Presumed Dead (20 page)

By Monday, Lancashire was hiding under another blanket of snow. So much for spring being on the way.

Dylan was paying another visit to the pub from hell, the Black Bull. It hadn’t improved during his absence. Windows were still in need of repair, as were the seats, and it looked as if the counter was still awash with the same spilt beer. At least it was warm, though, and it was no mean feat heating a place this size.

With a pint in his hand, he sat at the bar, careful not to put his arms anywhere near it, and waited to see if Morty’s ex-bouncer, Colin Bates, would put in an appearance.

Over the weekend, Dylan had compared the handwriting sample he’d obtained from Matthew Jackson with the two words written on the Valentine’s cards Anita had cherished. He’d stared at them for two hours and still couldn’t be one hundred percent certain they were written by the same hand. They were very similar, no doubt about that, but were they the same? He just didn’t know. Not that it would prove anything one way or the other. Matthew Jackson made no secret of the fact that he and Anita had been an item. So he’d sent her a couple of Valentine’s cards. So what? The fact that Anita had kept them must mean that the sender had meant a lot to her though.

Dylan couldn’t help feeling that the key to all this was Terry Armstrong. Matthew Jackson had come into some money, and it seemed likely that he’d lied to his wife about the origin of his little windfall. He
might
have won on the horses, but the only rich men in that game were the bookies. Besides, at the time, Jackson hadn’t had enough money to place a substantial bet. No, a windfall had all the hallmarks of Armstrong.

Jackson’s boat, as he’d been eager to point out, was a Prestige 50. A quick search on the internet had proved he hadn’t been exaggerating when he said there would be little change from half a million pounds. He’d have to be a financial genius, and an incredibly lucky man, to invest a small sum of money and end up owning a boat like that.

Jackson was one of those rare beings who had no close family or friends. Come to think of it, his ex-wife, Julie, was the same. Both were only children. Matthew had parents who’d travelled around the country for years, and Julie had left home for university never to return. Both lacked the normal ties with home.

Dawson’s Clough hadn’t been home for either of them, he supposed. Their sons had been born there but it was no big deal for Matthew or Julie to up sticks and make a new life in another country without keeping in touch with old friends or neighbours.

Dylan would normally hear gossip. No one talked about the Jacksons, though, because no one had ever got close enough to either of them. Julie had said “Give my love to Lancashire,” but there was no one in the town she’d grown close to or kept in touch with.

Tomorrow, he and Frank would pay Terry Armstrong another visit and they would question him about his relationship with Matthew Jackson. Neither Jackson nor his ex-wife had claimed to know Armstrong, but there had to be a link. Armstrong had to be involved in this. He had to be.

The door opened and banged shut. Dylan was in luck. And this time, Colin Bates was alone.

Bates nodded to him.

“Oh, yeah.” Dylan put on his slurred voice. “Didn’t recognise you for a minute, mate. I still haven’t heard about that bloody job at Bannister’s.”

Dylan was wearing the oldest jeans he’d been able to find, brought from London specially for the occasion, and a jumper that he sometimes did a bit of gardening in. His trainers, old and with the sole coming loose, had run miles in their time.

“Where was it we met again?” he asked Bates, as the other man waited for his pint to be pulled.

“In here, last week.”

“Ah, that’s it. And before that, you were at Morty’s.” Dylan was proud of his drunken slur. “Christ, I had some times there, did I tell you?”

“Yeah.” Bates handed over money for his pint and took the stool next to Dylan’s. “Been in here long, have you?” He rolled his eyes.

“No, this is my first pint. I had a couple in the Vic, and then another in some dive down the road. Started a bit early.” Dylan gave him his finest drunkard’s grin.

“So I see.” Bates took a long drink from his glass and didn’t seem to mind that his elbow was resting in beer.

“Ah, Morty’s,” Dylan said. “Them were the days, eh?”

Bates shrugged at that.

“Tell you who I saw the other day,” Dylan said. “Terry Armstrong. Remember him? Yeah, you must. He used to visit Morty’s now and again. Lived in the east end in them days. He’s moved up north now though.”

“Never heard of him.”

“What? Oh, come on, you must have. Him and Anita had a bit of a thing going. That flash prat, Jackson, he knew him, too.”

“Never heard of him,” Bates said again, more firmly this time. “What about him anyway?”

Bates sounded genuine about not knowing Armstrong. On the other hand, he was curious about him.

“Just saying that I saw him the other day.” Dylan tapped the side of his nose and, rather proud of his drunkard’s impersonation, leaned toward Bates to whisper. “I did a few jobs for him back then. To tell the truth, I wouldn’t mind doing another job for him. Easy money, if you know what I mean.”

“No. What sort of job?”

“Ah, that’d be telling.” He took a deep swallow of beer. “I wonder if Matt Jackson did jobs for him. Here you are, mate, I’ll get these. I may as well have one more for the road.” Dylan emptied his glass and banged it down on the counter. “Same again, love.”

When their drinks were in front of them and Bates had muttered his thanks, Dylan said, “Jackson came into some money, you know. I bet the bastard was working for Armstrong. Sod it, I could have done that job. And I reckon we’re talking big money, too.”

“I never heard about Jackson coming into no money. When was that then?”

“Just before he left the Clough. About thirteen years ago. Moved to France.”

“I knew he went abroad. Never heard about no money, though.”

“Tells everyone he won a bet,” Dylan said.

“Eh?” Bates laughed at that. “We tried to get him into a poker game once because we knew he’d be fucking crap at it, and the tosser kept telling us that gambling was a mug’s game. He was too much of a wanker to win any bet.”

“That’s what I thought, which is why I reckon he was working for Armstrong.”

“Dunno. Never heard of your man Armstrong.”

“A good payer.” Dylan supped at his beer for a few moments. “Jackson’s wife was okay, though, wasn’t she? Remember her?”

“A quiet, mousey thing, wasn’t she? Can’t remember her name.”

“I can’t, either. Yeah, she was a bit mousey, now you come to mention it. Was it Jane or Julie, summat like that?”

“Summat like that.”

Dylan was getting nowhere and the beer was awful. As soon as he’d finished his pint, he left Colin Bates at the bar and walked the mile or so to where he’d parked his car. On two pints of that poor excuse for beer, he should be safe to drive.

“He won’t be pleased to see us,” Frank said.

“No change there then.” Dylan put his foot to the accelerator and joined the motorway.

All he wanted to know was where Jackson’s windfall had come from. Something or someone was responsible for a wealthy lifestyle that had Jackson showing off luxury boats to complete strangers, and Dylan very much doubted that a horse was responsible.

His money had appeared too close to Anita’s disappearance for comfort. If Anita had fallen foul of Armstrong, and that wouldn’t have been difficult, he would have wanted her taken out of his life. For good.

What better than to let the love her life, Matthew Jackson, do the dirty deed for him? Anita had trusted Jackson. She would have been his for the taking.

“He’ll be threatening us with harassment,” Frank added.

“So we’ll be nice to him.”

Dylan was soon stopping the car outside Armstrong’s modest home. Not that the two cars on the drive, both top-of-the-range Mercedes, were particularly humble.

“His and hers,” Frank said. “We might get to see Susie.”

It was Susie who opened the door to them, and she came as something of a surprise to Dylan. He’d expected her to be younger whereas she was middle-aged. Her skin was pale and wrinkled, especially round the eyes and lips, and makeup was kept to a bare minimum. Blond hair was tied back in a ponytail and she wore a grey jogging suit. She was slim, but it didn’t look as if she worked on that, and a cigarette was clasped between her fingers.

“Sorry to bother you, Mrs. Armstrong—it is Mrs. Armstrong, isn’t it?” Dylan asked.

“Who wants to know?”

Good to see she shared her husband’s welcoming manner.

“Sorry, I’m Dylan Scott and this is Frank Willoughby. We were passing and hoping for a quick word with Terry. Is he in?”

“You’d better come in.” She stood back to let them enter, then yelled up the stairs. “Terry? A couple of blokes to see you.”

Pad, pad, pad on the landing.

“Oh, it’s you two.” Armstrong paused to glare at them both before coming down the stairs. “Now what?”

It was obvious they weren’t going to progress further than the hallway.

“Sorry to bother you, Mr. Armstrong,” Dylan said, all friendly, “but we’re trying to find Matthew Jackson.”

“Good God, you’re losing a few people, aren’t you?” Armstrong laughed at his own joke. “First Anita, now this chap called Jackson. Remind me never to employ you to find someone.”

“The thing is, we’ve heard rumours about this Jackson—you know him, do you?”

“No.”

“Are you sure? He and Anita were close.
Very
close if you get my drift.”

Armstrong’s lips narrowed at that. Jealousy? “I don’t know him.”

“In that case,” Dylan said, “we’re probably wasting your time. It was just that he came into some money a few years back, not long after Anita disappeared to tell the truth, and rumour has it that the money came from you.”

“It what?”

Dylan had touched a nerve. Armstrong wouldn’t like people spreading rumours.

“Come in here.” He clearly agreed with Dylan that the hallway was too crowded for a friendly chat.

Susie could be heard moving around in the room above the lounge.

“Now then,” Armstrong demanded, “who’s been talking about me?”

“That’s just it, we don’t know,” Frank said. “We were in a bar in Accrington, asking about this Matthew Jackson, and you were mentioned. We didn’t get their names.”

“Why the hell not? And what the hell did they say?”

“Just that Jackson was living in France now. Well, we knew that anyway, but it’s a big country to search, isn’t it? When we said we wished we could afford to live there, they suggested we did a job for you. Said that was how Jackson had got his money.”

“This Jackson bloke—tell me about him.”

“Same age as Anita,” Dylan said. “In fact, they had a thing between them from their schooldays until Jackson married and had a couple of kids. He took out a mortgage to buy an old garage on what is now Brightwell Industrial Estate. He was a good mechanic, by all accounts. Then, a month or so after Anita vanished, he came into some money, sold the garage off cheap, and took off with his family to France.”

“A mechanic? What the fuck would I want with a mechanic?”

“We were hoping you’d tell us,” Frank said.

“Then you’re out of luck, Chief Inspector. I’ve no idea who the hell you’re talking about.”

Dylan took the photo of Jackson on his wedding day from his pocket and showed it to Terry Armstrong. Annoyingly, there didn’t seem to be the smallest flicker of recognition.

“What sort of job is he supposed to have done for me?”

“We’ve no idea,” Frank said.

“A big one, I imagine,” Dylan put in. “According to rumour, Jackson lives like a king now—flash car, expensive boat, the works.”

“I’ve no idea who he is, or how his name has been linked to mine. No idea at all.”

“Then we’ve been wasting your time,” Dylan said. “Sorry about that, Mr. Armstrong.”

Armstrong grunted a couple of times as he showed them the door.

“That was a terrible thing, wasn’t it?” Dylan said, just as Armstrong was about to open it. “Alan Cheyney’s suicide. He was a tenant of yours, wasn’t he?”

“He was. And yes, it was a shock. He had a bit of trouble a couple of weeks earlier, but I thought he was over that. He seemed okay about it when I visited him in hospital. Eager to get home, I thought.”

“You visited him in hospital?” Dylan found it hard to keep the amazement from his voice.

“Took him some fruit.” Smiling, Armstrong nodded. “He’s a—
was
a good tenant.”

“Rent up to date, was it?”

Armstrong smiled. “He’d paid it only that morning. In cash.”

“A man of principle,” Dylan said. “Making sure his bills were paid before topping himself.”

“Indeed.” Armstrong pulled open the door. “If you find out who’s been spreading those rumours about me, you’ll let me know?”

“You’ll be the first,” Frank said.

The wind was razor sharp as they dashed to Dylan’s car.

“We should have come in your car, Frank,” Dylan said once they were fastening their seat belts.

“Why?”

“Have you ever tried tailing someone when you’re driving a Daytona Yellow Morgan?”

“I’ve never heard such a damn fool idea.”

Dylan wasn’t sure that he had either. But—“I bet Armstrong is on the phone as we speak. Either that, or he’ll be leaving the house any minute. He didn’t take kindly to people spreading rumours, did he?”

“Park up at the end of the road.”

“I intend to.” Dylan drove off and stopped the car in a lay-by on the main road. If Armstrong left the house by car, he’d have to pass them.

Without the engine running, the temperature dropped inside the car. That icy wind was rocking the vehicle.

Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. Thirty.

“I-spy with my little eye something beginning with
N
,” Frank said at last.

“Newspaper?” Dylan was looking down at the foot well.

“Nope.”

“New road sign?”

“Nope.”

“Number plate.” A lorry had parked in front of them.

“Nope.”

“Give up.”

“Nothing.”

“What?”

“I see bloody nothing. Armstrong’s sitting at home, Dylan.”

Frank was right.

“I bet he’s made a few phone calls though.”

“So let’s hope no one winds up dead!”

On that cheerful note, Dylan fired the engine and drove off. He drove slowly, though, and kept one eye on the rear-view mirror just in case Armstrong’s Mercedes came into view.