Dead Silent (A Dylan Scott Mystery)

by Wells, Shirley

  “Did she seem happy enough?” he asked. “Did you think there might be something bothering her?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “According to her boyfriend, she’d discovered she was pregnant.”

  “Oh, my.” Marion’s hand flew to her mouth and she felt the sting of tears in her eyes. “Pregnant?”

  “You had no idea?”

  “None.” There was a possibility she could have been a grandmother and she hadn’t known it. “Now you come to mention it, she did seem a bit—distracted when I saw her. I suppose it was that.”

  A mother knows when her daughter has things on her mind and Marion had thought—well, she hadn’t known what to think.

  She brought that afternoon to mind and recalled Sam and the girls walking into the kitchen.

  “What kept you?” Alan had muttered.

  “We’ve been talking.” Sam had answered him defiantly, almost as if she hated him, before hugging the girls close—

  And there had been another thing. She’d clung to those girls as if her life had depended on them.

  “I’ll be here in the morning to take them to school.” She’d spoken to Marion, ignoring Alan completely. Yet, as she’d left, she’d glared at Alan.

  Alan had stormed after her. He’d been back in less than ten minutes, his face like thunder, cursing Sam, saying he didn’t want her around the children—

  “Pregnant?” Marion said again. “Who told you that? Jack?”

  “Yes. According to him, she’d taken an over-the-counter test the day before. I gather they had a row about it.”

  Marion wasn’t surprised. “It would have come as a shock to both of them. They would have coped though. I know they would. Sam would at least. She’s always had endless patience with young children.”

  “That’s useful.” He was smiling at that. “With you having two younger ones, I mean.”

  “Very. Some days, when they were very young, she’d come round and keep them amused so I could have a nap. She’s a good daughter.”

  “She sounds it.” He rubbed at his chin. “Do you know the Indie Street club in the Clough?”

  “No, I don’t think so. A nightclub, is it?”

  “Yes.”

  Marion could have laughed at that. It had been a long time since she’d been familiar with nightclubs. A long time since she’d laughed too.

  In the early days, she and Alan had sometimes had evenings out, but a quiet pub or the cinema had been the height of their social life. Now, they rarely went anywhere together.

  People must wonder about their relationship. They couldn’t be expected to know that, at first, she’d been totally besotted with Alan. He’d been fun. He’d made her laugh. His devil-may-care attitude had been refreshing. He’d had a knack of making her feel like the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, the only woman he wanted to be with.

  Now, he was the father of Lydia and Emma. Nothing more. They even struggled to pretend they cared about each other when they were with other people.

  Marion had stopped feeling sad about it long ago.

  “I don’t know any of the clubs in town,” she said.

  “What about Alan? Do you think he’d know it? Does he go out without you?”

  “Very rarely. He sometimes goes to the pub after work. Half a dozen drivers go to a pub—the Fox and something, I think it’s called.”

  “The Dog and Fox? What a coincidence. I was there last night.”

  “That’s the one. He wouldn’t go to nightclubs, though. I mean, I can ask him if he knows it, but I can’t imagine he will. Why do you ask?”

  “I wondered if he knew anyone who works there?”

  “Not to my knowledge. It’s possible, of course. I’ll ask him for you.”

  Alan had contacts of whom she knew nothing. She knew they lived well thanks to those contacts, but she didn’t know what was involved and didn’t want to.

  She stood again, determined to carry on preparing vegetables.

  “I’ll leave you to your meal. Thanks for your time, Marion, I appreciate it.”

  “You’ll let me know if you learn anything?”

  “Of course.”

  “What do you think?” She had to ask. “Do you think it’s possible that, after all this time, she’s still—alive?”

  He didn’t flinch at the question but she could see his doubts. “I’d like to think so, yes.”

  There was hope, she reminded herself. There was always hope that, one day, she’d see Sam again.

  As soon as Dylan had gone, she gave up on the vegetables and stepped outside to light a cigarette. The smoke stung her eyes, reminding her that it was a mug’s game. Not only was it a filthy habit, it was also a silent killer. She didn’t smoke many, and she didn’t usually smoke at all when the girls were around. Alan coughed his way through sixty a day, but because he bought them cheap from his trips abroad, he had no incentive to quit. One of these days Marion would do just that.

  Now that she was alone, she wished Dylan had stayed. She’d felt exactly the same the last time he visited. His questions unnerved her, frightened her into thinking that he’d find out what had happened to Sam and that it wouldn’t be good. As soon as he’d gone, though, she missed him. She liked him. She had the feeling she could rest her head on his shoulder, tell him her troubles and wait for him to put her world right. He couldn’t, though. No one could.

  With the cigarette smoked, she pulled herself together and concentrated on feeding the girls. After that was homework. They were too young to have much and she was grateful for that this evening.

  Once they were in bed, she stepped out into the still-warm night for another cigarette.

  Life shouldn’t be like this, on and off antidepressants, dreading the mornings, dreading the evenings, dreading Alan’s return. Sometimes she lived her life in a constant state of dread.

  Perhaps she’d fallen for Alan in such a big way because she’d been desperate to escape Rob. Their troubles had started when Sam was born, when a bout of postnatal depression had introduced Marion to antidepressants. Rob hadn’t understood. He’d wanted sex and she’d wanted to escape.

  She stubbed out her cigarette, went inside and poured herself a glass of red wine.

  Three times over the next half hour she tried Alan’s phone and three times it switched straight to voice mail. She left a message and waited for him to call her.

  It was almost ten o’clock when he did.

  “Yes?” he said.

  The abrupt greeting infuriated her, but she didn’t let it show. “Hi. You okay?”

  “Fine. You?”

  As if he gave a damn.

  “Yes. Dylan Scott called in. He was asking questions about a nightclub.” She realised she couldn’t remember the name of the place.

  “Indie Street?”

  “That’s the one. You know it then?”

  She wondered who he met there. She wasn’t stupid. She knew he had affairs. Knew but no longer cared.

  “What about it?”

  “He wondered if you knew it, and if you knew anyone who worked there.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve no idea, Alan.”

  “Right.”

  “What shall I tell him?” she asked.

  “Tell him to mind his own fucking business.” His anger made her glad he was hundreds of miles away.

  “He’s doing his best to find Sam. If there’s anything I can tell him that helps, I shall do so.” Up yours, she thought viciously.

  “You’ll say nothing. I’ve told you, Marion, I won’t have him poking his nose into my business.”

  “He’s not. He’s trying—”

  “He’s doing exactly that. There’s nothing you can tell him, is there?” She heard him mutter something to someone before coming back on the line. “I’ll see you on Friday night.” He cut the connection.

  Not for the first time, Marion wished she could do a disappearing act like Sam. She would love to gather the girls to her, all thre
e of them, and take off for a life in the sun. A horse-drawn caravan and a pocket full of dreams would be all she’d need.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  If Dylan lived in Dawson’s Clough, he’d make sure his local was the Dog and Fox. It had everything he wanted from a pub—good beer, friendly and efficient barmaids, cleanliness, no TVs blasting out the latest so-called reality programs, or jukeboxes deafening customers with the current tuneless crap.

  This evening he’d spotted one of Alan Roderick’s colleagues in there. Dylan recognised him from this morning’s brief visit to Taylor and Anderson’s, the haulage company that employed Roderick. The tattoo of a snake winding down his forearm was difficult to forget. Also, it looked out of a place on a man approaching retirement age.

  Dylan walked round the bar to be closer to him. “Sorry, but don’t I know you?”

  The chap looked at him and shook his head. “Don’t think so.”

  “Ah, I’ve got. You work at Taylor’s, don’t you?” At the bloke’s surprise, Dylan explained, “I called at the yard looking for Alan and saw you there.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  Typical. Of all the blokes who must work at Taylor’s, Dylan had to pick the grumpy bastard. As the man’s glass was almost empty, Dylan downed his pint and banged the glass on the bar.

  “The same again, please, love.” As if it was an afterthought, he added for his companion’s benefit, “Can I get you one?”

  The chap hesitated as if torn between pride and manners. “That’d be good of you. Thank you.”

  Buying a bloke a pint was the best way Dylan knew to break the ice. Over a beer, all sorts of friendships could be made and confidences betrayed.

  When the drinks were poured, Dylan handed over a note. The barmaid looked at it and raised her eyes. “It’s a nice thought, but you can’t get two pints for a fiver these days.”

  Smiling at his own stupidity, Dylan handed over another note. “Sorry, love, I was miles away.”

  “I remember,” Dylan’s companion said, “when petrol went up to a pound a gallon. A gallon that is, not a litre.”

  “I never knew the Ark ran on petrol, Malc?”

  “Cheeky madam!”

  The little joke raised a smile and Malc lifted his glass in a toast to Dylan. “Cheers. Oh, my name’s Malcolm, by the way. Everyone calls me Malc.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Malc. I’m Dylan.”

  The ice was broken and they could chat as friends. All for the price of a pint.

  Malc must have passed his sixtieth birthday, but he looked wiry and fit. He was wearing black denims and a spotless white short-sleeved shirt, and Dylan guessed he’d turn up for work in equally clean clothes. A man with standards. One who wouldn’t suffer fools gladly.

  “Known Alan long, have you?” he asked Dylan.

  “No. I’ve only met him once. I’m up here from London looking into the disappearance of his stepdaughter. His wife’s daughter.”

  “Young Sam. That was a funny do, wasn’t it?”

  “Dreadful for the parents.” Dylan supped slowly on his beer. “What about you? Have you known him long?”

  “Five years. Yes, about that.”

  “Get on well, do you?”

  “He’s all right. A bit moody at times, but he’s okay. I can’t complain because he volunteers for all the long-distance trips and I can’t abide those. I like to stay local to the north-west. I’ll do Scotland at a push, but Alan volunteers for those as well as the Hungary and Romanian runs.”

  So Roderick volunteered for the runs to Scotland? Dylan had searched for Scrabster on Google and discovered it was a small place on the north coast of Scotland. It was where a friend of his, Jim, had sailed from on his frequent visits to the Orkney Islands.

  “I wouldn’t be too enthusiastic either. He’s got friends in Scotland though, hasn’t he?”

  “Has he? Not that I’ve heard of.”

  “Perhaps I’m wrong. Perhaps it’s Sam’s real father who has friends there, not her stepfather.”

  “I wouldn’t know.” Malc took a slurp of beer that left a white froth moustache above his top lip. He licked it off. “I suppose Alan’s got friends there now. He’s been doing that trip for as long as I’ve known him.”

  “How far north does he go?”

  “Very occasionally he’ll go as far as Inverness but usually it’s Glasgow or Edinburgh.”

  Inverness would be about a hundred miles south of Scrabster.

  “I suppose it’s good money,” Dylan said.

  “Better than doing the local stuff, but not great.”

  “What sort of stuff does he carry on his wagon?”

  “Oh, it varies. It’s just general haulage, you see. If anything wants shifting, we shift it. Hungary and Romania are regular runs. We take stuff that a charity sends out there.”

  “I wouldn’t fancy being away from home that much,” Dylan said. “I doubt if my wife would be too keen either.”

  “Mine doesn’t like it. She didn’t used to bother but she likes me at home now. Alan and his missus are younger though. I expect she’s used to it by now.”

  “I expect she is.”

  “She probably welcomes it,” Malc said, breaking into a grin.

  Dylan laughed at that. “Probably. Even when he’s home, they don’t seem to go out together much, do they? Alan comes here on his own, he goes to that nightclub, Indie Street—perhaps they get on better if they’re away from each other.”

  “Ay, well, Alan might not be much to look at but he has a way with the ladies. I expect having a wife along with him would cramp his style, if you get my drift.”

  Dylan shrugged as if Roderick’s alleged affairs were of no importance. “Perhaps his wife has a bloke in tow for when he’s away. What’s sauce for the goose and all that.”

  “Perhaps she does. I dunno.”

  “It must be difficult for them,” Dylan said. “It’s hard to imagine what Marion must be going through with her daughter missing. As Sam isn’t Alan’s flesh and blood, it won’t mean as much to him. Perhaps a situation like that would cause tension between a couple.”

  “No doubt, and Alan’s a selfish bugger. I can’t imagine him putting anyone else first. He looks out for number one.”

  “Yes, that’s the impression I got.”

  “He thinks he’s a cut above the rest of us too. Always chucking money about—boasting about what he’s bought. A boat, cars—I don’t know where he gets his money from but it sure as hell ain’t from driving for Anderson’s.”

  “I assume Marion earns a fair bit.”

  “Perhaps she does. And he’ll make a bit on the side, I suppose.”

  “Oh?” Dylan took a sip of beer as if he wasn’t interested, but he’d love to know where Roderick’s money came from.

  “Yeah. He’ll get cheap booze and cigarettes from Hungary and Romania. Most drivers make a few quid at that. Like I said, I’m not complaining. So long as he does the long-distance runs, I can stay local.”

  Dylan very much doubted that Roderick was making a huge amount selling on alcohol and cigarettes. No, there was more to it than that.

  “I’d feel the same,” Dylan said.

  “He’s a good worker, I will say that. He always deals with his own lorry. He reckons that if no one else goes near it, he’s only himself to blame if there’s owt wrong with it. He’s right.” Malc emptied his glass. “I’m off now, but I’ll buy you a pint before I go.”

  “No, you’re all right, Malc. It’s time I was off too. Save it for next time. I’m sure I’ll see you again.”

  “Okay then. See you. And thanks for the drink.”

  As Dylan left the Dog and Fox, he still had plenty of unanswered questions. Like why did Alan Roderick volunteer for the runs to Scotland? And where did his money really come from? Interesting that he didn’t like people snooping round his lorry.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Dylan had been putting this off as long as possible. It was time to ask a few q
uestions at Indie Street and he hated nightclubs with a passion. Given the choice between a couple of hours in a noisy nightclub or camel trekking with his mother—

  No, he was kidding himself. A nightclub wasn’t that bad.

  It was a little before eleven and, to his relief, the club wasn’t as noisy or as crowded as he’d expected. A long-haired man in his mid-twenties, caged behind a bank of enormous speakers, was playing music. The Black Eyed Peas seemed to be his favourite band. A long, curving bar, lit with neon blue, was staffed by half a dozen teenagers wearing black shirts that bore an electric blue Indie Street logo. A few young people danced beneath streaks of light in every colour of the rainbow.

  Perhaps that was why he hated nightclubs. They made him feel closer to sixty-eight than thirty-eight.

  He perched on one of the blue upholstered metal-framed stools at the bar and waited to be served. One thing was certain, he wouldn’t be drinking Black Sheep. The plus point though was that his car was safe in the hotel’s car park. He could drink the place dry if he chose.

  “A double whisky, please. On the rocks,” he added.

  “Coming up, sir,” the young girl chirped.

  He hated being called sir too. Perhaps Bev was right and he was turning into a grumpy old man.

  “Thanks,” he said as she handed over his drink. “Looks like I’ll be keeping myself company. Is it always this quiet?”

  “It can be on Wednesdays.” She looked the length of the bar, saw that no one was waiting to be served and said, “Is this your first visit?”

  “It is, yes. I have friends up here and was hoping to see some of them in here. You know James Carlton, do you?”

  “Yeah, but he’s never in on Wednesdays. You’d do better to call in over the weekend.”

  “Oh, right. What about Alan Roderick?”

  “He’s a driver and he might not even be in the country. You can never tell which night he’ll be in.”

  “Sam Hunt? Jack Fleming?”

  “Blimey.” She saw that a couple of young women were waiting to be served. “Hang on a minute,” she said to Dylan.

  She served the two women, then three more customers. It was five minutes before she returned to stand across the bar from Dylan.