Presumed Dead

by Shirley Wells

  “Fine.” She shook her head in a despairing sort of way. “I’d better get packing then.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Bev could see Dylan strolling along the street. He wasn’t looking left or right, he wasn’t acknowledging her, but she guessed he knew she was there, sitting by the harbour.

  She still wasn’t sure why she’d agreed to this madcap scheme, but she knew much credit should go to Dylan and his ability as a storyteller. Yesterday, for a few moments at least, she’d been caught up in the story of Holly Champion and the puzzling disappearance of her mother.

  He’d played on her emotions, pointing out that Luke was the same age as Holly had been then. He’d forced her to think of Luke in the same situation, of Luke never knowing what had happened to his mother, of not knowing whether he’d been truly loved.

  Yet the world was full of tragedy, and people vanished all the time. A huge proportion of her pupils came from broken homes. Many didn’t know where their fathers were or, less often, their mothers. Shit happens.

  As much as she sympathised with Holly Champion, her main reason for coming was the thought that, away from all that was familiar, she and Dylan had a good chance of discussing the future in a calm, reasonable manner. She’d thought she might finally convince him that their marriage was over, even make him see that it was for the best. Now, she was no longer sure that was possible.

  Whatever argument she offered, he would simply say he loved her. If she pointed out the flaws in their relationship, he would act amazed, pretend everything in their world was rosy, remind her that all marriages had ups and downs, and then insist there was nothing fundamentally wrong between them.

  “I love you, Bev,” he’d say, and that, he thought, should be the end of it.

  Perhaps she still loved him. She was no longer even sure of that.

  He was one of those comfortable people it was so easy to be around. Or had been. For the past few years, ever since he’d been to prison, he’d been downright difficult to be around. He wasn’t even comfortable with himself.

  Where once he’d been a proud member of the police force, confident and happy, his dismissal from the force had left him bitter, resentful and lacking in self-esteem. She’d tried telling him he was the same decent, honest person, but it hadn’t worked.

  She might still love him, but she could no longer live with the bouts of despair, of self-loathing, drinking—

  She’d called him a drunkard, and she regretted that. He didn’t drink often. When he did, though, he quickly descended into depression. She wished he could accept what had happened and move on. If they went out for a meal or a drink, he would inevitably start talking about how life would have been if he hadn’t been sent down.

  She’d tried to talk to him about that on the ferry to France, but he believed he had moved on. He thought that this job, looking into the disappearance of Anita Champion, had given him purpose again.

  “But what happens when it’s over?” she’d asked him.

  “I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”

  Which translated as him waiting to see what landed in his lap. He would solve the puzzle of Anita Champion’s disappearance—he wouldn’t give up until he had—but then what? He would sink back into his despair and talk of nothing other than how life should be treating him.

  She couldn’t stand that.

  The biggest problem, of course, was Luke. He adored his dad, always had. The two of them had been on the same wavelength right from the start. She hated the looks Luke kept giving her, the endless questions about when he’d see his dad, and when his dad would be home for good.

  Round and round her thoughts went. She looked at Dylan and thought she loved him. When he wasn’t around, though, it was as if a cloud had been banished from the sky. Life was straightforward and pleasant again. She wasn’t constantly reminded of the way her husband had changed.

  If she did love him, it was because he was easy to be with. Because he was—or had been—fun to be around. Because he could make her laugh when she was in the blackest of moods. Because she could trust him with her life. Because, even after all these years, sometimes, like now, she could watch him strolling along and fancy him like mad.

  Yet she couldn’t live with him. He got too down about life, and he dragged her down with him.

  He vanished from her view and she strolled along the harbour, pretending to admire the boats. Dylan had pointed out Matthew Jackson’s boat to her, but there was no knowing if he would come anywhere near it today.

  “He told me he stops by most days,” Dylan had said.

  “Most days isn’t every day.”

  Still, she supposed she had nothing better to do and, away from home, she might be able to think more clearly.

  If she and Dylan had a boat like the Lucky Man, perhaps things would be different. They could take off during school holidays and see a bit of the world. They would be able to relax, far away from the mundane of mortgages, decorating, gardening and ferrying Luke from one social event to the next.

  But they didn’t have a boat like that and never would.

  She wished she could pinpoint the exact moment things had started to go wrong between them. Was it when he’d been accused of assault, and their every waking thought had been about the court case? Perhaps it was when he’d been locked up like a common criminal, so that she’d had to steel herself to visit him. Maybe it was when she’d tried to explain to Luke, only seven at the time, why his dad, his hero, was in prison. Or was it when they’d had to cope without Dylan’s income…

  The exact moment didn’t matter, though.

  After an hour or so of sitting on the harbour wall, she crossed the road and went into one of the many cafes. She had only intended to alleviate the boredom by getting a coffee, but she had crepes as well.

  No, it wasn’t boredom she was escaping. It was the thoughts that refused to be stilled.

  On leaving the cafe, she walked up and down the harbour, keeping Jackson’s boat in her line of vision at all times.

  It was getting on for four o’clock, and she was thinking of returning to the hotel when she saw it. A black convertible pulled into a parking spot right by the Lucky Man.

  She wondered if Dylan was watching.

  The sight of Matthew Jackson, and it had to be him, had her wanting to laugh. “A flash, good-looking sort of bloke” had been Dylan’s description. This man was gorgeous. She only wished her friend Lucy was there because he was every woman’s dream. Tall, well muscled but not obscenely so, and slim. Faded jeans hung low on his hips, and a brown jacket in the softest leather covered a white T-shirt that clung to his broad chest.

  She was only about ten feet from him, but he hadn’t even glanced her way. He jumped onto his boat. He still hadn’t noticed her.

  “You’re stunning,” Dylan had said. “I have the feeling he’ll chat to a beautiful woman.”

  Bev had been warmed by the compliment but now she knew how ridiculous that was. The man would have women hurling themselves at his feet.

  Still, nothing ventured—

  She walked forward and stood watching him for a moment.

  “Hi!” she called out, and he straightened.

  “Hi there!” He came forward and stood on the front of his boat, a hand lifted to shield his eyes from the sun. “What can I do for you?”

  Another laugh tried to surface. It was probably nerves.

  “You’re English,” she said. “What a relief. I’ve spent the last three days trying out my French and getting nowhere. Is this boat yours?”

  “Yeah.”

  Dylan had been wrong. “He’ll be showing you over that boat of his before you can say bonjour,” he’d said. But Jackson was paying her no attention whatsoever. He was frowning, looked as if he a lot on his mind. Somehow, she had to win his attention.

  “I’ve just bought a place on the coast. Provence,” she said, “and, of course, my husband’s after a new boat now. I’m not so sure, though, and as
I keep telling him, it’s my money. But I saw yours earlier, and I could probably get a liking for it. I love those leather seats.”

  “Provence, eh?”

  “Yeah. Mind, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. Everyone’s a bit stuffy. Me, I like a laugh when I go out.”

  He smiled at that, showing off perfect white teeth.

  “How much would this set me back?” She nodded at the boat. “A quarter of a mill? Half?”

  “About half.” He eyed her seriously for the first time.

  “I suppose that’s not bad, is it? I mean, you could almost live on it, couldn’t you?”

  “You could. So what brings you this far north?”

  “We’re heading home for a week, to England I mean, and my husband’s visiting some old friends of his today. I’m killing time until the morning and I’m bored, to tell the truth. Mind, I’ll let him have it if he has too much of the old vino tonight. He’s supposed to be meeting me at the ferry terminal in Cherbourg in the morning.”

  “Would you like to kill some time looking round her?”

  At last!

  “Would I? Oh, wow! Yes, please.”

  He reached for her hand and she jumped down onto the boat. Nice hands he had, too.

  Despite what Dylan had said, Bev knew she was neither stunning nor beautiful. Her ankles were too thick and her stomach wasn’t as flat as it had been a decade ago. Added to that, her jacket made her look big round the hips. But she gained the impression that, even if she’d looked like a budding Miss World, he wouldn’t have shown much interest. If anything, he was amused by her. Perhaps he’d had his fill of lovely young women clamouring for his attention.

  He was engrossed in the specification of his boat now, most of which was going right over her head. He showed her the wine cooler. Bev knew nothing about wine, only that she enjoyed drinking it, but she suspected the wines cooling were of the best quality. He’d come a long way from the Lancashire mill town of Dawson’s Clough.

  “Join me in a glass?” he asked.

  “What? Oh, I couldn’t. I’m sure you have lots to do. I’m just being a nosy nuisance.”

  “Not at all. I’m taking her out for a quick run but another half hour won’t make any difference.” He took two long-stemmed wineglasses from a cupboard.

  He was a showoff, nothing more and nothing less. Pleasing on the eye he might be, but she didn’t warm to him.

  He filled a glass and handed it to her. “Cheers!”

  She had a quick taste. It was good, but she was too nervous to enjoy it.

  Dylan had called her a terrific actress. That was nonsense. She was a good teacher, could bring out the best in her pupils, but her parts in the amateur dramatic productions she loved so much were only average.

  “This is delicious,” she said. “I’m taking a car full of wine back home tomorrow. Do you find that? If you don’t go back with bottles of wine, your friends go a bit sniffy on you?”

  “I haven’t been home for years.” He shrugged as if he never thought about it.

  “And where is home?” She pretended to seriously consider the matter. “You don’t have an accent that I can place.”

  “Probably because I’ve travelled around quite a bit.”

  “Really? That’s nice. I didn’t leave London until I was nineteen. Imagine that. So where did you come here from? I mean, what part of England?”

  “Lancashire. A small town you won’t have heard of.”

  “Try me!” She giggled as if it were some great game she’d invented.

  “Dawson’s Clough.”

  “Dawson’s Clough,” she murmured, trying to look thoughtful. “Dawson’s Clough. Yes, I’ve heard of it.”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “No. I just can’t think—” She narrowed her eyes into what she hoped was a suspicious frown. “A friend of mine moved to that area a few years back.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. Well, when I say friend, he’s not the sort to have friends. I did a couple of jobs for him, that’s all.”

  He took a long, slow swallow of wine. “Anyone I might know?”

  “No.”

  He laughed at that, but it was a forced sound. “You could at least give me his name. I might know him. I lived in the Clough for years. I even ran a garage there.”

  “You won’t know him.”

  “Try me.” He was teasing her.

  She smiled and rolled her eyes at him. “Terry Armstrong, if you must know.”

  “Really?”

  The air around them seemed to crackle with tension.

  “More wine?” he asked, and she practically thrust her glass in his face.

  “Thanks.”

  “It’s funny,” he said at last, “bloody funny in fact, but it’s twelve years since I lived in the Clough and I’d never heard of Terry Armstrong. Now, you’re the second person to mention him in under a fortnight. How strange is that?”

  “Oh? Who was the other person?”

  “Some chap by the name of Scott. A private investigator, I gather.”

  “Christ, I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes!” Bev chewed on her bottom lip. “Terry doesn’t like people sniffing into his business. Mind, I think he’s changed. Settled down now. The last time I spoke to him, about a year ago now, he was quite the man of leisure.”

  “So why’s everyone so interested in him?”

  “I don’t think everyone is. He’s got a reputation, that’s all. He’s done all right by me, though. If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t be thinking of buying my Sam a boat. Do a good job for him, and he pays well. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?”

  “Nothing at all.”

  Dylan was wrong. Jackson didn’t know Terry Armstrong. What’s more, he was suspicious now.

  “One thing’s certain,” she said, “you don’t get the sort of money that buys comfort like this from a nine-to-five job.”

  “No.”

  “You had a garage, you say, in Dawson’s Clough? I bet you didn’t make enough on that to buy this boat?”

  “I didn’t. Sorry, I don’t know your name.”

  “Sylvia. And who are you?”

  “Matt.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Matt, but now, I’ve taken up more than enough of your time.” She emptied her glass. “I’ll leave you to it.” Her legs felt as if they might not co-operate. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so nervous.

  “Why not come out on her with me?” he asked.

  “What? Now? Oh, I couldn’t. Really.”

  “Why not? You said you were bored. Just killing time, aren’t you? I’ll only be gone an hour or so.”

  What the hell did she say now? “Well—”

  “As you’re thinking of buying—”

  “It’s kind of you, really, but—”

  “That’s settled then. Pour yourself another drink while I get us moving.”

  He was gone and, unable to think of anything else to do, Bev poured herself a large drink.

  As you’re thinking of buying— He was suspicious. He probably knew she couldn’t even afford the wine cooler.

  Five minutes later, they were moving, very slowly, out of the harbour. She felt sick.

  Dylan suspected this man of murder and here she was, alone with him, heading toward open sea.

  What if her mention of Terry Armstrong had made him more than suspicious? What if he did know Armstrong? What if he thought Dylan was on to him?

  She must pull herself together. She could act and she had a good brain. It would have to be enough.

  She took him a glass of wine and was shocked by the bitterly cold wind whipping up the sea. Her jacket had been worn for effect rather than warmth, and she huddled deeper into it.

  “You’ve got me worried.” Not that she was going to let on exactly how worried. “If you see that bloke again, that private investigator, don’t tell him about me, will you? I don’t think Terry would like me telling people I’d worked for him. Anywa
y, it was years ago.”

  “It’ll be our little secret.”

  “Why was he asking after him?”

  “He came looking for me because someone I used to know in Dawson’s Clough did a disappearing act. She just upped and left one night. It seems as if, after all this time, he’s looking into that.”

  “Oh? How long ago did that happen?”

  “Thirteen years.”

  “And what did Terry have to do with it?”

  “Nothing. I don’t know. As I said, I’d never heard of the bloke.”

  The harbour was getting further and further away.

  “Well, whoever this bloke was, he’d better not come asking me about Terry Armstrong or where I got my money from.”

  He laughed at that. “People should mind their own business. Tell them you had a lottery win. That’s what I tell folk.”

  “Do you?”

  “Sometimes, yeah. Not too much, mind, or all the begging letters will arrive.”

  “I can imagine.”

  Laughing, and looking as if he was loving the stinging wind on his face, he gave his boat an affectionate tap. “Lucky Man,” he shouted over the noise of the wind. “It’s a lucky man who wins the lottery, eh?”

  “So it is.”

  God almighty, the harbour was just a speck now. No way would she be able to swim back to shore from here.

  The wind was pricking her eyes so that two tears escaped to her cheeks.

  “There’s a coat in the lounge,” he said. “A big, thick one. Put that on before you freeze to death.”

  It wasn’t freezing to death that was worrying her.

  “Thanks.”

  Even with his coat zipped up tight, her teeth refused to stop chattering. At least it was bright red, she supposed. People would be able to find her body in the water…

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  At midnight Sean Ellis, one-time DJ and current drunk, was by the River Irwell. Only people from Dawson’s Clough would call this piddling bit of water a river. At this point, on the northern edge of Dawson’s Clough, it was possible to paddle through it, or even step over it if you didn’t want to get your feet wet. Tonight there was a thin layer of ice at the edges.