“I should do.” Frank sighed.
“Don’t tell me you’ve put your hand to baking.”
“Ha. That’s Esme, my next door neighbour. She’s taken to mothering me since the heart attack. But don’t worry, fending her off gives me something to do.”
Dylan was surprised to find himself liking Frank Willoughby. Who would have believed that? Retirement and a heart attack had softened his one-time boss. Or perhaps Frank had always been a likeable sort of bloke. He’d been hard on his underlings, but perhaps that went with the job.
“There’s something else,” Dylan said.
“Oh?”
“This.” Dylan took the photo of Anita Champion and Terry Armstrong from his pocket and handed it over.
“Christ! Where the hell did you get this?”
“From her daughter. It was taken four weeks before Anita vanished. The first of November, to be precise. Holly bought a copy from the local paper.”
“Taken where?” Frank asked.
“Dawson’s Clough. The Town Hall. It was a charity dinner. I’ve no idea how Anita came to be there, though. No idea how Armstrong came to be there either, come to that. I’ve looked it up in the local paper but there’s no mention of either of them.”
“Armstrong’s wife came from round here,” Frank said. “She’s as hard as he is, but she likes to be seen to be doing the right thing. They’ve been living here for about eight years now. Maybe it got too hot down in the smoke for him. Maybe he’s content to reap the rewards now.”
“Hmm.”
“But how the hell did someone like Anita Champion come to be with an evil bastard like him?” Frank didn’t wait for an answer. “You’ll do well to look very closely at Terry Armstrong.”
“I intend to.”
One thing was certain, if Armstrong’s name had come to light during the original investigation, Lancashire Constabulary would have found the resources for a very thorough inquiry.
“So how are you liking Lancashire?” Frank asked as he was showing him out.
“It’s okay. Beautiful in parts. It’s just—”
“The bloody awful weather.” Frank chuckled. “Always raining.”
“Yeah.”
“Ah, well, we’re all waterproof.” He nodded at Dylan’s car. “Very nice.”
“I restored it myself. So far—” he touched the wooden trellis on the wall, “—it hasn’t missed a beat.”
“Good for you!”
Dylan suddenly felt awkward, and he had no idea why that was. “Well, thanks again for your help, Frank. I’ll let you know if I find out anything else.”
“I’d like that. I’m usually here. You have my number anyway.”
“I have.” Dylan shook hands with him and then walked smartly to his car.
He fired the engine and took off without a backward glance. There was something sad, even a little pathetic, about ex-D.C.I. Frank Willoughby that unsettled him. Perhaps it was the knowledge that, unless he did something constructive with his life, Dylan would end up exactly the same.
Chapter Seventeen
Moorside Residential Home stood at the end of a long curving driveway. A large stone building, it was a couple of miles from Dawson’s Clough, alone on top of the hill and, even on a damp Monday morning, looked impressive.
Dylan yawned as he drove into the car park. He’d had an early start that morning and hadn’t slept particularly well over the weekend.
In fact, apart from the six hours he’d spent with Luke, having a few laughs at the bowling alley, his weekend had been a waste of time.
Instead of getting his washing done, he’d sifted through the papers Holly had given him. Most of it appeared to be junk, but there were two old and often-handled Valentine’s Day cards, both signed Guess who? in the same hand, which intrigued him. Dylan wished he could guess.
There were cinema ticket stubs, old lottery tickets, a bookmark made by Holly, dental appointments card, magazine cuttings. Dylan had been through it all a dozen times looking for clues…
There were several vehicles in the car park and Dylan pulled up between a gleaming Mercedes and a black Porsche. Ending your days at Moorside wouldn’t be a cheap option, Dylan presumed, so the cars might have belonged to relatives. And if this was a highly profitable venture, as Frank Willoughby believed, Phil Mortimer would be able to afford the best.
He walked into a thickly carpeted reception area where a young girl in a spotless white uniform looked up and gave him a bleached white smile.
“Hello, there, I was wondering if I might see Mr. Mortimer for a couple of minutes.”
Dylan hadn’t wanted to phone in advance because he preferred to catch people unawares. Given time, they perfected their stories. However, it was a hit-and-miss way to operate, and often resulted in Dylan being told the person in question had just left for a fortnight’s holiday.
“Is he expecting you?”
“No, but as I only need a couple of minutes—”
“Just a minute, Mr.—?”
“Scott. Dylan Scott.”
Still smiling as if she were auditioning for a toothpaste commercial, she lifted the receiver, waited a moment and then said, “Phil, a Mr. Dylan Scott would like to talk to you. May I send him through?” A pause. “Thank you.”
She replaced the receiver and emerged from behind her desk. “This way, Mr. Scott.”
Dylan was led along a hallway where large black-and-white photographs adorned the walls. One he recognised as The Singing, Ringing Tree, Burnley’s stunning panopticon, a sculpture of galvanised steel pipes that sat high above the town on Crown Point. Another was of Lancaster Town Hall.
His companion knocked on a door and Dylan was ushered into Mortimer’s office. Easy peasy, he decided with satisfaction.
“Thanks for your time.” He shook the man’s hand. “I’m not trying to book a place here,” he added in a jokey manner, “but I’d like to pick your memory, if I may.”
“We’re fully booked for the foreseeable future, so that’s just as well. As for my memory, that’s passable. How can I help?”
Judging by the excess flab around his girth, Phil Mortimer lived well and spent too much time sitting in his chair. He was mid-fifties with dark hair turning to grey, and a scar close to his left eye. His stomach hung over grey trousers and his white shirt strained at the buttons. There was a gold chain (expensive) around his neck and a chunky Rolex (very expensive) on his wrist.
After a brief hesitation, Dylan decided to trot out the somewhat well-worn story of the antique ring. It made him look like a love-struck fool so people opened up more. If he said he was working on the case for a client, it would be too official. People would be wary.
He rattled off his story, watching Mortimer’s eyebrows rise higher with each word.
“I need to know what happened to that ring,” he finished. “And to do that, I have to know what happened to Anita Champion.”
“Gosh.” Phil Mortimer leaned back in his executive leather chair, hands linked behind his head. “I haven’t thought of Anita in years.”
“You knew her well?”
“Not as well as I would have liked to,” he said with a wink.
“She was something, wasn’t she?” Dylan injected an air of wistfulness into his own voice.
“Stunning. The men fell at her feet, and the women stabbed her in the back at every opportunity.”
Not literally, Dylan hoped. “I’ve been asking around, and I believe she went to your club on the night she vanished. Is that right?”
“Really? I couldn’t say. It’s possible, of course. We’re talking—what?—ten, twelve years ago?”
“Thirteen. It was the twenty-ninth of November, 1997.”
“Was it really? How time flies.”
“Did the police ask questions at your club at the time?”
“Not as far as I can remember. They put an appeal on TV and the local papers mentioned it, but, no, I don’t recall them asking about her at the club. Pres
umably, if anyone had seen her there that night, or anywhere else for that matter, they would have told the police.”
“Presumably, yes. But you don’t remember her being there that night?”
“Sorry.” He shook his head. “Mind you, I couldn’t say for sure if I was there that night. I had good staff so I wasn’t there every night.”
“I see. Yes, someone said she was friendly with the staff—well, the DJ, Sean Ellis, and one of the bouncers, Colin Bates.”
“Bates?” Mortimer rolled his eyes. “I fired him. It soon became apparent that he enjoyed his job too much. Short on brain, but handy with his fists.”
“Do you recall Anita being friendly with him?”
“I can’t say I do. No.”
“What about the DJ, Sean Ellis?”
“A born flirt.” Mortimer smiled. “He was good for business. The ladies loved him. He could charm honey from bees when he tried.” He winked again, which Dylan found slightly disconcerting. “I expect Anita was friendly with him all right. Not that I ever heard anything.”
“Is he still in Dawson’s Clough?”
“He is. Not that you’d recognise him these days. The charm’s gone, I’m afraid. Knocked out of him by a blonde who managed to drag him to the altar. Has half a dozen kids now and spends all his time propping up the bar at the Red Lion.”
Dylan knew the pub. He’d spent an hour in there. Alone. He would have to call again and meet up with Sean Ellis.
“Who did Anita spend time with at the club?” he asked.
“You’d make a good policeman.” Again Mortimer spoke in that false, jokey manner of his.
“I used to be one.”
“Oh?”
“Yes.” Dylan wasn’t going into detail. “Which would make you think I could find Anita, but I’m drawing a blank. I’d be grateful for names.”
“I wish I could give you some.” Mortimer shook his head. “Sorry, but I can’t think of anyone. People went there, usually when the pubs closed, and either stayed or moved on. They chatted, they drank, they danced—”
“Took drugs?”
Mortimer’s good mood dropped a notch. “A few might have. You try to run a clean place, but there are always a couple who get through the net.”
“Of course. Do you remember the last time you spoke to Anita?”
“Yes. It was when she cut my hair. That must have been three or four weeks before she did her disappearing act because I turned up at the shop expecting a trim, only to be told that she hadn’t shown for a week.”
“Were you surprised?”
“Well, yes, of course. She was totally irresponsible, but she’d never pulled a stunt like that before. I assumed she’d see sense and return home.” He shrugged. “She never did, though. Now—well, who knows? She could be anywhere.”
“Dead or alive.” Dylan watched the other man’s expression carefully.
“Gosh, yes, I suppose she might even be dead now,” Mortimer said as if the thought had struck him for the first time.
“Or she could be soaking up the sun in the Caribbean.”
“Far more Anita’s style.”
Dylan stood up. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Mortimer. I appreciate it.”
“You’re more than welcome.” Mortimer also rose to his feet to shake Dylan’s hand. “I’m sorry I can’t help.”
“Don’t worry about it. It was a long shot anyway.” He indicated the room in general. “This must be a change for you after the club. Quite a career change.”
“Not really. My wife was a nurse, so with my management experience it was an obvious choice.”
“Ah, I see. Well, thanks again.”
Dylan left the room and deliberately headed toward the double doors at the end of the hallway. He found himself in a day room where several residents gazed at a large-screen television. Waiting for God, Dylan thought.
Still, there had to be worse places to wait. As these homes went, Moorside was the height of luxury.
He had a good look round on the way out, but it didn’t help. What had he expected? To see Anita Champion watching the latest Hollywood blockbuster?
No. People like Anita, people with spirit, wouldn’t last five minutes in this place. She might be dead or alive, but she wasn’t the type to wait for God. She would have to be dragged, fighting all the way, to her celestial resting place.
The Red Lion was worse than Dylan remembered. Judging by the decor, the pub hadn’t seen a lick of paint or a duster since the smoking ban became law.
On this visit, he wasn’t the only customer though. A couple in their late sixties were sitting at a table in a dingy corner saying nothing. They simply sat and gazed ahead, occasionally drinking.
The other plus point was the price of the beer. It was almost fifty pence a pint cheaper than the other pubs in Dawson’s Clough. Even that wasn’t pulling in the customers, though. Unsurprisingly, there were no guest ales and certainly no Black Sheep on offer.
Dylan had almost finished his pint and was unsure if he could face a second when another customer came in.
“Sean,” the barmaid greeted him. “Thought you were giving us a miss tonight. The usual?”
“Yeah, a pint of your finest, Beryl.”
Was this Sean Ellis? Anita Champion would be forty-three now, and this man looked to be around the same age. Maybe a couple of years older.
He was running to fat. Even his face looked pale and bloated. Tight black jeans were held up with a thick black leather belt. On top was a blue sweater and a black jacket that was shiny at the elbows. Two earrings, small gold hoops, dangled from one ear.
Dylan emptied his glass, walked up to the bar to stand beside him and ordered another pint.
His companion meanwhile was already halfway down his drink.
Dylan stared at him until he had his attention.
“Sorry,” he said, “but do I know you? There’s something familiar—”
“I don’t think so, mate.”
“I’m sure I recognise you. Mind, it’s probably from ages ago. I spent a fair bit of time in Dawson’s Clough about fourteen or fifteen years ago.”
“Oh?” His companion looked more closely. “Ever go to a club called Morty’s?”
Dylan slapped a hand to his forehead. “That’s it! You were the DJ there!”
“Sean Ellis.” He nodded and almost broke into a smile.
“You were good. Damn good.”
“Yeah, well.” The smile broke through.
“I had some great times at Morty’s,” Dylan said. “I bet you’d remember the girl I was seeing at the time—well, not seeing as much of as I wanted to, if you get my drift. Anita Champion.”
“Anita? Christ, yeah, I remember her all right.”
Everyone did. Yet no one seemed interested in where she was now. “Actually, that’s why I’m back in Dawson’s Clough. I’m trying to find her. Or her daughter.”
“Haven’t you heard? Did a runner, Anita did.”
“I heard about that, yes.”
“She’s not been seen or heard of for years. Ten years probably.”
“Thirteen.”
“Yeah, probably.”
“Can I get you a drink?” Dylan asked.
“Sure. Anyone can get me a drink. I’m not proud. Thanks.” He swigged the last dregs from his glass and banged it on the counter. “Beryl, how about we have some music? It’s like a bloody graveyard in here.”
Beryl obliged by hitting the button on an old CD player, and the Pogues began belting out “Bottle of Smoke.”
“That’s more like it.” Sean tapped his hands on the bar in approval.
Dylan paid for their drinks and was wondering how best to bring the conversation back to Anita when Sean spoke.
“Anita Champion. Christ, I haven’t thought of her in years. They don’t make ’em like that any more.”
“They don’t.”
“We had some fun, me and her.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah.”
Dylan waited but Sean had been transported to a better place.
“She dumped me for some other bloke,” Dylan said at last. “Perhaps that was you?”
“Nah.” Sean took a long swallow of beer. “She were—oh, about eighteen when me and her got it together. I weren’t her first bloke, neither. God, she could drive a bloke insane with that body of hers.”
“Don’t I know it.” Dylan wondered about the Valentine’s Day cards that Anita had kept for years. “Together long, were you?”
“No. It were just—well, when we fancied a bit of the other, if you know what I mean.”
Dylan nodded.
“Mind,” Sean said, “that were my choice, not hers. I weren’t a one-woman bloke. Couldn’t see any sense in that. I mean, I like listening to the Pogues, but that don’t mean I don’t want to hear a bit of the Killers now again. D’you get my drift?”
“Absolutely. She seemed the same, though. She could pick and choose. I never got the impression she wanted to settle down.”
“Not with you maybe. She’d have married me all right.”
Would she? Or was Sean Ellis all talk?
“Have you never married then?” Dylan asked.
“Yeah, I got married all right. She were pregnant so I had to do the decent thing, didn’t I?” He nudged Dylan and grinned. “Not that I’m saying I’m a one-woman bloke, mind. As I told you, I can’t see much sense in that.”
Dylan could see sense in it. And if Sean Ellis had been married to Bev, he would have seen the sense in it, too. Fortunately, Dylan had never wanted to stray, but he couldn’t even begin to imagine Bev’s reaction if he had.
Dylan was a one-woman man. Which was why he was struggling to cope with this strop Bev was throwing. Many men would have taken it as an open invitation to find pleasure elsewhere. They would have a grand old time tasting forbidden fruit until it was time to go home. Not Dylan.
“She—Anita, that is—mentioned something to me once about that property owner, Terry Armstrong. Do you remember him?”
“His name’s in the paper sometimes.” Ellis frowned. “What did she say about him?”
“I can’t remember exactly. It was enough to make me think that she and him might be having an affair or something.”
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