Dying Art (A Dylan Scott Mystery) (24 page)

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Dylan thought his own rented office was smart, but Tim Chandler’s made it look like a cheap lock-up. The swanky address ensured that only the well-heeled would walk past and, hopefully, gaze in the window to see details of exclusive homes for sale beneath that hot foreign sun. If you were interested in buying a villa, all you had to do was chat to their friendly staff and arrange a free trip to Portugal or the Algarve. Dylan quite fancied the idea. He wouldn’t want to live abroad but he wouldn’t mind a sightseeing trip funded by Chandler.

What he wanted right now, however, was a good night’s sleep. It had been late last night when he’d finally crawled into bed, having extricated himself from Maddie. He’d thought he was rebuking her advances on moral grounds, but his lack of interest had nothing to do with being a faithful married man. He hadn’t spared Bev’s feelings a thought. No, he’d stayed out of her bed because there was something about her he didn’t trust. Twenty-year-old memories had tempted him, but the grown-up Maddie didn’t.

He’d had little sleep though and, at first light, had driven to London and to Chandler’s office.

He walked into the vast reception area where his feet sank into a cream deep-pile carpet. Sofas and easy chairs were provided for the comfort of would-be buyers as they perused the array of glossy colour brochures on show. On one wall, a screen showed mouthwatering properties in the sun.

He approached a curved reception desk behind which sat a young, slim and extremely attractive young girl with perfect hair, fingernails and teeth. Everything about her was perfect.

“Hi, I’m Dylan Scott. I have an appointment with Tim and Eddie.”

She smiled a perfect smile and long slender fingers picked up a phone. She announced his presence to someone. “They won’t keep you a moment,” she said. “Would you care for a coffee while you wait?”

“No, thanks.”

“Take a seat, Mr. Scott.”

He didn’t. He walked round the reception area, looking at huge villas that boasted swimming pools bigger than Dylan’s home. Some had tennis courts. All were near a golf course. The timeshare properties were given a smaller space. They obviously weren’t as lucrative. Gleaming boats in sun-kissed marinas had a section of wall to themselves. In a couple of photos, Bryson was standing on board an expensive boat smiling for the camera.

The receptionist’s clone appeared.

“Mr. Scott? I’m Holly. Mr. Chandler is free now. If you’d like to follow me—”

Dylan followed her up a flight of steep stairs. Neither spoke.

“This way,” she said.

Their feet sank into the thick carpet as they walked to the door at the end of the corridor. She tapped on the door before pushing it open. “Mr. Scott to see you, Tim.”

Chandler rushed forward, hand outstretched. “Dylan, good to see you. Come in, come in.”

Dylan shook his hand and walked into a vast office that was empty apart from a huge glass-and-chrome desk, high-backed chair and two or three armchairs set around a glass-and-chrome coffee table. Several large photographs of homes for millionaires adorned cream walls.

“I did say I wanted to see Eddie too,” Dylan said.

“And so you shall. He’s with our accountant at the moment, but he’ll join us in a few minutes. He knows you’re here. Can I get you a drink?”

“Thanks, but no.”

On Chandler’s desk was a silver framed photo of Maddie. She was smiling into the camera and it struck Dylan that her smile seemed genuine. It was the smile he remembered from twenty years ago. He hadn’t seen anything of it recently.

“Take a seat, take a seat.”

Jesus. Chandler was like a bloody parrot. Was he nervous? Dylan could think of no other reason for repeating every damn thing he said.

“Thanks.” Dylan sat in an armchair by the coffee table.

“So how’s it going, Dylan?” Chandler sat opposite him. “Have you made any progress? I’d love to be able to tell Maddie you were close to finding Prue’s killer.”

“Does she care?”

“Dylan!”

“Come off it, Tim. We both know that, for whatever reason, Maddie disliked Prue intensely. Loathed, I believe, was the term she used when telling me about it.”

Chandler tugged at the knot of his tie. “They weren’t close, but Maddie—well, she’s difficult to fathom at times. She’s really upset about Prue’s death, more than she’ll let on, and that’s probably because they weren’t close. I’m sure she has a lot of regrets. She’s a tough little thing though. She won’t let us know how much she’s hurting.”

“What happened to Prue and Maddie? Why were they so distant?”

“Nothing specific as far as I know,” Chandler said. “I’ve always imagined the age gap was too great. Five years is quite a lot.”

Again, Dylan thought of Freya and Luke and wondered if they’d ever be so distant. He didn’t think so. “How many times has Maddie been treated for depression?”

Chandler got to his feet and paced the room to stand in front of the window and gaze out at the City. His back was to Dylan but, after a few moments, he turned round. He stayed where he was, his hip resting on the windowsill. “Half a dozen, but what does the state of Maddie’s health have to do with Prue’s murder?”

“Possibly nothing. When was the last time?”

“September. Why do you ask?”

“Before or after you visited Prue in Paris?”

“After.” Chandler returned to his seat. “I’ll ask again. What does the state of Maddie’s health have to do with Prue’s murder?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Are you any further forward?” Chandler’s tone was mildly scoffing. “Are you sure you’re not just giving Maddie false hope—and spending my money?”

“No, I’m not sure. I’m not sure that, even if I learn what happened to Prue that night, I’ll ever be able to prove it.”

“Sorry.” Chandler patted Dylan’s knee. “I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful. I know you’re doing the best you can.”

Patronising shit.

“So Maddie returned to London after seeing her sister and sank into a depression,” Dylan said.

“The two weren’t connected, but for a timescale it’s accurate, yes.”

“Why weren’t the two connected?”

“They weren’t. Maddie was fine when we returned. Why shouldn’t she be? She’d been working hard beforehand, which is one reason we thought we’d enjoy a weekend break. It was probably her workload that contributed to her depression.”

“Did she go to a clinic? A hospital?”

“She spent six weeks at the Arnthorpe Clinic.” Chandler was terse, and Dylan wasn’t surprised. The Arnthorpe was used by the elite. Chandler’s bank balance would still be recovering. She’d probably shared the sauna with royalty.

“She’s fine now,” Chandler went on. “She’s on medication to keep her moods stable. It’s just as well because she’s had a lot to endure lately, what with Prue’s death and the necessary work that goes with that.”

The door opened and Eddie Bryson, smiling from ear to ear, strode inside. As the door closed behind him, Dylan wondered if he’d used his stapler to fix that smile in place.

“Hi, Eddie,” Dylan said. “How are you?”

“Fine. What brings you here? Please tell me you’d like an eight-bedroom mansion in the sun.” He laughed loudly.

“I wouldn’t mind one,” Dylan said, “but despite what Tim might think, I’m not earning enough.”

Both men laughed. Dylan didn’t.

“I’d really like to know where you both were on the tenth of February,” he said.

“What?” Chandler looked as if Dylan had just asked him to run naked up the Mall.

“I need a few things clearing up,” Dylan said. “So you were—where?”

“Me?” Chandler was either playing for time or was too surprised to think straight. “Well, I was in Portugal. I’d left the day before and returned on the Saturday evening. Why do you want to know that, for God’s sake?”

“What about you, Eddie?”

“I can’t remember offhand. I can check, of course, but you’ll have to bear with me.”

Of course he could remember. Everyone knew exactly where they were when news of someone’s death broke. He might not have been close to Prue but he was close enough to Chandler for the death of his sister-in-law to register.

“That’s okay,” Dylan said, “I can refresh your memory. You were in Manchester.”

Dylan watched him closely. Those CCTV images had been of such poor quality that he had no idea if Bryson was in Manchester or not but, when you tossed wild guesses in the air, you had to watch very carefully for any reaction.

“Was I?”

“Yes. You visited an art gallery.”

“Well, well. If you say so. I remember being in Manchester around then, obviously, and I can remember escaping the rain and going inside a gallery to get a coffee, but I couldn’t have told you when.”

“So now you know. It’s a coincidence, isn’t it, that you were at the same art gallery at the exact same time as Prue?”

“Oh, my—” Bryson was either a good actor or as pure as the driven white stuff. Dylan would gamble on the former. “You mean I was at the same art gallery that poor Prue went to that day?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, my.” He shook his head, a sorrowful expression on his face. “I never met her so I wouldn’t have recognised her, but even so. God, that’s taking spooky a bit far, isn’t it?”

“It certainly is.”

“I remember now,” Chandler said. “You called me from that gallery, Eddie. We’d had problems with the Lacy account and you phoned me to see what we could sort out. I remember you saying you had an hour to kill before meeting Dennis Pemberton, and because it was raining, you were passing it in a gallery’s coffee shop.”

“I remember, yes,” Bryson said. “I still can’t believe I was in the same building as Prue. It’s a small world, isn’t it?”

“Minuscule. Where was Maddie?” Dylan asked.

“Maddie?” Chandler thought for a moment. “At home. At least, I think so. She was certainly there when Prue phoned her that evening. She may have gone to the shops, I don’t know. She was definitely in London though. Why all the questions, Dylan?”

“Oh, I’m just throwing out random questions to see where it takes me. What sort of car do you drive, Eddie?”

He’d already seen Chandler’s car and there was nothing about it to raise a sixteen-year-old’s attention. It was an expensive model, the latest Mercedes, but it wasn’t out of the ordinary in a way that would have captured Kevin Mills’s interest.

“Now this you don’t have to take my word for. Here.” Bryson was on his feet and gesturing for Dylan to join him at the window. “There’s mine.”

A lone VW Passat in dark green sat outside the building. It was disappointingly ordinary.

“What’s all this about cars and galleries?” Chandler sounded tetchy.

“I’m just being thorough.” Dylan gave him a confident smile. “Did you drive up to Manchester for your meeting, Eddie?”

There was the slightest hesitation. “No, I flew. It’s a damn sight easier and it means I can work on the plane. Why?”

“Just curious. What did you do? Get the train into Manchester? Hire a car? What?”

“I hired a car at the airport.” He shook his head in amusement. “I’d love to know where you’re going with this, Dylan.”

So would Dylan.

“Prue and Jack McIntyre,” he said. “What about that? Were either of you surprised to learn that she lived with him for a couple of months?”

“I was,” Chandler said.

“I never knew her,” Bryson said, “so I can’t comment. I’ve seen photos of her though and no, I wasn’t particularly surprised.”

“He was painting again, you know.” Dylan removed imaginary fluff from his jeans as he spoke. “If anyone could get their hands on those paintings, they’d never have to work again.”

“How do you know that?” Bryson asked. “It can only be hearsay, surely. He’s dead so he can’t tell us.”

“Oh, he was definitely painting again. I’ve managed to find the paintings. Six there are. Well, I found six. I suppose there could be more.”

“My God.” Bryson slapped his thigh. “Tell us more, Dylan. Where are they and how the hell did you find them?”

Dylan tapped the side of his nose. “You’re better off not knowing, believe me. You wouldn’t want to end up like Prue, would you?”

“You’re not telling me Prue had them, are you?” Bryson said.

“I’m not telling you anything. Really, it’s safer if you don’t know where they are. They were at my house for twenty-four hours and I didn’t relax for a second until they were out of there.” Dylan rose to his feet. “Well, thanks for your help, gentlemen. Sorry I’ve taken up so much of your time.”

He swept out of their office before they had the chance to say more.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

The rain was relentless. There was no escape. The sun had been shining when Dylan woke—in his own bed for a change—but it had lashed down for the journey from London to Dawson’s Clough and it was still raining.

Dylan was attending his second funeral in thirty days, and this one promised to be even more depressing than Prue Murphy’s, if that were possible.

The congregation packed the small church. As it was standing room only, Dylan had given up his seat and moved to the back of the church to stand with Dawson’s Clough locals. At the front of the church, Kevin Mills’s coffin was laden with flowers. The vicar stood guard as he tried to convince mourners that they shouldn’t even try to understand God’s will but should instead celebrate Kevin’s short life, and take comfort from the knowledge that the Lord had chosen to take him to a better place.

What total bollocks.

The mourners stood to sing “Rock of Ages,” which didn’t seem particularly appropriate. Kevin’s parents, standing to the left of the coffin, were rigid with shock, grief and tension. Kevin’s mother was being supported by her husband, who was also hanging on to Kevin’s weeping sister.

The hymn was sung with little enthusiasm. The vicar’s voice was firm and strong but, other than that, no one could cope. Schoolchildren sobbed for the duration and family members couldn’t find the strength for hymn singing.

When the final notes died away, Kevin’s uncle, a big, broad man in an ill-fitting suit, stood behind the coffin to read from notes someone had written. He spoke of Kevin’s love for planes, trains and cars, and he told mourners how Kevin had preferred football to schoolwork. Despite this, he said, Kevin had been a good pupil. His nephew had been a happy, friendly, helpful boy and a credit to his parents. His voice was unsteady as he spoke and he clutched a huge cotton handkerchief in his big hand.

Another hymn followed, more prayers, and then the coffin was being carried out of the church and into the windswept graveyard where the rain battered everything in its path. As he had at Prue’s funeral, Dylan silently wished the coffin bearers well. The path was wet and slippery, but they would be used to such dangerous conditions.

Most of the mourners, Dylan included, unfurled large umbrellas. The undertakers made sure that Kevin’s family was protected from the deluge. There was another short prayer in the rain before Kevin’s coffin was finally lowered into the cold, wet earth.

A tortured gasp escaped Mrs. Mills’s mouth and her husband had to increase his grip on her. Mother, father and sister each threw a red rose on the coffin.

Dylan had tried but he couldn’t even begin to imagine what they were going through. Kevin was only a few years older than Luke, and the idea of losing Luke was unthinkable. Dylan had no idea how or if he would cope.

People offered their condolences to the family, and the family thanked the mourners for attending. All were invited back to the hall for sandwiches and tea or coffee.

Dylan headed back to his car. There was nothing he could say that would help the Mills family. Police had launched a massive investigation into Kevin’s murder and, maybe, they’d be successful in finding his killer. Dylan thought it unlikely because he thought they were on the completely wrong track. Suggestions from a disgraced copper wouldn’t be welcome though.

He started the Morgan and drove away from the church. The car was warm and his general dampness slowly disappeared, but the anger stayed with him. He’d love to get hold of the person responsible for ending Kevin Mills’s life and for putting the Mills family through this ordeal. Their lives would never be the same again and Dylan was determined to make sure the killer’s life was never the same.

He was turning right by the Nag’s Head, onto the Clough’s fiendish one-way road, when he saw two familiar faces. It was too late to stop. Once you were on this road, there was no escape for ten minutes. Normally, he’d break all traffic laws and reverse but he had a Tesco home delivery van glued to his back wheels. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as the traffic crawled along. Finally, he turned off the one-way system and drove back to the Nag’s Head, but there was no sign of Danny Thompson or Toby Windsor, or of Windsor’s white Mercedes. The two men had been standing in front of it, oblivious to the rain. Judging by the angry scowls and arm waving, their meeting hadn’t been friendly.

So what had the town’s favourite wine bar owner been discussing with Prue’s landlord?

Dylan didn’t trust either man. He’d bet neither would have any quibbles about making extra cash at someone else’s expense.

He drove around the town centre but he didn’t spot that white Mercedes, and Danny’s Wine Bar was closed.

As he didn’t have time to spare, he drove out of the town and to Frank’s house. Pleased that Frank had the door open for him, he dashed from car to house without getting too wet.

“Bloody weather,” he said. “Is it ever going to stop raining?”

“Of course. Lancashire’s dry season lasts four days—the second week in June.”

“Godforsaken place. Are you ready to go?”

“Two minutes.” Frank went to the kitchen and switched off the radio. He came back to the hall, checked his pockets for his wallet, grabbed his keys from a round silver bowl and took a heavy jacket from a hook. “Let’s go.”

They sprinted to the car.

“I know you’re not a fan of the force, and I can understand that, but I hope you’re not withholding information,” Frank said as they drove off.

“Nope. All I’m withholding is a hunch and they wouldn’t thank me for that. I’ve learned nothing that they couldn’t have found out a damn sight more easily.”

Frank didn’t look convinced. “So why are we going to the airport?”

“I told you. I want to know what sort of car Eddie Bryson hired.” It had to be a wild goose chase. Hire cars were all the same. They were a year or two years old at most, and they were small, medium or large saloons. “It’s probably nothing but if I go on my own, they won’t tell me anything. I need a bit of police authority with me.”

“You’ll get me into all sorts of trouble.”

“So what will they do about it? You’ve retired, Frank. They can’t fire you or lock you up in a cell, can they? In any case, they’d never admit that the revered DCI Willoughby had a blemish on his character.”

“You’re full of shit.”

Dylan smiled at the insult. “I’ve found it helps.”

“I’ve already got trouble.” Frank wasn’t smiling. “Someone’s been asking questions about a certain file I let you borrow.”

“You’re kidding. Who? And what sort of questions?”

“The difficult sort. I don’t know, but I have a suspicion that Carlton Amesbury is behind it.”

“Amesbury? The constable who found Kevin Mills’s body?”

“That’s him. He’s a good copper, or could be, but he’s got an enormous chip on his shoulder. He likes to play the racist card at every turn.”

“Ah. And we all know racism doesn’t exist in the good old British police force.”

Frank shrugged that off. “I think I’ve managed to put it all to bed by being a little economical with the truth, but I’m going to keep my eye on Amesbury. It sounds to me like he needs to be put straight about a few things.”

Dylan didn’t envy Amesbury. Frank might appear to be a nicely spoken, relaxed ex-copper, but it was never a wise move to get on his wrong side. If Amesbury had any sense, he’d give Frank a wide berth.

The rain eased a little as they neared the airport.

“As I was driving away from the funeral, I saw Danny Thompson in conversation with Toby Windsor. What do you make of that, Frank?”

“I’d say they were up to no good. Not that I know a lot about Windsor, and I can’t say for certain that Thompson put a match to his premises. It’s interesting though.”

“It is. I don’t know how they know each other, but they both knew Prue. Windsor had plenty of opportunities to look round her home, and there’s no knowing what she told Thompson when she was drunk.”

“Were either of them at the funeral?” Frank asked.

“No.”

“How did it go?”

Dylan shuddered. “Nothing interesting or out of the ordinary happened but, Christ, it was a bloody depressing affair. I can’t imagine what that family is going through. I can’t imagine how they’ll ever get over it either.”

“They’ll feel better when the perp is brought to justice.”

“Will they?” Dylan wasn’t so sure. “
We
might. I know I damn well will. But I’m not so sure they will. What will it matter if some stranger is banged up in Strangeways for the next twenty years? It won’t repair that family, will it? It won’t bring a young boy home.”

Dylan’s phone rang and he checked the display. He was disappointed to see Maddie’s name. He’d been hoping it was the lab calling to tell him that no way on this earth could Boris be his father. Christ, that was taking forever. Perhaps they hadn’t been able to get DNA from the mug. Surely, they would have been in touch if that were the case.

He ignored Maddie’s call.

There was a steady stream of traffic heading for Manchester Airport and Dylan wasn’t surprised. Given the bloody awful weather in this part of the world, residents must be eager to jet off to sunnier climes.

He parked the Morgan as near to Terminal Three as he could and they walked into the building. He’d taken off his black tie, undone the top button of his shirt and replaced his suit jacket with his battered leather one, but he still felt dressed for a funeral.

“There are nine hire car companies,” he told Frank, “so we may as well start at the first one we come to and go through them that way.”

Over an hour later, they’d crossed off the first four companies on their list. No one named Bryson had booked a car through them. That didn’t mean much if Bryson had travelled under a different name.

The woman at the fifth desk, however, was far more helpful.

“I’m sure it was booked through us. A friend of mine is called Bryson and I’m sure I’ve seen the name recently. Just a minute.” She tapped through computer records. “Here we are. Oh, there are two records. It seems Mr. Bryson booked through us a second time and had the same car.”

“What model of car was he given?” Dylan asked.

“A Chrysler. Would you like copies of the booking?”

“That would be very useful, Thanks.”

A nearby printer churned out two sheets of paper and, smiling, she handed them over. “There you go. Anything else I can help you with?”

“No, that’s it. Thanks for your help.” Dylan checked the dates carefully and put the booking details in his pocket.

They walked out of the terminal building and back to the car.

“Now what?” Frank asked.

“God knows. I can’t see that a mid-range Chrysler would be of any interest to Kevin Mills. They’re common enough in the Clough. On the other hand, the dates fit. Eddie Bryson had that car when Prue was killed and he also had it when Kevin Mills was killed. Coincidence?”

“Probably.” Frank thought for a moment. “Most of us use the same car hire company if we’ve had good service from them. We like to stick with the familiar. If you book a car that size and price, it’s likely that you’ll get the exact same car. If Bryson spends a lot of time in Manchester—”

“He does.”

“Then, basically, you’ve got nothing whatsoever to go on.”

Dylan’s phone rang and again he hoped the lab wanted to give him good news about those DNA samples. It was Maddie so he hit the Reject button.

“I wonder—” Dylan took the car rental paperwork from his pocket and studied it again. “I have a hunch, Frank.”

“Yeah, but sadly, hunches don’t put men behind bars.”

“No, but they’re a bloody good place to start...”