Dying Art (A Dylan Scott Mystery) (2 page)

That told him nothing.

He stood to gaze out the window at the street below. A few hardy customers braved the tables outside the coffee shop opposite. They huddled deep inside their coats and smoked. Other people strode along the street quickly to keep a gnawing March wind at bay. Above, the sky was clear and blue.

“Tell me from the beginning,” he said. “When I met her, she was still at school, wasn’t she?”

“I suppose she must have been.” Maddie seemed surprised by that. “When she left, she spent a year at college studying art and design and then took off to see Europe. She was—well, I always thought she was part gypsy. She couldn’t settle in one place. She thought it would be great to work her way round Spain and Italy. Perhaps it was. She always seemed happy enough. She’d pick grapes or wait on tables and spend her free time soaking up the culture. She did it for years and finally ended up in France.”

“How recently are we talking?”

“She left France a couple of months ago. No, more than that. It was November, so four months. I was surprised when she came back because she seemed settled there. We visited her once—she’d got this tiny flat in Paris that you had to climb about fourteen flights of stairs to get to.”

Dylan smiled inwardly. He’d forgotten Maddie’s penchant for exaggeration. “Who’s we?”

“Tim and me. Tim’s my husband. Second husband. I’m Maddie Chandler now.”

“Ah.”

“We only spent two nights there,” she said. “We’d been promising to visit for ages, but could never find time. You know how it is. But we went one weekend and she seemed happy enough. God knows why. Waiting on tables twenty-three hours a day isn’t fun, is it? I don’t know how she stood it, but she did. That was last year. September.”

She stood, kicked off her shoes, which reduced her considerable height by around five inches, and paced a circle of the office. Then she walked to stand behind him and look out the window.

“I don’t know what happened. All I know is that she rang me in a right state, obviously bothered about something, and then she was killed. It’s all too coincidental.”

Coincidental.
That word rang in Dylan’s ears. He hated coincidences. He’d go so far as to say they didn’t exist when it came to crime. “Who found her?”

“The police.” Every time she used the word
police,
her tone was scoffing. “I’d gone to meet her at the station and, when she didn’t turn up, I tried to call her. I tried landline and mobile, but I couldn’t get hold of her. I wasn’t worried because I assumed she’d calmed down, decided she didn’t need to talk as urgently as she had the night before, and would phone me to make alternative arrangements. I was bloody annoyed though. It was typical of her to make arrangements and not turn up.”

“Then what happened?”

“Thankfully, I could remember her neighbour’s name, Jane Cook, so I rang her. We visited Prue just before Christmas and Jane’s cat was in the house. He used to wander inside Prue’s house and make himself at home. Well, he would, wouldn’t he? Prue used to make a fuss of him. Anyway, I found Jane’s phone number and called her. She said she’d pass on my message when she saw Prue and tell her to call me back. All I wanted was to give Prue a piece of my mind. The way she makes arrangements—made arrangements,” she corrected herself, “only to let someone down was bloody infuriating. It was all right for her but some of us had other demands on our time.”

“Go on,” he said.

“Jane started to worry so she went round to ring the doorbell and saw that the house was in a mess. Furniture had been knocked over and there were papers everywhere. She was scared so she called the police. They found Prue lying at the bottom of the stairs. She was wearing a pair of pink pyjamas.” Her voice cracked on that last statement.

Still standing behind him, she put her hand on his shoulder. “You will help me, won’t you, Dylan?”

He couldn’t answer that. “What was stolen?” he asked instead.

“Nothing that we know of. It was a job to tell as everything was in such a mess. The TV and DVD player were still there. They’re worth nothing though. She probably bought them secondhand from eBay. Her computer hadn’t been touched, but again, it was old. There was a bit of cash lying on the kitchen table too.”

A thief who didn’t steal anything was a new one on Dylan. “Why are the police so sure it was a burglar?”

“They claim the same thing has happened at other properties. The way he broke in, I mean, and the mess he made. And because no one could give them a full inventory of Prue’s possessions, they said—quite rightly, I suppose—that anything could have been stolen.”

Dylan nodded at the truth of that.

She moved her hand from his shoulder, walked another circuit of the office and then sat opposite him again. She put her elbows on the desk and rested her chin on her fists. “Something’s wrong. I’m convinced of it.”

He could see that. He also believed that the police must have some facts of which she wasn’t aware. They wouldn’t pin this crime on an unfortunate burglar if they weren’t sure of their facts.

Yeah, right. Just like they wouldn’t throw a detective sergeant with a promising career ahead of him in a cell on the word of a piece of scum with a record as long as the M1.

“What’s the situation now?” he asked. “With the police, I mean. What are they doing?”

“Nothing. Well, they’re continuing their hunt for this burglar because he’s wanted in connection with several other cases, and they’ll let me know as soon as they find him. They’ve released Prue’s body, finally, and we’re burying her on Tuesday.”

She reached for her bag, hunted inside for a tissue and, instead of blowing her nose on it, seemed content to sit and shred it so that white flecks dropped to the new carpet.

“The funeral’s being held in Dawson’s Clough,” she said. “Of course, that’s wrong. Mum and Dad were upset so it was left to me to arrange. I thought that, as she’d chosen to live in Dawson’s Clough, she’d want to be buried there. Now that I’ve made all the arrangements, Mum’s decided she wanted her brought back to London.” She shrugged. “It’s too late now though and at least Tim agreed with me. He said it would be easier all round. Anyway, I don’t suppose it’s important. She’s gone, isn’t she? Her spirit’s gone. All we’re doing is burying skin and bones.” She looked at him, huge blue eyes seeking reassurance.

“It depends on which particular god you worship,” he said.

She grabbed his hand. “Will you come? Will you at least come to the funeral? Have a look round her house, talk to people and see what you think?”

He hesitated. It was time to say that there was no way until hell froze over that he would drive all the way to bloody Lancashire. Her sister was dead and he was sorry, but there was no point in his getting involved. Lancashire CID were on the case. They were perfectly capable of getting to the bottom of it.

“For me?” She squeezed his hand. “For old times’ sake? Please.”

Chapter Two

Kevin Mills knew every inch of Dawson’s Clough. He knew it and loathed it. He’d been born in the town and lived here all his life and, until recently, he’d thought it the dullest, most godawful place on earth.

He often took the shortcut home through the cemetery. If he stood on one of the headstones, it was possible to climb over the wall and drop down into the lane that would take him home. Usually the cemetery was deserted. Sometimes people walked their dogs there on the way to the park. Occasionally, usually at weekends, someone would put flowers on a grave. On a Monday afternoon, though, when less than an hour of daylight remained, he could guarantee the place would be deserted. Today it wasn’t.

He’d grown up with a view of the cemetery from his bedroom window. Sometimes he’d see a fox keeping close to the wall as it set off for a night’s hunting. Other times, he’d see two or three cubs playing in the early morning sunshine. He’d seen badgers too. At night it was sometimes possible to see a car’s headlights. Why anyone would want to park in the cemetery on a dark night, he had no idea.

Today was different. Today, a couple of grave diggers were busy.

Kevin checked his watch. It was twenty to five. He should have been home from school half an hour ago, and the grave diggers should have finished their work much earlier. He supposed they couldn’t leave a grave half-dug.

They’d be getting everything ready for the dead woman, Prue Murphy. Although she’d only lived a couple of streets away from Kevin, he’d never seen her. Or if he had, it hadn’t registered. Now, it was impossible to move in the town for photos of her. Her picture had been on the front page of the local papers every day for weeks.

He couldn’t climb onto the headstone with the workmen watching. In any case, the cemetery seemed creepy this evening. The whole town was starting to freak him out.

He turned on his heel and began walking back to the road. It would only take him ten minutes longer to get home. He’d be in trouble for being late but, as he was always in trouble for something, it didn’t matter. Eventually they’d have to realise that he’d soon be an adult. He was sixteen and it was time they stopped treating him as if he were ten.

He walked on smartly. If his mum was looking out the front window, she’d be able to see him.

When he didn’t want to be seen coming or going, he took the longer route. It meant going through a small wooded area, down a lane, around the back of some old houses and then along Corporation Street where Prue Murphy had lived. He didn’t often go that way and, if his dad hadn’t grounded him the night she was killed, he wouldn’t have had to sneak out of the house. If he hadn’t crept out, he wouldn’t have been anywhere near her house and he wouldn’t have seen that man.

When he let himself in the house, he heard the hum of voices coming from the TV.

“Kevin? Is that you?” his mum called out.

“Yes,” he called back.

She appeared in the doorway, smiling. “Have you got homework, love?”

“Yes.”

“Go and do it then,” she urged him. “Your dad will be home soon.”

“I’m going.”

“Carol’s staying over at Jenny’s tonight so it’ll just be the three of us.”

He nodded, but he’d bet his life Carol was nowhere near Jenny’s house. His sister was a year older, had far more freedom than he did, and was probably giving Matthew Walker a blow job at this very moment.

“Change out of your uniform, love,” she called after him, “and don’t forget to hang it up.”

Kevin was sick of the constant nagging so he didn’t bother answering. He went straight to his bedroom, tossed his briefcase on the floor and threw himself down on his bed.

He’d slept in this bedroom all his life. A single bed had replaced the cot but, other than that, he couldn’t remember it looking any different. It was the smallest room in the house. His parents had the big bedroom, Carol had the one at the back, and he had this small one in the middle.

Model aircraft dangled from the ceiling above his head. He was too old for them and often thought he should throw them in the bin. He couldn’t bring himself to do that though, probably because they represented a happier time. He’d been ten or eleven when he’d developed a passion for making the models. His dad had helped him and they’d spent many a happy hour at the kitchen table gluing replica engines in place. Back then, he could have named every plane that had ever taken to the skies. Now he couldn’t care less. He blew hard and a couple of the planes swayed on his breath before becoming still again.

When his dad was first made redundant, life hadn’t been too bad. Money had been tight so they’d had no treats, but everyone had been fairly happy. “I’ll soon get another job,” his dad had said, and they’d all looked forward to better times.

Six months later, his dad had had to take the only work he was offered. A part-time driving job for a local taxi firm wasn’t what he wanted but he’d decided it was better than nothing. A few months later, he was on a drink-driving charge. He lost his driving licence for a year and that was that. There was no way he’d get a decent job now.

Now, instead of looking for work, he divided his time equally between pub, betting shop and home. He believed the world was against him when, really, any idiot could see it was all his own fault. Only a complete loser would drive a taxi of all things when he’d been drinking. But his dad preferred to blame everyone and everything else. He’d grown bitter. He was moody and angry, and best avoided. A loser of the highest order.

Kevin’s mum was no help. She wouldn’t stand up to him. She ignored his moods, choosing to pussyfoot around him and live on her nerves. She cooked his meals and, if he didn’t turn up to eat them, she’d throw them in the bin without a word of complaint. She found a job as receptionist at the town’s health centre and never moaned about most of her earnings going straight over the bar at the Queen Vic.

Kevin thumped his pillow and stared up at the model aircraft. If his dad wasn’t so miserable all the time, Kevin wouldn’t have been grounded that night. If he hadn’t been grounded, and furious about it, he wouldn’t have crept out of the house. And if he hadn’t crept out of the house, he wouldn’t have seen that man.

Except he hadn’t seen him. Not really.

He’d met up with his mates and they’d bought a few cans of lager. Coppers would get you for drinking in the street so they went to the park, out of sight of everyone.

It was almost midnight when they split up and went their separate ways. The others lived in the town centre so Kevin started walking home alone. He stopped to light a last cigarette before he had to creep back into the house. It was windy that night and it took four attempts to get the thing lit.

Then he saw the car or, more accurate, the car’s registration plate. He couldn’t remember the numbers but the letters spelled out KEV. He stood, smoking his cigarette, and tried to dream up letters and numbers for the plates he’d have one day. KEV 1N would be good, but would cost a fortune. This time next year, with any luck, he’d pass his driving test, assuming he could afford the lessons, and he was determined to buy a cheap old car to drive while he saved up for something decent. He’d look for a personalised number plate too.

He was daydreaming about a KM1 plate when the car’s lights flashed twice. Kevin looked to his right and saw a figure at the front of what he now knew was Prue Murphy’s house. They spotted each other at the same time, although all Kevin saw was a shadowy figure who seemed to jerk in shock at the sight of him. Kevin thought he was coming over but, after a brief hesitation, he jumped in the car and drove off.

Kevin turned around. Three men were walking toward him. One had a couple of dogs with him, big hairy Alsatians. Kevin stepped back against the wall to let them pass. They nodded an acknowledgement and carried on their way.

He was convinced that if those men hadn’t been there, that man would have said something to him.

Kevin walked on in the opposite direction, mentally going through the best way to get back into the house without being caught. At one point, he thought a car was following him but perhaps he was wrong.

He managed to creep back into the house without his parents or sister being any wiser, and forgot about the man and the car until he saw the news about Prue Murphy’s murder and realised he’d been standing outside her home on the night she was killed.

Police said it might have been accidental, that she might have disturbed a burglar. They’d appealed for anyone with information to contact them, and Kevin felt bad because he hadn’t. What was the point though? He couldn’t give them a description of the man. Thanks to the streetlight, Kevin would have been easily recognisable but the man had been in shadow.

It was nothing to do with him. The police wouldn’t thank him for giving them half a registration plate and no description of the man driving the car. More important, his dad would kill him if he knew he’d left the house when he was supposed to grounded.

Kevin jumped off his bed and yanked off his school blazer and tie. Prue Murphy was being buried in the morning and nothing he could do or say would alter that.