Presumed Dead (18 page)

He was right. Unless Johnson had been remembered by a few wealthy aunts, he wasn’t going to be terribly well off. He’d let his garage go at a bargain price, wanting a quick sale, and, by the time the mortgage had been paid off, he hadn’t been left with a great deal.

“He’s unlikely to have a fishing boat,” Dylan said. “Before Dawson’s Clough, he’d lived in Scotland, but only for a year or so. Before that, Nottingham and Stoke-on-Trent. He couldn’t have lived further from the sea if he’d tried. What would he know about fishing?”

Frank nodded his agreement so, as they walked, they paid more attention to the less expensive pleasure vessels.

Dylan showed the photo of Jackson to a dozen people but no one claimed to know him.

“Let’s go into the town, Frank. If he spends much time here, he’ll be known in the shops.”

There were surprisingly few shops in the town, but lots of restaurants and cafes. Most were closed, and looked unlikely to open until the spring brought the tourists.

“Nice place,” Frank said as they walked.

It was a beautiful place, tranquil compared to London, soft and serene compared to Dawson’s Clough. Better still, it wasn’t raining. On days like this, it was easy to forget the snow they’d left behind and believe that spring wasn’t far away.

They entered a large shop that sold fishing rods, outboard motors, wetsuits and knick-knacks with a nautical theme.

Yet again, Dylan produced his photo and showed it to the young man behind the till.

“Monsieur Jackson!” He delivered a long speech. In French.

“
Parlez-vous anglais?
” Dylan asked, fingers crossed.

The assistant thought about it, much as Stevie thought about questions before answering, and then, with a regretful shrug, shook his head.
“Non. Pardon.”

With a lot of finger pointing, Dylan asked if Jackson had a
bateau.

“
Bateau
.
Mai oui.
Lucky man,” he said, smiling.

As they left the store, Dylan wondered why people thought of Jackson as a lucky man. Was it because he had a boat, because he was a good-looking devil and a hit with the women, or because his wife appealed to the males among the population?

They celebrated confirmation of Jackson’s existence by having a beer at a cafe overlooking the harbour. Dylan had fancied a coffee but, unless things had improved dramatically in the country since he and Bev had spent a fortnight there one summer, he knew the French couldn’t do coffee. Champagne and croissants, yes. Coffee, no.

They set off again and began the task of asking anyone and everyone if they knew Jackson.

Dylan was idly glancing at the array of boats in the harbour when he stopped so suddenly that Frank had gone on and was talking to himself.

“Look!” Dylan pointed as Frank doubled back.

“Bugger me!” Frank scratched his head in wonder. “Looks like you’ve found our man, Dylan.”

People hadn’t been calling Jackson a lucky man at all. They had been trying to be helpful by giving Dylan the name of his boat.

Or had they? The boat in question boasted at least fifty feet of sheer luxury. It was huge, obviously disgustingly expensive, and it gleamed smugly as the water lovingly caressed its sides.

“How much would this be worth, Frank?”

“If you’ve got to ask, you can’t afford it.”

That’s what Dylan had thought. It must be worth thousands. It didn’t look out of place, as there were several other similar vessels bobbing on the gentle swell, but such extravagance from an ex-garage owner from Dawson’s Clough was surprising.

While they were ogling this treasure, thirty grands’ worth of black BMW convertible pulled into a nearby parking spot. A 335i M if Dylan wasn’t mistaken, and he rarely was when it came to cars. Boats you could keep, he liked to feel the ground beneath him, but he knew his cars.

Its driver jumped out and Dylan experienced the weird sensation of falling back in time. Fifteen years to be precise.

Matthew Jackson looked just as he had on his wedding day, as if he’d merely nipped home to change out of his finery before returning. He was tall and blond and, despite the faded jeans and thick baggy sweater, looked as if he should have been filming the next Hollywood blockbuster.

“Jesus,” Frank murmured, and Dylan knew how he felt.

Smiling at them and revealing perfect white teeth, Jackson strode over to his boat.

“Good morning,” Dylan said.

“English!” Jackson’s smile was dazzling now. “Oh, what a wonderful sound. Here on holiday, are you? A pity the weather’s not better for you.” Without waiting for a reply, he nodded at the boat. “Admiring her, were you? A beauty, isn’t she?”

“It certainly is.” Dylan didn’t refer to his car as a “she”—cars were too reliable to be feminine—and he had no intention of referring to Jackson’s boat that way. And how in hell’s name could you name a boat
Lucky Man
and then call it “she”?

“I’ve had her about a year now,” Jackson said. “I haven’t taken her out much lately, but I come here most days to check on her. Fancy a look round?”

“Could we?” Frank asked.

“Gosh, thanks.” Dylan tried to sound enthusiastic.

As Jackson rattled off the specification, insisted they feel the cream leather upholstery, marvelled at the vast sun deck, and told them there was little change from two thousand pounds for the TV in the lounge, Dylan couldn’t help thinking that he was like a little boy showing off a new toy. Not that Dylan was averse to showing off his Morgan to anyone who showed interest.

Jackson went through that boat, pointing out every gadget, like a whirlwind. Much as Anita Champion would have. Yes, Dylan could imagine the two of them together. He could believe that Anita had fallen in love with this handsome, energetic, charismatic man.

“This is great—speaking English, I mean,” Jackson said. “Do you have time for lunch? My treat. You must sample the oysters. They’re the best in France!”

In the distance reaches of his mind, Dylan could hear Anita Champion laughing with delight as she tucked her arm through Jackson’s and prepared to sample the best oysters in France.

Now, of course, was the time to tell Jackson that they’d come from England to see him. On the other hand, all that would do was take away the pleasure of the oysters. With a glance at Frank, he indicated that he’d break the news later. Preferably after the bill was paid.

They were ushered into a restaurant which, although it didn’t look anything special from the outside and only had a dozen tables, was obviously The Place To Eat. Diners looked to be worth a few euros, and the prices were suitably steep. Dylan definitely didn’t want to upset Jackson and get landed with the bill.

“So how long have you lived in France?” Frank asked as they waited for the promised oysters to be brought to their table.

“Twelve years.”

“Any regrets about leaving England?”

“None at all.” Jackson seemed to find that amusing. “I’m thinking of moving to the south coast, but I wouldn’t want to go back to Blighty. The weather’s naff and the roads are clogged.”

“Tell me about it,” Dylan said. “Your boat, what did you say it was again?”

“A Prestige 50.”

“Here.” Dylan took his boat ticket from his pocket and a pen. “Write it down for me, will you? The full spec. It’s just that a mate of mine’s into boats and he’ll be pig sick when I tell him I’ve been shown over yours.”

Smiling, Jackson wrote down the full spec of the boat, right down to the optional extras like the dishwasher.

“There you go.” He handed it back to Dylan. “Tell your mate to start saving.”

“Thanks. I will. He’s an accountant, but an honest one. If he saved from now till they put him in his box, he’d still be a few hundred grand short.”

“So what about you?” Jackson asked. “Where are you from?”

“Shepherd’s Bush.”

“But not you.” Jackson nodded at Frank. “From that accent, I’d say you were from Lancashire.”

“Spot on,” Frank said.

“We haven’t even introduced ourselves. Dylan Scott.” He extended his hand across the table and it was dutifully shaken.

“Frank.” Probably a wise move not to mention his surname. As he’d been senior investigating officer on Anita Champion’s case, the name might be familiar to Jackson.

“Matt Jackson. Happy to meet you.”

Dylan knew then that the truth might as well come out now. Hang the oysters.

“You’re kidding.” He feigned amazement. “Matthew Jackson? Really?”

“Yes.” Jackson frowned, as well he might.

“Originally from Dawson’s Clough? Well, obviously, you are,” Dylan said. “God, what an amazing coincidence. We’ve come here looking for you.”

“Oh?” The smile faded a little.

“Well, I never.” Frank was playing along. “Do you know, I bet Dylan here a hundred quid that we wouldn’t find you.”

“What are you wanting with me?” Jackson asked.

“It’s a long story,” Dylan said, “but we’re looking into the disappearance of a friend of yours. You remember Anita Champion, I take it?”

“Yes, of course. Hang on a minute, I’m going to see where our food’s got to. Usually you get good service here.” Jackson was on his feet and marching across the dining area to a small counter.

Having spoken, in very good French, to the young girl there, he returned to his seat. “Sorry about that, but when you pay these prices, you expect a decent service. Now then, what were you saying?”

“Anita Champion,” Dylan said. “We’re looking into her disappearance and, as far as we know, you were the last person to see her on the night she disappeared. It was a long shot, we knew that, but we wondered if you could tell us anything. Besides, we fancied an expenses-paid trip to France,” he added with a grin.

“Anita? Yes, I knew her. You’d know that, of course.”

“You were at school with her, I gather?”

“Yes. As kids, we were even an item. I suppose you’ve been told that?”

Everything from Jackson was a question.

“Yes,” Dylan agreed.

“So who are you?” Jackson asked. “Who are you working for? Police?”

“Good God, no.”

“Her daughter,” Frank said. “She had a daughter, as you’ll know, and it’s Holly who’s asked us to look into her mother’s disappearance. She’s twenty-five now.”

The oysters arrived and Dylan dutifully oohed and aahed. He couldn’t say he was a lover of seafood, he was more passionate about pie and chips, but they were okay. Nothing on earth would persuade him to pay so dearly for them though.

For the main part, they were silent as they ate and Dylan wondered if they were giving Jackson time to invent a story.

He decided Jackson’s time was up. “You know how it is when you’re looking for a missing person. You find someone who saw that person, and they tell you that they saw her later with someone else. And so it goes on. The last person we spoke to, a chap called Colin Bates, who worked as a bouncer at Morty’s for a while, said he saw her on that last night with you. Would that be right?”

“It would.”

“And I suppose you’re going to tell us that you saw someone else with her later?” Frank said.

“Nope. She went off to the ladies’ and I got chatting to a load of mates. I didn’t see her after that.”

“How did she seem?” Dylan asked.

“The same as usual. Pissed. How do you mean?”

“Bates, the bouncer, said she was happy. Excited.”

Jackson thought for a moment. “No more so than usual as far, as I can remember. It’s a long time ago, Dylan.”

“Don’t I know it. How did you find out she’d vanished?”

“Sorry?”

“When and how did you realise she hadn’t gone home that night?”

Jackson shrugged. “I can’t remember.”

“Oh?”

“You know what it’s like in the Clough. Gossip spreads that fast, you can’t remember who told you.”

“Were you surprised? That she hadn’t made it home, I mean?”

“Of course I was.” Jackson signalled and the waitress scurried to their table. “Another bottle of wine, please.”

“Are you okay drinking and driving over here?” Frank asked.

“It’s a lot better than being in Blighty, but I’m not driving today. My wife’s here, in Saint-Vaast, and she’ll be driving me home.”

“Very convenient. Where’s home? Near here, is it?” Frank asked.

“Two kilometres down the road.”

“Handy for the boat then? I can’t tell you how envious I am. Not that I’m ever going to be able to afford such a beauty. Still, a man can dream.” Jackson was giving nothing away, and Dylan wanted to know how he could afford such a luxury vessel. “Are they any cheaper over here?”

“Not really.” Jackson smiled. “You wouldn’t get much change from half a million pounds.”

“Half a million?” Dylan whistled in amazement. “You’ve got a better job than me then. Any vacancies going?”

Jackson laughed at that. “I’ve invested wisely over the years.”

“Ah, so you don’t work?”

“Only on my investments.”

“And now I really am jealous,” Dylan said. “I suppose you made a good healthy profit when you sold the garage you had in Dawson’s Clough?”

“Of course. I’d built up a lot of goodwill and that’s worth a lot. Well, it was back then.”

Yet according to Harry Tyler, he’d let it go cheap for a quick sale.

“I don’t want to get personal.” Dylan fiddled with the stem of his wineglass. “But we did wonder if Anita’s going off like that had anything to do with your decision to sell the garage. I know you can’t take notice of gossip, but people thought you were close. Very close.”

“Dylan!” Jackson waved a finger and laughed. “I was a married man.”

“So am I.” Dylan winked. “But Anita was some woman, wasn’t she?” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “I heard that you were the love of her life.”

“Whoever told you that?”

“Maggie. Maggie Gibson. Used to be Maggie Waters.”

“Ah, Maggie the Mouse. I think you’ll find, Dylan, that her bedroom floor is a foot deep in Mills and Boon romances.”

“Probably.” Dylan chuckled, as was expected, but he noted that Jackson hadn’t answered his question. “So why did you sell up?”

Jackson shrugged. “It was all the rage back then. Everyone wanted to leave the rat race and live an idyllic life abroad.”