“Besides,” Dylan said, “he’s pally with the Fraser boys. He took them under his wing after their dad was killed, apparently.”
“Ha. That’s what you think, Davey. Shit, that’s what everyone thinks. You’re all fucking wrong.”
“How do you mean?”
They walked along the street with Ricky looking over his shoulder every few paces. “The Fraser boys, all three of them, had been receiving death threats, right? They were paying their big chum Joey to find out who was threatening them. Paying him a lot of dosh. Except Christian—the youngest—wasn’t convinced. He didn’t trust Joey. Christ, who in their right mind would trust that bloody maniac?”
Fair point, well put.
“Christian started asking questions,” Ricky said. “Questions about his dad, questions about folk who worked for McCoy—like me and you. Well, probably not you because you weren’t with us long. But when I heard that, I thought it was my lucky day.”
“Why?”
“Because—” There was a long, long pause. Ricky was holding his breath and Dylan found that he was too. “Because I know who killed Barney Fraser.”
Bingo. Dylan, along with most coppers working at the time, thought they knew too. They’d all have put money on Child being suspect number one. “Who?”
“Guess.” Even now, when he was scared shitless, Ricky had to play guessing games.
“Joe Child?”
“In one.”
“How do you know?”
A crowd was waiting for a late bus. Everyone ignored the bench provided, preferring to stand.
Ricky, as if his legs could no longer support him, sank down on that bench. People edged away and Dylan couldn’t blame them. He had all the signs of a madman.
“How do you know that, Ricky?”
“McCoy—” He broke off and shook his head. There were too many ears in range.
Dylan sat beside him on the bench and was glad he’d had those whiskies. It was bitterly cold and they had to be providing his body with some warmth.
Five minutes later, a bus trundled into view and ambled to a stop. Everyone got on—everyone except him and Ricky.
“How do you know that Child killed Barney Fraser?” Dylan asked for the third time, when they were alone.
“McCoy didn’t trust Joe. Something had happened, I don’t know what, and McCoy was wary. There had been a few leaks.”
Dylan swallowed hard. Those leaks had come from him. He’d known McCoy would soon start to wonder how coppers were suddenly turning up at unexpected times.
“McCoy thought Joe had turned dirty,” Ricky said, “and I had to follow him. I used to do a bit of photography and McCoy wanted pictures of Joe’s movements. I followed him for weeks. Probably a couple of months. There was nothing to say that Joe was doing anything other than what McCoy told him.” He tapped his shoes on the paving slabs as if trying to bring warmth to his feet. “But McCoy insisted I keep following him, and you know what he was like.”
Dylan knew exactly what he was like. Mad, bad and extremely dangerous to know.
“One night, I followed Joe as usual and—Christ, I could hardly believe it. Did you know Barney Fraser had his tongue cut out?”
“I heard rumours, yeah.”
“Remember how old Fraser used to go around with his minders in tow? Well, they’d been sitting in their car and someone, I don’t know who, had tampered with it. They tried to start the engine but it was dead, so they couldn’t meet Fraser. They phoned him and he said he’d walk. It wasn’t far to his house. He set off walking and Joe ambushed him and dragged him into his car.” Ricky shoved his hands deep in his pockets. “I followed. Just like McCoy had told me.”
Ricky became lost in his memories. Dylan didn’t have the time to waste. “Go on.”
“Joe drove him out to that old factory. You know the one that McCoy owned? The one where the bloke got behind on his rent and was kicked out?”
“I know it.” The tenant had received a few broken ribs during that “chat” with McCoy.
“Well, Child drove him there. He dragged him out of the car and into that factory. I followed—Christ, it was awful. Joe knocked him about a bit, then—then he cut his bloody tongue out. Why he did that, I have no idea. It was almost as if he enjoyed it too. Anyway, I hid behind a stack of boxes. The bloke had a shoe business and there were still piles and piles of shoe boxes there. I hid behind those and took photos. I did it automatically. Somehow, it didn’t seem quite so bad with my camera to my eye. It was after, when I got home, that it hit me. I had nightmares for weeks afterwards.”
“Why did Joe kill him though?”
“He was acting on McCoy’s orders. Fraser was getting too big for his boots so he had to be—disposed of.”
“So McCoy was happy that you’d taken photos of the whole thing?”
“He’d expected no less. Of course, I’d just changed to digital then and I printed out the pictures for him. There were only three or four that had come out reasonably well. I could hardly use a flash, could I? I was shit scared as it was that Joe would catch me and rip my fucking tongue out.”
Dylan slapped his hand to his forehead. “Digital photos. You’ve had them on your computer all this time, haven’t you?”
“Not on my computer, no. I’m not that stupid. I kept the files though, yeah.”
“Your insurance policy?”
“Yeah. When the Fraser boy turned up, I told him I could give him proof about his dad’s killer.”
“At a price?”
“Christ, Davey, a bloke’s got to live.”
“Of course he has. How much did he pay?”
“Two hundred and fifty big ones.” Ricky sighed. “I printed out the photos for him. I kept the file, just in case I could make some more cash out of them. The idiot was hell-bent on confronting Joe. I warned him—I told him to be careful.”
“So you think he confronted Joe and Joe decided he had to be—disposed of?”
Ricky looked at him as if he were mad. “Give me another explanation.”
Dylan couldn’t. Child, however, could prove he was at Tempo on the night of Christian Fraser’s murder. Someone would have to prove that he wasn’t.
“Do you think he squealed?” Ricky asked, a pleading note in his voice.
“It’s difficult to know. Joey will have wanted to know where Fraser got the photos, and violence can be a very persuasive weapon. In his shoes, I would have talked.”
“Fuck. What the fuck do I do now?”
“That place in France—”
“That’s no good. Everyone knows about it. I’ve told people. How could I have been so stupid?”
Poor Ricky. He’d always been a small-time crook and he always would be. He didn’t deserve the wrath of Child on his back though. “Go somewhere else then. Scotland, Wales, Belgium—anywhere. If Child knows you have enough proof to give him a life sentence—”
“I’m a dead man,” Ricky finished for him.
That was an accurate assessment.
“When did you last see Joe?” Dylan asked him.
“Years back. Probably three years ago. Why do you ask?”
“Just curious. You know and I know that the Bible-bashing God stuff is complete bollocks, so what can he be up to? Any ideas?”
“Apart from getting money from the Fraser boys for so-called protection, I haven’t got a clue. Fucking son of a bitch.”
“Yeah. I don’t suppose anyone’s mentioned any names to you, have they? Like Caroline Aldridge or Farrah Brindle?”
“Never heard of them. Why do you want to know?”
“I can’t find them and I think Child’s had dealings with them. I’d hate to think of them suffering at his hands.”
“Look, I’ve got to go, Davey. I need
to get the missus out. I need to run, don’t I?”
“It might be a wise move.”
Ricky didn’t run, but he did stagger down the street at a good pace.
Dylan wished he could have asked for copies of those photos, but he couldn’t. It didn’t matter. Ricky would be easy enough to find. Police would soon track him and those files down.
Unless Joe Child tracked him down first.
Chapter Thirty-Four
It was almost one in the morning when Dylan crept into his house. He’d thought he’d have to break in again, but the place was lit up like Blackpool Illuminations and the back door was unlocked. Bev was always ready to complain about the number of burglaries and petty crimes in the area, but she couldn’t get the hang of something as simple as locking the blasted door.
He walked into the sitting room, where the TV was on. No one was watching it. His mum was drinking a cup of her foul-smelling herbal tea and Bev was staring at a magazine.
“Sorry,” he said, sitting down next to her. “I couldn’t get away. How did it go?”
“Fine.” She accepted his kiss and gave him a tight little smile.
If there was one thing he hated it was Bev saying she was fine. Fine, in his experience, meant “Everything’s crap and you have to go through forty questions to discover what’s most crap.”
“What did they say at the hospital?”
“Oh, I’ll tell you later. How did you get on?”
He gave her a quick summary of his day, but he was too restless to settle. He wandered across to the window, pulled back the curtain and glanced out. He couldn’t stop a wistful sigh escaping. His Morgan, the most beautiful car in the world, shouldn’t be sitting idle. Still, hopefully he’d soon be home for good. He could be Dylan Scott, private investigator, again, driver of a fine piece of British engineering. On his first day back home, he’d take the Morgan for a spin—maybe head to Brighton...
His mum finished her drink and stood up. “I’m away to my bed, folks. Late nights don’t agree with me. Don’t worry, Bev. I’ll be up bright and early, so you’ll have no need to rush.”
Bev gave her another of those forced smiles. “Thanks, Vicky. I appreciate it.”
“Are you staying the night, Mum?” Dylan asked.
“School trip,” Bev explained with her usual lack of enthusiasm for such events.
“Right. I need to get away soon too,” Dylan said. “I’ll get myself a small drink and then get going.”
What he wanted was an excuse for a quick word with his mum, and fortunately she followed him into the kitchen.
“What’s wrong with Bev?” he asked in a whisper.
“I expect she’s worrying about the scan results.”
“So how come she was okay yesterday and not today?”
Vicky rolled her eyes at such a stupid question. “Because she hadn’t had the scan yesterday.”
“So having had a test, there’s suddenly more to worry about?”
She gave him a small smile. “Yes.”
That was female logic at its finest, and Dylan wasn’t going to waste his time trying to make sense of it.
Vicky gave him a quick hug. “Take care, Dylan. Stay safe, okay? Family is the only thing that matters when it all comes down to it. Don’t take any risks for something that’s not important.”
“I won’t.”
She gave him a long look, then sighed. “The sooner you get your hair cut and have a shave, the better. You look like a tramp. And blond hair makes you look—like a spiv.”
“A spiv?”
“Yes. One of those flashy individuals who makes a living from profiteering rather than actual work. The sort who goes bankrupt from a dodgy deal but who still has fifteen luxury properties in his wife’s name.”
“I wish.”
Smiling, she gave him a hug. A long hug, as if she might never see him again. It made him uneasy.
When she’d gone, he poured himself a very small whisky and returned to the lounge, where Bev was staring at her magazine.
She looked up at him. “When do you think you’ll be home for good?”
“Oh, it shouldn’t be too long now.”
If he’d been any further forward than on the day he’d first arrived in Dawson’s Clough, that claim might have had a ring of truth to it. But he wasn’t. Or not much. He did know that he was on the right track. He had to be. And, if nothing else, he now had proof—at least, he could find proof—that Child had murdered Barney Fraser. Every copper in the land had believed it to be so, but it was unbelievably good to know that the proof existed. It was also more than likely that Child had ended Christian Fraser’s life.
As to the whereabouts of Caroline and Farrah, he still didn’t have a clue. Child had to be mixed up in it though.
Dylan wasn’t sure that he knew much more about Child than he had on day one. It seemed likely, as both Belle and Mair had mentioned the event, that a girl named Molly had been brutally raped during Child’s time at the care home. She might even, as Belle claimed, have committed suicide. There was no proof that Child had been involved though. And just because Mair claimed Child had simply used Riley, that didn’t mean the two of them weren’t good friends these days. Riley made healthy donations to Child’s refuge so Child was sure to be pally with him.
Round and round his thoughts went. The most infuriating thing of all was that, on the surface, Child was as clean as the proverbial whistle. There were some dark undercurrents though...
He sat next to Bev and nudged her magazine. “Are you going to stare at that page until morning? Are you fascinated by an ad for a new vacuum cleaner?”
He saw that the pages were wet. “Bev? What’s wrong, sweetheart?”
She shook her head, too choked to answer, and buried her head against his chest.
“What is it?” A huge lump of dread wedged itself in the pit of his stomach. “Bev?”
She sniffed and sobbed and then choked out the word “Tumour.”
That lump of dread shifted before settling again. He held her tight. “Talk to me.”
“I haven’t told your mum.” The words came out in short, hysterical bursts. “I couldn’t tell her. Couldn’t say the word. But I have a tumour on my ovary.”
“What—?” Dylan had to clear his throat and try again. He was trying to keep calm, but it was bloody difficult. “What sort of tumour? What exactly did they say?”
“They’re booking me in for more tests. I’m having a MRI scan to see if there are problems elsewhere and I’ve got to have a biopsy. They should phone me tomorrow—today—and they say I’m to be ready for surgery on Thursday or Friday.”
She buried her face again and began to howl.
Dylan held her close and made what he hoped were soothing noises. He knew nothing of medical matters, but he did know that Bev was young and fit. The idea of her having a serious illness was ludicrous. She’d had a bit of pain, that was all.
“A tumour isn’t anything to worry about,” he said. “They’ll remove it and that will be that. You’ll come home, recover and be fine. The pain will have gone and—”
“I’m scared,” she whispered.
“I know, sweetheart.” He pulled her closer and stroked her face. “I’m sure you’re getting everything out of proportion though.”
“What about Freya? Who will take care of my baby if I die?”
“I will. Mum will. Hell, even Luke will.” She was about to argue, but he put a finger to her lips to silence her. “It’s ridiculous to talk like this, Bev. You know it is. You’re not dying. You’re forty years old, for God’s sake. People all over the country are having tumours removed right now. It means nothing. More tumours are benign than—than otherwise.”
He had no idea if that was true or not, but he’d bet it was p
retty accurate for forty-year-old women.
“Let’s worry when we have something to worry about, yes?” he said. “Meanwhile, we have nothing. Everything’s fine right now. Everything will be fine. Trust me, I’m a private investigator.”
Her teeth had started to chatter. “I hope you’re right.”
He had to leave in a short while, and he hated that. She needed him here, and once again, he was spending his time at the other end of the country. Never again. The next time anyone mentioned a job in Dawson’s Clough, or anywhere north of Watford Gap, he’d tell them to sod off. “Let’s go to bed.”
“When are you leaving?” she asked.
“I’ve got a couple of hours or so.” He was bone weary and he’d had too much to drink with Ricky. The food had helped a little but he needed a nap. “Come on.” He reached for her hand and pulled her to her feet.
He had a quick hot shower, which was luxury, and when he went into their bedroom, she was lying on her back, staring at the ceiling.
He climbed into bed beside her, switched off the lamp and wrapped her in his arms.
“I expect you’re right,” she said. “I’m probably getting everything out of proportion.”
“No change there then,” he said, and she chuckled.
She held his arm in a vicelike grip, but as the seconds passed, she began to relax. A few minutes later, her soft regular breathing told him she was asleep.
Dylan enjoyed the sensation of being in his own bed, and soon he too was asleep.
When he woke, his arm was numb and it took him a moment to realise where he was. It soon came back to him. He had to get in the heap of junk Rhodes called a car, assuming it hadn’t been stolen or towed away as scrap, drive it back to Dawson’s Clough and leave it outside a used-car dealer’s on Peel Street.
He extricated his arm, flexed his muscles to bring back some circulation, and switched on the lamp.
Bev came to with a start. “What time is it?”
“Too early for you. Go back to sleep, love.”
Deadly Shadows (A Dylan Scott Mystery) Page 23