“He had a bit of trouble with a previous girlfriend, didn’t he?” Dylan asked.
“Geraldine, yeah. Have you met her?”
“I haven’t, no.” Perhaps he should. Geraldine might know more about Jack Fleming than anyone.
“She’s a right slapper. God knows why he got involved with her in the first place. He stayed with her because she said she was pregnant. She wasn’t. She was just trying to trap him.”
“Really?” That was interesting. Had Jack thought Sam was trying to trap him? “I heard Jack and Sam had a row before she disappeared. Do you know what that was about?”
“No.” She looked annoyed about that.
“But you heard they had a row?”
“Yeah. Sam told me. She was laughing about it so it couldn’t have been serious, could it?”
“I don’t know.”
“She phoned me on Thursday afternoon and she was laughing, said her and Jack had had a right ding-dong. Then she told me she had something exciting to tell me, and that we’d go out on the Saturday night.”
Something exciting? That she was pregnant? Would Sam have been excited about that?
“I heard a rumour that she was pregnant,” Dylan said and Yvonne jerked back in her seat.
“Pregnant? No, surely not.” She took a moment to digest the news. “Well, I suppose it’s possible. She did say she had something exciting to tell me. Blimey.”
“Would she have considered it exciting, do you think?”
“I don’t know.” Yvonne shook her head. “Yes. Maybe. She loved kids and they always gravitated toward her. Whether she’d have wanted one of her own though, I don’t know.”
When Sam had called Jack later that day, she claimed she’d found out something horrible. So something had happened, if Jack was telling the truth and if that tape was genuine, between Sam phoning her best friend and talking of exciting news and phoning her boyfriend to mention something horrible.
“What time in the afternoon did she call you?” he asked.
“Eh? I dunno. Oh, about a quarter to four, I suppose. She was meeting Lydia and Emma from school so didn’t have long to talk.”
So, after phoning Yvonne, Sam had collected her half sisters, taken them to Alan and Marion’s, gone home, phoned Jack, seen James Carlton and been caught kissing him by Alice, slept, woken up, said “see you later” to her father—and vanished.
“Did she seem happy to you?” Dylan asked.
“Very, but she always did. She used to joke that she had her dream car, her dream job, her dream dog and her nightmare boyfriend.” She smiled sadly at the memory. “Everyone liked her. Those coppers kept asking me if she had any enemies. She didn’t have none. Everyone liked her. Everyone.”
“Did she get on well with her parents?” Dylan asked.
“So-so. Yeah, her dad was all right. A bit of a fusspot, but all right. Her mum—well, tell me a daughter who gets on with her mum. She got on with hers as well as I get on with mine. It’s sort of a love-hate relationship, you know?”
“Yes, I know. Did she have friends in Scotland, Yvonne?”
“No. Why do you ask?”
“It was just something I heard. What about her parents? Did they have friends there?”
“Not that I know of. Oh, Alan, her stepdad, might know someone there. He’s a lorry driver and he goes up there quite a lot.”
“Ah, yes, perhaps I’m thinking about that.”
Yvonne looked at him from behind her dark fringe. “She’s dead, isn’t she?”
It was more statement than question and it took him by surprise. “I don’t know. I hope not.”
“If she was still alive, she’d have been in touch with me.”
The sad thing was that Yvonne was probably right. When people left of their own accord, they usually felt compelled to let one of their old acquaintances know they were alive and well.
Long after Yvonne had left, Dylan was still sitting in the wine bar nursing a drink and thinking about her remarks. Like him, she assumed her friend was dead. What other possibilities were there? If she’d been kidnapped, her father would have received a ransom demand. If she’d chosen to take off for sun, sand and adventure, Dylan would have been able to follow the paper trail that even the most careful of people left in their wake. If she’d been involved in an accident, suffered amnesia—if anything like that had happened, the police would have been notified and an identification made.
Only when people were dead was their exit from this world so clean.
It was almost eleven when Dylan began the slow walk back to his hotel. The rain had stopped, but the pavements were slick, and oil glistened where lights caught the roadside puddles. Traffic was light and there were few people on the streets at this time. Unlike London, a city that refused to sleep, Dawson’s Clough called its curfew long before midnight.
Despite the heavy downpour earlier, it was still warm. Uncomfortably so.
As he walked, hands in his pockets, he thought about Sam’s life. According to Yvonne, she’d been happy with her lot. There was no reason to doubt that. She hadn’t known her father was dying a slow death. Unless—
Hunt was adamant that only Dylan and Frank knew about his diagnosis. He hadn’t even told Marion, he’d said. If Sam had overheard a phone conversation though, or found a letter from the hospital, that could easily explain the “something horrible.” If she had learned that her father was dying, what would she have done? Dylan would imagine her running straight to her mother or to Jack, but he couldn’t be sure.
If people were to be believed, she seemed relatively unscarred by her parents’ divorce. Perhaps in a society where an unacceptably large proportion of children came from broken homes, it was easier to accept. It couldn’t be said that she missed her mother because she had all the access to her, and to her half sisters, she wanted.
She loved her job, everyone agreed on that. That seemed likely given the pictures of sports cars adorning her bedroom walls. If she’d believed she was working for a fraudster, that would have been more likely to excite than depress her.
Sam struck Dylan as a well-balanced individual. Strong-minded and wilful too. If she’d had problems with her boyfriend, she would have been woman enough to leave him.
There was her alleged pregnancy. Would that have depressed her? Frightened her? Yvonne thought Sam could have been excited by the news and Marion had been confident her daughter would have coped.
Dylan couldn’t know how she would have reacted, but he’d bet she would have been bright enough to consider all options and either have the baby or arrange a termination.
On the surface, her life had seemed a happy one.
There was her dog too. That she loved the animal was evident from photos Dylan had seen. She wouldn’t have left Rusty…
Just as the first few spots of rain fell, his phone rang. He checked the caller ID, saw it was Frank and hit the button.
“Hi, Frank. You’re up late.”
“What? Oh right, yes, I’ve been watching the boxing. Have you heard the news?”
“What news?”
“Alan Roderick?”
Dylan ducked into a doorway to avoid the downpour. “What about him?”
“Dead as the proverbial dodo. It’s just been on the news.”
“What? Alan Roderick? Dead?” Dylan had a vision flash into his mind of the big strong bloke who drove fourteen wheelers. “How come?”
He expected Frank to say “heart attack.” Dylan had thought on their first meeting that Roderick spent too much time eating full English breakfasts.
“Stabbed eleven times.”
“You’re kidding me. When?”
“Yesterday morning. At home. His wife and kids were out, it said.”
Yesterday morning.
Yesterday evening, Alan Rodericks’ wife—widow—had tried to phone Dylan.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
When the doorbell rang, Marion had been staring at the TV screen and seeing nothing for a
full hour. It was the only light in the room. Reporters still hovered outside like vultures waiting for the best pickings.
The bell rang again, more insistent this time. It was doubtful it would wake the children. They were probably still awake but, if they weren’t, a full marching band could practice in their room and they would remain blissfully ignorant.
The third time the bell rang, a streak of anger sparked through her like lightning. She refused to speak to reporters or people pretending to offer condolences, while really they were merely hungry for gossip—
She marched to the front door and peered through the viewer. The sight of Dylan Scott took her completely by surprise. She wondered if he’d heard the news. Of course he had. Everyone had by now. A murder in Dawson’s Clough made headlines.
She pulled back the chain, turned the lock and opened the door a crack.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “About everything.” He shuffled his feet. “I was wondering if I might have a word.”
She opened the door fully and stood back to let him enter. Ridiculous, but she couldn’t have been more pleased to see him.
“Thanks,” he said.
He followed her into the dimly lit sitting room where, stupidly, she switched off the TV and plunged them into darkness.
“Sorry.” She fumbled for the light switch and bathed them in a harsh light. “Sit down.”
“Thanks.” He perched on the edge of the sofa.
“How did you know I was here?”
“I called Rob.”
Of course. As soon as Rob had heard about Alan he’d wanted her to stay at his place. No, not wanted. Expected. She and Alan had bought this flat a couple of years ago, as an investment, and luckily, the tenants had moved out a month ago. As they hadn’t found new occupants, it was the perfect bolt-hole. Perfect was stretching it a bit perhaps, but it was a damn sight better than staying with Rob.
“Our house—my house—the police—” How did you explain that your home was now a crime scene? She sat down on the armchair farthest from him. “This is okay for a while.”
“It’s nice,” he said.
Nice if you were a dwarf with no belongings and a penchant for grubby beige surroundings.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yes, thank you. The children are asleep.” Why had she said that?
“What happened, Marion?”
The simple question came like a kick in the stomach. “Would you like a drink? I know I could do with one.”
“Thanks. I’ll have whatever you’re having.”
“Whisky?”
He didn’t bat an eyelid. “That would be good.”
Deciding she couldn’t tolerate the cold light, she switched on the TV, muted the sound and switched off the main light. It was better.
Shopping bags still sat on the small counter in the kitchen. On the way here, she’d stopped at the supermarket for the children’s meal. She hadn’t eaten all day, but she’d needed to feed them. All she’d bought for herself was a jar of coffee and a bottle of whisky.
She pulled the bottle from the bag, twisted off the top and found the two best glasses in the flat. They were cheap but serviceable.
“Do you want anything in it?” she called to him.
“As it comes is fine, thanks.”
A lettuce was wilting on the worktop. She couldn’t be bothered to put it in the fridge. Couldn’t be bothered to do anything. A part of her was furious. The other part, by far the larger part, was numb.
The measures were too generous but she carried them through and handed his to him. As the sitting room didn’t boast such a thing as a coffee table, he had to balance it on the arm of the sofa.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked. “Is there someone who could stay with you?”
Didn’t she look okay? She hadn’t bothered with makeup, and couldn’t remember if she’d brushed her hair. “To be honest, I’d rather be on my own at the moment.”
He nodded as if he understood, but how could he?
He took a sip of whisky and seemed to find it to his liking. It was only a blended one, Bell’s or Grant’s perhaps, she couldn’t remember. As long as it did its job, she didn’t care.
“Alan wasn’t working yesterday,” she said. “He’d done a run to Scotland and had a couple of days off.” A large swig of whisky offered warmth as it slid down her tight throat. “He was supposed to be going to look at a motorbike with his mate. Geoff was thinking of buying it and wanted Alan’s opinion. It was Geoff who found him.” She cleared her throat and took another slug of whisky. “He was lying in the conservatory. He’d been—” She swallowed hard. “He’d been stabbed.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I was at the swimming pool,” she said. “I always take the girls there on Sunday mornings. Two police officers, a man and a woman, came to tell me.”
What did he care if it was a man and a woman? Why was she talking nonsense?
“And your daughters?” he asked. “Are they all right?”
“They’re sleeping.” She’d already said that.
She didn’t know if they were all right or not. Like her, they seemed numb. From now on, life was going to be very, very different for them. Neither had shed a tear as yet. Perhaps that was natural. They were both too young to understand the finality of death.
“Was it a burglary?” he asked.
Although he was sitting back on the sofa, taking small sips of whisky now and again, looking relaxed and sympathetic and the sort of person you could confide in, Marion felt like a small insect he was examining under a microscope.
“No one knows.”
“I see.”
He was quiet for long, long moments. The only sound was the distant rumble of traffic and the humming of the fridge coming from the kitchen.
“You tried to phone me last night.” He wasn’t asking her, he was making a statement.
“Yes.” She was tempted to lie, but what was the point? “Silly really, but I wanted to talk to someone. A stranger, you know?”
“I’ve been trying to return your call ever since.”
She knew that but her courage had deserted her. “Reporters,” she said. “They keep calling.”
He nodded again.
“I have to be honest with you, Marion,” he said at last. “Someone didn’t want me in Lancashire. I was warned off twice.” He touched a finger to the lip that had been bloodied and bruised when she’d first met him. “I can’t say for certain, but it’s possible that Alan wanted me off the case.”
Her grip on the glass was so tight she thought it might splinter in her hands. “Alan? Why would he?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
“No.” She shook her head. “I can’t say he was keen on the idea of employing you. He believed we needed to accept that Sam was gone and get on with our lives. He couldn’t understand that the not knowing was stopping us doing that. It’s difficult to sleep at night when you don’t know if your daughter’s safe.”
He looked for somewhere to put his empty glass and, in the end, handed it to her. “I assume Alan had friends in Scotland?”
“Not that I know of.”
“What about Rob? Does he have friends there?”
“None. Why do you ask?”
“Just thinking aloud really.”
They talked for another half hour—about Alan and about Sam. They even complained about the oppressive heat and how, even at this late hour, it was no better.
When he stood to leave, she wished she could have begged him to stay.
“You’ve got my number, Marion. If there’s anything I can do, you know where I am.”
“Thank you.”
She walked to the door with him and, when he’d gone, she locked it behind him. Then she refilled her glass, carried it into the sitting room, switched off the TV and sat in the dark.
There was no phone at the flat and she’d switched off her mobile hours ago. No one could reach her. She would sit her
e until daylight came.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Rob Hunt woke up gasping for breath as he tried to extricate himself from the tangle of sweat-drenched bed sheets.
He jabbed a shaking finger at the switch, and the bedside lamp cast its slightly blue light. The blinking figures of the alarm clock told him it was 4:15 a.m.
He punched at the pillows until they made a backrest and sank into them, wiping the sweat from his face with the sleeve of his pyjama jacket. He felt like an eight-year-old convinced that monsters lurked in dark corners.
The dream was always the same. He was standing on a street, one he didn’t recognise, where tall buildings glowered down on him. It was too dark to see much, except there, at the bottom of the road, was a figure waving to him. It was impossible to tell if it was Sam or not.
He’d run along the street, trying to catch her. He was running and she was walking slowly with her back to him, yet he couldn’t get any closer.
Marion appeared in front of him. She was dressed all in white, in her wedding dress perhaps.
“You can’t leave me, Rob,” she said.
Of course he couldn’t leave her. Sam—if it was Sam—was disappearing from his view, but he couldn’t leave Marion.
He’d been lying on the cold ground next. His arms were being pulled from their sockets. The pain was excruciating. Teeth tore at his skin.
Marion, her white dress soaked in blood, pulled his left arm. Sam pulled on his right.
“Sam!” He spoke her name and she turned her face to his.
Except there was no face. No eyes. Nothing.
He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. It was just a dream. Nothing more than that.
God, what a bloody mess they were in. It was all Marion’s fault. If she hadn’t met that man, if they’d had more children—
How old had Sam been when she’d first decided she wanted a sister? Five? Younger? He and Marion had laughed, he remembered, and told her it wasn’t quite that simple.
Dead Silent (A Dylan Scott Mystery) Page 17
