They’d both changed since those heady days. Dylan knew he had. He’d been new to the police force and had seen a glittering career ahead of him. Now, he was more cynical. And bitter.
Bev had changed too. She’d been in the early days of her teaching career and frightened to death by half of her pupils. Now, she stood for no nonsense. She was sensible and responsible most of the time. Motherhood had changed her too.
For all that, Dylan looked at her and saw his wife, the only woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.
“So what’s this favour?”
She sloshed coffee into the saucer and cursed beneath her breath. “I’ve got a job interview.”
What had he said? That it would serve her right if she was offered a job in the Outer Hebrides? The frame of mind she was in, she’d probably take such a position.
“Oh? Where?”
“Blackburn.”
“What?”
“Do you want milk or cream?”
What the—he’d never had cream in his coffee in all the years she’d known him so he didn’t even dignify the question with an answer.
“Blackburn? As in Lancashire?”
“Yes.” She thrust his coffee at him. “There you go. That’s a coincidence, isn’t it?”
Coincidence? Sheer bloody madness was the term that sprang to Dylan’s mind.
“But why go for the interview?” he asked. “What the hell’s the point?”
“The point,” she said, all nerves gone as she slipped into teacher mode, “is because it’s a good job. A head’s job, Dylan. A better salary. More responsibility. More say in everything.”
“It’s in Lancashire.”
“God, you’re quick.”
“So you’re telling me that, if they offer you the job, you’ll up sticks, leave your family and friends and move up north?” He couldn’t keep the sarcasm from his tone.
“Yes. I’m telling you exactly that. Why not?”
Surely, she couldn’t be serious. “And you’d expect Luke to leave his family and friends behind, not to mention his football team, just because you think a head’s job will be everything you’ve ever dreamed of?”
“His football team?” She laughed at that. “Even I know there are teams up north. Blackburn for a start.”
“No son of mine will support Blackburn!”
“Man United then. Liverpool. For God’s sake, Luke would settle anywhere.”
“And if he didn’t?”
“Then I’d think again.”
“What about me?” he asked. “Would I be expected to travel up there at weekends to see my own son? To see my own wife?”
“You’re spending more time up there than in London.”
“What? Of course I’m not. This is the second job I’ve had north of London in thirty-eight years.”
She shrugged at that. “You’re still practically living there.”
“Yes, but I won’t be. A couple of weeks, when I’ve finished looking into Sam Hunt’s disappearance, I’ll be home. In London.”
All Dylan could do was shake his head in despair. He wondered if the menopause was responsible. Bev was a couple of years off forty, so it was probably a bit early, but something had to be behind such madness. She throws him out. She refuses to have him back. She’s heading north for job interviews. Sheer bloody madness.
She took a sip of her coffee. “What’s wrong with Lancashire? I thought you quite liked it up there.”
“It’s grown on me, yes, but I wouldn’t want to live there.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s—it’s up north for a start.”
“What sort of answer is that?”
A very poor one.
“So what’s the favour?” he asked, ignoring that question.
“My appointment’s at two o’clock tomorrow afternoon. As it’s only—what?—twenty miles down the road from where you’ll be, I was wondering if I could beg a lift?”
The unexpected request momentarily robbed him of speech.
“I can get the train back easily enough,” she said, “but I don’t like relying on public transport for important appointments. I’d hate to miss a connection or find the train was cancelled.”
That was some favour. It meant sharing the confines of his car for at least five hours. Presumably, he’d be allowed to take her out in the evening—
“And it would mean Luke staying at your place tonight,” she added. “And tomorrow night. I’ve mentioned it to your mum and she’s more than happy to have him.”
“Sure, that’s fine.”
“Aw, thanks.”
“We’d have to leave about seven. This will be news to you, Bev, but there are two seven o’clocks in the day and one’s in the middle of the night.”
She rolled her eyes at his sarcasm. “Thanks. I shouldn’t think for a moment they’ll offer me the job, but the experience will do me good. It’s been ages since I had a job interview.”
Even if they offered it to her, she wouldn’t accept it. The reality of it would make her see sense.
Bart Simpson was still yelling out when Luke came into the kitchen. “Well? Have you kissed and made up?”
Dylan looked at Bev. She gave him her he-gets-that-from-you look.
“So how do you fancy spending the night at your dad’s?” she asked him.
“Tonight? Wow, cool. Yeah, brill. Does that mean—Vicky will be taking me to school?”
“Vicky?” Dylan and Bev repeated in unison.
“She doesn’t like me calling her Gran now. She says it makes her sound old.”
Dylan saw his amusement mirrored in Bev’s expression. His mother was a lot of things but one thing she would never be was old.
“Do you have everything ready for school?” Bev asked him.
“Yeah. No.”
She rolled her eyes. “And that is supposed to mean?”
“Football kit.” He raced off, feet pounding up the stairs.
“I’d better sort out his uniform,” Bev said.
Left alone, Dylan realised that he no longer felt at home in this kitchen. It was the same as it had always been—except the walls had been painted—but he felt out of place. He’d be hard pushed to find the can opener or the coffee.
Still, he wasn’t going to dwell on that. When Bev saw sense, when she got over this particular strop and invited him back, he’d soon feel as if he’d never been away.
Half an hour later, Luke had everything he needed for his stay at Dylan’s, and Dylan could think of no plausible excuse for hanging around any longer.
“I’ll be here at seven then,” he told Bev.
“I’ll be ready.”
He crossed his fingers for luck. Experience had taught him that when a Morgan with eighty thousand miles on the clock broke down, it did so in a spectacular cloud of exhaust fumes.
Chapter Thirty-Four
That evening, Arthur Bryant caught up on the local newspapers that had been pushed through his letterbox while he’d been fishing in the Lake District.
He didn’t recognise the name Alan Roderick, but there was no mistaking the big, bull-headed man staring out from the grainy photographs that dominated the pages. Arthur knew the address too.
The story of Roderick’s murder occupied almost every page but that wasn’t surprising. Very little happened in the Clough. A good murder was a gift for journalists more used to covering cute baby competitions or schools’ sports days.
It was difficult to sift the pertinent facts from the hearsay, but there was enough to tell Arthur that Roderick had been murdered last Sunday morning.
The same morning Arthur had had the misfortune to meet him.
Deciding he had more important things to worry about, Arthur began the chore of cleaning his fishing equipment and putting it away until his next trip to the Lakes.
He liked to keep himself to himself. Alan Roderick’s murder was nothing to do with him. Nothing at all.
It was almost nine o’clo
ck but he didn’t leave things undone. He wasn’t that type. Washing was put in the machine, his teacup and saucer washed and put away. All rubbish was taken outside to the bin.
His sister called him fussy. He called her sloppy. On the rare occasions he called at her house, he could smell cat. She had three and was too frightened to let them out. “Get a cat flap,” he’d say, “so they can go outside and get some air.” She wouldn’t listen. Too many cats got hit by cars, she said.
The only times he visited was when he delivered the parish magazine. It was a chore that had fallen to him last year when his wife died. Barbara had done the job for over twenty years and, on her death, it was assumed Arthur would take over. He didn’t go to church, nor was he religious, but he hadn’t been able to say no. It had been Barbara’s job, one she’d enjoyed, so he’d been fairly happy to take over.
Walking round the parish, dropping the newsletter through letterboxes—whether people wanted it or not—wasn’t a particularly arduous task. In fact, Arthur quite enjoyed it. He hadn’t enjoyed delivering Alan Roderick’s last Sunday though.
The letterbox had been stiff, he recalled, and he’d scraped his knuckles as he’d struggled to pushed the newsletter through. The second it dropped onto the mat, the door was yanked open and a big man, a man he now knew to be Alan Roderick, stood facing him.
“What the fuck are you up to? I saw you sneaking about in the garden.”
“I beg your—now, sir, I don’t know what your problem is but I’d appreciate it if you’d keep such foul language to yourself.”
Roderick grabbed him by the lapels of his suit jacket and lifted him on to his toes.
“What’s your fucking game?”
“Game?” Arthur repeated, a little afraid. “It’s no game. I’ve delivered your parish magazine. I’ve been doing it every month for years.”
“Wait here!”
Arthur was left to straighten his lapels as Roderick dashed off to the back of his garden.
“Oi, you!” Arthur heard him shout. “Get back here, you fucking runt!”
Confound it. Arthur wasn’t hanging around here waiting to be insulted. He’d taken two steps from the door when Roderick returned, gasping for breath.
“The bastard’s scarpered. Some little shit was in the garden—I thought it was you.”
If that was meant to be an apology, it was a poor one.
“Right,” Arthur said with as much dignity as he could muster, “I’ll wish you good day then.”
Arthur strode away from the front door, breath held as he waited for the monster to come after him.
So much for wishing him a good day. Soon after that, he must have been murdered.
Arthur put it all from his mind and went to bed. Sleep refused to have anything to do with him though.
He supposed he should go to the police. Some people would like that, they’d enjoy being the centre of attention, telling the police that he was one of the last people to see the man alive. People like that were on the TV all the time. They revelled in the media interest. Arthur kept himself to himself. Always had and always would.
He gave his pillow a good thump and closed his eyes.
What did it matter? They’d arrested a man for Roderick’s murder so it was too late now. Arthur could tell them he’d seen Roderick, and seen him chase someone out of his garden, and the police would say “So what?” They might even arrest him for wasting their time.
No one had seen Arthur delivering the newsletter and getting into an altercation with Roderick. At least, as far as he knew, no one had seen him. Even if they had, so what? He couldn’t be charged with withholding evidence, could he? No. He had no evidence. He knew nothing about it—other than the fact that Roderick was a nasty piece of work and the world was a better place without him.
Chapter Thirty-Five
There were times, and this was one, when nothing made sense to Dylan. Nothing.
He wasn’t even attempting to sleep. He was lying on his bed, hands linked behind his head, and he was thinking.
The last time he’d stayed in this hotel, his room had been freezing. Now, it was hot and stuffy. He had the window open, could hear pigeons cooing above the sound of the traffic, but the curtains didn’t move.
It was no use. He was going to make a trip to Scotland. And Orkney. He wasn’t mentioning it to Hunt either.
Damn it, that was annoying him. If the person employing him insisted on lying, what hope was there?
Dylan wasn’t sure what he was looking for. All he knew was that the ferry on the postcard, one in the livery of Northlink Ferries, ran between Scrabster on the northern tip of Scotland and Stromness in the Orkney Islands. He knew that a man named Mattie—Matthew?—sent postcards to Hunt on a regular basis, and he knew that Roderick chose to drive to Scotland.
Talk about a stab in the dark.
He’d used the internet facilities in Dawson’s Clough’s library to find the ferry company’s timetable. The MV Hamnavoe made three sailings a day from Scrabster to the Orkney Islands.
According to his sat nav, the journey to Scrabster was four hundred and eighty miles and should take around nine and a half hours.
He was tempted to fly to Wick, a small airport near Scrabster, but that would mean hiring a car to explore the area. As he didn’t know where he’d end up, that could get complicated.
It was almost two o’clock when he decided it was time he forgot Sam Hunt and embraced sleep.
His mind flitted to Bev and the interview she’d had. She thought it had gone well, and she was clearly excited about it. They still had several more applicants to see though, so Dylan wasn’t going to worry about it.
They’d enjoyed dinner together, even shared a few laughs. They hadn’t spoken of the way they’d shared a bed, but he’d bet they’d both thought of it often. It had been a good evening. Dylan would have liked to repeat the experience, but Bev had insisted on staying in a hotel near the station and was catching the train home first thing in the morning.
He tossed and turned for an hour or more then drifted into a restless sleep during which he dreamed of James Carlton unloading gleaming red Ferraris from a blue-and-white ferry.
His phone woke him just after seven.
“Yes?” He was too bleary-eyed to focus on the caller ID.
“Dylan? It’s me. Frank.”
“God, Frank, can’t you sleep?”
“Eh? Oh, sorry, I forgot it’s a bit early for you soft fucking southerners.”
“Ha, ha. Very funny.”
“I thought you’d want to hear the latest on Jack Fleming,” Frank said.
“Latest? Has something happened?”
“He’s been released.”
Dylan struggled into an upright position and wished his brain would follow suit.
“Another witness came forward,” Frank said. “Some chap who was delivering something to Roderick’s house that morning.”
Dylan wished his brain would keep up. “Delivering something on a Sunday?”
“A magazine. Something to do with the church. Anyway, you know Fleming had said he was in the garden snooping? Well, apparently, he’d also claimed that Roderick chased him off the property.”
“And?”
“This bloke—the one delivering the magazine—said he was there when Roderick chased someone out of the garden.”
Dylan tried to picture the scene—and failed.
“Why’s it taken so long for this bloke to come forward?” he asked.
“He’d been away. On a fishing trip in the Lake District.”
“So Jack’s been released? He’s back at home?”
“As free as a bird.”
It was good news. Dylan had believed all along that Jack was innocent. Just as Marion had.
Sitting in that café with her, Dylan had been convinced she’d murdered her husband. She couldn’t have though. She’d been at the pool with her daughters. Even if she hadn’t been, she wasn’t capable of taking a knife to a man. She wasn
’t strong enough either. Dylan would bet his life she knew who had killed him though.
“I’ll go and have a chat with Jack,” Dylan said. “Then I’m thinking of going to Scotland.”
“I honestly can’t see a Scottish link.”
“It’s all too coincidental for my liking.” All the same, he was only following what was known in the trade as a gut instinct. “I want to know who’s sending Rob those postcards. I know you don’t like to hear this, Frank, but your mate’s lying to me. I also want to see if there’s any connection between that person and Alan Roderick.”
“It’s your decision, of course, but I can’t helping thinking—”
“It’s a waste of time.” Frank was probably right.
“Yeah. But let me know if you find anything.”
“Will do.”
When he ended the call, Dylan dressed quickly and, feeling more awake now, went downstairs to the hotel’s dining room. Breakfast called. For all the hotel’s faults, the breakfasts were mouthwatering and he was soon washing down sausages, bacon, egg and mushrooms with a cup of strong tea. Perfect.
Then it was time to pay Jack Fleming a visit.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Anca had overheard a conversation between a man and woman but, as they’d both spoken in English, she hadn’t understood it. The only word she grasped was dead. She had no idea who was dead. Nor did she know why it affected her and Crina. That it did was obvious from the way they were bundled into the back of a horsebox in the early hours of the morning.
Crina had refused to get inside and had been knocked to the straw-covered floor by an Englishman.
To prevent further argument, he covered their mouths with thick tape that smelled of oil and tied their hands behind their backs. All they could do was make frantic noises as they were pushed inside a wooden structure at the far end of the horsebox. He ignored them and banged the lid down. Anca heard a padlock snapping closed. The glow from streetlights came through a tiny gap in the lid and she could smell wet straw.
Dead Silent (A Dylan Scott Mystery) Page 21
