Dying Art (A Dylan Scott Mystery)

by Wells, Shirley

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  The rain was relentless. There was no escape. The sun had been shining when Dylan woke—in his own bed for a change—but it had lashed down for the journey from London to Dawson’s Clough and it was still raining.

  Dylan was attending his second funeral in thirty days, and this one promised to be even more depressing than Prue Murphy’s, if that were possible.

  The congregation packed the small church. As it was standing room only, Dylan had given up his seat and moved to the back of the church to stand with Dawson’s Clough locals. At the front of the church, Kevin Mills’s coffin was laden with flowers. The vicar stood guard as he tried to convince mourners that they shouldn’t even try to understand God’s will but should instead celebrate Kevin’s short life, and take comfort from the knowledge that the Lord had chosen to take him to a better place.

  What total bollocks.

  The mourners stood to sing “Rock of Ages,” which didn’t seem particularly appropriate. Kevin’s parents, standing to the left of the coffin, were rigid with shock, grief and tension. Kevin’s mother was being supported by her husband, who was also hanging on to Kevin’s weeping sister.

  The hymn was sung with little enthusiasm. The vicar’s voice was firm and strong but, other than that, no one could cope. Schoolchildren sobbed for the duration and family members couldn’t find the strength for hymn singing.

  When the final notes died away, Kevin’s uncle, a big, broad man in an ill-fitting suit, stood behind the coffin to read from notes someone had written. He spoke of Kevin’s love for planes, trains and cars, and he told mourners how Kevin had preferred football to schoolwork. Despite this, he said, Kevin had been a good pupil. His nephew had been a happy, friendly, helpful boy and a credit to his parents. His voice was unsteady as he spoke and he clutched a huge cotton handkerchief in his big hand.

  Another hymn followed, more prayers, and then the coffin was being carried out of the church and into the windswept graveyard where the rain battered everything in its path. As he had at Prue’s funeral, Dylan silently wished the coffin bearers well. The path was wet and slippery, but they would be used to such dangerous conditions.

  Most of the mourners, Dylan included, unfurled large umbrellas. The undertakers made sure that Kevin’s family was protected from the deluge. There was another short prayer in the rain before Kevin’s coffin was finally lowered into the cold, wet earth.

  A tortured gasp escaped Mrs. Mills’s mouth and her husband had to increase his grip on her. Mother, father and sister each threw a red rose on the coffin.

  Dylan had tried but he couldn’t even begin to imagine what they were going through. Kevin was only a few years older than Luke, and the idea of losing Luke was unthinkable. Dylan had no idea how or if he would cope.

  People offered their condolences to the family, and the family thanked the mourners for attending. All were invited back to the hall for sandwiches and tea or coffee.

  Dylan headed back to his car. There was nothing he could say that would help the Mills family. Police had launched a massive investigation into Kevin’s murder and, maybe, they’d be successful in finding his killer. Dylan thought it unlikely because he thought they were on the completely wrong track. Suggestions from a disgraced copper wouldn’t be welcome though.

  He started the Morgan and drove away from the church. The car was warm and his general dampness slowly disappeared, but the anger stayed with him. He’d love to get hold of the person responsible for ending Kevin Mills’s life and for putting the Mills family through this ordeal. Their lives would never be the same again and Dylan was determined to make sure the killer’s life was never the same.

  He was turning right by the Nag’s Head, onto the Clough’s fiendish one-way road, when he saw two familiar faces. It was too late to stop. Once you were on this road, there was no escape for ten minutes. Normally, he’d break all traffic laws and reverse but he had a Tesco home delivery van glued to his back wheels. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as the traffic crawled along. Finally, he turned off the one-way system and drove back to the Nag’s Head, but there was no sign of Danny Thompson or Toby Windsor, or of Windsor’s white Mercedes. The two men had been standing in front of it, oblivious to the rain. Judging by the angry scowls and arm waving, their meeting hadn’t been friendly.

  So what had the town’s favourite wine bar owner been discussing with Prue’s landlord?

  Dylan didn’t trust either man. He’d bet neither would have any quibbles about making extra cash at someone else’s expense.

  He drove around the town centre but he didn’t spot that white Mercedes, and Danny’s Wine Bar was closed.

  As he didn’t have time to spare, he drove out of the town and to Frank’s house. Pleased that Frank had the door open for him, he dashed from car to house without getting too wet.

  “Bloody weather,” he said. “Is it ever going to stop raining?”

  “Of course. Lancashire’s dry season lasts four days—the second week in June.”

  “Godforsaken place. Are you ready to go?”

  “Two minutes.” Frank went to the kitchen and switched off the radio. He came back to the hall, checked his pockets for his wallet, grabbed his keys from a round silver bowl and took a heavy jacket from a hook. “Let’s go.”

  They sprinted to the car.

  “I know you’re not a fan of the force, and I can understand that, but I hope you’re not withholding information,” Frank said as they drove off.

  “Nope. All I’m withholding is a hunch and they wouldn’t thank me for that. I’ve learned nothing that they couldn’t have found out a damn sight more easily.”

  Frank didn’t look convinced. “So why are we going to the airport?”

  “I told you. I want to know what sort of car Eddie Bryson hired.” It had to be a wild goose chase. Hire cars were all the same. They were a year or two years old at most, and they were small, medium or large saloons. “It’s probably nothing but if I go on my own, they won’t tell me anything. I need a bit of police authority with me.”

  “You’ll get me into all sorts of trouble.”

  “So what will they do about it? You’ve retired, Frank. They can’t fire you or lock you up in a cell, can they? In any case, they’d never admit that the revered DCI Willoughby had a blemish on his character.”

  “You’re full of shit.”

  Dylan smiled at the insult. “I’ve found it helps.”

  “I’ve already got trouble.” Frank wasn’t smiling. “Someone’s been asking questions about a certain file I let you borrow.”

  “You’re kidding. Who? And what sort of questions?”

  “The difficult sort. I don’t know, but I have a suspicion that Carlton Amesbury is behind it.”

  “Amesbury? The constable who found Kevin Mills’s body?”

  “That’s him. He’s a good copper, or could be, but he’s got an enormous chip on his shoulder. He likes to play the racist card at every turn.”

  “Ah. And we all know racism doesn’t exist in the good old British police force.”

  Frank shrugged that off. “I think I’ve managed to put it all to bed by being a little economical with the truth, but I’m going to keep my eye on Amesbury. It sounds to me like he needs to be put straight about a few things.”

  Dylan didn’t envy Amesbury. Frank might appear to be a nicely spoken, relaxed ex-copper, but it was never a wise move to get on his wrong side. If Amesbury had any sense, he’d give Frank a wide berth.

  The rain eased a little as they neared the airport.

  “As I was driving away from the funeral, I saw Danny Thompson in conversation with Toby Windsor. What do you make of that, Frank?”

  “I’d say they were up to no good. Not that I know a lot about Windsor, and I can’t say for certain that Thompson put a match to his premises. It’s interesting though.”

  “It is. I don’t know how they know each other, but they both knew Prue. Windsor had plenty of opportuniti
es to look round her home, and there’s no knowing what she told Thompson when she was drunk.”

  “Were either of them at the funeral?” Frank asked.

  “No.”

  “How did it go?”

  Dylan shuddered. “Nothing interesting or out of the ordinary happened but, Christ, it was a bloody depressing affair. I can’t imagine what that family is going through. I can’t imagine how they’ll ever get over it either.”

  “They’ll feel better when the perp is brought to justice.”

  “Will they?” Dylan wasn’t so sure. “We might. I know I damn well will. But I’m not so sure they will. What will it matter if some stranger is banged up in Strangeways for the next twenty years? It won’t repair that family, will it? It won’t bring a young boy home.”

  Dylan’s phone rang and he checked the display. He was disappointed to see Maddie’s name. He’d been hoping it was the lab calling to tell him that no way on this earth could Boris be his father. Christ, that was taking forever. Perhaps they hadn’t been able to get DNA from the mug. Surely, they would have been in touch if that were the case.

  He ignored Maddie’s call.

  There was a steady stream of traffic heading for Manchester Airport and Dylan wasn’t surprised. Given the bloody awful weather in this part of the world, residents must be eager to jet off to sunnier climes.

  He parked the Morgan as near to Terminal Three as he could and they walked into the building. He’d taken off his black tie, undone the top button of his shirt and replaced his suit jacket with his battered leather one, but he still felt dressed for a funeral.

  “There are nine hire car companies,” he told Frank, “so we may as well start at the first one we come to and go through them that way.”

  Over an hour later, they’d crossed off the first four companies on their list. No one named Bryson had booked a car through them. That didn’t mean much if Bryson had travelled under a different name.

  The woman at the fifth desk, however, was far more helpful.

  “I’m sure it was booked through us. A friend of mine is called Bryson and I’m sure I’ve seen the name recently. Just a minute.” She tapped through computer records. “Here we are. Oh, there are two records. It seems Mr. Bryson booked through us a second time and had the same car.”

  “What model of car was he given?” Dylan asked.

  “A Chrysler. Would you like copies of the booking?”

  “That would be very useful, Thanks.”

  A nearby printer churned out two sheets of paper and, smiling, she handed them over. “There you go. Anything else I can help you with?”

  “No, that’s it. Thanks for your help.” Dylan checked the dates carefully and put the booking details in his pocket.

  They walked out of the terminal building and back to the car.

  “Now what?” Frank asked.

  “God knows. I can’t see that a mid-range Chrysler would be of any interest to Kevin Mills. They’re common enough in the Clough. On the other hand, the dates fit. Eddie Bryson had that car when Prue was killed and he also had it when Kevin Mills was killed. Coincidence?”

  “Probably.” Frank thought for a moment. “Most of us use the same car hire company if we’ve had good service from them. We like to stick with the familiar. If you book a car that size and price, it’s likely that you’ll get the exact same car. If Bryson spends a lot of time in Manchester—”

  “He does.”

  “Then, basically, you’ve got nothing whatsoever to go on.”

  Dylan’s phone rang and again he hoped the lab wanted to give him good news about those DNA samples. It was Maddie so he hit the Reject button.

  “I wonder—” Dylan took the car rental paperwork from his pocket and studied it again. “I have a hunch, Frank.”

  “Yeah, but sadly, hunches don’t put men behind bars.”

  “No, but they’re a bloody good place to start...”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  “What time will Dad be home?”

  “Luke, you’ve already asked me that. I don’t know.” Bev slammed the fridge door shut. “He said he’d be back in time for the match so any time now, I expect.”

  “He usually comes home on a Friday night.” Luke was determined to have a good grumble.

  “But last night he had to stay over. It’s no big deal. He’ll be here to take you to the game so stop looking so gloomy. Your face will stick like that.”

  Luke let out a long sigh and took up his vigil at the window to wait for the first glimpse of his dad’s car turning into the road.

  Bev was furious with Dylan too. Okay, so she’d made noises about hosting a return dinner party, but that was just her manners showing. She’d had no intention of actually going through with it. But now—Christ, she couldn’t believe she’d been talked into hosting a dinner party for six guests. Six at the last count, at any rate. Knowing Dylan, another half dozen people could easily turn up. God, he had a bloody nerve. She wouldn’t have minded so much if she actually liked the guests but the thought of competing with Maddie Chandler—

  Not that she could compete. She wouldn’t be employing caterers and the food would be basic. The plates might match and glasses might be suitable, depending on what people wanted to drink, and that would be as good as it got.

  With a sigh to match Luke’s, she picked up the phone and hit the button for Dylan’s number. When he answered, she wished she hadn’t bothered. It was virtually impossible to hear anything over the noise of the car.

  “Your son’s about to hurl himself from a tall building and I’m thinking of following him,” she said. “You will be home for the match, won’t you?”

  “Yes, we’re about an hour away. Everything okay there?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Bev. And don’t go to too much trouble, okay?”

  “I’m not. It still takes hours to get everything ready though. The house needs cleaning from top to bottom—”

  “Does it hell. I mean it, Bev, don’t worry about it. Look, I’d better go. I’ll see you in an hour.”

  The connection was cut. I love you too, sweetheart. She let out her breath. Men!

  “Right, Luke, your dad will be home in an hour. Meanwhile, you can go and tidy your room, okay?”

  “What? But I never tidy my room on match days.”

  “There’s a first time for everything. Instead of looking like a wet weekend, you can do something useful. Go on.”

  Shaking his head and muttering to himself, he stormed out of the kitchen and thumped up the stairs.

  She wasn’t naive enough to believe he’d bother doing anything as constructive as picking up his clothes or hunting out rotting apple cores and empty chocolate wrappers, but at least she wouldn’t have to tolerate his grumbling and sighing while she panicked about the evening ahead.

  She opened the fridge again, stared at the vast empty space and began writing her shopping list. So far, it consisted of booze, booze and more booze.

  Thank God for her mother-in-law. Vicky had taken Freya out so she could get on, and she’d be taking the children back to her place to spend the night.

  She wrote Sherry on her list. She wasn’t sure if anyone drank it these days, but she ought to have some just in case. Half a bottle of the stuff she’d put in the Christmas trifle for the last couple of years was at the back of the cupboard, but it had probably gone off. It would be cheap stuff anyway and she could hardly serve that. Red wine, white wine, brandy, gin, mixers—

  The first course would be melon. If people didn’t like it, they’d have to sit and suffer. Besides, who didn’t like melon. It was so tasteless there was nothing to like or dislike.

  She’d then serve beef bourguignon and, again, people would have to like it. If they didn’t— Oh, shit. Damn and blast, Dylan.

  With such short notice, she’d hoped that no one would be able to make it. They’d all been delighted to attend though. Maddie had probably accepted because she had designs on Dyl
an. Husband Tim probably went where Maddie told him. Eddie Bryson and his girlfriend, Shaz, had also been pleased to accept. What a nightmare. She couldn’t imagine any of them in the kitchen mucking in.

  She’d buy a pavlova or something for dessert. Oh, and she’d better get some decent coffee in. Chocolates, too.

  She walked into the dining room and decided it didn’t look too bad. It shouldn’t because they rarely used it. Flowers—she must buy some fresh flowers to cheer it up.

  After half an hour of banging around upstairs, Luke emerged, far more cheerful, and decided he’d go outside and mess around with his football. He was wearing his Arsenal shirt and was ready to go to the game.

  “Is your room tidy?” she asked him.

  “Yeah. It’s okay.”

  It didn’t matter. Guests wouldn’t be going into his room. They’d only have cause to go into the bathroom and she’d already scrubbed that until it gleamed.

  Dylan and Frank arrived within the hour and when Frank gave her a big hug, she felt her mood soften slightly. He was such a lovely man. He wasn’t very successful at marriage, probably because, like Dylan, he put criminals first in his life, but he was honest, warm and genuine and one of those people who always put you at your ease.

  “It’s good to see you, lovely lady,” he said. “How are things here?”

  “They’ll be a lot better when tonight’s over.” She glared at Dylan.

  “But you’re—” Frank broke off and gave Dylan a quizzical look.

  “You’re not staying, Bev,” Dylan said. “Once they’ve all got here, you’re going to be called away to a family emergency. You’re staying the night with mum and the kids.”

  “What?” Bev couldn’t take it in. “You are kidding.”

  “No. I thought I’d mentioned it, but no way are you staying here. Things could easily get nasty.”

  Bev wanted to kill him. After all the fuss, she wasn’t even going to be enjoying the food and drink. What was the point though? She hadn’t wanted to endure the evening so she supposed she should be pleased. She would have been a damn sight more pleased if Dylan had thought to mention this tiny detail.