“In that case,” Dylan said, “we’re probably wasting your time. It was just that he came into some money a few years back, not long after Anita disappeared to tell the truth, and rumour has it that the money came from you.”
“It what?”
Dylan had touched a nerve. Armstrong wouldn’t like people spreading rumours.
“Come in here.” He clearly agreed with Dylan that the hallway was too crowded for a friendly chat.
Susie could be heard moving around in the room above the lounge.
“Now then,” Armstrong demanded, “who’s been talking about me?”
“That’s just it, we don’t know,” Frank said. “We were in a bar in Accrington, asking about this Matthew Jackson, and you were mentioned. We didn’t get their names.”
“Why the hell not? And what the hell did they say?”
“Just that Jackson was living in France now. Well, we knew that anyway, but it’s a big country to search, isn’t it? When we said we wished we could afford to live there, they suggested we did a job for you. Said that was how Jackson had got his money.”
“This Jackson bloke—tell me about him.”
“Same age as Anita,” Dylan said. “In fact, they had a thing between them from their schooldays until Jackson married and had a couple of kids. He took out a mortgage to buy an old garage on what is now Brightwell Industrial Estate. He was a good mechanic, by all accounts. Then, a month or so after Anita vanished, he came into some money, sold the garage off cheap, and took off with his family to France.”
“A mechanic? What the fuck would I want with a mechanic?”
“We were hoping you’d tell us,” Frank said.
“Then you’re out of luck, Chief Inspector. I’ve no idea who the hell you’re talking about.”
Dylan took the photo of Jackson on his wedding day from his pocket and showed it to Terry Armstrong. Annoyingly, there didn’t seem to be the smallest flicker of recognition.
“What sort of job is he supposed to have done for me?”
“We’ve no idea,” Frank said.
“A big one, I imagine,” Dylan put in. “According to rumour, Jackson lives like a king now—flash car, expensive boat, the works.”
“I’ve no idea who he is, or how his name has been linked to mine. No idea at all.”
“Then we’ve been wasting your time,” Dylan said. “Sorry about that, Mr. Armstrong.”
Armstrong grunted a couple of times as he showed them the door.
“That was a terrible thing, wasn’t it?” Dylan said, just as Armstrong was about to open it. “Alan Cheyney’s suicide. He was a tenant of yours, wasn’t he?”
“He was. And yes, it was a shock. He had a bit of trouble a couple of weeks earlier, but I thought he was over that. He seemed okay about it when I visited him in hospital. Eager to get home, I thought.”
“You visited him in hospital?” Dylan found it hard to keep the amazement from his voice.
“Took him some fruit.” Smiling, Armstrong nodded. “He’s a—was a good tenant.”
“Rent up to date, was it?”
Armstrong smiled. “He’d paid it only that morning. In cash.”
“A man of principle,” Dylan said. “Making sure his bills were paid before topping himself.”
“Indeed.” Armstrong pulled open the door. “If you find out who’s been spreading those rumours about me, you’ll let me know?”
“You’ll be the first,” Frank said.
The wind was razor sharp as they dashed to Dylan’s car.
“We should have come in your car, Frank,” Dylan said once they were fastening their seat belts.
“Why?”
“Have you ever tried tailing someone when you’re driving a Daytona Yellow Morgan?”
“I’ve never heard such a damn fool idea.”
Dylan wasn’t sure that he had either. But—“I bet Armstrong is on the phone as we speak. Either that, or he’ll be leaving the house any minute. He didn’t take kindly to people spreading rumours, did he?”
“Park up at the end of the road.”
“I intend to.” Dylan drove off and stopped the car in a lay-by on the main road. If Armstrong left the house by car, he’d have to pass them.
Without the engine running, the temperature dropped inside the car. That icy wind was rocking the vehicle.
Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. Thirty.
“I-spy with my little eye something beginning with N,” Frank said at last.
“Newspaper?” Dylan was looking down at the foot well.
“Nope.”
“New road sign?”
“Nope.”
“Number plate.” A lorry had parked in front of them.
“Nope.”
“Give up.”
“Nothing.”
“What?”
“I see bloody nothing. Armstrong’s sitting at home, Dylan.”
Frank was right.
“I bet he’s made a few phone calls though.”
“So let’s hope no one winds up dead!”
On that cheerful note, Dylan fired the engine and drove off. He drove slowly, though, and kept one eye on the rear-view mirror just in case Armstrong’s Mercedes came into view.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The marital home was the same as ever. Bev, however, wasn’t.
“What are you doing here?”
Dylan knew he wasn’t the most observant of blokes when it came to women, but even he noticed that her hair had been cut and had very light blond streaks in it. She was wearing makeup, too. He couldn’t remember her not reaching for a lipstick first thing in the morning, but today, and it was only eleven o’clock on a Saturday morning, she looked as if she was about to star in a Max Factor commercial.
“It’s my house, remember?” Dylan wasn’t standing for this nonsense any longer. Apart from anything else, it was damned stupid to be paying rent and a mortgage.
After three long days in Dawson’s Clough achieving nothing, he wasn’t in the mood for pandering to her sulks. He’d spent most of that time with Stevie, searching through all those newspaper cuttings for a link between Terry Armstrong and Matthew Jackson. He hadn’t found one.
“Luke’s not here,” Bev said. “It’s Tom’s birthday so he’s spending the day with him.”
“I know. I do communicate with Luke, you know.”
Dylan had spoken to Luke last night and he knew his son was going bowling and then to some fancy restaurant with his friend. Tomorrow, they would spend the day together, but meanwhile, Dylan was determined to talk some sense into Bev.
“Shall I come in?” he asked. “Or would you rather give the neighbours something to talk about?”
“Five minutes.” She stepped back to allow him entry.
They walked into the kitchen where Bev stood, arms folded, with her back to the sink. She glanced at her watch, then at the clock on the wall, and then at Dylan. “Well?”
“Are you expecting company?”
“No.” He wasn’t sure if she blushed or not. “But I’m going out and I’ll be late. I need to get on, Dylan. Can’t this wait until tomorrow?”
“No, Bev, it can’t. I want to know what’s going on.”
“Going on?”
“With you. With us. I want to know how long I’m expected to stand it in that blasted flat.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Everything, but that’s not the point. I want to know how long it will be before we can forget all this nonsense and get back to normal.”
She took a breath and glanced at her watch again.
“I’ve told you. It’s over, Dylan. I can’t live with you any longer.”
“So are we talking divorce? Shall I go and instruct a solicitor, or would you rather sit down and talk finances now?”
He had, naturally enough, expected her to quake at the mention of solicitors and the D-word, but no. Credit where it was due, she was taking this strop all the way.
“I think we
need to sit down and talk. But not now, Dylan. Really, I have to go out.”
“Tomorrow?”
She nodded, but he could tell it was a reluctant agreement.
“Fine,” he said. “I’ll be back with Luke by sixish. We’ll sit down then, shall we? Luke can join in and tell us how he feels about coming from a broken home.”
“For God’s sake, Dylan.”
“What? A broken home is exactly what it is.”
“We’ll talk tomorrow.” She looked at her watch again.
“Fine.”
With that, he marched off. Two could play at this game, he thought, as he got in his car and gave the door a (gentle) slam. She would spend the day thinking he was serious about a divorce, and then wonder how she could climb down gracefully without making herself look ridiculous.
He had driven about twenty yards when a Nissan drove round the corner and into the quiet road, slowing to a crawl. The male driver was studying house numbers.
The Nissan pulled up in the exact spot Dylan had vacated. Dylan had to stop and turn around in his seat.
The man, carrying flowers, walked up to Dylan’s front door and rang the bell.
He’d probably got the wrong house. Men took flowers to their wives if they’d been having an affair, or they gave flowers to their dying mothers, sisters or aunts. Yes, he must have the wrong house. Dylan put the Morgan into gear and slowly pulled away.
The next day, sitting in a draughty corner of McDonalds, Dylan did the unthinkable. He grilled Luke.
“Did your mum have any visitors yesterday?”
Luke poured ketchup over his chips. “Not that I know of.”
“Did she have flowers in the house?”
Sadly, Luke had inherited Dylan’s observational skills in the home. “I dunno.”
“Has she seemed different lately?”
“No. Why?”
“When I called in yesterday, she kept looking at the clock. Then, just as I was leaving, some man called at the house. He was carrying flowers.”
Luke’s mouth, stuffed with burger, gaped. “You reckon she’s got a bloke?”
“Ooh, I shouldn’t think so.” But Dylan didn’t know what to think.
“She has been making me tidy up a lot recently.”
“Has she?”
“Yeah.”
“What? More than usual?”
“I dunno really.”
Of course he didn’t. Bev was obsessively tidy at the best of times.
“Well, we won’t worry about it. I’ll talk to her later and we’ll soon get everything sorted out.”
“I hope so. I hate it when you’re not around, Dad.”
Dylan ruffled his son’s hair. “Me too. Don’t worry, we’ll sort it.”
They were about to leave McDonald’s when Dylan’s phone rang.
“Hello?” As it was a foreign number, he expected it to be a mistake.
“Monsieur Scott?” a female asked.
“Yes?”
“Ah, bonjour. Um, my partner, say you call at house. You asked for the man, Monsieur Jackson?”
“Ah, yes, that’s right.”
“I know the monsieur. I bought this house from the monsieur.”
Before Dylan could explain that he’d already found the monsieur, she went on, “He live in Saint-Vaast-la-Hougue.” She gave a tinkling laugh. “We call him Bond. If you had asked for Monsieur Bond, my partner, she would have known.”
“Monsieur Bond?” Dylan suspected that, once again, a lot was being lost in the translation.
“Mais oui. A friend of mine, he call him James Bond. He thinks he work for, er, MI5. A lot of, er, gadgets. And a lot of money.”
He certainly had a lot of money.
“Your friend,” he asked, “who is that?”
“Pierre. He has small house near Barfleur. He knows Monsieur Jackson.”
“Could you give me his number?”
“Oui. I have say to him that you will contact.”
Dylan took down the man’s number, thanked her for calling, and snapped his phone shut.
Then he opened it again and punched in the number she’d given him. There was no need to tell anyone he’d already found Jackson.
The call was answered and, no sooner had Dylan given his name, the man launched into faultless English.
“Yes, I was told you’d be calling, Mr. Scott. It’s about Mr. Jackson, I gather.”
“That’s right. I understand you call him James Bond?”
“I do.” The man chuckled. “One, because he likes his gadgets and two, because he has a different story for each day of the week.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“He’s told people he owned businesses in England.” He was still finding it amusing. “He’s told others he won the jackpot. I think he must be an undercover agent for your government.”
“I see.”
“A pretty lady might find out. He likes the ladies.”
“Don’t we all.”
“Anyway, you’re looking for him and I can tell you where he is.”
Dylan had most of the details, but he made a note of Jackson’s regular haunts.
Now what? he wondered as he closed his phone again. He couldn’t expect Holly to fund another trip to France and, even if he financed it himself, there would be no point. He’d spoken to Jackson, and to his ex-wife, and found out nothing.
MI5 indeed. There were many possible explanations for Jackson’s wealth, but employment by that particular agency wasn’t one of them.
All the same, Jackson was involved in Anita’s disappearance. Dylan was sure of it.
A pretty lady would find out.
The idea began to take form as Dylan drove Luke home…
“I’ll make myself scarce,” Luke said in a whisper as they arrived at the marital home.
Bev, Dylan noticed, didn’t look worried about a discussion centred on the D-word. He didn’t see any flower arrangements, though. He’d known, deep down, that the stranger had called at the wrong house.
Today she was wearing much less makeup, and jeans and a sweater were the order of the day.
“Coffee?” she asked him as soon as Luke had legged it to his room.
“Please. Yes, thanks.” That was a welcome surprise.
He wasn’t sure how to broach this. With care, obviously. “It’s half term, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
“Any plans?”
“No, not really.”
“Bev?” Grovelling was his best option. “I could do with some help. Your help.”
“Oh?” She sounded surprised and wary.
“Yes. It’s to do with this case I’m working on.”
She handed him his coffee and he told her all about Anita Champion. How she’d gone missing, how she’d been friendly with Terrence Armstrong, how Matthew Jackson had conveniently retired to France soon afterward, and how the man had more money than Croesus.
“Matthew Jackson is at the bottom of all this, I feel sure of it. So what I need is someone—well, not just anyone, obviously—someone who can act, someone attractive who can pander to his ego—”
“I thought you said he was in France.” She frowned.
“He is. On the coast, quite close to Cherbourg. We could nail it in a couple of days.”
“We?” It slowly sank in. “You want me to talk to this bloke?”
“Please, Bev. A couple of days, that’s all. Hey, an all-expenses-paid trip to France. That can’t be bad, can it?”
She was looking at him as if he’d arrived from Mars.
“You’re asking me to go to France with you?” She spoke as she might to one of her slower pupils. “At a time like this, when we have so much to sort out, you expect me to go to France? With you? To talk to a complete stranger about another complete stranger who vanished thirteen years ago?”
“I thought it might give us time to talk things over. On neutral soil.” He didn’t want her thinking that the problems between them were unimp
ortant. “And I really would appreciate your help, Bev.”
“You’re unbelievable. Absolutely bloody unbelievable!”
“That’s why you love me.”
“Pah.” She picked up a place mat, only to return it to the same spot. “Neutral soil, you say?”
“Yes. On the boat, or in a swanky French restaurant.” She was weakening, he was sure of it. “We can get our problems sorted out. Mum’s here so she’ll be able to have Luke for a few days. And I expect you could do with a break, couldn’t you?”
She was considering it, and Dylan didn’t know whether to be shocked or delighted. He was a little of both.
“Dylan,” she said at last, “I truly don’t want our relationship to go sour. We’ve had some good times and, for Luke’s sake, I want us to stay friends. We need to sort everything out, obviously, but I’m sure we can do that without coming to blows.”
Her expression, a mix of sadness and regret, took Dylan by surprise.
“Okay,” she said. “Why not? You’re right, it will give us chance to discuss things on neutral soil. Then, when we get back, we can get things moving.” She gave him her all-pals-together smile. “When do you want to leave?”
“First thing in the morning?” Dylan was still trying to understand what she’d meant about getting things moving.
“Tomorrow? Oh, for—”
“Strike while the iron’s hot, eh?”
“Okay.”
He gained the impression she was humouring him.
“Great. Thanks, Bev, I appreciate it.” He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and wondered how long it had been since he’d kissed her. Too long. “I’ll be here around sevenish. We can drop Luke off at my place on the way.”
“Fine.” She shook her head in a despairing sort of way. “I’d better get packing then.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Bev could see Dylan strolling along the street. He wasn’t looking left or right, he wasn’t acknowledging her, but she guessed he knew she was there, sitting by the harbour.
She still wasn’t sure why she’d agreed to this madcap scheme, but she knew much credit should go to Dylan and his ability as a storyteller. Yesterday, for a few moments at least, she’d been caught up in the story of Holly Champion and the puzzling disappearance of her mother.
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