Deadly Shadows (A Dylan Scott Mystery)

by Shirley Wells

  Despite the nasty tone, she stood her ground. “Yes, I would. Sorry, but you’re on your own.”

  She strode away from him, not having a clue where she was or where she was going, but he caught up with her, lifted his hand and delivered a stinging blow to her face.

  “I’ve spent many a night here, and if it’s good enough for me, it’s good enough for you, Miss High and Fucking Mighty. Christ, you’re all the same. You flash your tits in the hope that some sucker will pay for it. Well, dream on, darling. I’ve had better than you. A lot better.”

  “I’m sorry, but I’m not—”

  His second blow split her lip. She attempted to mop up the blood but he grabbed her by the hair and dragged her toward the building. “You’re spending the night with me, you little whore, and you’re spending it here. Now, shut the fuck up.”

  “I won’t stay here.”

  He laughed at that before shoving her against the cold stone wall and taking a large key from his pocket. When the old door swung open, he pushed her inside and locked the door behind him.

  He tore at her blouse and laughed again. “Cheap little whores like you are ten a penny and don’t you ever forget that.”

  He’d gone crazy then. Anger had spewed out of him in a relentless torrent. Punches had rained down on her until, finally, she’d managed to raise her knee—hard. While he’d been bent double and retching, she’d made a run for it and ended up in this filthy old cupboard...

  “I know every inch of this place,” he said, “so I will find you. You may as well come out now and we’ll pretend nothing happened, okay? I know you’re not a whore, I know that. I’ve told you that you’re special. You know you are. You’re the one for me. I knew it the moment I saw you. Come on, sweetheart. Don’t let one silly little quarrel spoil our evening. We’ll spend the night here and leave for London early in the morning. I promise.”

  His footsteps receded and Leah let out her breath. She heard him opening and closing doors.

  “I know you’re up here.” He kicked something—a door or a wall.

  Something had come up, he’d said. That must mean he had to deal with the mysterious something. Meet someone perhaps? All she had to do was keep quiet until he left and then run like hell.

  She wanted to cry. Her lip was bleeding and every inch of her face was hurting from his punches. Her ear was bleeding and her right eye was swollen and closing.

  She had to keep calm. At least, she had to stay as in control as she was now—which wasn’t great.

  All was quiet. Perhaps he’d gone. She hadn’t heard his car, but she probably wouldn’t. This was an old building and perhaps the walls were thick. She didn’t know. It was too dark to see her watch, but she’d give it about five minutes and then creep out.

  She began counting off the seconds—

  A noise stopped her. Something heavy and made of metal was being dragged along the hallway. It was coming closer and then stopped right outside her door. The handle turned but the bolts held.

  “I’m going to count to ten, Anna. If you don’t open the door, I’m going to smash it down. If I have to do that, you’re going to wish you hadn’t been born...”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Dylan sat in interview room 3 opposite Detective Inspector Keith Rhodes and found himself wondering again if Rhodes was on the take. The only coppers Dylan knew who could afford to dress so well were dodgy. He pushed the thought away. Maybe Rhodes spent his entire salary on Armani’s finest.

  “Where’s Brindle?” he asked.

  “Along the corridor, being interviewed. So far, he hasn’t said anything. If he keeps that up, we’ll release him in an hour or so. Mind you, he looks terrified enough to spill the beans and tell all. If he does that—” Rhodes left the sentence unfinished.

  If he confessed, the daft sod would be facing all sorts of charges.

  It had worked out well, really. Before setting off for the Jolly Sailor, Dylan had phoned Rhodes to arrange a raid that would see them both arrested before Brindle had time to do anything stupid. A plainclothes officer would be present, just in case. Dylan had spotted the officer immediately. Even Brindle had remarked on the man sitting watching them with an untouched pint in front of him.

  The best part was that, as Dylan was under arrest for possession of a firearm, he could vanish for a couple of days. He fancied going home.

  “So what have you got for me?” he asked.

  “Not a great deal, I’m afraid.” Rhodes slid a short list of names across the desk. “The only link from the past between Child and Riley is St. Lawrence’s, and kids who wound up there are difficult to trace. Troubled kids from troubled backgrounds—most of them left there with nothing and haven’t been heard of since.”

  “Child kept in touch with Riley all these years,” Dylan pointed out, “so maybe he’s still pally with some others.”

  “Maybe.” Rhodes was doubtful. “It’s such a long time ago. It’s more than thirty years since Child left St. Lawrence’s.”

  Dylan was well aware of that.

  “Also,” Rhodes added, “records weren’t kept like they are these days. Nothing was on computer. The place closed down fourteen years ago, and all records were moved to a new place set up by the local council. Except they’ve been lost. There was a fire at the offices and it’s assumed that all files went up in smoke. No one knows for sure though.”

  Dylan read the short list of people who’d attended St. Lawrence’s and known Child, but nothing leaped out at him. He hadn’t expected it to. Contact details were available for two of those people—two who were currently locked up, one for armed burglary and one for manslaughter.

  “This is it? There’s nothing else? Nothing at all?”

  “We have the address of the woman who was in charge of the place at the time. She’s in a nursing home now, suffering from dementia.”

  Dylan rolled his eyes. A lot of use she’d be.

  “She isn’t too bad, I gather,” Rhodes said, handing over another piece of paper. “She has good days and bad days, but in between the bad days they say she’s lucid.”

  “Right.”

  It wasn’t much, but it was a start. Dylan would bet that Child had been one of those kids you’d remember. If these people remembered Child, they might remember others he’d been involved with.

  He typed the details into his phone, his own phone, and then changed the sim card to Davey Young’s.

  “There is one slight snag,” he said.

  Rhodes’s eyebrows beetled together. “What’s that?”

  “Child’s in London.”

  “What? Why in hell’s name didn’t you say so?”

  “It didn’t seem important.” It was a lie, but so what?

  “Not important? You’re heading to London to ask about him and you don’t think it’s important?”

  “It’ll be fine. He’s driving back on Monday morning. I gather he and Doll are taking in a show and visiting Christian Fraser’s mother to offer their condolences.”

  Rhodes snorted at that. “That’s big of him.”

  “A heart of gold, that’s Child. Anyway, I’ll watch my back.”

  “You need to,” Rhodes said with a hint of a smile. “I’m sure life gets a bit tricky when your tongue’s been hacked out.”

  “And on that note—”

  “Watch what you’re doing, Dylan.”

  “I will. You’ll make sure Davey Young gets a good piece in the local rag so that everyone knows he’s banged up in a cell?”

  “We will.”

  “You’ll go easy on Brindle?”

  “Of course. Mind you, the stupid bastard needs a bloody good wake-up call.” He gathered up his paperwork and stood to indicate the meeting was over. “The car you’ve stolen is parked out the back—next
to the bins. The key’s in the ignition.”

  “Thanks.” Dylan got to his feet and opened the door. “Be seeing you.”

  “You’ll be able to spread the word as you drive,” Rhodes called after him.

  Dylan didn’t have a clue what he meant and he didn’t stop to ask. The sooner he reached London the better.

  As he strode out of the building, he thought how civilised it was to have a set of wheels at his disposal. He’d never been a fan of public transport and never used it unless absolutely necessary. He liked the freedom a car gave him.

  He stepped outside, pulled his woollen hat low on his head and looked for the bins. They were lined up in a row. Next to them sat a—

  No, it couldn’t be. Davey Young might not be the brightest bloke on the planet, but if he were nicking a car, he’d choose one that looked as if it stood a slim chance of moving.

  It couldn’t be. Yet there was nothing else in sight. The—Dylan did a quick calculation—twenty-three-year-old rust bucket was the only vehicle there. Fingers crossed, he walked over to it and opened the door. The key was in the ignition.

  Dylan sat inside the heap of junk. It smelled of stale booze and vomit. God knows where they’d found this little gem.

  And then he saw it. In the rear window, a large sticker read Jesus Saves.

  “Sod it.”

  He tried the ignition and was surprised when it coughed into life. If it got him to London, he’d start to believe in miracles.

  Chapter Thirty

  Bev came to with a start. She wasn’t sure what had woken her but it wasn’t the dawn chorus. It was only two-twenty, and even the birds needed their sleep.

  She lay still and listened. All was quiet. Eerily quiet.

  She got out of bed, grabbed her dressing gown from the hook on the back of the door and padded across the landing to Freya’s room. Her daughter was lying on her back, arms thrown out, fast asleep. It must be wonderful to be so relaxed. Bev envied her.

  She walked across to Luke’s room and pushed open the door. She wouldn’t have been surprised to find him sitting up listening to music through headphones, but he too was fast asleep. Unlike his sister, he was frowning and his hands were curled into fists.

  Bev returned to her bedroom and was about to take off her dressing gown when another noise, a soft footfall, had her heart leaping in fright. There was someone in the house.

  She looked round the bedroom and picked up the only weapon she could see—a bedside lamp. Careful not to make a sound, she tiptoed to the top of the stairs.

  She heard a faint click that sounded like a window in the kitchen being closed. Another footstep.

  “Who’s there?” She was surprised at how strong her voice sounded and how it didn’t so much as hint at the terror coursing through her veins. “I’m armed!”

  “That’s just the way I like my women, sweetheart.”

  “Dylan?”

  When she saw him at the bottom of the stairs, she almost threw herself headlong down them. There was no need though. He took them two at a time.

  “What calibre lamp do you have there, ma’am?” He took it from her, put it on the floor and wrapped his arms around her.

  “What are you doing here? Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? And what the hell is that smell?”

  “Ah, sorry. That smell is me. I’ll run a bath.” His hand tight around hers, he led her to the bathroom. “Care to join me?”

  “No. I wouldn’t let a dog share your bathwater right now. And that beard is revolting.” But she was smiling. It was so good to see him, even sporting the shaggiest, filthiest-looking beard she’d ever seen. “Why are you creeping about?”

  “I had to get in through the kitchen window—you should keep it locked, Bev. I’ve told you about that before.”

  “But—”

  “David Young doesn’t have a key to this place, remember? All he has is a stolen car that stinks of—well, you’d rather not know.” He turned the bath tap on full. “So,” he said. “How are you doing?”

  She was doing crap. Complete crap. If she went a full ten minutes without bursting into tears, it was a minor miracle. No matter how many times she told herself there was nothing seriously wrong with her, the panic refused to give her a moment’s peace.

  “I’m okay. I’ll be glad to get Monday out of the way and see what the scan picks up, but I’m okay.”

  He sat on the rim of the bath and squeezed her hands. “You’ll be fine. I’ll try to be there—or here. No promises, but I’ll do my best.”

  Tears stung the back of her eyes. “Thanks.”

  The panic eased slightly. She felt the weight of it leave her. There was no point discussing it. Besides, until she’d had the scan, there was nothing to discuss.

  “So what would you have done if I’d locked the kitchen window?” she asked. “And why couldn’t you call me? I could have let you in.”

  “I wanted it to be a surprise.” He grinned a little sheepishly. “A nice surprise. I didn’t mean to scare you. Sorry.”

  He pulled off his clothes and dropped them on the floor. From the neck down, he looked like her Dylan. From the neck up, however, he looked awful. His hair was overlong and untidy, his beard was disgusting and he looked tired. She preferred to look at him from the neck down. He looked good. Very good.

  “Luxury.” He lay back in the bath and then submerged himself for a full minute. Water cascaded from his head as he emerged. “You cannot believe how good that feels.”

  She picked up his clothes and held them at arms’ length. “I’ll put these in the washer.”

  “No point. I’ll have to leave early. I can only stay a few hours.”

  “They’ll be done by then.” She left the room before he could argue. No way was she having those stinking the house out.

  When she returned to the bathroom, the bath was empty and he was in the shower. The bath might be filthy but at least she’d be sharing her bed with a clean body. She couldn’t wait.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  If Dylan had nothing better to do with his days than wait for the grim reaper, he’d choose to do it here.

  The Tall Pines was home to the elderly, the infirm and dementia sufferers—those who could afford it, at least—and it was easy to imagine dukes and duchesses of a bygone age attending grand balls or playing croquet on the lawns.

  The massive stone building was approached by way of a long curving driveway flanked with—surprise, surprise—tall pine trees. Well-manicured lawns stretched out on either side. To Dylan’s left was a lake where a swan glided majestically. To his right was a circular rose garden dotted with wooden benches.

  His battered, stinking car looked out of place among the upmarket vehicles. Dylan had toyed with the idea of donning a suit and driving his Morgan, but like it or not, he had to play the part of David Young, just in case.

  Thanks to Bev, his clothes no longer smelled as bad as the inside of the car.

  Her surprise at the sight of him had been nothing compared the shock he’d experienced on seeing her. She couldn’t have lost weight in the ten days he’d been away, but she looked thinner, almost gaunt. Dark circles beneath her eyes told him how much sleep she’d had—or not had.

  She was a worrier though, always had been. Like a dog with a bone, she’d focus on one particular problem and be unable to think of anything else. She’d worry away until the problem was solved. For a while she’d be fine, but then something else would crop up. As she was worrying enough for both of them, and as worrying had never solved anything, Dylan was determined to push all thoughts of her approaching scan from his mind. She was young, fit and healthy—and getting everything out of proportion, as usual.

  He parked the car as far away as possible from the imposing building and headed for the main en
trance. He looked an unkempt mess, but at least he didn’t smell.

  The spacious reception area reeked of money. Large modern paintings adorned the walls. In the centre was a circular counter. The young woman sitting behind it gave him a toothpaste-ad smile as he approached. She didn’t so much as blink at his appearance. “Can I help you, sir?”

  “Yes, I phoned earlier to see Belle Watson.”

  “Ah yes, of course. Mr. Young, is it?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Just a moment.” She picked up a phone, pressed a button and waited a second. “Karen, would you come to the front desk, please? A Mr. Young is here to see Belle. Could you show him to the conservatory, please?”

  She replaced the phone and repeated the toothpaste-ad smile. “Someone will be with you in a moment. Karen will take you to Belle.”

  “Thank you. How is she today?”

  “I haven’t seen her, but she’s usually cheerful when she knows she has a visitor.” She lowered her voice. “She doesn’t have too many, I’m afraid.”

  “No family?”

  “No. She never married, you see. Her sister visits three or four times a year—she lives in Scotland so it’s quite a trek for her—and a neighbour comes when she’s up to it. She’s elderly herself though, so it’s very difficult.”

  Sadly, there were no advantages to age, or none that Dylan could think of. He’d hate to be left to rot in this place, as luxurious as it was.

  A young woman with another toothpaste-ad smile walked into the reception area. “Mr. Young? I’m Karen. Please, come with me.”

  Like her doppelgänger behind the desk, Karen didn’t look twice at him. Perhaps scruffs like him were regular visitors. Nah, he couldn’t believe that.

  He followed her along thickly carpeted hallways where yet more modern works of art hung from the walls in black frames. The paintwork was a spotless pale blue.

  Karen pushed open double doors and a welcome warmth seeped out. “Belle, you have a visitor.” She spoke in a loud cajoling voice, much as one would to an errant teenager who belonged to someone else and was therefore untouchable. “That’s nice, isn’t it?”