Presumed Dead

by Shirley Wells

  “Oh, my God.” Her words came out as a whisper.

  He gave her a few moments to recover before continuing.

  “According to your mum’s friend Maggie, Matthew Jackson was the man your mother loved. I don’t know if that’s true or not, but I believe she liked him. I think she would have trusted him. I think she told him she’d won the lottery.”

  “Jesus!”

  “Quite. So yesterday, I went back to France to confront him.”

  “He denied everything?” she asked.

  “Of course. But he was rattled enough to warn me that I’d never prove anything.”

  “Tell me about him.” She wrapped her arms around herself, her gaze on the floor. “What’s he like? Married? Where does he live exactly?” The questions came like bullets from a gun. “What did you say his boat was called? Does he have children?”

  “Whoa! One at a time.”

  “Sorry.”

  He should have known there would be a lot of questions. Right from the start, Holly had demanded the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. She had paid, both emotionally and financially, for the truth. She deserved it.

  “Okay. Jackson came to Dawson’s Clough with his parents and joined your mum’s school. He’s clever and good looking, and your mum and him went out together for a while. Then I gather he turned his back on her and married Julie. I don’t think your mum got over him. I believe she loved him.”

  “I see.”

  “He and Julie had two boys, and he was doing quite well for himself. He was a mechanic and took out a bank loan to start up his own business. He sold it, at much less than its true value, just after your mother vanished, and then moved to France.”

  She nodded, taking in every word.

  “Not long after moving to France, he met Juliet and married her. They’ve since divorced and, now, he’s married to Francois.”

  “He’s been married three times?”

  “Yes. As I told you, he lives a couple of kilometres from St-Vaast-La-Hougue where he moors his boat, the Lucky Man.”

  “Lucky Man!” she scoffed.

  She went to the sink and poured herself a tall glass of water which she drank straight down.

  Dylan concentrated on his coffee, guessing she needed a couple of minutes for the news to sink in. It was impossible to tell how she was feeling, as all emotions were tightly in check. Dylan was glad of that—he didn’t cope well with hysterical, weeping females.

  She swung round to face him. “And you’re not going to be able to prove any of this?”

  “I don’t know. A friend of mine, an ex-copper, is handing it over to the police. We’ll see what they can do.”

  “Why him? Why not you?”

  “Frank has more friends on the force. He’s much further up the food chain, too. They’ll listen to him.”

  “Right.” She paced the square metre that was her kitchen floor. “So that’s it then? It’s all over?”

  “We need to see what the force can find out. They’ll be able to check where that two and a half million pounds ended up.”

  “I see.”

  “I’m sorry, Holly. Really, really sorry. I wish it could be better news.”

  Her expression softened. “Dylan, I wanted to know what had happened to her. And now I know she was killed for money. Killed by an old school friend, too. Someone she trusted.”

  “I have no evidence, but, yes, I think so.”

  Perhaps she was one of those who liked to shed her tears in private. She was certainly doing a good job of smiling through it all.

  “I’ll let you know as soon as I hear something,” Dylan said.

  “Thanks. And you’ll send me your final bill? Or would you like me to pay you now?”

  “Let’s leave it until this is over, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Dylan left soon afterward, and she was still behaving as if he’d called in to borrow a cup of sugar. Perhaps he’d been wrong about her. Perhaps she’d known all along that something terrible had happened to her mother on that November night back in 1997.

  All the same, it was with a heavy heart that Dylan drove away.

  Chapter Forty

  “Another pint?”

  “Why not? Thanks, Frank.”

  Dylan was in the first really decent pub he’d seen since coming to Lancashire. Right on the edge of town, and almost hidden by surrounding houses, the Queen Victoria was easy to miss, and that would have been a pity as it had everything Dylan wanted from a pub—good beer, quick, friendly service, and no TVs or music blaring out. It was warm, clean and comfortable. In short, it was one of those pubs that made you reluctant to leave.

  “Of course, it could be that you’ve got this all wrong.” Frank put their pints on the table and sat down again. “There are a lot of coincidences, granted, but there’s no hard evidence.”

  “Jackson’s as guilty as hell. I’m sure of it. He as good as admitted it.” Thinking back, and it was almost a week since Dylan had seen Matthew Jackson, he supposed that wasn’t strictly accurate. Jackson had merely told him in no uncertain terms that he wouldn’t be able to prove anything.

  “We’ll just have to wait and see then,” Frank said.

  Unfortunately, Dylan wasn’t a naturally patient man. He would give a lot to be back on the force now, to have all the facilities at his disposal to look deep into Jackson’s financial situation.

  “They’ve got a lot on their plate at the moment,” Frank said, “but they’ve promised to treat it seriously.”

  “They” was a slight exaggeration on Frank’s part. Frank had passed on all Dylan knew to D.I. Graham.

  “What’s he like, this D.I. Graham?” Dylan asked.

  “He’s good. One of us.” Frank took a sip of beer. “As honest as the day’s long. His only problem is that he does everything by the book.”

  “Is that a bad thing?”

  “No, but it means everything takes twice as long as it should.”

  Frank wasn’t blessed with an abundance of patience, either.

  “So what are your plans now?” Frank asked.

  “I don’t know.” Dylan had only returned to Dawson’s Clough because he wanted to be on the spot if any evidence came to light. It was pointless, not to mention expensive, to stay, though. “I suppose I’ll go home, try and sort out my marriage, and carry on being an out-of-work bum.”

  Frank smiled at that. “If any of this can be proved, mate, you’ll have more missing persons than you know what to do with.”

  “It’s not really my cup of tea.”

  “Ah, that’s where you’re wrong.”

  Dylan frowned at him, not understanding.

  “You’ve got a nose for this sort of thing, Dylan. And a stubborn streak. You won’t give up until you’ve unearthed the truth.”

  Holly Champion had said something similar. That was why she’d employed him in the first place, because she’d believed he wouldn’t give up. “It’s not exactly exciting, though, is it?”

  “Not until you get to know the person or persons involved, no.”

  Dylan knew what he meant. The thought of looking into the disappearance of Anita Champion hadn’t appealed to him at all. In fact, if he’d been solvent, if Bev hadn’t thrown him out, and if his mother hadn’t moved in, he would have passed on it. It was only when he got a taste of Anita’s life that he became fully involved.

  “It was Terry Armstrong’s involvement that intrigued me,” Dylan said, “and yet it looks as if he didn’t have anything to do with it.”

  “So it seems. Mind, there’s a lot he has had something to do with. Murdering bastard!”

  “Yeah.”

  They supped their pints, lost in their own thoughts.

  “I expect I’ll go home tomorrow,” Dylan said, reaching a decision. “There’s nothing I can do here.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll keep on at D.I. Graham. I’ll let you know the minute I hear anything.”

  “Thanks.”

&nb
sp; “And keep in touch, will you?”

  “I will, Frank, yeah. You, too.”

  As he walked back to his hotel for the last time, Dylan made a silent vow to keep that promise. He would keep in touch.

  He would sort out his marriage, too. He wasn’t too blind to see that Bev was serious about it, but she’d come round, she always did. It had gone on long enough.

  Surprisingly, he was going to miss Dawson’s Clough. He’d begun to feel at home in the old mill town where people weren’t afraid to speak to strangers. They laughed a lot, at each other and at themselves. They were blunt, speaking as they found, and Dylan liked that.

  On that thought, he walked into the hotel and headed for the freezer that was his room. He wouldn’t be sorry to leave the hotel. In fact, he had no idea why he’d put up with it for so long.

  Apart from the room temperature, he supposed he’d grown attached to the old place. The service, in the main, was efficient and friendly, the food was wonderful, and it was handy for the town centre. It was just the blasted temperature. They’d promised to look into it several times, but nothing had happened. Given that the radiator was always too hot to touch, Dylan supposed there was little they could do other than installing another couple of radiators and lowering the ceiling by two feet.

  He was tired but, when he was lying in bed with extra blankets for warmth, he couldn’t sleep. His mind insisted on running through the last hours of Anita Champion’s life. Every scenario was played out in full, bright Technicolor.

  What if he’d got it all wrong? What if the police found evidence of a winning bet Jackson had made? What if, after leaving Jackson that night, Anita had met up with someone else?

  Eventually, he drifted into a restless, dream-filled sleep. What seemed like minutes later, his phone rang. According to his bedside clock, it was just after eight o’clock, which meant that he’d slept for a solid six hours.

  “Morning, Dylan.”

  “Frank?”

  “I thought you might have left for London by now. Anyway, just thought you’d like to hear the latest. The boys in blue—the French ones—are going to question Jackson.”

  “Yeah? Excellent.”

  “That’s not all. Apparently, just before selling his home in the Clough, Jackson had a new patio laid.”

  “Oh, Christ!”

  “I know, I know. That’ll be coming up later. I didn’t get to speak to Graham, so I don’t know what evidence they have, but they must have something if they’re getting the spades out.”

  Dylan could only assume they had delved into Jackson’s finances. Delved deep, too. Gone from one closed bank account to another.

  “Let me know when you hear anything, Frank. I’m heading back home now. If I don’t hear from you—well, I’ll give you a ring tonight anyway.”

  “Okay. Drive carefully. Speak later.”

  Dylan dressed and went down to breakfast. Perhaps this meant he could stay in Dawson’s Clough another day. But what was the point? The matter was out of his hands now.

  It was time to go home.

  Chapter Forty-One

  “Tell you what, why don’t we have a good fried breakfast?”

  “A fried breakfast?” Even as he looked at his mother in astonishment, Dylan’s mouth was watering.

  “Don’t look like that. I do eat meat, you know.”

  “I know, but it’s a rare occurrence. You certainly don’t fry it.” He eyed her suspiciously. “When you say fried breakfast, do you mean sausage, bacon, egg—the whole works?”

  “I do. I’ll nip down to the corner shop and see what they’ve got.”

  He tried not to get too excited. His mother never cooked for him. She certainly never cooked “unhealthy” food.

  He thought of calling Frank while he waited, but dismissed the idea. If there was any news, Frank would call him. They’d only spoken last night, and there had been nothing new.

  Dylan was too restless to settle to anything. Anita Champion was unfinished business, and he hated that. All loose ends had to be neatly tied before he could move on.

  His mother was back within fifteen minutes and, much to Dylan’s surprise, she had sausages, bacon and tomatoes.

  “We’ve already got some eggs,” she said.

  Dylan watched, speechless, as she set about cooking. He couldn’t remember her tending a frying pan before. Most of her food was eaten raw and usually topped with yoghurt, nuts or seeds.

  He had to ask. “What’s this in aid of?”

  “I thought it might do you good. You look—” She stopped trimming bacon rind to study him. “You look really fed up with life, love. It’s unlike you.”

  He wasn’t aware she’d noticed. “Life could be better.”

  “Beverley, you mean?”

  “It would be good to be in my own home, with my own family, yes.”

  “When I last saw her, she looked a lot like you do now.” She sighed. “I don’t know why you two make such a meal out of marriage. I know I’m no expert, but it can’t be that difficult, can it?”

  Dylan smiled. “You wouldn’t think so, would you?”

  Bev was coming round to the flat this morning, and Dylan hoped they’d be able to sort things out. He’d sit her down and demand to know exactly what was wrong with their marriage. What she thought was wrong with it, at least. She kept insisting she couldn’t live with him anymore. That was no help at all.

  “One egg or two?”

  “Two, please.” It was the first time he’d smelled real food in this flat.

  He was quiet as he ate, wondering if Stevie was having breakfast in Asda—unlikely, as he only seemed to eat there when Dylan was paying—and thinking he must do his final account for Holly. He could post it, but he’d prefer to hand it to her and say his goodbyes at the same time.

  And then what would he do with his life?

  Perhaps that was it. Perhaps he was feeling lost because he no longer had a purpose in life. Maybe Bev was right after all. Perhaps he was a loser.

  His phone rang and, seeing who was calling, he flipped it open. “Anything new, Frank?”

  “Yes, but it’s not good. Christ, Dylan, you’re never going to believe this.”

  “What?” Dylan was aware of an inexplicable feeling of dread. “What’s happened?”

  “Jackson’s dead.”

  “Dead?” Of all the things Dylan had imagined, that wasn’t one of them. “What happened?”

  “I’m not sure. When the call came through, I was getting thrown out. I was being reminded that I’d retired. As if I’d forgotten. I know he’s dead, that’s all. Murdered. Stabbed, I think.”

  Dylan closed his eyes as the full horror sank in. What the hell had he started?

  “At the moment,” Frank said, his tone dry, “I can’t think of a likely suspect, can you?”

  “No.” Hell and bloody damnation! “Unless Terry Armstrong had something to do with it after all.”

  “I don’t think so. He’s gone back to Florida.” Frank sighed. “I might come up with a suspect later, Dylan. If I do, mate, I’ll have to pass it on.”

  Dylan accepted that. “Give me—” He checked his watch and did a mental calculation. “Give me six hours, will you, Frank? You said yourself you didn’t know the full story.”

  “Speak to you later.” The line was as dead as Matthew Jackson.

  Dylan sat for a moment, too dazed to move.

  “Where are you going?” his mother asked as he pushed away his plate, got to his feet and grabbed his car keys.

  “It’s a long story. I’ll see you later.”

  “But Beverley will be here soon.”

  “I know, but it’ll wait. I’ll phone her.”

  “That’ll do a lot for your chances.”

  Dylan knew that, but he had things to do. And he didn’t have much time.

  Five minutes later, he was in his car. The one good thing to come out of all this was that, despite the exceptionally high mileage he’d been doing lately, his Morgan
hadn’t skipped so much as a beat. He tapped the steering wheel for luck.

  He loved his car, but he was sick of driving. Traffic was bumper to bumper, and there were too many speed cameras to watch out for. The joy of driving had long gone.

  All these thoughts went through his head as he drove. Far better to concentrate on the minutiae than let the full horror of Jackson’s murder sink in.

  A caravan was offering hot drinks and he pulled into the layby.

  “It smells like rain,” the plump woman said as she poured weak tea from an urn.

  “Ah.” He wasn’t sure if she was referring to the air or the tea.

  “Milk and sugar’s there, love.” She pointed to the side of the counter.

  “Thanks.”

  While she gave him change in the smallest denomination coins possible, Dylan added a drop of milk and three sugars to his mug.

  Unwilling to discuss the smell of anything, he took his tea to his car. Steam misted the windscreen, but there was nothing to see so he didn’t care.

  He wasn’t sure if he felt more upset or angry. The truth was, he was too shocked to feel much at all.

  He should have spotted the signs, though. Holly Champion was bitter and, as it turned out, had every right to feel that way. Instead of living with a happy, laughing, fun-loving woman, she’d been incarcerated with Joyce and Len. Instead of joy, she had suffered the misery that was Joyce. Instead of living a life of luxury surrounded by horses, she bought her clothes from Oxfam.

  But damn it, they had no proof of that. He’d made it clear to her that his theory was exactly that. A theory. Or had he? He’d been convinced of Jackson’s guilt and Holly knew that.

  With his excuse for tea finished, he returned the mug to its owner.

  “Thanks, love. See you soon.”

  Dylan hoped not.

  Back in his car, he sat for a moment. Then, with the windscreen clear, he set off for Verdun House. The miles were slowly eaten up and he was soon on those now-familiar narrow lanes in the middle of nowhere.

  He should have phoned to let her know he was coming. She was sure to be working somewhere. He couldn’t remember what she did on Saturdays. Did she work at the golf club?