“He was Sam’s employer and she had her doubts about a couple of insurance claims he made.” Which brought him to the man who’d first made those allegations. “How about Jack Fleming, her boyfriend, do you know him?”
“Only what Rob’s told me and that hasn’t been very complimentary. But it wouldn’t be, would it? I gather Rob’s a bit possessive where his daughter is concerned.”
“And probably his ex-wife too. He’s on the phone enough to annoy the hell out of her.”
“Oh? I didn’t know that.”
“See what you can find out, Frank. About Jack Fleming and James Carlton. Oh, and any staff at Indie Street. Okay?”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Thanks, mate. We can talk tomorrow.”
“See you then. Oh, Dylan, don’t forget it’s your round.”
Dylan was smiling as he returned his phone to his pocket. It never failed to amaze him that he and Frank had become friends. When Dylan had worked under Frank on one of Frank’s many visits to London, he’d hated the bloke. He’d been a notoriously difficult boss and his underlings, or Dylan and his mate Pikey at least, had been referred to as “soft fucking southerners” so many times that Dylan had longed to deck him.
Things changed, though. Dylan had been kicked off the force and Frank had retired due to ill health. They had more in common now. They both missed working on the force and they both refused to admit it.
Still watching the main entrance of Indie Street, Dylan reached for his phone again and tapped in his home number. It rang and rang before Bev finally answered.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi. You okay? I didn’t like to wake you when I left this morning.”
“Oh, right. Thanks. And thanks for the flowers. They’re—well, they’re beautiful. By the way, your mum called in earlier.” She spoke quickly and Dylan guessed she wanted to forget last night. He didn’t. Couldn’t. “She’s had an idea for a holiday. The four of us.”
“Oh, no. What is it this time? Bungee jumping in Australia? Bullfighting in Spain?”
“It’s better than that.” He could hear the amusement in her voice. “Camel trekking in the Sahara.”
The only thing that surprised Dylan was that he wasn’t surprised. “All inclusive?”
“You get a camel and a tent. Oh, and a French-speaking guide.”
“Didn’t I tell you she’s as mad as a box of frogs?”
A man he recognised came out of the Indie Street, ran down the steps and began walking, very quickly, down the road.
“I’ve got to go, Bev. I’ll call you tomorrow.” Dylan snapped his phone shut and dashed out of the café.
He ran as fast as he could but soon ended up in a confusing warren of streets. At the crossroads, he stopped. He had no idea which road to take. He could choose any one but there seemed little point.
Jack Fleming was nowhere in sight.
Chapter Eighteen
Apart from spells in London on police work, Frank Willoughby had lived in Lancashire most of his life. He’d never been to the Dog and Fox in Dawson’s Clough though. There were probably lots of pubs he hadn’t visited, but the Dog and Fox was particularly appealing.
“It looks all right, doesn’t it?” Dylan said.
“It certainly does.”
It was split into three smaller areas, one of which was set out as a dining room. The carpet, a deep, swirling red, looked new. A wooden bar and small round tables were clean and highly polished. Glasses sparkled beneath the lights. Things like that mattered to Frank.
About twenty people clustered round the bar. A few more perched on stools or sat at tables.
“Great stuff,” Dylan said with satisfaction. “They serve Black Sheep. You having one, Frank, or do you fancy something else?”
“Suits me. Thanks.”
While Dylan got their drinks, Frank sought out the best table, one in the corner where they could talk without fear of being overheard.
“What have you got then, Frank?” Dylan put their drinks on the table.
“Not a lot, I’m afraid.” As with most missing-person cases, and there were thousands of people reported missing in Lancashire each year, there were dozens of possible sightings. Each one had been followed up but nothing had come from them. “Jack Fleming’s a wild card. He was watched for a good period after Sam disappeared. He has a bit of a history too—drunk and disorderly, minor criminal damage, stuff like that.”
“I spoke to a couple of Jack’s neighbours today.” Dylan took a long pull on his beer. “They said that almost everyone in the building heard the argument he and Sam had on the Wednesday night. No one seems to know what they were arguing about though. There was a lot of shouting and name calling, and one woman swears she heard Jack say “I could fucking kill you.” They all seem to think he’s guilty of something.”
“They could well be right.”
“Maybe. But Jack told me all about that fight. I don’t think he’d have done that if he had anything to hide.”
“Why not? If he hadn’t mentioned it, the neighbours would have.”
“What about James Carlton? Does he show up on police radar?”
“He’s got a gambling problem—that’s well known—and he was done once for being in possession of cocaine. Other than that, zilch.” Frank watched a couple flirting at the bar for a moment.
“What about Alan Roderick?” Dylan asked.
“He’s been arrested a couple of times. Drunk and disorderly. Both times, he was causing trouble coming out of Indie Street.”
“Yeah? That’s interesting. This sodding bouncer, the one who’s determined to put me in a wheelchair, reckoned whoever was paying him would be calling at the club on Wednesday night.” The flirting couple took the table next to them and Dylan dropped his voice slightly. “Assuming he was lying, I thought I’d watch the place. There’s a dump of a café opposite so, last night, I sat there for an hour or so to see if anyone turned up. I didn’t see Jack Fleming go in but, while I was on the phone to Bev, I saw him come out. By the time I got after him, he’d vanished. The streets are a bloody maze round there.”
“You reckon Fleming wants you warned off?”
“No. I don’t know. I like Jack, and I think he’s honest enough, but it’s a bit of a coincidence.”
“He can be a nasty piece of work,” Frank said. “He scared the shit out of his last girlfriend.”
“He’d only want me frightened off if he knew what happened to Sam.”
“Maybe he does.”
“No. He’s small fry. He has a temper, yes, but he’s not likely to kill a girl just because she claims she’s pregnant. Even one who could be having her boss’s child.” Dylan shook his head. “No. I don’t believe Jack has anything to do with it. It’s interesting to know that Roderick goes to that nightclub though. Or perhaps it isn’t. I asked James Carlton where he and Sam went, and he said they called there for a drink a couple of times. Indie Street is a popular place and, unfortunately, going to a club isn’t a crime.”
Dylan bent a beer mat and drummed it against the table. “There’s more to this than we know. Sam may or may not have accused James Carlton of fraud. She may or may not have told Jack that she’d discovered something horrible. She may or may not have been pregnant.” Dylan took a slug of beer. “Her life wasn’t what I’d call uncomplicated.”
“Who’s said she was pregnant—apart from Fleming?”
“No one. But I wouldn’t really expect anyone to. According to Jack, she’d taken one of those do-it-yourself tests on the Wednesday. That’s why they had the row. I don’t suppose she told anyone else.”
If Frank had to list Dylan’s strong points, being a good judge of character would have been right up at the top. This time, Frank thought he’d got it wrong.
“So perhaps they were still fighting on the Friday morning,” Frank said. “Fleming could have lost his temper with her and lashed out a bit too forcefully. Maybe it was an accident.”
“No.�
�� Dylan was having none of it.
“He has no real alibi.”
“I know. He was at home alone that morning.” Dylan emptied his glass. “Jack might be a lot of things, but I think he’s bright enough to cobble together some sort of alibi.”
“Maybe. But there’s more to Jack Fleming than meets the eye.”
“I know, but—”
“You like him. Yeah, well, I expect some people liked the Krays.”
Dylan shrugged at that.
There were times when cases led you straight to a dead end, and Frank couldn’t help thinking this was one. Some people did vanish without trace. Families were torn apart, forced to spend the rest of their lives waiting and hoping and trying not to imagine their loved ones in a lonely grave.
“I’ll find her,” Dylan said. “Whether she’s dead or alive, I’ll find her.”
Frank admired his confidence. He only wished he could share it.
Chapter Nineteen
Dylan could be doing all sorts of things this morning, like finding out how often Alan Roderick visited Indie Street. Instead, he was having to pay Rob Hunt a visit. Dylan only wished he had something to tell him. He didn’t. Not a thing.
When he arrived at Wickham House, Hunt was in the garden, putting the wheelie bin back in its place.
“Thanks for coming, Dylan. Let’s go inside. It’s cooler.”
Hunt pushed open the front door and stooped to pick up mail that had been delivered while he’d been out. On top of the pile was a postcard. Dylan couldn’t see the picture, but written on the back next to Rob’s address was Weather lovely. Wish you were here.
Dylan, curious by nature, wondered if it was from a woman. Wish you were here. Obviously, it was written with humour but was that the sort of thing a couple or a male friend would write?
Rob and Marion’s marriage had been over for twelve years. Perhaps Dylan had been foolish to assume that, because he still wore a wedding ring, Hunt wasn’t over his ex-wife. The ring might have belonged to his father or an uncle. He could easily be involved with someone. Perhaps he’d been having affairs during his marriage. Perhaps that’s why Marion left him.
The initial thought brought all sorts of other thoughts. Sam had been living with her mother, as most children did in the event of a marriage ending, but she’d soon moved in with her father. Why? Because she enjoyed being the centre of attention and resented her mother lavishing affection on her new family? If that was the case, would she have been equally opposed to seeing another woman in her dad’s life?
Hunt carried the mail into the study and dropped it on the low black ash table.
“Take a seat, Dylan.”
“Thanks.”
“Can I get you tea or coffee?”
Dylan didn’t want anything—other than the chance to inspect that postcard more closely. “Coffee would be welcome. Thanks.”
Hunt left the room and Dylan was quick to look at it. It was signed with a curling M that gave no clue whatsoever. The picture was of a moored ferry sitting in paintbox-blue water with cliffs in the background, and the caption read Scrabster.
Scrabster. The place rang a bell, but Dylan couldn’t think where he’d heard it mentioned or in what context.
Hunt returned with the coffee and found Dylan sitting back in his chair, admiring the view.
Again, Hunt seemed as if he couldn’t sit still, as if he didn’t have time to wait for Dylan to find his daughter. He was terminally ill, so perhaps that wasn’t surprising.
“What can you tell me, Dylan? Have you learned anything at all?”
As Dylan didn’t think “zilch” was a satisfactory answer, he lifted his cup as he sought a response.
“I know someone wants me far away from Lancashire,’ he said at last.
Hunt frowned at that. “How do you mean?”
“You remember the day I arrived? When I was beaten up? Well, I’ve run into a bit of trouble since.” He took a sip of coffee that was too hot for comfort. “Do you know Indie Street, the nightclub in town?”
“I know of it, of course. I think Sam went there a few times with that boyfriend of hers.”
“She went there with her boss too.”
Dylan waited for a reaction, but there wasn’t one. Hunt simply looked more confused than ever.
“And I gather your ex-wife’s husband, Alan, sometimes pays the club a visit.”
“I’ve no idea where he goes. We don’t mix in the same circles, thankfully. But what does any of that have to do with Sam?”
“One of the bouncers there has been paid to send me back to London.”
“Oh, I’m sure there’s been a misunderstanding. I can assure you, Dylan, that it has nothing to do with Sam’s disappearance.”
Perhaps it was easy to sound confident when you didn’t have a bruised lip and spine. “What makes you so sure?”
“Well—I just can’t believe—” The sentence died away.
Dylan decided that if Hunt wanted to know what he’d found out, then he could hear it all. “It seems your daughter may have been pregnant,” he said.
“What?” A flash of anger sparked in Hunt’s eyes. “Who told you? That no-good boyfriend of hers?”
“Yes.” There was no one else to confirm or deny it so Hunt’s outrage could be justified. “Tell me again about your relationship with Sam. I know you say she was happy but was there someone else in your life perhaps? Someone Sam might have been jealous of?”
“What?” Hunt seemed to find that amusing. “That’s absurd. You think I might have met another woman? Someone to replace Sam’s mother? Never!”
Something about Hunt bothered Dylan. Something he couldn’t pinpoint.
“Perhaps you’d tell me again about her relationship with her mother and stepfather,” Dylan said.
“I’ve told you—”
“Yes, but humour me, would you?”
“She got along fine with her mother.” The answer came grudgingly. “As for Alan, she didn’t like him any more than I did. He’s—common. I don’t want to sound like a snob, but he’s a lorry driver. What is there for Sam to like? If it wasn’t for her mother and her half sisters, she’d have nothing to do with him.”
“Is there anything she said about him? Times she grew angry about him?”
“No. No, there’s nothing at all.”
Damn it. Hunt wanted his daughter found yet he wasn’t prepared to help. Telling everyone his daughter was a saint wouldn’t help find her.
Dylan stayed another half hour, asking questions that received no real answer, and he was pleased when Hunt was showing him out.
“I’m sorry you’ve had a spot of bother,” he said, “but I can promise you it has nothing to do with Sam. Nothing at all.”
Even in absence, the precious Sam couldn’t be blamed for anything.
Chapter Twenty
Marion Roderick was preparing the girls’ dinner when Dylan Scott turned up. His shirt and trousers were creased, his lip was still swollen and he gave the impression of being a bungling idiot. Yet he still managed to be the sort of man that most women would look twice at. He looked honest, dependable and trustworthy. Tiny creases around his eyes suggested he had a sense of humour.
“Come in,” she said.
“Thanks.” He followed her into the kitchen where he looked at Lydia and Emma. “Hello,” he said, smiling at them. “You’ll be—no, don’t tell me. You’ll be Emma, right? And you’ll be Lydia.”
The girls nodded. They were both shy around strangers and Marion hated to see them that way. Alan was—
It didn’t matter what Alan was, she thought. He wasn’t here. They should be fine around her.
Dismissing the thought, she ruffled their curls. “You can go and play for a bit. Oh, tell you what, you can watch your new DVD, okay? You’d better take an apple to keep you going till I get something cooked.”
“Sorry,” Dylan said. “Have I called at a bad time?”
“No. It’s fine. But do you mind if I carry
on with the potatoes?”
“Of course not. I don’t want to delay your meal.”
“Have a seat.”
She’d expected him to sit at the table, but he looked comfortable on the bar stool opposite her.
Alan wasn’t due back until Friday evening and, usually, as soon as he left, her stress levels returned to normal. She looked forward to time with the girls, to sitting with her feet up watching whatever was on TV. Not this time, though. Her nerves were in tatters.
He’d been in the foulest of moods lately. Everything she did or said, everything the children did, was wrong. He snapped at them, barked out orders, he had them all living on their nerves. Thank God he wasn’t here.
“What can I do for you, Dylan? Have you found out anything?”
“Not really, no. I’m sorry, I appreciate this must be distressing for you, but I’d really like you to tell me about Sam, when you last saw her. The frame of mind she was in, things she said, stuff like that.”
She could remember every detail of that day. But what mother wouldn’t?
“Well.” Still clasping the potato peeler, she sat on the stool beside him. “It was the Thursday. Alan had come back from Scotland the day before and had a day off. Because he’d be home for Lydia and Emma, I took the opportunity to do some shopping.” She smiled at that. “When you have two girls, it’s luxury to get an hour round the shops on your own.”
Returning her smile, he nodded.
“Before that, though, Sam had phoned me and said she’d collect the girls from school and walk them home. I called Alan and told him he wouldn’t have to bother.”
There was no need to tell him that Sam and the girls had stopped off at the park and then gone for an ice-cream. Or that Alan was angry because they were home later than he’d expected.
“I got home at the same time as Sam and the girls,” she said. “Sam said she was in a rush—I assumed she was off out somewhere with her boyfriend—and, after promising to collect the girls for school in the morning, she was gone.”
Dead Silent (A Dylan Scott Mystery) Page 13