DS01 - Presumed Dead

by Shirley Wells

  As far as he knew, Matthew Jackson lived, or had lived, in a small village near to Barfleur, about twenty kilometres along the coast from Cherbourg. But he could have moved long ago. According to French directory enquiries, there was no phone at the property. Maybe Jackson was ex-directory. Or maybe, and this was far more likely, something had been lost in the translation. Dylan’s French was nonexistent.

  Jackson might have vanished as completely as Anita Champion. If it hadn’t been for Harry Tyler’s penchant for hoarding, Dylan wouldn’t have known where to start looking for him.

  At times, Dylan felt like he was investigating the Dawson’s Clough Triangle.

  He hoped he wasn’t wasting Holly’s time and, more important, her money. His own time wasn’t worth a lot. In fact, until Bev got over this strop, it wasn’t worth anything.

  God, he wished she’d get over it. He longed to go home. All he wanted was to climb into his own bed alongside his wife.

  On that thought, with the French coastline ever nearer, he went back inside to find that Frank had given up on his crossword and was talking on his phone. Dylan checked his own phone and he, too, finally had a signal. He had three missed calls from his mother, but they could wait.

  “Lancashire Constabulary,” Frank said when he ended the call. “They’ve found nothing to suggest anything dodgy about Cheyney’s suicide.”

  “Did he leave a letter?”

  “No.”

  “That’s odd in itself.”

  “Yeah. There were marks on him suggesting he’d tried to free himself, too. But that means nothing. Hanging isn’t as quick as people think. Well, it is if you get the drop right. Otherwise—” Frank grimaced. “Most people, when they realise they aren’t dead, tend to change their mind and start clawing at their neck. I suppose panic sets in. Or religion.”

  “Maybe. But the more I think about it, the more convinced I am that Armstrong was expecting us to talk about something else on Tuesday. What if he thought we were going to ask about Cheyney?”

  “Come on, Dylan. Even a murdering bastard like him wouldn’t kill someone just because he was late with the rent.”

  Dylan knew he was right. His imagination was running wild again.

  “Let’s concentrate on Jackson,” he said and Frank nodded.

  “We don’t know a lot about him, do we?”

  “Aren’t you the king of the understatement, Frank. All we know is that he may or may not have been the love of Anita Champion’s life. He trained as a mechanic and took out a loan to buy his own business. He must have done well at that and decided to live in France with his family. Perhaps he’s keeping the country’s Citroens roadworthy.”

  “Don’t raise your hopes. I expect he’s just a good-looking bloke who Anita Champion fancied. There were a few of those.”

  “A bit of a loner.” Dylan ignored Frank’s comment. He was growing defensive on Anita’s behalf and that was ridiculous. God knows, she wasn’t a saint. “A lot of people in Dawson’s Clough remember him, yet no one keeps in touch. Odd that, don’t you think?”

  “Not really. If I moved to France, I wouldn’t keep in touch with anyone.”

  “Yeah, but you’re a miserable bugger.”

  Frank grinned at the insult. “Actually, I wouldn’t mind living in France. Just wish I could afford it.”

  “I don’t think property’s any dearer, is it? Cheaper than the U.K. probably. Fags and booze are cheaper. The weather’s better…”

  When they drove onto French soil, Dylan supposed the weather was better, but, that wasn’t saying a lot. It was milder, the wind was gentler and there was no snow. There was rain, though, and lots of it. They had ten minutes of torrential rain followed by five minutes of sunshine followed by ten more minutes of torrential rain.

  Dylan drove slowly. Very slowly. The rain was making visibility nonexistent at times, and he didn’t like driving on the right and negotiating roundabouts the wrong way.

  It took just over an hour to find Jackson’s home—or, more accurately, the address that had been pinned to the board in Harry Tyler’s office for so long.

  It was still light, just about, and, now that the rain had stopped, the countryside was idyllic.

  “Not bad,” Frank said. “A bit flat compared to the Pennines though.”

  Dylan had to smile. The Alps would be inferior to the Pennines so far as Frank was concerned.

  The house was large, square, and typically French, if there was such a thing. The exterior walls had been painted pink so perhaps that added to the illusion. It sat by the side of a narrow road, was surrounded on three sides by land, and boasted several outbuildings.

  “Gites,” Frank scoffed on seeing the sign welcoming visitors to the property. “Just a fancy term for bed and breakfast.”

  Perhaps Jackson had given up working on cars and was frying a full English or serving up a continental breakfast for visitors.

  Dylan parked in the driveway and they walked up to the front door and knocked. A young dark-haired girl opened it and Dylan could tell, although he couldn’t say how, that she was French.

  “Bon soir.” She was slim, mid-twenties and, in readiness for tourists perhaps, wearing a summer dress.

  “Good evening.” Dylan refused to even attempt French in front of this beauty. “Do you speak English?”

  She shrugged and smiled. “Un peu.”

  “My name is Dylan Scott, and this is my colleague Frank Willoughby. We’re looking for Matthew Jackson. Does he live here?” And why the hell did he have to talk so slowly? And so loud?

  “Live here?” She gestured at the pink stone walls. “This Monsieur Jackson? But no.”

  “Ah. How long have you been here?”

  “Me? Three years.”

  “And you don’t know Mr. Jackson?”

  She shook her head, and Dylan wasn’t sure if she was confirming that she didn’t know Mr. Jackson or if she didn’t understand the question.

  “Mr. Jackson—English man. One moment, please.” Leaving Frank with the young woman, Dylan dashed back to his car for the photograph of Jackson.

  She had a good look at it then shook her head. “I don’t know your Englishman. Sorry.”

  “Is there anyone else here who might know him?”

  “Today? No. My—how do you say?—partner? She is in Cherbourg on business all day. There is only me today. Sorry.”

  So that was that. They now had the whole of France to search.

  Dylan scribbled down his name and mobile number and handed it to her. “Could you ask around for me? Ask people if they know Matthew Jackson?”

  “I will.”

  “Thank you. And you’ll call me if you find out anything?”

  “On this number? I will.”

  “Your English is very good,” Frank told her. “Much better than our French.”

  “Thank you, Monsieur Willoughby.” Her smile was radiant.

  Dylan and Frank walked back to the car and then Dylan drove toward Barfleur, the nearest place likely to have food and accommodation on offer.

  “What do you think she meant by partner?” Frank asked. “Do you reckon she was a lesbian?”

  Dylan hadn’t thought about it. He’d assumed she’d meant partner as in someone who ran the B&B business with her. “Could be, I suppose.”

  “What a waste.”

  “Why? Were you going to thrust your many charms upon her, Frank?”

  “Probably a bit young for me.”

  “Only by about thirty years, mate.”

  When they reached Barfleur, the rain was bouncing off the pavements, and boats were bobbing on the choppy water in the harbour.

  “Have you got all the paperwork needed for driving in Europe?” Frank asked.

  “It’s a bit late to be asking me that.”

  “Have you?”

  Dylan shrugged as he parked near the church. “I’ve got a GB sticker on the back. Well, I hope I have. It’s one of those magnetic things so it might have fallen off as we d
isembarked.”

  But when he got out and had a look, it was still there.

  Given the time of year, the town wasn’t swarming with tourists and, within half an hour, they had two rooms for the night in a tall old house. Soon after that, they were sitting down in the one and only restaurant that was open for business.

  “I suppose we’ll have to go begging to the police for assistance in finding him.” Dylan had no enthusiasm for that. “It’s easy enough in England because everyone leaves a paper trail a mile long, but I’ve no idea how it works over here. And I doubt if a phrase book would help much.”

  “I’ve got plenty of contacts on the force. We’ll get on to them in the morning and they can get on to the gendarme or whatever they call themselves.”

  Dylan was grateful. The French must leave a trail of the exact length as their English counterparts. It was just that he had no idea how to follow them in France.

  They both had pizzas—huge and tasty, if not very adventurous—and, after showing Jackson’s photo to everyone in the building and drawing a loss, they decided to head for the bars.

  “Only one bar open?” Frank was both shocked and disgusted.

  France, it seemed, closed at eight in the evening.

  The bar—singular—was small and dingy, but surprisingly busy. Dylan ordered a couple of large glasses of what the French called beer.

  “Gnat’s piss,” Frank muttered, even more disgusted, and Dylan couldn’t argue with him.

  They showed Jackson’s photo to everyone present. There was much head shaking going on in that bar.

  Later, a chap with an acoustic guitar walked in and started playing old Beatles tunes. No one paid him any attention whatsoever. He carried on playing as Dylan showed him the photo, and didn’t even pause to shake his head.

  Minutes later, four Englishmen came in. They were loud, full of their own importance, and did little to further Anglo-French relations. However, they were English and they boasted a smattering of French between them.

  Dylan’s hopes were soon dashed, though. They hadn’t heard of Jackson and didn’t recognise him from the photo.

  Having taken the piss out of the French for an hour, they left and Dylan wasn’t sorry.

  He was ready for his bed and waiting for Frank to finish his gnat’s piss when a man in his early thirties walked into the bar.

  “Excuse me—” Dylan showed him the photo.

  “Ah, oui. Englishman. Matt. Has a—how you say?—bateau?”

  “Bateau?” Dylan frowned as he dug deep into schoolday memories. “Ah, boat?”

  “Oui. Bateau. Saint-Vaast.”

  “Saint-Vaast?”

  The barman intervened at this point.

  “Saint-Vaast-la-Hougue is, er, une, deux, trois, quatre—” He held up fingers until he reached ten. “Dix kilometres.”

  “And this man, Matthew Jackson, has a boat there?” Dylan couldn’t believe his good fortune.

  “Bateau, oui,” said the newcomer. “Er, lucky man.”

  “Very lucky,” Dylan agreed.

  Jackson was lucky to have a boat in Saint-Vaast-la-Hougue, and Dylan was extremely lucky to have found him without the hassle of going through official channels.

  So delighted was he that he bought a round of drinks for everyone in the bar.

  No one was sober, even the barman was struggling to open the till, and Dylan and Frank were soon being thanked for all that Britain had done for them during the war.

  “It was a long time ago, and nothing to do with us.” Dylan wasn’t too drunk to feel embarrassed.

  Frank nudged him. “It’s because we’re close to Omaha Beach. Tourists flock here. It must keep it fresh in their minds.”

  A couple of drinks later, and Dylan and Frank walked, or staggered, slowly back to their accommodation.

  A drunkard and a loser.

  Ah, but he wasn’t. At this particular moment, he was drunk, but that didn’t make him a drunkard. And it certainly didn’t make him a loser. He’d found Matthew Jackson.

  By way of celebration, he began singing. “There’ll always be an England…”

  Saint-Vaast-la-Hougue, a much larger town than Barfleur, was basking in sunshine at ten o’clock the following morning. A chilly wind was blowing in from the sea, leaving a salty tang on Dylan’s lips, but it was a clear day and the island of Tatihou was visible. Other than a few locals strolling along with bags of bread or fish, all was peaceful.

  “Let’s start at the harbour, and see who’s about. You are up to this, aren’t you, Frank? All this walking, I mean?”

  “What do you think I am? Some bloody soft southerner? Of course I’m up to it.”

  Frank quickened his pace, and they must have looked as if they were in training for the changing of the guard.

  Dozens of boats were moored in the harbour, mainly expensive-looking yachts. Plenty of boats but a dearth of people.

  “We’ve no idea what sort of boat he has.” Dylan was annoyed with himself for not persevering with their French companion last night. “Fishing boat? Yacht? Speed boat?”

  “It won’t be one of these.” Frank pointed to a gleaming white yacht. “They cost an absolute fortune.”

  He was right. Unless Johnson had been remembered by a few wealthy aunts, he wasn’t going to be terribly well off. He’d let his garage go at a bargain price, wanting a quick sale, and, by the time the mortgage had been paid off, he hadn’t been left with a great deal.

  “He’s unlikely to have a fishing boat,” Dylan said. “Before Dawson’s Clough, he’d lived in Scotland, but only for a year or so. Before that, Nottingham and Stoke-on-Trent. He couldn’t have lived further from the sea if he’d tried. What would he know about fishing?”

  Frank nodded his agreement so, as they walked, they paid more attention to the less expensive pleasure vessels.

  Dylan showed the photo of Jackson to a dozen people but no one claimed to know him.

  “Let’s go into the town, Frank. If he spends much time here, he’ll be known in the shops.”

  There were surprisingly few shops in the town, but lots of restaurants and cafes. Most were closed, and looked unlikely to open until the spring brought the tourists.

  “Nice place,” Frank said as they walked.

  It was a beautiful place, tranquil compared to London, soft and serene compared to Dawson’s Clough. Better still, it wasn’t raining. On days like this, it was easy to forget the snow they’d left behind and believe that spring wasn’t far away.

  They entered a large shop that sold fishing rods, outboard motors, wetsuits and knick-knacks with a nautical theme.

  Yet again, Dylan produced his photo and showed it to the young man behind the till.

  “Monsieur Jackson!” He delivered a long speech. In French.

  “Parlez-vous anglais?” Dylan asked, fingers crossed.

  The assistant thought about it, much as Stevie thought about questions before answering, and then, with a regretful shrug, shook his head. “Non. Pardon.”

  With a lot of finger pointing, Dylan asked if Jackson had a bateau.

  “Bateau. Mai oui. Lucky man,” he said, smiling.

  As they left the store, Dylan wondered why people thought of Jackson as a lucky man. Was it because he had a boat, because he was a good-looking devil and a hit with the women, or because his wife appealed to the males among the population?

  They celebrated confirmation of Jackson’s existence by having a beer at a cafe overlooking the harbour. Dylan had fancied a coffee but, unless things had improved dramatically in the country since he and Bev had spent a fortnight there one summer, he knew the French couldn’t do coffee. Champagne and croissants, yes. Coffee, no.

  They set off again and began the task of asking anyone and everyone if they knew Jackson.

  Dylan was idly glancing at the array of boats in the harbour when he stopped so suddenly that Frank had gone on and was talking to himself.

  “Look!” Dylan pointed as Frank doubled back.


  “Bugger me!” Frank scratched his head in wonder. “Looks like you’ve found our man, Dylan.”

  People hadn’t been calling Jackson a lucky man at all. They had been trying to be helpful by giving Dylan the name of his boat.

  Or had they? The boat in question boasted at least fifty feet of sheer luxury. It was huge, obviously disgustingly expensive, and it gleamed smugly as the water lovingly caressed its sides.

  “How much would this be worth, Frank?”

  “If you’ve got to ask, you can’t afford it.”

  That’s what Dylan had thought. It must be worth thousands. It didn’t look out of place, as there were several other similar vessels bobbing on the gentle swell, but such extravagance from an ex-garage owner from Dawson’s Clough was surprising.

  While they were ogling this treasure, thirty grands’ worth of black BMW convertible pulled into a nearby parking spot. A 335i M if Dylan wasn’t mistaken, and he rarely was when it came to cars. Boats you could keep, he liked to feel the ground beneath him, but he knew his cars.

  Its driver jumped out and Dylan experienced the weird sensation of falling back in time. Fifteen years to be precise.

  Matthew Jackson looked just as he had on his wedding day, as if he’d merely nipped home to change out of his finery before returning. He was tall and blond and, despite the faded jeans and thick baggy sweater, looked as if he should have been filming the next Hollywood blockbuster.

  “Jesus,” Frank murmured, and Dylan knew how he felt.

  Smiling at them and revealing perfect white teeth, Jackson strode over to his boat.

  “Good morning,” Dylan said.

  “English!” Jackson’s smile was dazzling now. “Oh, what a wonderful sound. Here on holiday, are you? A pity the weather’s not better for you.” Without waiting for a reply, he nodded at the boat. “Admiring her, were you? A beauty, isn’t she?”

  “It certainly is.” Dylan didn’t refer to his car as a “she”—cars were too reliable to be feminine—and he had no intention of referring to Jackson’s boat that way. And how in hell’s name could you name a boat Lucky Man and then call it “she”?

  “I’ve had her about a year now,” Jackson said. “I haven’t taken her out much lately, but I come here most days to check on her. Fancy a look round?”