The connection broke.
A minute later, Christian phoned again. “Bloody tunnel.”
That was all Ben had heard clearly. It was the last time he spoke to his brother. It was the last time he ever would speak to him.
His kid brother was dead. Every time that thought hit him, he didn’t know whether he was going to be sick or drop to the floor and weep.
He didn’t want to be in the club with all the raucous laughter mocking his sadness. Nor did he want to be in the office with Mark. He wished he were a million miles away from all this. When this was over, he would be. He didn’t need to be here. It wasn’t as if he needed the money. He could sell up, catch a plane to Brazil and enjoy life. That had to be better than waiting for the next threatening note to arrive. Mark could say what he liked but Ben was out of here.
He took the stairs back to the office, where Mark was staring into his empty glass. If getting drunk solved anything, Mark wouldn’t have a care in the world.
They said little as they waited for Joe. What was there to say? Their kid brother, the one who’d spent his life looking up to his brothers, had been murdered in cold blood. And for what? Why? What the fuck had any of them done to deserve this?
The anger lodged in the pit of his stomach but he knew it was preferable to the grief. Anger faded. The loss of his brother would haunt him for the rest of his days.
The phone rang and Mark snatched at it. He looked at the display and Ben saw the flash of pain in his eyes.
“Hey, Mum, how are you doing? Do you have people with you?”
Her sister and brother-in-law were staying with her. She’d be okay. Their mother was a lot tougher than she looked—and acted. Living with their father for so long had taught her to take the knocks.
“We’re catching the first train tomorrow,” Mark told her. “We’ll be with you by ten o’clock. Yes, yes.” He threw a quick glance at Ben. “Yes, he’s doing okay.”
Ben stood on the far side of the room but he could still hear her sobbing. He was grateful he hadn’t picked up the phone. He was struggling with his own grief too much to deal with hers too. Tomorrow would be soon enough for that. They’d be travelling to London to be with her and also to discuss the funeral arrangements, arrangements that couldn’t be carried out until the police decided to release the body. That could be weeks away yet.
Ten minutes later, the club manager called to say that Joe had arrived, then escorted him up the stairs and into the office.
“Thanks,” Ben said, effectively dismissing him.
Did Joe look wary? He seemed to hesitate as if expecting them to say something. The moment was fleeting and he was soon giving them a hug. “I am so sorry. Whoever’s done this will pay, you have my word on that.”
“But who has done it, Joe?” Ben demanded. “And why?”
“I don’t—”
“Exactly, you don’t know. How long have we been paying you? Over a year now. And for what? You’re no further forward than you were at the start.”
Joe patted his shoulder. “Take it easy. I know how hard Chris’s death has hit you. Believe me, I feel the same. I think of you boys as my own, you know I do.”
“Yes, calm down, Ben,” Mark said. “Here, Uncle Joe, have a drink. Ben’s just a bit wound up. We both are—it’s bloody hard.”
“I know. You don’t have to apologise to me, you know that. We’re all shocked by Chris’s death. None of us can be expected to think straight.”
Mark nodded, filled a glass for Joe and refilled his own. Ben could easily have drunk himself to blessed oblivion, but first he wanted some answers.
“So what have you got, Joe?” He’d dropped the Uncle long ago.
He often wondered what his father would have thought of Joe stepping in to take care of them. That their father had made his money from drugs was no secret. It was also common knowledge that Joe had worked for his biggest rival, McCoy. Yet Joe said he’d always respected Barney Fraser, and true to his word, he’d stepped in to see Barney’s widow all right and taken care of the three of them.
What was he doing for them though? Christian hadn’t trusted him. He’d thought Joe was taking the money and not bothering to look into anything. Ben had dismissed that as nonsense, but now he too was wondering if Joe was actually working for his money.
What had Christian meant during that last phone call? You will not believe what that bastard did. What had he done?
“The word on the street is that it was a random mugging,” Joe said.
“What?” Ben didn’t believe what he’d heard. “So we get death threats, one of us ends up dead, and it’s a fucking coincidence? Get real!”
Joe threw himself down in a chair. He always acted as if he owned the place, and tonight Ben found that irritating.
“I’m
telling you what the word on the street is. But if you think about it—first off, his wallet and phone were taken. That’s the sign of a mugging. Maybe, instead of handing over his wallet and having done with it, he put up a fight. Second, no one knew he was coming to see me. He only called me a few hours earlier. Whoever’s threatening you couldn’t possibly have known he’d be there.”
“What exactly did he say when he called you?” Ben asked.
“I’ve told you. He wasn’t happy, and I could see his point, to think that you were all paying me and getting no answers. I wanted to talk about it there and then, but he insisted on coming to see me. He was like that, you know he was. Once he got a bee in his bloody bonnet, that was it. He had to thrash it out. As I was on my way to Tempo, we decided we’d discuss it there and make a night of it. When he didn’t turn up, I assumed he’d cooled off and decided he didn’t need to take me to task after all.”
Ben had heard it all before. “So we get notes from someone who wants us dead. Chris is murdered and you’re trying to tell me that it was a mugging? That’s crap.”
Joe shrugged. “Look, I’ve been paying the best noses in London to get to the bottom of this. We’re fairly certain that someone’s out for revenge—your dad made a lot of enemies in his time.”
“When you say we’re fairly certain, who do you mean?” Mark asked.
“I can’t tell you—yet. But as I was saying, your dad made enemies. We have a few suspects. But—” he stressed the word, “—but we know that those involved weren’t aware that Chris was coming to see me. Also—” He broke off.
“What?” Ben asked.
“It wasn’t their style,” Joe said softly. “Your dad—well, you’ll know this—had his tongue removed. Chris was simply beaten to death.”
And that was supposed to be consolation?
“Look, sons,” Joe said, “I know this is a difficult time, but I’m telling you again to maintain the tightest security, okay? This place, your homes—they need to be tighter than a duck’s arse. Make sure you have people around you when you go out. Take no risks at all, got that?”
Ben nodded impatiently. Mark swallowed more whisky.
“Manchester is crawling with people I count as friends,” Joe assured them. “It’s expensive, yes, but if anyone connected to you, or anyone who was connected to your dad, makes a move, I’ll know about it. I even have prison guards on my payroll. Yes, really, I have a couple in Strangeways listening and watching for anything.”
Ben walked a circle of the office. They were between a rock and a hard place. Joe had contacts, they knew that, and it was strangely reassuring to know they were out on the streets. They couldn’t stop paying Joe, or he’d have to stop paying them.
But what had Christian meant? You will not believe what that bastard did...
“Why was he angry?” Ben asked. “He phoned me. He was on the train going straight to meet you.”
“What did he say?” Joe asked.
“Not a lot because the connection kept breaking up. He was angry with you though. He said, ‘You will not believe what that bastard did.’ Those were his exact words.”
Joe laughed. “How the devil would I know? Chris was in one of his moods, you know he was. I expect he was annoyed because I told him I always go to Tempo on a Thursday night and said I’d meet him there. He certainly wasn’t happy about meeting in a club.”
Was that all? No. Christian had been really angry. There had to have been more to it than that.
“You said, ‘suspects,’” Ben reminded him. “Who are these suspects of yours?”
“It’s safer for you right now not to know,” Joe said. “You’ve heard nothing from anyone?”
“No.”
“That’s another thing,” Joe said. “If it had been personal, someone would be gloating. As unlikely as it sounds, it is possible that Chris’s death was a horrible, tragic coincidence.”
He gave them a moment for that to sink in, and possibly for them to draw comfort from it. Ben couldn’t. His kid brother was dead and he didn’t think he’d ever take comfort from anything ever again.
“How’s Susie doing?” Joe asked.
“She’s okay,” Mark said. “She was on the phone ten minutes ago, and yeah, she’s doing okay. She has people there—family—and we’re travelling down to be with her tomorrow.”
“Good. Good. I’ve phoned her to offer my condolences, of course, but although she sounded as if she was bearing up, it’s difficult to tell over the phone. You tell her from me that, if there’s anything she needs, anything at all, she must get in touch with me, okay?”
“Yes, of course,” Mark said. “Thanks, Uncle Joe. Here, have another drink.”
“Better not.” Joe was all sympathetic smiles. “I’m driving and I don’t want the law on my back—not till we’ve got to the bottom of this.”
He stood, ready to take his leave, but Ben wanted answers. “It seems to me we’d be one hell of a lot safer if we did know the names of your so-called suspects. We need names, Joe!”
Joe stood completely still, thinking. “Okay,” he said slowly, “does the name David Young ring a bell?”
The name meant nothing to Ben. He looked to Mark, who shook his head. “Why do you want to know?”
“It’s probably nothing. Me and him used to work together—for McCoy. When McCoy was busted, Young got sent down. Did eight months, I think. But the night Chris was supposed to be meeting me—”
“The night he was murdered,” Mark said.
“Yes,” Joe agreed. “That night, Young ended up in Tempo, the club where I was supposed to meet Chris. Things had got too hot for him to handle down south so he’d got a train up here, to Manchester. Except the prick fell asleep, got into a fight with a ticket inspector and jumped off the train in Dawson’s Clough. We were still in Tempo, catching up on old times, when the law arrived to arrest him. He’s got no money and a court case coming up, so he’s staying with me temporarily.”
“And you don’t trust him?”
“I did,” Joe said slowly, “but him showing up the same night that Chris was killed struck me as a bit of a coincidence. And tonight, before I came here, he was asking about Christian. He said he’d seen it in the local paper and was talking about your dad’s murder.”
“Fucking hell! He must be our man,” Ben said.
Joe grimaced. “I don’t know. The police are watching his every move, so it would have been difficult for him. But I’ll get someone to keep an eye on him. Of course, it won’t be cheap—”
Mark went straight to the safe, struggled with the combination and finally managed to open it. He pulled out several bundles of cash, about fifty grand.
“Do whatever it takes,” Mark said. “If that bastard killed Chris—”
“He’s a dead man,” Joe finished for him. “Don’t you fret about that, boys. If Davey Young’s involved in any way at all, he’ll wish he’d never been born. You can trust me on that one!”
David Young. Ben would remember that name. He’d do some digging around himself.
Chapter Twenty-One
Bev didn’t know what to blame for her sleepless night, the pain she was in or worrying about the pain she was in. Either way, it was four-thirty and she hadn’t slept above ten minutes all night. She switched on the bedside lamp, reached for her phone to see if any messages had come through from Dylan—nothing—and picked up her book. If she couldn’t sleep, she might as well read.
She was halfway through a romantic suspense novel that was well written and had the best hero ever, yet she couldn’t concentrate on the heroine’s plight. After several minutes, her eyes feeling as if she’d bathed them in gravel, she realised she’d done nothing but read the same paragraph over and over again. She put down the book, switched off the lamp, gave her pillow a heartfelt thump and
closed her eyes.
She wasn’t one of those needy women. She had her own fulfilling life, she had the children, she was independent and she was used to Dylan being away—but right now, she missed him like hell. She’d love him to be here, to tell her with his own brand of impatience that she was worrying about nothing.
A distant ambulance raced to an emergency, and when the siren faded away there wasn’t a sound. No cars, no birds, no wind—more important, no children. They’d soon be awake though, and yet again she’d feel like death. She didn’t cope well when deprived of her sleep. It made her edgy and irritable.
She began counting backward from 500 but lost her place at 489. Tomorrow—today, she corrected herself—she’d go for a good long walk. She needed more fresh air and exercise. Certainly at the weekend, she’d drag the kids outside for a walk.
She turned over and lay on her back to stare at the ceiling. Not that she could see the ceiling. Not a peep of light penetrated these blackout blinds.
For the hundredth time that day, she asked herself exactly what she was worrying about. People walked around with all sorts of aches, pains and nasty ailments. They didn’t panic that they were on the verge of death, so why was she constantly worrying? There were hundreds of complaints that could cause the pain she was getting. She should know, she’d spent enough hours on the internet investigating them all.
She had a bad feeling about it, that was all. Come to that, she had a bad feeling about everything right now. She hated Dylan working undercover. It could get dangerous if his identity was discovered. He wasn’t living with saints, he was living with a possible—probable—killer.
She switched on her phone to check the time. A cheery message told her the alarm would be sounding in exactly one hour and seven minutes. Great.
Tomorrow, as well as treating her body to some physical exercise, she’d make sure she’d had a few glasses of wine before she crawled into bed. If the exercise didn’t help, the alcohol would have to.
Deadly Shadows (A Dylan Scott Mystery) Page 15