Presumed Dead
Page 29
“True. But he’d be mighty pissed off. He’d send a couple of his heavies round to remind him the money was due.”
He’d certainly do that. A few cuts and bruises, a couple of cracked ribs—Bill Thornton had believed his friend had been beaten up by thugs who thought he had money on him. It was far more likely that Armstrong’s men were responsible for Cheyney’s stay in hospital.
“But murder? No, Frank, I don’t buy it.”
“Ah, but wait till you hear this. The lovely Mrs. Armstrong has come forward—frightened for her life apparently—willing to testify against her husband on condition the witness protection program works its magic.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Nope. She claims Armstrong’s gone crazy. Christ, I could have told her that. The bastard’s always been crazy.” Frank chuckled at that. “It all started, she claims, when she met Cheyney at the golf club. He spilt his drink over her and Armstrong’s mates saw her laughing with him. They took the piss out of Armstrong—said he couldn’t keep his women, stuff like that. The next thing, Cheyney’s dead.”
“Come off it, Frank, that’s ridiculous. Are you telling me that Armstrong was jealous of a bloke like Cheyney?”
Couldn’t keep his women—
Perhaps it wasn’t so ridiculous after all. Armstrong’s first wife, Pam, had been murdered in the most brutal fashion because she’d had an affair with Tom Andrews. Her lover had been killed with a single bullet.
“Maybe it’s not as stupid as it sounds,” Dylan said. “After all, Armstrong’s first wife—”
“Exactly. And Susie is frightened to death that she’ll meet the same fate. The police have her in a safe house at the moment, and I hope for her sake it is bloody safe.”
“And Armstrong’s in custody?”
“Yes.”
“Well, well. Keep me posted, Frank.”
As Dylan switched off his phone, he was still trying to take in Frank’s news. Was it possible that, after all these years, after all the terrible crimes he had allegedly committed, Armstrong would finally be brought to justice? And all because one of the most harmless men one could meet, Alan Cheyney, had spilt his drink?
“What was all that about?” Bev asked.
He told her all he knew of Alan Cheyney and, more important, his landlord, Terry Armstrong. “Armstrong was always heading for a life sentence. It was just a matter of time.”
“Talking of time,” she said, “it’s time you went home.”
Dylan’s bubble burst and it no longer felt like old times.
However, he got to his feet, and checked for car keys, flat keys and wallet. “I’ll see you on Saturday then?”
“Yes. Come whatever time you like.”
“Okay.”
He gave her a kiss on the cheek and was soon outside in the chilly air.
After a quick glance back at the house, a wave to Luke who, instead of being fast asleep, was at the window with a book in his hand, Dylan was reversing out of the drive.
It wouldn’t be like this forever, though. Bev would come round. She always did.
About the Author
Shirley was born and raised in the Cotswolds, where her headmaster wrote on her school report—Shirley is content to dream her life away.
Years later—as an adult living in Cyprus—it dawned on her that this wasn’t necessarily a bad thing and that fellow dreamers, in the guise of fiction writers, had been getting away with it for centuries.
A move to the Orkney island of Hoy followed and, during the twelve years she spent there, she wrote short stories as well as full-length romantic fiction for UK women’s magazines.
She’s now settled in Lancashire, where the Pennines provide the inspiration and setting for her popular mystery novels. She and her husband share their home with an ever-changing selection of deranged pets, who often insist on cameo roles in Shirley’s novels.
When she isn’t writing, Shirley loves reading (anything and everything), listening to live music, watching TV, eating chocolate and drinking whisky—though not necessarily at the same time. She’s also a season ticket holder at Burnley Football Club and can often be seen in the biting wind and pouring rain cheering on her favourite team.
And she’s still content to dream her life away.
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ISBN: 978-1-4268-9044-4
Copyright © 2010 by Shirley Wells
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