Presumed Dead (13 page)

She smiled briefly at old memories. “Anita was scared to death of being a wife and mother. She wasn’t the sort to settle down. The very word responsibility brought her out in a cold sweat.”

Yet she’d done a good job raising her daughter. Holly was well-balanced, intelligent and hard-working.

“What did Matthew Jackson do on leaving school?” Dylan asked.

“All sorts of things. In the end, he had his own garage. It’s still there now, on the industrial estate. He sold it and moved away. Someone said he’d gone abroad but I wouldn’t know about that. He was a bit of a loner. In fact, I don’t know anyone who kept in touch with him. I suppose people get like that when they’ve spent a childhood moving around.”

She reached for her cup and saw that it was empty.

“More tea?” Dylan asked, and after the briefest of hesitations, she nodded.

“That would be good. Thank you.”

She was far more relaxed now. Knowing that Anita Champion had at least made it to Morty’s on the night in question had laid several fears to rest. The responsibility for Anita no longer lay so heavily on her shoulders.

Snow had been falling for most of the day, and it now lay, a couple of inches deep, on the pavements. Gritters had been back and forth, and the main roads through Dawson’s Clough were a slick, dirty mix of grit and slush.

At this time of night, a little after ten o’clock, there were few people about. Taxis overtook Dylan as he walked, and a few people stood outside pubs to smoke, but other than that, he had the town to himself.

As yet, he hadn’t thought any more about taking up running again. He knew he should, and he knew he’d enjoy it. He also knew that the hardest part was getting started.

His passion for walking depended on his mood. When life seemed straightforward, not that he’d experienced that for a while, the idea of walking didn’t appeal. Yet, as soon as he had puzzles to fathom, he loved to walk. Usually things became clearer with every step.

Tonight, however, everything was as clear as the slush in the gutter.

Unless, as Maggie had worried, Anita had wandered onto the dark moors alone and fallen to her death, someone knew what had happened to her.

She was dead, Dylan was almost sure of it. People could say what they liked about her irresponsible lifestyle, but he couldn’t believe she would leave Holly behind.

Dead or murdered?

If the latter, random, accidental or premeditated?

His imagination was running away with him. She had few friends, but no enemies that he knew of. She was a hairdresser, for God’s sake.

But what about Terry Armstrong? The idea of Anita being close to someone like him was too difficult to comprehend.

If he’d had an affair with Anita, and plenty had by the sound of it, how would he have ended it? Would she have taken it lightly? Had she threatened to make a scene, to expose him, to sell her story to the local rag and tell his wife?

It was possible, Dylan supposed. Unlikely, as he couldn’t imagine Anita as the vindictive type, but it
was
possible. And how far would a man like Armstrong go to ensure a woman’s silence?

He shuddered as his subconscious answered that one for him.

What about Ian Champion, Anita’s ex-husband? How did he fit into things? Dylan tried to put himself inside the man’s shoes. If he and Bev split up, if Luke was three years old and Dylan had to live away from him, from them both—

Dylan didn’t know what he’d do. He did know, however, that he wouldn’t remain silent for years. Even if his marriage was over, he would have to know his child. He would have to. Most fathers would have idolised such a pretty daughter. What had made Ian Champion so disinterested?

Dylan still had to find Colin Bates, one-time bouncer at Morty’s and small-time criminal. He’d regularly obtained free drinks for Anita. Why had he been so generous toward her? Had he fancied his chances? Had there been something deeper between them?

And now Matthew Jackson had been thrown into the equation. If Maggie was to be believed, he’d been the love of Anita’s life. Had he sent those highly prized Valentine’s Day cards?

Dylan’s coat was dotted with huge soft snowflakes now. Presumably his hair was the same. He guessed, too, that his shoes would soon have an ugly water mark on them.

Walking in this weather was madness.

He stood beneath a street lamp and pulled out the photograph of Anita Champion that went everywhere with him. He gazed at her smiling face, as he’d done so many times before, but inspiration didn’t strike. All he knew was that, if you were that desirable, that different, you courted trouble. There were too many jealous women in the world. And too many men anxious to protect themselves, their marriages, their reputations—

One only had to think of her acquaintances. Sandra, her employer, was furious because her boyfriend had leaped into bed with Anita. Yvonne Yates and Brenda Tomlinson were jealous of her, couldn’t wait to see her fall flat on her face—literally. Maggie might have been a friend, but she was too weak to stand up to the other girls. Ian, her ex-husband, seemed totally disinterested. Matthew Jackson had enjoyed toying with her emotions…

Had Anita had any
real
friends?

There was Bill Thornton, of course. He’d been a friend. As had Stevie. Were those the only friends she’d had?

The thought saddened him. He hadn’t known Anita, but he felt he was beginning to know the woman she had been. And he was certain he would have liked her and been proud to call her friend.

So what now? He could trawl the pubs again and try to talk to yet more people. He couldn’t face it, though. Not tonight.

He walked slowly back to his hotel. Tomorrow was a brand new day. Tomorrow, he would find out all he could about Matthew Jackson.

Frank Willoughby stood for a moment and admired his snow-covered garden. Artists and architects could do their best, but nothing could outshine Mother Nature. Other than a few marks left by birds and a neighbour’s cat, the snow, and it was five inches deep on the bird bath, was untouched. It dazzled in the early morning sunshine.

He put a couple of pieces of bread and a fat ball on the bird table, then returned to the kitchen for seeds to top up the feeder. Until the thaw, the birds would stand no chance.

Such beauty had him re-evaluating life. He’d discovered that, after a heart attack, it was the easiest thing in the world to sit and vegetate. Frank had no intention of doing that. With that attitude, he might as well be in his box. The scene before him simply reinforced that.

Anyway, he had more important things than his health to worry about, and the murdering bastard currently topping his list was none other than Terry Armstrong.

Frank had first come across him years ago, when Armstrong had been ensconced in London and Frank had been sent south on one of his many undercover jobs to try and get close to the man.

Impossible. No one got close to him.

Except Pamela. Armstrong’s first wife had got
too
close…

Frank had seen more than enough dead bodies during his career, but none like hers. Even now, the memory made him sick to his stomach. And if he lived to be a hundred, no one would convince him that Armstrong hadn’t been responsible for Pamela’s butchering.

When Armstrong moved to Lancashire, probably because there were too many other murdering bastards after him in London, every copper in the area soon knew all about him. Yet they’d never found anything to pin on him.

A couple of his enemies had been murdered but, each time, Armstrong had an ironclad alibi. He’d be smiling for cameras at a function that came with a hundred witnesses. And no one talked. Men would rather get banged up for life on a murder charge than risk upsetting Terry Armstrong. Revenge tended to come in the form of a long, slow death.

Everything Armstrong touched was legit. He made sure of that. His accountant was one of the most respected in Lancashire, as was his lawyer. To all intents and purposes, Terry Armstrong was a fine, upstanding member of the community.

The murdering bastard!

Smiling for the cameras—

“Christ!”

Frank’s heart began to race. That wasn’t good for him, no doubt, but it was a familiar feeling that he welcomed.

“Christ!” he said again, as he went to the house and picked up the phone. He tapped in the number, waited as it rang out, and eventually heard the sleepy voice of Dylan Scott.

“Sorry. Did I wake you?” he asked.

“You did. It’s—Oh, is it eight o’clock already?”

“Closer to half past.”

There was a rustling sound. “What is it, Frank?”

“I’ve had a thought about Terry Armstrong.”

“Oh?”

“I knew the first of November, 1997 rang a bell. That charity dinner, the one where he was photographed with Anita Champion, took place on the same night that a bloke called Chris Bentley was murdered. He was as bent as they come. Had a habit of acquiring passports for anyone who was willing to pay.”

“And?”

“There was a witness, and we caught Bentley’s killer. Well, when I say caught, I’ll amend that to found. With a bullet through his head. We never did find out who shot him.”

“What’s it got to do with Armstrong?”

“Maybe nothing. He wasn’t a suspect. No reason why he should have been. But it has his trademark and it’s made me think. You see, him and Bentley were banged up together. Same place, same time. A bit of a coincidence Armstrong being in Dawson’s Clough at the time, too. According to him, he only ever visited the place to keep his wife happy. Strange him being here. Funny that he had so many witnesses that night, too.”

“Interesting.”

Frank’s thoughts exactly. Of course, Armstrong being at a function where he knew the local rag would have cameras proved nothing.

“He’s back in Dawson’s Clough,” Dylan said.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. He flew back from Florida last week. I was planning to call on him today.”

“I’ve had a few run-ins with him in my time, Dylan. It might help if I went along with you to have a chat.”

Silence.

Frank felt all kinds of a fool. He was no longer Dylan’s boss. The man was working on a case that he was quite capable of solving on his own. Why would he want help from Frank?

“When can you go?” Dylan asked at last.

“In five minutes, if you like.”

“Yeah, well, let me have breakfast first,” Dylan said, and Frank was relieved to hear a smile in his voice. “I’ll come over to your place in about an hour. Okay?”

“Great.”

When Frank replaced the receiver, he was aware of adrenalin pumping through his veins for the first time in months. At last he had something to think about other than his health, his bloody boring diet and endless hospital appointments.

He was smiling. And who would have believed that thinking about that murdering bastard, Terry Armstrong, could cheer him up?

“Christ, you don’t go in for comfort, do you?” Frank said.

“It’s an acquired taste.” Dylan had to smile. Many people admired the Morgan’s classic design, but few managed to enjoy a noisy, bumpy journey. “The suspension’s a bit stiff, that’s all.”

“You could flog this and get a proper car, you know.”

Dylan slowed to a stop as the lights turned red. “This is a proper car.”

Frank grunted and sat more upright in his seat.

“Terry Armstrong,” Dylan said, as he pulled away. “What do you know about him, Frank?”

“I know he’s a murdering bastard. He was born in the east end of London in 1957. His father and uncle were both behind bars at the time. Terry came up through the ranks, working for uncles and cousins, all crooks, until, aged about twenty, he went into business on his own.”

“As what?”

“We’d say loan shark. He chose to believe he was offering a public service. He added to that with several of those tanning shops—not leather, but sunbeds and that sort of thing. A front for money laundering, we always reckoned.”

When Dylan had been on the force, Armstrong had been under investigation for money laundering. They’d never got anything to stick, though. Rumours had been rife about Armstrong having senior police officers on his payroll.

“He employed a couple of thugs to make sure everyone kept up to date with their payments,” Frank said. “If they didn’t, they’d have a few bones broken as an incentive. We had one chap, Ross Williams, on assault. Almost murder. Of course, Armstrong pretended to be horrified and said Williams had been overzealous. Williams ended up behind bars, and his missus seemed to come into a bit of money.”

“A present from Armstrong?”

“We couldn’t prove that.” Frank paused for thought. “Then, and we’re talking 1990, maybe 1992, it became common knowledge that Armstrong’s wife, the lovely Pamela—lovely if you have a passion for vipers, at any rate—was having an affair with Tom Andrews.”

“Who was he?”

“Another of Armstrong’s employees. Built like the proverbial brick shithouse. Another who used to collect loan repayments.”

“Ouch!”

“You can say that again. Pamela was brutally murdered. And I mean, Christ, it was brutal. Slow and bloody painful. She’d have been begging to die.”

Dylan put his foot down as they joined the M65 heading to Burnley.

“What happened to the boyfriend, Tom Andrews?” he asked.

“His body was found by a boatman working the Thames. He’d had the luxury of a single bullet.”

“And nothing to link the murders to Armstrong?”

“Not a bloody whisper of evidence.”

“As Don’t Fuck With Me messages go, it was pretty clear though,” Dylan said.

“Crystal.”

A brief snow flurry slowed down motorists, Dylan included.

“Pamela was a nasty piece of work,” Frank said, “but she didn’t deserve to die like that. No one does.”

“Not even Terry Armstrong?”

“Maybe. Dunno.”

So where did Anita Champion figure in this, Dylan wondered. How and why had she got involved with Armstrong?

“That was 1992, yeah? So what brought Armstrong to this neck of the woods, Frank?”

“He claims it was his second wife, Susie. She originates from Preston. They met when she was nursing in London. Someone knifed Armstrong—only a warning, sadly—and he ended up being nursed by Susie. They married six months later. He claims she wanted to come home, but I reckon the heat was on in London. If someone was warning him off—well, I reckon he wanted a fresh patch.”

“Was he married to Susie in 1997? When he was at that charity dinner with Anita Champion?”

“He was, but he was still living down south. He didn’t move up here till 2002.”

“So why did you have dealings with him up here?” Dylan asked.

“He’s semi-retired now, but back then, he was still providing his public service—loans at extortionate rates. He was also buying a lot of property to let. He still owns half of Dawson’s Clough.”

“Go on.”

“He had competition up here. Maurice Goodfellow, a misnomer if ever there was one, was in the same business. One night, an old mill he’d had converted to fancy apartments, went up in flames. Arson.”

“An insurance job?”

“No. More like another Don’t Fuck With Me message from yours truly,” Frank said. “I’d stake my life on Armstrong being involved, but again, there was no shred of evidence. Nothing. Not a bloody sniff of it.” He pointed at the roundabout up ahead. “You need to turn left here. It’s only about a mile from here.”

Dylan concentrated on the directions Frank was giving until he slowed the car to a stop.

“This is it?” Dylan had expected a grand place set in several acres with huge electronic gates. What he saw was a modest detached house in a cul-de-sac shared by eleven identical properties. There was nothing to indicate that its owner had amassed a small fortune over the years.

“It is.” Frank smiled at his surprise. “It’s just the sort of house an honest, hardworking man would own, isn’t it?”

“I suppose it is.”

“He still has a place in London,” Frank said, “and I expect his pad in Florida is a bit more upmarket.”

“We’d better see if he’s available for comment.”

They exchanged the warmth of Dylan’s car for the icy air. It ought to be too cold for snow, Dylan thought, yet the sky looked full of it.

Dylan rang the bell and they waited a few moments until Terry Armstrong, wearing black trousers, black roll-neck sweater and quality shoes, opened the door.

He looked at Dylan enquiringly, then his eyes narrowed as he recognised Frank. “Chief Inspector! Well, well, well. Long time no see.”

“Ex-chief inspector,” Frank corrected him.

“Ah, yes, so I heard. Heart attack, wasn’t it? Too much stress?”

“May we have a word, Mr. Armstrong?” Frank ignored that.

“Of course. You know me, always happy to help.” The man oozed self-confidence as he closed the door behind them and showed them into the lounge where the furnishings shouted money. Top-of-the-range audio-visual system, expensive leather suite, deep carpet, large signed paintings…

“So what can I do for you?” Armstrong gestured for them to sit.

Dylan sat, as did Armstrong. Frank, it seemed, would have preferred to stand, but, possibly feeling the odd one out, he too sat.

“Dylan Scott,” Dylan introduced himself. “A client has instructed me to look into the disappearance of an acquaintance of yours.”

“Client? You’re a private investigator?”

“Yes.”

“An ex-cop then. Yes, you have the look of one. Kicked out, were you?”

“As a matter of fact I was. For taking the law into my own hands. Now, as I said, I’m looking into the disappearance of an acquaintance of yours.”

“Oh?”

So very confident. Very tanned, too. Who wouldn’t be, though, if they could afford to spend half their lives beneath the sun in Florida? “Yes. A Mrs. Anita Champion.”

“Anita Champion? No, sorry. The name means nothing to me.”

“She disappeared thirteen years ago, in November 1997.”

“As I said, the name means nothing to me.”

His performance was worthy of an Oscar.

“How’s the wife?” Frank asked. “Faithful and true, is she?”

Armstrong’s eyes darkened to pools of black. “She’s well, thank you, Chief Inspector.”

“Good. I’d hate to think of her…straying and ending up like poor Pamela.”

“God, yes. Pam. It’s difficult, but life goes on.”

“Not for her, it doesn’t.”

“Sadly, no.”

Armstrong said the right words, but they chilled Dylan. There wasn’t a hint of emotion in his eyes. He was a big man, well muscled. Dark hair was greying, the only sign of the passing years.

Dylan produced the photo of Terry Armstrong and Anita Champion and showed it to Armstrong. “Anita Champion.”.

Armstrong stared at it for long, quiet moments. “Sorry, but I don’t recall the woman. Odd that,” he added with a thin smile, “as she’s very attractive.”

“Very,” Frank said. “And the two of you look to be friendly.”

“Chief Inspector, I come into contact with lots of people. We chat, we share a joke, and we never see each other again. I’ve no idea where this was taken but, judging by our clothes, I’d guess it was a function—”

“Dawson’s Clough, November 1997,” Frank said. “The same night that an old chum of yours, Chris Bentley, was murdered.”

“Bentley, you say?”

“You remember him all right. You did time together.”

“Oh, Bentley. Yes, I heard about it, now you come to mention it.”

“I’m sure you did. And this—” Frank prodded the photo, “—was taken the same night. It was at a dinner to raise funds for the local hospice.”

“An admirable cause, but I’m afraid I still don’t recognise the lady in question.”

Dylan didn’t believe him. “Anita Champion was thirty when this was taken. She had an eleven-year-old daughter. She worked as a hairdresser in Dawson’s Clough. Divorced. Husband walked out eight years previous. She liked a good time. Went to the clubs in Dawson’s Clough—Oasis and Morty’s.”

“No. It means nothing to me, I’m afraid.”

“Vanished four weeks after this was taken.”

“Dear me.”

“People have a habit of vanishing after contact with you, don’t they, Mr. Armstrong?” Frank said.

“No, Chief Inspector, they don’t.”

“Okay. They have a habit of ending up dead,” Frank corrected himself.

“I’ve known my fair share of tragedy, yes.”

“This, I believe—” Dylan took the photo from Armstrong, “—was taken before you lived in the area.”

“If it was taken in—when did you say? 1997?—then yes, it was.”

“So you had no business in the area at that time?”

“None at all, Mr. Scott.”

“I’ve heard it said,” Dylan remarked, “that no man could resist her.”

“I can believe that.”

“Yet you did?”

“I imagine I only had a few seconds in her company.” Armstrong was the king of cool. “Any longer and I would have remembered her. Having said that, I was, and still am, a happily married man.”

“Where is Susie?” Frank asked.

“Shopping in Manchester. Why?” He gave a soft but chilling laugh. “Did you think she’d been bludgeoned to death?”

“It crossed my mind.”

“What a devious mind you have, Chief Inspector.”

“That’s what a lifetime of dealing with killers does to a man.”

“I can imagine. Now, if there’s nothing else—”

“No,” Frank said, “but if I find you’ve been lying, I’ll make sure you’re hauled in front of a judge even if it’s only for double parking.”

“Double parking?” Armstrong seemed to find that amusing.

“Until I can nail you for the murder of your late wife.”

“That’s enough, Chief Inspector. I’ve tried to help, but I won’t be accused—”

“Save it. We’re leaving.”

They were soon dashing through a light snow shower to Dylan’s car.

“Well?” Dylan asked when they were inside.

“I don’t know. It could be that he didn’t know her.”

“Mm. It could be he did, too.”

“You think he did?”

Dylan sighed. “I don’t know. He’s such a practised liar, it’s hard to tell.”

“Don’t I know it.” Frank rubbed his hands together for warmth. “Brr. Let’s get moving. And don’t spare the horses.”

Dylan dropped Frank off, then drove to Brightwell Industrial Estate. Having spoken to the grand total of three people who remembered Matthew Jackson, but no one who kept in touch with him, he’d decided to visit Jackson’s old garage.

The industrial estate was a sprawling mass of units in all shapes and sizes with Brightwell Garage, established before the estate was even thought of, sitting at the entrance. About thirty used cars, all less than three years old, faced the road, and a smart showroom sat behind them. To the side was the service department, where a couple of cars were being worked on. A young man in overalls was busy clearing snow from the forecourt.

Dylan parked his car and was looking around him when a portly middle-aged man rushed up to him.

“We don’t see many like this.” He ran a caressing hand over the Morgan’s bonnet.

“It’s not for sale,” Dylan put in quickly.

“I’m not surprised. You’d be better off going to a specialist, a classic car specialist.”

Dylan knew that.

“It’s in good condition,” the chap said. “You should get a good price on it.”

“I should. I’ve spent enough on it—time and money.”

“A mate of mine had a Morgan. Mind, that were back in the seventies. Thought it attracted the women.” He grinned at that. “It never did.”

“No?”

“He traded it in for a Lotus, if I remember right. Elise, I think it were. Had that a few months and then got himself an Alfa Romeo.”

“Really? Well, I’ve had this—” Dylan tapped a fond hand on the roof, “—seven years now.”

“You’re not a family man then?” This was said with a knowing grin.

“Yes, I am, actually. We’ve got a Vauxhall Vectra, but my wife uses that.”

“Oh, well, this is just the thing for a bit of fun driving then.”

It was. Although dashing up and down the motorway to Lancashire was pushing the fun bit slightly.

“Are you looking to buy?” The man’s gaze was still on the Morgan.

“No. I was hoping to talk to the owner of the garage.”

“You’re talking to him.”

“Ah, right. Then let me explain. My name’s Dylan Scott and I’m trying to find the gentleman who once owned this garage, name of Matthew Jackson.”

“I’m Harry Tyler.” Dylan’s hand was shaken. “Now then, Matthew Jackson. The name rings a bell, but I’m damned if I can think why.”

“Have you had the garage long?”

“Nine years. Coming up to ten now.”

“This Matthew Jackson had it twelve or thirteen years ago.”

“Ah well, I reckon he’ll be the bloke who sold it to Stuart Connolly then. I bought it from him. A lot smaller it were then. Connolly didn’t deal in used cars. Just did the servicing and MOTs. A decent enough bloke. Between you and me though, he could afford to be. Bought this place for a song.”

“Did he? From Matthew Jackson?”

“Now that I couldn’t swear to. I might be able to find out, though, if you’ve got a few minutes to spare.”