DS01 - Presumed Dead

by Shirley Wells

  Good God. These women—Sandra busy in her salon, Maggie walking her dog, and Yvonne downing wine and picking at chicken wings—were remarkably cool. “And did it make her ill?”

  “Didn’t Maggie tell you?”

  “She gave me her version, of course,” Dylan said, “but it seems she has a habit of stretching the truth a bit.”

  “Too right she does. Fancy telling you it was her who wanted no part in it. Cheeky bitch.”

  She emptied her glass and Dylan refilled it.

  “Ta,” she said. “Well, like I told you, I wanted nothing to do with any of it. As soon as they put that—that whatever it was—in her drink, I scarpered. Went home and left them to it.”

  So, regardless of what had happened to Anita, Yvonne was in the clear.

  “I have proof of that, too,” she said. “As it was still quite early, I called in at the Commercial on my way home. Loads of people saw me.”

  In the clear and with a convenient alibi.

  Dylan tutted. “Maggie didn’t tell me that.”

  “Well, it’s fact. I had to phone Sandra the next day to find out what had happened.”

  “It sounds as if you were better off out of it.” Dylan tried to sound sympathetic but it was difficult.

  “Too right I was.”

  The waiter came to clear away their plates and Dylan endured the usual “Was everything to your satisfaction?” and “Can we tempt you to a dessert?” routine with as much patience as he could muster.

  He ordered a coffee and a brandy. Yvonne, after a great deal of deliberation, which included flirting with the young waiter, settled for coffee.

  Dylan had thought he might find it difficult to return to their discussion, but Yvonne couldn’t let it rest.

  “Do you think Sandra might have lied to me?” she asked, pulling a red serviette to pieces.

  He gave her a smooth smile. “How can I answer that? I don’t know what she told you.”

  “Just that they—Maggie and Brenda—left Anita in the alley at the side of Oasis. And that she was throwing up. But, according to Brenda, she was in the recovery position so wouldn’t have choked or anything.”

  “I hadn’t realised she was a doctor.” Dylan somehow managed to keep the amazement from his voice.

  “She wasn’t. She was a nurse. But fully trained and everything.”

  Dylan was struggling to take in any of this. They had put something in Anita’s drink, something they knew would make her ill, and then, when she was vomiting, they had abandoned her to her fate.

  “Did it never occur to you that something might have happened to her?” he asked.

  “No.”

  Their coffees and Dylan’s brandy arrived. Now Yvonne was too preoccupied to spare the waiter a second glance.

  “Well, yes,” she said at last, “of course it did. But they heard someone, which is why they legged it. It was a bloke and they heard him talking to Anita. If there had been anything wrong, seriously wrong I mean, he would have taken care of her, wouldn’t he?”

  “We have to assume so,” Dylan said, adding a dark, “if there was time.”

  Frightened eyes darted to his. Yvonne Yates could say what she liked but, for the past thirteen years, she had been haunted by the disappearance of Anita Champion. Presumably, all four women had.

  Dylan was trying to look as calm as Yvonne, but it was damned difficult.

  “I suppose all four of you have worried that revenge might have escalated to murder?”

  “Murder?” Her voice was a whisper, almost too quiet to catch. “No. No, of course we haven’t. That stuff, the stuff Brenda gave her, it was harmless. It only lasted a couple of hours at most.”

  “Did Brenda know Anita’s medical history? Did she know what, if any, medication Anita was taking at the time?”

  Yvonne blew on her coffee and took a sip before answering. “Probably. But either way, it didn’t matter. It was only something harmless. It was just a joke.”

  “Not very funny as it turned out, was it?”

  She began picking at the serviette again. “Anita was healthier than any of us. Nothing Brenda did caused her any harm.”

  “I see.” All Dylan saw was the female at its most lethal. God, it was no wonder he had misogynistic tendencies. “If there really was a man trying to talk to Anita that night, does anyone know who it was?”

  Yvonne shook her head. “The girls didn’t recognise the voice. Well, they didn’t hang around to find out.”

  Serviette fragments were scattered across their table like drops of blood.

  “Anita brought it all on herself.” Her voice was harsh. “Sandra’s bloke wasn’t the first. Ask anyone. Ask Alan Cheyney what she was like. It was thanks to Anita that his wife walked out.”

  The name Alan Cheyney was familiar.

  “He’s got a fishing shop on the main street,” she said on seeing his puzzled expression.

  “Ah, yes.” Dylan had been in every shop on the main street, showing Anita’s photo to staff and asking questions, but Cheyney’s angling shop had been closed. He made a mental note to call again first thing in the morning.

  Yvonne pushed her empty cup away. “It’s time I went home.” Her voice was flat and suddenly weary.

  “What? Oh, no. Listen, we’ll go somewhere else and I promise not to mention Anita.”

  “But you will. Or I will. That’s how it always is. Always will be, I suppose.”

  There was no arguing with her, and Dylan didn’t try too hard. He had learned all he was likely to, and he wanted to be rid of her.

  He believed her story. He believed that the lesson they had wanted to teach Anita had gone horribly wrong. Whether that lesson had ended as murder, he didn’t know.

  And unless he could find the unknown man from the alley, if indeed that man had ever existed, he never would know.

  Chapter Nine

  The following morning, Dylan called at Cheyney Angling for the third time. Today, the Back in 10 Mins sign had been replaced by a large white card that declared the shop Open.

  He stepped inside and found himself in a jungle of fishing rods, reels and metal stands with dozens of small packs of hooks dangling from them. There wasn’t room to swing a minnow.

  “Morning.” The man behind the small and equally cluttered counter had been opening mail. Bills, by the look of it.

  “Good morning.” Dylan inched his way forward without getting hooked. “I’m looking for Alan Cheyney.”

  “Oh?” A wary look came into his eyes, and he flashed a quick glance at the street.

  “Is he around?” Dylan asked.

  “I’m Alan Cheyney.” Reluctance at revealing his identity had turned to defiance. “Who are you?”

  He didn’t look Anita Champion’s type. Whatever that was. He was about five feet nine inches tall and his brown hair was thin. He was wearing grey trousers and an ill-fitting green sweater. He gave the impression of being more interested in catching trout than attractive women.

  “My name’s Dylan Scott. I’ve come to Dawson’s Clough to try and find a woman I used to know. Anita Champion.”

  Cheyney’s gaze travelled the length of Dylan. He looked as if he wouldn’t trust him as far as he could cast a line.

  “I heard someone was asking after her,” was all he said.

  “Did you know her?”

  “I did.”

  “And I suppose you’re going to tell me the same as everyone else? That she vanished one Saturday night and hasn’t been seen or heard of since?”

  “That’s about the height of it.”

  “Did you know her well?”

  “Fairly well at one time, yes.”

  Dylan waited for more. There was no more. “Close, would you say you were?”

  “Depends on your definition of close, doesn’t it?”

  He was a cagey individual.

  “I heard she was responsible for the break-up of your marriage,” Dylan said.

  “Then you heard wrong.”


  “Oh?”

  “Marriages break up without any help from outside. My marriage was over long before my wife caught me and Anita together.”

  “So you had an affair with Anita?”

  “It’s common knowledge. My ex-wife made sure of that.”

  It might be “common knowledge,” but, in the same situation, Dylan couldn’t imagine telling a stranger he’d had an affair without first asking a few questions. As yet, Cheyney hadn’t shown the slightest interest in why Dylan was looking for his ex-lover.

  Perhaps, as news of Dylan’s interest was spreading through Dawson’s Clough, Cheyney had heard the story of the love-struck idiot trying to find a ring he’d foolishly given Anita.

  “How long ago was that?” Dylan asked.

  “It was over about a year before Anita left the Clough.”

  Left the Clough. Not vanished or disappeared, but left the Clough.

  “Any idea why she might have done that?”

  “No.”

  “Odd, isn’t it? Her leaving the Clough, I mean, when she had a daughter waiting for her.”

  “It’s not the action of a normal woman,” Cheyney said, “but Anita wasn’t like anyone I ever knew.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I mean she needed to be having fun. All the time. The Clough bored her. Everyone in the town bored her.”

  “What’s your theory?”

  “I don’t have one. I’ve no idea where she went, and I’ve got far better things to do with my time than invent stuff.”

  “I knew Anita, too,” Dylan said.

  “Oh?” Perhaps he hadn’t heard the story of the lovelorn southerner.

  “Yes. About fifteen years ago. She said something to me about Terrence Armstrong. Did she mention anything to you?”

  At the mention of Armstrong’s name, Cheyney flinched, Dylan was sure of it.

  “No,” the man said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “He owns the ground you’re standing on.”

  “Really? Ah, I heard he had a bit of property in the town.”

  “You heard right then. Look, I can’t help you, and I’ve got things to do.”

  “Fine,” Dylan said. “Thanks for your time. I appreciate it.”

  Walking back along the street, Dylan ran a word-for-word replay of the encounter in his head. Mention of Terry Armstrong in the past had brought blank looks and the conviction that Anita couldn’t possibly have known him. Cheyney, though, had visibly flinched at mention of the man’s name.

  Why?

  He knew something, Dylan was sure of it.

  Chapter Ten

  “Is your mum going to be in later?” Dylan asked his son.

  They were enjoying the usual Saturday afternoon halftime ritual of a meat pie. Arsenal were beating Manchester City one nil and that always made the pies taste better.

  “Dunno,” Luke said between mouthfuls. “She’s been out a lot lately.”

  “Has she? Where?”

  “Dunno.”

  Dylan had hoped to worm his way back into Bev’s good books, but that was going to be impossible if he couldn’t see her. She’d come round, she always did but, given that his mother was still in residence and filling the place with the evil smell of scented candles, he wanted it to be sooner rather than later.

  “Come on, Dad, they’ll be kicking off in a couple of minutes.”

  They fought their way back to their seats and prepared to cheer on the Gunners.

  Dylan was struggling to concentrate on the match. He couldn’t rid his mind of four women who thought it acceptable to drug a so-called friend and leave her to her fate in a dark alley on a cold November night. The thought made him shudder.

  Bev had her funny little ways, hundreds of them, but she could never do something like that. Few people could.

  How strongly would you have to hate someone to pull a stunt like that?

  Anita’s crime? She had, allegedly, slept with her employer’s boyfriend. Yvonne Yates was right about one thing—it takes two to cheat and Anita had merely proved that the boyfriend wasn’t worth knowing.

  Dylan could have kicked himself for not learning more. Yvonne had said that Sandra wasn’t going to let either of them get away with it. So what had happened to the boyfriend?

  According to Sandra, she would have been out with the girls that night if her Eddie hadn’t been home on leave. Had the others dealt with Anita while she dished out Eddie’s fate?

  If anyone else had wanted revenge, Dylan might have expected Eddie’s clothes to have landed in the street, or a fresh mackerel to have been hidden in his car’s engine. With Sandra, anything was possible.

  Dylan needed to find this Eddie. Just as he needed to find the man, if indeed there ever was a man, who had gone to Anita’s aid in that dark alley.

  The words haystack and needle sprang to mind…

  Dylan slapped his gloved hands together for warmth. Despite his thick coat, scarf and hat, he was chilled and, unusually, he wasn’t sorry when the game ended. Arsenal had beaten Manchester City two-nil, but it hadn’t been a thrilling game.

  As he drove, he began to thaw out and, by the time they reached the marital home, he could feel his toes again.

  “Mum’s home!” Luke gave Dylan a sympathetic look. “I’ll try and put in a good word for you, Dad. And I won’t repeat what that bloke called the ref,” he added with a grin.

  Dylan groaned. “Please don’t.”

  “I won’t. He was right, though. The bloke was a—”

  “Yes, yes. He probably was, although what he does in his spare time is his own business. Let’s just forget that particular incident, shall we?”

  They walked inside and Dylan got halfway along the hall before a stern-looking Bev, arms folded across her very attractive chest, barred his way.

  Luke wasn’t put off.

  “I’ve promised to show Dad an old Arsenal program,” he said, and Dylan wondered when he’d learned to lie so easily. “I’m just going upstairs to find it.”

  “Don’t be long then,” Bev warned him.

  Dylan stood facing his wife. And she faced him straight back.

  “It was a great game.” He decided to opt for a safe subject.

  “Good.”

  “Yeah. We won, two nil. It was cold, though. Not that Luke seems to feel it.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I’ll make you a coffee, Dylan, and then you go.”

  “Aw, thanks, Bev.”

  He followed her into the marital kitchen. There was something different, yet he couldn’t see that she’d changed anything. Venetian blinds at the window above the sink looked the same. Kettle, tea, coffee and sugar canisters, bread bin—all were in their rightful places. The usual wrinkled apples and a couple of oranges sat in the wooden bowl. Bananas hung from the chrome tree, and the glove dangled from the cooker door.

  “It used to be cream,” she said on a long sigh.

  “Ah. I wondered.” He couldn’t remember it being cream. For all he knew, it could always have been this pale green. “It looks good, Bev.”

  “It was nice to just get on and do it.”

  “You should have said. I could have done it for you.”

  “I did say, Dylan. I said time and time again for two years.”

  “Ah.”

  Now she mentioned it, he could vaguely remember her telling him he had plenty of time for painting.

  “Thanks,” he said as she thrust a mug of coffee at him.

  It was time for an “I’ve changed—you were right—how can I possibly make it up to you?” conversation. Unfortunately, Bev had other plans.

  “Here’s Mum,” she said as a car door was heard being slammed shut. “Right, I’m off. See you, Dylan. And don’t stay too long!”

  “Oh, er, right. Thanks for the coffee.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Bev was gone and her mother, someone Dylan had always got al
ong well with, took her place in the kitchen.

  She gave him a hug, then clucked her teeth at him. “You’ve really done it this time, Dylan.”

  “She’ll come round, Pam. She always does.”

  Her expression as she patted his arm was a disturbing mix of sadness and frustration. “Don’t count on it, love.”

  Luke raced into the kitchen, and Dylan noticed the way his son’s face fell when he spotted his grandmother. As much as Luke adored her, Dylan knew the lad had been hoping for a reconciliation between his parents.

  “Has Mum gone out?”

  “She has,” Dylan said, “so you’ll have to behave for your gran.”

  “I always do. And don’t worry, Dad, I meant what I said. I’ll put in a good word for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  Dylan would talk to Bev next week. What she was doing, he suspected, was trying to make him jealous, to make him believe she had another man at her beck and call.

  Come to think of it—

  “Who painted the kitchen then?”

  “It looks much better, doesn’t it?” Pam ran a hand over the wall. “That cream was too bland with the pine units. She’s thinking of doing this wall—” she pointed to the back, “—in an olive green. I’m not so sure about that. What do you think, Dylan?”

  Dylan couldn’t see that it would make any difference. “Best to leave well alone, I’d say.”

  “Yes, you’re probably right.”

  Only when he was on his way back to the smallest flat in the land and his mother did he realise that his question hadn’t been answered.

  Who had painted the kitchen?

  But he wasn’t going to worry on that score. He was Bev’s husband. He belonged with her. And with Luke. They were a family.

  Chapter Eleven

  On Monday evening Alan Cheyney locked up his shop and went into the back storeroom, a huge, ugly place that had been used to hang animal carcasses when the shop had belonged to the butcher. A few hooks still dangled from the steel beams.

  There wasn’t much in there as he couldn’t afford to buy stock, but it served as his office and kitchen. He threw himself down in a chair, put his legs on the desk and stared at the wall.