Dylan shrugged. “It’s probably easier to say who didn’t know. It was common knowledge. Everyone was told to go into town—everyone except Doll. She said she was visiting a friend in town. I can’t imagine that she’d come back and kill him.”
“We’ve already checked her alibi,” Rhodes said. “She’s in the clear.”
“It seems to me that we’re looking for someone from the refuge,” Miller put in.
“Not necessarily.” Dylan wasn’t about to offer up Kennedy’s name. Kennedy was his. “I strongly suspect it goes back a long time. While in London, I spoke to Ricky Winters.”
“Who?” Miller was impatient. He probably saw this case as a good chance for promotion.
“He worked for McCoy when I was undercover. We spent quite a bit of time together.”
“And?” Miller asked, scowling.
“He’s come into some money.” Dylan didn’t feel the need to rush his story. Try as he might, he couldn’t warm to Miller. He could take or leave his boss too. “Apparently, McCoy put out an order for Barney Fraser to be—disposed of. The man chosen for the job—”
“Child?” Rhodes asked.
“The very same. However, there was trouble in the camp at the time. McCoy had his doubts about Child so he had him watched. Ricky Winters was told to watch him. I don’t know why he was chosen. Maybe because, although he wasn’t very bright, he was loyal. Or maybe it was because he was a keen amateur photographer. I don’t know. He spent some time watching Child and taking pictures of his movements. So on the night in question, he had photographic proof for McCoy that Child had indeed taken Barney Fraser to a disused warehouse and killed him.”
“Bingo!”
“He kept copies on file,” Dylan explained. “Now, with McCoy gone, he thought it was time to cash in. It seems as if one Christian Fraser—”
“What?” Rhodes almost choked on his cold coffee.
“Yes. It appears the Fraser boys had been receiving death threats. Death threats sent by Joe Child probably. Anyway, they were paying Child a tidy sum to find out who was threatening them. Christian, however, didn’t trust Child. Hadn’t for some time. So he started asking questions. He even ended up at Tall Pines, the nursing home where Belle Watson is ending her days. I don’t imagine she told him anything useful, but he was trying to find people who’d worked alongside Child and he saw Ricky’s picture in an old newspaper clip. In the photo, he was shown with Belle. So he trotted off to see Ricky, and Ricky was only too pleased to make some money from those old photos. He’s been living it up and is planning to move to the south of France. Now, though, with Christian dead—murdered—he’s gone into panic mode. He thinks Christian confronted Child, told him where the pictures came from and ended up dead.”
Detective Sergeant Miller let out a soft whistle.
“You need to find holes in Child’s story for the night Christian Fraser was murdered,” Dylan said. “We know he went to Tempo that night because it was the night I met him, and we know what time he left. Between arriving and leaving, however, I bet he crept out and dealt with Fraser.”
“We need to talk to the Fraser brothers,” Rhodes said.
“Then there’s Gordon Riley,” Dylan said. “I’m not sure what the relationship is between him and Child—other than the fact that Riley, for reasons unknown, feels obliged to make generous donations to the refuge. There’s a scam going on there. No one I’ve spoken to believes they’re friends, and I reckon it’s blackmail or some money-laundering scam they’re involved in. There’s something odd about their friendship. I wonder if the business Child was supposed to attend to today had anything to do with him. It’s a long shot but it might be worth having a word with him.”
DS Miller scribbled something in a notebook.
“Anything—or anyone else?” Rhodes asked.
Dylan thought of Kennedy. “Not that I can think of. But Riley’s involved somehow, I’m sure of it.”
“We’ll bring him in for a chat.”
“So what happens now?”
Rhodes drummed his fingers on the table. “When everyone has given statements, they’ll be told to leave.”
“When do you start to rip this place apart?”
“Who says we’re going to rip it apart?” DS Miller asked.
“I do.” Dylan really disliked Miller. “Who killed Child is irrelevant. Bloody annoying, but irrelevant.”
“Annoying?” Miller said.
“Yes. With him gone, we might have lost all hope of finding Caroline and Farrah. What matters is finding out what Child was up to and how and why two young girls—maybe even three young girls, if Anna Woodward is involved—met Child and then vanished off the face of the earth. The explanation has to be here somewhere.”
“Anna Woodward?” Rhodes asked, frowning.
“Yes. She’s upped and left without a goodbye to anyone. Child was adamant she never planned to stay more than a couple of days. All her belongings have gone too. Hank Child is annoyed, or pretending to be annoyed, because she was supposed to meet up with him and didn’t show. She may be living it up back in Leeds, or wherever she comes from. Then again, she may have met the same fate as Caroline and Farrah.”
“Bloody hell,” Rhodes muttered.
“Quite. You need to tear this place apart. There has to be something here. Some clue. There has to be.”
“We’ll be on to it at first light,” Rhodes said.
“Good. Is there anything else, because I have things to do?”
“Like what?” Miller asked.
Like finding Kennedy. “Just things. I’ll let you know if I hear anything.”
“Stay close to people,” Rhodes said. “If our killer is someone from the refuge, someone will know something.”
Dylan didn’t think their killer was close to the refuge. They could think what they liked though. “Will do. Where exactly are people going? You’ve got a few beds to find.”
“We’re working on it. We’ll set up temporary accommodation—probably at the old mission hall on King’s Road. As soon as it’s organised, we’ll let everyone know.”
“Okay.”
Dylan swung out of the room and worked out his best means of escape. Police were at the front and back doors of the building but they’d ignored the dilapidated conservatory. Although it was rarely used, mainly because half the glass roof was missing, it was locked. It took him two minutes tops to pick the lock and creep out.
He headed toward town and to the terraced house where he’d seen Kennedy that morning. Something told him Kennedy would no longer be there.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Bev poured herself a generous glass of red wine. She wished she could drink the whole bottle, then follow it up with another. Right now, she’d give anything to fall into a drunken stupor and forget everything. Five minutes without worrying would be sheer bliss. “I’m going for a long bath.”
Vicky was pouring hot water onto one of her herbal teabags, but she stopped, put down the kettle and came to give Bev a hug. Bev felt the sting of tears.
“I wish there was something I could say, love.” Vicky pulled back to look at her. “We’re all here for you, you know that. Whatever you do, don’t worry alone. Talk to us. We’ll be with you every step of the way.”
Bev didn’t trust herself to speak but she managed a wobbly smile.
Vicky patted her shoulder. “Go and lock yourself in the bathroom for an hour. Light some candles, drink some wine and relax. Shout if you need anything.”
“I’m not an invalid.” Yet, she thought. She smiled to take the sting from her words. “Thanks for being here, Vicky.”
Vicky waved a hand in dismissal. “Where else would I be? I’ll be here as long as you need me and I’ll go as soon as you say. I won’t overstay my welcome, so don’t worry a
bout that.”
“I wasn’t.” This time, Bev’s smile was genuine.
Taking Vicky’s advice, she slid the bolt across and exhaled a long sigh. Alone at last. Alone with her worries.
She turned the tap on full and poured lashings of scented oil into the water. For a moment she watched the swirling water, then she took off her clothes and stood naked in front of the mirror. She looked quite normal. Well, normal for her. Despite having lost a little weight recently, she could still do with losing another few pounds, and her posture wasn’t great thanks to spending too long hunched over a desk while trying to decipher kids’ handwriting. When all this was over, she’d take better care of herself. She’d improve her diet and eat only healthy things instead of filling up on chocolate. Coffee could be cut down and replaced with water. There was no way she’d turn into an exercise freak but it wouldn’t hurt her to fit more walking into her life. Her hair needed a good trim too and she might look better if she had it tinted a shade lighter. If she needed chemotherapy though, a trim would be the last thing on her mind. Her hair would fall out, and she’d be sick, really, really sick.
Some days, she marvelled at the miracles of modern medicine. Other days, she despaired at the crumbling state of the health service. Having said that, she couldn’t fault the treatment she’d received so far. It seemed that, when it tried, the NHS could move quickly.
She turned off the tap, dipped a toe in the water and decided the temperature was perfect. She lit her candles, switched off the light and, with her glass of wine balanced on the edge of bath, climbed in and sank back in the soothing water.
This was usually her idea of bliss. When Dylan was home, she’d abandon the kids to his care and hide in the bathroom for an hour or so with a glass of wine and a good book. Usually, it was relaxing. Tonight, it was anything but that.
Whenever she tried to remind herself that many, many people survived cancer, she always came back to the huge numbers that didn’t. The very word made her angry. People threw huge amounts of money into the research of this hateful disease and yet still people had their lives ruined.
If the worst came to the worst, it would be Freya who’d suffer most. The poor little mite wasn’t yet a year old. She’d done nothing but bring joy to the world. She didn’t deserve to go through her life without a mother.
As much as Bev loved Dylan, she knew he’d be a crap single parent. He was a great dad and would do anything for his kids, but he was too disorganised and laid-back to deal with the more practical matters, like making sure they ate properly, dressed properly and got the most from their education.
She drained her glass of wine and began to feel a little better. She knew she was getting everything out of proportion. The way her thoughts ran on and on, anyone would think she’d been given three days to live. She must stop being so pathetic and get on with life.
When the water had cooled to unbearable levels, she climbed out of the bath and wrapped herself in a huge towel. She felt better. More relaxed.
She pulled on her dressing gown, snuffed out the candles, and was crossing the landing when the phone rang. Seeing it was Dylan, she grabbed it before he hung up.
“Hi. How’s it going?” he asked.
She’d always considered herself an independent type but the sound of his voice brought a lump to her throat. She’d never missed him more than she did right now.
“Okay,” she said. “I’m going in early on Friday morning for a MRI scan and a biopsy.”
“Really? That’s—fast.”
“I know. I’ll have to take back all I’ve said about the state of the NHS.” She was determined to sound bright and chirpy—there was no point being anything else when he was hundreds of miles away—but she could tell that the speed at which things were moving had surprised him. It had probably worried him too, as it had her. “What about you? How’s everything going up there?”
“Child’s dead.”
It took a moment for that to sink in. “How?”
“A bullet through the brain. It couldn’t have happened to a nicer chap but I wish whoever did it had waited a while. Never mind that, how are you really doing?”
“I’m okay. Your mum’s more or less moved in. We’ll see what happens on Friday.”
“Yeah. That’s all we can do. Are the kids okay?”
“Fine. Well, Luke put a football through someone’s shed window on the way home from school today. He knocked at the house but no one answered. He’s going to return to the scene of the crime in the morning and apologise. So we may or may not have a shed window to pay for.”
“It’s only money.”
“True.” That was the one and only benefit of having something real to worry about. Normal stuff like paying bills became insignificant. When all this was over, Bev would never worry again. “How’s Dawson’s Clough?”
“Sodding cold.”
“It’s cold here too.”
“Not this cold. I swear the Clough is the coldest place on the planet.”
They chatted about the mundane—the weather, the kids, TV shows—and skirted round anything unpleasant. Bev would have happily talked the night away but Dylan was walking in the dark, cold countryside. He had a job to do and Bev knew she should let him get on with it. The sooner he found those poor girls, the sooner he’d be home.
“I miss you,” she said.
“Yeah? Blimey, that’s a first.”
She smiled. “No, I always miss you. I miss the clutter, the arguments, the snoring—”
“I don’t snore.”
“Ha.”
“Look, I’d better go.”
She held the phone more tightly and wished she were holding him. “Yes, you go. I’ll give you a ring when I hear anything. Be careful, won’t you?”
“I will. I’ll call when I can.”
The line went dead, and the fear and the loneliness settled around her again. Another glass of wine would have to help her fight it off.
Chapter Forty
As soon as Dylan had exchanged his phone’s sim card for Davey Young’s, he walked smartly on and hung around outside Kennedy’s building. After about half an hour an elderly chap walked up to the front door, carrying a takeaway bag that smelled so good Dylan began to slaver like a dog. Chicken tikka, he’d bet. He’d kill for an Indian takeaway right now.
“That smells good,” he said, and he followed the bloke inside without a problem.
“I hope it tastes as good.”
Dylan followed him up the stairs to the second floor. There were only two doors and the chap with the takeaway headed to one on the left. Kennedy’s flat had to be the door on the right. Hoping he was right, he pressed an insistent finger to the bell.
He was completely taken aback when Kennedy opened the door a few inches. On seeing Dylan, he was about to slam it but Dylan’s reactions were quicker. He wedged his foot in the gap.
“Either I come in or I chat with all your neighbours and see what they know about you.”
Kennedy yanked open the door. “What do you want with me?”
He looked exhausted. Whether he looked as if he’d put a bullet through Child’s head was difficult to tell.
“I want to know what you’ve been doing all day,” Dylan said.
He followed Kennedy into a sitting room where a small TV was showing the early evening news headlines. Furniture was cheap and basic. On the table, however, sat a half-full bottle of Lagavulin. Single malt whisky on a gardener’s wage? Kennedy didn’t even earn a proper wage. He was offered a ten-pound note and half a dozen eggs now and again.
“I’ve been working in the garden at the refuge. I left at around two o’clock because I was tired. As you know, I had a late night.” His voice was heavy with sarcasm.
“How was Joe Child when you left?”
&
nbsp; “I didn’t see him.” He switched off the TV. “Why do you ask?”
“So you didn’t put a bullet through his head?”
Kennedy looked so shocked that he almost dropped off Dylan’s list of suspects. Almost. “Is he—all right?”
“No. Bullets and skulls don’t mix too well.”
“Good Lord.” Kennedy dropped into a scruffy armchair. “Dead?”
“As the proverbial dodo.”
“Well!” Was it shock that gave him a wide-eyed look? Or was it anger? Dylan couldn’t be sure. “Suicide or murder?”
“Murder.”
“Are you sure?”
“Men with bullets in their skulls tend to struggle to hide the gun. Yes, I’m sure.” Dylan nodded at the bottle of whisky. “Are you offering?”
Kennedy thought for a moment. “Yes. Why not?” He was on his feet and he went to the kitchen. When he came back, he was carrying two expensive crystal whisky glasses.
“Thanks,” he said as Kennedy handed him a very acceptable measure.
“What happened to Child then? Who killed him?”
“I was hoping you’d tell me.”
“What?” His eyes narrowed. “Me? What makes you think—? Hang on a minute, you surely didn’t think I’d killed him?”
“It crossed my mind, yes.” It still was crossing his mind. Kennedy had managed to convince everyone he was a deaf and dumb gardener so convincingly, feigning shock at Child’s death would be a walk in the park. “As far as I’m aware, you were the only person, other than Child, at the refuge today. I told you he’d be there alone.”
“Well, yes, but—” Kennedy shook his head. “No, it wasn’t me. He wouldn’t have escaped so lightly if I’d had anything to do with it.”
He looked as if he regretted saying so much. There was definitely anger in his expression. What had Child done to him, other than belittle him by offering him a tenner and some eggs for weeks of hard graft?
“That’s come out of the blue, hasn’t it?” Kennedy said. “Any other ideas who might have killed him?”
Deadly Shadows (A Dylan Scott Mystery) Page 26
