“You won’t do that. The police couldn’t.”
“Well, well. This is a shock, I can tell you.” He rubbed his chin, pretending to be deep in thought. “Are you a friend of hers?”
“No. We only worked together.”
“You didn’t go out together? Socially, I mean?”
“No.”
She was lying. Dylan had seen the photo.
“Well, a couple of times, maybe,” she said. “If it was a work thing. Someone’s birthday or something. That’s all.” As she spoke, she kept looking at a door to her left.
“Good grief. Sorry, but I can’t get my head round this. When was the last time you saw her?”
“The same as everyone else. The night before she vanished. When I left work for the day, she was still here. I didn’t see her again.”
“She had a boyfriend, didn’t she? Did you know him?”
“Who’s that?”
“Jack, I believe his name is.”
“Oh, yes. Yes, I know him.”
“Did she have anyone else in her life?” Anyone who might explain the hesitation, or the relief when he’d offered Jack’s name. “Anyone who might know where she could be?”
“No.”
“Do you know Jack well?”
“Not really, no.” She gave a start as the door to her left opened. A man, probably late thirties and wearing a smart suit and silk tie, emerged. “James, this is Dylan—”
“Scott. Dylan Scott. And you’ll be—?”
“James Carlton. How can I help?” He looked outside and his gaze rested on the Morgan. “Oh, yes, very nice. Are you selling or is it needing work?”
“Neither.” Dylan offered his hand. “I’m looking for one of your employees, Sam Hunt.”
Dylan’s hand was shaken, but Carlton’s smile cooled by several degrees. “Good grief. She’s no longer my employee. Hasn’t been for months.”
“So I gather. This young lady was just explaining. I’m at a complete loss now.”
“What did you want with her?”
“I’m a TV producer.” It wasn’t his best invention, but the receptionist was hiding something, he was sure of it, and a TV producer might fare better than a private investigator at finding out what that was. “I met up with Sam in the summer and we talked about a project I had in mind. I wanted someone young, presentable, knowledgeable—I’m sure you know the sort—for a new motor show. To cut a long story short, Sam was interested and I said I’d get back to her. The programme had to be shelved, though, and it’s only just been given the go-ahead. I really need to talk to Sam. I’ve been trying her mobile for weeks and getting nowhere.”
“I see. Sorry.” He gestured to the blue chairs arranged around a chrome table a short distance from the reception desk. “Please, sit down, Mr. Scott.”
“Thanks. I’m at a complete loss. I mean, what can have happened? She didn’t strike me as the type to just up sticks and go.”
“Me neither.”
“What can you tell me about her? I assume you thought highly of her as an employee?”
“Very.” James Carlton was at ease with himself now. Conceited perhaps? Tall, dark, slim and presumably wealthy, he had plenty to be conceited about. “I didn’t really take her seriously when she applied for a job here. Her being female, I mean. But she was persuasive and I agreed to take her on for a three-month trial period. I was very impressed.”
“How did she get on with the other mechanics?”
“Very well. They took the mickey at first, of course, but it was water off a duck’s back. She could take care of herself.”
“Before she disappeared, did she seem okay to you?”
“In what way?”
“I don’t know really. Was she behaving strangely in any way?”
“No. She was her usual self. She left here on the Thursday evening, said she’d see us in the morning, and that was that. We never saw her again.”
The girl on the reception desk was moving brochures around while trying to hear every word of their conversation.
“Did you see her socially?” Dylan asked.
“Socially? What makes you ask? Why would I?”
James Carlton wore a wedding ring. Was he the man Alice had seen with Sam?
“Sorry, I’m just clutching at straws.” He didn’t want to raise Carlton’s suspicions. “I have to find her but I don’t know where to start looking. I wondered if you saw her outside work, and if you knew where she’d be likely to hang out.”
“No.”
Maybe a little flattery was in order. “Did she tell you about our plans for the show?”
“Not a word.” Carlton looked miffed about that.
“Ah. I asked her not to mention it until the ink had dried on the contracts, but she was so excited, I thought the temptation might be too great.” He nodded at the gleaming Ferraris. “She was keen to get your business involved and use your expertise.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yes. I was all for it too. A lot of blokes want a high-performance car, and it’s not only the price tag that puts them off. Sam believed—and I agreed—that your input on maintenance costs would be invaluable.”
“Well…” Carlton straightened his perfectly straight tie as if the TV cameras were already rolling. “Yes, that would have been worth considering. So when you start making the programmes—”
“That’s just it,” Dylan said. “My boss is adamant that it’s Sam or no one. That’s why I need to find her. And fast.”
“You won’t find her.”
“Maybe not, but I’m going to have a damn good try. So you don’t know where she hangs out?”
“No, I never saw her outside work. She spent most of her time with her boyfriend. Sorry, but I don’t remember his name.”
“What about her other friends? Would you know of anyone she was close to?”
“No, I’m afraid not. I knew nothing of her private life.”
“I see.” Every time Dylan smiled, he expected his lip to split. “Would you mind if I spoke to her colleagues? I won’t take up too much of their time.”
“Not at all.” James Carlton stood, his smile wide and friendly. “I’ll show you the workshops.”
“Thank you.”
“They won’t be able to tell you anything though. It’s baffled friends and family, the police—no one knows what happened to her.”
Dylan made a point of speaking to the receptionist. “Thanks for your help, um—sorry, I don’t think I caught your name.”
“Kerry Adams. And you’re welcome.”
Dylan followed James Carlton onto the forecourt and stopped to admire the building. “This is impressive. Trade must be good.”
“Very.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Coming up to seven years. My father had the business first and, when he wanted to retire, I took it over. I’ve expanded a lot since then.” He looked proud of his efforts. Justifiably so.
They rounded the corner of the showroom and came upon a Lamborghini. “Wow. Second to the Morgan, that’s my dream car.”
Carlton laughed. “That’s mine.”
“Lucky you.”
Dylan was about to walk on when he spotted it. When Alice had mentioned those two squiggles that had looked like a letter S, he’d thought of sports cars’ emblems that might include the letter. An Alfa Romeo Spider, perhaps. Attached to the back of Carlton’s red Lamborghini Diablo was a badge that, to Alice Turnbull, would have been two red squiggles that looked like a letter S. It was in fact the Senna S, a logo recognisable to any fan of the late, great racing driver Ayrton Senna.
“You were a Senna fan then?”
“Yes.” Carlton nodded at the badge. “That’s my tribute to the man who had to be the greatest driver ever. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Possibly. The problem is, you can’t compare like for like, can you? Who can say that Senna was better than Fangio?”
Carlton smiled at that. “My money would be o
n Senna every time. Pure genius.”
“Either way, it’s a beauty of a car,” Dylan said. “Had it long, have you?”
“Coming up to twelve months. Before that, I drove a Ferrari. The Maranello 550. It was a few years old, but it never let me down.”
“Really?”
Dylan wasn’t interested in the Maranello and they walked on.
“This is where the work’s done.” James Carlton stepped into a large workshop where three cars were in varying states of disrepair. “Bill.” He addressed the older of the four men in the building. “This is Dylan Scott, a TV producer. He’s looking for Sam Hunt. I’ve told him he won’t find her here. Perhaps you’ll have better luck convincing him. Oh, and don’t stand around talking too long.” This last was said with a smile and a wink at Dylan.
“Thanks very much,” Dylan said as Carlton took his leave.
Bill led the way outside. Dylan supposed that his days were spent in the workshop so he’d welcome every opportunity to escape.
“I’m not being rude, but I won’t shake hands.” Bill was smearing an oily rag across his palms. “Sam, well, that’s a blast from the past. It seems to me as the poor lass has been forgotten.”
“But not by you?”
“No. You’re a TV man, did he say?”
“That’s right, yes. I offered Sam a job working on a new programme but then it was stalled. I’ve just got the go-ahead and need to find my presenter.”
“Was she going to be on the telly then?”
“Yes.”
“My, she would have loved that.”
“What can you tell me about her, Bill?”
“Not a lot. Other than that she was one of the nicest, most genuine people I’ve ever known.”
Bill was probably late fifties or early sixties. He looked comfortable with himself. Confident. As if he’d stand no nonsense from anyone.
“You got on well then?” Dylan asked.
“Oh, yes. Everyone got on well with her.” His hands clean, or cleaner, he pushed the oily rag into the pocket of his overalls. “She had time for everyone. Always thought of other folk. That’s quite rare in someone so young.”
“Very rare.” Perhaps, after all, Sam was as perfect as her father claimed.
“Sometimes, she used to sneak her dog in to work with her. It wasn’t allowed, but no one had the heart to tell her. Even the dog idolised her. Followed her everywhere.”
“She was good at her job, I hear,” Dylan said.
“She was brilliant. I couldn’t believe it when James told me he’d employed a girl. I mean, I know all about this equality nonsense, but a girl working on cars? I’d never heard the like. Anyway, blow me, she was good. She could tell a lot about an engine just by listening to it. The other lads—” he nodded in the direction of the workshop, “—all complain if they have to work late. Not Sam. It never bothered her at all. She was at her happiest lying under a car.”
Bill took a tin from his pocket, picked out a hand-rolled cigarette and lit it with a battered Zippo lighter. “Is that your car? The Morgan?”
“It is, yes.”
“Sam would have been looking at the engine by now.” Bill smiled fondly. “She was a grand lass. Absolutely grand.”
“Do you know her family?” Dylan asked.
“No. She had two sisters, I know that.” Bill scratched his head. “I met her father a couple of times—he dropped her off here once or twice—but I wouldn’t say I know him. Or was it her stepfather? I can’t remember now. One of ’em anyway.”
“What about her boyfriend?”
“Jack?”
Why was the doubt always there? “Yes, I believe that’s his name.”
“Oh, yes, I know him. A wrong ’un if you ask me but, there, she thought the sun shone out of his arse.”
“Really.” Dylan coaxed his throbbing lip into a smile. “What was—wrong about him?”
“What wasn’t?” Bill’s cigarette had gone out so he relit it. “Drink. Drugs. Fights. You name it, he was involved. He’s just about the last person on earth you’d want your daughter mixed up with.”
“Really? How old is he?”
“About thirty. No, thirty-two. I seem to think he’s ten years older than Sam.”
Dylan brought to mind the snapshots he’d seen of Jack. He’d looked the same age as Sam, certainly not ten years older.
“Was there anyone else in her life, do you know? Another man perhaps?”
Bill’s glance went to the glass showroom. “There were rumours.”
“Oh?”
“You can’t take much notice of rumours, can you?”
Dylan could. He loved rumours. It helped no end in his line of work. “When I was talking to her about the programme, I got the impression she was involved with a married man. A married man who owns a car very much like that one.” He pointed to James Carlton’s Lamborghini.
“Did you indeed?” Bill puffed on his cigarette. “Funny that, but I got the same impression.” Deciding the cigarette was dead, he dropped it and ground it into the gravel. “You’ll want to talk to the others, will you?”
“That would be good. Thanks, Bill. I appreciate it.”
“I haven’t told you nothing.”
He had. He’d as good as confirmed Dylan’s suspicions. Samantha Hunt had been romantically involved with her smooth-talking boss. Her smooth-talking married boss.
Chapter Eight
Rob Hunt poured himself a whisky, carried it into the sitting room and sat near the window. It was his favourite room. He still thought of it as Marion’s.
He’d wanted to design a house specially for her but she’d longed for a home that was old, “where people have lived and died,” and had a view of the moors. When Wickham House, a Grade II listed building, came on the market, she fell in love with it and insisted they live in the adjoining coach house while the renovations took place.
She used to fill the house, and this room especially, with fresh flowers from the garden. Sid Bentley had been in charge of the gardens for decades and came with the house. He and Marion had chatted and planned for hours. Rob, however, found him dour and gave up trying to get conversation from him long ago.
On top of the piano Marion had sometimes played was a photograph of the three of them—him, Marion and Sam. It was taken in Venice. Sam, just four years old, was almost hidden by an ice-cream cone as Marion held her tight. Happy days.
The room echoed with Marion’s memory. A matching pair of tall vases she’d bought at an auction guarded the French windows. She’d chosen the long white drapes. Another of her auction purchases was the small, difficult-to-spot porcelain mouse that sat on a stone ledge at the back of the inglenook. The fireplace was Rusty’s favourite spot, winter or summer. Right now, he was staring at Rob, his brown eyes questioning.
Rob picked up the phone and tapped in Marion’s number, knowing from experience that this was the best time to catch her. She would have arrived home about fifteen minutes ago and Alan would be driving somewhere. At least, he hoped that was the case because whenever Alan answered the phone, he was loathe to do anything but pass on a message.
Rob despised the man. Thinking of him with Marion, talking with her, eating with her and, worst of all, sleeping with her—
“Hello, Rob. What can I do for you?” She sounded exhausted and Rob wished he was near enough to fuss over her. He’d sit her down and lift her feet onto the sofa, mix her a gin and tonic, and tell her how much he loved her. Then he’d massage the tension knots from her neck and shoulders.
“Hello, sweetheart. How are you?”
“Fine, but busy. What can I do for you?”
He wondered if Alan was home. She tended to be snappy and distant if he was around. “I was wondering if you’d heard from Dylan Scott.”
She was lighting a cigarette. He heard the rustle of the pack, the click of the lighter and the inhalation. “Yes, he phoned. He’s coming round tomorrow night.”
“Tomorrow night? Why not
before?”
“Because I’m out tonight. I also have a job, remember?”
“You’re out? You have a job?” His heart took up an angry thumping beat. “You could take a day off. Surely Sam’s more important than work. You should have been here with me the day he arrived. This was your idea, remember?”
“I know that, but—”
“You insisted I phone Frank. You said I must do whatever it took to get Scott here. You wanted him, Marion.”
“And you didn’t!” She hurled the bitter words at him. “How could you not want him? We need all the help we can get.”
“It’s not that I didn’t want him, you know that. I just thought we should leave it to the police and look for—”
“Who are getting nowhere.”
“If you’d let me finish, I was going to say we should be looking for her ourselves. But oh no, you’re not interested. How many places have I suggested we go look for her? Christ, I even bought the plane tickets for Barcelona—you know how much she loves that city. Don’t you dare accuse me of doing nothing.”
“For God’s sake, Rob, we can’t traipse round the world.” She exhaled. “Look, I’m not going to argue with you. Dylan Scott’s coming here tomorrow night and I’ll do all I can to help him. As you’ve already met him and told him everything, there’s probably nothing I can add, but I’ll do my best.”
“You should be doing this with me. Sam’s our daughter, Marion. We’re supposed to be in this together.”
“We are in it together.” He heard her inhale on her cigarette. “I’m very busy, so is there anything else you want?”
He forced himself to calm down. Being angry with Marion wouldn’t help. “I just wanted to know if you’d seen him yet. I’ve given him photos, Sam’s address book, and all sorts of stuff. He’s good, Marion. Everyone says so.”
“I know they do. Tell you what, I’ll call you when he’s been, okay?”
“Yes, do that. It’s always good to talk to you, you know that.”
“If there’s nothing else—”
“I take it Alan’s home then?”
“No.”
“Really? It sounds to me as if he is. I can always tell. You’re a different person around him. I wish you could see yourself, hear yourself—”
Dead Silent (A Dylan Scott Mystery) Page 6