Cuthbert's Way (DCI Ryan Mysteries, #17)(28)

Father Peter leaned back in his chair and linked his fingers over the front of his habit, favouring her with another of his mildly condescending smiles.

“As you may be aware, the grounds here at Crayke are extensive. They include various types of terrain, as well as a number of different buildings on the complex, discounting the abbey and monastery. It remained perfectly possible that Father Jacob had taken the opportunity, whilst off-duty, to go for a walk or something of that kind—only to find himself hurt or stranded somewhere, without the means to raise an alarm.”

It all sounded so reasonable, Ryan thought.

“We were concerned not to waste police time,” the headmaster tagged on. “The nearest police station is miles away and, besides, we had Toby to help us.”

“Toby is…the dog?”

“Not just any dog,” Samuel cut in, with a genuine show of enthusiasm. “He’s the best hound we’ve had in the pack for years.”

“Yes, our Captain of Beagling was able to guide Toby along the way until eventually…well, you know what we found,” the headmaster said, and whispered a prayer under his breath before kissing the cross that hung on a long chain around his neck.

“How’s he doing?” Ryan asked. “It must have been quite upsetting.”

“Yes, Toby was quite upset at having to be dragged away from his find—”

“No,” Ryan said. “Not the beagle. The boy.”

The headmaster turned a slow shade of red, giving Ryan all the answer he needed.

The boy was long forgotten.





CHAPTER 13


“Did I ever tell you about Hot Pants Harry?”

Ryan added a few kisses to a text he’d been composing to Anna, clicked ‘send’, then turned to look at Phillips, who’d insisted upon driving the return journey—much to their mutual relief. Whilst he could function admirably on chronic sleep-deprivation for long stretches of time, he was as human as the next and wasn’t too proud to admit when it was time for a break.

“Who’s that?” he asked. “Some collar from the olden days?”

Phillips smiled into the passing darkness. Despite it being only a little after six, the sun had already set, and the road stretched before them like an endless tunnel of blurred lines and flashing headlights against an ink-blue sky.

“Nah, Harry was a lad who lived on my street, growin’ up,” he said, casting his mind back. “Bearin’ in mind I’m talkin’ about the seventies, I s’pose you could say it was the olden days.”

He reached across to turn up the temperature in the car, so that the warm air would thaw them both out.

“I’m surprised you can remember that far back,” Ryan joked. “Why did they call him ‘Hot Pants Harry’—or is that a stupid question?”

“Well, he never actually wore any hot pants, that I know of,” Phillips said. “But he did occasionally like to wear his mam’s dresses. Somebody caught him, one day, and word got about…not long after, somebody thought up a name and it stuck.”

Phillips kept his eyes straight ahead, as they pootled along behind a lorry.

“I probably don’t need to tell you, lad, but, where I grew up, people lived hard lives. They lived hand-to-mouth, most of the time, and only just scraped by—it was the same with us. Thatcher came along, the recession…there was a lot of anger amongst working folk, all round the country.”

Ryan nodded.

“We saw the remnants of it, after that case in Penshaw,” he murmured. “People have long memories.”

“Aye, they do,” Phillips agreed. “Fact is, most people back then were spoiling for a fight. We all knew Gladys down the road was gettin’ beat up by her husband, probably plenty more, as well, who were too ashamed to mention it. There was a lot of people turnin’ to drink, especially, which made things worse…”

Phillips thought of his own father, then shoved the memory away.

Nobody was perfect, after all.

“Growin’ up around that, feelin’ like you’ve got no way out…it was hard,” he admitted.

There was nothing Ryan could say that wouldn’t sound trite, so he simply listened. It wasn’t often that Phillips spoke of his early life, so he knew the reason for doing so now must be an important one.

“Well, you can imagine, Harry got it in the neck more often than not,” Phillips said, his voice full of regret. “Me? I went to Buddle’s and made myself tough, so I could use my fists to fight off anyone and anything that came at me—but Harry?” Phillips shook his head. “He wasn’t made for fightin’,” he said. “God knows, he tried.”

There was a long silence in the car, until he spoke again.

“One night, Harry’s Da’ came home early and found him playin’ with his mam’s clothes again. Ol’ Terry, he’d had a skin-full and went straight for him. I know, because I heard Harry’s screams from three doors down the street.”

Ryan’s stomach turned, as he thought of it. “What happened?”

“I ran downstairs to tell my Da’ and ask him to help make it stop,” Phillips said. “He told me to go back to my room and mind my own bloody business.”

He let out a mirthless laugh.