DS01 - Presumed Dead

by Shirley Wells

  “No doubt,” Frank agreed.

  “You say you were jealous of Anita?” Dylan said. “Surely, that was before he married you?”

  “And after. I could never understand, you see, why Matt wanted someone like me when it was obvious to anyone that he could have had Anita.”

  Dylan looked to Frank, hoping he’d make some suitable comment. He didn’t.

  “He probably wanted me because I was the first girl to turn him down.” The grin she gave was childlike. “He asked me out and, knowing his reputation as a ladies’ man, I said no. I think that was such a shock to him that he couldn’t rest until he’d persuaded me to marry him.”

  “I’m sure that’s not the case.”

  “You met his third wife yesterday?”

  “Er, yes. Briefly.” Very briefly. “His third wife, you say?”

  “Yes. He met Juliet when we’d been living here about a year. From Julie to Juliet.” She tried to make light of it but it must have hurt. “They married within a very short time and it ended about six months later. Then he married Francois. She’s beautiful, too, isn’t she?”

  “She is.” Dylan couldn’t lie. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out for the two of you.”

  “I have no regrets. We have two wonderful children, Jon and Toby, and I have the business. I love my life.”

  She anticipated Dylan’s next question before he could ask it.

  “Matt’s very generous. He invested his money well and he’s quite a rich man now. He won’t allow me or the children to go without.”

  “We saw his boat,” Frank said. “He certainly is a rich man. He told us we’d have very little change from half a million.”

  “Boys and their toys,” she said with amusement. “Yes, he’s done well for himself.”

  “It must have been difficult when you first came to France, though,” Dylan said. “I take it you didn’t have jobs to come to? And your ex-husband didn’t make a lot of money when he sold the garage in Dawson’s Clough, did he?”

  “Oh, but he did.” She was surprised at Dylan’s assumption. “He had it valued just after Christmas, realised exactly how much it was worth, and then sold it for a good sum in the New Year. That was 1998.”

  “But he must have had a mortgage on the premises,” Dylan said.

  “Good grief, no.”

  “Ah, that explains it then.”

  It explained nothing, other than the fact that perhaps Jackson had lied to her. The truth was that he’d taken out a hefty mortgage to buy that garage. He’d sold it at a bargain price and most of the money had gone straight back to the bank. Any remaining funds wouldn’t have bought him a decent car.

  “Matt came into a bit of money, too.” A small frown marring her features. “It wasn’t much, a winning bet apparently, but it helped. I remember we had an extravagant Christmas that year.”

  “What sort of bet?” Dylan asked.

  “He’d been given a tip for a horse race.”

  “He’s one lucky man,” Dylan said, smiling. “Who gave him the tip?”

  “Gosh, I’ve no idea. You’d have to ask Matt.”

  Dylan wasn’t convinced. Was it possible that Jackson’s windfall hadn’t come from an obliging horse, but from someone who paid well for jobs carried out neatly? Someone like Terry Armstrong?

  “You’ve got a prime spot here, haven’t you?” Dylan said as several more customers arrived for coffee and croissants.

  “I love it.”

  “A friend of mine was thinking of opening a restaurant in France,” Dylan lied, “but he couldn’t get the hang of the system over here. Mind, he didn’t have a clue about how to prepare his accounts in England, never mind France. Is it a lot more complicated?”

  She laughed at that. “How would I know? I don’t do any of that. I have an accountant who deals with all that sort of stuff. Maths was never my strong point.”

  So she was hopeless with money. It would have been easy enough for Jackson to lie to her about his financial status, if indeed he had.

  All this speculation about Jackson’s wealth was getting him nowhere. It was Anita Champion he wanted to know about.

  “Getting back to Anita,” he said, “can you remember the last time you saw her?”

  “As clearly as if it happened yesterday. It was the day before she vanished. I’d been in Manchester, shopping, and when I got to the station, she was waiting for the same train back to Dawson’s Clough.”

  “How did she seem?”

  “Chatty. Friendly. But she always did. If she knew how jealous I was, if she had any idea how I longed for her to vanish off the face of the earth, she gave no indication. We chatted about the stunning Christmas decorations in Manchester and moaned about the lack of decorations in the Clough. I asked after Holly and she asked after Matt. The usual stuff.”

  “You got your wish then.” Dylan watched her closely. “She seems to have done just that—vanished off the face of the earth.”

  Her skin turned such a deep shade of red that Dylan was half expecting his first case of human combustion.

  “God, what an awful thing to say. I meant—”

  “I know what you meant,” Dylan said, and she smiled her gratitude.

  “So you weren’t at Morty’s with your husband the following night?” he asked.

  “No.” She didn’t elaborate.

  “Why was that?”

  “Oh, I rarely went. I’ve never been a clubbing sort of person. Besides, I had two young boys at home then.”

  “Of course.”

  She wasn’t a clubbing type, yet she ran a thriving cafe in a bustling street in Cherbourg. That wasn’t the action of a wallflower, was it?

  “When your husband came home that night—the night Anita disappeared,” Dylan said, “can you remember if anything was troubling him? Did he mention Anita? Did he seem bothered about anything?”

  “Not that I recall, no. He didn’t mention Anita, but he wouldn’t, not to me. No, he didn’t really say anything about it.”

  “I see.” Dylan gave her his little-boy-lost smile. “And you can’t think of anything that might help me?”

  “I wish I could. As I said, I was always jealous of Anita, but I wouldn’t have wished any harm to come to her. It’s just awful to think of poor Holly abandoned like that.” She brushed a crumb from the white tablecloth. “I remember the police asking questions at the time, and I really hoped they would find out what had happened, for Holly’s sake, I mean. They never did, though.”

  “I’m hoping to be more successful,” Dylan said.

  “Gosh, yes, let’s hope so.”

  “One more thing, did you know a man called Terry Armstrong?” At her blank expression, Dylan went on, “He only moved to Lancashire about eight years ago, but he made the occasional visit back then.”

  “No, I don’t think I’ve ever heard the name.”

  “Don’t worry, it was a long shot.”

  Dylan really would have to get some cards printed. As soon as he was back in England, he’d do just that. He’d stop at the motorway services and get some printed on the spot. For now, he tore another page from his notebook, wrote his name and phone number on it and handed it to Julie.

  “If you think of anything, anything at all, no matter how insignificant you think it is, will you give me a call?”

  “Of course I will.” She took the page of paper, folded it in half and put it in the back pocket of her jeans. “I’m sorry I can’t help you.”

  Dylan nodded. He was sorry, too.

  He took his wallet from his pocket, but she pushed it away.

  “This is on the house. And make sure you call again if ever you’re in France.”

  Dylan and Frank promised they would, and she kissed them on both cheeks.

  “Give my love to Lancashire!”

  Chapter Thirty

  By Monday, Lancashire was hiding under another blanket of snow. So much for spring being on the way.

  Dylan was paying another visit to the pu
b from hell, the Black Bull. It hadn’t improved during his absence. Windows were still in need of repair, as were the seats, and it looked as if the counter was still awash with the same spilt beer. At least it was warm, though, and it was no mean feat heating a place this size.

  With a pint in his hand, he sat at the bar, careful not to put his arms anywhere near it, and waited to see if Morty’s ex-bouncer, Colin Bates, would put in an appearance.

  Over the weekend, Dylan had compared the handwriting sample he’d obtained from Matthew Jackson with the two words written on the Valentine’s cards Anita had cherished. He’d stared at them for two hours and still couldn’t be one hundred percent certain they were written by the same hand. They were very similar, no doubt about that, but were they the same? He just didn’t know. Not that it would prove anything one way or the other. Matthew Jackson made no secret of the fact that he and Anita had been an item. So he’d sent her a couple of Valentine’s cards. So what? The fact that Anita had kept them must mean that the sender had meant a lot to her though.

  Dylan couldn’t help feeling that the key to all this was Terry Armstrong. Matthew Jackson had come into some money, and it seemed likely that he’d lied to his wife about the origin of his little windfall. He might have won on the horses, but the only rich men in that game were the bookies. Besides, at the time, Jackson hadn’t had enough money to place a substantial bet. No, a windfall had all the hallmarks of Armstrong.

  Jackson’s boat, as he’d been eager to point out, was a Prestige 50. A quick search on the internet had proved he hadn’t been exaggerating when he said there would be little change from half a million pounds. He’d have to be a financial genius, and an incredibly lucky man, to invest a small sum of money and end up owning a boat like that.

  Jackson was one of those rare beings who had no close family or friends. Come to think of it, his ex-wife, Julie, was the same. Both were only children. Matthew had parents who’d travelled around the country for years, and Julie had left home for university never to return. Both lacked the normal ties with home.

  Dawson’s Clough hadn’t been home for either of them, he supposed. Their sons had been born there but it was no big deal for Matthew or Julie to up sticks and make a new life in another country without keeping in touch with old friends or neighbours.

  Dylan would normally hear gossip. No one talked about the Jacksons, though, because no one had ever got close enough to either of them. Julie had said “Give my love to Lancashire,” but there was no one in the town she’d grown close to or kept in touch with.

  Tomorrow, he and Frank would pay Terry Armstrong another visit and they would question him about his relationship with Matthew Jackson. Neither Jackson nor his ex-wife had claimed to know Armstrong, but there had to be a link. Armstrong had to be involved in this. He had to be.

  The door opened and banged shut. Dylan was in luck. And this time, Colin Bates was alone.

  Bates nodded to him.

  “Oh, yeah.” Dylan put on his slurred voice. “Didn’t recognise you for a minute, mate. I still haven’t heard about that bloody job at Bannister’s.”

  Dylan was wearing the oldest jeans he’d been able to find, brought from London specially for the occasion, and a jumper that he sometimes did a bit of gardening in. His trainers, old and with the sole coming loose, had run miles in their time.

  “Where was it we met again?” he asked Bates, as the other man waited for his pint to be pulled.

  “In here, last week.”

  “Ah, that’s it. And before that, you were at Morty’s.” Dylan was proud of his drunken slur. “Christ, I had some times there, did I tell you?”

  “Yeah.” Bates handed over money for his pint and took the stool next to Dylan’s. “Been in here long, have you?” He rolled his eyes.

  “No, this is my first pint. I had a couple in the Vic, and then another in some dive down the road. Started a bit early.” Dylan gave him his finest drunkard’s grin.

  “So I see.” Bates took a long drink from his glass and didn’t seem to mind that his elbow was resting in beer.

  “Ah, Morty’s,” Dylan said. “Them were the days, eh?”

  Bates shrugged at that.

  “Tell you who I saw the other day,” Dylan said. “Terry Armstrong. Remember him? Yeah, you must. He used to visit Morty’s now and again. Lived in the east end in them days. He’s moved up north now though.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “What? Oh, come on, you must have. Him and Anita had a bit of a thing going. That flash prat, Jackson, he knew him, too.”

  “Never heard of him,” Bates said again, more firmly this time. “What about him anyway?”

  Bates sounded genuine about not knowing Armstrong. On the other hand, he was curious about him.

  “Just saying that I saw him the other day.” Dylan tapped the side of his nose and, rather proud of his drunkard’s impersonation, leaned toward Bates to whisper. “I did a few jobs for him back then. To tell the truth, I wouldn’t mind doing another job for him. Easy money, if you know what I mean.”

  “No. What sort of job?”

  “Ah, that’d be telling.” He took a deep swallow of beer. “I wonder if Matt Jackson did jobs for him. Here you are, mate, I’ll get these. I may as well have one more for the road.” Dylan emptied his glass and banged it down on the counter. “Same again, love.”

  When their drinks were in front of them and Bates had muttered his thanks, Dylan said, “Jackson came into some money, you know. I bet the bastard was working for Armstrong. Sod it, I could have done that job. And I reckon we’re talking big money, too.”

  “I never heard about Jackson coming into no money. When was that then?”

  “Just before he left the Clough. About thirteen years ago. Moved to France.”

  “I knew he went abroad. Never heard about no money, though.”

  “Tells everyone he won a bet,” Dylan said.

  “Eh?” Bates laughed at that. “We tried to get him into a poker game once because we knew he’d be fucking crap at it, and the tosser kept telling us that gambling was a mug’s game. He was too much of a wanker to win any bet.”

  “That’s what I thought, which is why I reckon he was working for Armstrong.”

  “Dunno. Never heard of your man Armstrong.”

  “A good payer.” Dylan supped at his beer for a few moments. “Jackson’s wife was okay, though, wasn’t she? Remember her?”

  “A quiet, mousey thing, wasn’t she? Can’t remember her name.”

  “I can’t, either. Yeah, she was a bit mousey, now you come to mention it. Was it Jane or Julie, summat like that?”

  “Summat like that.”

  Dylan was getting nowhere and the beer was awful. As soon as he’d finished his pint, he left Colin Bates at the bar and walked the mile or so to where he’d parked his car. On two pints of that poor excuse for beer, he should be safe to drive.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “He won’t be pleased to see us,” Frank said.

  “No change there then.” Dylan put his foot to the accelerator and joined the motorway.

  All he wanted to know was where Jackson’s windfall had come from. Something or someone was responsible for a wealthy lifestyle that had Jackson showing off luxury boats to complete strangers, and Dylan very much doubted that a horse was responsible.

  His money had appeared too close to Anita’s disappearance for comfort. If Anita had fallen foul of Armstrong, and that wouldn’t have been difficult, he would have wanted her taken out of his life. For good.

  What better than to let the love her life, Matthew Jackson, do the dirty deed for him? Anita had trusted Jackson. She would have been his for the taking.

  “He’ll be threatening us with harassment,” Frank added.

  “So we’ll be nice to him.”

  Dylan was soon stopping the car outside Armstrong’s modest home. Not that the two cars on the drive, both top-of-the-range Mercedes, were particularly humble.

&nb
sp; “His and hers,” Frank said. “We might get to see Susie.”

  It was Susie who opened the door to them, and she came as something of a surprise to Dylan. He’d expected her to be younger whereas she was middle-aged. Her skin was pale and wrinkled, especially round the eyes and lips, and makeup was kept to a bare minimum. Blond hair was tied back in a ponytail and she wore a grey jogging suit. She was slim, but it didn’t look as if she worked on that, and a cigarette was clasped between her fingers.

  “Sorry to bother you, Mrs. Armstrong—it is Mrs. Armstrong, isn’t it?” Dylan asked.

  “Who wants to know?”

  Good to see she shared her husband’s welcoming manner.

  “Sorry, I’m Dylan Scott and this is Frank Willoughby. We were passing and hoping for a quick word with Terry. Is he in?”

  “You’d better come in.” She stood back to let them enter, then yelled up the stairs. “Terry? A couple of blokes to see you.”

  Pad, pad, pad on the landing.

  “Oh, it’s you two.” Armstrong paused to glare at them both before coming down the stairs. “Now what?”

  It was obvious they weren’t going to progress further than the hallway.

  “Sorry to bother you, Mr. Armstrong,” Dylan said, all friendly, “but we’re trying to find Matthew Jackson.”

  “Good God, you’re losing a few people, aren’t you?” Armstrong laughed at his own joke. “First Anita, now this chap called Jackson. Remind me never to employ you to find someone.”

  “The thing is, we’ve heard rumours about this Jackson—you know him, do you?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure? He and Anita were close. Very close if you get my drift.”

  Armstrong’s lips narrowed at that. Jealousy? “I don’t know him.”