“It doesn’t look strong enough.”
“I know.” Dylan managed to grab the branch. The snap as he put his weight on it was deafening, and if it hadn’t been for Kennedy breaking his fall, he would have hit the pavement hard.
“Sod it.” Dylan took the torch again, crossed the road and searched the run-down properties for anything that might help.
Ten minutes later, he found an old wooden pallet that had been abandoned at the side of a closed-down newsagent’s. He dragged it along the road and propped it as firmly as he could against the wall of St. Lawrence’s so that he had a ladder of sorts, albeit a wet, rotting one.
It was enough. He was soon clinging to the top of the wall, with the barbed wire scratching at his chest. It was tempting to jump down the other side and leave Kennedy behind, but the bloke was sure to follow him, so he turned and put out an arm to give Kennedy a helping hand.
“It’s a long way down,” Kennedy said, stating the obvious.
“And a prickly landing.” Beneath them were some sort of low spiky shrubs that Dylan didn’t recognise.
Dylan lowered himself and let go. He landed in a heap, but with no bones broken. “Throw me the torch.”
Kennedy took it from his pocket and dropped it. Dylan poked it with his toe out of harm’s way and prepared to give Kennedy a helping hand. “Go for it. I’ll break your fall.”
Kennedy managed to land lightly and a lot more elegantly than Dylan.
“Right, let’s go.” Dylan was soaked to the skin and cold.
When they reached the Victorian four-storey building, Dylan was surprised by its size. It was massive. He’d known that over sixty kids had once lived here, but he was still taken aback. Half a dozen steps led to the main entrance. Dylan didn’t even try the door. He wanted a look round first.
It was still early and squatters would probably be asleep.
A large window at the back of the building had been smashed, and only a thin piece of hardboard kept the elements at bay. That could prove their best way in.
A heavy metal crowbar lay nearby, probably the one that had been used to smash the window, and Dylan grabbed it. Squatters were usually too stoned to care about anything, but he wasn’t sure that these were regular squatters. They could be working for Child. Hell, they could be doing a million things. He still wasn’t sure what plans Kennedy had for him either. He’d definitely feel better going inside with a weapon to hand.
“Softly, softly,” he whispered, and he saw Kennedy nod in agreement.
He tried the back door but wasn’t surprised to find it locked. They walked around to the front of the house and tried the main door. Again, it was locked. As he’d thought, their best option was the broken window.
Someone had done a good job. All glass had been removed, and once the board was taken out, it was easy enough to climb inside. Dylan replaced the board so that the wind blowing into the building wouldn’t alert any occupants.
There was no sign of life in this small room. Spiders—and probably rats—had made it their own. A door led to a large empty kitchen. No water ran from the taps. No food or crockery sat in the cupboards. This room hadn’t been touched for years.
They crept from unused room to unused room and were about to mount a wide curling staircase when they heard footsteps.
Without saying a word, Dylan switched off the torch and elbowed Kennedy into the darkness at the side of the staircase. He gripped his crowbar tight.
The footsteps had been moving quickly, but they stopped. Dylan held his breath.
There was a light creak of a floorboard. Whoever was moving around was aware of their presence.
A beam of light suddenly swept down the staircase.
Dylan switched on his own torch and aimed the light at the high ceiling. It had the desired result. Heavy footsteps took the stairs two at a time.
The figure appeared and Dylan shone his torch straight at him. His light fell on a torch—and a gun.
Shit.
There were times when quick thinking was called for. In Dylan’s experience, those times coincided with moments when your brain struggled to recall your own name.
“We’re unarmed,” he said.
Gordon Riley laughed at that. It was the manic sound of a man totally unhinged. “Good.”
“Put your gun away.”
“Now why would I want to do that?”
There was no good reason that Dylan could think of.
He was soaked and freezing, a torch was half blinding him and a gun was aimed at his face. This wasn’t going to rank as one of his better days.
He was aware of Kennedy, rigid with tension, standing beside him. Kennedy had forgotten to breathe.
“Joe’s dead,” Dylan said, “but I assume you know that.”
“Yes.”
“I assume you killed him.”
“Right again.”
“Why?”
Riley put the torch on the floor and moved a couple of steps closer. “Why not?”
He was standing no more than six feet from them. A gun would inflict serious damage from that range.
Somehow, and Dylan had no idea how, he had to disarm him. Riley had lost the plot though. The slightest movement and—
No, Dylan had to talk their way out of this.
Kennedy wasn’t saying a word, thank God.
“Why not indeed,” Dylan said. “He killed Christian Fraser, I believe. I suppose you know that. He certainly killed Fraser senior. Apparently, the Fraser boys had been receiving death threats. In Child’s office, I found a newspaper from which a word had been cut. No prizes for guessing who was sending those threats, then. No prizes for guessing who they were paying for protection either. I think he’d been getting money out of the Fraser boys for quite a while. I would also imagine, given your wealth, that he got quite a bit of money out of you.”
Dylan was being deliberately wordy, playing for enough time to come up with a plan, but there was no reaction from Riley.
Dylan tried another angle.
“I thought Joe was for real. All the charity work, all the God stuff, I fell for it. I suppose we put him on a pedestal. He seemed such a good man. He was certainly good to me—giving me a roof when I needed one. I suppose he conned us all.”
“He never conned me.” Riley was insulted by the idea. “I’ve always known what he’s like. Even as a kid—if he had five pounds and I had one, he wouldn’t rest until he’d got his hands on my pound. All brawn and no brain.”
“Yes, I’ve come to realise that. You used to be friends though, didn’t you?”
“Never.”
“So—what was it? Blackmail? We’ve all got secrets—”
“What are you doing here?” Riley cut him off. “How did you find this place? How did you know I’d be here?”
“We didn’t.” Dylan tried to keep his tone conversational. Riley had relaxed his grip on the gun and it now hung loosely by his side, which was slightly more encouraging. “The police are looking for you. I’m sure you’re safe here though. It’s the ideal hiding place. You could do anything here, couldn’t you? Drugs—”
Riley shook his head, amused by the notion. “I have no interest in drugs.”
“Ah well, even so, it’s a great hiding place.”
“If it were, you wouldn’t be here. How did you find me?” he asked again.
“I was talking to an old friend of yours,” Dylan said. “Remember Raymond Mair? He used to live here too.”
“I remember him.”
“He thought this place might have been bulldozed. He said that the last he heard, it had been taken over by squatters. I wondered if those squatters knew anything about the one-time residents like Joe.”
“Squatters? There are no squatters here. Never have b
een.” He looked up at the ceiling for a too-brief moment.
“Why now? Why, after all these years, did you kill Joe?”
A crazed smile curved Riley’s lips. “He’d become too expensive.”
“He was blackmailing you?”
“Why else would I give him money? It started when we were children. Something happened, and he used it against me. I was too young to—too young to deal with it then. I paid. All these years, I’ve paid up.”
“For so long? So what’s new? Why kill him now?”
“He grew greedy. He learned something new, you see. He thought he’d be set up for life.”
“And that something new was?”
Riley laughed that crazy sound again. Dylan had studied psychology and could offer up a reliable diagnosis. Fucking insane.
“I suspected blackmail,” Dylan said. As well as a lot of other things. “I knew something happened when you were kids. This is where it all started, isn’t it?”
“Oh, yes.” The gun had been pointing at the floor but Riley raised it and aimed it straight at Dylan’s chest. “Joe believed it was all my fault. It wasn’t, it was hers. There was a girl—a silly young whore who gave me the come-on. A lot of girls did. She said she wanted to be my friend, but even then I knew she just wanted sex. So I gave it to her. Joe said he’d cover for me. Oh, yes, he covered for me all right, and I’ve been paying for that privilege ever since. What right did he have? What business was it of his what I did?” His voice was rising toward hysteria. “I was sick of him hanging around my neck. I’d had enough of his bullying tactics and I’d had enough of paying him to keep quiet. But then something else happened, something he thought would keep him in luxury until the end of his days. I’m no longer a child. I can fight my own battles now. So I killed him. Just as I’m going to kill you.”
“What was the whore’s name?” It was the first thing Kennedy had said and it took Dylan completely by surprise. So did Kennedy’s voice. The steely anger was as unnerving as Riley’s gun.
“Who cares what her name was?” Riley laughed. “She was a whore, a stupid little whore who meant nothing to anyone.”
Dylan knew her name. “It was Molly Johnson.”
“Something like that, yes.” Riley looked surprised. And impressed. “Who cares what her name was?”
The answer to that was deafening. Dylan flinched as he waited to feel the bullet tear through his flesh.
Instead, it was Riley who fell to the floor. His expression was as shocked as Dylan’s.
Another shot rang out. And another.
“What the fuck—?” Dylan grabbed Kennedy’s arm and wrestled the gun from him. “What the fuck have you done?”
Chapter Forty-Two
Leah had known it was dark outside because no chink of light was visible under the door. She’d thought she was safe from him until she heard his footsteps. She’d known it was him. She’d recognise those footsteps anywhere. Besides, who else could it be?
She’d hoped and prayed with every fibre of her being that he’d leave her alone. Or kill her. She didn’t much care which.
It was a forlorn hope, of course. The key had turned in the lock and the door had swung slowly open. He’d been carrying a huge lantern torch that lit up his face and made his sneer more sinister. He also held a camera attached to a sturdy tripod.
“You stink.” His tone was filled with disgust. “What sort of stupid whore can’t even keep herself clean? Proud of it, are you? Proud of your own disgusting mess?”
She couldn’t have answered him if she tried. Her throat was dry. Her lips were swollen from the last punch he’d delivered. Her flesh was covered in cigarette burns. All she could do was curl into a tiny ball and hug the pain to her.
He set up the camera, all the time muttering about the stench. When he was finally happy that it was set up to his satisfaction, he stood behind it and lit a cigarette. The first drag made him cough—it usually did. Leah wished it would choke him.
“So what have you been doing, Anna? Apart from shitting and pissing yourself?”
She’d started to sob. Despair overwhelmed her. She wished he’d kill her right now. He wouldn’t, she knew that. He’d stub his cigarette out on her, cut her and punch her, rape her, light another cigarette—
Please God, let it end.
“Dirty stinking whore!” He walked close to her, the cigarette dangling from his fingers.
He took another long inhalation then brought the cigarette down to her breast. She heard him sigh as he stubbed it out on her poor flesh. She didn’t even cry out. She wasn’t really there—it was as if she were on the ceiling, looking down at this animal. She was so used to the pain that nothing hurt anymore.
He grabbed her legs and pulled so that she was lying straight on the bed rather than curled up in a ball. Pain from her wrist as the handcuff bit into her flesh had her close to passing out. She closed her eyes tight and prayed she might die. Right now.
“You’re a—” He suddenly froze. “What was that?”
He tiptoed to the door and listened for a full minute.
All Leah could hear was the blood pounding in her ears. A silent scream was buried deep inside her.
He walked back to pick up the torch, then quietly opened the door and stepped outside.
She curled up into the foetal position, covered her head with her free arm and closed her eyes tight.
Muffled voices drifted up to her. Surely there weren’t more like him?
The loud bang, followed by another and another, had her sitting up straight and clinging to the bed. He’d shot someone. The crazy bastard had shot someone. He would come back to shoot her.
It was then that the last shred of sanity left her. The scream buried so deep inside her had to be let out. She started screaming and she couldn’t stop.
He came into the room but she couldn’t look at him. Nor could she stop screaming.
He sounded different. “It’s me...Davey. You’re safe...I won’t touch you...you’re safe, Anna...ambulance on its way...”
She screamed until the darkness claimed her.
Chapter Forty-Three
The floor swam up to meet Dylan as he walked out of the police station, and he grabbed at the rail by the steps to steady himself. It was tempting to curl up on the steps, as wet as they were, and sleep for a week.
He was free to leave though. He’d soon be able to sink into a hot bath before falling into his own bed.
In the building he’d just left, having been questioned for hours, detectives were scurrying around looking for Gordon Riley’s killer. They wouldn’t find him because—
They wouldn’t find him because he was sitting in a car that was parked a mere ten yards from Dylan.
Dylan wandered over to it and the rear window slid down smoothly.
“I wondered if you’d like a lift,” Kennedy said.
Dylan had learned a lot during the past twelve hours. Kennedy was none other than Sir Angus Holmes, recently retired and widely regarded as one of the best judges the U.K. had ever seen.
He could call himself Kennedy or Sir bloody Angus, but Dylan was still pissed off with him. He tried not to be. He tried to remind himself that if he came face-to-face with his daughter’s killer, he’d blow his sodding brains out too. It didn’t help. With Riley dead, the chances of finding Caroline and Farrah were slim.
“Thanks.” Dylan opened the door and climbed inside. There was no point being churlish. Riley was dead and nothing would change that. Besides, it was good to be out of the rain. “You talked your way out of it okay then? I suppose you did. Who would doubt the word of Sir Angus Holmes?”
“The same person who’d doubt the word of ex-Detective Sergeant Dylan Scott perhaps?”
“No one takes the word of a disgraced copper.�
��
“Hmm.” Kennedy ran a slender finger along his bottom lip. “I’ve spent the last hour reading up on your case. Why haven’t you appealed?”
The answer to that was easy enough. “I don’t have years of my life to waste on something so pointless. It was all politics, designed to make the force look good in the eyes of a public losing faith. Nothing would come of an appeal.”
“How cynical. I’m a great believer in this country’s justice system.”
Dylan raised an eyebrow at that. “You didn’t leave Gordon Riley to the country’s wonderful justice system.”
Their stories had been simple enough. They’d travelled to St. Lawrence’s on a hunch, which was true enough, and had heard three shots ring out. They’d found Riley lying next to a gun, had heard someone running away from the scene but hadn’t been able to give chase because Anna had started screaming.
Neither had mentioned that Dylan had taken the precaution of wiping that gun clean of any prints or that he’d made sure Kennedy dumped the gloves he’d been wearing.
“I owe you for that,” Kennedy said. “Thank you. I was more than prepared to spend the rest of my life behind bars. However, I can’t say the idea was particularly appealing.”
“Why the interest in St. Lawrence’s and Gordon Riley?” Dylan asked.
Kennedy tapped his driver on the shoulder. “Drive around for a while, will you?”
The engine purred into life and pulled into a slow-moving stream of traffic.
“My wife was ill—cancer,” Kennedy said, and an icy shudder travelled down Dylan’s spine. Cancer. It was all he heard at the moment.
“So I took early retirement,” Kennedy said, “and devoted my time to my wife and our garden. My wife died six months ago and—” he paused to choose his words with care, “—I had plenty of time to fill.”
“And you decided to fill it at the refuge?”
“I decided to find out all I could about ex-residents of St. Lawrence’s,” Kennedy corrected him. “I had good sources, as you might guess, but St. Lawrence’s children were difficult to find until I came across Joe Child, who in turn led me to Gordon Riley.”
Deadly Shadows (A Dylan Scott Mystery) Page 28
