DS01 - Presumed Dead

by Shirley Wells

  Anyone would be right.

  “I’m taking Luke out on Wednesday evening,” she said. “We’re going to the cinema. And I’m meeting up with a friend on Thursday. Don’t you worry about me, love, I’m enjoying seeing a bit of life.”

  “Right.” He knew when he was beaten.

  “What about you? Aren’t you enjoying getting away from the city?”

  He looked at her, surprised. As it happened, he was enjoying the change of scene.

  “You’re a country boy, love.” She smiled indulgently. “I’ll never forget the tears we had when I dragged you to Brum. You loved it in Lancashire. Loved the farm. You must have cried for a month. Solid.”

  Dylan had never thought of it like that, and because the possibility of her being right was unpleasant, he simply shrugged.

  “It’s gorgeous around Dawson’s Clough, isn’t it?” she said.

  “It’s okay.”

  “Almost home for you, too.”

  He had no idea what she was talking about.

  “You’re what?” she asked. “About fifty miles from the farm?”

  “About that, I suppose.”

  “And the farm, the countryside—it was always home to you.”

  He wasn’t sure about that. After all, he’d been five when they’d moved to Birmingham, and he hadn’t lived within fifty miles of open countryside since. He did like Dawson’s Clough, though. He liked the area. He liked the pace of life, the warmth of the people, the humour, and the fact that strangers weren’t afraid to strike up a conversation.

  Two road signs in particular had made him smile. Someone had seen the official Lancashire—A Place Where Everyone Matters road sign and, courtesy of a can of paint, had replaced it with Lancashire—A Place Where No One Matters. Another had been changed to Lancashire—A Place Where Everyone Mutters.

  “My life’s here,” he said. “My wife and son are here. Born here, both of them. It’s where I belong.”

  “If you say so.” She smiled, humouring him.

  “Anyway, it’s time I was off to bed.”

  “But you haven’t drunk your camomile.”

  “You’re right, Mum, I haven’t. Goodnight.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  It was just before twelve o’clock when Dylan pulled into his hotel’s car park the following day. He’d had a productive morning, though.

  He hadn’t slept much—perhaps he should have had that camomile after all—but he’d had a good journey and met Stevie shortly after eleven. Unfortunately, Stevie hadn’t found anything else, or anything he thought relevant, but that didn’t matter too much because Pikey had phoned.

  “Colin Bates? He’s on probation for disorderly conduct at the moment and he’s working at Bannister’s, which is a canning factory somewhere near Accrington.”

  “Brilliant. Thanks, mate.”

  “You owe me, Dylan. And he’s a mean bastard so if you have to deck him, make sure you’ve got loads of witnesses. Or none. We don’t want you behind bars again.” He cleared his throat. “Sorry, mate. Sick joke.”

  “It’s okay. I’m not made of glass. I’m not bitter, either.” Not much. “It’s all water under the bridge.”

  “I can fax his mug shot through if you like.”

  “You can? That would be brilliant.” Dylan had hunted through his pockets for a hotel bill and given Pikey the fax number…

  He left his car, grabbed his bag full of clean clothes and strode into the reception.

  “Ah, Mr. Scott.” The receptionist looked at him in the same way she might look at dog shit. “There’s a fax for you.”

  “There is? Great.”

  She took it, with his key, from the rack and handed it over.

  Dylan unfolded it and looked from it to her. No wonder she was a little pale.

  “Handsome chap, isn’t he?” he said, unable to think of anything more appropriate.

  She nodded, asked if there was anything he needed and, on being assured there wasn’t, went back to her work.

  Dylan studied Colin Bates’s photo as he took the lift to his room. A bull-headed man, with no neck at all and his hair shaved off, he would make a good bouncer. If he said you were leaving, you’d leave. It would take a brave man to argue with him. A tattoo in some sort of Celtic design formed a band around his neck. His nose was long and misshapen.

  He’d be easy enough to recognise.

  For the first time, Dylan unpacked his bag. Before, he’d simply grabbed what he needed from it but, in deference to his clean clothes, he hung shirts and trousers in the wardrobe and put underwear in the drawer.

  With that done, he left his room, went back to his car and took off for Accrington.

  Most of the snow had gone. Small drifts lay in the lee of walls, but all the main roads were clear. According to weather reports, however, more was heading for the UK.

  He stopped at a filling station to ask for directions to Bannister’s. He got lost, asked again at a newsagent’s and got lost again. It was two o’clock before he found the factory. It was a small, ugly concrete building about five miles outside Accrington. He’d hoped to catch people having a lunch break, but now all workers were inside.

  Dylan passed the time by wandering around Accrington and buying himself a coffee and a newspaper. He felt as if he was wasting time, but sometimes the job was like that. He’d wanted to visit Terry Armstrong today, but he wanted Frank with him for that and, because of a hospital appointment, his ex-boss couldn’t make it.

  Armstrong could wait, though.

  At a few minutes to four, unsure what time the shifts were, he was outside Bannister’s main gates. Waiting.

  On the dot of five-fifteen, around sixty workers spewed out of huge green metal doors and descended on the gates. They were laughing, shouting and chatting like children let out of school for the long summer holidays.

  As Dylan had suspected, Bates was easy to spot in a crowd. He was right at the back, deep in conversation with a younger man. If anything, he was even uglier in the flesh.

  He was a big bloke, topping six feet, and broad with it. His walk, which Dylan suspected was supposed to resemble Hard-man Swagger, was close to a waddle. You wouldn’t tell him that to his face, though, unless you fancied a trip to the nearest A&E department.

  Most of the workers headed for a couple of waiting coaches but a dozen or so, including Bates and his chum, preferred to walk. Dylan followed at a distance.

  They passed a few houses that looked as if they were waiting for the bulldozer, a small boarded-up church and a derelict mill, then came to a large red-bricked housing estate. On the lines of a rabbit warren, it made tailing anyone difficult, and Dylan was thankful when the two men headed for a pub.

  The Black Bull was as hideous as Bates. A huge barn of a place with litter blowing across the car park, it boasted at least two cracked windows and one that was boarded up.

  Dylan hung around outside, away from the meagre lighting, for about ten minutes, then went inside.

  The interior was as unappealing as one would have expected—huge screen TV blaring out, torn upholstery on chairs and benches, empty glasses left on tables, and a bar that was swimming in spilt beer.

  Dylan was glad he was driving and could only risk one pint. He only hoped he’d be able to find his car when he left. Hoped it would be in one piece as well.

  Bates and his pal were standing at the far end of the bar, still deep in conversation and paying him no attention.

  Dylan began staring at the pair until Bates noticed and looked as if he wanted to do something about it. Something involving violence.

  “Sorry, mate,” Dylan said, “but I thought there was something familiar about you. We haven’t met, have we?”

  Bates looked him up and down. “Nope.”

  “Don’t suppose you’ve spent time inside, have you?”

  “Have you?”

  “Six months in Wandsworth and then Newgate,” Dylan lied.

  “What for?”

  �
�ABH.”

  “Yeah?”

  For a moment, Dylan knew he’d won respect. There were times when first-hand experience of life inside was an advantage.

  Dylan had lied to Pikey. He was bitter, as bitter as hell, but he’d make it work in his favour.

  Then he noticed Bates looking at his clean clothes and shiny shoes.

  “Job interview,” Dylan explained. “Some dump up the road called Bannister’s.”

  Both men laughed at that.

  “Should have guessed,” Bates said. “They send us all there.”

  “What? You’re there?”

  “Yeah.”

  Dylan drank some beer. “I’m still sure I’ve seen you before. How about Dawson’s Clough? I don’t suppose you know the place?”

  “Might do.”

  “Ah, got you!” Dylan grinned. “You worked at Morty’s. I’m going back a bit, mind. Probably ten or twelve years. That was you, wasn’t it?”

  “Could have been.”

  “You used to get free drinks for a friend of mine. Anita Champion. Remember her?”

  “I might do.”

  Did he look cagey? Well, yes, he did, but he was a naturally cagey bloke and it probably meant nothing.

  “I’d love to know what happened to her,” Dylan said. “Just vanished, didn’t she? And I’d only seen her the week before, too.”

  “I saw her the night she went.”

  Now Bates was bragging. Good.

  “What? Up at Morty’s?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What did she say to you? Mention anything about taking off, did she?” Dylan supped his beer, trying to look casual.

  “She said a lot.” Bates grinned. “She was way out of it. Pissed as a fucking fart. Kept going on about horses. Reckoned she was going to buy a fucking horse for that brat of hers.”

  “A horse?” Dylan laughed. “Where was she going to keep it? At her flat? Tie it to one of the hairdryers?”

  “Fuck knows. She was pissed.”

  And drugged. “Who was she with?”

  “That flash fucker Jackson.”

  “Oh?”

  “She always had the hots for him.”

  “Yeah,” Dylan said.

  He was about to ask if Bates had told the police all this, but he knew the answer. Men like Bates only ever said two words to the boys in blue. One was “fuck” and the other was “off.”

  Bates’s mate nudged him. “Time we were out of here.”

  They both emptied their glasses.

  “See you,” Bates said as they were leaving.

  “Yeah, right. Maybe at Bannister’s.”

  So Anita had been with Matthew Jackson that night. Perhaps it was time to board a cross-channel ferry.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  It was quite early, not even five o’clock, but Alan Cheyney locked the front door of his shop and went to the storeroom for a cup of tea. A total of four customers had been in the shop but, for once, he’d had a fairly profitable day.

  He was still shaking, though. Had been all day.

  True to his word, Pete had handed over that thousand pounds and, in turn, Alan had put it through his bank to the rent account. He was still more than four thousand pounds in arrears, but perhaps it had bought him some time.

  He’d had a phone call this morning from Jason, the wimp who dealt with the lettings, and Alan had told him he’d have to give up the lease on the shop.

  “Are you giving Mr. Armstrong formal notice?” Jason had asked in his usual nasal tone.

  Alan had given the matter a lot of thought. In fact, he’d thought of nothing else. “Yes.”

  “We’ll need that in writing then. You realise, of course, that you’ll be liable for rents et cetera until the end of July.”

  “But if I move out—”

  “Until the end of July.” Jason didn’t sound so much of a wimp now. “If you can lay your hands on the agreement, I’m sure you’ll see that—”

  “I’ve got the agreement.”

  “Good. Then we’ll look forward to receiving the—” pause for him to sniff, as if he was struggling to use the word, “—arrears. Mr. Armstrong’s a good man and he’s given you until this coming Friday. Meanwhile, if there’s anything else we can help you with, please don’t hesitate to contact me.”

  Alan would have to keep the shop on and hope he could raise some money. Maybe Pete could give him another loan. He hated asking but there was no alternative. The bank wouldn’t give him anything; he owed them too much.

  What a bloody mess.

  He still hadn’t recovered from the shock of Armstrong bringing fruit to the hospital. But even more amazing was that the prat had thought Alan had been chatting up his wife.

  Bloody ridiculous!

  Alan hadn’t spoken above five words to her. He wouldn’t even have known who she was if Len, one of his mates, hadn’t taken the mickey.

  There was jealous and then there was Armstrong, it seemed. That beating—Alan still wasn’t sure if it was for daring to speak to Mrs. Armstrong or a reminder that the rent was in arrears.

  Terry Armstrong was mad. Stark, staring bloody mental.

  If Alan had been in the market for a woman, which he wasn’t, and hadn’t been since his wife walked out, he’d have gone for something prettier than Mrs. Armstrong—

  What was that?

  Someone was in the back yard.

  During the past month or so, a gang of kids had been smashing windows and causing all sorts of damage in the street. That was the last thing he needed.

  Just as he reached the door to investigate, it was pushed open, hitting him square in the ribs.

  “Sorry about that, Mr. Cheyney.”

  He didn’t recognise the face, hadn’t seen it before, but he knew the voice. It was the one that had said, “You’ve got till Friday.” Its owner was responsible for the state of his face and his still very painful ribs.

  There were two of them, and when he noticed they were wearing black gloves, his stomach somersaulted and landed in his feet.

  “It’s all sorted. I spoke to Jason on the phone this morning.” He waved a shaking hand toward the shop. “The phone’s in there. Call him. Ask him! He’ll tell you!”

  “We’ve spoken to him,” the slightly taller of the men said. “We take our orders from Mr. Armstrong, not Jason.”

  The other man was strolling around the storeroom, picking up fishing rods before returning them, very carefully, to their rightful place.

  “I remember when this was a butcher’s shop,” he said.

  Sod that. Alan didn’t care. “Perhaps Jason hadn’t spoken to Mr. Armstrong.” His voice was quivering.

  “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  Alan took a couple of deep calming breaths. They wouldn’t risk beating him up again. The black gloves were supposed to frighten him, that was all.

  “Have you had a good day?” the shorter one asked.

  “I have.” Alan dashed to the folder on the desk where a couple of credit card slips and a small amount of cash sat. “See? And all this will go straight to Mr. Armstrong for the rent.”

  They both looked at the chits, then the taller one put the cash in his pocket of his leather jacket. He looked enquiringly at Alan.

  “If you give me a receipt for that—”

  The man roared with laughter. “Hear that, John? He wants a fucking receipt.”

  “Dunno what he’ll do with a receipt where he’s going, do you?”

  “I can’t see it getting him through them pearly gates.”

  The other man picked up Alan’s mobile phone. “Look at this. Top of the range. I’m surprised he can afford a flash thing like this.” He dropped it into his pocket. “He won’t be needing this, either.”

  “Right,” Alan said, “you’ve had your little joke.”

  The tall one leaned into his face. “We haven’t even fucking started yet!”

  The other one went into the shop. Alan heard him try the door to check that it was locked.
He came back, looked at Alan for a few moments, then stepped out the back door. When he returned, seconds later, he was carrying a length of thick rope. He nodded up at the steel beams where the old butchers’ hooks still hung.

  “That’s where they used to hang the meat, you know…”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Dylan had scant respect for weather forecasters and was convinced they predicted storms, gales and floods to cover their own backs. This time, however, they were spot on. Yesterday, on his way back from Accrington, he’d driven through a blizzard, and at least four inches of snow had fallen overnight. Yet more had been threatened, too, not only for Lancashire but the whole country. Fortunately, the gritting lorries had been ready, the main roads were clear, and Dylan reached Frank’s house without denting the Morgan.

  Punctuality was Frank’s byword and he was ready to go.

  They’d spoken on the phone last night, and Dylan had been tempted to ask if Frank fancied a trip to France. He hadn’t, mainly because he’d known, deep down, that it would have been a gesture made out of sympathy. There was no need to drag Frank along on what could well be a wild-goose chase just because he thought the chap was lonely.

  He hadn’t spoken to Holly about it but, if she objected to funding his trip, Dylan would finance it. Bev had often complained that he was like a terrier with a bone and she was right. If a job was worth starting, it was worth finishing. Admittedly, he had only started this particular job because a) he needed the money and b) he needed to escape his mother and his temporary accommodation. Now, though, he was involved. He wouldn’t be able to rest until he’d discovered the truth.

  As soon as Frank was in the car with his seat belt fastened, Dylan showed him the grainy but unmistakable photo of Terry Armstrong and Anita Champion at the fireworks display.

  “What do you think, Frank?”

  “I think the lying bastard will put it down to coincidence.”

  So did Dylan.

  “Let’s hope he had nothing to do with her disappearance,” Frank added. “You wouldn’t want the job of telling the daughter that her mother had met the same end as Pamela.”

  Dylan shuddered at the thought. “I’d lie.”