“No.”
They sat in front of an old, spluttering gas fire that was throwing out a welcome amount of heat. If Dylan sat here much longer, he might even take off his jacket.
“I wish I’d stayed on now.” Kennedy took an appreciative sip of whisky. “I was tired and there seemed no point, so I came home. I left about ten minutes after the vicar turned up. What’s his name? Owen. Bill Owen.”
“Bill Owen was there?”
“Yes.”
Their gazes locked. Dylan didn’t trust Owen, but a gun-toting killer? People’s views on Owen differed. To some, he was the well-liked, well-respected vicar who’d settled well in the town. He claimed to have been close to Farrah, but Ivy thought that was stretching the truth. She’d said he helped with the Girl Guides group and the local youth club and liked to think he was close to all the youngsters. Clare Brindle had said Farrah thought him an old fuddy-duddy.
For all Dylan knew though, Owen might not have been near the refuge this afternoon. Kennedy could easily have thrown his name out to muddy the water.
“So what’s happening now?” Kennedy asked.
“The refuge is a crime scene. All residents are being moved out to temporary accommodation.”
“And you?”
“What do you mean?”
“What are you doing? More to the point, who are you?”
“Davey Young. An old friend—”
Kennedy rolled his eyes at that.
“Who are you?” Dylan asked.
Kennedy smiled at that. “Touché.”
“So you saw nothing out of the ordinary today? Child didn’t go anywhere, see anyone apart from Bill Owen?”
“No. Once you all left, everything was quiet. Nothing was moving. That’s why I came home.” He swirled whisky around in his glass. “Child’s dead. That’s a shock.”
“You weren’t his biggest fan though, were you?”
“No. So what’s your theory. On his murder, I mean?”
“I don’t have one. What’s yours?”
“I wish I had one. What do you think he was doing?” Kennedy asked. “Apart from pretending to be Jesus.”
Dylan smiled at the description. “I can’t answer that one either.”
Kennedy rested a thoughtful gaze on him. “Are you a police officer?”
“No.” Damn it. Dylan always reckoned he could spot a plainclothes copper from a hundred yards, but he liked to think he’d never had that look. After all, he’d done pretty well undercover. “What makes you ask that?”
Kennedy shrugged. “You ask a lot of questions. You don’t seem too concerned about your upcoming court case. You don’t seem to mind that your life’s a mess. It’s as if it’s all temporary to you.”
Very observant.
“Then my earlier supposition was right. You’re a private investigator,” Kennedy guessed. “I’ve come across a few of those in my time.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” He didn’t elaborate. “Switch off the fire if you’re too warm.”
“No chance of that. I doubt I’ll ever be too warm again.”
Kennedy smiled. “The weather’s hellish up here, isn’t it? So bleak and so cold. If it isn’t raining, it’s snowing.”
“That about sums it up. Where do you originate from?”
“Oxfordshire.”
“Very nice.”
“Yes.”
Dylan was enjoying the whisky and the warmth, but he didn’t have time for the cosy chat. It was a waste of time anyway. Kennedy could tell him any lies he chose. The bloke was a talented actor.
“Caroline Aldridge and Farrah Brindle,” Dylan said. “What do those names mean to you?”
“Not a lot, I’m afraid. I know they’re around the same age, and very similar in appearance, and I know they both vanished after having come into contact with Child.”
“The police haven’t been able to find evidence of any wrongdoing on Child’s part.”
“How closely have they looked?”
“Pretty closely, I gather.”
Kennedy didn’t look convinced.
“What about Anna Woodward?” Dylan asked. “Did you see her leave? Did you see or hear anything that might give a clue as to where she’s gone?”
“Are you telling me she’s missing too? Like Caroline and Farrah?”
“Not necessarily.” Maybe she’d seen sense and returned to her parents. “What do you think has happened to the girls?”
Kennedy considered this and took a sip of whisky before answering. “I couldn’t say. If there is any wrongdoing, however, I would guess that Child and his assistant are involved.”
“His assistant? Riley, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve seen him turn up at the refuge at odd hours, haven’t you? Sometimes he arrives by car and others by taxi. Is that right?”
“Yes.”
Was it? Or was Kennedy looking for someone to take the fall for Child’s murder? It could all be lies.
“Why would he do that?” Dylan asked, playing along. “Presumably, he didn’t want his exceptionally flash car recognised. I assume he left it where it wouldn’t be too conspicuous and visited the refuge in a battered old taxi that no one would look twice at.”
Kennedy nodded but had nothing to add.
Dylan took his phone from his pocket and searched through his list of numbers for Nick. He hit the button and listened to it ring out for what seemed an age. Just as he expected it to go to voice mail, it was answered.
“David Young. Good to hear from you,” Detective Inspector Rhodes said.
“Yeah, yeah. Have you spoken to the vicar, Bill Owen?”
“Owen? I don’t know. Why do you ask?”
“It’s possible he visited the refuge this afternoon. He could be the last person to have seen Child alive.”
“I’ll get onto it. Someone may have spoken to him. I’ll check it out.”
“What about Riley? Have you brought him in yet?”
“No, we haven’t. We’ve hit a snag there. According to his personal assistant, he’s in New York on business. She believes he left from Heathrow yesterday. However, he wasn’t on the flight she gave us. He wasn’t on any other flight that we’ve managed to find yet either. We’ve checked with neighbours at both his homes, and he hasn’t been seen at either for the last couple of weeks. At the moment, we can’t ascertain his whereabouts.”
“Which means he’s done a sodding runner.”
“We can’t say at the moment.”
“Right. Okay.” Dylan ended the call before he was subjected to more copper-speak.
Kennedy didn’t ask questions, but Dylan could feel his curious gaze resting on him. “Gordon Riley is nowhere to be found at the moment.”
“Interesting.”
“Yes. You wouldn’t have any idea, would you?”
Kennedy looked taken aback by the question. “No.”
“What do you know about him?”
Kennedy rested his fingers beneath his chin to make a steeple. “He works hard. A workaholic, I’d say. He’s an exceptionally clever man, an astute businessman who can spot trends early. He has a home in London and one in the Cotswolds that he rarely uses. He lives alone. A bit of a loner all round. He’s made a fortune from computer games. His social life is almost nonexistent. In fact, I’d say it is nonexistent. Any engagements are always business related. He’s charming when he needs to be. He has no family. His father was never involved in his life and his mother, who spent most of her time in prison on drugs-related charges, died four years ago. His grandmother took care of him for a while during one of his mother’s prison spells, but she found him too difficult and he ended up in a care home. He’s certainly done well for hi
mself, when you think about it. He’s one of those driven individuals. Too busy adding to his fortune to stop and think about loneliness.”
Dylan knew most of that. He was impressed with Kennedy’s summing-up though.
“And you’ve no idea where he could be?”
“None whatsoever,” Kennedy said.
If Riley had anything to do with Child’s murder, he could be close by. Still in Dawson’s Clough perhaps.
“A refill?” Kennedy asked, raising his glass.
“Please.” It would help him think.
While Kennedy filled their glasses, Dylan thought how pleasant it would be to sit and idle the night away with that bottle of Lagavulin. It wouldn’t help though. Besides, he’d rather be at home with his own glass and his own bottle. With his wife and his kids. Bev would be worrying herself silly, hopefully about nothing. Freya would be sleeping or giggling. She was always doing one or the other. She had an infectious giggle and they spent ages making her laugh. Luke—well, Luke would be busy being Luke. He’d be listening to music. And probably thinking up a good reason as to why he’d put a football through a stranger’s shed window. What had Bev said? That he was returning to the scene of the crime in the morning?
Returning to the scene of the crime.
“Thanks.” He took the glass from Kennedy and raised it to his lips.
Returning to the scene of the crime...
“I don’t suppose you have a car handy, do you, Kennedy?” It was a long shot, but he needed to be doing something.
“Why? Where do you want to go?”
“London.” Mair had said St. Lawrence’s should have been bulldozed. The last he’d heard, the building was home to squatters. Squatters or people involved in a scam with Child and Riley? “There’s an old care home. It shut down years ago—”
“St. Lawrence’s?” He spoke as if the building represented his worst nightmare.
“Yes. What do you know about the place?”
“It was closed years ago. It’s practically derelict now.”
Kennedy had done his research. Why? Who the hell was he? “I thought I might take a look,” Dylan said. Although if it was almost derelict, there was probably little point.
Kennedy was a long time answering. “I’ll come with you. I can have a car here in fifteen minutes.”
Dylan needed a car, but he wasn’t sure about Kennedy tagging along. It was all very well keeping your friends close and your enemies closer, but he didn’t know which category Kennedy should go into. He could have killed Child this afternoon. He could be planning on doing the same thing to Dylan. “There’s no need. I expect it’s a wild-goose chase.”
“I expect it is. But I’m coming with you. If you want a car—” He left the sentence unfinished.
Dylan wanted a car and it would be quicker to use Kennedy’s than asking DI Rhodes to provide David Young with another “stolen” vehicle.
Less than fifteen minutes later, Dylan followed Kennedy down the stairs from his second-floor flat. Kennedy had had the good sense to don a heavy woollen overcoat. He also carried a small bag into which he’d put a full bottle of Lagavulin. If he was driving, Dylan might take advantage of that.
They stepped outside and Dylan stopped short. A man emerged from the driver’s door of a large black Daimler.
“Good evening, Sir Angus.”
Dylan looked around him, fully expecting to find that they’d stepped into the middle of a film set. “Sir Angus? You’re kidding me.”
“No. But you can call me Kennedy.”
The driver held open the rear door and they both slipped inside the warm car.
“Sir Angus?” Dylan said again.
“Yes. I assume you’d rather travel in a less conspicuous manner, but as we’ve both been drinking—” He shrugged. “We wouldn’t want to be pulled over on a drink-driving charge, would we?”
Dylan was more than capable of driving. He might be over the legal limit—correction, he was over the legal limit—but he was still capable of driving. All the same, having done the journey last night and having had no sleep since, he shouldn’t complain.
After telling the driver their destination, Kennedy leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.
Dylan should join him, as sleep might help his brain function more efficiently, but his mind was too busy. Questions chased themselves around and he kept coming back to the conundrum that was Kennedy. Who in hell’s name was he? How did he know about St. Lawrence’s? How did his driver know where St. Lawrence’s was without having to ask?
No, he wouldn’t sleep. It was too risky when he could be sharing a car with a cold-blooded killer.
Chapter Forty-One
Kennedy’s car was warm and comfortable, and Dylan must have dozed off. When he woke, the Daimler was overtaking a line of trucks on a dual carriageway, and a sign confirmed that they were only about twenty minutes or so away from St. Lawrence’s.
He stretched his limbs, thankful for the Daimler’s generous legroom, and tried to get his brain in gear. According to the dashboard clock, it was ten past four. Daylight would arrive around seven-thirty.
“Where are we?” Kennedy had managed to sleep for the entire journey.
“About twenty minutes away. Look, I expect it’s a waste of time, our coming here. It was only an idea. Just me clutching at straws.” It was an idea that was sounding more ridiculous with every passing mile. An idea brought on by too much whisky probably. “St. Lawrence’s, as you know, was where Child and Riley met, and where they lived for several years. They were just kids then though. I thought perhaps there might be some clues there, but it’s doubtful.”
“We’re almost there so we may as well take a look.”
“What exactly does St. Lawrence’s mean to you?” Dylan asked. “How come you know so much about it?”
“I know as much as you do. Probably less. I happened to drive past it one day but I’ve never been inside the building. Have you?”
He was lying. No one would “happen” to drive past.
“No, but I heard it had been taken over by squatters and I’d be interested in talking to them. You never know, those squatters might be there at Child’s invitation. They might be working for him. Or Riley.” It sounded unlikely, but when you were fresh out of original ideas, you had to try the ridiculous. “Squatters aren’t usually happy to see strangers though, so I suggest we leave the car at a safe distance and walk the rest of the way.”
Kennedy checked his pockets. “Good idea.”
“I have a better one. Why don’t you stay in the car and wait for me? I doubt I’ll be more than five minutes.”
“I’m coming with you. You’re right, you know. Anything could be going on inside that building. I hadn’t thought of that.”
It was a waste of time arguing with him. How could you argue when you had no idea what motivated a person or even who they were?
One thing was certain, he’d watch his back. Kennedy could be a killer and Dylan wanted to be ready for him.
As they neared St. Lawrence’s, the streets became more run-down. It had started to rain and a stiff breeze blew litter along the road and pavements. Several shops were boarded up. Some houses had boards instead of windows. It wasn’t a pleasant place to live—or to take a walk in the early hours of the morning. They passed a phone kiosk and a bus shelter. Both had been vandalised. Graffiti had been sprayed on a corner shop.
“I suggest I park here, Sir Angus.” The driver looked less than enthralled at the idea of parking the Daimler in such a run-down area.
“Yes. And I suggest you lock the doors when we’ve gone.”
“Will do.”
“Is there a torch we can use?” Dylan asked.
The driver got out of the car, walked round to the rear of the car and retur
ned with a large, heavy torch, which he handed to Kennedy.
“It’s raining quite heavily now,” Dylan said. “Why don’t you—?”
“I’m coming with you.” Kennedy—or whoever he was—opened the door and stepped onto the pavement.
Dylan climbed out and wished he were wearing Kennedy’s coat. It was long and warm, whereas his own leather jacket offered little protection from the rain or wind. Kennedy also wore a cashmere scarf and leather gloves.
They walked quickly along dimly lit pavements. A couple of cars passed them, both driven by young males who liked a heavy foot on the accelerator.
“Here we are,” Kennedy said eventually.
A high brick wall was the only evidence. They walked a few more paces and came to huge iron gates. Kennedy was right. This was St. Lawrence’s. Only a single streetlight shed any light on the building but Dylan recognised it from a picture he’d managed to find on the internet.
The gates were held firm with a rusty old chain and a padlock.
“Interesting.” The chain might be rusty but the padlock was shiny with use. “It’s unlike squatters to have a key.” Perhaps they wanted to keep out visitors.
There was no way they could climb over the gate, and the wall was at least two feet taller than Dylan. No footholds were visible, and a curling line of barbed wire sat on the top, so it would be difficult to scale the wall too.
“Let’s have a look round,” he suggested.
The building occupied a corner plot. To the rear was a disused factory that didn’t look as if it had seen life this century.
An ancient tree overhung the wall toward the rear of the property. If they could climb that, they might—and it was a big might—manage to drop onto the wall and into the grounds. It was their best option. Possibly.
“Let’s have the torch.”
Kennedy handed it over and Dylan shone it over every inch of the wall. The wall was around a hundred years old but the long-dead builders had done a good job.
“Right.” He handed the torch back to Kennedy. “Give me a leg up. If I can reach that branch, and assuming it takes my weight, I might be able to drag myself far enough along to reach the wall.”
Deadly Shadows (A Dylan Scott Mystery) Page 27
