Deadly Shadows (A Dylan Scott Mystery)

by Shirley Wells

  Even allowing for Child’s aversion to heating, it would cost more than the profit from fruit, vegetables and cakes to keep this place going.

  “We get plenty of donations too,” Adrian went on. “We often set up the soup kitchen when the football team’s playing at home, and that way we get around twenty thousand people walking past. They’re generous, especially if the Blues have won. When Joe gives talks—there’s one in Leeds tomorrow night—we always have a collection. We get by and Joe’s very good with the finances.”

  Child was a tight-fisted sod, always getting the best price for jobs no one else wanted—illegal jobs. He’d probably accumulated thousands over the years but Dylan couldn’t see him giving it to the poor. Child looked out for number one. He always had and he always would. There was a saying about leopards never changing their spots and Child was exactly the same. He’d never change his ways. Never in a million years.

  “We had a big donation not so long back,” Adrian said. “A celebrity—I can’t remember his name but he was on one of these reality TV shows, Big Brother or something like that. He heard about the work Joe was doing and donated a few thousand.”

  “Really? How did he hear about Joe?”

  “Dunno.” Adrian shrugged. “We hand out leaflets when Joe gives talks—like the one tomorrow night in Leeds—so perhaps he saw one of those. We stand outside whatever building we’re in and give them to passersby. That was probably it.”

  “Ah well, it’s good if it pulls in the money.” Dylan wasn’t convinced. “Hey, I was hearing about the two girls who went missing. That’s a strange lot of it, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know what to make of it. One of the girls, Caroline, vanished from here, you know. The other one, Farrah, I don’t know much about. She wasn’t here long, and you could see she didn’t fit in. She had a dog with her for a start. It’s no place for a dog, is it? It was no trouble, but even so. Reading between the lines, I think she’d had a row with her parents and was proving a point. She soon went back home.”

  “I wonder where they went.”

  “They could be anywhere. You know what kids are like.” He stubbed out his cigarette. “It’s time I turned in. I want an early start in the morning.”

  “I’ll do the same soon,” Dylan said.

  “We’ve all got two blankets each but I’ll warn you now, it can get a bit cold at night.”

  “I’m sure it can.”

  “I like to keep busy all day. That way, I’m asleep before I know it. Ah well, see you later, David.”

  “See you.”

  Dylan was about to head for that shed when the front door opened and another smoker emerged.

  “You’re here late, Ivy. I thought you’d gone hours ago.”

  “I was busy baking and then I got talking.” She lit her cigarette and inhaled deeply. “My husband’s always telling me I talk too much. Mind you, if I didn’t get out of the house, I’d lose the power of speech. He wouldn’t know what a conversation was if it stepped up and punched him in the face.”

  Dylan smiled. “So you went for the strong silent type?”

  Ivy’s laughter wheezed its way up from her chest. “You’re almost right. He’s retired now and I never know if I follow him around clearing up his mess or if he follows me around making a mess. Either way, it’s better for both of us that he doesn’t say much.”

  Dylan had warmed to Ivy on first meeting. She was one of those what-you-see-is-what-you-get women that Lancashire bred by the score. He’d guess she would speak her mind but would also help anyone in need. She was loud and waved her hands around as she spoke, a hangover from the days when women worked in the cotton mills and shouted or used hand signals to make themselves understood over the racket of the huge looms. Those days were long gone, but the habits remained.

  “I was chatting to the vicar earlier,” he said, “and he was telling me about the two missing girls. That’s an odd lot of it, isn’t it? Did you know them?”

  “Oh, I do worry about them.” She took a long pull on her cigarette, which induced a brief coughing fit. “I didn’t know Caroline so well because she didn’t have much time for us old folk. Farrah was different again though. We had a few laughs. She wasn’t here long, about a month, but I liked her. She was good fun. I was so pleased when she went back to live with her mum and dad. She had a dog with her and it followed her everywhere. One of those collies. My sister has one and I sometimes babysit the thing for her. Well, it’s crazy. It barks when you get the vacuum cleaner out, it barks at people walking past the window. It even barks at the TV. Farrah’s dog did everything she told it. She’d tell it to lie down and there it would lie until she told it to move.” She sighed. “Farrah was a good girl.”

  “Did you see her after she left here? When she went back to live with her parents?”

  “Only twice. The first time I was hurrying to the dentist, so I couldn’t stop for a chat. She told me that if I kept on smoking, all my teeth would drop out. Well, I told her, most of them already have.” Her face crinkled into a smile. “The second time was about a week before she vanished. She was her usual happy self. Very happy, in fact. Told me how good it was to see me and dragged me off to the coffee bar, where she insisted on buying me a coffee and a cake. She had the dog with her, of course, but it lay outside and waited for us. She was in good spirits.”

  “She didn’t mention going anywhere?”

  “Not a word. Looking back though, I think there was a man involved. Only a man can put a smile like that on a girl’s face.” She pulled a face. “Young girls don’t realise that these handsome men soon turn into miserable buggers you can’t get a word out of.”

  A car turned up the lane.

  “This’ll be my taxi.” She ground her cigarette stub into the ground. “Are you sleeping in that shed tonight? Rather you than me. It’ll be cold enough to freeze your bits off.” She was still laughing as she climbed inside the taxi.

  Dylan watched until the taillights vanished from his view and then he headed toward that shed.

  He was reminded of the well-worn expression “What goes around comes around.” He’d taken this job to get one up on the police force. He’d had so much confidence in his own ability that he’d been sure he’d soon get to the bottom of Child’s scam and find the missing girls. So here he was, more than two hundred miles from home and about to spend the night not in a warm bed with a warm wife, but in a freezing shed with five snoring males. It served him right.

  At home, Bev would have the central-heating boiler working overtime. Luke would be lying in bed listening to the rubbish teenagers called music, and his beautiful baby girl, Freya, would be sleeping with her arms outstretched in happy oblivion.

  Thank God he’d had the good sense to put half a bottle of whisky in his backpack. It was the cheap blended crap that a bloke like Davey Young would drink, but it was better than no whisky. And he couldn’t imagine there being much left in the morning...

  Chapter Eight

  The torch spluttered, the light almost fading to nothing. Kennedy gave it a good shake. The darkness was total, and he’d twist his ankle in a pothole or fall headlong into a ditch without his light. It flickered again, then settled itself. The light wasn’t brilliant, but it was better than nothing. Once he got to the outskirts of Dawson’s Clough, he wouldn’t need it.

  He enjoyed walking round here in daylight. The air was always fresh, and the scenery spectacular. In London he rarely walked anywhere, but here it was energising. The six miles a day to Moorside Refuge and back was keeping him fit.

  There was a new resident at the refuge. David Young. About forty, maybe younger, in fairly good shape but as scruffy as everyone else at the place. Spiky fair hair, untidy beard, dirty clothes—he was a good fit. Kennedy wondered what his story was. He’d soon find out. He was good at that.

  A
car sped past him. Young kids loved racing along these curving roads at a breakneck pace. Only a couple of weeks ago, a seventeen-year-old who’d only just passed his test had lost control of his car and crashed into a stone wall. The impact had killed him and his three passengers instantly.

  A couple of sheep grazed on the verge and took no notice of him as he passed. They were used to traffic and walkers.

  He stepped out at a good pace and soon reached the edge of town where he was able to switch off his torch. He’d stayed late at the refuge tonight, curious about the new chap, and he was ready for his bed.

  The town centre was busy. Youngsters were falling out of pubs and clubs, and several police officers were patrolling the streets, but everyone was good-natured. One girl, dressed in a sleeveless short black dress, completely oblivious of the biting cold, reached up and stole a policeman’s helmet. Laughing, she put it on her head and posed as her girlfriends snapped photos with their phones. The officer joined in with the fun and soon had it back on his head.

  Kennedy walked on. The fish-and-chip shop near his flat was still serving, and he dived inside, welcoming the warmth and the smell of food. He’d eaten his sandwiches at one o’clock, ten hours ago, and he was starving.

  He was third in line, and when his turn came, he pointed at a board that read Haddock & Chips £3.95.

  The woman behind the counter took a fish from the heated cabinet, put it on paper and scooped out a generous portion of chips.

  “Salt and vinegar?” she asked, and he nodded.

  He would have liked more vinegar, but he’d got some at home.

  “Three ninety-five, love.”

  He handed over the ten-pound note Child had given him. She examined it closely and, satisfied it wasn’t a forgery, put it in the till and gave him his change.

  He nodded his thanks and left the shop with the hot parcel in his hand.

  He rounded the corner and quickened his pace. A couple of minutes later, he was letting himself into his flat. All was quiet in the building. It usually was. The occupants of the other two flats were retired people who lived alone. It was one reason he’d chosen it.

  He took off his coat, washed his hands and put his food on his plate. He sat down and flicked through the TV channels, finally settling on a current-affairs programme as he ate. The answering machine was blinking at him, telling him he had three messages, but they could wait.

  The news ended, the weather report promised more rain for the area, and then a quiz show came on. Contestants were eager to win a few thousand pounds, but Kennedy wasn’t paying attention.

  When his plate was empty, he carried it to the kitchen and left it in the sink. He grabbed a can of beer from the fridge, walked back into the lounge and prodded a finger at the answering machine.

  “Just reminding you about the presentation in Brussels. The flights are booked, and driver and car are on standby, but I need to know if you can make it. I’ve said I’ll confirm your attendance tomorrow morning...”

  Chapter Nine

  Dylan had survived what had to be the coldest night on record in that shed. At least he’d been wrong about one thing. There had only been three snoring men present. The other two had tossed and turned all night. Perhaps, like him, they’d been trying to stave off hypothermia. The late arrival of the dawn had been welcome, until he’d been told that he must spend four hours banging nails in plasterboard as payment for that torturous night. He had a throbbing thumb for his efforts.

  Having walked the three miles into town, most of it downhill, thankfully, he could finally feel his feet again. The wind was gusting from the east today, straight from Siberia, and the ground still glittered with frost in sheltered corners.

  He was about to call on Reverend Owen and find out how pally the vicar was with Child and, more important, if he intended to blow Dylan’s cover. He hadn’t made an appointment because he wanted to catch Owen off guard. It meant the vicar could be out administering to the sick or whatever it was they did these days.

  The vicarage was a massive stone building standing square in a large, well-tended garden where holly trees maintained privacy. The property would belong to the diocese, but even so, it would be no hardship living in it. He wondered what sort of salary a vicar commanded these days.

  Dylan didn’t believe in God, and he loathed crimes that were committed in the name of religion, but apart from those minor details, he reckoned he could stand up in church and read a sermon, sing a hymn, carry out the odd wedding, funeral and christening, and visit those in need of a chat. It was easy money.

  A polished blue Nissan sat on the neat, curving driveway, so that was promising.

  He walked up stone steps and prodded a round bell push set in stone by the front door. After a few moments, he heard a shuffling from inside and the heavy door swung open.

  “Ah. Welcome,” Owen said as if he’d been expecting him. “Come in.”

  “Thank you.”

  Dylan had thought that if nothing else came from this visit, he would at least get warm. That seemed a forlorn hope, as it was no warmer inside than out. Perhaps this aversion to heat was a Lancashire thing.

  The wide hallway was empty, apart from two small low tables. A few dark and depressing paintings tried, and failed, to bring cheer to the walls.

  “I’m working in the kitchen,” Owen said. “Come on.”

  Dylan was taken into a large icebox at the back of the house. One small radiator was warm—he touched it to check—but it had little effect on this high-ceilinged room with its single-glazed windows.

  A table strewn with papers sat in the centre of the room. A grand’s worth of MacBook was open.

  “I’m working on Sunday’s sermon,” Owen said, nodding at the computer.

  He was dressed for warmth and comfort in thick corduroy trousers, a chunky sweater and a green padded body warmer. “Can I offer you tea or coffee?”

  “Tea would be welcome, thanks. Milk and two sugars, please.”

  While Owen made the tea, Dylan took in the rest of the room. A wall calendar was crammed with appointments, all written in a neat forward-sloping hand. A digital radio was plugged in but silent. A small portable TV sat on the worktop in a corner. Tea, coffee and sugar canisters were lined up with military precision. He couldn’t see any religious artefacts.

  The morning’s newspaper hadn’t been opened. The front page was taken up by news of the dead body Rhodes and his chums had found in an unlit alley close to the river. The man was still unidentified and the reporter had clearly struggled for enough information to fill the space.

  “I don’t know your real name,” Owen said.

  “David—Davey will do.” If he didn’t know it, there was no point telling him.

  “It was your voice I recognised. We spoke at a funeral—young Kevin Mills’s funeral.” When Dylan didn’t comment, he said, “I’m something of an expert on accents and I’ve had a couple of books published on the local dialect.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. I know you’re an investigator of sorts, but that’s all. What you’re doing here is your business, of course. I imagine it’s something to do with the disappearance of Caroline and Farrah?”

  It seemed churlish to distrust a man of the cloth, but it was safer to trust no one.

  “What do you know about them?” He took the cup of tea Owen offered him. “Thanks.”

  “Sit down.” Owen gestured to one of the chairs clustered around the table. It was the farthest from that radiator. He’d made himself a fresh cup of tea and he took a noisy sip. “I know Farrah very well—I expect you’ve heard. She used to come to my services with her parents. She’s a bright girl, and always seemed happy enough. The other girl, Caroline, I don’t know. Her parents aren’t churchgoers, more’s the pity. If they had faith, it would be a great comfort to the
m at this difficult time.”

  What crap. “Is it helping Farrah’s parents?”

  “I’m sure it is.”

  “You haven’t seen them?”

  “I’ve called on them several times, of course. I’ve assured them that we’re praying for Farrah. And for them, of course.”

  “But they haven’t been to church?”

  “Not for a while, no.”

  Dylan drank his tea. It was hot but he welcomed the burning sensation as it slid down his throat.

  “What is it you’re wanting from me?” Owen asked.

  Dylan liked people who came straight to the point. He still didn’t feel able to trust him though. Perhaps the cold was making him more cynical than usual.

  “If you’re worried I’ll tell Joe who you are—” He frowned. “Joe said you were old friends. Is that true?”

  “Acquaintances,” Dylan said. “We once worked together.”

  “But he doesn’t know you’re an investigator, does he?”

  Dylan sighed. “No, and I’d rather he didn’t find out.”

  “He doesn’t know your real name either, does he?”

  “No.”

  “You can trust me.” Smiling in a somewhat superior way, Owen tapped long fingers on the table. “I’m used to keeping confidences.”

  “It would be safer for all concerned, including you, if that’s the case.”

  Owen’s eyebrows shot up and Dylan shrugged. Owen could take the veiled threat any way he chose.

  “What business do you have with Joe Child?” he asked.

  “I suppose you could say I’ve been doing a little investigative work of my own,” Owen said. “I was a little uneasy when I first heard about the setup there. Religious cults can be dangerous beasts, and I wanted to reassure myself that Child wasn’t—a fanatic.”

  “And have you reassured yourself?”

  “Oh, yes. From what I’ve seen, he’s doing invaluable work. As he says himself, he’s giving back to society. That’s so commendable, isn’t it? People could learn a lot from him.”