Presumed Dead (9 page)

“Right.” Dylan was trying to imagine the scenario that existed thirteen years ago. “We know Sandra Butler was out for revenge on you because you’d been with Anita. What about Anita? Presumably she’d want to put Anita in her place, too?”

“How do you mean?” Eddie asked.

“What do you think Sandra would have done to Anita? She vandalized your car. What might she have done to Anita?”

“I suppose she might have hurled a few choice words at her. But I can’t see her doing anything else. Anita was too valuable to her. She was a hard worker and popular with the customers. Sandra was a money-grabbing cow—still is, I shouldn’t wonder—and she’d have known that replacing Anita would have been nigh on impossible. As for possessions, Anita didn’t have anything valuable. No, I expect they had a row and that would have been the end of it.”

Dylan wasn’t so sure. Again, he considered telling them Yvonne Yates’s story about the drug Anita was given, but there was no point until he knew more about it.

“What about Anita’s other friends?”

“It’s a long time ago,” Eddie said. “I only saw people in the Clough when I was home on leave. I used to catch up with family, drink too much, chat up the girls and then go back to wherever I was stationed. Anita knew practically everyone in the town but I couldn’t give you any names.” He tapped his finger against his teeth. “There was another nightclub in the Clough at the time. I’m damned if I can remember what it was called, but Anita and the others used to go there. I never went although I gather it was pretty seedy. From what I recall, the drinks were expensive and watered down and the place was raided by the police every fortnight. All the druggies hung out there.”

Dylan would ask around. Plenty of people must remember it.

“Unless I’m getting confused with somewhere else,” Eddie said, “I seem to think Anita was friendly with one of the bouncers there. He used to get her free drinks.”

“Really?”

“Maybe. Sorry, Dylan, but I didn’t go there. I’m only going by memory so I may be wrong. I was only home on leave a couple of times after that. Then I married Rosie and we spent the next three years in Cyprus.”

“That’s great, thanks. I can ask around.”

Thirteen years was a long time. People moved on. Memory became blurred.

“It’s time I was going,” he said. “You’ve been more than generous—both with your food and your time—and I’m extremely grateful. If you think of anything else, Eddie, anything at all, no matter how stupid it seems, will you let me know?”

“Of course.”

Rosie reached for a pen and a black leather-bound phone directory. “If I don’t put your number in here, we’ll lose it.”

She wrote his name and number neatly under S and then again under D.

“Thanks. And thank you for the food. It’s been a real pleasure to meet you both.”

“You, too,” Rosie said. “Keep in touch, won’t you?”

“Yes, let us know if you find out anything. I’ve always been curious.”

“I will.”

Rosie and Eddie were showing him out when he spotted a familiar object on the small table in the hall. “School raffle tickets?”

“They’re a permanent fixture in this house.” Rosie laughed. “This time they’re hoping to raise funds for a swimming pool.”

And next time it would be to improve the sports ground. Dylan knew all about that. He swore he’d bought Luke’s school four times over. “Give me a fiver’s worth.”

He was reaching for his wallet but Rosie waved it away. “Dylan, no. You can’t do that.”

“I can. I know how difficult it is to sell the things. Besides, I might win a—” He read the ticket and whistled. “A weekend in Paris? The best my son’s school comes up with is a couple of bottles of wine.”

Rosie, very reluctantly, took the money from him and handed him the tickets. “Thanks.”

As he left the house and the door closed behind him, the night air chilled him. Or perhaps it was more than the air.

He sat in his car for a moment and gazed back at the house. What a delightful couple. That’s how he and Bev should be. Exactly like that. They would be, too. He was going to have a serious talk with Bev. It was high time she stopped acting like a child and saw sense.

Feeling much better, he fired the engine and began the journey back to Dawson’s Clough.

Alan Cheyney sat by his bed to wait for the doctor.

When Armstrong’s thugs had driven off on Monday night, he’d tried to walk home. He’d made it back into town, but then he’d passed out in the chemist’s doorway. A copper had found him and he’d been admitted to A&E to have his gum, lip and a gash above his left eye stitched. Three of his ribs had been broken, too, but he was still surprised to be in hospital on this cold Thursday morning. Considering beds were at a premium, he’d expected to be discharged yesterday.

He could have discharged himself, but he was in no hurry. While the police looked for “two unknown assailants,” he was safer in hospital. He’d even toyed with the idea of feigning mysterious complaints just to remain in the haven of the building.

Pete had called yesterday and, although Alan hadn’t gone into too much detail, his brother had promised to lend him a thousand pounds. It wasn’t enough, but Alan was grateful. It might keep Terry Armstrong off his back for a while.

Pete had also taken the week off work to look after the shop for him. It was a week of his annual leave, too, so Kath, his wife, wouldn’t be happy. Alan owed him.

The door swung open and a nurse came into the ward followed by a man carrying a huge, cellophane-wrapped basket of fruit.

“Mr. Cheyney, a visitor for you.”

“Me?”

Alan looked past the fruit to the suited gentleman and he felt his guts, broken and bruised, turn to mush. It was Terry Armstrong.

The last Alan had heard, Armstrong was in Florida, in the house where he spent four or five months of the year. Judging by his suntan, he hadn’t been back long.

“My dear chap,” Armstrong said, “I’ve just heard the news. As I was saying to this lovely young lady, I take it as a personal affront if anything happens to one of my tenants.” He grabbed Alan’s hand and squeezed it. Hard. “Here, a few grapes for you.”

The few grapes would have filled a fruiterer’s.

“So tell me, Alan, what happened? Two men attacked you, I heard. I suppose they thought you had the contents of the till on you. What’s the world coming to, eh? Let’s hope the police soon catch up with them.”

Everyone in the ward, the nurse included, was captivated by this genial, charismatic man.

“Yes,” Alan agreed, realising he hadn’t spoken.

Armstrong pulled up a chair close to Alan’s. “I can’t stop, but I wanted to say how sorry I am.”

“That’s, um—”

“I hear you’ll be going home later today. You’ll be glad of that, I’m sure. Back at work soon, eh?”

“Yes.”

“Hanging’s too good for them. Young kids, I expect. They think the world owes them a living.”

“You’re right about that.” Charlie, in the next bed, had been waiting for the chance to join in the conversation. “They should bring back National Service.”

While Alan’s stomach continued to churn, the entire ward chatted about the youth of Dawson’s Clough and what should be done about them.

When, after about twenty minutes, Armstrong stood to leave, he’d formed his own fan club.

He shook Alan’s hand again and leaned in close, his breath hot against Alan’s face as he whispered, “I’ll have my money tomorrow. Meanwhile, keep away from my wife.”

With smiles and waves to everyone on the ward, Terry Armstrong made his exit.

I’ll have my money tomorrow
.

Dylan sat in Asda’s cafe, eating the biggest breakfast they offered—because he’d overslept and missed it at the hotel—while wondering where to start.

Last night, driving home from Eddie and Rosie Swift’s house, he’d thought again about Alan Cheyney. The man remained a mystery. From the little Dylan had managed to find out, he was a decent, honest, hard-working type. He’d been made redundant after more than thirty years driving lorries for the same company and, with the small lump sum he received, opened his not-very-successful angling shop. Divorced, he lived alone in a small semi-detached house. An eight-year-old car sat on the drive. He lived modestly.

But he’d had an affair with Anita and he rented his shop premises from Terrence Armstrong. Cheyney was linked to them both. He was also wary of answering questions.

Dylan took his small notebook from his pocket and, fork in one hand, idly flicked through the pages as he ate.

He pushed his empty plate aside and took his phone from his pocket. He hit a button and listened to it ring out three times, before it was answered by a voice so croaky it was impossible to guess at the gender.

“Pikey? Is that you?”

“Yep, still breathing. Just about. I thought I was getting over a dose of flu but I’m not so sure now. But never mind my groans, how are you, you old bastard? Hey, thanks for the Christmas card. Pity it got lost in the post.”

“Eh? You didn’t get one? Hell, that’ll be Bev. She’s thrown one of her wobblers.”

She hadn’t told him he had to deal with the cards, though, and he hadn’t thought about it. He wouldn’t have sent many but he would have sent one to Pikey. D.S. Keith Pike was a good mate. A big bloke with a shaved head, he looked more thug than copper, but he had a heart as big as a horse’s, and his wife and two daughters could do with him as they pleased. He would die for them. Willingly.

He and Pikey had worked alongside each other for three years but, unfortunately, they hadn’t been together the night the call came through that ended with Dylan being put behind bars.

If Pikey had been with him, it would have been sorted. Honest to the core, Pikey wouldn’t have been tempted to lie by the offer of promotion. He wouldn’t have been interested in showing Joe Public that complaints against police officers were taken seriously. Nothing but the truth would have mattered to him.

“So how have you upset the lovely Bev this time?” Pikey asked.

“Oh, the usual.” To be honest, Dylan wasn’t sure of the specifics. A drunkard and a loser, she’d said, but he had no idea what had brought that on. “She’ll come round. She always does.”

“Always has,” Pikey corrected him.

“Yeah, well. So how are Sheila and the kids?”

“Great, thanks. You’ll have to come and see us. You must owe me a pint.”

“I will.” If Pikey came good on this, he’d buy him a barrel. “Tell me, do you have friends at Lancashire Constabulary?”

“I have no friends at all. Best way, mate. All they do is phone you out of the blue when they want something.”

“Aw, come on, Pikey. A great bloke like you must have friends everywhere.”

“Ha! What exactly are you wanting from Lancashire Constabulary?”

As he finished his coffee, Dylan told Pikey all about the disappearance of Anita Champion.

“Leave it with me and I’ll see what I can do,” Pikey said when he’d finished.

“Thanks, mate. I owe you.”

“You do.”

As he snapped his phone shut, Dylan tried not to think of the laughs he and Pikey had shared during the days Dylan had been a respected member of the police force. Instead, he tried to decide how to put the day to best use.

He was gazing out the window across Asda’s car park when he spotted the unmistakable figure of—what was his name? Stevie? Had the unkind name been Simple Stevie?

Dylan finished his coffee, put mug, plate and cutlery on the tray and quickly took it to the rack. He was soon going down the escalator and heading for the car park.

For a moment, he thought he’d lost Stevie, but then he spotted him pushing a trolley toward the car park’s exit. Perhaps trolleys were his friends. At least they didn’t argue, beg for favours, answer back or call you cruel names.

Dylan caught up with him and put a restraining hand on the trolley’s handle. “Perhaps we ought to take this back, eh?”

He spoke gently enough, but Stevie, if that was his name, looked terrified.

“It’s okay,” Dylan said, “but I think they like to keep them here. It could be useful having a few spares in Market Street, I know, but better not, eh?”

Stevie nodded and released his grip on the trolley.

“We’ll put it there.” Dylan pointed to the plastic-covered trolley park.

Stevie nodded again, then, limping awkwardly, walked beside Dylan as he pushed the trolley.

Dylan stacked the trolley with the others and removed the pound coin from the slot. “Is this yours?”

A shake of the head indicated that he’d probably pinched the trolley from an unsuspecting shopper.

“I suppose it is now.” Dylan gave him the coin, which disappeared into the pocket of a black anorak.

“It’s Stevie, isn’t it? I saw you in the pub—the Pheasant—when I was chatting to Bill Thornton and a chap called Geoff.”

Another nod had Dylan wondering if the man could talk.

“Dylan. Dylan Scott.” He offered his hand which, after a brief hesitation and wiping his own hand on spotless jeans, Stevie shook.

It was too early for a beer, and Dylan didn’t fancy another coffee. Stevie was the one who looked as if he needed a good cooked breakfast washed down with something hot.

After a brief inner debate, Dylan decided that getting on the right side of Stevie might be beneficial. It was often the case that quiet people—and they didn’t come more tight-lipped than Stevie—had sharpened powers of observation.

“Do you fancy a cup of tea or coffee?” he asked. “Or something to eat?”

Stevie regarded him with mild surprise. “Yes,” he said finally and, although it was closer to a grunt than a word, Dylan breathed a sigh of relief. At least he was capable of speech.

This was proved when, at the food counter in Asda’s cafe, Stevie said to the girl behind the counter, “Big breakfast and extra toast, please.”

Dylan got himself a cup of tea. They sat at a table by the window that gave a view of the car park and the town, and Dylan watched, both fascinated and appalled, as Stevie shovelled in mouthful after mouthful.

Neither spoke until the plate had been cleared and wiped clean with a square of toast saved specially for the task.

“Good,” Stevie said with satisfaction.

“You’re welcome.” But there was no such thing as a free breakfast.

Dylan reached into his pocket and pulled out the best photo he had of Anita Champion. By now, he’d shown it to so many people that it was beginning to look creased and tatty.

“Do you know this woman?” He slid the photo across the table to Stevie.

“Yes.”

“Yes? You know Anita Champion?”

“Yes.”

Dylan stared at him in total amazement. Stevie spoke, grunted at least, as if it were the most natural question in the world.

“Have you seen her during the last thirteen years?”

“No.”

Stupid question. Of course he hadn’t. No one had.

“Did you know her well?”

Stevie seemed to consider the question seriously before answering. “No.”

“Did you know her daughter Holly?”

“Yes.”

“Did you know her well?”

Again, a long pause before he answered, “No.”

For all the surprise Stevie showed, Dylan might have been asking him about the weather. Or perhaps he’d been warned that Dylan was asking questions. And the only person who would warn him would be the one with something to hide.

“What about Yvonne Yates?” Dylan asked. “Do you know her?”

“Yes.”

This process would be speeded up considerably if only Stevie would expand on his answers. However, on this cold, wet Thursday morning, Dylan had to be grateful for anything.

“So you know the women Anita went out with the night she disappeared? Yvonne Yates, Maggie Gibson and Brenda Tomlinson?”

“Yes.”

“Did you see Anita the night she vanished?” Dylan asked.

“Yes.”

“You did? Where?”

Stevie thought for a moment, probably realised that yes or no wouldn’t suffice, and rose to his feet. With a grunt and a wave of his hand, he indicated that Dylan should follow him.

There had been a brief shower while they’d been in Asda’s cafe but, although the pavements were slick and the air was damp, it wasn’t raining as they walked through the car park.

Stevie said nothing as he limped along, and Dylan was too busy thinking to talk.

They cut through two alleyways and walked along Market Street until they turned into Rose Walk and then Pennine Way, close to Dylan’s hotel. Stevie stopped outside what had once been Oasis, the nightclub Anita Champion had visited on that last night.

It would have been so much easier for Stevie to simply have told him.

“You saw her here?” Dylan asked. “In the nightclub?”

“No.”

Stevie tugged on Dylan’s sleeve and led the way to the alley at the side of the building. Halfway along, he stopped. He looked ahead, looked back as if judging the distance, then pointed to the ground at his feet.

“She was here?” Dylan asked in amazement.

“Yes.”

Dylan had always considered himself a patient man, but Stevie’s short answers would soon have him tearing out his hair.

“She was lying down?”

“Yes.”

“She was ill, wasn’t she? Probably being sick?”

“Sick. Yes.”

Two words. With luck, they would soon progress to a whole sentence.

“Did you talk to her?” Dylan asked.

“Yes.”

“What did you say? What did she say?”

“Taxi,” he replied. “She said taxi.”

“She wanted a
taxi
?” Dylan had imagined an ambulance would have been a more apt mode of transport.

“Yes.”

“Where to?”

Stevie would have set off again, presumably to show Dylan her intended destination.

“Whoa. Hang on a minute, Stevie, let me get this straight. How long were you with her here?” He pointed at the ground. “Five minutes? Ten? Twenty?” he added to speed things along.

“Thirty,” Stevie answered with a shrug that was perhaps intended to convey the word “approximately.”

“Right. You spent half an hour with her—while she was being sick?”

“Yes.” He pointed at the building. “Water.”

“You got her some water?”

“Yes.”

“So she drank the water and then wanted a taxi, right? Could she stand at this point?”

“Yes.” Stevie hesitated for a moment, then took half a dozen paces, bouncing off one wall and then the other. “Drunk.”

“Ah.”

Drugged more like.

Stevie gave a sharp pull on Dylan’s sleeve and, this time, Dylan followed him to the end of the alley.

Stevie pointed to a spot a hundred yards along the road ahead of them. “Taxi.”

Sure enough, there were three cabs waiting on the rank.

“You walked along the alley with her? You helped her to walk along?”

“Yes.”

“And you helped her into a taxi—there?”

“Yes.”

“Did you go with her?”

“No.”

Dylan knew a sudden urge to throw himself under the bus that trundled into view. Why wouldn’t Stevie communicate? What the hell? Dylan was no psychiatrist. “Do you know where she was going?”

“Morty’s.”

“Morty’s? Where’s that?”

“Gone. Come on.” And Stevie set off.

It looked as if Yvonne Yates and her merry band of vipers were in the clear. There
had
been a man in the alley and it seemed that, after all, Anita had been well enough to go on to Morty’s.

Odd that Yvonne and her chums hadn’t known that. Surely the local coppers would have found out and word would have spread. Perhaps they hadn’t. Maybe, they, too, had been content with the idea of Anita Champion abandoning her daughter for a new life.

That was so unlikely though. No one knew of anyone special in her life, and no way would she have gone off with someone she had met that night. Anita Champion might have been all sorts of a fool, but, when it came to men, Dylan would bet she’d been wary. A good time, yes. Commitment, no.

On and on they walked. Had Dylan known the distance involved, he would have insisted they get a taxi. They had walked the length of Dawson’s Clough and ended up on the Manchester Road, a wide, busy road with three-storey stone-built terraced houses on either side.

When they reached the end, Stevie pointed. “Morty’s.”

It was a former mill that had been converted, quite recently by the look of it, into luxury apartments with all the security imaginable. Several expensive vehicles sat in designated parking spots.

“Okay.” Enough was enough. If they tried any sort of conversation at Stevie’s pace, they would see in next year. “I realise you don’t like talking to people, Stevie. I even sympathise. Sometimes, I’d rather not get involved myself. The thing is, though, conversation is a necessary evil. Okay? I need you to tell me all you know about Morty’s—and what you know about Anita Champion’s movements the night she vanished. Okay?”

Stevie nodded, which wasn’t promising.

“The night she went missing,” Dylan said, “what happened? You saw her get in a taxi to come here, yes?”

“Yes.”

Dylan waited but that was it.

“Did you see her again?”

Stevie shook his head.

“What about her friends? Did you see them?”

Stevie was a long time answering, which meant he was probably wondering how he could condense all he knew into the fewest words possible.

“Leaving Oasis,” he said at last. “The Yates woman at eleven o’clock. The other two after midnight.”

It was perhaps the longest speech he had ever given.

“Where did they go?”

“Don’t know.”

Dylan turned his attention to the building in front of them. “What was Morty’s?”

“Club. Disco. Drink. Drugs.”

“When—?” What was the point? He could easily find out when the place had closed down. It would be quicker than asking Stevie. “Do you know who Anita saw that night?” he asked instead. “Do you know if she was meeting someone?”