They both watched in silence as Child and Anna climbed out of the taxi. Child paid the man and, laughing, he and Anna hurried inside. The taxi drove off into the night.
There had been no sign of Child or Anna at the nightclub, and it had taken Dylan the best part of an hour to walk back to the refuge. Where had the two been between leaving Tempo and getting out of that taxi?
“Child’s wife arrived half an hour ago,” Kennedy said, his voice low. “Different taxi. Alone.”
Kennedy sniffed the air, much like a wild animal seeking its prey. “It’s time I was off.”
“I’ll walk to the end of the lane with you.”
They set off, careful to keep to the uneven verge at the edge of the lane where the hedge and occasional tree gave them cover.
“Why?” Dylan asked. “Why are you so intent on finding out what’s going on here?”
“Why are you?”
As Kennedy had shared his information, it seemed only fair that Dylan do the same. “Two girls with connections to this place have vanished into thin air. I want to know what happened to them.”
“Ah.” Kennedy was almost dismissive. “I gather those connections are a little tenuous.”
He was right. Dylan was convinced Child and the refuge were involved in their disappearance though.
He was so lost in thought that they reached the end of the lane without him noticing.
“Good luck,” Kennedy said. “And good night.”
He set off at a smart pace in the direction of the town.
Dylan wanted to follow, to grab Kennedy by the throat and demand to know exactly what he was doing at the refuge. It would be a pointless exercise though.
He removed his boot and swapped sim cards in his phone again. He found Frank’s number and hit the button.
“Yes?” He sounded half asleep.
“Sorry, did I wake you?” Dylan spoke in a whisper.
“You did, but only because I’d fallen asleep in front of the TV. What’s up, Dylan?”
“What’s not? Malcolm bloody Brindle, for starters. He’s decided that John Taylor did something to his stepdaughter and then did the same thing to Farrah to cover his tracks.”
“What’s given him that idea?”
“God knows. He doesn’t believe that CID would have questioned Taylor without reason. He’s convinced they suspect him but don’t have enough evidence to charge him. The good news is that when I met Brindle tonight, he was so drunk he’ll probably have forgotten everything by morning. The bad news is that he’s got a gun. He’s planning to put something in Taylor’s drink and then hold a gun to his head to make him talk.”
“Bloody hell.”
“Exactly. He needs watching, Frank. I’ve said I’ll do the deed with him, so long as he gives me notice, but if he decides to go it alone—”
“We’ll have another corpse in the Clough. Brindle’s probably.”
“Yeah.” Dylan didn’t have time for a chat. “There’s something else. Riley is a more frequent visitor than I thought, it seems. Can you send me names and addresses for anyone who knows him and Child from way back? Send stuff to this phone and I’ll pick it up when I can.”
“Will do. Anything else?”
“Not yet. You go and enjoy your warm bed. Have a wee dram of Scotch and think of me shivering to death in that bloody shed.”
Frank chuckled. “Take care.”
Trying not to think about Frank’s warm, comfortable house with its well-stocked drinks cabinet, Dylan returned Davey Young’s sim card to his phone and trudged back along the lane to the refuge. He didn’t know what he wanted most—a stiff drink, a hot shower, a shave or a warm bed.
A light was on in the kitchen and he went to investigate. Anna Woodward was sitting at the table, nursing a mug of hot chocolate. Her eyes were red and a little moist. Unless Dylan was mistaken, she’d been crying.
“Everything all right, Anna?”
“Yes, great, thanks.”
“Did you have a good evening?”
“Yes. It was lovely, thanks.”
“Do you want a sandwich?” he asked, pulling open the fridge door. “I can offer you cheese and tomato or cheese and onion.”
She smiled but looked as if she was going to start crying again. “Cheese and tomato would be good. Thanks. I think I’ve had too much to drink. It might help settle my stomach.”
“You need a good fry-up to do that. Make sure you eat lots for breakfast.”
“I will.”
As he made sandwiches, Dylan revised his opinion of Anna. She might be a spoiled little rich kid, but she was also a little lost and lonely. Her bravado had deserted her this evening. She was too busy being sad to put on her sophisticated woman-of-the-world act.
He put a sandwich in front of her. “Thanks.”
“So why have you been crying?” He sat opposite and bit into bread that could have been fresher. “Nothing’s that bad, is it?”
“It’s my nan’s birthday today. Or should have been. She died a couple of months ago.”
“I’m sorry. Were you close?”
“Yeah. She was the nicest person I’ve ever known. I used to call on her every day. She lived near us and I’d call in on my way home from school.” She flushed with colour. “That’s when I was going to school, of course.”
“Of course.”
“I’d often stay with her for the weekend too. That was fun. She used to make her own lemonade, you know.” Anna spoke with a kind of wonder. “Nothing she ate or drank came out of a box or a bottle. She was always laughing too. And she had endless patience. She taught me to crochet and knit. And she taught me to cook. Only simple stuff, but I do a mean roast dinner and apple pie. She even said my pastry was better than hers.”
She bit her lip and Dylan saw that she was struggling to keep her emotions in check. The alcohol wouldn’t have helped. He didn’t know how much she’d had but he’d seen her order that treble vodka.
“I was glad to go out tonight,” she said. “It took my mind off it for a bit. As soon as I got back though, it hit me again. I know it sounds silly, but the fact that I’ll never see her again keeps taking me by surprise.”
Dylan nodded his understanding. “What would she think if she knew you were here?” he asked casually.
She gave a little shrug but didn’t answer.
He swallowed the last bite of his sandwich and picked a couple of slivers of cheese from the plate. “Who was she? Your mum or your dad’s mother?”
“My mum’s. She was a lot different to mum, though. Mum’s always busy. She runs her own shop, vintage clothes, which takes up all her time. She sells stuff all over the world and I bet she’d die if she lost an internet connection for five minutes.”
“It’s hard work, running a business.”
Anna shrugged again.
“What about your dad?” he asked. “What does he do?”
“He’s an architect. He spends all his time drawing boring plans.”
“I bet you live in a nice house though, eh?”
“It’s all right. Big. Flash. My friends are all envious.”
“Where is it?”
“You ask a lot of questions.”
She was right. “I know. I’m curious about people. And I’d bet my life that your dad isn’t drawing plans at this minute. I bet your mum isn’t on the internet either. I bet they’re lonely, scared and worried to death about you.”
She took a crumpled tissue from her bag and blew her nose.
“Shall I tell you something, Anna? You’d be a really nice kid if you acted your age and didn’t pretend to be someone you’re not. I bet your nan would agree with that, too.”
“And shall I tell you something, Davey Young? You’d be a half-decent-looking blok
e if you shaved off your beard and ditched those glasses.”
“Why, thank you.”
She stood and grabbed her bag. “Thanks for the sandwich. And the chat. I feel a bit better now.”
“Do me a favour, Anna. Go home, eh?”
She looked at him for long moments. “Good night.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
It wasn’t light when Joe jumped out of bed but he still went to the window, pulled back the curtains and looked out. Distant lights showed that the town of Dawson’s Clough was slowly waking. A few early-morning commuters were beginning their journeys. Other than that, all was quiet.
His dinner jacket, still in the cleaner’s polythene bag, hung on the back of the door waiting patiently for the evening’s banquet at which, it seemed likely, he would be named Shining Light of the Year.
Shining Light. Every time he heard the award mentioned, its name made him smile. Who dreamed that up?
There was no money on offer—well, there was none that Joe would get his hands on. The charity of the winner’s choice would receive ten thousand pounds. Joe—assuming he won, and he had it on good authority that he’d received the most votes—would be presented with a glass trophy. He’d also have his photo splashed across all the local papers. Reports would say what a great bloke he was and donations would come flooding in. It would be a win-win situation.
Last year’s winner had, with some of his own money and a few donations, set up a riding school for disabled kids. Some minor royal had said what a great job he’d done, and the next thing, he’d been named as the town’s Shining Light.
Doll stirred but didn’t wake. It would probably be another couple of hours before she opened her eyes.
He watched her. And wondered.
As a kid, all Joe had wanted was a normal family. An attractive doting wife and a couple of kids, boys preferably. Well, he’d wanted money, obviously. Not for what it could buy him but for the security it offered. So long as you had money, no one could touch you. You could buy your way out of anything.
Now, he had it all. He had his family and he was a millionaire. And yet—
He had doubts about Doll. Nothing he could pinpoint, but there were times she seemed too eager to get away from him, and times she couldn’t look him in the eye.
Joe had enjoyed plenty of women during their marriage, the younger, prettier and more willing to please the better, but he’d always been discreet and he was damned if Doll was going to make a fool of him. He’d be a laughingstock if anyone knew she was having an affair. Perhaps she wasn’t, perhaps he was being paranoid. He didn’t know.
He intended to keep a very close eye on her.
The first hint of light appeared on the horizon and soon began to glisten on frost-covered grass, fences and hedgerows. Growing up in London—not that he’d seen much of it outside the care home—he’d longed to live in the country. He’d thought the sense of freedom must be wonderful. This was his first taste of rural life and it had come as an unwelcome surprise. Life was lived 24/7 in the city, but here nothing happened for hour after hour. There was little traffic, just the sound of cows or sheep to break the monotonous silence. Everywhere was dirty too. It was impossible to get from A to B without getting caked in mud.
Even the people were different. In the city, people from all continents, speaking their own languages, coexisted and accepted each other. Here, they liked to live in their own tiny world and were suspicious of outsiders. Everyone thought northerners were friendly, and while it was true that they had all the time in the world to stop and chat, it was only because they were nosy. They had to know your business, and what they couldn’t find out, they invented. As far as Joe was concerned, country life had nothing whatsoever going for it.
Doll rolled over and woke with a frown. “What are you doing up at this time of the morning?”
“I couldn’t sleep. I’ll get you a coffee if you like.”
“Yeah?”
His unusual generosity took her by surprise. He felt generous because it was going to be a good day. A good night, at least. He’d soon be the town’s Shining Light.
There was no one in the kitchen but he did see Kennedy plodding up the lane. The ground was frozen solid so there could be no work for him to do. That was one crazy man.
When Joe returned to their bedroom with two coffees, Doll was sitting up and checking stuff on her phone. She put it down on the table, but Joe wondered what she’d been doing. He’d get hold of her phone later and have a look at it. Not that she was stupid enough to keep incriminating messages on it.
“The taxi will be here at seven tonight,” Joe said.
She nodded. “Another fun-filled evening to look forward to.”
Her sarcasm irritated him, but he knew what she meant. It was sure to be a dull affair.
“How much longer, Joe?” Her voice turned to a whine. “I can’t stomach much more of this place.”
She’d been keen to get away from the day they arrived. If she was seeing someone else, she’d be happy enough to stay. Wouldn’t she?
“Twelve months tops,” he said. “By Christmas. Before Christmas.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.” He didn’t want to stay here for any longer than necessary either. “And that’ll be it, Doll. We’ll be set up for life and enjoying a life in the sunshine.”
“You keep saying that, but then you always want more. Keep on like this and we’ll be collecting our pensions before we’re set up for life.”
It was all right for Doll. She’d never been homeless, never been without a family. She hadn’t grown up surrounded by riches, but one thing had always been constant in her life—security. She had no idea what it was like to fend for yourself, to rely on your wits and have to beg, steal and kill for security.
“I mean it this time. A few more months, that’s all. We’ll celebrate Christmas in our new home under a warm sun.”
“I hope so. I haven’t recovered from last Christmas yet and I never, but never, want another like that.”
Joe thought it had been fun. It had certainly been lucrative. He’d felt like God as he’d given to the poor and helped those less fortunate. Of course, he’d helped himself more. “Tell you what, Doll, we’ll have a weekend down home. How about that? We’ll leave tomorrow morning and come back on Monday.”
“Yeah?” Her face lit up.
“Yeah,” he said. “You can shop till you drop and we’ll take in a show.”
While they were there, he’d call on Susie Fraser and offer his condolences. It was a damn shame about Christian. Of the three Fraser boys, he’d been his favourite. He’d been overshadowed by Mark and Ben all his life, yet he’d been the most intelligent of the brothers.
Rage bubbled up inside him as he thought about Christian and those damned photos.
“I need a whole new wardrobe,” Doll was saying. “It’s ages since I saw decent shops.”
“We’ll put that right this weekend. You can treat yourself, Doll.”
While Doll spent his money, he’d ask questions. He had ways of making people talk and he’d soon find out who’d been chatting to Christian...
Chapter Twenty-Six
On Saturday afternoon, Dylan, miraculously, had the refuge to himself. Well, Kennedy was probably out in the garden, but he didn’t count.
He planned to search every inch of the building and outbuildings. No doubt the police had conducted a thorough search, but they’d been at the refuge on Child’s invitation. Anything incriminating would have been moved a long, long way away.
It was probably the same today because Child, Doll, Hank and Gary had all taken off for London for the weekend. According to Child, Doll needed to see the bright lights and he wanted to offer his condolences to Christian Fraser’s mother. Child had looked full of symp
athy for the woman, but Dylan would still bet his life that her husband’s tongue had been removed by one Joe Child. Still, no point thinking about that. He had more important things on his mind. He needed to discover the whereabouts of Caroline Aldridge and Farrah Brindle. There had to be clues at the refuge. He couldn’t have looked in the right places.
The other residents had set off for town. They had soup kitchens to run and the homeless to minister to. Dylan should have been helping but he’d claimed feverish symptoms, said he felt too weak and nauseous to be out on the streets. Given that he’d slept in that sodding shed for over a week, it was a wonder he’d had to lie.
He’d locked the doors. It was unlikely anyone would turn up, but if they did, he’d have advance warning.
He started his search in the Childs’ bedroom. Doll must know the sort of man she’d married, so Child would feel safe hiding any evidence in a room he shared with her. The carpet was fitted—there was nothing under that. Wardrobes were filled with clothes, expensive clothes, and had no false backs. Drawers contained more clothes. There were enough lipsticks, face creams and other paraphernalia to keep a brothel’s staff looking good for a decade.
Two phones lay lifeless in a drawer. Neither boasted a sim card or any battery power, and there were no chargers in sight. Next to them, in a green box, was a Rolex watch. It was showing the correct time and looked to be genuine. It was a lot classier than the cheap, although flashy, watch that Child wore.
Tuesday’s newspaper sat on a chair by what had to be Child’s side of the bed. Dylan flicked through it—and stopped. A word had been cut carefully from a headline. Dylan read the article, a piece of late news, and guessed the headline should have read Two Men Killed in Motorway Crash. The word Killed was missing.
He sat on the bed, pondering this, and gave a start as his phone trilled out. “Yes?”
“Is that David?” a well-spoken voice asked.
“It is.” It was Malcolm Brindle. “What can I do for you?”
“It’s me. Malcolm. I’ve decided to do it tonight. No point waiting, is there? I thought—well, you said you’d come along.”
Deadly Shadows (A Dylan Scott Mystery) Page 18