Presumed Dead (16 page)

It was just before twelve o’clock when Dylan pulled into his hotel’s car park the following day. He’d had a productive morning, though.

He hadn’t slept much—perhaps he should have had that camomile after all—but he’d had a good journey and met Stevie shortly after eleven. Unfortunately, Stevie hadn’t found anything else, or anything he thought relevant, but that didn’t matter too much because Pikey had phoned.

“Colin Bates? He’s on probation for disorderly conduct at the moment and he’s working at Bannister’s, which is a canning factory somewhere near Accrington.”

“Brilliant. Thanks, mate.”

“You owe me, Dylan. And he’s a mean bastard so if you have to deck him, make sure you’ve got loads of witnesses. Or none. We don’t want you behind bars again.” He cleared his throat. “Sorry, mate. Sick joke.”

“It’s okay. I’m not made of glass. I’m not bitter, either.” Not much. “It’s all water under the bridge.”

“I can fax his mug shot through if you like.”

“You can? That would be brilliant.” Dylan had hunted through his pockets for a hotel bill and given Pikey the fax number…

He left his car, grabbed his bag full of clean clothes and strode into the reception.

“Ah, Mr. Scott.” The receptionist looked at him in the same way she might look at dog shit. “There’s a fax for you.”

“There is? Great.”

She took it, with his key, from the rack and handed it over.

Dylan unfolded it and looked from it to her. No wonder she was a little pale.

“Handsome chap, isn’t he?” he said, unable to think of anything more appropriate.

She nodded, asked if there was anything he needed and, on being assured there wasn’t, went back to her work.

Dylan studied Colin Bates’s photo as he took the lift to his room. A bull-headed man, with no neck at all and his hair shaved off, he would make a good bouncer. If he said you were leaving, you’d leave. It would take a brave man to argue with him. A tattoo in some sort of Celtic design formed a band around his neck. His nose was long and misshapen.

He’d be easy enough to recognise.

For the first time, Dylan unpacked his bag. Before, he’d simply grabbed what he needed from it but, in deference to his clean clothes, he hung shirts and trousers in the wardrobe and put underwear in the drawer.

With that done, he left his room, went back to his car and took off for Accrington.

Most of the snow had gone. Small drifts lay in the lee of walls, but all the main roads were clear. According to weather reports, however, more was heading for the UK.

He stopped at a filling station to ask for directions to Bannister’s. He got lost, asked again at a newsagent’s and got lost again. It was two o’clock before he found the factory. It was a small, ugly concrete building about five miles outside Accrington. He’d hoped to catch people having a lunch break, but now all workers were inside.

Dylan passed the time by wandering around Accrington and buying himself a coffee and a newspaper. He felt as if he was wasting time, but sometimes the job was like that. He’d wanted to visit Terry Armstrong today, but he wanted Frank with him for that and, because of a hospital appointment, his ex-boss couldn’t make it.

Armstrong could wait, though.

At a few minutes to four, unsure what time the shifts were, he was outside Bannister’s main gates. Waiting.

On the dot of five-fifteen, around sixty workers spewed out of huge green metal doors and descended on the gates. They were laughing, shouting and chatting like children let out of school for the long summer holidays.

As Dylan had suspected, Bates was easy to spot in a crowd. He was right at the back, deep in conversation with a younger man. If anything, he was even uglier in the flesh.

He was a big bloke, topping six feet, and broad with it. His walk, which Dylan suspected was supposed to resemble Hard-man Swagger, was close to a waddle. You wouldn’t tell him that to his face, though, unless you fancied a trip to the nearest A&E department.

Most of the workers headed for a couple of waiting coaches but a dozen or so, including Bates and his chum, preferred to walk. Dylan followed at a distance.

They passed a few houses that looked as if they were waiting for the bulldozer, a small boarded-up church and a derelict mill, then came to a large red-bricked housing estate. On the lines of a rabbit warren, it made tailing anyone difficult, and Dylan was thankful when the two men headed for a pub.

The Black Bull was as hideous as Bates. A huge barn of a place with litter blowing across the car park, it boasted at least two cracked windows and one that was boarded up.

Dylan hung around outside, away from the meagre lighting, for about ten minutes, then went inside.

The interior was as unappealing as one would have expected—huge screen TV blaring out, torn upholstery on chairs and benches, empty glasses left on tables, and a bar that was swimming in spilt beer.

Dylan was glad he was driving and could only risk one pint. He only hoped he’d be able to find his car when he left. Hoped it would be in one piece as well.

Bates and his pal were standing at the far end of the bar, still deep in conversation and paying him no attention.

Dylan began staring at the pair until Bates noticed and looked as if he wanted to do something about it. Something involving violence.

“Sorry, mate,” Dylan said, “but I thought there was something familiar about you. We haven’t met, have we?”

Bates looked him up and down. “Nope.”

“Don’t suppose you’ve spent time inside, have you?”

“Have you?”

“Six months in Wandsworth and then Newgate,” Dylan lied.

“What for?”

“ABH.”

“Yeah?”

For a moment, Dylan knew he’d won respect. There were times when first-hand experience of life inside was an advantage.

Dylan had lied to Pikey. He
was
bitter, as bitter as hell, but he’d make it work in his favour.

Then he noticed Bates looking at his clean clothes and shiny shoes.

“Job interview,” Dylan explained. “Some dump up the road called Bannister’s.”

Both men laughed at that.

“Should have guessed,” Bates said. “They send us all there.”

“What? You’re there?”

“Yeah.”

Dylan drank some beer. “I’m still sure I’ve seen you before. How about Dawson’s Clough? I don’t suppose you know the place?”

“Might do.”

“Ah, got you!” Dylan grinned. “You worked at Morty’s. I’m going back a bit, mind. Probably ten or twelve years. That was you, wasn’t it?”

“Could have been.”

“You used to get free drinks for a friend of mine. Anita Champion. Remember her?”

“I might do.”

Did he look cagey? Well, yes, he did, but he was a naturally cagey bloke and it probably meant nothing.

“I’d love to know what happened to her,” Dylan said. “Just vanished, didn’t she? And I’d only seen her the week before, too.”

“I saw her the night she went.”

Now Bates was bragging. Good.

“What? Up at Morty’s?”

“Yeah.”

“What did she say to you? Mention anything about taking off, did she?” Dylan supped his beer, trying to look casual.

“She said a lot.” Bates grinned. “She was way out of it. Pissed as a fucking fart. Kept going on about horses. Reckoned she was going to buy a fucking horse for that brat of hers.”

“A horse?” Dylan laughed. “Where was she going to keep it? At her flat? Tie it to one of the hairdryers?”

“Fuck knows. She was pissed.”

And drugged. “Who was she with?”

“That flash fucker Jackson.”

“Oh?”

“She always had the hots for him.”

“Yeah,” Dylan said.

He was about to ask if Bates had told the police all this, but he knew the answer. Men like Bates only ever said two words to the boys in blue. One was “fuck” and the other was “off.”

Bates’s mate nudged him. “Time we were out of here.”

They both emptied their glasses.

“See you,” Bates said as they were leaving.

“Yeah, right. Maybe at Bannister’s.”

So Anita
had
been with Matthew Jackson that night. Perhaps it was time to board a cross-channel ferry.

It was quite early, not even five o’clock, but Alan Cheyney locked the front door of his shop and went to the storeroom for a cup of tea. A total of four customers had been in the shop but, for once, he’d had a fairly profitable day.

He was still shaking, though. Had been all day.

True to his word, Pete had handed over that thousand pounds and, in turn, Alan had put it through his bank to the rent account. He was still more than four thousand pounds in arrears, but perhaps it had bought him some time.

He’d had a phone call this morning from Jason, the wimp who dealt with the lettings, and Alan had told him he’d have to give up the lease on the shop.

“Are you giving Mr. Armstrong formal notice?” Jason had asked in his usual nasal tone.

Alan had given the matter a lot of thought. In fact, he’d thought of nothing else. “Yes.”

“We’ll need that in writing then. You realise, of course, that you’ll be liable for rents et cetera until the end of July.”

“But if I move out—”

“Until the end of July.” Jason didn’t sound so much of a wimp now. “If you can lay your hands on the agreement, I’m sure you’ll see that—”

“I’ve got the agreement.”

“Good. Then we’ll look forward to receiving the—” pause for him to sniff, as if he was struggling to use the word, “—arrears. Mr. Armstrong’s a good man and he’s given you until this coming Friday. Meanwhile, if there’s anything else we can help you with, please don’t hesitate to contact me.”

Alan would have to keep the shop on and hope he could raise some money. Maybe Pete could give him another loan. He hated asking but there was no alternative. The bank wouldn’t give him anything; he owed them too much.

What a bloody mess.

He still hadn’t recovered from the shock of Armstrong bringing fruit to the hospital. But even more amazing was that the prat had thought Alan had been chatting up his wife.

Bloody ridiculous!

Alan hadn’t spoken above five words to her. He wouldn’t even have known who she was if Len, one of his mates, hadn’t taken the mickey.

There was jealous and then there was Armstrong, it seemed. That beating—Alan still wasn’t sure if it was for daring to speak to Mrs. Armstrong or a reminder that the rent was in arrears.

Terry Armstrong was mad. Stark, staring bloody mental.

If Alan had been in the market for a woman, which he wasn’t, and hadn’t been since his wife walked out, he’d have gone for something prettier than Mrs. Armstrong—

What was that?

Someone was in the back yard.

During the past month or so, a gang of kids had been smashing windows and causing all sorts of damage in the street. That was the last thing he needed.

Just as he reached the door to investigate, it was pushed open, hitting him square in the ribs.

“Sorry about that, Mr. Cheyney.”

He didn’t recognise the face, hadn’t seen it before, but he knew the voice. It was the one that had said, “You’ve got till Friday.” Its owner was responsible for the state of his face and his still very painful ribs.

There were two of them, and when he noticed they were wearing black gloves, his stomach somersaulted and landed in his feet.

“It’s all sorted. I spoke to Jason on the phone this morning.” He waved a shaking hand toward the shop. “The phone’s in there. Call him. Ask him! He’ll tell you!”

“We’ve spoken to him,” the slightly taller of the men said. “We take our orders from Mr. Armstrong, not Jason.”

The other man was strolling around the storeroom, picking up fishing rods before returning them, very carefully, to their rightful place.

“I remember when this was a butcher’s shop,” he said.

Sod that. Alan didn’t care. “Perhaps Jason hadn’t spoken to Mr. Armstrong.” His voice was quivering.

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

Alan took a couple of deep calming breaths. They wouldn’t risk beating him up again. The black gloves were supposed to frighten him, that was all.

“Have you had a good day?” the shorter one asked.

“I have.” Alan dashed to the folder on the desk where a couple of credit card slips and a small amount of cash sat. “See? And all this will go straight to Mr. Armstrong for the rent.”

They both looked at the chits, then the taller one put the cash in his pocket of his leather jacket. He looked enquiringly at Alan.

“If you give me a receipt for that—”

The man roared with laughter. “Hear that, John? He wants a fucking receipt.”

“Dunno what he’ll do with a receipt where he’s going, do you?”

“I can’t see it getting him through them pearly gates.”

The other man picked up Alan’s mobile phone. “Look at this. Top of the range. I’m surprised he can afford a flash thing like this.” He dropped it into his pocket. “He won’t be needing this, either.”

“Right,” Alan said, “you’ve had your little joke.”

The tall one leaned into his face. “We haven’t even fucking started yet!”

The other one went into the shop. Alan heard him try the door to check that it was locked. He came back, looked at Alan for a few moments, then stepped out the back door. When he returned, seconds later, he was carrying a length of thick rope. He nodded up at the steel beams where the old butchers’ hooks still hung.

“That’s where they used to hang the meat, you know…”

Dylan had scant respect for weather forecasters and was convinced they predicted storms, gales and floods to cover their own backs. This time, however, they were spot on. Yesterday, on his way back from Accrington, he’d driven through a blizzard, and at least four inches of snow had fallen overnight. Yet more had been threatened, too, not only for Lancashire but the whole country. Fortunately, the gritting lorries had been ready, the main roads were clear, and Dylan reached Frank’s house without denting the Morgan.

Punctuality was Frank’s byword and he was ready to go.

They’d spoken on the phone last night, and Dylan had been tempted to ask if Frank fancied a trip to France. He hadn’t, mainly because he’d known, deep down, that it would have been a gesture made out of sympathy. There was no need to drag Frank along on what could well be a wild-goose chase just because he thought the chap was lonely.

He hadn’t spoken to Holly about it but, if she objected to funding his trip, Dylan would finance it. Bev had often complained that he was like a terrier with a bone and she was right. If a job was worth starting, it was worth finishing. Admittedly, he had only started this particular job because a) he needed the money and b) he needed to escape his mother and his temporary accommodation. Now, though, he was involved. He wouldn’t be able to rest until he’d discovered the truth.

As soon as Frank was in the car with his seat belt fastened, Dylan showed him the grainy but unmistakable photo of Terry Armstrong and Anita Champion at the fireworks display.

“What do you think, Frank?”

“I think the lying bastard will put it down to coincidence.”

So did Dylan.

“Let’s hope he had nothing to do with her disappearance,” Frank added. “You wouldn’t want the job of telling the daughter that her mother had met the same end as Pamela.”

Dylan shuddered at the thought. “I’d lie.”

He would have to. It would be bad enough telling Holly that her mother was dead. There would be no need to go into detail.

Half an hour later, they were being ushered into the warmth by an unsmiling Terry Armstrong.

“I don’t have anything more to tell you.” The gangster look had disappeared with the smile. Today, he was wearing a blue sweater and blue jeans.

“Yes, we’re sorry to bother you again, Mr. Armstrong, but something else has turned up,” Dylan said.

“Like what?” He didn’t bother to hide his irritation.

“Like this.” Dylan kept hold of the photo. There was sure to be a copy or even the original somewhere, but he wasn’t taking chances. “You being photographed with Anita Champion. Again.” He thrust the photo under Armstrong’s nose. “Now—” he didn’t give Armstrong time to speak, “—I think you’ll agree that it’s no coincidence.”

“How well did you know Mrs. Champion?” Frank asked.

Armstrong was calm. And why not? He had his own way of dealing with problems.

More than calm, he looked relieved, as if he’d been expecting them to ask about something else.

“I didn’t.” Armstrong’s voice was like ice. “I’m standing next to her—if indeed that is her. It doesn’t mean I knew her.”

“It’s a long time ago,” Dylan said. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten.”

“No.”

“Okay, Terry, let’s cut the crap,” Frank said. “I know and Dylan here knows that you’re lying. You knew Anita Champion, no doubt about it. Now, it’s in your interest to tell us how well you knew her. You see, this is starting to look like a murder investigation, and you wouldn’t want the police going through your business again, now would you?”

Dylan, seeing the anger blaze in Armstrong’s eyes, tensed himself, ready for any stunt Armstrong might pull.

“Okay,” Armstrong said at last. “I knew her. Satisfied?”

“How well?” Dylan asked.

“Well enough to sleep with her on three, maybe four occasions.” Armstrong stabbed an angry finger at the photo. “It was supposed to be discreet so God knows how that bloody thing was taken.”

“A bored photographer sent out from the local rag to cover the fireworks display naturally focusses on an attractive woman, I suppose,” Dylan offered in a helpful manner.

“So you had an affair with Mrs. Champion?” Frank said.

“Hardly. I had sex with her. That’s all. I was—still am—happily married, and I’m sure she wanted an affair no more than I did.”

The photo in question had been taken on the fifth of November, 1997, a little over three weeks before she vanished. What had happened? Had Anita made financial or emotional demands? Had she threatened to expose his infidelity to his wife? Or had Armstrong tired of her and decided to silence her anyway?

“Mr. Armstrong, how would you describe your relationship with Mrs. Champion on the twenty-ninth of November, 1997?” Dylan asked.

“I wouldn’t even describe it as a relationship.”

“Where were you on the night of the twenty-ninth of November, 1997?” Dylan persisted.

“At home in London, I imagine.”

“Any witnesses?” Frank asked.

“For fuck’s sake, how the hell would I know? It’s thirteen years ago.” Armstrong calmed himself. “I came to Lancashire to see my wife’s family and we all went to that bloody awful charity dinner. I met up with Mrs. Champion, we got chatting and arranged to meet the following day. On future visits to the area, I called her at the place she worked and we’d sneak off to a hotel for a couple of hours.”

“What about this?” Dylan waved the newspaper cutting at him. “This isn’t an hotel room.”

“That was the last time I saw her. My wife and her family dragged me along to see the fireworks. Mrs. Champion was there and we chatted for all of two minutes.”

“About what?” Dylan asked.

A short angry laugh. “Can you remember what you spoke about thirteen years ago?”

“Probably not.”

“Did you plan to meet perhaps?” Frank asked.

“No. It was only a flying visit because Susie’s father was ill.”

“Presumably,” Dylan said, “you tried to call her on your next visit?”

“I imagine so, yes.” Armstrong thought about it. “That would have been around Christmas. I heard she’d done a runner.”

“I see.” Dylan returned the newspaper to his pocket. “In your opinion, was she the type to do a runner?”

“Yes.”

“Just walk out on her daughter?”

“In my opinion, yes.”

Dylan could see the hard outline of Armstrong’s fists in his pockets, but he wasn’t too worried. Men like Armstrong didn’t bruise their own knuckles. They paid someone else to do it for them.

“And now I’d like you both to leave.” He marched to the front door. “If there’s anything else I can help you with, I suggest you contact my lawyer first.”

“We’ll do that,” Frank said.

As they walked to his car, Dylan couldn’t help thinking that Anita Champion had lived life on the edge. She’d counted some highly dubious characters among her friends. Terry Armstrong, Colin Bates—they were thugs.

So what sort of man was Matthew Jackson? From what Dylan had heard, he was a normal, hard-working bloke who’d done well enough to buy his own garage. Judging by Anita’s other friends, that was sounding more and more doubtful.

He’d driven for a full five minutes before Frank broke the thoughtful silence.

“Wouldn’t it be great to hear Anita Champion’s version of events.”

“Wouldn’t it just.”

“If she decided to play games with Armstrong—”

“I know.”

If she decided to play games with Armstrong, she would be very lucky indeed to receive just a single bullet.

“And we’d find no evidence.” Frank spoke with certainty and Dylan feared he was right. Men like Armstrong were tidy. They cleaned up after themselves.

By the time they reached Frank’s house, snow was falling heavily.

“I’m thinking of taking a trip to France to see Matthew Jackson,” Dylan said.

“I thought you might.”

“Yeah, well, the last time she was seen, she was with him.” He looked at Frank. “It’s a long drive to the ferry, I have no idea if he’s even living in France these days, and it will probably be a waste of time, but do you fancy coming along?”

“Me?” Frank grinned with childish delight. “I’m not totally buggered yet, so I might be able to help. Yes, count me in!”

“I’ll sort it out tomorrow. Are you okay to go on Thursday?”

“Too right I am!”

By the following evening, Dylan had booked the ferry to France and he was looking forward to the trip. On the rare occasions he visited the country, he used the Chunnel. Matthew Jackson lived near Cherbourg, though, so it would be quicker, and cheaper, to take the ferry and skip the long drive from Calais.

He’d also ordered an alarm call for the morning. Other than that, he’d achieved nothing.

Dylan found it odd that, although practically everyone could remember Jackson and his wife, no one, as yet, had admitted to receiving as much as a Christmas card from him. People’s memories of the couple were vague.

If it hadn’t been for an off-the-cuff remark from Maggie, Dylan wouldn’t have heard of the bloke. He wouldn’t have visited Jackson’s old garage and found his address in France, he wouldn’t be planning a ferry trip…

It was as cold as ever in his hotel room. He’d make this one phone call and then find somewhere warmer to end the evening. Her number was in his book and he was pleased when she answered. “Mrs Gibson? Maggie? It’s Dylan Scott. Can you talk for a moment?”

“You’ll have to make it quick.”

“Thanks.” Presumably her husband had gone out for the evening. “It’s about Matthew Jackson. After I spoke to you, I visited the garage he used to own on the industrial estate. I’ve got his address in France and I’m planning a visit.”

“I see. But what does any of this have to do with me?”

“I was just wondering if you could tell me anything at all you remember about him.” Dylan edged closer to the radiator. God, it was cold. “You said he came to Dawson’s Clough with his parents from Scotland. Is that right?”

“Yes, but he wasn’t Scottish. They hadn’t lived there long. In fact, I gather they’d moved around quite a bit. I think he’d spent a lot of time in the Midlands—Nottingham and Stoke-on-Trent.”

“And after school, what did he do then?”

“He worked as a mechanic, but I couldn’t tell you where. Now I come to think of it, I think he might have worked at a couple of places. I don’t know. It’s a long time ago. Anyway, it wasn’t long before he bought his own garage. He did very well for himself.”

Why could so few people remember him? Dylan had asked dozens of people if they’d known him and, although a few had, their memories were vague.

“What about Julie, his wife?” Dylan asked. “Someone said she didn’t come from round here. Is that right?”

His question was drowned out by sudden high-pitched barks. Dylan thought he heard Maggie say something, but whether she was talking to him or the dog, he couldn’t be sure.

Dylan warmed his hands on the radiator as he waited for normality to resume in Maggie’s house.

“Sorry about that,” she said. “Someone at the door. Tess—stop that.”

Were dogs supposed to resemble their owners or vice versa? Maggie and Tess didn’t do a lot for either theory. Maggie was quiet and plain whereas the dog was exuberance on speed.

“You were asking about Julie.” She sounded breathless. “She didn’t come from the Clough and I’m fairly sure she was born in the Cotswolds. It was somewhere posh anyway. I know how she and Matthew met though.”

“Oh?”

“Julie studied at Manchester University and a friend she met up with there came from this area. I can’t remember the girl’s name—Wendy perhaps, or was it Wilma? Anyway, Julie used to visit her and that’s how she met Matthew. The other girl married an American and went to live over there.”

“I see. So Matthew and Julie married, and I believe you said they had two children?”

“That’s right,’ she said. “Two boys. The family lived on Burnley Road—a nice semi. They seemed to be doing very well for themselves. I remember being surprised when they sold the garage and took off. It seemed quite sudden.”

“It’s funny, Maggie, but apart from you, hardly anyone seems to remember him.”

“Oh, well—”

Dylan could feel her embarrassment oozing down the phone line. Maggie the Mouse. Of course, she would have lived in Anita’s shadow. She would have envied her, longed to be like her, both in looks and in spirit. He’d bet a lot that Maggie had been in love with Matthew Jackson. And Jackson wouldn’t have looked at her twice.

“I’m not sure when they left the Clough but it was only about six months after Anita vanished.” She spoke quickly, probably to cover her embarrassment. “So it would have been some time in the summer of 1998, I imagine.”

“He sold the garage in June 1998.” Dylan knew that much. “And you can’t think of anyone who might have kept in touch with him?”

“No, I can’t. Sorry.”

The lack of contact struck Dylan as odd. He might not be great at keeping in touch, but only because Bev was so good at it. She still exchanged Christmas cards with a couple they’d met on holiday before they were married. It’s what people did. Or what most people did.

“Okay, thanks for that, Maggie. I appreciate it.” Dylan ended the call and grabbed his jacket. He wanted a drink and he wanted to get warm.

He left the hotel and walked along to the Pheasant, planning to have a couple of pints before bedtime. He would have stayed at the hotel, but the price of beer was prohibitive.

The first person he saw, sitting at the bar, a newspaper spread in front of him, was Bill Thornton. Dylan joined him.

“All right, Bill?” he said as he waited for his pint to be pulled. “Dylan,” he reminded him.

“I hadn’t forgotten, lad. And no, I can’t say as I am all right.”

“Oh?”

When they’d met before, Anita’s old friend had worn a smile for everyone. This evening, the pint of beer in front of him was untouched, and he looked lost.

“Bad news,” the barmaid told Dylan as he paid for his beer.

“What’s wrong? None of my business, I know, but if I can help—”

“No one can help now.” Bill thrust the newspaper at Dylan. “A friend of mine.”

Dylan read the lead story with a growing sense of disbelief. It told of a local businessman who had hanged himself. Alan Cheyney.