Presumed Dead (22 page)

What the hell did she say now? “Well—”

“As you’re thinking of buying—”

“It’s kind of you, really, but—”

“That’s settled then. Pour yourself another drink while I get us moving.”

He was gone and, unable to think of anything else to do, Bev poured herself a large drink.

As you’re thinking of buying—
He was suspicious. He probably knew she couldn’t even afford the wine cooler.

Five minutes later, they were moving, very slowly, out of the harbour. She felt sick.

Dylan suspected this man of murder and here she was, alone with him, heading toward open sea.

What if her mention of Terry Armstrong had made him more than suspicious? What if he
did
know Armstrong? What if he thought Dylan was on to him?

She must pull herself together. She could act and she had a good brain. It would have to be enough.

She took him a glass of wine and was shocked by the bitterly cold wind whipping up the sea. Her jacket had been worn for effect rather than warmth, and she huddled deeper into it.

“You’ve got me worried.” Not that she was going to let on exactly
how
worried. “If you see that bloke again, that private investigator, don’t tell him about me, will you? I don’t think Terry would like me telling people I’d worked for him. Anyway, it was years ago.”

“It’ll be our little secret.”

“Why was he asking after him?”

“He came looking for me because someone I used to know in Dawson’s Clough did a disappearing act. She just upped and left one night. It seems as if, after all this time, he’s looking into that.”

“Oh? How long ago did that happen?”

“Thirteen years.”

“And what did Terry have to do with it?”

“Nothing. I don’t know. As I said, I’d never heard of the bloke.”

The harbour was getting further and further away.

“Well, whoever this bloke was, he’d better not come asking me about Terry Armstrong or where I got my money from.”

He laughed at that. “People should mind their own business. Tell them you had a lottery win. That’s what I tell folk.”

“Do you?”

“Sometimes, yeah. Not too much, mind, or all the begging letters will arrive.”

“I can imagine.”

Laughing, and looking as if he was loving the stinging wind on his face, he gave his boat an affectionate tap. “
Lucky Man,
” he shouted over the noise of the wind. “It’s a lucky man who wins the lottery, eh?”

“So it is.”

God almighty, the harbour was just a speck now. No way would she be able to swim back to shore from here.

The wind was pricking her eyes so that two tears escaped to her cheeks.

“There’s a coat in the lounge,” he said. “A big, thick one. Put that on before you freeze to death.”

It wasn’t freezing to death that was worrying her.

“Thanks.”

Even with his coat zipped up tight, her teeth refused to stop chattering. At least it was bright red, she supposed. People would be able to find her body in the water…

At midnight Sean Ellis, one-time DJ and current drunk, was by the River Irwell. Only people from Dawson’s Clough would call this piddling bit of water a river. At this point, on the northern edge of Dawson’s Clough, it was possible to paddle through it, or even step over it if you didn’t want to get your feet wet. Tonight there was a thin layer of ice at the edges.

Sean was sitting on a seat that he knew from memory had been donated by some woman in memory of her dog, Trudi.

“Thanks, Trudi!” He raised his almost empty can in a toast.

Having been refused a drink in the Legion, Sean had been on his way home. But he’d called at Asda and they’d been kind enough to sell him a couple of cans of Stella to drink on the way.

He’d had to stop by the river because his legs were objecting to the walk. Despite the cold, it was a pleasant enough night. Courtesy of Trudi’s bench and a couple of street lights, it was a decent place to stop for a drink, too.

Before the Legion, he’d been in the Commercial. He’d hoped that chap might come in—what was his name? It bugged him not being able to put a name to a face.

Anyway, there had been no sign of him. No sign of anyone. The Commercial had been dead.

Sean had found his own drinking hole now. Dawson’s Clough had put itself to bed for the night, no traffic moved and the trickle of the river was the only sound.

Tracy would have put herself to bed by now. Sean patted his back pocket to make sure he’d got his key. He had, but if she’d left her key in the lock, as she had a habit of doing, he’d be locked out again. Eventually, though, when he’d hammered loud enough for her to worry about what the neighbours would be making of it all, she’d let him in.

What the hell was that bloke’s name, the one who’d been asking about Anita Champion? A funny name it was. He couldn’t remember. He’d been a decent sort, though.

Dylan. Someone Dylan. Not Bob.

The thought made him laugh out loud. He could just imagine Bob Dylan supping a pint in the Commercial. The times certainly would be a-changing.

He wouldn’t have minded talking to that bloke and having a drink with him. Maybe he’d even found out where Anita vanished to.

Sean wouldn’t have minded buying Anita a drink. A good laugh, she’d been. Not like Tracy. He couldn’t imagine Anita nagging anyone like his Tracy did. Nag, nag, bloody nag.

It was bloody odd how Anita had buggered off like that.

In the beginning, like everyone else, he’d assumed she’d gone off for the weekend with some lucky bastard she’d met. It wouldn’t have been the first time.

The next thing, though, the police had been asking questions and her face had been on the telly.

As weeks had turned into months and then years, Sean had forgotten all about her. Or, if he hadn’t forgotten about her, he hadn’t bothered to think about her.

It made you wonder, though.

That bloke, Dylan whatever his name was, had bought him
two
free drinks.

He’d been talking about Terry Armstrong, but he must have got that wrong. Anita hadn’t known Armstrong. Not to his knowledge, anyway.

Over the past few days, Sean had thought a lot about that night at Morty’s. He’d even remembered the dress Anita had been wearing. Red, it had been. He could see it now, swirling around her long legs as she moved. He could remember seeing Matt Jackson’s hand on her arse, too.

The two of them had danced, although Anita had been too pissed for it really, and Jackson had persuaded her to sit down at the bar. Sean had been in his cage, playing music, watching everyone, watching Matt and Anita.

She’d been talking earnestly and Matt had been listening. For once she’d had his full attention. Usually, Matt would have been listening with one eye on the door to see if someone more interesting, influential or sexy had walked in. That night, he’d been spellbound.

Probably because Anita was so pissed. No doubt Jackson thought he’d be taken back to her bed.

Sean had put on some music to liven the place up a bit and, the next time he’d looked across at the bar, there had been no sign of either of them.

He’d assumed that Matt had dragged her outside, not that she ever took much dragging, and was shagging her.

“Lucky bastard,” he muttered.

It was bloody funny how she’d buggered off into the sunset though. And if Sean were honest, he was a bit pissed off with her. It wouldn’t have hurt her to say where she was going.

He tossed his empty can into the trickle of water that called itself a river and got to his feet, swearing as he slipped on the ice.

He yanked the ring pull from the other can and set off for home.

“Here.” Dylan plonked a large glass of wine in front of Bev. “This will make you feel better.”

“I feel fine.” This came through gritted teeth. “Well, considering I spent almost an hour with a bloody madman! Still, no change there, eh? I married one, after all!”

“You shouldn’t have gone with him. For God’s sake, what a damn stupid thing to do.”

“And how was I supposed to get out of it?”

“You should have used your imagination.”

“I already had. I used my imagination and told him I had all day and night to kill before I caught this bloody ferry.”

Dylan wanted a beer but he had to drive them home. He stirred his coffee. “Still, no harm done, eh?”

“Huh!”

He wasn’t sure if she was deliberately trying to make him feel guilty, but she was doing a damn good job. It had been stupid of him to involve her in this.

Getting on the boat had been a damn foolish thing to do, though. Anything could have happened.

Dylan had been watching from a distance. He’d sat in a bar, a glass of orange juice in front of him, smiling to himself when he saw Bev board the boat. Jackson would have been showing off the leather upholstery and boasting about the expensive TV. All had been going to plan.

At first, he’d thought his eyes had been playing tricks, but when he realised the boat really was moving away from the harbour wall, he’d been horrified. His first thought had been to phone her. He couldn’t though. Unless she’d changed his caller ID to Bastard, Matthew Jackson might see that someone called Dylan was trying to speak to her.

Not knowing what else to do, he’d gone down to the harbour, his gaze on the boat that was now little more than a speck.

Just as he decided it was time to call the French police, he saw that the speck was a little larger. The boat was returning.

He watched, a whole host of emotions churning inside him, as Matthew Jackson helped Bev off the boat and, when she was on firm ground once more, kissed her on both cheeks. Dylan was so relieved that he could have kissed Jackson back.

He watched Bev stride away and, when Jackson was on his boat again, hurried after her…

The ferry carried them nearer home and Bev took a sip of her wine. Dylan knew she was still shaken. He wished for all the world that he hadn’t involved her. It had been a crazy idea. As yet, he had no idea what he was dealing with.

Bev was convinced Jackson had been telling the truth about not knowing Armstrong. Yet he’d understood Bev’s reluctance to say where her own fictional wealth had come from. If questioned, Jackson sometimes invented a lottery win. Why? Why lie? Of course, if the truth meant meeting your end courtesy of a single bullet from one of Armstrong’s henchmen, it might make sense.

Dylan was becoming more and more convinced that Jackson, on Terry Armstrong’s instructions, had killed Anita Champion. It was only a theory though. And that theory only existed because he had no better ideas.

To let his wife go off with someone who may or may not be capable of murder—

“I’m sorry, Bev. I shouldn’t have involved you. It was selfish and irresponsible of me. Having said that, I knew you weren’t in danger.”

“For Christ’s sake, you knew no such thing!”

The ferry made its sluggish way through the water as if they had all the time in the world. It was going to be a long and unpleasant journey.

“Thanks for coming with me,” he said. “I appreciate it.”

“Good. Because it’s the last time, Dylan. Our marriage is over.” Her raised voice had attracted the attention of a couple of passengers. “I mean it,” she said, dropping her voice to a whisper.

“We’ll talk about it some other time. When you’ve had chance to recover.”

“I’m fully recovered. Not that there was anything to recover from. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself, you know.” She clasped her hands around her glass as if it contained something warming instead of chilled white wine. “Okay, I was a bit nervous for a while. It did cross my mind that he’d twigged I was digging for information.”

“I know, and I’m sorry.”

“But he was fine. The perfect gentleman, in fact. I can see why Anita was so besotted with him. He’s amazing to look at, he’s charming, and he could be a lot of fun. I didn’t take to him at first, thought he was shallow, but he’s quite a man. I can’t imagine him as a killer. I really can’t.”

Dylan had always respected Bev as a good judge of character, but he was convinced she was wrong this time. “What if there was a lot of money at stake?”

“I still can’t see it. He and Anita had been friends for years, you said so yourself. I honestly can’t believe he’d harm her.”

Bev had another glass of wine and, when they moved away from the bar to the reclining seats, she soon dozed off.

Dylan’s mind was too active for sleep. Maybe he’d got it all wrong. Perhaps Terry Armstrong and Matthew Jackson had nothing whatsoever to do with Anita’s disappearance. Perhaps the answer was closer to home.

Everyone agreed that Ian Champion was a great bloke. He was one of those people constantly referred to as the salt of the earth. Dylan had gained the same impression. What if he was wrong, though? Champion had been, by his own admission, gutted to realise that Holly wasn’t his. He must have been equally distraught to learn that the lovely Anita no longer wanted him in her life. He’d been settled with Anita, thinking he was made for life, believing that the two of them would raise children and grow old together with grandkids on their knee. Having Anita turn her back on him so completely must have been devastating.

But why would he wait so long before doing something about it?

What about Anita’s sister, Joyce? She was a miserable, sour-faced, bitter woman. She could make something of herself in the looks department if only she’d try. A trip to a hairdresser, some makeup and colourful clothes would bring about a transformation. Yet it seemed to Dylan that she actually preferred to be plain, dowdy and downright miserable.

Was it true that she and Len hadn’t wanted children? Or was it more likely that one of them hadn’t been able to have them? Either way, Dylan would bet his life that Joyce had been jealous of Anita from the second she was born.

Perhaps she’d been jealous enough to rid herself of her sister’s presence permanently.

As he stared at the grey water, he wondered how he’d feel if Anita Champion walked up to him and introduced herself. Despite everyone rattling off a whole list of faults, he had a feeling he would like her. An irresponsible woman, yes, but one who’d known that life was no dress rehearsal. She couldn’t be blamed for grabbing what fun she could from life.

A lot of people had enjoyed Anita’s company—her husband, her sister and brother-in-law, Sandra Butler, Yvonne Yates, Maggie Waters, Brenda Tomlinson, Bill Thornton, Alan Cheyney, Stevie, Geoff Lane, Colin Bates, Sean Ellis, Matthew Jackson, Julie Carrington, Terry Armstrong—yet no one seemed to give a damn about her.

Someone had killed Anita, he was sure of it, and those people were all suspects. Every last one of them.