Presumed Dead (23 page)

Moors Park, Dawson’s Clough, wasn’t an exciting place to be on a cold Monday afternoon. Having checked into his hotel and grabbed a quick lunch, however, Dylan wasn’t sure where to start.

Something was bugging him about this case and he wasn’t sure what.

The park was small but surprisingly well cared for. Tall iron railings kept dogs out of the children’s play area. A lone duck sat on a pond, and further on a football pitch waited for action. All was neat and tidy although, after the great thaw, very wet underfoot. Dylan guessed that spring bulbs would soon be pushing their way to the surface.

He was sitting on a bench hoping for inspiration, and his surroundings didn’t hold his interest for long.

What he needed to do was concentrate on Matthew Jackson, he was sure of it. Perhaps if he spoke to everyone again, this time asking the right questions about Jackson, he would get somewhere. But what were the right questions?

If he knew that, he wouldn’t be sitting in a park risking frostbite.

Just as he was about to leave his bench, he saw the unmistakable figure of Stevie limping awkwardly, but quickly, along the path.

One question definitely needed answering.

“Stevie!”

His friend looked up, put up his hand, shuffled toward him and then sat beside him.

“It’s another cold day,” Dylan said.

“Yes.”

“Stevie, what’s your surname?”

His friend looked at him in surprise. “Greenwood.”

“Stevie Greenwood.” At least he’d solved one mystery.

“Steven James Greenwood.”

Three words in a row. “That’s a fine name, Stevie.”

“Yes.”

It would be good if Dylan could talk over his problems with Stevie, but that was out of the question. He’d bet Stevie could tell him a lot if only he wasn’t so averse to conversation.

“Did you like Matthew Jackson?” Dylan asked.

“No.” There was no hesitation.

“Why not?”

Dylan knew it was a mistake as soon as the words were out. Unless it could be answered with a simple yes or no, Stevie was a lost cause.

“He laughed at Anita.”

“Oh? Why was that?”

Stevie shrugged. “Always did it.”

“Because she liked him? Because she made it obvious?”

“Yes.” Stevie’s face creased in concentration. “Called her a whore. Hurt her.”

Much to Dylan’s surprise, they were getting a conversation going here. Stevie wasn’t a lost cause at all. He might not waste time on idle chit-chat, but he was perceptive. Dylan very much doubted that Anita had told Stevie she’d been hurt. He would have seen it for himself.

“How do you know he called her that, Stevie?”

“I was listening.”

“When was this?”

“Long time ago.”

Obviously. “How long was it before she disappeared?”

“A year.” Stevie thought a bit longer. “Maybe two years.”

“What else do you know about him?” Dylan asked.

“Cruel. Dropped a cat from the bridge.”

“Did he?”

“Yes. I took it home. Two broken legs.”

Dylan shuddered at the mental picture of Stevie and his cat. Both broken. Both damaged.

“How long did it live?” Dylan dreaded the answer.

“Eleven years.”

“Yes?”

Stevie smiled and nodded, then he rose to his feet. “Walking,” he said.

“Be seeing you, Stevie.”

Dylan watched him go, and the usual mix of sorrow and despair settled around him.

He wished the incident with the cat provided some sort of clue but it didn’t. Boys will be boys, and many possessed a cruel streak. Dylan abhorred the mistreatment of animals but, for all he knew, Jackson had been haunted from that day to this by what he’d done. It didn’t make him a killer.

Nothing would happen if he wasted time in the park, so he wandered into town. He spoke to a couple of shop owners, then decided on a pub crawl.

Dawson’s Clough was deserted, though. After a couple of hours, he gave up on the day and returned to his hotel room.

Instead of going to bed, he dragged the chair up to the radiator and tried to get warm. All the while, a million thoughts chased themselves around his head.

Jackson had been the love of Anita’s life. She would have confided in him, done anything for him, gone anywhere with him. In short, she would have trusted him with her life.

Most people agreed she had been drunk that night, and Dylan knew she had been drugged. Her tongue would have been loose. Things she might normally have kept to herself would have come spilling out.

Sean Ellis, esteemed DJ, had said she’d been pissed. Pissed and overexcited.

The club’s bouncer, Colin Bates, had said Anita was pissed, too. He’d also seen her with Jackson.

What had he said about Jackson? That he didn’t gamble? So much for the winning horse Jackson’s ex-wife held responsible for her husband’s lifestyle. So much for a lottery win, too.

What else had Bates said? That Anita had been talking about horses.

Drink, drugs, horses—

Unlike Jackson, who claimed to have won money on a horse, Anita was talking of
buying
one.

Dylan woke with a start to find that his arm was numb and his neck was screaming in agony.

Drink, drugs, horses…

“I wonder…”

The first day back at school was always chaotic, and today was no exception, so Bev thought she deserved a quiet lunch break away from colleagues and pupils. She decided to wander down the street for a coffee or maybe a spot of window shopping.

She was walking out of the main doors, well away from noisy pupils, when she saw the familiar figure of her mother-in-law striding toward her.

“Vicky? Is everything all right?”

“Yes, fine. I was nearby so I thought I’d see if you were around.”

Relief that no catastrophes had occurred soon vanished. Vicky hadn’t been nearby, Bev would stake her life on it. She’d want a chat, and the subject at the top of her list was sure to be the state of her son’s marriage. Bev didn’t want to talk about it.

“I was going to nip down the street—”

“Lovely. I’ll walk with you.”

“But I’ve got things to do,” Bev said.

“We’d better get cracking then.”

With a frustrated inner sigh, Bev gave in and fell into step with Vicky to walk down the drive away from the school. It was colder than Bev had realised and her jacket was a waste of time. It was all she had though because she hadn’t planned on leaving the building until she drove home at the end of the day.

Her mother-in-law, on the other hand, was wearing knee-length suede boots, heavy skirt, long woollen coat, gloves and a hat.

“What’s happening between you and Dylan?”

Vicky was a great believer in getting straight to the point, so the question didn’t surprise Bev. She’d always liked her mother-in-law and didn’t want anything to come between them, but she wasn’t going to be made to feel guilty. Vicky thought Dylan was everything a man should be. He wasn’t. He could be a total pain.

“At the moment, he’s angry with me.” She decided to concentrate on the immediate rather than the deeper issues.

“Nonsense.”

“He is. I’m angry with him, too.” She was furious, and still convinced she’d been conned into going to France with him. “Did he tell you what happened in France? The boat?”

Vicky shook her head.

“He wanted me to get close to a man he suspects of murder, and I did just that. I ended up being out at sea alone with him.”

Vicky’s frown deepened.

“It was fine,” she said on a sigh. “But Dylan thinks I was a damn fool to get myself into that position, and I think he was a total bastard to involve me at all.”

“Dear me. I had no idea.”

Bev felt guilty now, and that was absurd. “It was nothing really. Just a stupid disagreement. Crying over spilt milk, you’d call it. I suppose we’re both a bit—”

“Lonely? Stubborn?”

Bev was lonely, but that wasn’t surprising. She and Dylan had been together a long time, so the separation was bound to involve a lot of adjustments. “You think I’m being stubborn?”

“I don’t know, love.”

It was so cold that Bev’s teeth were beginning to chatter. She walked more quickly, hands stuffed in her jacket pockets. “Let’s go for a coffee.” Anything to get out of the cold.

The nearest cafe was less than a hundred yards away, and neither spoke until they were inside, away from the cutting wind.

As it was handy for the school, Bev knew it well and was used to the shabby interior. The scuffed tables and plastic chairs were off-putting, but the cappuccinos were delicious and the chocolate muffins impossible to resist.

Vicky had a decaffeinated coffee and a glass of water. Bev needed her chocolate fix.

“I know you’re not the stubborn type,” her mother-in-law took up the conversation again, “but I do think you need to sort things out. For Luke’s sake, if nothing else.”

“You’re right. We do.”

“And how can you do that if you’re not even living in the same house?”

“I can’t live him with.” Bev wished there was an easier way of saying it. “He’s changed, Vicky. He’s—difficult.”

“Prison changes most people, love.”

“I know that but—”

“It took everything from Dylan.”

“But it didn’t. His wife, his son, his home—we were all right there, waiting for him. All it took from him was his job. Surely Luke and me are worth more than that?”

“Of course you are. You both mean the world to him, you know that.” Vicky stirred her coffee. “What about his pride? His confidence? His self-respect?”

Bev couldn’t answer that.

“You and Luke worshipped him,” Vicky said. “Then, suddenly, he ends up behind bars like a common criminal. Worse, he’s made to
feel
like a common criminal. How difficult do you think it was for him to come home and face you both?”

Bev knew all that, knew it had been hard for him. It had been awful for her and Luke, too. “He has to move on,” she said.

“Of course he does, but he can only do that if he has the love and support of his family.”

“I can’t talk about it.” Bev was annoyed to find that her voice was shaking.

“Okay.”

It was impossible to offend Vicky, and Bev was glad. The last thing she wanted was any awkwardness between them.

“Where is he anyway?” she asked. “Back in Lancashire?”

“He was. But no, he drove home in the middle of the night, checked through some stuff that Holly Champion had given him, spent a few minutes on the internet and then left for France.”

“France? What on earth has he gone back there for?”

“I’ve no idea. He said he’d explain when he got back.”

Bev assumed he still had Matt Jackson down as a suspect. But why? “Do you think he’ll discover the truth about Anita Champion?”

“Of course I do. Dylan’s no quitter. I know he won’t give up until he has.”

Smiling, Bev nodded. “Me, too.”

The smile quickly faded. She had no idea what the future held in store. She might not be able to live with Dylan, but she was making a complete mess of trying to live without him.

She’d been on two dates with a colleague, just two, and that had ended in disaster. Paul had grown pushy, called her a tease—

God, what a mess.

Dylan had driven past Jackson’s home on his last visit to France, when Bev had been on that confounded boat trip, so the property came as no surprise. It was large but still managed to maintain a vision of quaint that the French are so good at. Old stone walls were painted cream, and the woodwork—doors, window frames and shutters—was a dark green. Despite its size, it was more country cottage than grand.

Today, though, probably because the sky was gunmetal grey and rain was lashing down, it looked less attractive.

Dylan parked his car on the driveway and ran to the front door. There was no bell, just a heavy brass knocker that, over the years, had left an indentation in the wood.

He recognised the slim, dark-haired woman who answered his knock as the current Mrs. Jackson. She recognised him, too.

“My husband isn’t here,” she said.

“That’s a shame. I’ve come all the way from England to see him, too. When will he back?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know. I’m sorry you’ve had a wasted journey.” She went to shut the door on the heavy rain and on Dylan.

“He’ll be back today, though, will he?”

She hesitated. “Yes. Later.”

“No worries. I’ll call back later. It’s Francois, isn’t it? We didn’t have time to be introduced properly when we met. I’m Dylan.”

He extended his hand, which, somewhat reluctantly he thought, she shook. He supposed he should have kissed both cheeks, but his affable manner had her relenting. Friendliness often bred manners, he’d found, and, still a little unwilling, she invited him inside.

“I’m sure Matthew won’t be long.” She spoke in exceptionally good English.

“It’s not urgent.” Like hell. “I don’t want to disturb you so I can easily come back later.”

“It’s a pleasure, Mr.—Dylan.”

It clearly wasn’t. She was suspicious of him. Why? What had Jackson told her?

She ushered him into the kitchen, a vast barn of a room that managed to look homely. It was warm and, as all estate agent’s recommended for a quick sale, filled with the delicious aroma of freshly baked bread. Lots of bright flowers sat on the window sills.

“You have a lovely home here,” Dylan said.

“Thank you. Can I offer you wine?”

“That’s very generous of you, but no.” He needed a clear head for the coming ordeal.

“It’s a real family home this, isn’t it?” Dylan said. “Do you have children?”

“No. No, we don’t.”

“Ah, I have a boy. Luke’s eleven. And they say the first eighteen years are the worst.”

“Yes.” She smiled politely and took a sneaky look at her watch.

Dylan chatted about the locale and the weather and, although it seemed like an eternity, it was only about ten minutes before a powerful car was heard pulling up outside.

Francois skipped to the window and looked out.

“Here is Matthew.” She looked and sounded very nervous.

The front door opened and banged shut. “Who’s is that Morgan—?”

Jackson stopped himself as he spotted Dylan. After the briefest of hesitations, there was a small smile. “Well, well. It’s—”

“Dylan. Dylan Scott. And the Morgan’s mine. Your wife was kind enough to invite me inside. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. Why should I?”

He took a step toward Francois, presumably to kiss her, and frowned when he saw her flinch. Dylan was right, she was very nervous.

“I offered him wine, but—”

“A little early for me,” Dylan said.

“So what can I do for you?” Jackson asked.

“It’s a bit delicate.” Dylan had been seated at a large mahogany table but, as Jackson and his wife were both standing, he joined them. “It’s about Anita Champion.”

“I guessed as much. And?”

“It’s about the night she disappeared. You were the last person to see her that night, weren’t you?”

“No.”

“Oh?”

“Well, it’s pretty obvious to me that someone else saw her after me. People don’t just vanish into thin air, do they? Someone else must have seen her.”

“I don’t think so. I think you were the last to see her. I think she told you something of interest, too.”

“What?” He laughed at that. “Like what?”

“Who knows? I expect she was talking about horses.”

A vein throbbed in Jackson’s temple. Dylan was pleased to see he’d hit a nerve.

“I heard she was talking about horses that night,” he said. “I expect she told you all about it. Told you that she was going to buy a horse for Holly. The girl was animal mad, wasn’t she? Anita would have bought her a whole zoo full of animals if she’d been able to afford it.”

“Quite probably, but as she couldn’t even afford a bloody hamster, it’s all a bit academic, isn’t it?”

He was rattled. Good.

His wife was biting the skin on her finger.

“I think she could afford a hamster,” Dylan said. “A horse, too. In fact, I think she could afford a whole zoo.”

“What? She was a two-bit hairdresser, for Christ’s sake!”

Dylan felt himself bristle on Anita’s behalf. She’d had her faults, plenty of them, but she had deserved to lose her heart to someone better than Jackson.

“A two-bit hairdresser who enjoyed a flutter,” Dylan said. “You’ve always believed that gambling is a mug’s game, haven’t you, Mr. Jackson? They tried, back in Dawson’s Clough, to involve you in a poker game. But no, you believe it’s only for morons.”

“So?”

“So Anita was excited that night, wasn’t she? Really over the top. She’d been drugged—” He smiled at Jackson’s obvious surprise. “Oh, yes, her so-called friends had put something in her drink. But she was too excited to go home just yet. She was feeling ill, yet she had to tell you all about it, didn’t she? She trusted you.”

“She told me nothing!” Jackson spat out the words.

“You remember Colin Bates, the bouncer at Morty’s?” He ignored Jackson’s outburst. “She told him she was going to buy a horse. She wouldn’t have told him how, though, would she? She would have told you instead. The love of her life. The man she believed she could trust.”

“Matthew, please? What’s going on?” Francois looked on the verge of tears.

“We’re solving an old puzzle, Mrs. Jackson.” Dylan gave her a kindly smile. “You see, back in 1997, your husband owned a small garage in a Lancashire mill town. He sold it cheap when he came into some money. Isn’t that right, Mr. Jackson?”

“I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”

“I’m talking about Anita Champion’s lottery win.”

“What?” An incredulous laugh.

“That was why she could make her daughter’s dream come true and buy her that horse.”

“You’re mad,” Jackson said, “and I think it’s high time you and your farcical ideas left my house.”

“It’ll be easy enough to check up.”

“Oh, yes? And how are you going to do that?”

Good question. And one for which Dylan had no answer.

Dylan had stopped at his flat to rummage through the pile of junk Holly had brought him. He’d seen two old lottery tickets and checked that the numbers were the same on both. They were. From that, Dylan assumed Anita would have used the same numbers week in and week out. Plenty of people chose birthdays or house numbers, so there was nothing unusual in that.

If she
had
used those same numbers, though, they would have netted her a cool two and a half million pounds on the night in question.

But how the hell was he going to prove it?

Yes, he could find out if the winning ticket had been bought in Manchester for that night’s draw. He would also be able to find out who had claimed the money. Jackson wasn’t stupid, though. He very much doubted if a Matthew Jackson had claimed on a winning ticket.

“There are ways. Well, thanks, Mr. Jackson—Mrs. Jackson. I’ll leave you alone now.”

The flowers were too exotic, their perfume too overpowering, and Dylan was feeling a little nauseous. Or maybe it wasn’t the flowers—maybe it was Jackson.

The man was faster to the door and he stood in front of it, barring Dylan’s way.

“You can’t prove anything.” He kept his voice low so that his wife wouldn’t catch the words.

“You may be right there.”

“I am right. You’ll prove nothing because there’s nothing to prove!”

Dylan leant forward until he was so close, Jackson would have felt his breath on his face. “I’ll nail you for this, Jackson. If it’s the last thing I ever do, I’ll fucking nail you.”

Jackson said nothing and, after a few moments, he moved aside.

“Thank you.”

Dylan let himself out and returned to the Morgan. With luck, he’d catch the six o’clock ferry back to Portsmouth.