Dying Art (A Dylan Scott Mystery) (19 page)

She thought for a moment. “I’d say she was kind, generous, funny and smart. She loved art, loved great designs. She loved dogs and cats and was terrified of cows. She could cook but rarely bothered. She was loyal. She loved her parents. She hated pretentiousness. She was no one’s fool. She never forgot my birthday, not once, and was always surprised when I remembered hers. She thought of others before herself.” She sighed. “I can’t think of a bad thing to say about her.”

He’d gathered that. Perhaps Prue really had been as wonderful as people said.

“What about her sister, Maddie?” he asked. “I know you’ve only met her once, but Prue must have spoken about her. What sort of person does she strike you as?”

“Jealous.”

Surprised, Dylan gave her a sideways glance.

“Prue dismissed that as nonsense,” she said, “but nothing will ever convince me that Maddie isn’t—wasn’t—jealous of Prue. Everyone loved Prue whereas people found Maddie difficult. Jealous, bitter, cruel, selfish—” She shrugged. “I don’t know her, Dylan, so I’m not qualified to comment, but from things Prue used to say, that’s how I’d describe Maddie. Prue, on the other hand, would defend her sister to her last breath. Once, and this made me so mad, Maddie fixed Prue up with a lad who was—well, let’s say he had special needs. Prue was about sixteen at the time so Maddie would have been twenty-one. Maddie had been saying for weeks that she had this friend who was dying to meet Prue. So she arranged this date and Prue went along. Prue would do anything for a quiet life. And there was this young boy, about fifteen. Maddie thought this hysterically funny and Prue spent hours trying to explain to her sister that, actually, it wasn’t funny to play jokes that involved a kid with special needs. In the end, of course, Maddie was the one left fuming because Prue had a great time with—Adrian, his name was. She took him to the funfair the following day, I remember, and they stayed friends. But that’s Maddie. Cruel. And jealous.”

Dylan didn’t know what to make of that. If he thought of Maddie, he thought of that blasted blue bedroom. He couldn’t remember ever thinking her cruel, jealous or selfish. She’d been fun. She wasn’t a bundle of laughs these days, but why would she be? Her sister had died, her parents were in bits, she had funerals to arrange, police to deal with—no one would be fun under those circumstances.

God, there was now’t so queer as folk, as people were fond of saying.

They’d arrived at the bus station and Dylan stopped the car. “If you walk through that alley, you’ll find yourself in the shopping centre. Then, if you come back here, you can get the free bus to the station for your train.”

“That’s great. Thanks so much, Dylan.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes.” She didn’t look it. “Yes, I’m fine. Thanks.”

“You have my number?”

“Of course. And if I think of anything else, I’ll give you a call. And you, if you find out anything, will you let me know?”

“I will.”

Dylan watched her walk in the direction of the alley where a sign read To the Shops. She stopped as she reached it, lifted her bag higher onto her shoulder, seemed to take a deep breath, and strode off. He watched until she was out of sight.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Dylan was lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling and trying to picture himself on a boat with a friend. He was imagining enjoying a bottle of wine with Frank beneath the stars on a boat that was rocking gently on a calm sea. He went below to fetch more wine, came back and was in time to see Frank attacked and knocked overboard. Someone came at him with a fire extinguisher, smashed it into his shoulder and sent him into the water. What would he do? With his boat heading back to shore, he’d do his damnedest to find Frank and, when that proved fruitless, he’d concentrate on swimming to dry land. So far so good. Then what would he do?

Easy. He’d call 999 and say “Some bastard just tried to kill me.”

Why hadn’t Jack McIntyre done that?

He didn’t know. He did know that Clare Finch had given him something to think about. She’d been far more helpful than she could have known and had sent his mind in a completely new direction.

“Your mum’s acting strange,” Bev said.

“What?” Damn it, he’d lost his train of thought now. “Oh, well, that’s good. It would worry me if she was acting normal.”

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I.” Dylan had been under the impression that they’d come to bed to get some sleep but Bev sat up and switched on the lamp.

“Think about it,” she said. “Boris is planning to ride a Harley along Route 66. That’s Vicky’s dream holiday and her dream man. Just imagine all the weirdos she’d meet. Hell, she might even meet Bob Dylan.”

“Bob’s probably getting a bit old to ride a Harley.”

“Just think if she met him, though. I mean really met him as opposed to seeing him at a concert. She’d die a happy woman.”

Knowing he’d get no sleep for a while, Dylan sat up. “But she wouldn’t meet him.”

“I know. Yes, I know. But she’d be sure to meet lots of like-minded people on a trip like that. It’s her ideal holiday, right?”

“Probably,” he said.

“And Boris has to be her ideal man, right?”

“I don’t know. He might be, he might not. How would I know?”

“He is.” She wasn’t going to argue the point. “So, tell me this. If he’s so perfect for her, why isn’t she seeing him again? And she isn’t. I asked her and she was adamant.”

“How would I know? Maybe he squeezes toothpaste from the top. Perhaps he likes to dress up in women’s clothes. How would I know, Bev? If he does nothing for her, that’s it. There’s nothing we can do about it.”

“I have my own theory.”

“Really?” He was definitely getting no sleep till this was sorted. “Do tell.”

“I think she’s figured out that he’s your father and I think she’s putting an end to it before anyone else realises. It would get too complicated for her, wouldn’t it? You know what she’s like.”

He knew what she was like all right. As mad as a box of blasted frogs. He couldn’t imagine for one moment that Boris was his father though. There were no similarities at all as far as he could see. They were about the same height and had the same colour hair, although Boris’s was showing a lot of grey mixed in with the dark, and that was all. That could apply to half the male population.

“It’s the eyes,” Bev said.

“What?”

“You and Boris. You have the same eyes.”

“Rubbish.”

“Have it your way.” She switched off the lamp and settled down again. “Night.”

Goddamn it. He was wide awake now.

He thumped his pillow into submission and lay on his back staring up at the darkness again. Boris was about the same height as he was, he had the same thick dark hair, and Bev thought they had the same eyes. That meant nothing. Bev swore that Freya looked like his mother whereas Dylan couldn’t see the slightest resemblance. There were millions of men walking the planet who were as tall and dark-haired as Dylan. Millions. Okay, so Boris had been in Turkey at the same time as Dylan’s mother, at the same time that Dylan had been conceived, but so what?

None of it mattered anyway. Boris had been given the brush-off, and it was unlikely any of them would see him again. He’d be forgotten. Dylan had survived forty years without knowing his father’s identity and he could easily survive another forty.

Bev was right, though. It was strange that his mother wasn’t out buying a crash helmet and hoping to get her kicks on Route 66.

Dylan knew where Boris lived. He could pay him a visit, maybe have a chat. Not that it was an easy subject to bring up. “By the way, Boris, did you shag my mother forty years ago?”

He pushed the extremely distasteful image from his mind and concentrated on more important matters, like why Jack McIntyre hadn’t gone to the police.

A small element of doubt surfaced. Perhaps, in the same situation, Dylan
would
have gone it alone. It had to be far easier to find a killer if that person believed you were dead. Also, as soon as the police told the world you were alive, who’s to say the killer wouldn’t try again—and succeed this time?

Who had wanted McIntyre dead? Assuming someone had, of course. Who had broken into Prue Murphy’s home and killed her? And who had ended sixteen-year-old Kevin Mills’s life in such a brutal fashion?

He needed to start with Kevin Mills’s murder and work backwards. He’d return to Dawson’s Clough and start asking questions. Detectives would be doing the same thing, of course, but they had rulebooks to follow. Dylan didn’t.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Dylan stopped the Morgan outside Maddie’s home in time to see her in a very tight embrace with Eddie Bryson. They were in the lounge, standing by the window and on show to anyone who happened to look inside. Maddie spotted him first and stepped back from Bryson.

Dylan got out of the car, strode up the front door and was about to ring the bell when it swung open.

“You’re early, Dylan.”

They’d arranged to meet this evening, but Dylan was heading back to Dawson’s Clough and had decided to call here on his way. She didn’t look pleased about the change of plan.

“Hi, Maddie. Yes, sorry about that. I’m driving north so I thought I’d call in here on the off chance you were in.” He looked past her to Bryson. “Hello, Eddie.”

“Dylan, how are you?” Bryson strode forward, his hand outstretched.

“I’m good, thanks.” Dylan shook his hand and wondered just how close Bryson and Maddie were. He didn’t seem her type. Neither did Tim Chandler though. All the same, that embrace had seemed extremely intimate for a Monday morning.

They all walked into the kitchen. Maddie looked tense and upset.

“How are you getting on?” Bryson asked. “Have you any idea who might have done such a thing to Maddie’s poor sister?”

“I have a few leads.” God, he was sounding like a copper now. A lying copper.

“That’s good. It will be a relief to all concerned if you can find out what really happened.”

“Time will tell,” Dylan said.

“You may as well hear this, Dylan.” Maddie stood with her back to them both, staring out the window. She spun round to face them. “I think Tim was having an affair with Prue.”

Dylan was too surprised to speak and silence stretched between them until Bryson spoke. “And I think you’re imagining it, Maddie.”

So was that it? Eddie had been consoling Maddie? It was all perfectly innocent?

“What makes you think that?” Dylan asked.

“This.” She opened a fist that had been tightly clenched to reveal a brass button. “Tim claims to have lost this when he went to Portugal. If that was true, how did I find it among Prue’s possessions?”

Interesting. “What does Tim say?”

“He denies everything. Well, he would, wouldn’t he?” Maddie paced the length of the kitchen with the button held before her like a trophy.

“How can you be sure it’s the same button?” Dylan asked.

“I just know.”

“It seems unlikely,” Dylan said, “that Prue would have an affair with her own sister’s husband.”

“That proves how much you know about her.”

Jealous
was how Clare Finch had described Maddie. Had Maddie been so jealous of Prue that she’d imagine Prue capable of stealing her husband?

Prue hadn’t been happy having an affair with a married man, Dylan was fairly sure of that. Clare Finch had confirmed it. Danny Thompson had said she’d visited his wine bar and complained that all the decent men were married or gay. Dylan had assumed she’d been referring to McIntyre. Perhaps Tim Chandler had been on her mind. Perhaps Prue
had
been involved with Chandler.

“He claims,” Maddie said, “that he must have lost it when we visited Prue before Christmas, but I don’t think he was wearing his blazer then.”

“You don’t sound too sure,” Dylan said.

“How the hell can I be expected to remember what he was wearing three months ago?”

“I have to go.” Bryson gave Dylan a regretful smile. “Nothing personal, Dylan. I have an appointment and I’m running late as it is. It’s been good to see you though.” He put a hand to Maddie’s face. “You’re imagining things, sweetheart. Tim loves you, I know that. Now, stop worrying. I expect it’s the stress you’re under right now. You’re getting worked up over nothing.”

She nodded and gave him a weak smile.

Bryson gave her a quick peck on the cheek, took car keys from his pocket and was gone.

The phone rang out and a frown crossed Maddie’s face. Then, in an instant, the frown was replaced by a smile. “I’ll ignore it. Sorry, Dylan, I sound a right old misery, don’t I? It’s just that nothing seems to be going to plan at the moment.”

“Life rarely does.”

The phone stopped ringing.

“I know.” She slipped her arm through his. “So what do you have to tell me?”

Dylan wondered if this was what middle age was all about. Twenty years ago, he would have been in Maddie’s bed and to hell with the consequences. His older and possibly wiser self was busy trying to make sense of her. Her moods changed in a split second and he realised he didn’t know her at all. Perhaps he never had.

What about the mental image he had of Prue? Was that even close to accurate? Everyone he’d spoken to adored her but he’d only spoken to her friends. None of those friends had a bad word for Prue. Or a good one for Maddie.

“You asked me to come,” Dylan reminded her. “I don’t really have anything to tell you. I’m heading back to Dawson’s Clough though.”

“Why?”

“A teenager, Kevin Mills, has been murdered and I think his death is connected to Prue’s in some way. He was at the church when we buried Prue. I don’t know why or how, but I’m sure there’s a connection.”

“Because you saw him at the church on the day of Prue’s funeral?” Her tone was mildly scoffing.

“Yes. And because two murders in Dawson’s Clough is stretching the realms of coincidence too far.”

She tapped her foot on the floor. Tap, tap, tap. “When will you be back?”

“I don’t know yet, but I’ll let you know.”

She really was angry.

“I’ve been wondering if there’s any point to this,” she said.

“To what?”

“To you wasting so much time on it. Perhaps the police are right, after all.”

He leaned back against the counter. “You’re thinking of pulling me off the case?”

“I don’t know.” She gave him a smile. “Just look at you. You’d think I’d just taken your favourite toy away. I’ll have a think and we’ll talk about it when you come back. Who knows, you might have found out something interesting by then. We’ll have dinner and discuss it then, yes?”

Dylan nodded. “Okay.”

“Wonderful. I’ll look forward to it.” She threw her arms round his waist and squeezed. “As for the rest, take no notice of me. I expect I’m overreacting just because every damn thing I touch at the moment seems to fall apart.”

She made no effort to let him go so he held her hands and put them in front of her. “I’ll call you, Maddie.”

“Yes, do, and I’ll book us a table somewhere special.”

When he was sitting in his car, he let out his breath.
Somewhere special.
He didn’t like the sound of that. He was forty years old, though, and could take care of himself. In a way, he was flattered that she enjoyed flirting with him. She probably wouldn’t do anything more than flirt. Although if she believed Chandler had been having an affair with her sister, she might fancy the taste of revenge.

Prue and Chandler. It was feasible, Dylan supposed. A damn sight more feasible than Prue and McIntyre in fact.

Sex had a lot to answer for when you stopped to think about it, and he’d been thinking about it a lot lately. If he hadn’t slept with Maddie, she would have employed some other investigator to look into her sister’s death and he wouldn’t have been plagued by memories of that blue bedroom. If Prue hadn’t embarked on an affair with Jack McIntyre, she might still be alive. If Dylan’s mother hadn’t—

He stopped before that particular thought took root. He didn’t know what his mother had done or not done.

He’d been looking forward to a decent lunch in Dawson’s Clough, but now he felt compelled to take a quick detour.

For once, his sat nav took him to the correct address and he sat in the car for a moment to look at a house that was very similar to his own. This one was much bigger and had a huge, well-tended garden, but the design was the same.

Before he could change his mind, he walked up the drive, looked in vain for a doorbell and then tapped a brass knocker against the wooden door. Suddenly realising that this was the most stupid idea he’d had to date, he was about to make a run for it. But the door opened and there was Boris. He looked smaller today, and slightly scruffier, thanks to a pair of well-worn jeans, ill-fitting sweater, and the fact that he hadn’t shaved this morning.

There was no way this man could be his father. Bev was putting two and two together and coming up with forty-two.

“What a nice surprise, Dylan. Come in. Is everything all right? The family well?”

“Yes, fine, thanks. I was out this way and thought I’d stop and say hello. I’m on my way north, so it will have to be a very quick hello.”

They passed a spacious kitchen and ended up in what was obviously Boris’s study. Apart from a desk and two chairs that looked to be antique, everything was modern. His computer screen was huge and paper thin. Classical music was coming from an iPod attached to Bang & Olufsen speakers.

“Have a seat.” Boris gestured to a captain’s chair. “Let me get you a coffee. I was about to have one myself.”

“Well—thanks. As I said, I can’t stop long, but a quick coffee would be good.”

“Back in two ticks.”

No way was Dylan descended from a man who said “two ticks.” What the hell was Bev thinking?

Wooden framed photos of a woman—Boris’s late wife, Dylan assumed—sat on the desk. On one wall was a huge photo of a gleaming Harley-Davidson. A small TV hung from a wall bracket.

“Here we go.” Boris put two chunky pottery mugs on the desk. “Sorry, do you take sugar?”

Before Dylan could say that he did, the phone trilled out.

“Help yourself,” Boris said, gesturing in the direction of the kitchen they’d passed at the same time as he reached for the phone.

Dylan took his mug into the kitchen and soon found the sugar. He pulled open four drawers before he found a spoon. As he stirred in a couple of spoonfuls, he looked around. It was all oak and granite—very nice—and hanging from hooks on a set of shelves were eight identical mugs to the one he’d been given.

On hearing Boris finish his call, he returned to the study.

“You have a nice house.” Dylan had never coped well with small talk. “And it must be good to be able to work from home.”

“It’s okay,” Boris said, “but you need plenty of self-discipline. It’s far too easy to work long into the night. You never leave the office, you see.”

“A lot of us are guilty of that. The invention of computers gave us a portable office.”

“True. Well, it’s really good to see you, Dylan. I was hoping I’d see a bit more of Vicky but—” his eyes twinkled, “—she’s shying away from me. She’s said she doesn’t want to get involved. I’ve told her that I don’t either. I’ve had two wives—that’s enough, isn’t it? I was only asking her out to dinner. I wasn’t expecting her to marry me.”

“Women are funny creatures.”

Boris smiled. “I’ll give her a call in a couple of months.”

“Good idea.” Dylan was mentally forming a dozen questions, but asking a man about his sex life didn’t come easy. “I bet you had some good times out in Turkey.”

“Yes—there was a whole gang of us. We thought we were immortal and could do drink and drugs until we dropped.”

“Sounds great.” It sounded hell.

“We all moved around a lot. We thought nothing of travelling the world. We had no money, all we had were a few dreams and our sleeping bags, but it didn’t seem to matter back then.”

It was no use. Dylan couldn’t ask if his mother had shared that sleeping bag. He’d indulge in some inane chat for a few minutes and then leave.

“So you’re travelling north again?” Boris said. “That car of yours gets through some miles.”

“I know.” It was a worry and he touched the wooden desk for luck. “She hasn’t let me down yet.”

They talked cars. At least, Boris talked cars. Dylan had always thought he could talk cars as well as the next man, but long before they’d finished discussing Boris’s first company car—a beige Ford with matching upholstery—Dylan had lost the will to live. He could see why his mother was so reluctant to ride Route 66 with him.

He was taking his last swallow of coffee when the phone rang again.

“Could I get another coffee?” he asked on an impulse.

“Help yourself.” Boris reached for the phone.

“Do you want one?”

Boris shook his head and greeted his caller.

Dylan picked up both mugs and took them to the kitchen. Boris’s was still half full. He emptied the contents into an identical mug and wrapped Boris’s mug in a couple of sheets of white kitchen towel. He rammed it in his jacket pocket, tried to hide the bulge, failed, and made himself a fresh coffee.

When he returned to the study, Boris was just finishing his call.

“Sorry,” Dylan said. “I took your mug. I didn’t realise you hadn’t finished. Here.”

“Thanks.”

Boris took a sip of coffee that had to be cold by now. “I’m surprised Vicky never married, you know. She was always the type to have people around her.”