Presumed Dead (3 page)

“There was never anyone special in her life.” Joyce’s tone was scathing. “She was too selfish. Even Holly, her own daughter, wasn’t special. If she had been, she’d never have gone off and left her, would she?”

“We never heard of anyone,” Len said, “but we hadn’t seen her that year. We’d had a card from her the previous Christmas with her usual scribbled note, but that was all. We hadn’t been to Lancashire that year, you see.”

“Can you tell me if she ever mentioned a man named Terry Armstrong to you?”

“Not that I recall.” Len looked to Joyce for confirmation.

“She wouldn’t have mentioned her men to me,” Joyce said. “She’d have got pretty short shrift if she had. She had a daughter. She shouldn’t have had time for men.”

Dylan wondered if Joyce was religious. It often seemed to him that, the tighter a person clasped the Holy Word, the more un-Christian they became…

“If she’d been in any sort of trouble, would she have come to you for help?” Dylan addressed his question to Len, who was more helpful, but Joyce answered anyway.

“Money, you mean?”

“Any sort of help.”

“I doubt it,” Len said, and he seemed to regret that. “We just didn’t have the contact.”

“I see. So how did you find out that she’d gone missing?”

“The police came to see us,” Joyce said, “wanting to know if we’d heard from her. Well, of course we hadn’t. But as I say, I wasn’t going to shirk my responsibility. Family is family no matter what. We went straight to Dawson’s Clough and fetched Holly.”

“It wasn’t quite as straightforward as that.” Len spoke with the patience of a man well used to clarifying his wife’s snappy remarks. “As Holly was only eleven, the police soon had social services involved. We thought Holly might go to her dad but Ian hadn’t seen her for 8 years—”

“She couldn’t even remember him!” Joyce spoke as if Holly wasn’t there.

“She couldn’t.” Len’s smile for Holly was warm. “Holly didn’t want to go to Ian, and social services thought it would be less traumatic for her to come to us.”

“Because we could give her a decent home life.” Joyce threw back her shoulders. She would have made a good drill sergeant. “Ian didn’t even have a job at the time. Besides, he’d made it clear how much she meant to him, hadn’t he? For all he cared, she might not have existed.”

“And, of course,” Len said, “we all assumed it would be short-term. We thought Anita would be back.”

“
You
might have.” Joyce clearly hadn’t.

Dylan wanted to get away from these depressing people. Or Joyce at any rate. There was nothing she could—or would—tell him about Anita’s disappearance.

As soon as they’d run out of conversation, he got to his feet. “Time I was off. It’s been good to meet you both.”

Holly walked with him to his car. He guessed that she, too, needed to step away from them for a few moments.

“Your aunt bears no resemblance to your mother,” he said at last.

“No.” She laughed at that, but it was a laugh heavy with despair. “None whatsoever. You’ll be in touch?”

“Of course.”

“Thanks.” She looked back at her mobile home and grimaced. “I’d better not shirk my responsibility any longer. Thanks again, Dylan. I’ll look forward to hearing from you.”

At a little after two o’clock the following afternoon, Dylan sat in a small and shabby unisex hairdresser’s in Dawson’s Clough where the windows dripped condensation. Apart from a lady under a huge dome-shaped dryer, he was the only customer.

The salon was in a street of old three-storey stone properties, some residential and some business premises. Nearby was a fish-and-chip shop, an Indian restaurant, an art shop and a baker’s.

Thanks to a hassle-free run up the M1 and the opportunity to race up the M6 Toll road, the drive had taken him under five hours, and that had included a quick stop at Keele Services for petrol, coffee and a sandwich. He’d clocked the journey at two hundred thirty miles, so hadn’t done too badly.

Lancashire brought with it an unexpected feeling of déjà vu. Until the age of four, he and his mother had lived on his grandparents’ farm in the county. That had been west Lancashire, though, and Dawson’s Clough was as far east as you could go. Besides, when he’d been dragged from the farm to Birmingham, kicking and yelling loud enough to wake the dead according to his mother, he had been far too young to register anything. Yet there was a familiarity about the buildings cast from local stone and the unmistakable accents.

As a teenager, Dylan had been on a school trip to Blackpool. They’d messed around in the amusement arcades and dutifully seen the famous illuminations. He couldn’t remember Lancashire as being anything special, though. Today, with a watery sun doing its best, the scenery amazed him. The towns—rows of terraced houses scattered around the long-silent cotton mills—ended abruptly and the Pennines rolled on seemingly forever.

He supposed this corner of east Lancashire could be bleak when mist or snow covered the hills, but now, it was stunning.

“Would you like to sit here?” a woman called to him.

“Thanks.” He took his seat in front of the mirror. “Just a trim, please. Not too short.”

He assumed he was speaking to Sandra Butler. Her name was outside the shop and on several framed diplomas inside. Heading toward fifty, she was about the right age, too. She was reed-thin and shapeless, with a pinched face. Her hair, long, dark and streaked with red, didn’t look to be in good condition. Dylan expected hairdressers to have glossy, bouncy hair, but hers was dull and dry.

“This takes me back.” He smiled as she picked up her scissors. “I was a salesman covering this area—oh, it would be fifteen years ago now—and I used to call at this very shop for a trim. Did you work here then?”

“I did. I’ve owned it for twenty years this year.”

“Really? I know I always got good service at a good price. You can’t ask for more than that, can you?”

“I like to keep my customers satisfied.”

“To tell the truth,” Dylan said, “I was hoping to—well, it’s a long story, but I remember another woman who worked here. Anita Champion, her name was. Daft really, but we went out together a couple of times and I was hoping she’d still be here.”

The scissors stopped midair for a moment or two.

“Anita? Blimey, you’re going back, love.” The scissors were idle but her hands weren’t. Lancastrians, it seemed, still needed their hands to talk, a legacy from life in the cotton mills when the noise made conversation impossible. “You’re out of luck anyway. She’s long gone.”

“Oh? I don’t suppose you’ve any idea where she is now?”

“Nope. She did a runner. Didn’t turn up for work one day and I didn’t get so much as a sorry on a postcard.”

“Really?” Dylan feigned surprise. “That doesn’t sound like the woman I remember. I thought she enjoyed working here.”

“So did I.” The scissors had to be still again. “We got on well at one time. She even had the flat above the shop.” She pointed toward the first floor. “A good wage, plus her tips.” Sandra Butler’s lips tightened. “It just goes to show. Took me for a right fool, she did.”

“She had a young daughter, didn’t she?”

“She did, but that wouldn’t stop her. She thought nothing of leaving that kid to fend for herself. An eleven-year-old in that flat alone—” She shook her head at the very idea. “A selfish bitch, that’s what Anita Champion were.”

“What happened to her? The kid, I mean.”

“Got taken in by Anita’s sister. She and Anita were chalk and cheese. Anita looked out for herself and didn’t care a jot for anyone else. As I found out to my cost.”

“What exactly happened?” Dylan asked.

“How do you mean?”

“Anita didn’t turn up for work one day, you say?”

“It were a Saturday night.” The scissors were idle. “Four of them went out on the town. I would have gone with them but my boyfriend of the time, Eddie, were home on leave from the army, and we wanted time on our own, if you know what I mean.”

After a sharp nudge in the shoulder, Dylan assured her he did.

“There were Brenda, Yvonne, Maggie and Anita. They all met up in the Commercial, that’s the pub round the corner from here. Then they went on to Oasis, a club. It’s closed down now, but we had some times there, I can tell you. Anyway, Yvonne could never hold her drink so she went home early, but that’s the last any of them saw of Anita.”

“What did the police make of it? I assume the police got involved? After all, she could have had an accident or something.”

“When she hadn’t turned up after a week or so, the police asked a few questions, but what were the point? If she’d had an accident, the hospitals would have known about it.” Those scissors, held tight in hands that moved erratically as their owner spoke, came dangerously close to his eye. “Looks like you’ll have to forget that drink, love. She’s long gone.”

“Hmm.” Dylan shifted in his seat. “It’s not quite that simple. The thing is—it’s embarrassing really, but I was only twenty-four and she’d have been almost thirty. We had a bit of a fling and, yes, I know I was a fool, but I gave her a ring that had belonged to my mother. Emerald. Antique. I was really hoping—needing—to get it back.”

Sandra Butler shook her head at such stupidity.

“You and dozens more, love. She were always after men—always getting what she could from them. Believe me, if it were valuable, she would have sold it years ago.”

“Oh? Did she have money problems?”

She laughed at that. “Course she did. It used to burn holes in her pockets.”

Snip, snip, snip.

She brushed loose hairs from his collar. “Right. Seven pounds fifty, please.”

Dylan eyed himself in the mirror and was relieved to see she’d done a tidy job.

“I’m in a bit of a predicament, aren’t I?” He stood and took his wallet from his pocket. “I don’t suppose you could tell me where her friends are—the three people she went out with that night? Or her daughter? I have to find Anita.”

“You won’t do that.”

“I can at least try.”

“I don’t know where her daughter is. Like I said, she were taken in by Anita’s sister and they lived down south somewhere.”

“What about the friends she went out with that night?”

“They’ll only tell you what I have.”

“They might remember something else. Be able to give me some clue perhaps.”

She looked at him for long, long moments. It was an odd look, as if he were a horse she was thinking of buying at market.

“Yvonne still lives in the Clough,” she said. “I can give you her phone number, if you like.”

“Would you? I’d be extremely grateful.”

“Not that she’ll tell you anything else.” She took one of her business cards from a pile and wrote down the number without having to look it up. “There you go.”

“Thanks. And if you hear anything—” Dylan grabbed one of those cards and scribbled his own name and mobile number on the back, “—would you give me a ring?”

“What’s that? Dylan?”

“Yes.”

“Look, I haven’t heard anything in the last thirteen years, so I ain’t going to hear anything now, am I?”

“Probably not. Anyway, thanks.” He handed her a ten-pound note. “Keep the change.”

“Aw, thanks. And good luck, love!”

Sandra had a quick glance at Mabel, decided that another five minutes under the dryer wouldn’t hurt her, and headed for the stairs.

“Won’t be a minute, love!”

Once upstairs, she picked up the phone and tapped in Yvonne’s number.

“Yvonne, it’s me. I can’t stop, I’ve got Miserable Mabel drying to a frazzle, but you’ll never guess what. Some bloke’s just been in and he were asking after—well, you’ll never guess.”

“Then you’d better tell me, hadn’t you?”

“Anita Bloody Champion!”

Silence met her statement. Sandra wasn’t surprised—it had been years since any of them had mentioned that name.

“You still there, Yvonne?”

“Yes. Course I am. You took me by surprise, that’s all.”

“It took me by surprise, too. Can you believe it? After all these years?”

“What did you tell him?”

“What do you think?” Sandra demanded. “I told him that she went out with you three one night and vanished. Said I’d have gone too but that my Eddie were home on leave.”

“God!”

“He were desperate to find someone who knew her. Preferably someone who were with her on that last night.”

“What? Oh, no!”

“What could I do? I tried to put him off, but it were looking suspicious.”

“Christ!”

“He’s all right. Nice enough to look at, the right side of forty, good tipper. He told me he had a bit of a fling with Anita and gave her a ring—another bloody sucker for a pair of legs and tits by the sound of it.”

“Please don’t tell me you gave him
my
name. Please!”

“I had to. It would have looked as if we had something to hide if I hadn’t. I gave him your phone number, not your address. Anyway, he’s okay. As I said, he’s not bad looking really. Just under six feet, dark hair, not overweight. Clothes are a bit creased, but nice enough. As you’re on your own now, you can get him to take you out for a meal or something.”

“Bloody hell, Sand! And what am I supposed to tell him?”

“The truth. Anita vanished, remember?”

There was another long pause.

“I can’t talk to him,” Yvonne said. “Why the hell did you have to give him
my
name? The very thought of that night makes me want to throw up.”

“She vanished, Yvonne. She went off with some bloke, like she always did—and usually one of our blokes at that—and didn’t come back. That weren’t our fault, were it?”

Yvonne didn’t answer.

“I’ll have to go,” Sandra said, “or Mabel’s hair’ll be dropping out. I’ll ring you later, okay?”

“God, Sand, I wish you hadn’t done this. I really do.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll speak to you later.”

Yvonne replaced the receiver and strode to the kitchen and the drawer where she kept her emergency ciggies. If this wasn’t an emergency, she didn’t know what was.

What in hell’s name had possessed Sandra to give this bloke her phone number? Why pick on her?

Of course, as far as Sandra was concerned, it was just a joke. She had no need to worry because she hadn’t been there that night. She’d sent the rest of them to do her dirty work.

Damn. She had cigarettes but no lighter.

She switched on the electric hob, pulled her hair back from her face, and lit her cigarette.

Why now? She inhaled deeply and had to perch on the kitchen stool as a wave of nausea hit her. It was early, but she needed a drink. A cigarette always went better with a drink.

She poured herself a vodka and took a swallow.

Why now? Why, after thirteen years, was some stranger sniffing round after Anita?

Once the nausea had worn off, the cigarette and the vodka calmed her a little. Sandra was right. Anita had vanished and they knew nothing about it. There was nothing to worry about from some ex-boyfriend. God, she thought with a snort of laughter, if all Anita’s exes crawled out of the woodwork—

She almost fell off her stool when her phone rang. A quick look at the display showed her that someone was calling from a mobile. It must be him.

She couldn’t answer it.

Then again, it might be about the job she’d been interviewed for last week. They wouldn’t call from a mobile though, would they?

It rang out until the machine clicked on. No message was left.

Now she didn’t know if she should have answered it or not. If it was about that job, they’d call back. They wouldn’t not give her the job just because she’d been unable to take the call. She’d spent years working in an estate agent’s office and she could do the job backwards. Besides being smart and intelligent, which was more than could be said for the gum-chewing girl sitting in the office when she’d gone for the interview, she had a knack for selling houses.

Her spirits lifted somewhat. Perhaps, after all, she had a job lined up. God knows, she needed it.

Seventeen years of marriage down the toilet, just like that. It hadn’t been a great marriage, but it still hurt. No doubt countless other women felt the same when their husbands left them for a younger model. Now, Ken had two step-kids and a baby on the way. That’s what hurt most.

She wasn’t going to dwell on that. Far better to think of the financial mess she was in. Ken had paid off the mortgage, thank God, but he’d made it clear he wasn’t going to pay the bills for ever. She desperately needed a job.

She couldn’t help thinking that if Sandra was the friend she claimed to be, she would have let her work in the salon on Fridays and Saturdays instead of employing that spotty sixteen-year-old. Yvonne had no intention of begging, though, especially to be a glorified skivvy to Sandra.

The caller would try again and she would have to answer it. Even if it was Anita’s ex, it was no big deal. Her, Maggie and Brenda—they didn’t know anything. They’d gone for a night out, as they often did. Anita had been chatting up some bloke, as she always did. They hadn’t seen her since. That was all there was to it.

It was no big deal.

Shortly before six o’clock that evening, the phone rang again and, this time, with a voice that shook, she answered it.

“Yvonne Yates?” a man asked.

It was him. She knew it. “Yes?”

“Ah, you won’t know me. My name’s Dylan Scott and I spoke to Sandra Butler—the hairdresser, you know?”

“Oh?”

“Yes. She said I should chat to you. It’s a bit embarrassing, to tell the truth, but I need to find Anita Champion.”

Yvonne’s hands were sweating so much, she half expected the phone to slide from her grasp. “Oh? Well, I’m sorry, but I’ve no idea—”

“I know, but you might be able to help. Might we talk perhaps?” At her hesitation, he said, “Tell you what, I’m staying at the Pennine Hotel. I don’t know what you have planned for this evening, but I hate dining alone. Perhaps you could join me?”

Damn it, why not? It was no big deal and, God knows, it was ages since she’d been out. Ages since she could afford it. She’d skipped lunch, there was nothing in the cupboards or the freezer, and, according to Sandra, he was all right. Not bad looking and a good tipper, she’d said.

“Okay.”

“Great. Thanks so much. About seven-thirty?”

“Fine.”

It was no big deal, she reminded herself yet again. Let some other sucker buy the drinks for a change.