Presumed Dead

by Shirley Wells

  Sean was sitting on a seat that he knew from memory had been donated by some woman in memory of her dog, Trudi.

  “Thanks, Trudi!” He raised his almost empty can in a toast.

  Having been refused a drink in the Legion, Sean had been on his way home. But he’d called at Asda and they’d been kind enough to sell him a couple of cans of Stella to drink on the way.

  He’d had to stop by the river because his legs were objecting to the walk. Despite the cold, it was a pleasant enough night. Courtesy of Trudi’s bench and a couple of street lights, it was a decent place to stop for a drink, too.

  Before the Legion, he’d been in the Commercial. He’d hoped that chap might come in—what was his name? It bugged him not being able to put a name to a face.

  Anyway, there had been no sign of him. No sign of anyone. The Commercial had been dead.

  Sean had found his own drinking hole now. Dawson’s Clough had put itself to bed for the night, no traffic moved and the trickle of the river was the only sound.

  Tracy would have put herself to bed by now. Sean patted his back pocket to make sure he’d got his key. He had, but if she’d left her key in the lock, as she had a habit of doing, he’d be locked out again. Eventually, though, when he’d hammered loud enough for her to worry about what the neighbours would be making of it all, she’d let him in.

  What the hell was that bloke’s name, the one who’d been asking about Anita Champion? A funny name it was. He couldn’t remember. He’d been a decent sort, though.

  Dylan. Someone Dylan. Not Bob.

  The thought made him laugh out loud. He could just imagine Bob Dylan supping a pint in the Commercial. The times certainly would be a-changing.

  He wouldn’t have minded talking to that bloke and having a drink with him. Maybe he’d even found out where Anita vanished to.

  Sean wouldn’t have minded buying Anita a drink. A good laugh, she’d been. Not like Tracy. He couldn’t imagine Anita nagging anyone like his Tracy did. Nag, nag, bloody nag.

  It was bloody odd how Anita had buggered off like that.

  In the beginning, like everyone else, he’d assumed she’d gone off for the weekend with some lucky bastard she’d met. It wouldn’t have been the first time.

  The next thing, though, the police had been asking questions and her face had been on the telly.

  As weeks had turned into months and then years, Sean had forgotten all about her. Or, if he hadn’t forgotten about her, he hadn’t bothered to think about her.

  It made you wonder, though.

  That bloke, Dylan whatever his name was, had bought him two free drinks.

  He’d been talking about Terry Armstrong, but he must have got that wrong. Anita hadn’t known Armstrong. Not to his knowledge, anyway.

  Over the past few days, Sean had thought a lot about that night at Morty’s. He’d even remembered the dress Anita had been wearing. Red, it had been. He could see it now, swirling around her long legs as she moved. He could remember seeing Matt Jackson’s hand on her arse, too.

  The two of them had danced, although Anita had been too pissed for it really, and Jackson had persuaded her to sit down at the bar. Sean had been in his cage, playing music, watching everyone, watching Matt and Anita.

  She’d been talking earnestly and Matt had been listening. For once she’d had his full attention. Usually, Matt would have been listening with one eye on the door to see if someone more interesting, influential or sexy had walked in. That night, he’d been spellbound.

  Probably because Anita was so pissed. No doubt Jackson thought he’d be taken back to her bed.

  Sean had put on some music to liven the place up a bit and, the next time he’d looked across at the bar, there had been no sign of either of them.

  He’d assumed that Matt had dragged her outside, not that she ever took much dragging, and was shagging her.

  “Lucky bastard,” he muttered.

  It was bloody funny how she’d buggered off into the sunset though. And if Sean were honest, he was a bit pissed off with her. It wouldn’t have hurt her to say where she was going.

  He tossed his empty can into the trickle of water that called itself a river and got to his feet, swearing as he slipped on the ice.

  He yanked the ring pull from the other can and set off for home.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  “Here.” Dylan plonked a large glass of wine in front of Bev. “This will make you feel better.”

  “I feel fine.” This came through gritted teeth. “Well, considering I spent almost an hour with a bloody madman! Still, no change there, eh? I married one, after all!”

  “You shouldn’t have gone with him. For God’s sake, what a damn stupid thing to do.”

  “And how was I supposed to get out of it?”

  “You should have used your imagination.”

  “I already had. I used my imagination and told him I had all day and night to kill before I caught this bloody ferry.”

  Dylan wanted a beer but he had to drive them home. He stirred his coffee. “Still, no harm done, eh?”

  “Huh!”

  He wasn’t sure if she was deliberately trying to make him feel guilty, but she was doing a damn good job. It had been stupid of him to involve her in this.

  Getting on the boat had been a damn foolish thing to do, though. Anything could have happened.

  Dylan had been watching from a distance. He’d sat in a bar, a glass of orange juice in front of him, smiling to himself when he saw Bev board the boat. Jackson would have been showing off the leather upholstery and boasting about the expensive TV. All had been going to plan.

  At first, he’d thought his eyes had been playing tricks, but when he realised the boat really was moving away from the harbour wall, he’d been horrified. His first thought had been to phone her. He couldn’t though. Unless she’d changed his caller ID to Bastard, Matthew Jackson might see that someone called Dylan was trying to speak to her.

  Not knowing what else to do, he’d gone down to the harbour, his gaze on the boat that was now little more than a speck.

  Just as he decided it was time to call the French police, he saw that the speck was a little larger. The boat was returning.

  He watched, a whole host of emotions churning inside him, as Matthew Jackson helped Bev off the boat and, when she was on firm ground once more, kissed her on both cheeks. Dylan was so relieved that he could have kissed Jackson back.

  He watched Bev stride away and, when Jackson was on his boat again, hurried after her…

  The ferry carried them nearer home and Bev took a sip of her wine. Dylan knew she was still shaken. He wished for all the world that he hadn’t involved her. It had been a crazy idea. As yet, he had no idea what he was dealing with.

  Bev was convinced Jackson had been telling the truth about not knowing Armstrong. Yet he’d understood Bev’s reluctance to say where her own fictional wealth had come from. If questioned, Jackson sometimes invented a lottery win. Why? Why lie? Of course, if the truth meant meeting your end courtesy of a single bullet from one of Armstrong’s henchmen, it might make sense.

  Dylan was becoming more and more convinced that Jackson, on Terry Armstrong’s instructions, had killed Anita Champion. It was only a theory though. And that theory only existed because he had no better ideas.

  To let his wife go off with someone who may or may not be capable of murder—

  “I’m sorry, Bev. I shouldn’t have involved you. It was selfish and irresponsible of me. Having said that, I knew you weren’t in danger.”

  “For Christ’s sake, you knew no such thing!”

  The ferry made its sluggish way through the water as if they had all the time in the world. It was going to be a long and unpleasant journey.

  “Thanks for coming with me,” he said. “I appreciate it.”

  “Good. Because it’s the last time, Dylan. Our marriage is over.” Her raised voice had attracted the attention of a couple of passengers. “I mean it,” she said, dr
opping her voice to a whisper.

  “We’ll talk about it some other time. When you’ve had chance to recover.”

  “I’m fully recovered. Not that there was anything to recover from. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself, you know.” She clasped her hands around her glass as if it contained something warming instead of chilled white wine. “Okay, I was a bit nervous for a while. It did cross my mind that he’d twigged I was digging for information.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry.”

  “But he was fine. The perfect gentleman, in fact. I can see why Anita was so besotted with him. He’s amazing to look at, he’s charming, and he could be a lot of fun. I didn’t take to him at first, thought he was shallow, but he’s quite a man. I can’t imagine him as a killer. I really can’t.”

  Dylan had always respected Bev as a good judge of character, but he was convinced she was wrong this time. “What if there was a lot of money at stake?”

  “I still can’t see it. He and Anita had been friends for years, you said so yourself. I honestly can’t believe he’d harm her.”

  Bev had another glass of wine and, when they moved away from the bar to the reclining seats, she soon dozed off.

  Dylan’s mind was too active for sleep. Maybe he’d got it all wrong. Perhaps Terry Armstrong and Matthew Jackson had nothing whatsoever to do with Anita’s disappearance. Perhaps the answer was closer to home.

  Everyone agreed that Ian Champion was a great bloke. He was one of those people constantly referred to as the salt of the earth. Dylan had gained the same impression. What if he was wrong, though? Champion had been, by his own admission, gutted to realise that Holly wasn’t his. He must have been equally distraught to learn that the lovely Anita no longer wanted him in her life. He’d been settled with Anita, thinking he was made for life, believing that the two of them would raise children and grow old together with grandkids on their knee. Having Anita turn her back on him so completely must have been devastating.

  But why would he wait so long before doing something about it?

  What about Anita’s sister, Joyce? She was a miserable, sour-faced, bitter woman. She could make something of herself in the looks department if only she’d try. A trip to a hairdresser, some makeup and colourful clothes would bring about a transformation. Yet it seemed to Dylan that she actually preferred to be plain, dowdy and downright miserable.

  Was it true that she and Len hadn’t wanted children? Or was it more likely that one of them hadn’t been able to have them? Either way, Dylan would bet his life that Joyce had been jealous of Anita from the second she was born.

  Perhaps she’d been jealous enough to rid herself of her sister’s presence permanently.

  As he stared at the grey water, he wondered how he’d feel if Anita Champion walked up to him and introduced herself. Despite everyone rattling off a whole list of faults, he had a feeling he would like her. An irresponsible woman, yes, but one who’d known that life was no dress rehearsal. She couldn’t be blamed for grabbing what fun she could from life.

  A lot of people had enjoyed Anita’s company—her husband, her sister and brother-in-law, Sandra Butler, Yvonne Yates, Maggie Waters, Brenda Tomlinson, Bill Thornton, Alan Cheyney, Stevie, Geoff Lane, Colin Bates, Sean Ellis, Matthew Jackson, Julie Carrington, Terry Armstrong—yet no one seemed to give a damn about her.

  Someone had killed Anita, he was sure of it, and those people were all suspects. Every last one of them.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Moors Park, Dawson’s Clough, wasn’t an exciting place to be on a cold Monday afternoon. Having checked into his hotel and grabbed a quick lunch, however, Dylan wasn’t sure where to start.

  Something was bugging him about this case and he wasn’t sure what.

  The park was small but surprisingly well cared for. Tall iron railings kept dogs out of the children’s play area. A lone duck sat on a pond, and further on a football pitch waited for action. All was neat and tidy although, after the great thaw, very wet underfoot. Dylan guessed that spring bulbs would soon be pushing their way to the surface.

  He was sitting on a bench hoping for inspiration, and his surroundings didn’t hold his interest for long.

  What he needed to do was concentrate on Matthew Jackson, he was sure of it. Perhaps if he spoke to everyone again, this time asking the right questions about Jackson, he would get somewhere. But what were the right questions?

  If he knew that, he wouldn’t be sitting in a park risking frostbite.

  Just as he was about to leave his bench, he saw the unmistakable figure of Stevie limping awkwardly, but quickly, along the path.

  One question definitely needed answering.

  “Stevie!”

  His friend looked up, put up his hand, shuffled toward him and then sat beside him.

  “It’s another cold day,” Dylan said.

  “Yes.”

  “Stevie, what’s your surname?”

  His friend looked at him in surprise. “Greenwood.”

  “Stevie Greenwood.” At least he’d solved one mystery.

  “Steven James Greenwood.”

  Three words in a row. “That’s a fine name, Stevie.”

  “Yes.”

  It would be good if Dylan could talk over his problems with Stevie, but that was out of the question. He’d bet Stevie could tell him a lot if only he wasn’t so averse to conversation.

  “Did you like Matthew Jackson?” Dylan asked.

  “No.” There was no hesitation.

  “Why not?”

  Dylan knew it was a mistake as soon as the words were out. Unless it could be answered with a simple yes or no, Stevie was a lost cause.

  “He laughed at Anita.”

  “Oh? Why was that?”

  Stevie shrugged. “Always did it.”

  “Because she liked him? Because she made it obvious?”

  “Yes.” Stevie’s face creased in concentration. “Called her a whore. Hurt her.”

  Much to Dylan’s surprise, they were getting a conversation going here. Stevie wasn’t a lost cause at all. He might not waste time on idle chit-chat, but he was perceptive. Dylan very much doubted that Anita had told Stevie she’d been hurt. He would have seen it for himself.

  “How do you know he called her that, Stevie?”

  “I was listening.”

  “When was this?”

  “Long time ago.”

  Obviously. “How long was it before she disappeared?”

  “A year.” Stevie thought a bit longer. “Maybe two years.”

  “What else do you know about him?” Dylan asked.

  “Cruel. Dropped a cat from the bridge.”

  “Did he?”

  “Yes. I took it home. Two broken legs.”

  Dylan shuddered at the mental picture of Stevie and his cat. Both broken. Both damaged.

  “How long did it live?” Dylan dreaded the answer.

  “Eleven years.”

  “Yes?”

  Stevie smiled and nodded, then he rose to his feet. “Walking,” he said.

  “Be seeing you, Stevie.”

  Dylan watched him go, and the usual mix of sorrow and despair settled around him.

  He wished the incident with the cat provided some sort of clue but it didn’t. Boys will be boys, and many possessed a cruel streak. Dylan abhorred the mistreatment of animals but, for all he knew, Jackson had been haunted from that day to this by what he’d done. It didn’t make him a killer.

  Nothing would happen if he wasted time in the park, so he wandered into town. He spoke to a couple of shop owners, then decided on a pub crawl.

  Dawson’s Clough was deserted, though. After a couple of hours, he gave up on the day and returned to his hotel room.

  Instead of going to bed, he dragged the chair up to the radiator and tried to get warm. All the while, a million thoughts chased themselves around his head.

  Jackson had been the love of Anita’s life. She would have confided in him, done anything for him,
gone anywhere with him. In short, she would have trusted him with her life.

  Most people agreed she had been drunk that night, and Dylan knew she had been drugged. Her tongue would have been loose. Things she might normally have kept to herself would have come spilling out.

  Sean Ellis, esteemed DJ, had said she’d been pissed. Pissed and overexcited.

  The club’s bouncer, Colin Bates, had said Anita was pissed, too. He’d also seen her with Jackson.

  What had he said about Jackson? That he didn’t gamble? So much for the winning horse Jackson’s ex-wife held responsible for her husband’s lifestyle. So much for a lottery win, too.

  What else had Bates said? That Anita had been talking about horses.

  Drink, drugs, horses—

  Unlike Jackson, who claimed to have won money on a horse, Anita was talking of buying one.

  Dylan woke with a start to find that his arm was numb and his neck was screaming in agony.

  Drink, drugs, horses…

  “I wonder…”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  The first day back at school was always chaotic, and today was no exception, so Bev thought she deserved a quiet lunch break away from colleagues and pupils. She decided to wander down the street for a coffee or maybe a spot of window shopping.

  She was walking out of the main doors, well away from noisy pupils, when she saw the familiar figure of her mother-in-law striding toward her.

  “Vicky? Is everything all right?”

  “Yes, fine. I was nearby so I thought I’d see if you were around.”

  Relief that no catastrophes had occurred soon vanished. Vicky hadn’t been nearby, Bev would stake her life on it. She’d want a chat, and the subject at the top of her list was sure to be the state of her son’s marriage. Bev didn’t want to talk about it.

  “I was going to nip down the street—”

  “Lovely. I’ll walk with you.”

  “But I’ve got things to do,” Bev said.

  “We’d better get cracking then.”