Deadly Shadows (A Dylan Scott Mystery)

by Shirley Wells

  “Ah.”

  “I’ve got to stay in the area, I’m skint and I—”

  “No one has to explain anything here,” Child said. “You can stay as long as you like. We only ask that you help out with the chores. Okay?”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it. Really.”

  “And no illegal activities, of course,” Child added. “We’re all Christians here, Davey, and we follow the commandments.”

  Child was a murdering bastard—allegedly—and this display of piety made Dylan slightly nauseous. “Right. Thanks.”

  Child slapped him on the back. “I’m glad you found us. We’re a fair way out of town and there are only two buses a day. Did you walk?”

  “I did, yeah. It gave me time to think, because I wasn’t sure whether to come or not. I’m still not sure, to be honest. No offence, but all this God stuff isn’t my thing. If you’re happy to have me here, I’ll give it a shot for a couple of days, but—”

  “Of course we’re happy to have you. Didn’t I say you’d be welcome? The more the merrier. Now, come into the house and we’ll sort you out a bed.”

  Chickens were still pecking for food as Dylan followed Child across the yard and into the house.

  The main hallway was big and cold. Radiators that looked as if they’d been hanging there when Queen Victoria was on the throne were icy to the touch. Child carved his way through an obstacle course made up of tables, boxes and cycles, and Dylan followed.

  “We’ll get you a hot drink,” Child said. “It’s cold out there today.”

  It was cold in here.

  Child pushed open a door and ushered Dylan into a large, cluttered kitchen. A dozen chairs clustered around a scrubbed pine table that had room for six. Utensils, papers and books littered surfaces. Pictures, photos and notes clung to a freezer door and, in the midst of this, two women were washing an enormous pile of dishes in a white porcelain sink.

  “Meet Ivy and Sharon,” Child said. “Ladies, this is Davey Young. He’ll be staying with us for a few days.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” the women said.

  “Likewise.”

  “Ivy and Sharon come along for the Bible readings on Friday mornings,” Child explained.

  Dylan didn’t know what he’d expected, probably nubile young things catering to Child’s every sexual need, but as yet he hadn’t seen a female under fifty. Ivy, still in the purple Wellington boots she’d worn to feed the chickens, was in her mid-sixties, he’d guess. Sharon was several years younger and had a far less colourful sense of fashion. She wore a brown tweed jacket and skirt and practical brown shoes that matched her brown hair.

  Ivy put the kettle on and prepared tea for Dylan and Child.

  “You don’t live here then?” Dylan asked.

  “Oh, no,” Ivy said, “but we like to help out with the readings. And the soup kitchen.”

  “We go into town and take soup and blankets for the homeless,” Child explained. “It’s not much, but it all helps.”

  The door opened and a woman walked in who Dylan did recognise. Just.

  Years ago, when he worked undercover, he’d met Child’s wife half a dozen times. Back then, she’d sported straw-coloured hair, worn fake leopardskin skirts and tottered around on shoes with spikes for heels. Now she preferred black hair. Long fingernails were painted the same red as her lips. In deference to the low temperature, she wore a black cardigan over a tight T-shirt that showed off her impressive cleavage. An equally tight skirt said she ate more and exercised less than she used to.

  “Bloody hell, as I live and breathe,” she said. “When Joe said he’d bumped into you, I couldn’t believe it. What the hell are you doing up here, Davey?”

  “Oh, it’s a long story, but I’m stuck up here for the foreseeable. I’ve got a court case coming up.” He gave her a rueful smile. “It’s good to see you again, Doll.”

  “You, too.” She wagged a long finger at him. “You still getting in trouble with the law then?”

  “I try not to but—” He shrugged.

  “They’re some buggers, aren’t they? Once your name’s on their list, that’s it. They won’t leave you alone.”

  “Never a truer word, Doll. They’ve always had it in for me and I’m sick of it.”

  Dylan put his backpack on the floor as Ivy handed him a large chipped mug filled with strong tea. “Thanks.”

  “You’ll have to come to my show tomorrow night,” Doll said. “We’re off to Leeds. Joe does readings from the Bible and then I do my bit.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. Sometimes the spirits talk to me and sometimes they don’t.”

  “Spirits? What, like dead people?” He’d heard it all now. Child had found God and Doll was talking to dead people—people her husband had probably hastened on their way to those pearly gates.

  “Those who haven’t yet passed over,” she corrected him. “You’ll have to come along. Who knows, some of your late relatives might want to talk to you.”

  “I doubt it. They didn’t when they were alive.”

  Ivy snorted with laughter. “I’d pay well to make sure none of my lot came back from the grave for a chat. The buggers drove me mad when they were alive, and I’d hate them to get a second chance.”

  “You might find them filled with forgiveness,” Doll said.

  “And I might not.” Ivy took a packet of cigarettes and a lighter from her pocket. “Right, I’m off for a ciggie break. Meanwhile, if you see any of my relatives, Doll, don’t tell them where I am.”

  Chuckling to herself, Ivy went outside to enjoy her smoke.

  “No one will change Ivy’s idea of the afterlife,” Child said. “She’s too set in her ways.”

  Or perhaps Ivy was simply sane.

  Frank was worried that this assignment would be dangerous. The biggest risk, as far as Dylan could see, was ending up as crazy as Child and Doll.

  “I’ll come along to the show if I can beg a lift,” he said. “Who knows, perhaps a rich relative will tell me where he buried the loot, eh?”

  “Ah, that would be good,” Doll said.

  “Too true, it would. I’m sick of being skint. I could do with a job—a good job. A foolproof one.” He gave Child a knowing look but there was no response.

  “There’s no such thing. You need to forget all that nonsense, Davey. It’s honest work that puts a roof over your head and food on your table. Come along tomorrow. We’ll be taking the van, and you’re more than welcome to come with us.”

  People came and went as Dylan drank his coffee, but there were no hints as to what this place was actually used for. Perhaps, after all, Child had found God.

  “Let’s get you a bed sorted for the night,” Child said when Dylan put down his empty mug.

  He was given a grand tour of the premises and then shown his bed. Oh. My. God. He’d slept in a tent in the desert (don’t ask), he’d shared a hotel room with a family of mice and he’d slept in a bath because he’d been too drunk to climb out, but he’d never slept in a small garden shed with five other people.

  It was a shed. A bloody garden shed. There were three bunk beds on two sides and twelve inches of space between them. Bed was too generous a description. Planks of wood had been attached to the shed’s sides and a ridiculously thin mattress had been laid on top.

  “It’s humble,” Child said, “but I’m sure you’ll be comfortable.”

  Humble? The prison cell he’d spent last night in had screamed five-star luxury compared to this.

  “Thanks,” he managed.

  “We have better accommodation in the barn at the back,” Child said, “but we feel it’s only fair that the women have that.”

  “Of course. Thanks, Joey. I appreciate this.”

  It would be an incentive to get to the
bottom of Child’s game, find out where Caroline and Farrah were, if indeed their disappearances were connected to Child, and get the hell away from here.

  “The blankets are kept inside,” Child added. “We’ll collect those and I’ll introduce you to the others who’ll be sleeping here.”

  The others were those he’d seen working in the chapel when he arrived. Two men, Adrian and Pete, were both in their sixties and had shaggier beards than Dylan. Another, Gerry, was about forty. The last and youngest was Colin, an eager young chap in his late teens or maybe early twenties.

  “We usually eat at six,” Child said. “Tomorrow, because we’re off to Leeds, we’ll be sitting down earlier, at about five o’clock. We’ll sort out your chores rota in the morning. Meanwhile, make yourself at home and get to know everyone.”

  It was already dark, and bitterly cold. They were walking back to the main house, where the temperature might be a couple of degrees warmer, when a man stepped outside.

  “There you are, Joe.”

  Hands were shaken and introductions made by Child.

  Bill Owen shook Dylan’s hand. “Pleased to meet you, David.” He was wearing a dog collar beneath his overcoat, and for some reason he was frowning at Dylan.

  Shit. They’d met before. It had been brief, just a few words at a funeral, but Dylan could see from the spark of recognition that Owen had a good memory for faces and was currently wondering why Dylan Scott, private investigator, had decided to dye his hair, grow a beard and call himself David Young.

  Shit!

  This, of course, had been Frank’s worry, that someone would recognise him. If Owen uttered so much as a word about ex-coppers or private investigators, Dylan would be dog meat.

  His mind was racing but before he could say anything, a pair of headlights came up the lane and a patrol car stopped yards from them. Two uniformed officers got out.

  “I wonder what they want,” Child said, scowling.

  “Me, probably,” Dylan said.

  “You two go inside,” Child said. “I’ll deal with them.”

  Shit!

  Chapter Five

  Malcolm Brindle stepped off the Blackpool train and joined the crowd of people exiting Dawson’s Clough Station. The bag slung over his shoulder had been heavy with flyers that morning, but now it was empty and it flapped against other passengers. He’d posted the flyers in shop windows, in pubs and phone booths. He’d stuck the rest to lampposts.

  He’d planned to take a taxi home but he walked past the rank, turned right out of the station and wandered through his hometown, looking for the flyers he’d posted last week. Many had been torn down or blown down, and those that remained were tatty and difficult to read. He’d print out more tonight and circulate them tomorrow.

  At least work wasn’t too much of a problem. The teachers looked at him pityingly and were too unsure and too embarrassed to say anything if he didn’t show up for a lesson. The headmaster had made it known that people had noticed his “um, distraction,” but Malcolm had held his gaze until finally Potter had said, “Anything we can do to help, just let us know,” and with a sympathetic smile had gone on his way.

  The pupils didn’t give a damn if he was there or not. None of them wanted to learn history. They simply didn’t care. No matter how interesting or relevant to today’s world he tried to make the lessons, he couldn’t hold their attention for more than five minutes. Since Farrah’s disappearance, he’d stopped trying.

  The kids wouldn’t care that he’d walked out of the school and spent most of the day tramping the streets of Blackpool, and staff members were too polite and sympathetic to comment. They would shoulder his workload, make soothing, meaningless noises and thank whatever god they worshipped that it wasn’t their kid who was missing.

  He knew it wasn’t fair on them though, and he vowed to do his full workload next week. Tomorrow, and probably Sunday too, he’d post more flyers in Dawson’s Clough. He’d print out a fresh load this evening. He’d make them more noticeable too. With lots of red ink, and perhaps a bigger photo of Farrah, people would pay them more attention.

  He walked past a fish-and-chip shop, and the smell seeping into the early evening air reminded him that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. He wasn’t hungry.

  A hundred yards farther on, light from the Jolly Sailor spilled onto the pavement. Several smokers stood outside, shivering as they puffed on cigarettes.

  He might not be hungry but he needed a drink. He was drinking quite a bit lately but it wasn’t a problem. He could stop whenever he wanted. He’d never drink again when Farrah came home. It was just that tonight he needed—no, wanted—one.

  He squeezed past the smokers and pushed open the door. He couldn’t remember having been in the pub before. It wasn’t his sort of place. It was big and barnlike, dingy too. Drinkers crowded around the bar and looked as if they’d been there most of the day. They probably had. He’d guess that work was too much effort for them. They’d find it far easier to cash their benefit cheques and spend the money in the boozer. They looked like tough men. Hard men. He wouldn’t want to pick a fight with any of them.

  A big dark-haired woman behind the bar looked at him enquiringly. He wouldn’t want to pick a fight with her either.

  He almost walked out but decided that as he was here, he might was well have a quick one.

  “A pint of your guest beer, please.” He took out his wallet and handed her a five-pound note.

  While the glass filled, she checked the note under a UV light. Perhaps they had a lot of forgeries changing hands here.

  “There you go.” She handed him his change, topped up his glass and set it on the bar.

  “Thanks.” He took a sip and thought it tasted sour. He supposed they didn’t sell many of the guest ales. The drinkers here looked as if they counted the pennies and opted for the cheap stuff. What they didn’t spend here, they could squander in the bookies.

  A couple of pool tables sat at the far end of this vast pub and a dozen or so men crowded round them, cheering on those playing or simply watching the game while they drank.

  A loud burst of laughter had Malcolm turning his attention to the darts players to his left. One of them looked familiar. He was tall and lanky with greasy dark hair. Malcolm was sure he knew him. He racked his brain as the man stood at the hockey and threw his darts. When the man laughed again, Malcolm’s blood ran cold. It was that Taylor chap.

  Malcolm had never met him but he’d seen his face in the local paper and on the TV news. His stepdaughter had disappeared and police had questioned him. Malcolm had thought at the time that there was something sinister about him. Police wouldn’t have taken him in for questioning without reason, would they? They must have had something to go on. Malcolm would bet it was a case of them knowing he’d been involved in her disappearance but being unable to prove it.

  Taylor was an arrogant-looking individual. He was laughing again and had his arm round some loudmouthed, overweight female. It might have been his wife, but Malcolm didn’t think so. She didn’t look like anyone’s wife.

  What the hell did he have to laugh about? His daughter, stepdaughter at least, was missing, just as Farrah was, and yet he was laughing. Malcolm wondered if he’d ever laugh again.

  At first, police had been adamant that Farrah’s disappearance wasn’t linked in any way to Taylor’s stepdaughter’s. Malcolm could remember the young detective telling him that many, many people vanished each year. Usually, they took off for a better life in London, he said, or even abroad. Farrah hadn’t. Malcolm didn’t know where she was but he knew she hadn’t taken off without a word to her parents. She wasn’t that sort of girl. True, she’d changed. She could be moody and sullen at times, but she still knew the difference between right and wrong. It wasn’t in her nature to let him and her mum worry like this.

  Be
sides, she wouldn’t have left her dog behind. Penny meant the world to her.

  From the age of eight, Farrah had begged and pleaded for a dog. Not just any dog, but a Border collie. They’d finally given in when she was twelve, and one bright, sunny June day they’d brought home an eight-week-old bundle of black-and-white fur. Farrah had been smitten and had named her beloved puppy Penny. True to her word, she’d taken Penny to training classes and, after a lot of hard work, had ended up with a dog that was devoted to her. They were inseparable. No way would she have left Penny to mope.

  With the help of an old farmer she befriended, she’d trained Penny to work with sheep. Only a week before she vanished, she’d sent off her entry for a local sheepdog trials. She’d been as nervous as she’d been excited about it. The trials had been and gone—no, she wouldn’t willingly have missed the event.

  Malcolm hadn’t been one hundred percent happy about it, mainly because he didn’t like Walter Topham, the morose farmer who’d got her interested in working the dog with sheep. Farrah thought he was amazing, a real magician with sheepdogs, she’d said, but he was an odd man. He lived alone, in a farmhouse where chickens were equally at home in the kitchen as they were in the barn and where the smell of sheep lingered. He might know all there was to know about sheepdogs, but he possessed no social skills whatsoever. Farrah hadn’t cared about that though.

  Seeing his glass was empty, Malcolm ordered a refill.

  “I haven’t seen you in here before, have I?” the barmaid asked.

  “No. It’s my first time. Thanks.” He lifted his pint glass and turned his back to her. He didn’t want conversation. He wanted to know what Taylor had to laugh about.