Dylan stifled a groan. He’d hoped Brindle’s bout of insanity might fade as the alcohol wore off. Obviously not. “I did, yes, but I’m more convinced than ever that it’s not a good idea. Tell you what, why don’t you go to the police and ask them what they have on Taylor? It could be—”
“They won’t tell me anything. They call on us every now and again to reassure us that they’re doing all they can, but really, they don’t know what to do. They’re clueless. They don’t even know where to start. I have to do this myself.”
In Brindle’s shoes, Dylan would feel exactly the same. He wouldn’t be able to sit around waiting for the police to come up with something. “So what’s the plan?”
“He’ll be drinking in the Jolly Sailor tonight. He’s sure to be there. I’m going to go along, slip some flunitrazepam in his drink—”
“And what do you intend to do when he’s passed out in front of a pub full of drinkers?”
“I won’t give him time for that. When he’s taken a drink, I’m going to get him outside—”
“How?”
“Now this is the clever part—”
Dylan very much doubted that.
“I’ve heard,” Brindle said, “that he sells cheap cigarettes. I’m going to ask if I can buy some from him. By that time, he’ll be feeling unwell—he’ll be conscious, but I gather he won’t remember anything that happens afterwards. I’ll hold the gun to his head and make him talk.”
There was silence as Brindle waited for congratulations. Dylan despaired.
Brindle was a desperate man, and he could fully understand that, but spiking Taylor’s drink, giving him some cock-and-bull story about wanting to buy illegal cigarettes, and then pulling a gun on him wasn’t the way to get the information they needed.
“Okay,” he said, resigned. “What time?”
“You’re coming along?”
“Why not? It’ll be easier with two.”
“Thank you. Thank you so much. Shall we say seven o’clock at the Jolly Sailor?”
“I’ll be there.”
Dylan tried to push Brindle from his mind. He’d cross that particular crazy bridge when he came to it.
He continued with his search and found half a dozen DVDs, all showing an American preacher in full flow. Like Child, he was dressed in black. A huge gold ring on his finger twinkled beneath the camera’s lights. He might have found Child’s hero but it wasn’t any help.
None of the bedrooms produced any clues. Hank’s was a pigsty, which meant that Dylan didn’t have to be too careful about putting things back. Burglars could arrive and turn the place over and no one would be any the wiser.
Gary’s room, in complete contrast, was neat. Everything was in its rightful place. No clues though. Not even a sniff of recreational drugs.
In Child’s study, nothing struck him as odd, other than a pair of protective gloves wrapped around a small pair of scissors and a pair of tweezers. If he were sending blackmail letters or threatening notes, he might cut telling words from a newspaper—
Blackmail? Child would enjoy such a lucrative pastime, there was no doubt about that, but who could be his victim? And how might teenage girls fit in?
Dylan didn’t have a clue.
His next stop was the kitchen. It was preposterous to think anything discriminating might be in the room because the world and his wife used it, but all the same, he checked everything—from the sink’s waste pipe to the cereal boxes. Nothing.
He was wasting his time. Child wasn’t naive enough to leave any clues lying around.
Whatever Dylan was looking for, and he didn’t have a clue what that was, was somewhere else. Child and the clan were in London. Why? Where did they stay?
This place was a smokescreen, he was sure of it. The truth, he’d bet, was closer to London.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The Jolly Sailor was more depressing than usual. This Saturday night’s entertainment was an ageing rock band that belted out hits from the seventies and eighties. Badly.
Brindle, looking deathly pale, walked through the main door at seven-twenty. Dylan was already halfway down his first pint.
“Thanks so much for coming, David.” Brindle’s hands shook alarmingly as he reached into his pocket. Dylan thought for one awful moment that he was going for his gun and was relieved when he pulled out his wallet. “Can I get you one?”
“No, thanks. We’d better not have too much.”
Brindle nodded at the wisdom of that, but still ordered himself a double whisky. “Dutch courage,” he said in a low voice.
When his drink was in front of him, he looked around the crowded pub. “There’s no sign of him yet then?”
“Not yet,” Dylan said.
“He’ll soon turn up.”
“Meanwhile, let’s go into the other room. It’ll be quieter. We’ll be able to hear ourselves think.” Impossible to do that with Johnny and the Weavers killing one of Slade’s old hits.
“We don’t want to miss him.”
“We won’t.”
The smaller bar was quieter but still fairly crowded. Here, people were watching a talent show on a big-screen TV.
The Jolly Sailor might be the town’s biggest dump but it was doing a good trade tonight.
“There’s still time for a rethink,” Dylan said when they’d settled themselves in a corner.
“There’s nothing to think about.”
“I think there’s plenty. For one thing, the police would have taken far more interest in Taylor if they’d had anything to go on. He must have convinced them of his innocence.”
Brindle snorted at that. “That shows how much you know about our police force.”
Dylan knew a whole lot more than Brindle but he kept silent.
“If they don’t have evidence,” Brindle said, “or if the evidence hasn’t been obtained or kept in the correct manner, they can’t bring a conviction.”
Dylan was aware of that. “There must be other suspects though,” he said. “That farmer, for a start. You didn’t approve of Farrah’s relationship with Walter Topham. I’ve met him and I have to agree that he’s an oddball. His daughter died—”
“I know. I know all that, and it did cross my mind. He was more interested in the dog than Farrah though.”
Dylan was clutching at straws. Topham was an oddball, and his dead daughter was a ringer for Farrah Brindle, but there was nothing to suggest he’d ever known Caroline Aldridge, or that he might bear a grudge against young teenage girls. Except, of course, that they were alive, whereas his girl wasn’t. A shrink would have a field day that that theory but Dylan couldn’t get too excited about it. Topham spent his days on a farm where animals lived and died, where one was constantly reminded of life and death and all nature’s circles. Topham was too grounded in reality.
Maybe.
Brindle kept patting the inside pocket of the large woollen overcoat he wore.
“You need to give me the gun,” Dylan said in a whisper.
“What?”
“You’re going to approach Taylor and ask him if he’ll sell you some cheap cigarettes. Even if he is semicomatose, he might be suspicious. He’ll check you out and be far from happy to find that you’re carrying a weapon.”
Brindle patted his pocket again.
“As soon as we know he’s harmless and we have the upper hand, you can have it back,” Dylan said. “You can be the one who threatens him.”
Brindle thought about it for a moment. “Okay.”
“Go to the toilets and hang up your coat. I’ll go as soon as I see you coming back. I’ll bring your coat back for you, okay?”
Brindle was getting nervous now. He wasn’t thinking straight. However, he nodded, put down his drink and walked slowly, anxiously, i
n the direction of the toilets.
Dylan spent the few seconds he was out of sight wondering what he’d got himself into. This was madness.
Brindle walked quickly back to the bar. Without saying a word, Dylan went to the toilets and found his coat. Inside the deep inner pocket was a Kel-Tec P-11. It was small and lightweight enough to stay hidden in his jacket, but would do the job.
He sauntered back to the bar. “You forgot this, mate.”
Brindle took his overcoat and shrugged it on. “Yeah. Thanks.” Beads of sweat had broken out on Brindle’s forehead and across his top lip. “There’s a chap over there who keeps watching us,” he said.
Dylan had already spotted him. He was sitting at a table with an untouched pint in front of him. Short hair, leather jacket, jeans, black boots. “There’s not much else to do in here if you’re on your own. Ignore him.”
The pub was getting busier. Young people called in on their way to one of the clubs. It was noisy and crowded, but there was no sign of Taylor. It would be typical of the bloke not to turn up. It was his usual drinking hole though, and it would be unlike him not to be out and about on a Saturday night. There was still plenty of time.
Dylan tried to make conversation with Brindle but the chap was too nervous. Dylan guessed he was one of those who would rather spend an hour catching a moth to put it safely outside than kill the creature.
Brindle nudged his arm, managing to spill some of Dylan’s beer. “He’s here. He’s here.”
Dylan didn’t turn round to look. He could see Taylor reflected in the smeared glass behind the bar. He strutted with confidence, smiling at those he knew, scowling at those he didn’t. He stood close to Dylan’s seat to order his drink and, with that in his hand, walked across to a group of people he knew at the darts board.
“Excuse me.” Brindle rushed off.
For one awful moment, Dylan thought he was going to confront Taylor, but instead he dived into the toilets. When he returned, he was dabbing at his mouth with a handkerchief.
“Sorry,” he said. “I just—I was sick. Nerves.” He gave an anxious smile.
“Why don’t you go home? This isn’t going to prove anything, you must know that. All it will do is land you in trouble.”
Brindle shook his head. “I have to find out what he’s done.”
“And if it’s nothing?”
“Then—I don’t know.”
Taylor wandered over to the bar and ordered a second pint.
“Let him enjoy this one,” Dylan suggested, “and then we’ll move in. Okay?”
Brindle nodded and looked as if he was about to be sick again.
“So—” Dylan was determined to make conversation. “How’s your wife coping?”
“Badly. She doesn’t blame me but—”
“Blame you? Why should she?”
Brindle thought for a moment. “Husband, father—it’s a given that you take care of people, isn’t it? That’s your main task in life, to keep them safe, happy and healthy.”
Dylan supposed it was. It was a task he wasn’t doing very well right now. He was two hundred and fifty miles from home while his wife was worrying herself sick and taking care of his kids. There was the financial side of things though. To keep a family safe, happy and healthy cost money, and someone had to earn it.
He wasn’t heading off on a guilt trip though. He’d leave that for Brindle.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t have a wife or kids but you can’t keep them safe all the time, can you? Accidents happen—shit happens. There’s no way anyone could blame you. Is there?”
“I suppose not.”
“You hadn’t argued with Farrah, had you? You hadn’t done anything that might result in her—”
“No. No, of course not.”
“Then it can’t be your fault.” Dylan scratched at his beard. The sooner he could shave it off, the better. It had gone to the shaggy, filthy stage now. He loathed it. “What about her siblings? Are they doing okay?”
“They both live in London,” he said. “Her sister, Sandra, is worried. She’s at university, doing a PhD in economics. She calls us every couple of days to ask if we’ve heard anything. She comes home once a month. As for Matthew—he keeps his feelings hidden, always has. He doesn’t talk about Farrah often, but I’m sure he thinks of her all the time.”
“What does he do?”
“Matthew? He’s teaching French and geography to inner-city teenagers who couldn’t give a damn.” Brindle managed a weak smile. “A bit like me, I suppose.”
A bit like Bev too, although the kids who attended her English and drama lessons came from more prosperous backgrounds.
“Christmas was awful,” Brindle said.
“Oh?”
“The children came home and—well, I suppose it’s understandable. They wanted to enjoy Christmas, but Clare and me—well, we couldn’t. Obviously. Matthew and Sandra must have felt unimportant, as if we didn’t care about them, as if only Farrah mattered. It was—difficult. Also, Sandra had split up with her boyfriend, so she was alternating between anger and distress. I think we were all glad when the holiday was over.”
His voice dropped to a whisper. “Taylor’s coming over to order another drink. This is it.”
Dylan looked across the room to where the chap with the untouched pint was still watching them closely. Dylan nodded at him. There was no response.
“Okay,” he said to Brindle. “When Taylor’s settled back at the darts board, don’t take your eyes off his drink. I’ll collide with him on my way to the slot machine. While I’m busy apologising, you tamper with his drink. Right?”
Brindle licked his dry lips. “Right.”
“We’ll give him a couple of minutes.”
“Yes.”
Brindle’s hands were shaking so much that he struggled to pick up his drink. He’d never make a criminal—
Front and back doors to the pub burst open and eight uniformed police officers stormed inside. “No one leaves.”
“A fucking raid,” the barmaid snapped. “That’s all we need.”
“What will we do?” Brindle looked close to tears. “The gun.”
“You keep quiet. We’ve never met, okay? You have drugs in your pocket because you’re depressed. We’ve never met.”
“But that’s not fair. I can’t allow—”
“Shut up!”
Only seven arrests were made. As Dylan and Brindle joined the other five in the van bound for the local nick, Dylan thought that was good going for a place like the Jolly Sailor. Taylor had passed his search easily enough and would be happily enjoying his fourth pint of the night by now...
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Leah could hear his footsteps coming ever closer. Slow, thoughtful, cunning footsteps. Then they stopped. She held her breath. All she could hear was the blood pounding in her ears.
She mustn’t make a sound. He’d give up eventually, he had to, and then she could make a run for it.
She had no idea where she was, only that this derelict old building was home to rats that scurried in annoyance at having their peace disturbed.
She could outrun him. She must cling to that fact. She could outrun most people. There was no need for this terror that gripped her.
“Anna? Come on, sweetheart. Don’t be silly now.”
She had no idea why she’d chosen the name Anna. She’d thought it sounded grown-up and sophisticated but now she hated it. Stupid, stupid name.
“Anna, where are you?” He was close. Too close.
She’d escaped from him and raced along a hallway where doors led to empty rooms. Then she’d found this cupboard and thanked God that it had two old bolts that, with a little force, had creaked into place. There was no light. No air. Behind her,
she was aware of the occasional scratching sound. Rats probably. She’d rather face a rat than him.
“Anna, darling, I’m sorry I lost my temper with you. And I’m sorry this place isn’t what you were expecting.” He gave a hollow laugh. “It’s not where I was expecting to spend the night either, but I told you, something cropped up.” His footsteps moved right past her door and then stopped again. She could hear his breath coming in small jerky gasps. “Don’t let this silly quarrel spoil things. I’m sorry. Truly, I am. I know you’re not like the others. I don’t know what made me say such a ridiculous thing.”
Leah felt a single tear slide down her face and onto her neck. She was too frightened to make even the slightest movement.
All she wanted was to go home. At the moment, even her mother’s nagging and her father’s refusal to admit she existed seemed appealing. At least it was familiar. Her bed with its childish cover would be waiting for her with freshly laundered sheets. Why had she given it up? For what?
To be hiding from a maniac in a cupboard where rats had made their home?
I want to go home. I want to go home.
“Anna, sweetheart, I have champagne. A present for you, too. Don’t you want to see?”
I want to go home.
He’d promised her a weekend in the best hotel in London, but midway through the journey, when they were still an hour from the City, he’d taken a phone call that had put him in a bad mood.
“A change of plan, sweetheart,” he said. “There’s something I have to deal with so London will have to wait a while. I know a place though. We’ll spend the night there and go on to London tomorrow.”
He drove on for about half an hour and brought her to this creepy old building that looked as if it hadn’t seen a human for half a century.
“We can’t stay here.” She was appalled that he could even suggest such a thing. “It spooks me. I won’t stay here.”
“Where will you go?” A cold note of steel crept into his voice. “You have no money, no friends—you have nothing.”
“I’d rather sleep on the street than spend a night here.”
“Oh, you would, would you?”
Deadly Shadows (A Dylan Scott Mystery) Page 19
