He ordered coffee and a muffin and read through the local paper while he waited for her. It was preferable to trying to figure out what the teenager at the next table was listening to on his iPod.
A couple of middle-aged women two tables away were discussing their respective diets.
“I always have my main meal at lunchtime,” one was saying. “That way, you burn off the calories.”
She was at least twenty-five stones. Who the hell would take dietary advice from a woman that size?
Yawning, Dylan folded his newspaper. Tired didn’t even begin to describe how he felt. He’d spent a few uncomfortable hours on that sofa with a comatose Bev. She’d woken up around four, decided the sofa was too uncomfortable and suggested they went to bed. He hadn’t had a wink of sleep since.
At a couple of minutes after eleven-thirty, the door opened and a woman of about thirty stood in the doorway, looking at the customers. Dylan rose to his feet and she came over to him.
“Dylan Scott?”
“That’s me. You’ll be Mrs. Ritchie?” They shook hands. “Can I get you something?”
“A cappuccino would be great, thanks. Oh, and I’m Elma.”
“Dylan.”
He went to the counter and bought two coffees, a cappuccino for Elma and a strong black filter for himself in the hope that it might wake him up.
When he returned to the table, she was removing a white cotton jacket. She was plain with long dark hair tied back from a naturally pale face. Slim and tall, she was wearing white calf-length trousers and a loose red T-shirt.
“Thanks,” she said, as he put the coffee in front of her. “I’m sorry I had to meet you here but I’m busy on Mondays. After I’ve taken Josh and Theo to school, I do two hours at the Red Cross shop, have half an hour here and then cover for an hour in my sister’s shop while she has a lunch break.”
“You are busy.” Dylan smiled at her. “Thanks for meeting me.”
“You said you wanted to talk about the preschool group that Josh attended?”
“That’s right. I spoke to a friend of yours, a Valerie Goodfellow—”
“Yes, she told me.”
“She said you took your child out of the group. Is that right?”
“I did, yes.” She spooned the chocolate from the top of her cappuccino. “I’m sure it was a perfectly good nursery, but I didn’t think it suited Josh.”
“Oh? How do you mean?”
“It’s difficult to say.” She thought for a moment and was frowning as she continued. “He was only three and a half, but he’d always been so outgoing. He was just a normal, noisy boy who was into everything. After a couple of months there, he became quiet and withdrawn.”
Dylan wanted information on Marion and Alan Roderick and the fact that one three-year-old possibly hadn’t enjoyed the preschool playgroup managed by Marion meant nothing. Yet Dylan knew it was from these seemingly meaningless conversations that little gems sometimes came.
“And when you removed Josh from the group,” he asked, “how was he then?”
“I put him in another one across town. After a couple of months, he was back to normal again.”
“Could it have been a phase he was going through? Missing his mother perhaps?”
She sipped her coffee and shrugged. “It could have been that, yes, although he’s never been clingy. I’ve often worried that he’d happily go off with anyone.”
Dylan didn’t think this was relevant to anything. To find out what happened to Sam Hunt though, he needed to know her family, friends and acquaintances better than he knew himself.
“What about Marion, the woman who ran the group?” he asked. “Do you know her well?”
“Not really. She seems nice enough, and she’s certainly well qualified.” She looked straight at Dylan. “I can’t say there was anything wrong with the group or with Marion Roderick. All I can tell you is that I wasn’t happy taking my son there. The change in him may have been down to something else entirely, but I was happier when he was going to a new group.”
“I can understand that.” It could be that Elma was simply an overprotective mother.
“Sometimes her husband was there. I can’t remember his name—a big man. They were having a couple of the small side rooms painted and he was helping out with that. I didn’t like him.”
“Oh? Why was that?”
“They’d obviously had a row, him and Marion, and although she was trying to be bright and sunny, he was moody and sullen. It was embarrassing. It’s difficult to explain, but I just didn’t like him.”
Dylan hadn’t, either. It was a gut reaction.
“How about Sam Hunt, Marion’s daughter. Do you know her?”
“No, but I remember reading about her in the paper. She just vanished, didn’t she?”
“That’s right.”
“Sorry, I never knew her.”
“Did you speak to any of the other parents at the group? Was anyone else dissatisfied with it?”
“We used to chat when we arrived with our kids or fetched them,” she said, “but no, I never heard anyone complain. Having said that, I didn’t mention my concerns to anyone. We’d talk about the weather, and how quickly the children were growing—stuff like that. I was friendly with Val, of course, but she didn’t have much to do with it. Her daughter’s older than Josh and was only there for a couple of months.” Elma glanced at her watch and finished her coffee. “It’s time I was going. Sorry.”
“That’s okay. If you think of anything else, or hear anything to do with Josh’s old preschool group or Marion Roderick, will you call me?” He reached into his pocket and pulled out one of the business cards he’d had printed. They almost made him feel like a real private investigator.
She gazed at the card then put it in her purse. “Of course.”
He watched her leave and wondered if she really was nothing more than an overprotective mother. He couldn’t buy that. Marion’s own children were equally quiet and withdrawn. Sam had noticed the same thing.
The town’s library was an old stone building trying to drag itself into the twenty-first century. After his last spell in Dawson’s Clough, looking into the disappearance of Anita Champion, Dylan was all too familiar with the layout of the building. He was becoming a regular visitor again and was soon looking through old newspapers that had finally made it to microfilm.
He sat at the first of a row of six machines and read through the news from around the time of Sam’s disappearance. He didn’t know what he was looking for, and wouldn’t know until he found it. He spotted the report of Isobel Connor’s disappearance and subsequent murder that he’d already seen. He read through it again in case there was something he’d missed. There wasn’t. He couldn’t imagine the two cases being related.
The only things he found for Marion Roderick’s preschool playgroup were adverts saying places were available and one short news piece covering a Christmas party. Photos of children stuffing cake in their mouths dominated the article.
One story caught his eye, that of a young girl who disappeared a month before Sam Hunt vanished. Again, he couldn’t see any link. The girl in question, Fiona Partridge, was a few days short of her sixteenth birthday, and interviews with her distraught parents were published almost daily. They told how they’d been separated but how this trauma in their lives had brought them back together. Fiona was reunited with the happy couple nine days later. In a case that highlighted the dangers of teenagers using the internet, she’d met up with a man she believed to be eighteen years old. The thirty-four-year-old sex offender she’d actually met up with was currently serving a jail sentence.
Other than the fact that it had happened shortly before Sam Hunt vanished, there was nothing to link the cases. Sam had shown no interest in the social networking sites.
Dylan trawled more pages but nothing grabbed his interest. Dawson’s Clough was a typical working-class northern town where people still knew their neighbours. Very little happened here.
Dylan took his time crossing the road. He wanted Kerry to be seated with her order given before he joined her. She’d been uneasy talking to him and it was possible she’d leave rather than repeat the experience.
To pass a few minutes, he went in the florist’s next to the café. One minute he was trying not to look shocked at the price of flowers, the next he was handing over his credit card.
“What message do you want?” the girl asked him.
“Oh—” He thought for a moment. “Hope the hangover isn’t too bad.”
The assistant smiled. “Will she know who they’re from? Or are you a secret admirer?”
Bev wouldn’t know who’d sent them because she’d think he had more sense than to spend almost a week’s rent on flowers, and he didn’t want her thinking she had secret admirers.
“Sign it Dylan, please.”
“As in the singer.”
He nodded. “No relation.”
“They’ll be delivered late this afternoon. She’ll love them.”
Bev might. His credit card wouldn’t. Still amazed at such recklessness, he left the florist’s and marched into the café.
It was small, only having room for six tables with four chairs at each. Luckily, it was busy with lunchtime trade.
Kerry Adams was sitting alone, a fork in one hand and a magazine in the other. She looked up at him and returned her attention to her reading. It was impossible to tell if she’d recognised him or not.
She was eating fish and chips. Dylan went to the counter and, despite planning on a sandwich, ordered the curry and rice. He carried his coffee over to her table.
“Hi, Kerry. Mind if I join you?”
Her head flew up and a tide of scarlet flooded her face as recognition dawned. She looked at other tables but, if she longed to demand that he sit elsewhere, she was too polite.
“Help yourself.” She put down her magazine and concentrated on her food.
“I’ve just come from the library.” Dylan was determined to get her talking. “What about you? Have you got a day off?”
“I’m on my lunch break.” She was eating quickly, risking indigestion.
“I’m no further forward in finding Sam.” He took a sip of coffee. “No one will tell me anything. That’s odd, don’t you think?”
“Not really. No one knows anything.”
Perhaps they didn’t. Maybe Sam had fallen into the river and been swept away. Doubtful. The river was only a foot deep in places.
“She was having a fling with your boss, wasn’t she?”
“Oh, I don’t—” She pushed her hair from her face and speared a chunk of fish. “Maybe.”
“She must have told you. I’ve seen photos of the two of you together. I’ll bet she told you.” He’d only seen one photo, but she wasn’t to know that.
She looked up at him and, just as Dylan expected her to deny all knowledge, her eyes filled with tears.
“Whatever’s the matter?”
“Nothing.” She reached into a cavernous black bag for a tissue. “It’s nothing. She—Sam wasn’t having a fling with him.”
“Oh?”
She put down her knife and fork. Dylan hoped he hadn’t stolen her appetite.
“No.” She sniffed into her tissue. “She was—if you want the truth, although for God’s sake don’t tell Carlton I said this—”
“I won’t. You have my word.”
“Okay.” She leaned across the table and spoke in a low voice. “Sam reckoned he was fiddling the books. No sooner had a rumour started that he had gambling debts—” she paused to check that no one was listening in, “—than a whole bunch of cars go missing. A break-in. Except Sam didn’t think it was a break-in.”
“Really?” She’d confirmed Jack’s story. “What did she do about it?”
“She asked me to get her some files from his office.” Kerry swallowed. “I did—she was very persuasive—but then he noticed they were missing. Of course, I made out that he’d mislaid them—or I had—and promised to sort it out.”
“Did Sam return those files?”
“That’s just it. She vanished, didn’t she?”
“I see.” So where were the files now? “Did you tell the police?”
“I couldn’t, could I?” She took a breath. “I assume she took them home and they’re still there. I’m sure Carlton suspected something, though.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Just the way he looked when he kept asking about the files, I suppose.” She poked at the remains of her fish, but didn’t eat any. “I don’t know what happened to her.”
“Do you think James Carlton could have been involved?”
She thought for a moment. “No.”
“What about her boyfriend?”
“Jack? No way. He doted on her.” She took a sip of what had to be cold coffee. “I’ve thought of nothing else since she disappeared, and I’ve no idea what happened to her.”
“Curry and rice,” the waitress said, banging the plate down in front of Dylan. “Enjoy!”
“Thank you.”
“I have to go.” Kerry shoved her magazine in her bag and strode out of the café.
Chapter Fifteen
Bev still had her hangover when Luke announced his arrival home from school by banging every door in the house.
“Hey, Mum, Darren’s mum’s outside in the car. She’ll give me a lift to the party. I just need to change and collect the present.”
Bev followed him up the stairs. She had her first glimpse of him pulling open drawers.
“That’s nice of her. And don’t forget it’s Lucy’s party, not Darren’s. Be nice to Lucy, right?”
“Yeah. Where’s the present?”
“All wrapped and ready on the kitchen table. I’ll just go and say hello to Jenny.”
Deciding she probably looked better than she felt—she certainly couldn’t look worse—Bev went outside to where Jenny’s car was parked.
“This is kind of you, Jenny. Thanks.”
“It’s no bother and hardly out of the way. Rod’s at home today so if any of the other kids are early, he can deal with them.” She pulled a face. “I’m beginning to wish I’d taken them all to McDonald’s instead.”
“Always a safe bet,” Bev agreed with a laugh. “What time do you want me to collect Luke?”
“Whenever’s best for you. The other kids will be leaving around sevenish I hope, but Luke can stay as long as he likes. He and Darren are able to amuse themselves quietly.”
Luke, duly changed into clean jeans and shirt, and looking as if the unthinkable had happened and he’d combed his hair, rushed out to join them.
“Present,” Bev said.
“Oh, yeah.” Luke did an about-turn and, seconds later, emerged clutching Lucy’s birthday present and card. “See you later then, Mum.”
He was soon strapping himself in the back seat.
“Behave yourself.” Bev’s warning was probably unnecessary, not because Luke was a saint but because Jenny, a geography teacher at Bev’s school, could easily handle a few rowdy kids.
“Thanks again, Jenny. Oh, and the best of luck.”
“I’ll need it!”
Bev waved until the car was out of sight and then wandered back inside to enjoy a couple of hours’ freedom. She had a stack of books so she’d have a long soak in the bath and a good read. And no wine, she reminded herself. A glass of wine, bath and book were the height of luxury as far as she was concerned but, lately, that glass had progressed to a bottle. Lately was since Dylan had moved out. Or since she’d thrown him out.
A huge, beautifully wrapped, hand-tied bouquet of flowers, mainly lilies, dominated the room. When she’d answered the door to the delivery girl, she’d been about to tell her she had the wrong house. She couldn’t remember the last time Dy
lan had bought her flowers. Probably when Luke was born.
Every time she looked at them, her stomach, or her heart, gave a tiny lurch.
She was hunting through the pile of unread paperbacks in the lounge when her doorbell rang. She ignored it. She didn’t want to buy anything and, more important, she didn’t want her solitude stolen.
A figure appeared at the window and tapped on the glass.
“Vicky!” With a hand to her chest to slow her heartbeat, Bev went to the back door and let in her mother-in-law. “You gave me a fright.”
“Sorry, love. I was out this way so I thought I’d call in for a cuppa. Luke not here?”
“No, he’s just left for Lucy’s party. That’s Darren’s sister.” No one was ever “out this way.” Vicky Scott had come to deliver one of her lectures.
Bev pushed the unkind thought away. She adored her mother-in-law and it was great having a willing babysitter in London. It was just that, after last night—the overindulgence, the prat she’d made of herself in front of Dylan, the way she’d practically begged him to take her to bed—Bev wanted to lick her wounds in private.
“I’ll put the kettle on. It’ll have to be PG Tips,” she added. “I don’t have camomile or—”
“So long as it’s hot and wet.” Vicky removed a smart linen jacket and two silk scarves, and put them on the back of the chair before sitting at the table.
Bev was glad she’d tidied the kitchen. She’d wanted to erase all thoughts of last night so, once she’d thrown out empty wine bottles and washed glasses, she’d scrubbed every surface until the room gleamed. If only it was as easy to erase the evidence from memory.
“How was your weekend?” Vicky asked.
“It was good, thanks.” It was time she was honest with her mother-in-law too. “It was work, Vicky, nothing more than that. The school funded the trip and, believe it or not, it was cheaper for me to stay on Saturday night and fly back yesterday.”
Dead Silent (A Dylan Scott Mystery) Page 11