“And you reckon he was trying to stop you digging into Sam’s disappearance?” Frank was frowning. He clearly found it as surprising as Dylan did.
“I don’t know. All I know is that he wanted me away from Dawson’s Clough.”
“Seems a bit bloody odd.”
“Tell me about it.”
Only a person who knew there was something sinister surrounding Samantha Hunt’s disappearance would want him out of the way. Unless it was a case of mistaken identity.
“Did you manage to find anything out from our friends at Lancashire CID?”
“Not a lot.” Frank chewed on a lettuce leaf. “Sam’s disappearance was taken very seriously but, other than lots of possible sightings that led nowhere, nothing turned up. Oh, except a scarf. They found a scarf that everyone—everyone except Rob that is—said was hers.”
“What made him think it wasn’t?”
“Denial, I think.”
“But why? A scarf doesn’t mean she’s dead.”
“No, but it makes the idea more feasible. It hints at a struggle of sorts.”
Dylan wasn’t so sure that it did. It simply said that she’d been there. “So what’s Rob like? Apart from being a blasted liar.”
“Dylan, he’s not.”
“He’s exactly that. When we first spoke, he said his daughter had been missing for two years. Two years, Frank.”
“Well, yes, but he’s explained that. He thought you specialised in cold cases.” Frank filled their glasses with water. “Like it or not, you’re something of a celebrity in these parts. People think you can work miracles, so they’ll say anything to get you to listen.”
“They must think I’m a pretty stupid celebrity. Surely he knew I’d look it up?”
“Of course he did.” Frank took a long drink of water. “He believed that if he could just get you here and talk to you, you’d take the case. He simply—”
“Lied.”
“No. He exaggerated a little to get you here, that’s all.”
Dylan didn’t appreciate being taken for a fool, but he was here now. And he needed the money. “So what’s he like?”
Frank moved some salad around his plate with his fork. “It’s difficult to say really. I haven’t seen him for a while.”
“What? But I thought he was a friend.”
“He is. Was.” Frank gave a self-conscious shrug. “We exchange Christmas cards but that’s about all these days. His ex-wife, Marion, and my ex-wife used to be friends. Probably still are for all I know. I phoned him when I first heard about Sam, of course. I told him to give me a shout if there was anything I could do, and I tried to reassure him that some of the best officers were looking for her.” He speared another lettuce leaf. “I didn’t hear from him again until he asked for your phone number. It was Marion’s idea to use you. She’d seen your name in the paper—Mr. Miracle Worker—and there was a reference to me. As soon as they realised I knew you, Rob phoned.”
So they weren’t the close buddies Hunt had led Dylan to believe. Still, he wasn’t taking the job because of their friendship. Even if he hadn’t needed the money, he would have agreed to look into Samantha’s disappearance in the hope that he could give Hunt some peace in his final months. Hunt’s daughter had set off for work one morning, ten months ago, and had never been seen again. It was every parent’s nightmare.
Frank put down his knife and fork and took a sip of his mineral water. “He’s seen a medium.”
“A medium what?” Realisation dawned. “Oh, Christ, not a bloody clairvoyant?”
“This one definitely calls herself a medium. I suppose Rob’s desperate enough to try anything. He visited this medium—she’s highly rated and has been on the telly apparently—to see if she could let him know if Sam was dead. That’s what they do, isn’t it? Get messages from the spirit world?”
“Con people out of their money more like.”
“Yeah, well, apparently this medium told him his daughter is still alive. She said she’d seen her.”
“Great.”
“In the same situation as Rob, we’d probably all go a bit mad,” Frank said.
He was right. If anything like that happened to Luke, Dylan would be beside himself. All the same, Dylan knew he wouldn’t waste his breath talking to mediums, clairvoyants or whatever else they chose to call themselves.
“Samantha’s case didn’t get much national coverage,” he said. “Why was that?”
“Come on, Dylan, you know as well as I do that a lot of missing-person cases go unreported. It depends on age, resources, other crimes at the time, even photographs.”
As crazy as it sounded, Frank was right. Dylan remembered his days on the police force when some missing persons, usually cute, blond-haired blue-eyed children, filled all available media slots and some, especially those over eighteen, barely warranted a mention.
“Did you know Samantha?” Dylan asked.
“Not really, no. Rob’s a member of the golf club, or was, and I only really saw him there. Our wives—ex-wives—sometimes arranged things so I’d see him then and sometimes Sam too. I’d recognise her, but that’s about all.”
Frank’s plate was empty. It was taking Dylan twice as long to eat because of his battered lip, so he concentrated on his food and wondered why anyone would go to the trouble of warning him off. It didn’t make any sense. Perhaps, after all, it had been a case of mistaken identity.
They chatted about old times over coffee and then it was time for Dylan to make himself known to Hunt.
“It’s a bit out in the sticks,” Frank said. “Do you want directions?”
“No, I’m fine, thanks. I’ve got the sat nav.”
Chapter Three
Sods Law or Murphy’s? Dylan didn’t know. He did know, however, that since investing in a disgustingly expensive satellite navigation system, he’d spent half his life getting lost. The smug voice’s “Complete a U-turn when possible” drove him crazy.
He parked his car in front of a row of shops, mainly fast-food outlets, and dashed inside the newsagent’s. It had probably featured in a Charles Dickens novel, with the overall-clad man behind the counter stealing the scene.
Dylan inched his way to the counter, avoiding stands full of greetings cards, plastic toys and tins of cat food. “Excuse me, but I’m looking for Hayden’s Row. I wonder if you could give me directions.”
“Of course.” The man behind the counter had been sorting out huge piles of magazines. “You go to the end of this road and—” He broke off, tore a small white paper bag from a string behind him and groped in the pocket of his overall. What he found was a two-inch pencil. “I’ll draw you a map.”
It wasn’t necessary. Dylan was quite capable of following directions, even wrong directions that his sat nav insisted on giving him, but he was grateful for the help.
The man licked his thumb and forefinger to wet the pencil’s lead. Why did people do that?
With the paper on top of the magazines—hiding naked brunettes destined for the top shelf—he began to draw.
“Anywhere in particular?” he asked.
“Yes, Wickham House. Do you know it?”
“Oh, yes. It’s a big place. Huge.” He drew a small square on his map, put a cross through it, held it at arm’s length to check for errors and handed it to Dylan. “There you go. You can’t miss it.”
Dylan had been driving round the area for at least an hour before stopping to ask for directions, so he probably had missed it. Half a dozen times.
“Thanks for your help,” he said. “I appreciate it.”
“That’s not your car, is it, mate?”
Dylan’s car, a 1956 Morgan in Daytona Yellow, always attracted attention. He glanced outside, ready to bask in the reflected glory of those oh-so-fine lines—and saw a traffic warden writing out a ticket.
“Hell’s teeth. Thanks for this. Must dash.” Dylan kept his elbows tight in as he escaped the shop and managed not to bring the entire stock with him.
<
br /> The traffic warden—a vast bulk of what would loosely be described as female—was putting the ticket under the windscreen wiper. Dylan grabbed her arm. “Hey, no. Wait. You can’t do that. I only nipped in the newsagent’s to get directions.”
She looked from his face to the hand on her arm. “That’s what they all say.” She shook herself free. “Pay the fine within seven days and it’ll cost you less.”
“But I’ve been parked here for two minutes. Literally. Two. Minutes.”
She wasn’t particularly tall but she was as wide as she was high. She was more pit bull terrier than woman.
“Then it was an expensive two minutes, wasn’t it?” She nodded at the No Parking sign. “You’d have to be blind to miss that, dear. As I said, pay it within seven days.”
She was walking away.
“Are you married?” Dylan called after her.
She turned to look at him as if he were mad. Which he was. Absolutely furious. “No.”
“Now why am I not surprised?”
Something approaching a smile touched her gruesome features. “Ah, but I’m not the one with the parking ticket, am I? Have a nice day, sir.”
“I’ve certainly made yours, haven’t I?”
She strutted along the street, paying Dylan and his insults no heed whatsoever.
“Welcome to bloody Lancashire.” Clutching the parking ticket and his map, Dylan got in his car.
People—well, Bev really—accused him of being a misogynist. It wasn’t him. It was women. They were the bane of his blasted existence. It was getting to the stage when Dylan wouldn’t much care if he never saw another.
Bev couldn’t seem to grasp that it was expensive as well as inconvenient for him to squat in the smallest flat in the land while she rattled about in the marital home.
The dope-smoking, leaf-eating irritation he was forced to call Mother refused to return to her own home. For some reason that he’d never been able to fathom, he loved the woman dearly, but try as he might—and God he’d tried—he couldn’t get rid of her. Dylan’s hopes had rocketed when her new man, Richard, had taken her to Greece. It hadn’t worked out, though. Richard, she’d claimed, was “too stuck in his ways.” The bloke was heading toward seventy, for God’s sake. He was entitled to be stuck in his ways.
Dylan fired the engine and set off, giving the traffic warden a suitably rude gesture as he passed her.
After driving the length of Barley Road, something he’d already done three times, he glanced at the map and, as instructed, took a left. That was something he hadn’t done, mainly because it looked like a dead end. He drove cautiously and it narrowed still further so the hedges were in danger of scratching the Morgan’s paintwork. After a sharp bend, it widened again, allowing two vehicles to pass each other if the drivers were careful. Knowing his luck, he’d meet a female driver who was busy applying mascara or reading a blasted magazine as she drove. They should be banned from the road.
If the map was correct, and Dylan had to assume it was, there should be a right turn at the end of this road. Sure enough—
The heat was becoming even more oppressive, if that were possible. It was unbearable. Heat was fine. Humidity was the killer. That leaden sky still threatened thunder.
Despite feeling as if he’d stepped into Dante’s inferno, Dylan could appreciate his surroundings. The sweeping hills that circled Dawson’s Clough were spectacular. Apart from the long drive and the split lip, he was happy enough to be in Lancashire. While Bev was “getting her head sorted,” whatever that meant, and while he had to share a pokey flat with his mother, being two hundred and fifty miles away from home wasn’t a huge disadvantage.
He whistled as he spotted it. There, right at the end, peering down at the road from its lofty perch, was Wickham House.
It was rare for him to be impressed by people’s homes. After all, bricks and mortar could be presented in thousands of different shapes and sizes. Wickham House was something special though, and it certainly boasted one hell of a lot of bricks—or in this case, local stone. The building was vast, square with arched windows. Probably a listed building, it had a stately-home air to it. Half a dozen other properties, mostly bungalows, were scattered along the road, but Wickham House looked down on them all.
A four-car garage sat to one side. Neatly trimmed lawns sloped down to the pavement. Two bay trees stood sentrylike beside the wide oak door. To the left of the property, Dylan could see the corner of a tennis court.
He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised by the house. Its owner was an architect, someone who appreciated fine buildings. Dylan had also been assured, by said owner, that money was no object when it came to his fee. Somewhat sceptical of such claims, he’d looked up Hunt on the internet. He’d designed a huge, modern hotel in Manchester that had won him several awards. Hunt wasn’t just an architect, he was a very successful architect.
Dylan drove onto the steep driveway and hoped the Morgan’s handbrake wouldn’t let him down. Parking anywhere else, like the road, wasn’t an option. The way his luck was going, his car would end up on the wrong side of a cattle stampede.
He grabbed his briefcase—there was very little of use in it but it gave him a businesslike air—looked at the ominous black clouds and put the Morgan’s hood up. Then he strode across to that oak door and prodded a finger at a brass push.
The door was opened immediately as if the man looking at him had been standing behind it waiting for him.
“Dylan Scott? Rob Hunt. Good to meet you.”
“You too.” They shook hands. “Sorry I’m late, but I had a bit of trouble finding you.”
“No problem. Are you all right? Your face—”
“What? Oh, yes, I’m fine.” Dylan ran a finger across his lip. “I had a spot of bother on the way here.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Hunt was still for a moment as he gazed at Dylan’s car. The expression on his face was difficult to fathom. Not envy or admiration. It was more—sad. “That’s yours, I take it?”
“It is, yes.”
Hunt nodded but didn’t comment.
He was late forties, thin and gaunt, dark-haired and, against all odds, managed to look cool. His clothes were quality, but either he’d lost weight since he’d bought them or, like Dylan, couldn’t be bothered to try them on for size before buying. Given his state of health, he’d probably lost weight. A slim gold Rolex watch peeked out from a shirt cuff, and the bracelet needed a link or two removing.
“Come inside.” He stepped back, allowing Dylan to enter. “I’m sorry. My ex-wife should be here to meet you, but she couldn’t make it.”
“That’s okay. I’ll catch up with her later.”
“We’ll go into the study, shall we? It’ll be more comfortable there.”
Dylan glanced through a couple of open doors along the wide hallway and thought the whole house looked comfortable. Acres of polished hardwood floor were adorned with expensive rugs.
“Here.” Hunt pushed open a door and stood back. “Take a seat. Now, can I get you something to eat or drink? You must want something after your long journey.” He spoke quickly, as if he didn’t have time for the social niceties.
“I’m fine, thanks. I met up with Frank for a meal.”
“Ah, Frank. I keep meaning to invite him over. Time just flies though, doesn’t it? A drink then? Coffee? Tea? Something stronger? Beer? Whisky?”
Dylan liked persuasive people. “A beer would be welcome, thanks.”
“I’ll have one with you. Won’t be a minute. Make yourself comfortable.”
Dylan chose a large black leather armchair, one of two in front of an attractive stone fireplace. Logs nestled in the grate waiting for the chilly evenings but wouldn’t be needed tonight.
The room was almost as big as that confounded flat Bev had found him. Tall French windows overlooked a rear garden stocked with shrubs and small fruit trees, two stone statues and the tennis court. Furniture consisted of the two armchairs, a large gl
ass-topped desk, black ash bookcases and dressers. Here, again, a large rug covered most of the floor. The walls were decorated with black-framed monochrome photographs of buildings—houses and offices—perhaps designed by Hunt.
Dylan stood up, intending to inspect them more closely, but he didn’t get that far. An open padded envelope on the desk caught his attention. He peered inside. The sight of so much cash, all big-denomination notes, took his breath away. There had to be a thousand pounds there. Maybe two thousand.
He took a closer look at the envelope. It was brand new, still had the seal intact. There was no address.
Hearing his host’s footsteps, Dylan returned to his seat.
“There we go.” Hunt put a tray holding two pint glasses of cold beer on the low black ash table.
The study was in better shape than the man. The room looked relaxed and comfortable. Hunt looked neither of those things. Dark circles surrounded eyes that were a very pale grey. But the man was ill. What did Dylan expect?
“Thank you.” He wasn’t quite sure how to put this. “The spot of bother I ran into—”
“Yes?”
“I was warned away from Dawson’s Clough,” Dylan said. “Of course, it may have been a case of mistaken identity, but I was wondering if you’d had any problems?”
Hunt looked blank.
“I gather,” Dylan said, “that you’re friendly with a reporter. Have you mentioned my coming here to them?”
“No. No, of course not. You told me not to. Are you saying someone beat you up because of Sam?”
“Not necessarily. As I said, it could be a case of mistaken identity. Have you mentioned it to anyone?”
“No. Well, Marion knows, of course. My ex-wife. Sam’s mother.”
Dylan nodded. The girl’s mother was unlikely to want him warned off.
“Oh, and Alice, my cleaner,” Hunt added. “She’s no gossip and I told her not to speak to anyone about it.”
“Then perhaps he got the wrong bloke.” Dylan hoped so. He didn’t fancy running into him again. “So tell me how—and why—you think I can help, Rob. May I call you Rob?
Dead Silent (A Dylan Scott Mystery) Page 2
