“There’s money in it,” Hank said with a smirk. “There’s talk of him doing a TV show. There’ll be a lot of money in that.”
“TV? Great. Doing what? This Bible-bashing stuff?”
“Yeah. Folk lap it up.”
Maybe they did, but there had to be more money in drug dealing or contract killing, and Child had always been a greedy bastard.
“Not me,” Dylan said. “I shall be glad to get away. Not from your dad, we’ve always got on great, but from the north, the cold and all the God stuff. I’ve done four days now—that’s enough.”
More than enough.
The taxi slowed to a stop outside Tempo. The club’s neon sign flashed blue-and-red stripes on Gary’s face as he paid the driver.
“Thanks,” Dylan said. “I appreciate it. See you both tomorrow. Have a good night.”
“You, too,” Hank called over his shoulder as he and Gary strode into the club.
Dylan followed at a more leisurely pace. Gary was right. There was a fair chance he wouldn’t be allowed entry.
He gave the two bouncers a confident smile and walked straight past them into the building.
Four uniformed men and a long-haired young girl were serving drinks. There was no sign of the barman who’d been on duty when he was “arrested.” He made the most of it and ordered a drink from the young girl.
He hated clubs like Tempo. The drinks might be cheap but the noise levels made it difficult to strike up a conversation with anyone. He’d have a quick pint and then try the pubs and speak to a few locals. As yet, he had no idea why Child had suddenly turned to God, why that bundle of cash had been sitting beneath the floorboards, if Bill Owen was genuine or involved with Child, how long he had until his cover was blown, why Kennedy refused to speak to anyone but a cat...
He sat at the bar, trying to block out the raucous music and enjoy his drink, and watched Hank and Gary Child. They were deep in conversation at a table on a raised platform. Perhaps they’d chosen the seats to give them the best view of the dancers when they appeared. Gary was talking earnestly, but Hank was continually watching the door to see who came into the club.
Half an hour later, a chap walked in and, instead of going to the bar to order a drink, went straight to the toilets. Hank immediately followed him.
Gary was watching so Dylan feigned ignorance for a couple of minutes and then strolled toward those toilets. The stranger came out and collided head-on with Dylan.
“Watch where you’re going, mate.”
Dylan flinched, not at the aggression oozing from this big man, but from the garlic on his breath. He was well over six feet tall, broad too, and had several body piercings. A chain was tattooed around his neck.
“Sorry—didn’t realise someone was coming out.” Dylan, confident he’d recognise the bloke again—who wouldn’t?—pushed open the door marked Gents.
He was in time to see Hank emerge from one of the cubicles.
“You buying or selling, Hank?”
“Eh? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Dylan pointed to his nose. “I’m not daft enough to believe you’ve been snorting talcum powder.”
Scowling, Hank checked in a mirror above one of the washbasins and rubbed away the cocaine with his finger.
“So?” Dylan asked. “You buying or selling? I could do with something. I’ve been clean for a month, but—”
“Then stay bloody clean. I bought, okay? I’m not selling and I don’t have any to spare.” Furious, Hank pushed past him and left the room.
Dylan lingered for a minute and then walked back to his seat at the bar.
If Child was involved in drugs, his sons wouldn’t be buying cocaine from Tattoo Man. Or perhaps Child didn’t know his son was using.
Dylan felt like bashing his head against the bar in frustration. What the hell was Child up to? No way could he or his refuge be as squeaky-clean as he was making out. No way. Police believed they’d searched every inch of that place but they must have missed something.
There was the bundle of cash hidden beneath the floorboards. Dylan had to cling to that as evidence Child was involved in some scam or other. Gordon Riley had to be involved too. Unless Dylan was mistaken, he was the one who’d handed over that cash.
He glanced across to the table where Hank and Gary had been sitting. It was empty.
“Excuse me—” He attracted one of the barmen’s attention. “I came in with a couple of young men. They were sitting over there. You didn’t see where they went, did you?”
“The Childs, you mean?”
“Yes, that’s them.”
“I didn’t see them leave, but I assume they’ve gone to Manchester.” The barman tested the cleanliness of a glass he was polishing. “They often call here for a quick drink and then get a cab to Manchester. Were you supposed to be going with them?”
“No, nothing like that. I just remembered something I needed to tell them. Oh, well, it doesn’t matter. Manchester you say? What takes them there?”
“No idea.” The barman put the glass on the shelf and picked up another to polish. “Better nightlife, more people, more fun—I’d rather be in Manchester than the Clough, wouldn’t you?”
Smiling, Dylan nodded. “Yes, I suppose so.”
Manchester was a vibrant city, true, but it was twenty miles down the road and that was expensive and time-consuming in a cab. There had to be something more than the nightlife to attract Gary and Hank to the city on a Monday night.
“Do you know the Childs well?” Dylan asked. “I know their dad from way back, and I’m still trying to accept that Gary and Hank are grown men.”
“I wouldn’t say I know them. They call in quite often, sometimes stay to chat up the girls and sometimes go into Manchester. Ah, yes, I know their father. He sometimes calls in here. He runs that place—hippie commune out of town.”
“That’s him, but I don’t think he’d like you calling it that. It’s a safe refuge for the town’s waifs and strays. I’m staying there at the moment.”
“Yeah? I’ve heard all sorts of rumours about the place—witchcraft, black magic, cannabis farming—you name it, I’ve heard it.”
“That’s crazy. We’re just harmless people who want to help those in need. Do unto others as you would have done unto yourself, that’s what I always say.” Or something like that. “Where have the rumours come from?”
“Everywhere. But he’s a southerner, a bit like you, if I’m not mistaken, and the locals get suspicious. Christ, I’m from the Midlands and you’d think I’d landed from Mars. The locals are a funny lot. They’re not comfortable away from their own sort and will invent all sorts of crazy stories about newcomers to the area.”
“There’s nothing to fear from anyone at the refuge.” Apart from the odd missing tongue.
Damn. He was about to be recognised. The barman who’d helped the police cuff him must have been on a break. He was heading straight for Dylan’s side of the bar.
Dylan drained his glass and went in search of some nightlife of his own. He walked past the Jolly Sailor, then doubled back and ducked inside. It wasn’t his sort of pub, not by any stretch of the imagination, but Malcolm Brindle had been drinking there on Saturday and John Taylor was a regular.
Like a lot of pubs, the Jolly Sailor was almost empty. Monday nights were low on trade because people had spent their money over the weekend. If they had a few quid left, they’d spend it at Tempo on cheap drinks.
The barmaid was a big, dark-haired woman who clearly didn’t believe in warm smiles to welcome her customers. In fact, she looked as if she resented everyone who walked through the door. She banged his pint on the bar, managing to slop some across the dirty mahogany.
“It’s quiet tonight.” He might as well attempt conversation with her. “I was
in here on Saturday and it was packed then.”
“It’s Monday,” she said as if he were a moron.
“Well, yes. Even so—”
“If you want company, you need to drink at Tempo. That place will be heaving.”
“I’ve just come from there. I fancied a change of scene.”
Bored, she picked up a copy of the Sun and turned to the TV pages.
“When I was in here on Saturday—” no one could accuse him of lacking perseverance, “—I was talking to a chap whose daughter had vanished. How awful must that be? Can’t think of his name—”
“Johnny? Johnny Taylor?”
“No. No, I’m sure it wasn’t that. It was—his daughter was called Farrah, I do remember that.”
“Brindle?”
“Yeah, that’s it. Malcolm Brindle.”
She closed the newspaper, more eager to talk now. “I’ve never seen him in here. Thinking about it though, I probably wouldn’t recognise him. I’ve seen his picture in the paper, but that’s all.”
“So who’s this Taylor chap you mentioned?” Dylan supped his pint. “Oh, wait—I heard something about two girls disappearing. Is he the father of the other one?”
“Stepfather.”
“Ah. It’s a strange lot of it, isn’t it? Two girls vanishing. What do they reckon? The police, I mean? They must have some idea what’s happened to them, mustn’t they?”
“Bloody hopeless, them lot. But—” she leaned in close, “—the last I heard, they reckoned there was something going on up at the funny farm. Well, we all know that. You wouldn’t catch me within a mile of that place. God knows what they get up to.”
“The funny farm?” Dylan felt obliged to ask, but he knew what the answer would be.
“Yeah, there’s some sort of cult up on the Burnley Road. Moorside Refuge, it’s called.”
“A cult?” He feigned shock. “What happens? What do they do?”
“It’s rumours. Apparently, they all dance naked and make a sacrifice—”
Dylan managed to stop himself laughing. But really—
“That’s what I heard,” she said. “Some say they drink blood from chickens. Others—” she dropped her deep voice to a whisper, “—others reckon they make human sacrifices. You don’t need a degree to know where those two girls have gone, do you?”
Before Dylan could comment on that, another customer arrived and she turned to serve him. “The usual, Dennis?”
The chap nodded and hunted in his pocket, finally producing a crumpled five-pound note.
“We were talking about the bleedin’ funny farm,” the barmaid told him. “What d’you reckon’s going on up there?”
“Who knows? Money laundering, I shouldn’t wonder. Or drugs. They’ve probably got a cannabis farm—something like that.”
“If you ask me,” she said, “they’re into black magic. I was just saying, there were rumours of human sacrifices. Two girls disappear from there—”
“One,” Dennis said. “The other was living at home.”
“But she probably went back. I expect she made friends there, went back to see them and ended up with a knife through her heart. It wouldn’t surprise me, not one little bit. There’s a strange bloke goes up there quite often too. He’s a right bloody oddball—doesn’t speak, just stares at you. I was driving back over the hill at about ten o’clock the other night when I saw him walking toward the town with a torch. What the hell was he doing out and about at that time of night? Some claim he works in the gardens but no one in their right mind does gardening in the pitch bloody dark, do they?”
“They don’t,” Dylan said.
“They’re all bloody oddballs up there,” the barmaid said. “There’s something sinful going on up there, you mark my words.” Scowling, she went away to serve someone else.
Dennis sidled closer to Dylan. “The chap who runs it has come up from London.” Dennis clearly wasn’t impressed by southerners. “You’d think he could do his Good Samaritan thing down there, wouldn’t you?”
“I suppose he wanted somewhere more rural. Besides, a place big enough to house the local strays would cost millions down in the city.”
“Aye.”
“And perhaps he feels there are plenty of people looking after the homeless in London, whereas up here—”
He broke off to see what had attracted his companion’s attention, turned around and saw none other than Doll Child walk in. This evening, she looked nothing like Gypsy Rose Lee. Her skirt was little longer than a belt, a black see-through blouse left nothing to the imagination, feet were perched on six-inch heels, and her makeup was immaculate, if heavy.
She saw Dylan, frowned a mixture of surprise and annoyance and, smiling broadly, rushed forward. “Well, Davey, fancy seeing you here. Are you buying?”
Damn it. He’d been enjoying chatting about the funny farm. No chance of that now. Dennis had moved away to sup his pint. He was probably wondering how the stranger in the pub, the one who hadn’t admitted to knowing anything about the funny farm, knew Doll Child.
“Of course I am. What brings you here then, Doll?”
“Oh—” She waved her hands as if grasping for inspiration. “I had to nip into town to see a friend, but she must have got the date muddled or something. She wasn’t there so I thought I may as well call in here and have a quick drink while I waited for a taxi. The rank was deserted.”
“Great. I’ll share that taxi with you.”
“Well, yeah. Okay.”
“What are you having, Doll?”
“A gin and tonic. Thanks.” She sat on the stool beside him and made futile attempts to pull down her skirt.
“I wouldn’t have thought this was your sort of place,” he said.
She took a small sip of her gin and leaned toward him, thrusting her cleavage at his pint. “It’s closest to the taxi rank.”
That was true.
“It’s dead tonight, isn’t it?” he said. “I had a quick one in Tempo. I don’t suppose that’s your sort of place either.” The young dancers would show up Doll’s signs of ageing. She wouldn’t like that.
“I hate the place. It’s always full of old men ogling tarts. Joe doesn’t like the place either. He goes in every Thursday but he finds it a chore.”
He lifted his glass, took a swallow and grinned at her. “You wouldn’t believe the rumours that are flying round about the refuge.”
“I bet I would. I reckon I’ve heard ’em all.”
“Black magic? Human sacrifices?”
She snorted with laughter. “I think all sacrifices call for the blood of a young virgin, don’t they? You’d be hard pushed to find one of those in the Clough.”
“I expect it’s with the two girls going missing. Something like that happens—well, it’s bound to start all sorts of rumours.”
“Tarts—both of ‘em. The silly little sods could be anywhere. That Farrah—I told Joe at the time that he was too soft with her. Fancy letting her bring a bloody dog to the place. She was a right stuck-up little thing too. Thought she was a cut above everyone else.”
“Pretty, wasn’t she?”
“We were all pretty at that age, Davey.”
“Speak for yourself.”
Laughing, she nudged his arm and thrust her cleavage ever closer. “You always were a ladies’ man.”
He’d tell that to Bev. She was forever accusing him of being a chauvinist and a misogynist.
“That chap who called—the one with the flash car—Gordon, wasn’t it? How does a bloke afford a car like that? It was a bloody Bentley, of all things. I bet there wasn’t any change from a hundred and thirty grand.”
She winked and tapped the side of her nose. “Gordon could afford a whole fleet of the things. He’s a self-made multimillion
aire. Clever, he is. Real clever. There was a piece in the paper about him not so long ago and they reckoned almost every kid in the country owned a computer game that his company sells. He’s rolling in money. It just goes to show that honesty sometimes pays.”
“Not in my book, it doesn’t.”
“It worked for Gordon.”
“Him and Joey were in the same care home, I gather.”
“Yeah. Joe had to fight his battles for him. He was clever, so the other kids always picked on him. He’s having the last laugh though. He could buy the bleedin’ lot of them now. Every single one.”
“It’s all right for some. Where’s he live? London, I suppose.”
“Yeah. He’s got a place in Florida too. Me and Joe went out there once. I’d quite like a house out there—all we did was sit by the pool all day. That’s the life, eh?”
“It certainly beats freezing your balls off running a soup kitchen.”
“Tell me about it. I wish—”
She broke off as the door opened, turned to look and gave the man who walked in a slight shake of her head. The chap ignored her, walked to the other side of the bar, ordered his pint and went to join three others in front of the darts board.
“What do you wish?” Dylan asked.
“Aw, nothing. It’s time I rang for that taxi. D’you want to share it, Davey, or are you staying for another?”
“I’ll share it. Thanks.”
Doll was quiet on the short ride home. Dylan wasn’t in the mood for conversation either. He was too busy wondering why Doll had warned off John Taylor back in the Jolly Sailor.
Chapter Sixteen
Dylan was on washing-up duty again. He’d started the never-ending task with company, but Adrian had been summoned by Child to do electrical work in the barn that everyone chose to call the chapel.
Deadly Shadows (A Dylan Scott Mystery) Page 11
