“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Dylan.” He peered at the name tag she wore. “And you’re Cindy. Pleased to meet you, Cindy.”
“I can tell you haven’t been around here for a while.” She didn’t have time for the social niceties. “If you had, you’d have heard.”
“Heard what?”
“About Sam Hunt. She vanished six months ago. No, it’s more like nine or ten months now.”
“How do you mean, vanished?” Dylan wanted to give away as little as possible about his own interest in Sam. He had the feeling, though, that Cindy was a born talker.
“Just that. It was in the papers and on the telly for weeks. Just disappeared, she did. I’ll tell you summat else too. The police took Jack Fleming away.”
“No!”
“Yes. They let him go, but it makes you think, doesn’t it?”
“It certainly does, Cindy.”
She thought of something else. “Here, she used to work for your friend, James Carlton.”
“That’s right. I was hoping to see him, but I’ll try at the weekend. Does he come in often?”
“No, not often. If he does, though, it’s usually a Friday or Saturday night. Mind, I can’t blame him. This place is dead in the week.”
“Ah. It’s a long time since I’ve been in the Clough.” It felt odd calling the town “the Clough,” but that’s how locals referred to the place. “I’ll tell you someone else I thought I recognised, the bouncer who works here. He’s not on tonight, but he’s tall, big-muscled—”
“That’s Stripes. He’s only here Thursday through Saturday nights.”
“Stripes?”
“Yeah. I haven’t seen ’em, but he’s got long scars on his back. It’s said his dad used to beat him.”
“Right.” That figured. Violence bred violence, and Dylan had thought Stripes gained far too much pleasure from beating him up. “It’s funny, though, but I thought I saw him here on Monday night.” He didn’t add that he’d seen Jack Fleming too.
“Was he? Dunno about that. Not my night. He comes in to drink, though. He might be in tonight. It’s not his night to work, but he might call in anyway.”
A gang of about a dozen young men, shirts untucked, trousers low on their hips, laughing loudly, came in. It fell to Cindy to serve them.
Dylan noticed her say something to one of the group. She was nodding in his direction as she spoke. Belatedly, he realised that the one walking over to him was Jack Fleming.
“Hi, Dylan. You looking for me?”
“Not really. I was asking after anyone I might recognise. It’s good to see you, though. I didn’t know this was one of your haunts.”
“I haven’t been in the place for ages until this week. These—” he gestured over his shoulder to his companions, “—are my band mates. We’re gonna try and get the band up and running again.”
“Yes? Good for you.”
A bottle of Coke was put in front of Jack. “Cheers, mate!” He gave a thumbs up to one of his friends.
Dylan watched as Jack took a swig from the bottle. He would never understand why it was cool not to use a glass. He really was getting old.
Considering Jack was supposed to be a fan of drink, drugs and fights, it was surprising to see him with a soft drink.
He perched on the stool next to Dylan’s. “How’s it going?”
“I don’t know.” Dylan had to shout to make himself heard. “A lot of people come in here, don’t they? James Carlton for one.” He watched Jack’s reaction but his companion merely nodded in an “I could have told you that” sort of way. “Sam’s stepfather, Alan Roderick.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen him in here a couple of times.”
“You must know the bouncer too. I think they call him Stripes.”
Jack shook his head. “I don’t know any of the staff. Except Cindy. Oh, and Kate. That’s about it.”
Given that James Carlton, Alan Roderick and Jack Fleming frequented Indie Street, it was impossible to guess who was willing to pay Stripes to break his kneecaps. It could be any of them. Or none.
“Does Sam or her father have friends in Scotland?” Dylan asked.
Jack looked at him as if he were speaking a foreign language. “Not that I ever knew about. Why do you ask?”
“Just curious. What about Sam’s stepfather? Does he know people there?”
“I’ve no idea.”
Another gang of youngsters came in and crowded round the bar. Indie Street didn’t open till ten so, perhaps by one o’clock, the place would be heaving.
Dylan stayed another hour, talking, or rather shouting at Jack above the noise, and then decided he’d had enough loud music and swirling lights to last a lifetime.
“It’s time I was off, Jack. If I hear anything, I’ll let you know.”
“You do that.”
Dylan was relieved to open the front doors and feel the still warm but fresher night air on his face. Stripes wasn’t on duty, but tonight’s bouncer was only a couple of pounds lighter. He had a shaved head and wore a big gold ring on his short, chunky finger.
“Stripes not about tonight then?” Dylan asked.
“Nope.”
“Pity. I was hoping he’d do a job for me.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. I could do with a bit of muscle, if you know what I mean.”
“I know exactly what you mean. You’d better come back at the weekend then.”
“I thought he worked Thursdays,” Dylan said. “Isn’t he on tomorrow night?”
“Nope. He’s got the night off.”
“I’ll call in on Saturday then. There’s no harm in asking if he’s interested in a bit of work on the side, is there? I’ve been told he’ll use his muscles for a price. Is that right?”
“Muscles, knives—”
“Guns?”
He peered closely at Dylan. “You’d have to ask him about that.”
That wasn’t particularly reassuring. Still, at least Dylan hadn’t warranted a knife or a gun. Yet.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Anca awoke with a start. Crina was crying. They were in total darkness.
It took only a split second to discover they were locked in a cabinet with smooth sides, something like a fridge or a freezer. She pushed against the sides and top but nothing budged.
“George!” She pummelled the sides with her fists. “George!”
Crina cried all the louder.
“Shush!”
Anca could feel bumps in the road. No, she was wrong. They were at sea. They must be on a boat.
“Help!” she screamed. “Please, help us!”
There was no room to stand, no room to stretch out. Panic rose within her. There was no air. They were going to suffocate.
She dragged in a few breaths, instructed herself to keep calm, and wriggled so that she could put an arm around her sister and pull her close. “Shush, Crina. It’ll be all right. You’ll see.”
Anca’s head felt as if it had been hollowed out and stuffed with cotton wool. She tried to think back but could remember nothing after the doctor had given her the inoculation.
She thought she’d been awake earlier, and believed someone had given them something to eat and a drink of water. Or perhaps she’d been dreaming.
“We must be on a boat going to England, Crina. That’ll be it.” Her voice sounded far more confident than she felt. “George is breaking the law for us, so he’d have to hide us until we were in England.”
Crina’s cries quietened to sobs and she buried her head beneath Anca’s arm.
Anca hadn’t known what to expect. She’d imagined them walking onto a plane and flying to England, but they would have been stopped by the police. This way, on a boat, would be better, and it couldn’t take too long to get there. Soon, someone would be along to explain everything to them, to bring them food and water. When this boat reached its destination, they would be released to enjoy their first glimpse of English soil.
; “We can trust George, I know we can. He said he’d find us hotel work.” The idea soothed her nerves. “Danut said they have lots of big hotels. At first, we’ll be cleaners, but one day we might wait on tables. Imagine that, Crina.”
She thought Crina had fallen asleep, but she kept talking.
“As soon as we’ve paid George what we owe him, we’ll have our own apartment. Maybe it will be in London with a view of that river. The Thames it’s called. And a garden. Well, maybe not a garden, but we can fill our apartment with plants. We’ll be able to buy food and clothes. Hey, we’ll see the palace, the one where the queen lives. Perhaps we’ll even see her.”
Crina was fast asleep and Anca tried not to disturb her sister as she ran her hands carefully over their prison walls. They were smooth yet there must be a gap somewhere. Air must be getting in.
Once again, panic rose inside her, threatening to choke her. Instead of thinking about suffocation, she tried to concentrate on all she knew about England. Her knowledge had come from Danut, who knew about lots of countries. England, he’d said, was very beautiful and no one was allowed to go without food. People didn’t have to beg, he’d said, because the government looked after everyone. She knew they had a queen, and a prime minister as well, although she couldn’t remember his name. A princess had died in a car crash when Anca was a baby.
With her mind crammed with palaces, princesses and tiaras, she succumbed to sleep.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Each year, Marion bought a calendar, and her first task, even before noting birthdays and anniversaries, was to highlight the third Thursday of every month. For years, before Sam was born even, she’d been organising the Dawson’s Clough Library’s reading group. An avid reader all her life, she enjoyed meeting with like-minded people. When the children were small, and with Alan away from home so often, the promise of adult conversation had been a fix more potent than chocolate or heroin.
The group tried to keep book choices as varied as possible so she was introduced to authors she wouldn’t have thought of trying. Although their numbers had dwindled to less than twenty, the get-togethers remained a bright spot in Marion’s social life.
She walked into the library and checked that her garish notice advertising the group’s meetings was prominently displayed. It was. So far she’d had no new enquiries but she lived in hope.
Even the sight of books, some face out, some showing creased spines, cheered her. She loved the smell of books, loved to feel them in her hands.
She walked into the back room where Julie was filling the kettle.
“Hiya.” Marion took off her jacket and hung it on the peg along with her heavy bag.
“You’re early,” Julie said.
“My babysitter was early so I thought I’d come and enjoy a cuppa before we started.”
“Alan away then?”
“Yes. He’s back tomorrow night.” The reminder brought its usual feeling of dread.
“I wish I was away from here. Still, we’re off to Egypt soon.”
While Julie made them tea, Marion arranged the orange plastic chairs in a circle broken only by the table at which she’d sit and hold order. Some books caused controversy and her most difficult tasks were to prevent arguments and to make sure everyone had a chance to air their views.
“Biscuit?” Julie asked.
“Why not? Actually I can think of a dozen reasons why not. What do they say? A moment on the lips and a lifetime on the hips? Never mind, the diet will still be waiting tomorrow.”
“You never put on weight, do you?” Julie’s gaze was wistful. “I only have to look at a calorie and my jeans cut me in two. Still, better to be overweight and happy than thin and miserable. That’s what I always say.”
Joy was next to arrive, her flowery perfume filling the room. Other members drifted into the building and to the room at the back that was reserved for their meetings. The library itself was still open for business, but the group was tucked well away and could chat and laugh as much as they liked.
People spoke of the weather, grumbled about problems finding parking spaces and looked forward to holidays in exotic places where they could enjoy a “different sort of heat.”
It was a few minutes after eight when Marion began the meeting. She gave them a brief resume of the month’s chosen book—Darkly Dreaming Dexter by Jeff Lindsay—and asked for a show of hands, first from those who enjoyed the book. As happened most months, half loved the story and half hated it. Some people, Marion was sure of it, hated a book on principle, simply because it had been chosen for them and was out of their usual genre.
“I thought it was brilliant.” Polly enthused about most things. If you needed to be taught to look on the bright side, Polly was your woman. “I completely fell in love with Dexter. I wish now that I’d seen the TV series.”
“You fell in love with him?” Doris, as Marion had guessed, disapproved strongly. Doris preferred a gentle read and was possibly Jane Austen’s biggest fan. “I couldn’t finish it. All that gratuitous violence—”
“Hardly gratuitous,” Joy piped up. “He’s a serial killer and a blood spatter analyst. What did you expect? Picnics in meadows and lashings of ginger beer?”
And so it went on.
They stopped at nine for tea or coffee and a brief chat, then it was time to discuss the next month’s read.
“I know you’ll be expecting me to choose one of the old classics,” Doris said, “but I thought it was time I tried something new. And I sincerely hope there are no bloodthirsty killers in it. My choice is—” she paused for effect, almost as if she expected a drum roll, “—Sophie Kinsella’s Confessions of a Shopaholic.”
There was no drum roll, but there was a shocked intake of breath from several members. Along with Jane Austen, Doris enjoyed Agatha Christie’s gentle Miss Marple stories. She liked her heroines to be refined and mature.
“I’ve read it,” Joy said.
“Me too,” Mary piped up.
“But you haven’t read it with a view to giving us your thoughts,” Marion said. “What a good choice, Doris. I’m sure we’ll all look forward to reading it.”
The next three quarters of an hour were taken up with people sharing knowledge of author Sophie Kinsella and her novels.
“Okay, ladies, I think it’s time we called it a night.” Marion stifled a yawn. “Same time next month. Oh, and don’t forget the library is having a sale next weekend. Get here early to pick up your bargains.”
Everyone grabbed coats and bags and, chattering like busy birds, filed out of the room, leaving Marion to lock up.
She thought she might come along to the library’s sale, but knew she wouldn’t buy any books. She borrowed from the library because she believed libraries were necessary to the community and went by the “use it or lose it” principle, but she preferred new books. Coming across a coffee spill on page 46, melted chocolate on page 104 or, worse, a stray hair, filled her with disgust. These days, when you could throw a couple of books in your supermarket trolley and not notice the cost, libraries were becoming redundant.
Other than a flickering streetlight determined to annoy rather than illuminate, all was dark when she stepped outside. A steady drizzle was falling.
Her car sat forlornly in the car park. She fumbled in her jacket pocket for her keys, silently cursing the rain.
The exact second she pressed the button to unlock the doors, a heavy woollen-clad arm clamped tight around her neck. A gloved hand was rammed hard against her mouth. She could smell damp leather and sweat.
“Your old man isn’t answering his phone.” The voice was menacing, the man’s breath hot against her cheek. “You’d better remind him that he still owes me money.”
She felt something cold against her neck. A knife.
When she tried to speak, he tightened his grip around her neck but took his hand from her mouth. The cold blade rested just below her right eye.
“I—I can give you money.” Her knees were about
to buckle, and she had to force herself to stay upright. The knife provided a strong incentive. “How much do you want?”
“A grand. That’s what we said. Just a bit of rough stuff he wanted to start with, that’s all. That’s a grand.”
“Er—rough stuff?” She didn’t know what he was talking about. It didn’t matter. She had to get away. “A thousand pounds? I can give you that.”
Not tonight she couldn’t. She had about a hundred in her purse and maybe a couple of hundred in the house. The cash machine would only release two hundred and fifty a day.
“My bag. There’s some in my bag.”
Even if he’d released his grip to look in her bag, she wouldn’t have been capable of making a run for it. He didn’t. The arm around her neck tightened its grip. He used the other hand, the one holding the knife, to search her bag.
“Not enough.” He shoved the notes in his pocket.
“There’s a cash machine round the corner but—”
“It’s a fucking grand!” Hot spittle landed on her face. “A grand for rough stuff, right? He wants more—well, he’s not fucking getting it, is he? Not until I’ve seen the colour of his money.”
Marion had no idea what he was talking about. She was more than willing to give him money, though. “I’ll give you—”
“Same time, same place. Tomorrow night. A grand, remember?” His voice dropped to a whisper and that hard gloved hand pressed against her mouth again. “And if I was you, I’d ask him why he wants the bloke who’s supposed to be finding your daughter sent back to London.”
Shock had her trying to shout, but his hand was too tight against her face. All that escaped her lips was an indecipherable moan.
He laughed at her struggles. “That’s about the height of it. Some bloke’s employed to find your daughter, and your old man wants rid of him. Makes you wonder, sweetheart, doesn’t it?”
He pushed her hard in the back so that she dropped heavily to her knees and banged her head on the side of her car.
She drew in a reviving breath and, when she turned around, he’d gone. All she heard was a rustle of the bushes and the faint sound of retreating footsteps.
Dead Silent (A Dylan Scott Mystery) Page 15
