“Yes, of course. I don’t suppose you can. But I have to try everything, don’t I? You’ve earned a name for yourself.” Hunt took a gulp of beer. “Your picture was in the local paper for weeks and Marion, that’s my wife—ex-wife now of course—said you’d be the man to help us. As soon as she realised you were friends with Frank, she wanted you here.”
“I see.” He saw that Hunt was going along with his wife’s wishes and, despite Dylan having earned a name for himself, didn’t have any faith in him whatsoever. “Did Frank tell you how me and him came to be friends?”
“He said you were in the police force together.”
“That’s true.” Dylan waited for more but nothing was forthcoming. “Did he tell you I was kicked off the force?” It was clear that Frank had kept that gem to himself. “A man I was arresting—an habitual offender—claimed I used unreasonable force on him. I spent five months in prison.”
“I see. Well, I’m sorry to hear that but what does it have to do with me?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.” Dylan wished he hadn’t bothered. “I thought you should know, that’s all. People seem to think I can work miracles. The reality is that I couldn’t even keep my job.”
“Miracle was the exact word Marion used when she said we should employ you.”
“I got lucky once, that’s all.”
Like a lot of others—thanks mainly to exaggerated stories that sold newspapers—Marion Hunt believed Dylan had a magic touch.
Dylan only hoped she wouldn’t be too disappointed. “I, um, gather you visited a clairvoyant?”
“I did.” Hunt didn’t flinch, didn’t seem embarrassed. “People have been telling me I must prepare myself for the worst. Marion’s new husband said we needed to get on with our lives and Marion half agreed with him. I couldn’t believe it. Not from Marion. That’s why I went to see the medium.”
For as long as Sam’s whereabouts were a mystery, they never would be able to get on with their lives. The truth, good or bad, would bring closure. Until then, they would continue to exist in a sort of limbo.
“I only went for Marion’s benefit,” Hunt said. “I’ve always known Sam’s alive. I needed to convince Marion.”
What could Dylan say to that? He, too, believed he would know if something bad had happened to his own son.
“What did this clairvoyant tell you?” He found himself speaking slowly, as if Hunt was mad. Dylan couldn’t be sure that he wasn’t.
“She said Sam was still in this world. Often, she’s not able to tell. In this case, she knew for sure. She’d seen Sam, you see, and she knew she was still alive.”
“Seen her?”
“Yes. She’d had—well, a vision, she called it. She’d seen Sam dancing in a field of sunflowers.”
“I see. Did she happen to know where this field was?” Dylan might as well play along.
“That wasn’t clear.”
There was a surprise.
Dylan was in the wrong business. How much could you charge for inventing the sort of heart-warming rubbish people wanted to hear? Anyone could dream up stuff like that. If this medium had told Hunt his daughter was dead, that would most likely have been his last visit to her. To tell him she’d seen her in a vision was a stroke of genius. Hunt would go back time and time again, living in hope that his daughter had “appeared” again. All the while, the medium would be laughing all the way to her Swiss bank account.
“Tell me about your daughter,” Dylan said. “Sam, is it? Or Samantha?”
“Sam. No one’s called her Samantha for years.” He took another swallow of beer and looked to be struggling to sit still. “I told you, she set off for work one Friday morning and no one saw her again. It was ten months ago. The thirteenth of August, 2010. Friday the thirteenth.”
The medium would have loved the date of her disappearance.
“How old is she?”
“Twenty-two. It was a few weeks after her birthday that she vanished.”
Dylan settled back in his extremely comfortable chair ready for a long chat. “Where did she work?”
“Carlton’s Classics. A small company that specialises in buying, selling and restoring classic cars.”
“As what?”
“A mechanic.”
“Really?” Dylan had expected him to say secretary, receptionist or salesgirl. At least it explained the odd expression he’d seen on Hunt’s face when he’d arrived. His daughter would have known all about the Morgan. “Did she enjoy her work?”
“She loved it.” Hunt stood, looked out the window for a moment, then spun round to face Dylan. “Obviously, it’s not the job you want for your daughter, but what can you do?”
“Not a lot. What about the police? What have they come up with?”
“They’re doing all they can.” Hunt sat down again. “I can’t fault them really. They still get possible sightings and they check them out but—”
“I see.” After ten months, the police wouldn’t be devoting a great deal of time or resources to the case. “She lived here with you, did she?”
“Yes. I can show you her room if you like?”
Hunt was already at the door as if he welcomed—needed—the activity. Dylan followed him up a long, curving staircase and onto a wide balcony. At the end of this, Hunt, struggling for breath after the climb, pushed open a door.
“Are you all right?” Dylan asked.
“Yes. I get breathless, that’s all. Oh, and the only people I’ve told are you and Frank. I’d be grateful if you could keep news of my illness to yourself.”
“Of course.”
If Dylan had a terminal illness, he would tell Bev. He might, if pushed, tell his mother. He wouldn’t, as Hunt had, choose to tell someone he exchanged Christmas cards with and a private investigator who was a stranger. Then again, if Hunt hadn’t mentioned his illness, Dylan would be in London with his face and ribs still intact.
“I haven’t even told Marion. I don’t want her coming back to me because of that.”
“I won’t breathe a word.”
“Thank you. The doctors don’t know much anyway. When they diagnosed me, they said I might have a year or five left. They’ve no real idea though, so it’s not worth mentioning.” Having dismissed the entire medical profession, he stepped into the room. “It’s just how Sam left it. All ready for when she comes home.”
Dylan didn’t ask where she was supposed to come home from. Instead, he took in the details of the large room. What drew his eye were the posters. There were no long-haired, slinky-hipped singers or actors here. Only cars. A gleaming Lamborghini took up most of the wall behind her bed. He couldn’t fault her taste.
The rest of the room was tidy but not particularly feminine. A pair of jeans, tossed over the back of a chair, had a paint stain on them. A pair of black boots that owed more to comfort than fashion sat neatly in front of the wardrobe.
Perhaps what struck him most was the feel of the room. Vastly different to the rest of the house, it was almost old-fashioned. A leather chair, complete with tapestry cushions, had been designed, decades ago, for lounging in rather than as a visual statement. An antique desk and captain’s chair sat in the corner of the room.
“That was her grandfather’s,” Hunt said. “She was close to him and couldn’t bear to see his things thrown out when he died.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Four years. Sam was eighteen.”
Floor-to-ceiling shelving on one wall held books, CDs and various trinkets. The CDs were by bands Dylan hadn’t heard of. The books were all mysteries. A couple of Agatha Christies, three by Ruth Rendell, several by Ian Rankin and Lee Child.
Two framed photos stood by the books and Dylan peered closely. One showed a laughing young woman with a pint of beer in her hand and a dark-haired man’s arm draped round her shoulders. Another showed the same young woman with two young girls.
“That’s Sam,” Hunt said. “The man with her is Jack Fleming and the girls are her half
sisters.”
Sam’s long chestnut hair cascaded down her back in huge curls. Not a practical style, especially for someone who enjoyed working on cars, but certainly eye-catching. Around her neck was a small heart-shaped gold locket. Freckles dotted her laughing face.
Hunt paced from one end of the room to the other and his constant activity was wearing Dylan out. No, it wasn’t the activity, it was the knowledge that Hunt needed to be still. His breathing was too laboured for comfort. Dylan needed to sit him down and ask him questions. A lot of questions.
“There’s her computer.” Hunt pointed to the laptop sitting on a small, low table near the window. “The police took that to check for—well, anything. There was nothing on it though. There wouldn’t have been. She wasn’t really interested in computers and was too busy to bother with social networking or whatever it is they call it.”
“I see. Right—let’s go downstairs and get down to business. I need to ask you a lot of questions, Rob.”
“Yes, of course. I’ll get us another beer and you can ask all the questions you need.”
Dylan returned to the study while Hunt got the drinks. He was pleased to see that no books on the occult or mysticism adorned the bookshelves. Most were to do with art and design.
Finally, the drinks were in front of them and Hunt sat, reluctantly it seemed to Dylan.
“Now then,” Dylan said, “perhaps you could tell me about Sam’s home life. She lived here with you, you say? What about her mother?”
“Marion and I divorced twelve years ago.” His hands shook as he spoke and Dylan guessed this was more desperation than nerves. “Sam was ten at the time and lived with her mother until she was fourteen. Marion had—well, she’d met someone else. Married him even. Sam didn’t like him and wanted to live here. I was more than happy to have her, and Marion thought she was old enough to decide for herself.”
“Was the split amicable?” Dylan asked.
“Of course. I’m always here for Marion. They have two daughters now—one’s eight, the other’s six.”
The relationship had been over for a long time yet Hunt still wore a wide gold wedding ring. That wasn’t normal, was it?
He’d said he didn’t want Marion coming back because she felt sorry for him. Dylan was no expert but, after twelve years, surely there was no way she was coming back.
“I’m sorry to ask such personal questions, but I do need to know. Before you divorced, was the atmosphere difficult for Sam?”
“No. Not at all. There were no arguments, fights, anything like that. Marion found herself besotted with—with Alan. It was all quite sudden. No, there was no unpleasant atmosphere.”
“I see. And what about Sam? Does she get on well with Alan?”
“She doesn’t like him—who would? He’s a lorry driver. Goes abroad a lot. But there’s been no trouble. She gets on well with the girls, her half sisters. She sees quite a lot of them. Or used to.”
Which must mean she saw a lot of her mother too. Was there anything more complicated than a family?
“What was her life like?” Dylan asked. “What did she like to do? What was a typical week for her?”
Hunt looked impatient, as if he’d rather Dylan went tramping the streets in search of his daughter. “She’d work five or six days a week. In the evenings, she’d either stay in or go to the pub—”
“The man in the photo, Jack Fleming, that’s her boyfriend?”
“Yes. She’d usually go to the pub with him. Sometimes to the cinema. On Sundays, they’d take the dog for a good walk.”
“Sam’s dog or Jack’s?”
“Sam’s. I’ve still got him. He’s at the grooming parlour this evening but he should be back soon.”
“You got along well, did you? You and Sam, I mean?”
“Very. Oh, yes, we’re very close. I used to do a bit of fishing and, sometimes, Sam would come and spend the day with me. She liked that. She was more than happy to sit on the riverbank with a paperback. She loved to read.”
Had she been happy? Dylan would imagine a twenty-two-year-old girl wanting to spend time with her boyfriend, or her girlfriends. At twenty-two—well, it was impossible to make a comparison. Dylan had never known his father so he couldn’t comment on whether he would have liked spending time in the bloke’s company. If forced to tolerate sitting on a riverbank with his mother though, he would have reached for the nearest brick, tied it to his feet and jumped.
“What about her boyfriend? Do you like him?”
“No.” The word came with all the force of a bullet. “He’s a bad one. Bad right through to the core. What she saw in him, I’ll never know.”
Dylan was taken aback by such animosity. Appearances could be deceptive but the photo in Sam’s room showed a happy, laughing, harmless-looking man.
“What makes you say that, Rob?”
“He has a police record. And do you know what for? He locked his girlfriend—ex-girlfriend I should say—in her flat. He terrified the life out of the poor girl. He’s common, uncouth and downright dangerous.”
Dylan wasn’t sure what to make of that. “So when Sam went missing—”
“He was taken in for questioning. Obviously. Why she had to get involved with a lowlife like him—” He broke off as a coughing fit seized him and it was several moments before he was able to continue. “Of course, I tried to keep my feelings to myself. God knows, I didn’t want to alienate Sam. I longed for the day she got him out of her system though.”
Sam was twenty-two, old enough to make her own mistakes, but Jack sounded interesting. The police must have had something to warrant questioning him.
“You say she liked going to the pub? Which one?”
“The Old Weaver—just down the road. You probably passed it on your way here.”
“Ah, yes.” He’d spotted it and thought it looked like one of those old-fashioned places that didn’t rely on karaoke or Elvis lookalikes to bring in the trade. A sign outside had mentioned guest ales too.
“Sometimes they went into the town centre, but not often. The pubs there get a bit rowdy.”
The girl got her hands dirty working on classic cars. She drank pints. Her boyfriend had a criminal record. She didn’t sound the sort to worry about a rowdy pub.
“Did she drink much?’ Dylan asked, already guessing the answer.
“Oh, no. A couple of pints maybe. No more than that.”
That was the answer he’d expected. Hunt was drawing a picture of the perfect daughter, and Dylan wasn’t convinced such a thing existed.
“I gather a scarf was found that some people thought belonged to her.”
“She had one like it, that’s all. But I suspect thousands of other girls did too.”
Perhaps he had a point. “Where was it found?”
“In the field at the back of the house.” He nodded in the general direction.
“How did she go to work? Walk? Bus? Drive?”
“She usually drove but, that morning, she was walking. She’d left her car at the garage—Carlton’s Classics—because she was doing some work on it.”
“And would she have gone via the field? The one where the scarf was found?”
“Possibly.” Hunt seemed reluctant to admit it. “It depends. Sometimes, if she walked to work, she’d call on her half sisters and take them to school. If she did that, she’d usually cut through the field.”
Hunt wanted Dylan’s help but couldn’t seem to grasp that it went both ways. He seemed reluctant to tell Dylan anything that might help.
“Was she planning to call on her sisters that morning?”
“Yes.”
Dylan would pay them a visit. Their mother at least. Perhaps she would be more willing to talk. “What sort of car did Sam drive?”
“A Porsche.”
The girl worked as a mechanic and yet she could afford a Porsche? “Very nice.”
“Yes. Oh, it wasn’t new. She got it cheap, through the garage. I gave her the money.”
That was feasible.
“What about Sam’s work colleagues?” Dylan asked. “How did she get along with them?”
“Very well.”
Naturally. Even if they’d fought day and night, Hunt would never have admitted to it. He had the perfect daughter and woe betide anyone who so much as hinted otherwise.
“How did she come to get the job—or even want it?”
“Sam was never going to be a Samantha.” A smile tried to tug Rob’s lips into an upward curve. And failed. “She was always a tomboy. Even as a young child, she hated wearing dresses and playing with dolls. Marion and I thought she’d grow out of it, but she never did. She loved toy cars and trains. She went to night school, then got a job at a small garage. When the vacancy at Carlton’s Classics came up, she walked straight into it.”
“She didn’t go to university then?”
“No. I tried to make her see sense, as did Marion, but she wouldn’t listen. Her heart was set on working with cars.”
So she was also wilful.
“Are her colleagues male or female?”
“Male. Yes, apart from the girl who answers the phone, they’re all male.”
Dylan wasn’t going to get a full picture of Samantha Hunt from her father. No one could be as angelic and as perfect as the daughter he was describing.
“You said you’d prepare some information for me,” he said. “Photographs, names and addresses, stuff like that.”
“Yes, and I have.” Hunt went to the nearest black set of drawers, opened the top one and pulled out an A4 envelope. “There are lots of photos. Copies of four payslips. Oh, and the letter from Carlton’s Classics offering her the job.”
Amazingly, that was the lot. “You mentioned addresses. For her friends.”
“Yes.” Hunt caressed a black leather notebook. “You can borrow this, but I’d like it back.”
“Of course.” Dylan flicked through the pages of what he realised was Sam’s address book and put it in the folder before Hunt could change his mind. “This is great, thanks.” It wasn’t. It was barely adequate. “I’ll go through it tonight and see where I go from here. I expect I’ll soon be back asking a lot more questions.”
Just as he stood, a door in the hall opened and closed and, within moments, a small brown dog raced into the room. It took no notice of Dylan or Hunt, but ran round the room three times.
Dead Silent (A Dylan Scott Mystery) Page 3