Dying Art (A Dylan Scott Mystery) (21 page)

Chapter Thirty

Danny Thompson was surprised to see Dylan Scott walk through the door. There was something odd about the way he was still hanging around the Clough and the way he asked so many questions.

“Hi, Dylan. It’s good to see you again. What are you having? Whisky, is it?”

“Please, Danny.” Scott looked at the empty bar. “Trade’s a bit slow tonight.”

“It’s a bit slow every night.” Danny had been thinking about laying on entertainment but that didn’t come cheap. A couple of his mates were in a band and they’d said they might play for a couple of nights. They needed the publicity and Danny needed the trade. It could help them both. “You must be getting to like the Clough. I thought you’d be long gone by now.”

“I can’t keep away, Danny.” Smiling, Scott perched on a stool. “It all happens up here, doesn’t it? Did you know Kevin Mills?”

Danny had to stop and think for a moment. “Oh, that kid they found in the lake. Bloody hell, that was terrible, wasn’t it? I don’t know what I’d do if I found a body. I wouldn’t sleep well at night, that’s for sure.”

“A copper found Kevin, though, so I expect he will have been more used to it—bodies and all.”

“Yeah, I suppose so.” Danny fainted at the sight of blood so God knows what he’d do if he found a stiff. He couldn’t bear to think about it.

“Did you know him?” Scott asked again.

“Me? No. Did you?”

“No. I’d never seen the name until it was splashed all over the papers.”

“Dreadful. When he was missing, I saw his mum on the telly. She was asking anyone who knew anything to contact the police—Christ, she was in a right state. Her husband was sitting next to her but he was no help. He just stared into space like a bloody zombie.”

Danny had recognised the young lad’s dad, but he had no idea where he knew him from. People said he’d worked as a taxi driver in the town for a few months so that was probably how. Danny didn’t use taxis very often but there was always one pulling up outside here.

“His parents must be out of their minds,” Scott said. “First Prue, then young Kevin—it makes you wonder who’s next, doesn’t it?”

“Hopefully, that’s it.” The heating was turned up full in the wine bar but Danny still shivered.

“Do you know Jack McIntyre?” Scott asked.

“
The
Jack McIntyre?”

Scott seemed to sigh before he answered. “Yes.”

“Hell, no. I can’t imagine him slumming it in Dawson’s Clough, can you?” Danny laughed at the idea. “It’s a pity. He did a mural somewhere, didn’t he? One of those would look great in here. That might bring in the customers.”

Scott simply smiled at the idea.

“He’s dead anyway,” Danny said. “Died a few months back. He drowned.”

“Yes, so I heard.”

“What makes you ask about him?”

“Prue knew him so I wondered if he’d ever been seen around here.” Scott shrugged. “I’m just curious.”

“Prue knew him? Wow.” It was the first Danny had heard about it. “Are you sure? Who says so?”

“Oh, I think it’s common knowledge. They met when she was living in France.”

“Well, I never. She didn’t mention it to me. God, I wish I had one of his paintings. They’re selling for a fortune now. I wish I had half a dozen, come to that. I could retire.”

“I’m surprised she didn’t mention it,” Scott said. “You did know she’d lived in France, didn’t you?”

“Of course. God knows why she left. All that sunshine and good wine. I wouldn’t come back to the Clough, would you?”

“Probably not.” Scott lifted his glass and took a couple of appreciative sips.

“She didn’t talk about it much,” Danny said, “but she must have missed it. I remember her telling me about that sister of hers visiting. Her sister and brother-in-law visited, that’s it. Prue said she got really drunk. She reckoned it was the stress of putting up with her sister for the whole weekend. She reckoned she’d never get over the embarrassment of that. Said she’d made a right prat of herself. I gather she’d said things she wished she hadn’t when she was drunk.”

“Like what?”

“She didn’t say. I told her, they were probably just as drunk and couldn’t remember what she’d said anyway.”

“That’s what we like to tell ourselves, isn’t it?” Scott emptied his glass. “Time for another, Danny. Will you join me?”

Danny was about to refuse. For some reason, he felt he needed a clear head when talking to Scott. There were too many questions for Danny’s liking. It had been the same the last time he’d been here. Danny had worried then that he might have been sent by the insurance company. To hell with it. Even if he had, no one could prove anything. The fire service and police had been through it all—no one could say who’d caused that fire.

“Why not?” he said. “Thanks, Dylan.”

While Danny poured their drinks and gave Scott his change, Scott talked about the time it took him to travel up from London to Dawson’s Clough. He didn’t say why he was so keen on visiting though.

“What sort of car do you drive, Danny?” he asked.

“I don’t. I prefer two wheels to four.” His bike, taxed, insured and legal in every way, was out the back if Scott chose to look.

“Really? In this weather?” Scott pulled a face. “You’re a braver man than me, Danny Thompson. Give me four wheels—and a cover—any day. I’ve seen some great cars round town, have you? I saw a yellow Ferrari the other day.”

“Does nothing for me.”

“Perhaps there was a meeting of some sort on,” Scott said, “because I saw half a dozen interesting cars. Did you see anything?”

“Nothing. Mind you, I don’t take much interest in cars. Me and my mates, we like our bikes. We go all over on them. We’ve had some great days out in the Yorkshire Dales. A couple of dozen of us met up in Hebden Bridge the other Sunday. That was good.”

The door banged open.

“Customers—welcome!” Danny greeted the four locals with a laugh. “What are you having, my friends?”

Chapter Thirty-One

The queue for food and drinks was a long, slow-moving snake. Dylan scoffed at people who brought sandwiches and a flask of hot coffee to the football matches, but right now, he could see they had a point. It wasn’t the same though. A pie and a pint was traditional half-time fare so, with Luke beside him, he joined the queue.

“What time are you going out tonight?” Luke asked.

Dylan groaned. “Seven for seven-thirty.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means,” Dylan said, “that you can arrive at seven if you must but under no circumstances must you arrive after seven-thirty because that’s when things will be happening. Either drinks will be served at seven-thirty or dinner. It means that the evening will be hell. It also means your mum will be asking me what time we should set off every five minutes. She’ll want to arrive on the dot of seven-fifteen.”

Luke grinned at that. “Sounds like fun.”

They shuffled forward a few inches. “Ha.”

Terminal illness and dentists aside, Dylan hated dinner parties more than anything. He loathed them and could never understand how it could take several hours to eat a bit of food and listen to people boast about their kids.

If Maddie had extended the invite to him, he would have come up with an excuse as to why they couldn’t attend. She hadn’t, though. For some reason, she’d called Bev.

“What a lovely surprise, Dylan,” Bev had said hours after accepting. “She said there would only be six of us there—her and her husband, me and you, and Tim’s business partner—what was his name?”

“Eddie Bryson.”

“That’s it. Him and his girlfriend will be there. Won’t that be nice? I thought it was really kind of her to invite us...”

Within an hour of accepting the invitation, Bev had started the usual panic about what she should wear. While he and Luke enjoyed the football, she was out shopping for a new outfit. She’d buy something and then, as soon as the next invitation came along, claim she had nothing to wear again. She had a wardrobe full of clothes she’d only worn once.

They moved forward and, a couple of minutes later, were at the front of the queue buying two hot meat pies and a pint for Dylan. As they stood to eat, they watched the TV screens for the half-time results from grounds around the country. Dylan gulped down his pint and they were back in their seats to cheer on the mighty Arsenal just as the whistle blew to start the second half.

The game was scrappy with passes from both sides going astray. It wasn’t the poor football that robbed him of his concentration, though. Questions came and went. Sadly, no answers followed.

It was easy enough to know who’d killed Kevin Mills. The same person who’d killed Prue. So who had killed Prue? The same person—possibly, presumably—who’d killed Jeremy Collins and tried to kill Jack McIntyre.

Suspects were plentiful enough.

In Dawson’s Clough, there was wine bar owner and possible insurance fraudster, Danny Thompson. If Prue, during one of her drunken sessions, had mentioned her relationship with McIntyre, and boasted of having one of his miniatures hanging on her bedroom wall, Thompson could easily have decided to break in and—and what? That miniature had been there for all to see. Anyone could have found it easily enough and slipped it in a pocket. No. Whoever broke into Prue’s home had been looking for something else.

Perhaps Prue, under the influence of Thompson’s generous alcoholic beverages, had said she owned a McIntyre painting. McIntyre was famous for huge canvasses and only a knowledgeable few even knew he’d dabbled in miniatures. Perhaps Thompson had been looking for a full-size painting.

That didn’t explain the attempt on McIntyre’s life though. Thompson might be eager to get his hands on money, could even be a killer, but he hadn’t met Prue when McIntyre was almost despatched to his watery grave. She’d had no previous links to Dawson’s Clough and Thompson had lived in the town all his life.

Prue’s landlord, Toby Windsor, was another that Dylan wouldn’t trust as far as he could throw a sulking elephant. Again, though, he hadn’t known Prue before she became a tenant of one of his properties. He could easily have known about her relationship with McIntyre, and about her owning a valuable painting, but he couldn’t have made that attempt on McIntyre’s life.

If, of course, there had been an attempt on McIntyre’s life.

The story of the boating accident was McIntyre’s. Dylan was expected to believe it, just as he was expected to believe that Prue left France because she didn’t want to be involved with a womanising artist. Her reasons for moving to England and Dawson’s Clough could have been completely different. Maybe she wanted to hide from someone and what better place than a sleepy northern town? Maybe McIntyre had threatened her. Maybe she knew something about him that would damage his marriage or his career. Maybe he’d needed to silence her.

According to McIntyre, Martin Collins was more interested in making money than his father’s good health. Would he really kill his father? Dylan thought back to their meeting. Collins had come across as a man eager to expand his gallery, a man who’d said that his father was too set in his ways—but killing one’s father would be a step too far for most people.

“Why do we always get crap referees?” Luke nudged Dylan’s elbow.

“It’s a sad fact of life, Luke.”

Sod it. Dylan pushed it all from his mind and concentrated on the game on the pitch. Arsenal were in danger of losing if they didn’t pull themselves together...

Chapter Thirty-Two

Bev had once seen a TV documentary in which staff at Buckingham Palace had set out a long table for a banquet the queen was hosting. The painstaking procedure had involved white-gloved staff using rulers to check that glasses and cutlery were the exact distance apart. Bev wondered if Maddie Chandler had copied the idea.

She’d thought it wonderfully kind of Maddie to extend the invitation but had been living on her nerves ever since they’d arrived. She hardly dared to take a sip of wine in case she dropped the expensive crystal glass.

Her idea of a dinner party was having friends round for a meal. More often than not, those friends would congregate in the kitchen while she cooked. Or, more accurate, while she took something out of a packet and slammed it in the microwave. They helped themselves to drinks and used any odd glass they could find.

This was too formal for her liking. Everything—from the glasses to the exquisitely folded damask napkins—shouted money and class. As for employing caterers for six guests, Bev thought that was madness. She would have sliced up a melon for the starter and probably cobbled together a chilli or a curry for the main course. Dessert at Chez Scott was always fruit, ice cream or sorbet. She believed it was the company and the atmosphere that made for a good dinner party. Wine helped, too.

Still, the food had been eaten now and they were lingering over coffee served in fragile cups. A handmade chocolate was served with each cup. The chocolates probably cost more than Bev would spend on a week’s food for a family of four.

Perhaps it had been kind of Maddie to invite them, but it didn’t need Einstein present to figure out that Dylan was the one wanted at the table. Bev was simply an irritation.

Maddie was a good host. She was witty and charming, and her smile never slipped as she attended to everyone’s needs, but Bev couldn’t warm to her. Behind the smile was a coldness that was most evident when she spoke to her husband. Although she smiled at Tim when she spoke to him, Bev would bet they’d had a row before the guests arrived. She tried to picture Maddie and Dylan as a young couple but couldn’t. She couldn’t imagine that they’d ever been on the same wavelength.

Tim was the person Bev felt most at ease with. She liked him. He looked a little stressed, but at least he seemed genuine. He was a handsome man, the perfect foil for the beautiful Maddie.

The two other guests, Eddie and Shaz, were an oddity too. Shaz blundered on, talking about nothing in particular, and Eddie smiled indulgently. He looked tired of her company though. He seemed far more interested in Maddie than his girlfriend.

They’d been told that a few friends were calling in later and, just as Bev was finishing her coffee, four people turned up. Bev had forgotten their names within seconds of being introduced, but she was pleased to see them. The more the merrier. It took the pressure off the rest of them to make conversation.

They all moved from the dining room to a vast lounge. Some spilled into the conservatory. Maddie put some music on. Wine flowed freely.

Bev and Dylan wandered into the more informal conservatory and, just as Bev was about to suggest they leave as soon as possible, they were joined by Maddie and Tim.

“Beautiful plants,” Bev said. “I feel as if I shouldn’t come in here because I can kill plants with just one look.”

“We don’t have green fingers either,” Tim said, “but these survive. If they’re dead by morning though, we’ll know who to blame.”

“I noticed the paintings in the dining room,” Dylan said. “They’re good. Are they by anyone I might know?”

“Sadly not.” Tim laughed. “The struggling artist in question is my nephew. He had an exhibition a couple of years ago to raise money for charity and we felt obliged to buy a couple.”

“Ah. I just wondered. Well, with any luck, his paintings will be worth a fortune one day. Like Jack McIntyre’s.”

Bev had known he’d have to drag the conversation round to Prue. She’d tried to tell him that talking about dead sisters wasn’t the done thing at dinner parties, but Dylan had always been a law unto himself.

“I wish,” Tim said.

“I really can’t believe you didn’t know about Prue’s relationship with Jack McIntyre,” Dylan said, addressing them both.

“Not a clue,” Maddie said. “I can’t believe it either. I mean, what the devil would a talent like McIntyre see in someone like her? The idea’s ridiculous.”

According to Dylan, who admittedly had only met her briefly twenty years ago, Prue was a pretty, likeable girl with a lot of friends. Bev hated the way Maddie dismissed her sister.

“We didn’t see a lot of her though,” Tim said. “Our lives were so different, you see. She probably had a lot of boyfriends we never knew about.”

Dylan nodded at that and Bev could see his mind working overtime.

“You saw her once when she lived in France, didn’t you?” he said. “If I recall, you stayed with her for a weekend.”

“That’s right,” Maddie said, “but she never mentioned any men in her life, did she, Tim?”

“Not to me.”

“That night she got drunk and you sat up talking,” she said. “She didn’t mention anything then?”

“Not a thing.”

“Someone must have known about it,” Dylan said. “Someone must have known he was painting again too.”

“Painting again? What makes you think that?” Tim asked. “I thought it was a well-known fact that he’d put down his brushes for good.”

“Oh, he was definitely painting. And those paintings will be worth a fortune.”

“Ah yes, you spoke to his housekeeper.” Tim was dismissive. “She’s probably mistaken. We can’t be sure he was painting. Only McIntyre knew what he was doing and he’s dead.”

“Missing, presumed dead,” Dylan corrected him.

Maddie’s head flew up. “What do you mean? He’s dead. Everyone knows that.”

“Not necessarily.” Dylan ran his finger across a plant’s glossy leaf. “His body was never found, so he could still be alive.”

Maddie laughed at that. “Of course no body was found. Good grief, lots of people are drowned and their bodies get eaten by whatever lives in the sea. He’s dead, Dylan.”

Eddie and Shaz wandered in. Shaz was laughing loudly at something Eddie had said. Her arm was hooked through his in a proprietorial manner.

“Who’s dead?” Eddie asked.

“Jack McIntyre,” Tim said. “We were just talking about Prue’s relationship with the artist and Dylan was saying it’s possible he’s still alive. I suppose it is.”

“Who knows?” Eddie didn’t say “Who cares?” but it hung in the air between them.

“Of course he’s dead,” Maddie said.

“It would be interesting if he was alive though,” Dylan said.

“Dylan.” Maddie slipped her arm through his and, despite the smile, her voice was cool. “I’m paying you to look into Prue’s death, not some drowning accident. Much more of this, and I’ll have to put a stop to it all.”

“I am concentrating on Prue,” Dylan said, “but it’s possible there’s a connection.”

“You’re getting nowhere though,” Maddie said.

Bev bristled on Dylan’s behalf. She also bristled because Maddie had her hand planted firmly on Dylan’s arm. “Dylan’s never yet had a case he hasn’t solved, Maddie. He will find out what happened to your sister. Trust me on that one.”

Maddie smiled sweetly at Bev, those eyes like chips of ice. “We’ll see.”

“Let’s hope so,” Eddie said. “Maddie, we’re running out of wine in there.” He nodded toward the lounge.

Maddie let go of Dylan—reluctantly, Bev noticed—and went off to be the perfect hostess.

Talk turned to easier things, but still Bev was pleased when they were being driven home in the taxi.

“Maddie’s still got the hots for you,” she said.

Dylan smiled. “I know. She clearly doesn’t know that I’m a—what am I?”

“Chauvinist? Misogynist? Pain in the butt?”

“Yeah. That’ll be it.”

“She’s a strange one, isn’t she?” Bev said. “I can’t understand why she’s bothering to employ you to look into Prue’s death when she doesn’t seem to care less about her. Unless it’s just an excuse to get you in her bed, of course.”

“That would be one expensive shag.” He gave her a sideways glance. “Am I worth that much?”

“Never in a million years.”