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.
“I found out last night,” Bill said, “and I still can’t take it in.”
Dylan couldn’t, either. He didn’t like it. He’d asked a few questions and then Cheyney decided to end it all. Coincidence?
“Knew him well, did you?”
“I did, yes. It’s funny, isn’t it,” Bill murmured, “how you think you know someone? Mind, I were only thinking—not long before he were beaten up by them thugs—that he looked as if he had things on his mind.”
“He was beaten up, you say?”
“He were. That would have been a fortnight ago. The Monday night it were. He were in here drinking with me and Geoff, and then some evil buggers, pardon my French, beat him up when he were walking home. Ended up in hospital, he did. Busted ribs, stitches.” His anger at the attack left him on a long sigh. “And now he’s gone. Dead. Bloody hanged himself. Christ, nothing’s that bad, is it?”
“Depression’s a terrible thing though,” Dylan said.
“It is, yet I can’t believe he were depressed. He’s not the type. Or weren’t the type,” he corrected himself. “He’s been through some bad times, but he’s never let it beat him. First, his son were killed in a car accident. Nineteen, the lad were. No age, is it? Going too fast, of course, but then, kids do, don’t they?”
Dylan nodded.
“That were years ago. Then his wife left him. Not long after that, he lost his job.”
“Perhaps it all piled up.”
“Must have, I suppose. Funny, though. I mean, there can’t be nothing worse than losing a child, can there?”
“No.” Dylan often wondered if parents ever recovered from that. He knew he wouldn’t cope if anything happened to Luke. A tragedy like that went against all laws of nature. “It’s the worst thing imaginable.”
“So to come through that—” Shaking his head, Bill tossed the newspaper aside.
“I spoke to him. I called at his shop to ask him about Anita Champion.”
“I know. He were telling us about that when we had a drink with him. And he were talking about his business. It weren’t going well. All the same, I can’t see summat like that bothering him. He were one of those who’d get by. He’d driven lorries for years. It were when he lost his job he decided to open that fishing shop. We all said it were a daft idea. I mean, who goes fishing these days? But he said he’d give it a try. If it failed, he said he’d go back and get a job lorry driving.”
Dylan could think of nothing to say. Bill was clearly upset, and who could blame him?
“I wonder what’ll happen to his shop now,” Bill said. “It were a butcher’s for years. Of course, when old Sam retired, his kids didn’t want to know, so it were sold. Terry Armstrong owns it now. He owns all them shops along there. Come to think of it, he owns most of Dawson’s Clough.”
“So I gather.”
It was mention of Armstrong that made Dylan pick up the newspaper and read the report more carefully. The article was brief and mainly concentrated on the number of suicides in the area during the past five years. The forensics team would have gone over the place carefully. If the police we
ren’t interested in interviewing anyone, and they clearly weren’t, it was a suicide.
“When you say he was beaten up, Bill, what exactly happened?”
“Just that. He were walking home from here when two blokes jumped him. They kicked him about and left him for dead. Luckily, a copper found him and got an ambulance. I expect they thought he’d got money on him. Kids today, they’ll do anything for a couple of quid.”
Dylan nodded at the truth of that.
Perhaps he was looking for things that didn’t exist. Maybe Cheyney’s links to Anita Champion and Terry Armstrong were nothing more than coincidence. Perhaps the bloke hanged himself because the business was failing. He wouldn’t be the first to do that.
As sad as it was, Alan Cheyney wasn’t his problem. The man had committed suicide and it was too late for anyone to do anything for him now.
Dylan’s problem was finding out what had happened to Anita Champion. And hopefully, he’d learn a little more tomorrow.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The following afternoon, after a long car journey made all the more tedious by snow, Dylan and Frank were crossing the English Channel.
Dylan had nipped onto the deck for a breath of fresh air, but he hadn’t imagined it would be quite this fresh. Other than the swirling white wash from the ferry, everything was grey, making it difficult to say where the sea ended and the sky began.
He’d spoken to Holly, and she’d been more than happy to fund his trip. She’d been excited, in fact, believing that Dylan was getting close to the truth.
“I expect it will come to nothing,” he’d warned her, “but, as far as we know, Matthew Jackson was the last person to see your mother that night.” He’d stopped himself, just in time, from saying “to see your mother alive.”
It could be that Anita Champion had taken off with the love of her life and was currently buying croissants and speaking French. Dylan tried to convince himself of that. In his heart of hearts, though, he believed she was dead. Her life had been too—too what, he wondered. Joyful? She had enjoyed playing games and she had chosen dangerous playmates.
Yet he liked her. More than anything, he hoped she was alive.
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