Julie had said the nightmares would leave her. She wasn’t to hide from what had happened but she must accept that she’d been the victim of a vicious man who hadn’t been responsible for his actions. A man who was dead, she reminded herself. A man who could never touch her again.
The nightmares terrified her. They were so real, so vivid. Even the tablets they gave her to help her sleep didn’t keep the dreams at bay.
The door opened and another enormous bouquet of flowers with three balloons leaping from it walked it into the room. Davey Young—she’d forgotten his real name—followed it.
“Happy birthday, you,” he said, smiling. “Seventeen today, eh? I still say you look closer to fifteen or sixteen. And before you thump me, there will come a day when you’ll take that as a compliment.”
“I know. And I’m sorry I lied.” She wished she’d listened to him from the start. She hadn’t though. She’d thought him a boring nag, like her parents. “Are these for me?”
He looked around the room. “Unless you can see anyone else celebrating a birthday today—”
“No.” She inhaled the scent and marvelled at the colours. Julie had told her to dress in bright colours, to go out and take the world by the throat. Maybe—just maybe—she could. “Are you going to eat me out of fruit again?”
“Sorry. You were a bit out of it when I last called so I didn’t think you’d notice. Actually, I’m not a great fruit lover but I was starving.”
“Between you and me, I’m not a great fruit lover either. Give me chocolate any day.”
“Oh, no. Steak and chips beats chocolate every time.”
“Rubbish!”
He dragged a chair over to sit beside the bed. “How are you doing, Anna—sorry, Leah?”
“It’s funny but I always hated the name Leah. Now, it’s like welcoming back an old friend. What’s your name again?”
“Dylan. Dylan Scott.”
“I’ll remember it in future. I still can’t get over the way you look. Didn’t I tell you that you’d be a half-decent-looking bloke if you shaved off the beard and ditched those awful glasses?”
With the glasses and beard gone, and his hair dark, he looked totally different. Still trustworthy though. She’d thought that when she first met him. He’d fussed a bit, but she’d known deep down she could trust him.
“Yeah, well,” he said. “I’m the same person—with or without the glasses. And I don’t scratch so much with that beard gone.”
She laughed. “I never noticed you scratching.”
“I used to sneak off for an hour and have a good scratch in private. So how are you doing?”
“I’m doing good, thanks. I’m leaving here in a couple of days. Going home.”
“That’s great. I’m thrilled for you, Leah. And this time, stay at home, okay? You’re loved, you’re safe and you can do so much with your life. You could make your nan proud.”
“I will.”
She had no problem promising to stay at home, since there was nowhere she felt like going. Julie kept telling her she could make something of her life. She could go back to school, get some qualifications and go to university. She could study, maybe end up like Julie—
“How are you doing?” she asked. “You look kind of sad today.”
“Do I?” He laughed, but she thought it took effort. “Sorry. It must be the dark, greying hair and the lack of glasses to hide behind. Maybe I’ll adopt Davey Young’s look after all.”
“No, don’t do that. Be yourself.”
She should take her own advice. Trying to be someone else—the older, sophisticated woman of the world Anna Woodward—had left her almost dead. She’d never lie about herself again. Some would say that she’d asked for everything she got. She’d flirted with Riley, just for fun, and when he showered her with expensive gifts and offered her a life of luxury, she’d lapped it up. Odd to think how charming he’d been and how, like a switch going on, he’d turned into a vicious maniac.
“Did I thank you for saving my life?” she asked Dylan.
“You did. Several times. No thanks needed. If I hadn’t found you, someone else soon would have.”
He sounded so sure of that. Leah wasn’t. If he hadn’t turned up, she would be dead now.
“They haven’t found his killer yet, have they?”
“Not yet. Someone’s done us a favour so I wouldn’t worry too much about that.”
Before she could comment on that, the door burst open and the room filled up with people. One of the nurses carried a huge cake but Leah lost sight of her when her mother came to hug the breath from her body.
“Happy birthday, darling.”
“Thanks, Mum. Hey, don’t start crying again.”
Her mum bit her lip, shook her head and nodded at the same time, and Leah laughed.
“Happy birthday, sweetheart.” Her dad looked different somehow. Less aloof, less distracted. He also looked a little smug. “We couldn’t bring your present inside—against hospital rules. Health and safety and all that. You might be able to see it from the window though.”
She didn’t care about presents—being safe and surrounded by good people was more than enough—but she knew she must pretend to be excited for her parents’ sake. She was helped out of bed, realised she felt much steadier on her feet this morning, and went to the window.
“Oh, my—” Sitting in the car park, with ribbons and birthday balloons tied to it, sat a brand new Mini. “Oh, my—”
People laughed, people hugged her.
“I haven’t even had a driving lesson yet,” she managed to say.
“They’re booked,” her father said.
“Thank you. I don’t know what to say.” That was an understatement.
She kept smiling, but she knew with a sudden clarity that she wasn’t ready to face the world. She wasn’t sure she ever would be. She’d never trust strangers again. How could she? Where would she want to go in a car? She wouldn’t be able to go back to school, or to university—too many strangers. Driving lessons would mean sitting in the enclosed confines of a tiny car with a stranger.
Panic rose and sweat trickled down her spine. Her hands grew clammy. She kept smiling until she thought her face would crack.
“I’d better go, Leah.” Dylan’s voice seemed to be coming from a long way off. “Give me a call sometime, okay? Don’t be a stranger.”
“I will. And I won’t. Thanks, Dylan.” She hugged him tight, too tight, and then had to watch him walk out the room.
Don’t be a stranger...
She wanted to scream but all she could do was smile inanely as everyone wished her well and told her what a great life she had ahead of her.
Chapter Forty-Six
Dylan lay on his side, pretending to be asleep. He wanted to check the time on his phone, but he suspected that Bev was only feigning sleep too so he didn’t want to move. His arm was numb. He tried to keep his breathing even and he tried to relax in the vain hope that he might drift off to blessed sleep.
“Dylan?” Bev’s voice was a frightened whisper. “Are you awake?”
There was no longer any point pretending. Besides, he needed to move his arm.
“Yes.” He rolled over and put his arm around her. “Can’t you sleep?”
“No.”
“Do you want something? A coffee? A glass of wine?”
“No. I just don’t want to be on my own.”
“You’re not.” He held her tight for a few minutes. “I’ll get us a coffee.”
Before she could argue, he was out of bed and padding barefoot down the stairs and to the kitchen.
While he waited for the kettle to boil, he paced the room. How the hell could he tell Bev to remain calm and positive when he was struggling to breathe at times?
>
If this were happening to anyone else, he’d be able to deal with it. He’d trot out facts and figures to prove that cancer could—and would—be beaten. It wasn’t happening to someone else though. This was his wife. His kids. His life.
He made coffee, threw half of his down the sink and topped up the mug with whisky. He’d be an alcoholic before long but he’d worry about that later...
When he carried their drinks back to the bedroom, Bev was sitting up with the duvet pulled tight around her chin.
“Thanks.” She smiled at him. “I don’t really want a drink, but it’ll be nice to chat for a couple of minutes. What time is it?”
“Twenty past three.” It was the time of day when everything felt hopeless. Come the dawn, things would seem brighter. Daylight would bring hope.
He wished he could think of something to say, but there was nothing. Bev was about to start a gruelling course of chemotherapy and radiation therapy. There was no point talking about that and nothing else mattered a jot.
Her bedside table was stacked high with books about cancer. Sometimes he thought that reading up on the subject might help and other times he longed to burn the damn things. They had such long titles but the only word that leaped out at him was cancer. Everywhere he went, he saw that word.
“I’m hitting the shops with your mum tomorrow,” she said, and amazingly she was smiling as she spoke. “I hope she realises that I’ll probably need a nap after half an hour. I am so damn tired.”
“Rather you than me. I can think of nothing worse.”
“We’ll have fun. Or we would if I wasn’t so tired. What about you?”
“Meeting Frank for lunch and then I thought I’d call at the office and catch up on stuff there.”
“Good idea. It’ll be good to see Frank. Give him my love, won’t you?”
“Of course.”
Ex-DCI Frank Willoughby was making a flying visit to London, and they’d arranged to meet in a pub for lunch before Frank’s train carried him north to Dawson’s Clough. Half of Dylan wished he could get on that train with him.
“We should go out somewhere tomorrow night,” he said. “If you feel up to it. Dinner or the cinema or something.”
“That would be good,” Bev said. “I’ll see if your mum’s willing to stay the night.”
“She’s practically moved in anyway.”
“I know. And thank God she has. We’re going to need her. I don’t know how the treatment’s going to affect me. Some people are fine and some are at death’s door. I’m hoping I fall into the former category, but if not, it’ll be good to have your mum around to help out.”
He didn’t want to talk about the treatment. Couldn’t bear to even think about it.
“With me off work, and you needing to be around for the kids, I’m worried about the money, Dylan. What if we can’t afford—?”
“We can afford whatever it takes.” He was having no arguments on that score. They’d sell the house, sell his mother’s place, rob a sodding bank if necessary. They’d do whatever it took. “Money is the very last thing we’re going to think about. We’ll have to take each day as it comes, Bev.”
“I know. By the way, I forgot to tell you. When you were out this afternoon, I had another of those phone calls.
“What? How many’s that now?”
“Three.”
“Tell me about them. Everything you can remember.”
“That’s just it. There’s nothing to tell.” She sipped her coffee. “When I answer the phone, no one says anything but I get the feeling someone’s there, listening.”
“How? What gives you that feeling? Can you hear breathing? Can you hear background noise? Think, Bev.”
She shrugged a little apologetically. “I haven’t heard anything. No breathing. No noise at all. I’m still convinced someone is on the other end though.”
“In future, I’ll answer it. Okay?”
“What if you’re out? What if it’s important?”
“People will leave a message and you can call them back.”
“Okay,” she said, but he guessed she’d answer the damn thing.
Dylan put his empty mug on the table and wished he hadn’t ruined a decent whisky by adding coffee. He could quite happily empty the bottle.
Bev sipped at her coffee until it was gone.
“We’d better try to get some sleep, love,” he said.
“Yes. Thanks for the coffee. I feel better now.”
They lay in the darkness and Bev was soon asleep. Dylan just wished the daylight would hurry up and arrive.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Angus was calling himself all kinds of a fool. The shock of discovering he had a grandson had robbed him of coherent, logical thought. The years had passed, too many of them, because Zac was twenty-four, and not once had it crossed his mind that he might be a grandfather. Yet Zac was real enough. Angus had spoken to him on the phone, albeit very briefly, and foolishly had suggested meeting here at his club. Looking around him, Angus knew he’d made a huge mistake. The place was far too stuffy. Old men in suits sprawled on leather sofas, newspapers in their hands. The dining room was even more old-fashioned.
He didn’t know if Zac even owned a suit. He did know that the boy had followed his father’s footsteps into the building industry and was a bricklayer. Perhaps he would have preferred to eat at McDonald’s. It would have made far more sense to suggest a pub meal. What the hell had he been thinking?
He knew what he’d been thinking. He had a grandson, and every time that thought flew to his mind, he was hit with a mix of excitement, panic and nausea. He couldn’t believe the lad existed, he couldn’t believe Dylan Scott had found him—
According to Dylan, it had been easy enough to trace Zac.
Angus had learned that Molly had committed suicide. The investigator he’d hired had told him that much. What the investigator hadn’t known was that Molly had married. The marriage ended badly, which, given that Molly was a heroin addict, wasn’t surprising, but she’d had a child. Her husband, Tom, was a decent man by all accounts, a working man, but Molly had been beyond help.
On Molly’s death, Tom and his parents had taken care of that child. Zac. His grandson.
Angus was no longer sure why he’d even suggested they have lunch. Nerves were performing somersaults in his stomach and he knew he wouldn’t be able to eat. A chat in a coffee bar would have been a better idea.
It wasn’t only the choice of venue that had him cursing his own stupidity though. It was a knowledge growing more certain by the second that this was a crazy idea. What could he tell Zac? How could he expect the young man to accept that Angus had thrown money at his grandmother for an abortion? Or that, on discovering she’d had a daughter, had thrown more money at her and hoped to God the problem would go away? Worse perhaps—how could he tell Zac that his grandfather had killed a man in cold blood?
Angus had been taught the difference between right at wrong from a very early age. He’d spent his working life wrapped up in the laws of the land. He shouldn’t even have had that gun, never mind used it.
He’d known though, as soon as Dylan had suggested paying St. Lawrence’s a visit, that they’d discover some kind of evil. He’d known it as sure as he knew that night followed day. He hadn’t intended to kill anyone but he had been prepared to defend himself against that evil. Hearing Riley’s laughter, hearing Riley talk about his daughter as if she were worthless—
The bile rose in Angus’s throat as he acknowledged that he, too, had treated Molly as if she were worthless. He was no better than Riley.
And now, he was planning to meet his grandson in the hope that everything would be all right. Of course it wouldn’t. How could it be? What had Zac done to deserve a grandfather who was a—
The door opene
d and Angus felt the air being sucked from his lungs. He couldn’t breathe.
“Your guest, Sir Angus. Can I get you anything?”
Angus was on his feet. He heard the waiter but he couldn’t take his eyes off the tall young man who smiled a little self-consciously. He was wearing a dark suit with a blue tie.
“Yes. Another whisky for me, please. What would you like, Zac?”
“Can I get a beer here?”
“Of course.”
The waiter went away and Angus, not having a clue what to do, put out his hand, which was duly shaken. “It’s good to meet you, Zac.” The words sounded ridiculous. “That’s an understatement. Sorry. It’s amazing—all these years and I had no idea you existed.”
“Likewise. It was a real shock when that private investigator phoned and asked if he could pass on my contact details.”
According to Dylan, it had been easy enough to trace Tom, Molly’s husband, and from there, Zac. He’d said he’d thought it best to speak to Zac before announcing the boy’s existence to Angus.
“What do I call you?” Zac asked. “Sir—?”
“How about Angus?”
“Okay.” Zac looked around him, and again, Angus knew he’d made a mistake.
“We can eat somewhere else if you like,” he said.
“No way. This is great. Real posh. I bet the food’s good.”
Angus smiled with relief. Perhaps it hadn’t been a mistake meeting here after all. “It’s very good.”
The waiter returned with their drinks and they sat on a long leather sofa, their glasses on the table in front of them.
“Mum said it would be—” Zac broke off, looking embarrassed. “Sorry, that’s my mum, Joan. I don’t mean your daughter. I’m afraid I don’t really remember Molly.”
“I don’t suppose you do. How old were you when she died? Three?”
“Four. I sometimes think I remember her but then I wonder if all I remember is Dad talking about her.”
Deadly Shadows (A Dylan Scott Mystery) Page 30
