Presumed Dead (14 page)

“I certainly have. Thanks, I’d be grateful.”

“In my office. Why is it you’re wanting to find him?” he asked as Dylan fell into step.

“I’m a private investigator.” Dylan felt something of a fraud calling himself that. “A client is trying to trace her mother, one Anita Champion, and I gather this Matthew Johnson was a friend of hers.”

“From these parts were she, this Anita Champion?”

“Dawson’s Clough, yes.”

“Never heard of her. Mind, I only moved here when the business came up for sale. Before then I lived in Blackburn.”

He spoke as if Blackburn was in a different country rather than fifteen miles down the road.

They entered the main showroom and went to a small and exceptionally cluttered back office which housed a desk, two chairs, four tall filing cabinets, dozens of car registration plates, a small monitor showing the main forecourt, a phone, piles of paperwork and a board holding car keys.

“Now then.” Harry pulled open one of the drawers of a filing cabinet. “If I’ve got it, it’ll be here.”

“If it’s easier, I can come back later.”

“No trouble. We’re quiet today.” Lots of seemingly unrelated paperwork was pulled out. “I keep most things,” Harry said, stating what was becoming obvious. “You never know when it’ll come in useful. I’m the same at home, tell the truth. My missus is always nagging me to throw stuff away. If I did, I know I’d need it the very next day.”

“I know the feeling.” Dylan could sympathize. “I was away for a week once, and when I returned, my wife had hired a skip and cleared out my garage.”

“No!” Harry was so horrified, he stopped what he was doing. “Whatever did you do?”

“The skip wasn’t being collected till the next day, thank God, so I managed to save a lot of stuff.”

“Women!” With a disgusted click of his teeth, Harry carried on searching.

Minutes ticked by, but Dylan had nothing better to do, and any clue as to Matthew Jackson’s whereabouts would be welcome. Besides, he liked Harry. He liked people who weren’t afraid to talk.

“Now then,” Harry said. “Here’s a stock-take that Stuart Connolly did. This means we’re in the right era.”

Apart from stopping to take a couple of brief phone calls, Harry kept on shuffling through papers, sometimes marvelling at what he found, and occasionally deciding something should be thrown out. But naturally, it wasn’t going to be thrown out during the current decade.

“Here we are. Damn it, I knew I recognised the name. I expect it stuck in my head because of the fancy French address. Now, this don’t mean that your Matthew Jackson sold the place to Connolly, but I reckon he must have.”

He handed Dylan a sheet of A4 paper that had various, mostly local, telephone numbers printed on it. At the bottom, in pencil, someone had written out Matthew Jackson’s address.

“This were hanging up on the board there when I bought the place,” Harry explained. “I kept it up for a while because a lot of the phone numbers were useful. But either they’ve changed or we don’t deal with these people any more.”

“I see. May I copy down this address?”

“Be my guest. Sorry there’s no phone number,” Harry said. “Funny that. I can’t see the point in it. I’d sooner have a number than an address.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Dylan copied the address with great care. Maggie had thought Jackson had gone abroad. It seems she was right. “This is great. Really. I’ll soon find a number.”

“I suppose Stuart Connolly kept it in case he needed to send stuff on to the bloke. I’ve never had anything to do with him, obviously, and of course Connolly only kept the place for a couple of years, too. I bet he retired on the profit.”

“Is that why he bought the garage? As a quick way of making money?”

“I couldn’t say. All I know is that Matthew Jackson, if indeed it were him, sold it cheap.”

Dylan took the photo of Anita Champion from his pocket. “Do you recognise this lady?”

Harry took the old photo to the window and examined it carefully. From the lack of interest he showed, Dylan guessed he was more interested in cars than beautiful women. He couldn’t blame him for that. Cars were far less trouble.

“Never seen her before in my life. Is this the woman who’s disappeared?”

“Yes. Thirteen years ago. Her name’s Anita Champion.”

Harry shook his head. “Sorry, but I don’t recognise her. As I say, I haven’t been here long. Well, coming up to ten years.”

“That’s okay. Thanks, anyway. I appreciate your help.”

Harry walked outside with him. “If you do think of selling the Morgan—” There was a wistful sigh in his voice.

“I’ll let a classic car specialist deal with it,” Dylan said, and Harry laughed.

“Yes, that would be best.” He shook hands with Dylan. “Look after it, lad.”

“I will.”

Dylan gave the Morgan a few unnecessary revs as he drove away from the garage.

At least Ian Champion hadn’t done a disappearing act. It had been easy enough to trace Anita’s ex-husband to the small local authority estate in Wigan. Some of the houses showed signs of neglect—rusting cars on the drives, gardens untouched for years, abandoned toys and overflowing wheelie bins forming an assault course—but the four at the end, including Champion’s, were well cared for.

Receiving no answer to his knock, Dylan walked round to the back of the house. Here, on a large expanse of snow-covered lawn, was a child’s swing.

A man strode down the path of next door’s garden. Unlike Dylan, who had a thick overcoat on, he was defying the weather by wearing a T-shirt.

“Excuse me,” Dylan called out.

The man walked up to the dividing fence. He looked suspicious.

“I’m looking for Ian Champion,” Dylan said.

“He’ll be down on his allotment.”

“And where would that be?”

“You go down to the end of the road and you’ll see a post office on your left. About fifty yards past that, take a left. Keep straight for a couple of miles and you’ll come to a pub, the Nag’s Head. Just past there, do a right. Keep going until you see a row of sheds on your left.”

“Thanks.” Dylan tried to memorise the directions.

“Is that fancy car out front yours?”

So that’s why he’d dashed outside in a T-shirt, to see who was snooping around.

“It is, yes.”

The man nodded, unimpressed. “You’ll be better off walking the last bit then.”

“Right. Thanks.”

Dylan returned to his car, guessing that he was still being watched.

As he drove, he repeated the directions to himself. He made a right turn after the Nag’s Head and soon found himself on a narrow track that was under snow.

He reversed and returned to the pub’s car park. No way was he risking his Morgan on that.

It was cold, and the snow crunched underfoot, but the sky was blue. He found the allotments easily enough. The snow couldn’t hide the fact that some, most in fact, hadn’t been touched for years. A few were immaculate.

A man was clearing snow from one of the plots and Dylan wandered over, careful to keep to what looked to be paths. It seemed ridiculous to be on an allotment in this weather.

“Excuse me, but I’m looking for Ian Champion. I was told he might be here.”

“You were told right then. What can I do for you?”

Before Dylan could answer, a young girl, no more than three years old, came out of the shed clutching a tiny pink spade.

“Good girl,” Champion told her. “You clear that bit, eh?” He turned back to Dylan with a smile. “It all helps.”

The child kicked her way through the snow in bright pink Wellington boots and began clearing a small path.

“What can I do for you?” Champion asked again. He looked fit, and his healthy skin colour suggested he liked to spend his time outdoors, but he couldn’t be described as handsome. He was quite short, probably about five feet seven or eight, and the little hair he had left was mostly grey. A couple of missing teeth made his face look lopsided.

“My name’s Dylan Scott and I’m trying to find out what happened to your ex-wife, Anita.”

“Anita? Good God.” Twice he opened his mouth to speak, and twice he closed it again. “Well!” he managed at last.

“I’m a private investigator.” Dylan decided honesty was the best policy. “Your daughter, Holly, is paying me.”

“My daughter?” The expression on his face was difficult to fathom. A mix of surprise and wistfulness? “Holly’s not my daughter, Mr. Scott.”

“Sorry?”

“I said Holly isn’t my daughter.”

There was no resemblance whatsoever, but what did that mean? Nothing, in Dylan’s view. People said he looked like his mother, but he’d never spotted any similarities. And no one seemed able to decide if Luke looked like him or Bev.

All the same, Ian Champion’s comment shocked him.

“But I thought—You were married to Anita, weren’t you?”

“Oh, yes. For three years.” Champion plunged his spade into the snow.

“Granddad—”

“Chloe, love, how about you build another snow castle, eh?” He strode into the shed, the girl following him, and emerged with a pink bucket. “There you go, sweetheart.”

“I love you, Granddad!”

Laughing, Champion swept the child into his arms, kissed her on the cheek and set her down on her feet again. “And I love you, too.”

“Your granddaughter?” Dylan asked. “She’s adorable.”

“Yes. Mind, I nearly had a fit when my Emma said she was expecting. Sixteen she was, only just out of school. Still, we wouldn’t be without young Chloe now.”

“I’m sure.” Dylan watched Chloe for a few moments, but he was still coming to terms with more important matters. “You were saying that Holly isn’t your daughter?”

“Anita was eighteen when she fell pregnant,” he said on a heavy sigh, “and I was twenty-four. We’d been going out together for about a month and thought we ought to get married. Anita wasn’t the type to settle down, but she did her best.”

His gaze rested on some distant spot. “Life was okay,” he said. “Not great, but okay. We both thought the world of Holly, and I suppose that kept us together.”

Dylan had dozens of questions, but he kept silent.

“When Holly was three she had an accident. She was with Anita, round at Anita’s friend’s house. Yvonne had the dishwasher open and—and there was a knife sticking up. Holly tripped and cut her throat. She lost a lot of blood.” He drew in a deep breath. “We were at the hospital when we found out that she wasn’t my daughter. Blood types, you see.”

He fell silent.

“You say
we
found out, Mr. Champion. Neither of you had any idea?”

“No. Well, I suppose Anita must have wondered. She must have, mustn’t she?”

“Perhaps.” Dylan was unsure how to answer that.

“It made no odds to me,” Champion said. “I couldn’t have loved Holly more.”

“Then I admire you.” Dylan didn’t believe him. “If I found out that my son was someone else’s—” He offered a shrug.

“I’m not saying I wasn’t angry. I was furious at first. I felt as if I’d been taken for a right fool.” The hint of a smile curved his mouth. “It was impossible to be angry with Anita for long, though.”

“But you walked out anyway?”

“Walked out? Oh, no. It wasn’t like that. Anita didn’t want me around, you see. As soon as she knew Holly wasn’t mine, that was it as far as she was concerned. She had no need for me in her life. And there was no arguing with her.”

Which didn’t fit with the story Holly had given Dylan. According to her, he’d walked out on his family.
Mum said it was no surprise. Said it was a relief really. They’d both been kids when they got married.

“And you never tried to contact either of them?” Dylan tried to keep the amazement from his voice.

“I tried phoning, but Anita would have none of that. I wrote to Holly, sent her cards and things—they were all returned unopened by Anita. In the end, I gave up. You have to. For your own sanity.”

Champion crossed to where his granddaughter was struggling to empty her bucket of snow.

Once that was done, she was filling it again.

“Two years later, I met Jean,” Champion said, rejoining Dylan. “We had Emma, Joe and Tom.” He sighed. “I put Anita and Holly from my mind. I had to. It was too painful.”

“So did Anita tell Holly that you’d abandoned them?” That didn’t sound like Anita. Not, Dylan reminded himself, that he’d known the woman.

Several emotions flitted across Champion’s face—sadness, regret, anger. “All I know is that Anita believed it was best for everyone, especially Holly, if I had no more contact with them. Is that what Holly thinks? That I abandoned them?”

“That’s what she told me.”

Once again, Champion had to go to his granddaughter’s aid. When he came back, he nodded back at the girl. “Chloe’s the same age as Holly was when—when she had the accident.”

Dylan nodded. He’d thought as much.

“How is she?” Champion asked. “Holly, I mean.”

“Fine. Working hard. She’s a teacher.”

“A teacher? My!” He smiled at that. “She always was bright. And I expect Anita’s sister, Joyce, pushed her hard. I can’t say I ever took to Joyce. Still, she’s done a good job raising Holly by the sound of it.”

“You knew she’d been taken in by Anita’s sister then?”

“Oh, yes. There was right hoo-ha when Anita went missing. The police were here wanting to know why I’d had nothing to do with them and why I hadn’t been paying maintenance toward Holly. They seemed to think I’d ducked out of my responsibilities.” His eyes sparked with indignation. “I told them about the accident and how Anita hadn’t wanted anything to do with me after finding out that Holly wasn’t mine.”

“And they accepted that?”

“They checked it out through our medical records—mine and Holly’s.” His eyes were moist. “It was daft really, but I’d started to believe that Holly would be coming to me. After all, my name was still on her birth certificate. But I had no job, they knew I wasn’t Holly’s biological father—and then Anita’s sister, Joyce, stuck her oar in. Social services decided that I had no claim and that a blood relation—especially a blood relation who could offer a good, steady home life—was a better option for Holly.”

“And yet you’d been her father and bonded with her for the first three years of her life.”

“That’s exactly what I said, but it meant nothing to them. And perhaps they were right. After all, Holly didn’t even remember me.” He smiled, but it obviously took a great deal of effort. “And look at her now. A teacher, eh?”

“Yes, and she’s eager to find out what happened to her mother.”

More than eager. She was obsessed.

“I suppose that’s understandable, but after all this time—” Champion shook his head as if he felt that, after so long, it was an impossible task. “Even for Anita, it’s bloody odd, though. Holly meant the world to her, and I know for a fact that she wouldn’t have left her.”

“A lot of people believe she did exactly that.”

“No way. That’s what the police reckoned and I told them it was nonsense. Anita had a reputation, I’m not denying that, but she used to play on it a lot of the time. It was almost as if she enjoyed her notoriety.”

“She went to Morty’s on the night in question,” Dylan said. “No one’s seen her since.”

“Morty’s?” Champion rolled his eyes. “What a place that was. Watered-down drinks. Everyone off their heads. She sometimes dragged me there, but I hated the place.”

“On the nights you didn’t go, who would have kept her company?”

“She knew lots of people there. Often her girlfriends—there were four of them, Sandra, Yvonne, Maggie and Brenda—would have a night out. There was Colin Bates, too. He worked there as a bouncer. Him and Anita were friendly because they’d known each other a long time. They went to school together. Matt Jackson was another who was at school with her, and another who used to fancy her.” He pulled a face. “Most men did. I was a bloody fool to think she’d be content with a bloke like me.”

Dylan couldn’t think of anything to say that would have sounded sincere. “I’ve spoken to most of those people, but not Matthew Jackson. He’s living in France now or so I believe.”

“Is he? That’s news to me. He was a mechanic when I knew him. He was a good one, but he’d always try and make a few quid here and there. You had to watch him.”

Dylan nodded. “Anyone else you can think of?”

“No one special. Oh, there was Sean Ellis—”

“The DJ?”

“Yes. He fancied his chances with Anita. He used to see what was going on at the club, too. Well, he would, wouldn’t he? He used to sit in a metal cage thing playing his music. He always knew who was with someone they shouldn’t have been with.”

Chloe was bored and tugging at her grandfather’s trousers.

Ian Champion bent down and picked her up. “Her mum’s working. My wife, too. I used to work for a local builder, but he’s had to lay everyone off. Still, I’ll soon find another job. Meanwhile, I’m number one babysitter.”

“And enjoying every minute of it?”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “I know they can be difficult, demanding, but they soon grow up, don’t they?”

“They do. Right, I’ll leave you to it.” Dylan hunted in his pockets for a piece of paper, found an old receipt for a newspaper, and wrote his name and phone number on it. He really would have to get some business cards printed. “If you think of anything that might help, will you let me know?”

“I will, yes.” Champion examined the paper, then put it in his inside jacket pocket. “Holly—you’ll tell her hello from me?” He looked embarrassed. Awkward.

“I will.” Dylan ruffled Chloe’s blond curls before walking back to his car.

As he walked, he wondered if Ian Champion’s story was accurate. Why would Holly say he’d walked out on them? Because it was what she’d been told? So whose story should he believe? Anita’s or Ian Champion’s?

Had Ian Champion walked out in disgust when he discovered that Anita had been unfaithful? He wouldn’t be the first. Or the last. So why lie about it?

Hours later, when Dylan was back in his hotel room, he took a thick sweater from his bag and pulled it on. Ridiculous when you had to put on more clothes when you came inside.

He was still musing about the Champions and trying to decide which of the three were lying.

Had Anita lied to her daughter? Had Ian Champion lied to him this afternoon? Or had Holly lied to him?

Dylan supposed it was no big deal. If people didn’t lie, he wouldn’t have a job. All the same, he didn’t like to be taken for a fool.

He pulled his chair closer to the enormous radiator and called Holly Champion. He thought she might be working, but she answered within three rings.

“Dylan, how’s it going?”

“Slowly.” He didn’t want to hurt her feelings, but hell, feelings did get hurt. It was life. And it was she who wanted the truth. “I saw—” He was about to say “your father,” but changed his mind. “I saw Ian Champion today.”

“Oh? Why? What does he have to do with anything?” She didn’t sound pleased. Perhaps she thought he was wasting his time and her money.

“Who knows? But according to him, he wasn’t the one who wanted your parents’ marriage to end?”