She touched Dylan’s arm and added in a quieter voice, “I’ll see that you aren’t disturbed.”
“Thank you.”
The huge Victorian conservatory was home to a few tall potted ferns, some expensive but tasteful furniture and a grey-haired elderly lady who was hunched over a newspaper with a pen in her hand. If she was lucid enough to attempt the crossword, perhaps all wasn’t lost after all.
She carefully folded the newspaper and laid it flat on the table, where an empty teacup and saucer sat, then turned her sharp gaze on him. “Who did they say you were?”
“I’m David Young.” He put out his hand but it was ignored. “I’d like to ask you about your time at St. Lawrence’s, if I may.”
“Are you Molly’s boy?”
“I’m afraid not. No, I used to know a couple of people from St. Lawrence’s—Joe Child and Gordon Riley—and I’m trying to find some friends of theirs. I wondered if you remembered them—and if you remembered the names of people they were particularly friendly with.”
“You look like Molly’s boy.”
“Do I?” He rustled up a smile but this was going to be hard work. “Sorry, I don’t know any Molly.”
“She was a one, wasn’t she? I remember her getting married, you know. I knew it would end in tears, but there, she wouldn’t be told.” She frowned at him. “Are you sure you’re not her boy?”
“Quite sure.”
“What was his name?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know. I don’t know Molly.” It was time to chalk this particular chat up as a waste of time.
“She looked fat, didn’t she? On her wedding day, I mean?”
Dylan stifled a groan. One minute she thought he was Molly’s son and the next she thought he’d been at the mysterious Molly’s wedding. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“St. Lawrence’s is closed now,” she said, taking him by surprise.
“Yes, so I believe.”
“It merged with St. Thomas’s.”
So she knew that much. “That’s right. Do you remember your time there?”
“Of course.” She peered at him over the top of her glasses. “I may be old, Mr.—I may be old, but I’m not stupid.”
“Sorry. And it’s David.”
“David.” She thought for a moment. “Molly didn’t call her boy David, did she? No, I’m sure it was something else. It was one of those silly fancy names, wasn’t it?”
“I don’t know.”
Karen came into the conservatory bearing a tray laden with white porcelain teapot, sugar bowl, cups, saucers and biscuits. “How are you two getting along then? Would you like another cup of tea, Belle? I’ll leave it here and you can make up your own mind. You can be mother.” Smiling, and not giving either of them chance to respond, she silently left the room.
No wonder Belle was a little crazy. Dylan would be too, if he had to live in a place where the staff treated you like an idiot—in a polite way, because of the vast sums of money you paid for the privilege, of course.
“He came from the devil’s own sperm,” Belle said, lifting the teapot.
Dylan wasn’t sure whether or not to risk asking. “Who’s that?”
“Joseph Child.” She poured tea into two cups, added sugar to her own, stirred it and helped herself to a biscuit. “The devil’s offspring, he was.”
“Joe Child? You remember him then?”
“It was Zac.”
“Sorry?”
“Molly’s boy was Zac. I’m sure of it. What sort of name’s that for a child? Ridiculous. Why can’t people stick to proper names—like Andrew, Peter, James, John? Even David, for that matter.”
“Indeed.” This was going to be a long, slow process and patience wasn’t one of Dylan’s virtues. He wished Belle had never heard of Molly. “Do you remember Joe Child well?”
“The devil’s offspring.”
“Yes. So I believe. Do you remember Gordon Riley?”
“You’ll come to a sticky end, I used to tell Joseph Child. Do you know what he did? Laughed in my face. The devil’s offspring.”
“What about his friends? I know he was pally with Gordon Riley, but were there others?”
“I was good at my job. I quite enjoyed it. It was just—some of the children were hard work.”
Dylan smiled. “I can imagine.”
“She died anyway.”
“Who did?” He guessed the answer before it came from her lips.
“Molly.”
“Did she? I’m sorry to hear that.”
“She committed suicide.” Belle helped herself to another biscuit and chewed thoughtfully. “I don’t approve. God has to decide who lives and who dies, don’t you agree? If we all gave up when the going got a little tough, there would be precious few of us left in the world. What about that boy of hers? She had it tough, I know, but even so—” She broke off as a blackbird landed on the grass outside. “I wonder if they’re feeding the birds. I keep reminding them but they’re hopeless. They forget. They’re too busy deciding what to wear to ensnare some unsuspecting man.”
“Ah.”
“What was I saying?”
“You were trying to remember anyone Joe Child was friendly with,” Dylan said.
“Yes.” She looked at him long and hard. “You need a haircut, young man.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“Are you married?”
“No.”
“I never walked down the aisle either. In my day, a woman had a career or a family. One couldn’t have both. I chose my career.”
“At St. Lawrence’s, yes.”
“What did you say your name was?” she asked again.
“David. David Young.”
“You’ve come from St. Lawrence’s?”
“No. I’m trying to find someone—anyone—who was friendly with Joe Child or Gordon Riley.”
“Ah, yes. The devil’s offspring.”
“Why do you call him that?”
“He was evil. I wonder what happened to him.”
“He’s safe and well, and living in Lancashire,” Dylan told her. “He helps the homeless, runs Bible classes—he’s married with two children.”
She shook her head, smiling. “No. You’re getting confused.”
She was probably right.
“The trouble he was mixed up in—” She broke off. “I always thought Raymond Mair was involved in that.”
Dylan’s ears pricked up. Mair was on the list of names Rhodes had given him. He was meeting him later today. “What trouble was that?”
“Did Molly send you?”
Dylan felt like screaming. “No. I don’t know Molly.” And hadn’t she committed suicide?
“What did she call her boy?”
“Zac.”
“Did she? What sort of name’s that for a boy?”
“A very silly one.”
Dylan stayed for another hour but he was none the wiser. He shouldn’t have expected any more, he supposed. He’d had a decent cup of tea and a couple of biscuits. He’d also been given Raymond Mair’s name, and he knew there had been some sort of trouble. That wasn’t surprising. Trouble followed Joe Child everywhere.
“How did you get on?” the receptionist asked as he was leaving.
“Not too well. She was too busy talking about someone called Molly. Who was that? Do you know?”
“Ah, the mysterious Molly. We know nothing about her, I’m afraid. We’ve asked her sister and her neighbour but they have no idea. If Belle’s right, the poor woman committed suicide and I suppose that preys on her mind. And unfortunately, she has so few visitors—well, I say that, but she’s had more lately.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Her sister c
ame down to London for a week and visited her every day. Her neighbour Alice has been twice this month, and then another gentleman came.” She offered him a regretful smile. “I don’t think he got much sense out of her either.”
“Who was that? It wasn’t Alan Bishop, was it?” He invented the name, threw it out there and received a frown in return.
“No. No, I’m sure that wasn’t it.”
“I’m curious because three of us are trying to find old friends we’ve lost touch with. It was Alan who suggested coming here to see Belle. Was it Geoff perhaps?”
“No.” She ran her finger down signatures in the visitors’ book.
“If it’s Geoff, you won’t read his signature.” He gave her his best smile. “We always say he should have been a doctor because his handwriting’s so bad.”
She returned the smile. “Here it is. Three weeks ago. I don’t think it’s Geoff—” She bent her head over the sprawling ink and turned it slightly so that Dylan could see. “Is that Mather? Chris—Christopher Mather?”
“It’s Christian Fraser. He told me he might call on her. Hmm, I’d better go and have another quick word with her.”
He strode back to the conservatory, wondering what in hell’s name Fraser had been doing here. There had to be a connection between his visit and his subsequent murder. Had to be.
He reached the conservatory to find Belle studying the crossword. She looked up, immediately folded the newspaper and put it on the table.
“I thought you’d gone,” she said.
He sat opposite her. “I’ve just heard that someone else came to visit you, Belle. A chap called Christian Fraser. Do you remember him?”
“Of course.” She gave him a scornful glance. “I may be old, Mr.—I may be old, but I’m not stupid.”
She’d forgotten Dylan’s—Davey’s—name already.
“I know you’re not. Sorry, Belle.”
“He wore a lovely suit and looked really handsome.” She didn’t add “not like you” but it was implied.
“Have you met him before?”
“Of course not. I thought at first he must be Molly’s boy. I don’t think he was though.”
“No, he’s not Molly’s boy. His father, Barney Fraser, died.” There was no flicker of recognition at the name. “Joe Child took Christian and his two brothers under his wing, I gather. They’re close friends.”
Belle shook her head and wagged a finger. “No, he wasn’t friendly with Joseph Child.”
“Really? Did he ask about Joe—Joseph?”
“No. He didn’t mention him.”
Dylan found that hard to believe. The trouble was that although Belle sounded fairly lucid, it was impossible to tell.
“A man saved my life once,” she said. “I was stepping onto a train at Paddington Station and collapsed. It’s strange, you know, but I don’t remember getting to the station. I don’t remember leaving the house, even. I remember nothing until I woke in hospital, three days later. I’d had a heart attack and this man saved my life. I can show you, if you don’t believe me.”
She yanked at the bell pull behind her chair. A small red light flashed above it.
Karen appeared in the conservatory as if she’d been waiting outside. “Is everything all right?”
“I’d like my special box, please. Would you fetch it for me?”
“I’ll have Phillip bring it to you.”
Karen swept out of the room and Dylan tried to bring the conversation back to more important matters. “About Christian Fraser—”
“I don’t know why that girl speaks as if I know who she’s talking about. She said Phillip would bring my box as if I know him. I’ve never met him and I’m not sure about the idea of a stranger rifling through my belongings. But what can you do? I can’t carry it myself. I used to, of course. That box has been everywhere with me.”
“I’m sure Phillip and the rest of staff are trustworthy.”
“You hear of such terrible things. Once you get old, you’re very vulnerable.”
Dylan nodded at the truth of that.
Phillip came into the room carrying a wooden box about two feet square and a foot deep. “Hello, Belle. How are we feeling today?”
“I can’t answer for you, young man, but I’m feeling fine. Put my box on the table, if you would.”
“Of course. There you go.” With a wink for Dylan, he left the room.
Belle looked at Dylan. “What did I want this for?”
“You said a man saved your life. You were going to show me the evidence, I believe.”
“Ah, yes.” The box was unlocked and she pushed back the lid. It was crammed to the top with papers.
A long hour passed during which Belle discussed the merits of every scrap of paper she uncovered, from her medical notes to an invitation to a wedding in 1990.
“Here,” she announced, brandishing a newspaper clipping. “This is the man who saved my life.”
Dylan took it from her, looked at the grainy of photo of a slightly younger Belle and a man. Then he looked again. He recognised that face.
He read the few paragraphs that told how Belle Watson, aged eighty, had suffered a heart attack while boarding a train at Paddington Station. A Richard Winters had been about to board and had immediately started CPR. He’d managed to establish a pulse until a defibrillator and medical staff arrived. The photo showed Belle meeting her saviour a month or so later.
Ricky Winters. Well, well, well.
“That’s quite a story, Belle.” Quite a knight in shining armour too. “Does it have anything to do with Christian Fraser coming to see you?”
She snatched the newspaper clipping from him. “Of course. He’d seen this—it’s on the internet apparently—and he was trying to find Mr. Winters.”
“Why?”
“I’ve no idea, but I expect he found him. He found me so I’m sure he found Mr. Winters.”
“You don’t happen to know where Mr. Winters is living, do you?”
“Of course not. That’s his business.” A bell rang somewhere in the building. “It’s time for lunch, Mr.—Mr. Young.” She smiled her satisfaction at having remembered his name. “Goodbye.”
“Goodbye, Belle. And thank you.”
As Dylan exchanged the comfort of the Tall Pines for the wreck of a car he was driving, despair settled around him. What he had to do was find Caroline Aldridge and Farrah Brindle, and he wasn’t sure that no matter how deeply he delved into Child’s murky life, he was any closer to doing that.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Dylan hated prisons. He’d always thought them far too luxurious for the scum that ended up there, but since his own spell behind bars, he loathed them with a passion. As soon as he stepped inside, feelings of claustrophobia had his heart pounding. They all spewed out the same smell and the same noise levels. The smell he could cope with, just, but the noise jangled on his nerves.
Thanks to the efforts of DI Rhodes, he would shortly be talking to Raymond Mair. Even Dylan had been surprised at how quickly permission had been granted.
Mair had been convicted of a list of crimes as long as the M1 but they were all fairly minor. Most of them included assault but Mair only turned nasty if he had his eye on something worth being stolen. At least, Dylan hoped that was the case. The general opinion was that he felt happier on the inside than out in the real world. As he’d spent more of his adult life in jail than out, it wasn’t surprising that he coped better with the familiar.
Visiting was allowed only between two and three o’clock, which meant that Dylan couldn’t be with Bev while she had her scan. He’d see her afterward though. Perhaps they could share a bottle of wine and celebrate her good news. He hoped so.
After his surprising chat with Belle, he needed to find Ricky Winters to
o. He and Winters had put the world to rights over many a pint and a burger in the past.
He joined several other visitors, mostly women, and was searched far more thoroughly than he’d expected before finally being allowed into the visiting room, where tables and plastic chairs were fixed firmly to the floor. Dylan shuddered and took a couple of deep breaths to slow his heartbeat.
Prisoners strolled into the room and sat opposite their visitors. Dylan waited. And waited.
Finally, a tattoo on legs walked into the room. He stood completely still to stare at Dylan. A prison officer gave him a nudge and he, reluctantly it seemed, came over to the table and threw himself down opposite Dylan.
Mair was tall, thin and covered in tattoos. A spider’s web completely covered his neck, a snake curved around the fingers and wrist of his left hand, and some sort of cross covered a right hand that was missing a finger.
“Who the fuck are you?”
As far as any of them knew, Mair and Child had had no contact since their days at St. Lawrence’s. If they were wrong though, if the two men were involved in something, and if the two were pals, this could get awkward. Belle’s mention of Mair had given Dylan an uneasy feeling. Perhaps he and Child were more friendly than any of them knew.
“David. David Young. I was—”
“What do you want with me? And how the hell did you get a pass? Why wasn’t I told you wanted to see me?”
“It seems there was a bit of a mix-up.” Dylan gave him a shrug that managed to insult the entire staff of HM Prisons. “I put the request in two or three weeks ago and—”
“So what do you want with me?”
“I’m trying to find someone and—”
“Who?”
“I’m trying to tell you.” Christ! “There’s a bloke who owes me some money. Serious money. But he’s done a runner. Leastways, I can’t find him.”
“What? You reckon he’s hiding in my cell?” Mair gave a scoffing laugh.
“No, I reckon he’s being hidden by his mates. I want to find out who those mates are and I’m thinking you can help me.”
“What’s his name? And hey, what’s in it for me?”
Deadly Shadows (A Dylan Scott Mystery) Page 21
