“But why?”
Kennedy exhaled a long breath. “Many years ago, I had a brief fling with a young woman. We were little more than children. I was in my first year at university, the first time I’d lived away from home and—well, it was sex, drugs and rock and roll. I soon sobered up when she told me she was pregnant. That was the last thing I needed. I gave her money for an abortion and put it from my mind. You can do that when you’re young.”
“And?”
“I graduated, began my career, married—” He sighed. “One day, she met me outside court. I didn’t recognise her, and for a few moments even her name didn’t ring any bells. She handed me an envelope and said she thought I might like to see what my daughter looked like. She said she hadn’t been able to go through with the abortion after all.” He groaned. “What could I do? I had a good marriage and a very successful career. I gave her more money. A lot of money. Money to take care of the child, money to keep quiet—money to keep her out of my life. She was more than happy to take the money and run. I was glad about that. I couldn’t have her in my life. We came from—”
“Different sides of the tracks?” Dylan suggested, and Kennedy nodded.
“She had a drug problem. She worked as a prostitute. What could I do?”
“Perhaps the child wasn’t yours.”
Kennedy reached into the inside pocket of his coat and took out a leather wallet. He opened that and took out a photo of a ten-year-old smiling shyly into the camera. The photo looked as if it had been taken in a supermarket booth.
There was no doubting the identity of the girl’s father. She was Angus Holmes in miniature.
“I tried to forget that somewhere out there was a young girl of my own flesh and blood. I worked hard. I concentrated on my career and happily accepted all the accolades that came my way.” He spoke with self-disgust. “Then, when my wife became ill, I retired to spend time with her. I thought we might travel, do all the things we’d never found time for, but sadly she didn’t have long. When she died, I floundered a little. I also found it increasingly difficult to ignore the fact that I had a child. So I hired an investigator to find that child. I discovered that her mother died only a few months after she gave me that photo. An overdose—heroin and alcohol. My daughter ended up in St. Lawrence’s.”
“Oh, God.”
“Quite. What happened from then on was more difficult to ascertain.”
It would be. Everything that happened at St. Lawrence’s was hushed up.
“I recently found out that she was brutally raped while there,” he said. “The culprits, or so people believed, were Joseph Child and Gordon Riley. She never recovered. She’d been permanently damaged, thanks to life with a drug addict, being abandoned to St. Lawrence’s, enduring a brutal rape—and, of course, never knowing a father.”
“Molly Johnson,” Dylan said softly.
“Yes. The daughter I never acknowledged. And never will now because she took her own life. In some small way, however, I do feel as if I’ve brought a little justice to her life. Too little and far too late, of course, but it’s all I can do. As for the rest, I have to live with that.”
“But didn’t she—?” Dylan broke off. Belle had said Molly had a son that she named Zac, but whether that was true or not was difficult to know. Belle often went into a world of her own. There was no point mentioning it to Kennedy. “Any regrets? About Riley?”
“He would have been put away for a few years—although not enough years—at the British taxpayers’ expense. I’ve saved them a great deal of money. On the other hand, there are the missing girls. I expect we can safely assume—”
“That they’re dead.” Given the state Anna—or Leah, to use her real name—had been in, it seemed likely.
Dylan longed to go home to his wife and kids. He wanted to hug them to him and breathe in the knowledge that they were safe.
“Who knows you’re Molly Johnson’s father?” he asked.
There was no hesitation. “You. No one else. No one that I know of anyway. Whether the girl’s mother told people, I don’t know and I can’t ask. It’s over now.” He rubbed his hands together, whether from cold or embarrassment, it was difficult to say. “We’ll drive you home, Dylan.”
He wasn’t going to argue with that. He was so tired that his brain was mush. A hot bath, a stiff drink and bed. Bliss. “Thanks.”
His mind refused to rest though. There were too many loose ends, too many unanswered questions. Nothing felt—finished. He’d failed to find Farrah and Caroline. Kennedy was right. It was unlikely that the girls were alive. But he hadn’t found them and that hurt.
The car stopped for a red light and Dylan noticed a girl waiting to cross the road. In one hand she held an umbrella to ward off the rain, and in the other she carried a magazine. She was so engrossed in her magazine that the light changed to green and she missed the chance to cross.
She was seventeen or eighteen years old and blonde. Just like Farrah and Caroline. Thoughts flew into his mind, raced around and settled. The magazine—
Shit.
“Could you do me a favour and drop me off at Euston Station?”
“Of course.”
Dylan felt in his pockets. “You don’t happen to have some cash I could borrow, do you? Davey Young was never exactly flush.”
Kennedy—Sir Angus—opened a leather wallet, pulled out the paper contents and counted it. “There’s a hundred and twenty. Is that enough?”
“Thanks. I appreciate it. I’ll return it to you as soon as I can.”
“Where are you going?”
“Back to Dawson’s Clough.”
Chapter Forty-Four
It was almost eight o’clock when Dylan tramped down the lane to Topham’s farm. It was a bitterly cold night with a huge moon that provided light but promised more freezing temperatures.
Dylan was cold, exhausted and thoroughly bloody annoyed. He wasn’t a man to be messed with right now.
He reached the farm’s front door and banged his fist against it.
Lights were on so Topham was at home. He hammered on the door again.
A few seconds later, two bolts slid back and the door opened a fraction. It was enough for Dylan to jam his foot in the gap and barge his way inside.
“Where is she?” He grabbed Topham by his grubby sweater and pushed him back against the wall. “Tell me where she is or I won’t be responsible for my actions.”
“I—” Topham looked terrified. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
A collie stood a yard from Dylan. It emitted a low growl. He tried to ignore it. “Yes, you do. Where is Farrah Brindle?”
“I don’t—”
“Seriously, you would not believe the mood I’m in. If you don’t tell me where she is, I’ll break every bone in your sodding body. Now, where is she?”
The dog growled again. It sounded like a warning. You break my master’s bones and I’ll tear the flesh from yours.
“I have no idea where she is. Who are you? What do you want with her?”
“I’m Dylan Scott, a private investigator. And you’re lying.”
“A private—But you—”
“I don’t look like one? So I’ve been told.” Dylan took a breath. On the train from London, he’d managed to convince himself that Farrah was alive. He could afford to take that breath. “I’ve been working undercover at Moorside Refuge, also known as the sodding funny farm, trying to discover the whereabouts of Caroline Aldridge and Farrah Brindle. Okay? Satisfied?” He gave the farmer a good shake. “I’ll ask again. Where is Farrah Brindle?”
“What makes you think—?”
“The first time I called here, you needed a few seconds before you’d allow me through the door,” Dylan said. “The second time, you’d been shopping. Remem
ber? Call me a bluff old cynic, but you don’t strike me as the sort of bloke to eat yoghurt or read glossy magazines.”
Topham flushed with colour but he stood his ground. “I have no idea where she is.”
“Anna Woodward went missing from the refuge,” Dylan said. “So did Caroline Aldridge. But Farrah didn’t, did she? Farrah had been living at home for a month.” His voice rose with every syllable. “There was always something different about Farrah’s disappearance. Now, tell me where she is or I promise I’ll start by breaking your fingers.”
He wouldn’t. The bloody dog was beginning to unnerve him.
“I had nothing to do with it.” Topham sounded indignant.
“In that case, you won’t mind me taking a look around, will you?” He pushed Topham back against the wall and strode off to the stairs.
Another collie stood at the top of the stairs. The damn thing growled at Dylan. Dylan growled back. He very much doubted that Topham’s dogs had been trained to attack, but right now he was so annoyed that it was a risk he was willing to take.
“It’s okay, Penny,” a voice said.
A pair of jean-clad legs came into view at the top of the staircase. Dylan looked up to see a blond-haired teenager wearing a thick sweater.
“Farrah,” he said, and the shock of seeing her alive and in this place robbed him of further speech.
“Who are you?” She had no need to look so frightened. The dog looked more than happy to protect her.
As he explained who he was, he moved out of the way so that she could walk down the stairs. She did. The dog, with those bright intelligent eyes that didn’t leave Dylan, walked in front of her.
She went to Topham and touched his arm. “It’s okay, Walt.”
Walt?
“How did you know I was here?” She faced Dylan defiantly, her arms folded in front of her.
“I didn’t. Three girls vanished, two from the refuge and you. One girl, Anna, we found today—last night. She’s in hospital.”
“And Caroline?”
“Did you know her?” He was confused.
“No, but I can probably guess what happened to her.” She walked into the kitchen—goose-free tonight—and they both followed. She filled an old black kettle and put it on the range to heat. It was as if she needed something to do with her hands. “There’s a man, Gordon Riley—”
“You knew Riley?”
“Oh, yes.” She sounded bitter. “He kept chatting me up. To tell the truth, I was flattered. He showered me in gifts that I refused to accept. He said he wanted us to go away together—for a night or a weekend. Of course, I couldn’t go because of Penny.” She fondled the dog’s ears. “He said he understood and that we’d go out for a posh meal at some fancy restaurant instead.”
The kettle began to hiss and she took three mugs from a cupboard, threw a teabag in each and poured boiling water over them.
“I thought it would be a nice evening,” she said. “Except he kept driving. We’d been in the car for hours and the more angry I got with him, the more he yelled at me. I couldn’t get out of the car because the doors were locked. He hit me. Anyway, he took me to this awful, awful place and he went—well, I can’t describe it. Insane, I suppose. When I asked him what he planned to do with me, he said, ‘Eventually, when I’ve had some fun, I’m going to kill you, you stuck-up little whore. In the end, you’ll be begging me to kill you, just like that fucking Aldridge bitch was.’” She began to shiver. “I managed to run and get out of a window. There was a high wall all round this spooky old house, but he’d parked his car inside the grounds. He’d made sure it was hidden from view. I managed to jump onto the roof of his car and onto the wall. I buggered my ankle as I dropped down the other side and he was there. He’d got there fast because he was able to unlock the gate and get out that way. But I could outrun him, even with my dodgy ankle. He chased after me and, God, he was so angry. He was out of his mind. Literally. He was yelling at me as we ran. He said he’d kill me when he caught me. He’d kill me, kill my dog, kill my parents—”
“Bastard,” Topham muttered, and Dylan assumed that was because Riley had threatened a dog’s life.
“I was too terrified to think straight,” Farrah said. “I had no money, nothing. I slept rough for a couple of months. I daren’t let anyone know where I was because I knew he’d kill Penny. I just knew it.” Again, she stroked the dog’s ears. “I was permanently hungry and cold. I met a couple of nice people who stole burgers for me and took me under their wing, but I missed my home and my dog.”
“Why didn’t you call the police, for God’s sake?” Dylan asked.
“Because it would have been his word against mine. When I left the refuge and went home, I didn’t expect to see him again and I forgot all about him. But I ran into him at one of these dickie bow-tie functions. Oh, I wasn’t there as a guest. I used to earn a few quid washing up, if they had a function on. He was on the top table with the mayor of all people. No one would have believed that the rich, successful businessman, the pal of the mayor, was totally freakin’ insane, would they? In any case, he’d threatened to kill Penny. He’d have done it too.” She suddenly stopped and looked at Dylan, panic in her eyes. “You believe me, don’t you?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Thank you.” She nodded, satisfied. “I had no idea what he’d do, but I thought my best bet was to stay hidden. No one knew about us so no one was likely to ask him about me. I hoped he’d think I’d been run down by a bus or something and forget about me. So that’s what I did, stayed hidden. It was unbearable though. And then I thought about Walt. I hitched lifts back here, knowing Walt would give me a bed and keep me safe. More important, I knew he wouldn’t put Penny’s life in danger by making me go to the police.”
“I did try,” Topham said, shrugging his shoulders in a helpless gesture. “I said the police would sort it. She had her doubts though and—well, what do I know? I know about sheep and dogs, and that’s all. If she’d gone to the police and anything had happened to the dog—” He left the sentence unfinished, then blurted out, “I said she could call her parents too, just to let them know she was safe, but she wouldn’t do that either.”
“I couldn’t, Walt. You know as well as I do that they would have gone to the police, the news would have been on the TV or radio and he would have come after me.”
Dylan had got it all wrong. On seeing that girl waiting to cross the road in London, her head bent over a magazine, looking so much like Farrah, he’d suddenly realised that the items in Topham’s carrier bags that day had been for someone else. He’d guessed that someone else was Farrah. He’d thought Topham was holding her prisoner. He’d assumed that Topham, with the police looking for Caroline, had been happy to let them believe that Farrah and Caroline had met the same fate. He’d seen a cantankerous old man, one who kept photos of his dead daughter, one who appeared able to communicate only with dogs, and he’d thought the worst. That Topham was doing what he thought was the best way to protect Farrah hadn’t crossed his mind.
“It’s safe enough to talk to the police now,” he said, “because Gordon Riley is dead.”
“Dead? Are you sure?”
At the light of hope in her eyes, he knew a moment’s gratitude for Kennedy’s rash action. “Yes. He’s currently lying in a morgue in London.”
“Oh, my God. He’s dead, Walt.” Forgetting Dylan, she hugged Topham. “It’s over. It’s finally over. He’s dead.” She grabbed the tall, leggy dog and scooped it into her arms. “We can go home, Penny!”
Then the girl who’d kept herself safe from the maniac that was Gordon Riley by sleeping on the dangerous streets of London began to cry like a baby.
Chapter Forty-Five
Dr. Kinchin swept into the room, peering around the biggest bouquet of flowers Leah had ever seen.
“Happy
birthday, favourite patient,” he said as he handed them over.
She was so touched that she didn’t know what to say. “Thank you. How did you know?”
“Easy. We have your date of birth on our records. Oh, and your parents happened to mention it.”
“Thank you. They’re beautiful.”
“Just like you.”
“You’re a terrible flirt.” She laughed and thought again how lucky she was to have such a lovely doctor.
“So how are you feeling this bright morning?”
“Good.” She was surprised to realise she meant it. She’d spent the past fifteen days in this hospital bed and had felt fitter, stronger and less bruised—physically and mentally—as every hour passed. “How do you think I’m doing?”
“As much as I hate to say this, I think you’ll be ready to go home in a couple of days.”
“Really?”
“Yep.” He sat on the edge of her bed. “How does that sound? Do you think you’ll be ready?”
What he meant was, did she feel able to face the real world. She thought perhaps she did. It was going to be hard to leave this safe, secure room, but it had to be done.
“Julie will want to see you for a while,” he said, “but that’s okay, isn’t it?”
She sagged with relief. Julie, a no-nonsense therapist, Yorkshire born and proud of it, had been her rock. Leah would miss her when the time came to say goodbye.
“It’s better than okay,” she said. “I like her.”
“She likes you too.” He held her hand between both of his. He had such strong, capable hands. “I’ll be along to see you later and a nurse will bring you a vase for the flowers. Meanwhile, don’t do anything I wouldn’t. Okay?”
“Okay. And thanks again for the flowers. They’re gorgeous.”
When he’d gone, she put her flowers on the cabinet and took stock. She decided she was in reasonably good shape. She’d needed stitches to her mouth, so she’d probably always have the scar as a reminder, along with those from the cigarette burns. Dental work to replace her missing teeth was ongoing. One of her cracked ribs had been problematic, as had her broken jaw, but otherwise she was in fairly good shape.
Deadly Shadows (A Dylan Scott Mystery) Page 29
