DS01 - Presumed Dead

by Shirley Wells

  “At the moment, he’s angry with me.” She decided to concentrate on the immediate rather than the deeper issues.

  “Nonsense.”

  “He is. I’m angry with him, too.” She was furious, and still convinced she’d been conned into going to France with him. “Did he tell you what happened in France? The boat?”

  Vicky shook her head.

  “He wanted me to get close to a man he suspects of murder, and I did just that. I ended up being out at sea alone with him.”

  Vicky’s frown deepened.

  “It was fine,” she said on a sigh. “But Dylan thinks I was a damn fool to get myself into that position, and I think he was a total bastard to involve me at all.”

  “Dear me. I had no idea.”

  Bev felt guilty now, and that was absurd. “It was nothing really. Just a stupid disagreement. Crying over spilt milk, you’d call it. I suppose we’re both a bit—”

  “Lonely? Stubborn?”

  Bev was lonely, but that wasn’t surprising. She and Dylan had been together a long time, so the separation was bound to involve a lot of adjustments. “You think I’m being stubborn?”

  “I don’t know, love.”

  It was so cold that Bev’s teeth were beginning to chatter. She walked more quickly, hands stuffed in her jacket pockets. “Let’s go for a coffee.” Anything to get out of the cold.

  The nearest cafe was less than a hundred yards away, and neither spoke until they were inside, away from the cutting wind.

  As it was handy for the school, Bev knew it well and was used to the shabby interior. The scuffed tables and plastic chairs were off-putting, but the cappuccinos were delicious and the chocolate muffins impossible to resist.

  Vicky had a decaffeinated coffee and a glass of water. Bev needed her chocolate fix.

  “I know you’re not the stubborn type,” her mother-in-law took up the conversation again, “but I do think you need to sort things out. For Luke’s sake, if nothing else.”

  “You’re right. We do.”

  “And how can you do that if you’re not even living in the same house?”

  “I can’t live him with.” Bev wished there was an easier way of saying it. “He’s changed, Vicky. He’s—difficult.”

  “Prison changes most people, love.”

  “I know that but—”

  “It took everything from Dylan.”

  “But it didn’t. His wife, his son, his home—we were all right there, waiting for him. All it took from him was his job. Surely Luke and me are worth more than that?”

  “Of course you are. You both mean the world to him, you know that.” Vicky stirred her coffee. “What about his pride? His confidence? His self-respect?”

  Bev couldn’t answer that.

  “You and Luke worshipped him,” Vicky said. “Then, suddenly, he ends up behind bars like a common criminal. Worse, he’s made to feel like a common criminal. How difficult do you think it was for him to come home and face you both?”

  Bev knew all that, knew it had been hard for him. It had been awful for her and Luke, too. “He has to move on,” she said.

  “Of course he does, but he can only do that if he has the love and support of his family.”

  “I can’t talk about it.” Bev was annoyed to find that her voice was shaking.

  “Okay.”

  It was impossible to offend Vicky, and Bev was glad. The last thing she wanted was any awkwardness between them.

  “Where is he anyway?” she asked. “Back in Lancashire?”

  “He was. But no, he drove home in the middle of the night, checked through some stuff that Holly Champion had given him, spent a few minutes on the internet and then left for France.”

  “France? What on earth has he gone back there for?”

  “I’ve no idea. He said he’d explain when he got back.”

  Bev assumed he still had Matt Jackson down as a suspect. But why? “Do you think he’ll discover the truth about Anita Champion?”

  “Of course I do. Dylan’s no quitter. I know he won’t give up until he has.”

  Smiling, Bev nodded. “Me, too.”

  The smile quickly faded. She had no idea what the future held in store. She might not be able to live with Dylan, but she was making a complete mess of trying to live without him.

  She’d been on two dates with a colleague, just two, and that had ended in disaster. Paul had grown pushy, called her a tease—

  God, what a mess.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Dylan had driven past Jackson’s home on his last visit to France, when Bev had been on that confounded boat trip, so the property came as no surprise. It was large but still managed to maintain a vision of quaint that the French are so good at. Old stone walls were painted cream, and the woodwork—doors, window frames and shutters—was a dark green. Despite its size, it was more country cottage than grand.

  Today, though, probably because the sky was gunmetal grey and rain was lashing down, it looked less attractive.

  Dylan parked his car on the driveway and ran to the front door. There was no bell, just a heavy brass knocker that, over the years, had left an indentation in the wood.

  He recognised the slim, dark-haired woman who answered his knock as the current Mrs. Jackson. She recognised him, too.

  “My husband isn’t here,” she said.

  “That’s a shame. I’ve come all the way from England to see him, too. When will he back?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know. I’m sorry you’ve had a wasted journey.” She went to shut the door on the heavy rain and on Dylan.

  “He’ll be back today, though, will he?”

  She hesitated. “Yes. Later.”

  “No worries. I’ll call back later. It’s Francois, isn’t it? We didn’t have time to be introduced properly when we met. I’m Dylan.”

  He extended his hand, which, somewhat reluctantly he thought, she shook. He supposed he should have kissed both cheeks, but his affable manner had her relenting. Friendliness often bred manners, he’d found, and, still a little unwilling, she invited him inside.

  “I’m sure Matthew won’t be long.” She spoke in exceptionally good English.

  “It’s not urgent.” Like hell. “I don’t want to disturb you so I can easily come back later.”

  “It’s a pleasure, Mr.—Dylan.”

  It clearly wasn’t. She was suspicious of him. Why? What had Jackson told her?

  She ushered him into the kitchen, a vast barn of a room that managed to look homely. It was warm and, as all estate agent’s recommended for a quick sale, filled with the delicious aroma of freshly baked bread. Lots of bright flowers sat on the window sills.

  “You have a lovely home here,” Dylan said.

  “Thank you. Can I offer you wine?”

  “That’s very generous of you, but no.” He needed a clear head for the coming ordeal.

  “It’s a real family home this, isn’t it?” Dylan said. “Do you have children?”

  “No. No, we don’t.”

  “Ah, I have a boy. Luke’s eleven. And they say the first eighteen years are the worst.”

  “Yes.” She smiled politely and took a sneaky look at her watch.

  Dylan chatted about the locale and the weather and, although it seemed like an eternity, it was only about ten minutes before a powerful car was heard pulling up outside.

  Francois skipped to the window and looked out.

  “Here is Matthew.” She looked and sounded very nervous.

  The front door opened and banged shut. “Who’s is that Morgan—?”

  Jackson stopped himself as he spotted Dylan. After the briefest of hesitations, there was a small smile. “Well, well. It’s—”

  “Dylan. Dylan Scott. And the Morgan’s mine. Your wife was kind enough to invite me inside. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all. Why should I?”

  He took a step toward Francois, presumably to kiss her, and frowned when he saw her flinch. Dylan was ri
ght, she was very nervous.

  “I offered him wine, but—”

  “A little early for me,” Dylan said.

  “So what can I do for you?” Jackson asked.

  “It’s a bit delicate.” Dylan had been seated at a large mahogany table but, as Jackson and his wife were both standing, he joined them. “It’s about Anita Champion.”

  “I guessed as much. And?”

  “It’s about the night she disappeared. You were the last person to see her that night, weren’t you?”

  “No.”

  “Oh?”

  “Well, it’s pretty obvious to me that someone else saw her after me. People don’t just vanish into thin air, do they? Someone else must have seen her.”

  “I don’t think so. I think you were the last to see her. I think she told you something of interest, too.”

  “What?” He laughed at that. “Like what?”

  “Who knows? I expect she was talking about horses.”

  A vein throbbed in Jackson’s temple. Dylan was pleased to see he’d hit a nerve.

  “I heard she was talking about horses that night,” he said. “I expect she told you all about it. Told you that she was going to buy a horse for Holly. The girl was animal mad, wasn’t she? Anita would have bought her a whole zoo full of animals if she’d been able to afford it.”

  “Quite probably, but as she couldn’t even afford a bloody hamster, it’s all a bit academic, isn’t it?”

  He was rattled. Good.

  His wife was biting the skin on her finger.

  “I think she could afford a hamster,” Dylan said. “A horse, too. In fact, I think she could afford a whole zoo.”

  “What? She was a two-bit hairdresser, for Christ’s sake!”

  Dylan felt himself bristle on Anita’s behalf. She’d had her faults, plenty of them, but she had deserved to lose her heart to someone better than Jackson.

  “A two-bit hairdresser who enjoyed a flutter,” Dylan said. “You’ve always believed that gambling is a mug’s game, haven’t you, Mr. Jackson? They tried, back in Dawson’s Clough, to involve you in a poker game. But no, you believe it’s only for morons.”

  “So?”

  “So Anita was excited that night, wasn’t she? Really over the top. She’d been drugged—” He smiled at Jackson’s obvious surprise. “Oh, yes, her so-called friends had put something in her drink. But she was too excited to go home just yet. She was feeling ill, yet she had to tell you all about it, didn’t she? She trusted you.”

  “She told me nothing!” Jackson spat out the words.

  “You remember Colin Bates, the bouncer at Morty’s?” He ignored Jackson’s outburst. “She told him she was going to buy a horse. She wouldn’t have told him how, though, would she? She would have told you instead. The love of her life. The man she believed she could trust.”

  “Matthew, please? What’s going on?” Francois looked on the verge of tears.

  “We’re solving an old puzzle, Mrs. Jackson.” Dylan gave her a kindly smile. “You see, back in 1997, your husband owned a small garage in a Lancashire mill town. He sold it cheap when he came into some money. Isn’t that right, Mr. Jackson?”

  “I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m talking about Anita Champion’s lottery win.”

  “What?” An incredulous laugh.

  “That was why she could make her daughter’s dream come true and buy her that horse.”

  “You’re mad,” Jackson said, “and I think it’s high time you and your farcical ideas left my house.”

  “It’ll be easy enough to check up.”

  “Oh, yes? And how are you going to do that?”

  Good question. And one for which Dylan had no answer.

  Dylan had stopped at his flat to rummage through the pile of junk Holly had brought him. He’d seen two old lottery tickets and checked that the numbers were the same on both. They were. From that, Dylan assumed Anita would have used the same numbers week in and week out. Plenty of people chose birthdays or house numbers, so there was nothing unusual in that.

  If she had used those same numbers, though, they would have netted her a cool two and a half million pounds on the night in question.

  But how the hell was he going to prove it?

  Yes, he could find out if the winning ticket had been bought in Manchester for that night’s draw. He would also be able to find out who had claimed the money. Jackson wasn’t stupid, though. He very much doubted if a Matthew Jackson had claimed on a winning ticket.

  “There are ways. Well, thanks, Mr. Jackson—Mrs. Jackson. I’ll leave you alone now.”

  The flowers were too exotic, their perfume too overpowering, and Dylan was feeling a little nauseous. Or maybe it wasn’t the flowers—maybe it was Jackson.

  The man was faster to the door and he stood in front of it, barring Dylan’s way.

  “You can’t prove anything.” He kept his voice low so that his wife wouldn’t catch the words.

  “You may be right there.”

  “I am right. You’ll prove nothing because there’s nothing to prove!”

  Dylan leant forward until he was so close, Jackson would have felt his breath on his face. “I’ll nail you for this, Jackson. If it’s the last thing I ever do, I’ll fucking nail you.”

  Jackson said nothing and, after a few moments, he moved aside.

  “Thank you.”

  Dylan let himself out and returned to the Morgan. With luck, he’d catch the six o’clock ferry back to Portsmouth.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Dylan stopped his car outside Verdun House and wondered what lay ahead.

  He’d almost come straight to Holly’s from the ferry, but sanity had prevailed and he’d checked into a hotel. After a quick meal, he’d phoned Frank Willoughby to update him, then crawled into his bed. He’d been asleep within seconds of his head touching the pillow.

  Now he had to talk to her, and he wasn’t sure how she would take it. She insisted she was prepared for bad news, and Dylan had told her often enough that he could give her nothing but bad news, but reality was always different.

  She had the door open before he’d even switched off the engine. Knowing her, she would have been waiting at the window for hours.

  He got out of his car and walked to the door.

  “I’ve got the coffee on ready for you.” She gave him a quick kiss.

  “Ah. Thanks.”

  She asked about his journey and complained about the wet, windy weather as she took him inside and put his coffee in front of him. For all that, he could see that she was fit to burst with impatience.

  “You said you had news for me,” she said at last.

  “Possibly.” Dylan made himself as comfortable as he could on the hard wooden stool in her kitchen. “And it’s not good news, I’m afraid.”

  She nodded. White knuckles protruded from the overlong sleeves of the red sweater she was wearing. Her shoes were olive green and the heels were like six-inch nails.

  “As I’ve told you, your mother was drugged the night she went missing. However, Stevie Greenwood saw her get into a taxi bound for Morty’s. Several other people have confirmed that she was there. Everyone has agreed that she was happy that night. Overexcited. The DJ, Sean Ellis, confirmed it. As did the bouncer, Colin Bates. It was Bates who told me that she’d been talking about buying you a horse.”

  “A horse?”

  “Yes.” Dylan took a sip of coffee but it was too hot for comfort. “Of course, everyone laughed at her and put it down to the amount she’d been drinking. Now, the last person to see her that night was Matthew Jackson.”

  “And?”

  “As you know, I’ve been to France to speak to him a couple of times. Bev, my wife, even went out on his boat with him to see what she could find out. Jackson owned a garage in Dawson’s Clough and, shortly after your mother vanished, he sold it. According to the present owner, he sold it cheap for a quick sale. Jackson’s story is that he
made a good, healthy profit on it and has since been investing the proceeds wisely.”

  “So he’s lying?”

  “Yes.” There was no doubt about that. What’s more, Dylan could easily prove it. “When Bev tried to discover where his money had come from, she pretended to have a lot of her own. She also suggested that it had come from, well, let’s say a less-than-honest source. Jackson suggested she tell people she’d had a lottery win.”

  Another sip of coffee. Holly was quite still, as if she was too enthralled to move.

  “I saw Stevie again and he confirmed my opinion of Jackson. I don’t like the man, and Stevie doesn’t either. To my mind, Stevie’s a good judge of character. Not that it has anything to do with it.”

  “Dylan, what are you saying exactly?”

  “I’m getting to it. I was thinking of Jackson’s sudden wealth and your mother talking about buying horses, and I began to wonder. I drove back to my flat and sorted through that pile of stuff you gave me, remember? There were a couple of old lottery tickets there that your mum—or you—hadn’t thrown out. Your mum used the same numbers on both. Birthdays probably, something like that. Anyway, if she’d chosen those numbers on the night she vanished—and, obviously, I can’t say if she did or not—but if she had used those numbers, she would have been worth two and a half million pounds.”

  All colour left Holly’s face. A naturally pale girl, she usually had two spots of rose on her cheeks, but now she was ashen.

  “Oh, my God.” Her words came out as a whisper.

  He gave her a few moments to recover before continuing.

  “According to your mum’s friend Maggie, Matthew Jackson was the man your mother loved. I don’t know if that’s true or not, but I believe she liked him. I think she would have trusted him. I think she told him she’d won the lottery.”

  “Jesus!”

  “Quite. So yesterday, I went back to France to confront him.”

  “He denied everything?” she asked.

  “Of course. But he was rattled enough to warn me that I’d never prove anything.”

  “Tell me about him.” She wrapped her arms around herself, her gaze on the floor. “What’s he like? Married? Where does he live exactly?” The questions came like bullets from a gun. “What did you say his boat was called? Does he have children?”