DS01 - Presumed Dead

by Shirley Wells

  “That was 1992, yeah? So what brought Armstrong to this neck of the woods, Frank?”

  “He claims it was his second wife, Susie. She originates from Preston. They met when she was nursing in London. Someone knifed Armstrong—only a warning, sadly—and he ended up being nursed by Susie. They married six months later. He claims she wanted to come home, but I reckon the heat was on in London. If someone was warning him off—well, I reckon he wanted a fresh patch.”

  “Was he married to Susie in 1997? When he was at that charity dinner with Anita Champion?”

  “He was, but he was still living down south. He didn’t move up here till 2002.”

  “So why did you have dealings with him up here?” Dylan asked.

  “He’s semi-retired now, but back then, he was still providing his public service—loans at extortionate rates. He was also buying a lot of property to let. He still owns half of Dawson’s Clough.”

  “Go on.”

  “He had competition up here. Maurice Goodfellow, a misnomer if ever there was one, was in the same business. One night, an old mill he’d had converted to fancy apartments, went up in flames. Arson.”

  “An insurance job?”

  “No. More like another Don’t Fuck With Me message from yours truly,” Frank said. “I’d stake my life on Armstrong being involved, but again, there was no shred of evidence. Nothing. Not a bloody sniff of it.” He pointed at the roundabout up ahead. “You need to turn left here. It’s only about a mile from here.”

  Dylan concentrated on the directions Frank was giving until he slowed the car to a stop.

  “This is it?” Dylan had expected a grand place set in several acres with huge electronic gates. What he saw was a modest detached house in a cul-de-sac shared by eleven identical properties. There was nothing to indicate that its owner had amassed a small fortune over the years.

  “It is.” Frank smiled at his surprise. “It’s just the sort of house an honest, hardworking man would own, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose it is.”

  “He still has a place in London,” Frank said, “and I expect his pad in Florida is a bit more upmarket.”

  “We’d better see if he’s available for comment.”

  They exchanged the warmth of Dylan’s car for the icy air. It ought to be too cold for snow, Dylan thought, yet the sky looked full of it.

  Dylan rang the bell and they waited a few moments until Terry Armstrong, wearing black trousers, black roll-neck sweater and quality shoes, opened the door.

  He looked at Dylan enquiringly, then his eyes narrowed as he recognised Frank. “Chief Inspector! Well, well, well. Long time no see.”

  “Ex-chief inspector,” Frank corrected him.

  “Ah, yes, so I heard. Heart attack, wasn’t it? Too much stress?”

  “May we have a word, Mr. Armstrong?” Frank ignored that.

  “Of course. You know me, always happy to help.” The man oozed self-confidence as he closed the door behind them and showed them into the lounge where the furnishings shouted money. Top-of-the-range audio-visual system, expensive leather suite, deep carpet, large signed paintings…

  “So what can I do for you?” Armstrong gestured for them to sit.

  Dylan sat, as did Armstrong. Frank, it seemed, would have preferred to stand, but, possibly feeling the odd one out, he too sat.

  “Dylan Scott,” Dylan introduced himself. “A client has instructed me to look into the disappearance of an acquaintance of yours.”

  “Client? You’re a private investigator?”

  “Yes.”

  “An ex-cop then. Yes, you have the look of one. Kicked out, were you?”

  “As a matter of fact I was. For taking the law into my own hands. Now, as I said, I’m looking into the disappearance of an acquaintance of yours.”

  “Oh?”

  So very confident. Very tanned, too. Who wouldn’t be, though, if they could afford to spend half their lives beneath the sun in Florida? “Yes. A Mrs. Anita Champion.”

  “Anita Champion? No, sorry. The name means nothing to me.”

  “She disappeared thirteen years ago, in November 1997.”

  “As I said, the name means nothing to me.”

  His performance was worthy of an Oscar.

  “How’s the wife?” Frank asked. “Faithful and true, is she?”

  Armstrong’s eyes darkened to pools of black. “She’s well, thank you, Chief Inspector.”

  “Good. I’d hate to think of her…straying and ending up like poor Pamela.”

  “God, yes. Pam. It’s difficult, but life goes on.”

  “Not for her, it doesn’t.”

  “Sadly, no.”

  Armstrong said the right words, but they chilled Dylan. There wasn’t a hint of emotion in his eyes. He was a big man, well muscled. Dark hair was greying, the only sign of the passing years.

  Dylan produced the photo of Terry Armstrong and Anita Champion and showed it to Armstrong. “Anita Champion.”.

  Armstrong stared at it for long, quiet moments. “Sorry, but I don’t recall the woman. Odd that,” he added with a thin smile, “as she’s very attractive.”

  “Very,” Frank said. “And the two of you look to be friendly.”

  “Chief Inspector, I come into contact with lots of people. We chat, we share a joke, and we never see each other again. I’ve no idea where this was taken but, judging by our clothes, I’d guess it was a function—”

  “Dawson’s Clough, November 1997,” Frank said. “The same night that an old chum of yours, Chris Bentley, was murdered.”

  “Bentley, you say?”

  “You remember him all right. You did time together.”

  “Oh, Bentley. Yes, I heard about it, now you come to mention it.”

  “I’m sure you did. And this—” Frank prodded the photo, “—was taken the same night. It was at a dinner to raise funds for the local hospice.”

  “An admirable cause, but I’m afraid I still don’t recognise the lady in question.”

  Dylan didn’t believe him. “Anita Champion was thirty when this was taken. She had an eleven-year-old daughter. She worked as a hairdresser in Dawson’s Clough. Divorced. Husband walked out eight years previous. She liked a good time. Went to the clubs in Dawson’s Clough—Oasis and Morty’s.”

  “No. It means nothing to me, I’m afraid.”

  “Vanished four weeks after this was taken.”

  “Dear me.”

  “People have a habit of vanishing after contact with you, don’t they, Mr. Armstrong?” Frank said.

  “No, Chief Inspector, they don’t.”

  “Okay. They have a habit of ending up dead,” Frank corrected himself.

  “I’ve known my fair share of tragedy, yes.”

  “This, I believe—” Dylan took the photo from Armstrong, “—was taken before you lived in the area.”

  “If it was taken in—when did you say? 1997?—then yes, it was.”

  “So you had no business in the area at that time?”

  “None at all, Mr. Scott.”

  “I’ve heard it said,” Dylan remarked, “that no man could resist her.”

  “I can believe that.”

  “Yet you did?”

  “I imagine I only had a few seconds in her company.” Armstrong was the king of cool. “Any longer and I would have remembered her. Having said that, I was, and still am, a happily married man.”

  “Where is Susie?” Frank asked.

  “Shopping in Manchester. Why?” He gave a soft but chilling laugh. “Did you think she’d been bludgeoned to death?”

  “It crossed my mind.”

  “What a devious mind you have, Chief Inspector.”

  “That’s what a lifetime of dealing with killers does to a man.”

  “I can imagine. Now, if there’s nothing else—”

  “No,” Frank said, “but if I find you’ve been lying, I’ll make sure you’re hauled in front of a judge even if it’s only for double parking.”

/>   “Double parking?” Armstrong seemed to find that amusing.

  “Until I can nail you for the murder of your late wife.”

  “That’s enough, Chief Inspector. I’ve tried to help, but I won’t be accused—”

  “Save it. We’re leaving.”

  They were soon dashing through a light snow shower to Dylan’s car.

  “Well?” Dylan asked when they were inside.

  “I don’t know. It could be that he didn’t know her.”

  “Mm. It could be he did, too.”

  “You think he did?”

  Dylan sighed. “I don’t know. He’s such a practised liar, it’s hard to tell.”

  “Don’t I know it.” Frank rubbed his hands together for warmth. “Brr. Let’s get moving. And don’t spare the horses.”

  Dylan dropped Frank off, then drove to Brightwell Industrial Estate. Having spoken to the grand total of three people who remembered Matthew Jackson, but no one who kept in touch with him, he’d decided to visit Jackson’s old garage.

  The industrial estate was a sprawling mass of units in all shapes and sizes with Brightwell Garage, established before the estate was even thought of, sitting at the entrance. About thirty used cars, all less than three years old, faced the road, and a smart showroom sat behind them. To the side was the service department, where a couple of cars were being worked on. A young man in overalls was busy clearing snow from the forecourt.

  Dylan parked his car and was looking around him when a portly middle-aged man rushed up to him.

  “We don’t see many like this.” He ran a caressing hand over the Morgan’s bonnet.

  “It’s not for sale,” Dylan put in quickly.

  “I’m not surprised. You’d be better off going to a specialist, a classic car specialist.”

  Dylan knew that.

  “It’s in good condition,” the chap said. “You should get a good price on it.”

  “I should. I’ve spent enough on it—time and money.”

  “A mate of mine had a Morgan. Mind, that were back in the seventies. Thought it attracted the women.” He grinned at that. “It never did.”

  “No?”

  “He traded it in for a Lotus, if I remember right. Elise, I think it were. Had that a few months and then got himself an Alfa Romeo.”

  “Really? Well, I’ve had this—” Dylan tapped a fond hand on the roof, “—seven years now.”

  “You’re not a family man then?” This was said with a knowing grin.

  “Yes, I am, actually. We’ve got a Vauxhall Vectra, but my wife uses that.”

  “Oh, well, this is just the thing for a bit of fun driving then.”

  It was. Although dashing up and down the motorway to Lancashire was pushing the fun bit slightly.

  “Are you looking to buy?” The man’s gaze was still on the Morgan.

  “No. I was hoping to talk to the owner of the garage.”

  “You’re talking to him.”

  “Ah, right. Then let me explain. My name’s Dylan Scott and I’m trying to find the gentleman who once owned this garage, name of Matthew Jackson.”

  “I’m Harry Tyler.” Dylan’s hand was shaken. “Now then, Matthew Jackson. The name rings a bell, but I’m damned if I can think why.”

  “Have you had the garage long?”

  “Nine years. Coming up to ten now.”

  “This Matthew Jackson had it twelve or thirteen years ago.”

  “Ah well, I reckon he’ll be the bloke who sold it to Stuart Connolly then. I bought it from him. A lot smaller it were then. Connolly didn’t deal in used cars. Just did the servicing and MOTs. A decent enough bloke. Between you and me though, he could afford to be. Bought this place for a song.”

  “Did he? From Matthew Jackson?”

  “Now that I couldn’t swear to. I might be able to find out, though, if you’ve got a few minutes to spare.”

  “I certainly have. Thanks, I’d be grateful.”

  “In my office. Why is it you’re wanting to find him?” he asked as Dylan fell into step.

  “I’m a private investigator.” Dylan felt something of a fraud calling himself that. “A client is trying to trace her mother, one Anita Champion, and I gather this Matthew Johnson was a friend of hers.”

  “From these parts were she, this Anita Champion?”

  “Dawson’s Clough, yes.”

  “Never heard of her. Mind, I only moved here when the business came up for sale. Before then I lived in Blackburn.”

  He spoke as if Blackburn was in a different country rather than fifteen miles down the road.

  They entered the main showroom and went to a small and exceptionally cluttered back office which housed a desk, two chairs, four tall filing cabinets, dozens of car registration plates, a small monitor showing the main forecourt, a phone, piles of paperwork and a board holding car keys.

  “Now then.” Harry pulled open one of the drawers of a filing cabinet. “If I’ve got it, it’ll be here.”

  “If it’s easier, I can come back later.”

  “No trouble. We’re quiet today.” Lots of seemingly unrelated paperwork was pulled out. “I keep most things,” Harry said, stating what was becoming obvious. “You never know when it’ll come in useful. I’m the same at home, tell the truth. My missus is always nagging me to throw stuff away. If I did, I know I’d need it the very next day.”

  “I know the feeling.” Dylan could sympathize. “I was away for a week once, and when I returned, my wife had hired a skip and cleared out my garage.”

  “No!” Harry was so horrified, he stopped what he was doing. “Whatever did you do?”

  “The skip wasn’t being collected till the next day, thank God, so I managed to save a lot of stuff.”

  “Women!” With a disgusted click of his teeth, Harry carried on searching.

  Minutes ticked by, but Dylan had nothing better to do, and any clue as to Matthew Jackson’s whereabouts would be welcome. Besides, he liked Harry. He liked people who weren’t afraid to talk.

  “Now then,” Harry said. “Here’s a stock-take that Stuart Connolly did. This means we’re in the right era.”

  Apart from stopping to take a couple of brief phone calls, Harry kept on shuffling through papers, sometimes marvelling at what he found, and occasionally deciding something should be thrown out. But naturally, it wasn’t going to be thrown out during the current decade.

  “Here we are. Damn it, I knew I recognised the name. I expect it stuck in my head because of the fancy French address. Now, this don’t mean that your Matthew Jackson sold the place to Connolly, but I reckon he must have.”

  He handed Dylan a sheet of A4 paper that had various, mostly local, telephone numbers printed on it. At the bottom, in pencil, someone had written out Matthew Jackson’s address.

  “This were hanging up on the board there when I bought the place,” Harry explained. “I kept it up for a while because a lot of the phone numbers were useful. But either they’ve changed or we don’t deal with these people any more.”

  “I see. May I copy down this address?”

  “Be my guest. Sorry there’s no phone number,” Harry said. “Funny that. I can’t see the point in it. I’d sooner have a number than an address.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Dylan copied the address with great care. Maggie had thought Jackson had gone abroad. It seems she was right. “This is great. Really. I’ll soon find a number.”

  “I suppose Stuart Connolly kept it in case he needed to send stuff on to the bloke. I’ve never had anything to do with him, obviously, and of course Connolly only kept the place for a couple of years, too. I bet he retired on the profit.”

  “Is that why he bought the garage? As a quick way of making money?”

  “I couldn’t say. All I know is that Matthew Jackson, if indeed it were him, sold it cheap.”

  Dylan took the photo of Anita Champion from his pocket. “Do you recognise this lady?”

  Harry took the old photo to the window
and examined it carefully. From the lack of interest he showed, Dylan guessed he was more interested in cars than beautiful women. He couldn’t blame him for that. Cars were far less trouble.

  “Never seen her before in my life. Is this the woman who’s disappeared?”

  “Yes. Thirteen years ago. Her name’s Anita Champion.”

  Harry shook his head. “Sorry, but I don’t recognise her. As I say, I haven’t been here long. Well, coming up to ten years.”

  “That’s okay. Thanks, anyway. I appreciate your help.”

  Harry walked outside with him. “If you do think of selling the Morgan—” There was a wistful sigh in his voice.

  “I’ll let a classic car specialist deal with it,” Dylan said, and Harry laughed.

  “Yes, that would be best.” He shook hands with Dylan. “Look after it, lad.”

  “I will.”

  Dylan gave the Morgan a few unnecessary revs as he drove away from the garage.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  At least Ian Champion hadn’t done a disappearing act. It had been easy enough to trace Anita’s ex-husband to the small local authority estate in Wigan. Some of the houses showed signs of neglect—rusting cars on the drives, gardens untouched for years, abandoned toys and overflowing wheelie bins forming an assault course—but the four at the end, including Champion’s, were well cared for.

  Receiving no answer to his knock, Dylan walked round to the back of the house. Here, on a large expanse of snow-covered lawn, was a child’s swing.

  A man strode down the path of next door’s garden. Unlike Dylan, who had a thick overcoat on, he was defying the weather by wearing a T-shirt.

  “Excuse me,” Dylan called out.

  The man walked up to the dividing fence. He looked suspicious.

  “I’m looking for Ian Champion,” Dylan said.

  “He’ll be down on his allotment.”

  “And where would that be?”

  “You go down to the end of the road and you’ll see a post office on your left. About fifty yards past that, take a left. Keep straight for a couple of miles and you’ll come to a pub, the Nag’s Head. Just past there, do a right. Keep going until you see a row of sheds on your left.”

  “Thanks.” Dylan tried to memorise the directions.