Deadly Shadows (A Dylan Scott Mystery)

by Shirley Wells

  “That depends on whether you deliver. His name’s Joe Child. Remember him? You and him were at St. Lawrence’s together, weren’t you?”

  “What?” Mair’s surprise burst out on a laugh. “Fuck me. That’s years ago, pal.”

  “I know. But you can probably help. I know he was pally with Gordon Riley, but there were a couple of others he was friendly with, wasn’t there? It’s them I’m after. Do you have any idea who they might be?”

  Mair clearly didn’t feel obliged to speak.

  “You did know Joe Child, didn’t you?” Dylan asked.

  “Sure.”

  “Mates with him, were you?”

  Mair sneered. “He only kicked the shit out of me twice, so yeah, I suppose you could say we got along pretty well. Funny I didn’t get a Christmas card from him, when you stop to think about it.” His eyes narrowed to dark slits. “So what’s going on? Why the questions? What’s it to do with me?”

  “It’s nothing to do with you,” Dylan said. “I told you, Joe owes me money from way back but he’s done a runner. I want to know if his friends are hiding him.”

  “He never had friends.”

  “Gordon Riley was a friend, wasn’t he?”

  “The fuck was he. So you’re going after Joe?”

  “Yep.”

  Mair sneered again. “You don’t stand a chance, mate.”

  “We’ll see. Now, are you telling me I’m wrong about Joe and his chum Gordon? They weren’t big chums?”

  “‘’Course they weren’t. Like I said, Joe didn’t have chums.”

  “I thought—well, I know they’re in touch these days.”

  “Yeah?” That clearly took Mair by surprise but he shrugged it off. “Perhaps they are. You’re going back a long, long way. We were kids then. Everyone’s moved on. All the same, there’s no way Joe would be chummy with Gordon.”

  “But I thought—”

  “You thought wrong,” Mair said. “Joe Child was a piece of shit then and I don’t suppose he’s changed. He controlled us kids. We all did as he said, Gordon included, or we had the shit kicked out of us. Simple choice. Gordon got off a bit more lightly because he was useful. He’d do Joe’s schoolwork—he was a clever little sod—and he’d cover for Joe. If there was the slightest hint of trouble, Gordon would provide Joe’s alibi. Gordon hated him but was too scared to stand up to him. And Joe—that mad fucker hated everyone.”

  “Perhaps things have changed. From what I’ve heard, they’re big mates these days.”

  “Then I’ll bet you’ve heard wrong.” Mair shrugged. “I don’t know why you’re even here. I haven’t seen either of ’em since I left that shit hole, St. Lawrence’s. Don’t want to either. They can both fucking rot for all I care.”

  “You said Gordon used to provide Joe’s alibi if there was any trouble.”

  “So?”

  “So what sort of trouble was there? Did something happen?” He knew it had. Belle had told him that much. She’d also believed the man sitting opposite him had been involved.

  Mair was a long time answering. “Yeah. Something happened.”

  “What?”

  “It was all hushed up, but shit, I swear some of ’em thought it was me. As if I’d do something like that.” He bristled with indignation. “As I said, it was hushed up. Everything was hushed up there. Kids were locked in the cellar for days if they were caught running in the building, and that was hushed up. Another punishment was three days without food, and that was hushed up. Fucking shit hole. They should bulldoze the place. Perhaps they have by now. Who knows? The last I heard, it was crawling with squatters. Who the fuck would want to sleep there?”

  “What happened?”

  Again, Mair thought long and hard before answering. “A girl was raped.”

  Dylan waited for more but there was no more. “Which girl?”

  “Us kids knew that Joe and Gordon had done it, but of course they stuck up for each other, swore they were somewhere else. Us boys were questioned for days. We were locked in the cellar, we went without food, we were beaten—and we knew Joe and Gordon had done it. Sick fuckers.”

  “Who thought you might have been responsible?”

  “The old biddy who ran the place, for starters. Miss Fucking Watson.”

  The lovely Belle. Back then, she wouldn’t have been an “old” biddy. She’d have been in her forties or fifties perhaps, which to kids would have seemed ancient.

  “Why?”

  “Why? Because she wanted someone to punish and she picked on me. She wouldn’t pick on Joe, that’s for sure. They were all scared of him, even her.”

  “Even when he was a kid?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How do you know Joe and Gordon were responsible?”

  “It had Joe’s name written all over it. It was brutal. Fuck me, I’ll give a woman a slap now and again if she pisses me off, but what they did—” He spat on the floor. Nice. “It happened in the sports room where tennis, cricket and rounders bats were kept. They raped her and then they used a rounders bat on her.”

  Wincing, Dylan leaned back in his seat.

  “She’d been cut too. She nearly bled to death,” Mair said in a matter-of-fact way. “One of her friends found her the next morning.”

  “Was she all right?”

  “No, she was never all right. They got a doctor to her. That was another thing, no kid there got to see the inside of a hospital. This creepy old doctor used to be called in if there was an emergency. I suppose they didn’t want us going to hospital in case anyone noticed all the bruises we’d got. Anyway, he came out to her. She stayed in a room on her own for a couple of weeks and eventually was fit enough to return to normal. Well, as normal as possible. She never recovered though. She was always a little—crazy.”

  Dylan wasn’t surprised. “Did she say Child and Riley were responsible?”

  “She said fuck all. Not a word. Too scared, I expect.”

  “How old was she?”

  Mair thought for a moment. “It wasn’t long before we left the place. I’d guess that we were about fifteen and she was thirteen. She might have been fourteen, but no older than that.” He drummed snake-covered fingers on the table. “She never said anything and no bugger pressed her too hard. They wanted it forgotten. Like everything else that happened at that place, it had to be swept under the fucking carpet. We all knew it was them, but no fucker was brave enough to say so. What good would it have done anyway? Joe would have kicked the shit out of us and it wouldn’t have helped Molly, would it?”

  “Molly? The girl’s name was Molly?” Oh, Belle, you’re not as crazy as I thought...

  “Yeah. Molly Johnson.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “How the hell would I know? I told you, I left that shit hole and never spoke to anyone from there again. Never saw anyone or spoke to anyone. And that suits me fine.”

  “And you can’t think of anyone who might have been friendly with Child or Riley around then?”

  “Nope. Believe me, if I could help, I would. You’d come off worse because Joe would probably kill you, but I’d like to see someone get the better of that piece of shit.”

  So would Dylan.

  “While I’m here, do the names Caroline Aldridge or Farrah Brindle mean anything to you?” Dylan asked.

  “No. Should they?”

  As Mair had been in this place for the past five years, there was only one answer to that. “No. But thanks anyway. Be seeing you.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Dylan checked his messages—nothing from Bev—swapped his sim card for David Young’s, returned his own to his shoe and caught a bus across London to the gym where Ricky Winters had once spent a lot of time.

  The gym had been given
a facelift since Dylan had last seen it, probably because it had featured on TV a couple of times. The owner, James Terry, was an ex-boxer who’d been given an OBE for his work in helping to keep youngsters off the streets. Dylan supposed it was better for them to knock hell out of each other than to sell drugs on street corners or knock hell out of unsuspecting passersby.

  He walked inside and up a steep but narrow staircase to the gym itself, where the smell of curry and stale sweat lingered in the air. Two young men, both clad in protective headgear, danced around a ring, throwing the occasional punch. Away from the ring, a black man’s muscles rippled impressively as he punched a heavy bag.

  Dylan walked over to him. “Hi. I’m trying to find Ricky. Ricky Winters. Does he still hang out here?”

  “Sure.” The man carried on punching the bag. He wasn’t even breathing heavily.

  “Any idea where I might find him?”

  The chap nodded toward the ring, where a man stood outside the ropes, barking orders. “Ask Winston.”

  Dylan crossed the room to the ring. No one paid him any attention and he waited, impressed with what he saw. He wasn’t an expert when it came to boxing but the taller of the two men looked useful. He was quick on his feet and his punches were delivered with lightning speed. Such talent could be an advantage in this particular part of London.

  Eventually, Winston rang a bell and the fighting stopped. He turned to Dylan, looked him up and down and clearly found him wanting. “Are you looking for me?”

  “I’m looking for Ricky. Ricky Winters. He used to hang out here.”

  “He still does.”

  “I’m an old friend,” Dylan said. “I’m back in the City for a couple of days, so I thought I’d look him up. Any idea where I might find him?”

  “I haven’t seen him for a week or more,” Winston said. “The last I heard, he was flashing the cash in the Feathers.” At Dylan’s blank look, he added, “The pub round the corner. Go out of here and turn right, go to the end of the road and then take another right. You can’t miss it. If he’s not there, someone will know where he is.”

  “That’s great. Thanks a lot.”

  “Who shall I say was looking for him, if I see him first?” Suspicion was always uppermost in people’s minds round here.

  “Davey Young. He’ll know who you mean.”

  He hoped Ricky would remember his time spent with Davey Young. Dylan had been taken on as a driver by McCoy, but McCoy hadn’t fully trusted him. As Dylan had been a copper working undercover at the time, he’d been right to have his suspicions. McCoy had trusted Ricky though, and he’d thrown the two of them together so that Ricky could keep an eye on his new recruit.

  Ricky wasn’t the sharpest tool in the box, and although he’d dreamed of riches, he’d never been likely to acquire them. He was a small-time crook who’d been loyal to McCoy and who’d done a couple of stretches in prison for his trouble.

  Dylan pushed open the door to the Feathers and Ricky Winters was the first person he spotted. It was impossible to miss him. Ricky was six foot five and broad shouldered, but it was the way he was standing at the bar surrounded by an admiring crowd that drew the eye. Winston had said he’d been splashing the cash, which might explain his popularity.

  Ricky looked at Dylan, looked away, and then looked back, his eyes narrowing. A smile lit his face as recognition dawned. “Holy shit! Will you look what the bloody cat’s dragged in.” He swept through the crowd to slap Dylan on the back. “Davey! Long time no see. I thought you must be dead.”

  “Alive and kicking, Ricky.”

  “It must be—what? Eight years?”

  “Give or take. How goes it, Ricky?”

  “Very well indeed, my boy. Here, the drinks are on me. What are you having?” Without waiting for a reply, Ricky, who’d obviously been propping up the bar for a few hours, slapped his arm round Dylan’s shoulder and shoved him to the bar. “A treble whisky for my friend.”

  “Seems like you’ve come into some money, Ricky,” Dylan said as the barman poured his whisky.

  “I certainly have.” He tapped the side of his nose and leaned in close to whisper, “I cashed in an insurance policy.”

  “Very nice. I wish I had one of those.”

  Ricky snorted with laughter. “So what are you doing here? And how come I haven’t seen you around for years? The last I heard, you’d been arrested and slammed in jail.”

  “That’s right.” Dylan took the glass of whisky. “Cheers. What about you, Ricky? What have you been up to?”

  “This and that. Nothing big. Just small jobs here and there. To tell the truth, there hasn’t been much about since McCoy died.” He looked Dylan up and down. “You’re looking older. Still, I suppose it catches up with all of us. Are you dying your hair now?”

  “No. Why? Does it look a bit—?”

  “Girly?” Ricky snorted with laughter. “Yeah. It always did though.”

  They caught up on gossip for the next hour or so. Dylan had heard most of it from his newfound chums on the force, but it was better hearing it from street level. More drinks were bought for every customer in the pub and glasses were soon emptied. If Dylan wasn’t careful, Ricky would pass out before dishing up any useful information.

  “It’s lucky you caught me,” Ricky said. “I’m off to France next week.”

  “France? What d’you want to go there for?”

  “My missus—hey, I bet you didn’t know I’d gone and tied the knot, did you?”

  “Married? You?”

  “Yeah. Well, Trudi’s always wanted a bit of sunshine so we’re buying a place in France. Down south.”

  “Wow. How the other half live. This insurance policy you cashed in—can I get one?”

  Ricky laughed. “It’s been maturing for quite a while.”

  “Even so. It must be pretty big if you can afford a place in the sun.”

  “Yeah. Now then, let me get another round in. All this talking is thirsty work.”

  Never mind Ricky passing out, Dylan wouldn’t be far behind him if he didn’t take the treble whiskies more slowly. His head was already swimming.

  “Remember Joey?” he asked when they had fresh drinks in their hands. “Joey Child?”

  “‘’’Course I do.” The smile had slipped a little. Ricky licked his lips. “What made you think of him?”

  “I’ve seen him.”

  “Yeah? I heard he’d turned into some Bible freak up north.”

  “He has. He spends all his time helping the homeless. Him, Doll and his two boys.”

  “I haven’t seen him for years. Recently, are you talking?”

  “I saw him last week,” Dylan said.

  Ricky looked decidedly uneasy. Either that or he was about to throw up the best part of a bottle of whisky.

  “Hey, and there was someone looking for you?”

  “Who?” Ricky was distinctly pale now.

  “Remember Barney Fraser? His boy. Christian.”

  Ricky went perfectly still. He’d been swaying on his feet a little, but he was quite still now. “Here, let’s go into the back room. It’ll be quiet in there. Can’t hear yourself think in here.”

  He paid for another round of drinks for everyone and then nudged Dylan in the direction of the back room. It was small and occupied by two old men enjoying the warmth from a spluttering gas fire.

  “When was this?” Ricky asked in a whisper. “When was the Fraser boy looking for me?”

  “A couple of weeks back. Three or four perhaps.”

  “Ah. Well, he found me, so that’s all right, isn’t it?”

  “You’ve seen him?”

  “Yes. Why? What’s he saying?”

  “He’s not saying anything, Ricky. Dead men don’t make great conversationalists.”


  “Dead?” Ricky put down his glass and leaned back on the leather-covered bench. He looked as if he regretted the drinks. “How did he die?”

  “Beaten to a pulp up north. Do you know Dawson’s Clough?”

  “That’s where Joe Child is.”

  “That’s it.”

  “Fuck.” Ricky’s hands shook and panic flashed across his eyes. “I’m in trouble, Davey. Big fucking trouble.”

  “Why’s that? What’s going on?”

  “Fuck.”

  “Anything I can do to help, mate?” Dylan asked.

  Despite his massive build, Ricky had always scared easily. Now he looked terrified.

  “We’ve got to get out of here.” His drink forgotten, Ricky was already on his feet. “Come on. Follow me.”

  “What the—?”

  “Come on!”

  Dylan needed to check up on Bev, but the sooner he found out what was going on—or, better still, what had happened to Farrah and Caroline—the quicker he could go home for good. How Ricky could have anything that might lead him to the girls, he had no idea, but he was sure everything would lead back to them. Eventually.

  Once out in the cold night air, Ricky stood quite still. “I don’t know where to go or what to do.”

  Dylan didn’t know what the problem was so he couldn’t help. The fresh air would do them both good though.

  “How about we get something to eat?” He was starving and wished now that he’d cleared the plate of biscuits on offer at Tall Pines.

  Ricky nodded. “There’s a place along here. Burgers, kebabs, pizzas—whatever you want.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Half an hour later, when they’d demolished a pizza each, Ricky looked slightly—and it was only slightly—more calm. “Right,” he said, “when was he killed?”

  “Christian Fraser? A week ago last Thursday night. What do you know about it?”

  “I know who did it. Joey. Joey fucking Child.”

  “Nope. He was in a nightclub in Dawson’s Clough.”

  “Bollocks was he. He killed him, all right. I’d stake my life on it.”

  It was possible, Dylan supposed. Child claimed to have been at Tempo all evening. He’d been seen arriving and leaving hours later. He could easily have left the building unnoticed though.