Jack, in a world of his own, hit the play button again.
This time, Dylan listened more carefully. She’d found out something horrible that had nothing to do with James Carlton.
“Did you give this to the police?” Dylan asked.
“What was the point? It didn’t make Carlton innocent. And it didn’t explain anything else, either.”
That was valid. The police would have said “so what?” The answer to that, of course, was that she could have learned something that put her in danger.
“When she said you’d talk about ‘the other,’ what did she mean?” Dylan asked.
“Dunno.” Fingers were being chewed again. Jack paced the length of the room four times before sitting again.
He knew all right.
“Okay,” Jack said at last. “There’s summat else you should know. She’d just found out she was pregnant.”
“What?” Dylan couldn’t keep the shock from his voice.
“Yeah. She’d bought one of those testing kits the day before. It was positive. She told me and we—we had a row on the Wednesday night. The neighbours heard us, which is another reason the coppers thought I’d done summat to her.”
Dylan despaired. People always had to drip-feed the pertinent facts.
“Was the child yours?”
“Of course it was.” The suggestion that it could have been someone else’s clearly caused offence.
Why could no one lead ordinary lives? Generations ago, men had worked seven days a week and women had raised children. They’d been content with their lot. They’d had no need for complications.
Why had Sam felt the need to complicate things? Why had she seen herself as Dawson Clough’s answer to Miss Marple? And why the hell had she needed to get pregnant, fall out with her boyfriend—
“What was the row about, Jack? She wanted the child and you didn’t? Did you think it could be someone else’s?”
“No. Nothing like that. She was planning to book herself in for an abortion and I wanted her to have it. I thought we could get married, you know?” He shook his head. “The shit hit the fan when I said that. She accused me of deliberately trying to get her pregnant.”
“How come?”
“She used to be on the pill,” Jack said, “but it didn’t agree with her. You can ask her doctor if you don’t believe me. Anyway, she reckoned I’d deliberately used a dodgy condom.”
“And had you?”
“Christ, don’t you start. Of course I hadn’t. What? You think I stuck a bloody pin in it?” He pulled his fingers through his hair. “She was shocked, that’s all. It was a stupid fight that meant nothing. Yeah, we yelled at each other. She even chucked a mug at me. It meant nothing though.”
They must have kissed and made up. Hadn’t she said in her message that she loved him?
“What’s your theory, Jack?”
He shook his head. “I dunno. What’s yours?”
Dylan wished to God he had one. “It’s a funny thing, but on the way here yesterday—” he touched his battered lip, “—I was threatened. Someone tried to warn me away from the town.”
“Eh?” Jack’s eyebrows rose at that.
“Yes. At least, I think they did. There’s a slim possibility it was a case of mistaken identity, I suppose.”
“Who could that have been?”
“I don’t know. I just don’t know.” Dylan was determined to find out though. “Remember to keep this to yourself, Jack. Okay? If anyone asks, I’m a TV producer.”
“A what? Christ.” He grinned at that. “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.”
Dylan hoped so.
Chapter Ten
Dylan had forgotten how quiet Dawson’s Clough was when evening descended. Music blared out from some of the pubs, and a few drinkers stood outside to smoke, but Dylan had the streets more or less to himself. That suited him as he was thinking and the process was always easier when walking. Problems could be unravelled with each step.
One of his problems was Bev. Perhaps he hadn’t been paying attention during their marriage ceremony but he was damned if he could remember her vowing to love, honour and annoy the hell out of him.
If she was going away somewhere at the weekend, why hadn’t she mentioned it? She was playing mind games, that’s why.
Two could play at that. Maybe it was time he pretended to take this ridiculous separation seriously. Not that it was a separation, not really. She’d thrown a strop, for no reason whatsoever, declared him impossible to live with and found him alternative accommodation. Dylan was expected to wait until she got over it. She’d come round, she always did. In fact, she was coming round. Meanwhile, life was hell and it was probably time he invented a young, beautiful, sexy as hell “someone else” to speed up the process a little. Not that Bev had mentioned a “someone else.” No, she was far too devious. She was merely hinting at it so that, when he mentioned it, she could deny all knowledge with complete innocence.
Or perhaps she wasn’t playing mind games. Perhaps when he next spoke to her, she’d tell him she’d arranged a game of tennis with her friend Lucy.
There was only one way to find out. It was just after ten o’clock, the ideal time to call her as she’d be relaxing before she went to bed.
He punched in her number and was pleased when she answered almost immediately. He could picture her, sitting with her feet tucked beneath her on the sofa, watching some rubbish on TV.
“Hi, it’s me.” A bus trundled along and pulled up at the stop right next to him. He stepped back into a shop doorway and put a finger against his ear. “How’s things?”
“Fine. Luke’s just gone to bed if you wanted to talk to him.”
“That’s okay, I’ll catch him tomorrow. I gather he’s staying at my place over the weekend.”
“That’s all right, isn’t it? Your mum said it was okay with her.”
“Of course.” The bus pulled away in a cloud of black fumes. “Yes, it’ll be great. When will you be back?”
“Sunday evening. About sevenish.”
“Ah.” Still no hint of what she was up to. “Where are you going? Anywhere good?”
There was a pause before she said, “Edinburgh.”
Edinburgh? She had no friends in the city. No reason whatsoever to go there. “Really? Is there something on?”
“I’ll have my mobile with me if you need me.”
He’d assumed as much. She might be a lot of things, including secretive and downright bloody annoying, but he knew she’d be available in case of emergency.
“I’ve never been,” he said, “but I believe it’s a beautiful city. Are you sightseeing?”
“Dylan!” She gave a hoot of laughter. “Stop fishing. No, I won’t be sightseeing. Was there anything else you wanted because I’m in the middle of a film?”
“No, I was just ringing for a chat, but it’s not important. I’ll call some other time. I’m pretty busy myself.”
He was about to invent a female he had to meet but dismissed the thought. He hadn’t lied to Bev yet and he wasn’t about to start now.
As he ended the call, he vowed that, at the weekend, he’d sit Bev down and indulge in a spot of straight talking. It was time this silliness stopped. They were a family—him, Bev and Luke. Families belonged together and that was the end of it. He was damned if he was spending any more time in that confounded flat with his mother. Come hell or high water, he was moving back to the marital home.
With that particular problem mentally resolved, he put his mind to the matter of Samantha Hunt. Saint Sam, as he’d come to think of her.
For all that, he liked the picture he had of her. In fairness to her, it was only her father and the loyal cleaner, Alice, who believed the sun shone out of her backside. Dylan knew for a fact that she was wilful. She’d resisted her parents’ plans for university and she must have faced huge opposition when introducing the boyfriend to her father.
She seemed to get on well with everyone and had a l
ot of friends, if her address book was anything to go by. Also, she felt strongly about right and wrong. If she walked round the corner right now and introduced herself, he was sure they’d get on well. They could even talk about cars.
Tomorrow he was visiting her mother and stepfather. As both worked, that had to wait until evening. During the day he’d go through Sam’s address book and phone the people listed. He would also call Frank and see if he’d managed to get any updates from the file currently held by Lancashire CID. It might be worth visiting the library, too, and looking at the local newspapers around the time she vanished.
He walked past Asda. Even at this hour, people were stocking up on groceries. Farther along the road, people queued at the cash machine. In the distance, a sign told him that the Four Bells offered guest ales. The ideal place to make for.
Tomorrow was a brand new day. He’d celebrate today’s lack of leads with a couple of pints.
To get to the Four Bells, he had to walk past a nightclub called Indie Street. A group of young people, laughing and shouting, went inside, treating Dylan to a burst of loud music. He happened to glance at the suit-clad bouncer standing, arms folded, by the door. There was something familiar about the muscles that threatened to split the seams of the black jacket.
“Well, well.”
Dylan approached him. Recognition dawned and the bloke took off down the steps and round the back of the building.
Seeing a couple of missing teeth in his future, Dylan followed at a run. Perhaps he wasn’t as out of condition as he’d thought because he was gaining on him.
The other bloke had the advantage though. For a start, he knew where he was going.
They ran along a narrow road at the back of the club. Terraced houses, most with metal fire escapes, lined the other side of the road.
Dylan narrowly avoided being mown down by a speeding car as they crossed into another similar road. He had no idea where they were heading or even where they were.
He was gaining on him though. Perhaps acknowledging this, the man ran up one of those fire escapes. Dylan, foolishly, followed.
At the top, Muscle Man hammered on a door and then, when no one answered, turned around and hurled his weight at Dylan, who was still climbing the metal stairs.
Dylan felt every bone in his back crunch as he landed on the ground below. He’d had the good sense to pull the thug with him, though, and the even better sense to roll slightly so he didn’t have two hundred pounds of muscle landing on top of him.
Dylan was quicker and more agile. He managed to get astride him and pin him down. It took every ounce of his strength so it needed to be a very quick chat.
“Right, let’s hear it.” He could barely speak and was struggling to force air into his lungs. “Why do you want me to stay away from this place?”
“Dunno what you’re on about.”
Dylan managed to knee him in the privates, which had him moaning in pain.
“You fucking bastard!”
“Angry fucking bastard,” Dylan corrected him. “Right, the cops should be here any minute. Talk to me or talk to them. Your choice.”
Muscle Man had an inner debate with himself.
“Okay.” Thanks to the orange glow from the streetlights, Dylan saw saliva dribbling down his chin. “A bloke asked me to do a job for him. I don’t know any more than that. He told me about your car, said you’d be coming into the Clough on Monday morning, and offered me a grand to send you back to London.”
So it wasn’t a case of mistaken identity. “Which bloke?”
“Not a fucking clue.”
There was a surprise. Not. “Has this man paid you for services rendered?”
“No.”
“So—if you don’t know the bloke, how is he going to pay you?”
“He’s coming to the club. Next week.”
“Day and time?”
“Wednesday. A week tomorrow. I don’t know the time.”
Despite being convinced he’d broken a couple of bones in his spine, Dylan managed to knee Muscle Man in the balls again. Bad move. The bloke had benefited from his rest and struggled out of Dylan’s grip. Dylan staggered to his feet, ready to charge into the muscle when, joy of joys, he heard the welcome if totally unexpected sound of a police siren.
Muscle Man heard it too. He kicked Dylan on the shin and raced off into the shadows.
By the time the siren had faded into the distance, he was long gone.
It was feasible that his story was true. Bouncers made far more money using their fists than they did standing outside nightclubs and politely asking people to leave. His employer would be returning to the club a week tomorrow, he’d said. Dylan would be waiting. At least, he’d be waiting on Monday and Tuesday night. Probably Thursday and Friday nights too.
Dusting himself off and deciding that his bones were possibly where they should be, after all, Dylan headed back to the town centre and the Four Bells.
He needed that drink more than ever.
Chapter Eleven
Marion Roderick in no way resembled the mental picture Dylan had of the woman who’d once been married to Rob Hunt, the same woman who had given birth to the tomboy Sam. She was tall and extremely elegant. Sleek, copper-coloured hair, worn long, glistened in the reflected light of a gold chain she wore around her neck.
“Dylan Scott,” he said when he’d recovered from the surprise. “The private investigator. We spoke on the phone.”
She nodded and smiled in a way that made something tingle inside him. “Pleased to meet you, Dylan. Come in.”
Bearing in mind that Marion ran a centre for preschool children and Alan was a lorry driver, Dylan had thought it fairly easy to mentally calculate the joint income. The brand new Mercedes outside the large modern house seemed out of place. Even allowing for the relatively low property prices in Lancashire, he would have thought the house well above their means. Perhaps they had a hefty mortgage.
She led him through a hall, a well-furnished sitting room that boasted superior-quality furniture and top-of-the-range audio/visual equipment into a large conservatory at the back of the house.
“Take a seat,” she said with that disarming smile. “I’m sorry but Alan’s not home yet. He shouldn’t be long.”
“That’s fine.”
He chose a comfy chair rather than the sofa. Ridiculous, but he felt the need to keep some distance between them. He could still smell her delicate perfume though.
“Thank you so much for agreeing to take on Sam’s case,” she said. “I know the police are doing all they can, but nothing’s happening and I feel so helpless. And I’m sorry I couldn’t meet you at Rob’s. It’s a bit difficult.”
“Ah.” He wasn’t sure what to say to that. He couldn’t understand his own marital problems let alone anyone else’s. “I gather it’s all amicable between you and Rob though?”
“Fairly.” That smile again. “But only because I have the patience of a saint. I mean, I know we’re Sam’s parents, so we can’t completely sever the ties, but even so Rob can make a nuisance of himself.”
Of course they couldn’t sever ties. Just as he and Bev couldn’t.
“So what can I do to help?” she asked.
“Tell me all you can about Samantha. I gather she was due here on the morning she vanished?”
“She was, yes. She was working on her car—” She smiled at that, a laboured sort of smile. “When wasn’t she working on her car? Anyway, because she planned to walk to work, she said she’d come this way and take the children to school.”
“What happened?”
“When she didn’t turn up, I called the house. Rob said she’d left some time ago. I kept ringing her mobile but it went straight to voice mail. I left several messages. Anyway, I took the children to school and kept trying her phone. It was so unlike her, you see. She’s always been so reliable.”
“You get along well, I take it?”
“As well as any mother and daughter get along,” she ans
wered with a wry smile. “We fight like cat and dog and then end up hugging.”
Dylan smiled, but he couldn’t say he understood. Women were a foreign species as far as he was concerned.
Doors were heard closing in the house. Seconds later, a big man came into the conservatory. “My husband, Alan,” Marion said. “Alan, this is Dylan Scott, the private investigator.”
“Hi.” He bent to shake hands with Dylan before giving his wife a quick peck on the cheek and sitting on the sofa beside her.
Dylan held his breath as the sofa protested. Alan Roderick looked as if he spent half his life sitting in a lorry’s cab and the other half sitting in cafés eating fried breakfasts.
“So you’re the latest waste of time,” he said with a smirk. “At least you’re not a clairvoyant, I suppose. How’s it going?”
“It’s early days,” Dylan said, surprised by the animosity toward either him or Hunt. “How do you mean, the latest waste of time? Have other investigators been employed?”
“No,” Marion said, frowning. “It’s just that Alan believes—”
“—it’s a waste of time.” Alan finished the sentence for her. Pinning on a smile, he patted his wife’s hand. “If the police can’t find her, I don’t see how anyone else can. Still, ours is not to reason why. How can we help, Dylan?”
Alan Roderick wore several hundred pounds’ worth of gold—a watch, a thick chain around his neck and three rings. Tattoos banded his neck and both wrists.
“I was asking your wife about her relationship with Sam,” Dylan said. “I’m hoping that someone close to her might have heard her mention something—perhaps she said she might be meeting someone or going somewhere?”
They looked at each other and shook their heads.
“She isn’t a secretive person,” Marion said. “If she’d been going somewhere or seeing someone, she would have said.”
“She isn’t particularly chatty though,” Alan said, and his wife frowned at him.
“Not with you maybe.”
A phone rang out inside the house and the Rodericks looked at each other.
Dead Silent (A Dylan Scott Mystery) Page 8
