“Thanks. And if you hear anything—” Dylan grabbed one of those cards and scribbled his own name and mobile number on the back, “—would you give me a ring?”
“What’s that? Dylan?”
“Yes.”
“Look, I haven’t heard anything in the last thirteen years, so I ain’t going to hear anything now, am I?”
“Probably not. Anyway, thanks.” He handed her a ten-pound note. “Keep the change.”
“Aw, thanks. And good luck, love!”
Chapter Four
Sandra had a quick glance at Mabel, decided that another five minutes under the dryer wouldn’t hurt her, and headed for the stairs.
“Won’t be a minute, love!”
Once upstairs, she picked up the phone and tapped in Yvonne’s number.
“Yvonne, it’s me. I can’t stop, I’ve got Miserable Mabel drying to a frazzle, but you’ll never guess what. Some bloke’s just been in and he were asking after—well, you’ll never guess.”
“Then you’d better tell me, hadn’t you?”
“Anita Bloody Champion!”
Silence met her statement. Sandra wasn’t surprised—it had been years since any of them had mentioned that name.
“You still there, Yvonne?”
“Yes. Course I am. You took me by surprise, that’s all.”
“It took me by surprise, too. Can you believe it? After all these years?”
“What did you tell him?”
“What do you think?” Sandra demanded. “I told him that she went out with you three one night and vanished. Said I’d have gone too but that my Eddie were home on leave.”
“God!”
“He were desperate to find someone who knew her. Preferably someone who were with her on that last night.”
“What? Oh, no!”
“What could I do? I tried to put him off, but it were looking suspicious.”
“Christ!”
“He’s all right. Nice enough to look at, the right side of forty, good tipper. He told me he had a bit of a fling with Anita and gave her a ring—another bloody sucker for a pair of legs and tits by the sound of it.”
“Please don’t tell me you gave him my name. Please!”
“I had to. It would have looked as if we had something to hide if I hadn’t. I gave him your phone number, not your address. Anyway, he’s okay. As I said, he’s not bad looking really. Just under six feet, dark hair, not overweight. Clothes are a bit creased, but nice enough. As you’re on your own now, you can get him to take you out for a meal or something.”
“Bloody hell, Sand! And what am I supposed to tell him?”
“The truth. Anita vanished, remember?”
There was another long pause.
“I can’t talk to him,” Yvonne said. “Why the hell did you have to give him my name? The very thought of that night makes me want to throw up.”
“She vanished, Yvonne. She went off with some bloke, like she always did—and usually one of our blokes at that—and didn’t come back. That weren’t our fault, were it?”
Yvonne didn’t answer.
“I’ll have to go,” Sandra said, “or Mabel’s hair’ll be dropping out. I’ll ring you later, okay?”
“God, Sand, I wish you hadn’t done this. I really do.”
“Yeah, well, I’ll speak to you later.”
Yvonne replaced the receiver and strode to the kitchen and the drawer where she kept her emergency ciggies. If this wasn’t an emergency, she didn’t know what was.
What in hell’s name had possessed Sandra to give this bloke her phone number? Why pick on her?
Of course, as far as Sandra was concerned, it was just a joke. She had no need to worry because she hadn’t been there that night. She’d sent the rest of them to do her dirty work.
Damn. She had cigarettes but no lighter.
She switched on the electric hob, pulled her hair back from her face, and lit her cigarette.
Why now? She inhaled deeply and had to perch on the kitchen stool as a wave of nausea hit her. It was early, but she needed a drink. A cigarette always went better with a drink.
She poured herself a vodka and took a swallow.
Why now? Why, after thirteen years, was some stranger sniffing round after Anita?
Once the nausea had worn off, the cigarette and the vodka calmed her a little. Sandra was right. Anita had vanished and they knew nothing about it. There was nothing to worry about from some ex-boyfriend. God, she thought with a snort of laughter, if all Anita’s exes crawled out of the woodwork—
She almost fell off her stool when her phone rang. A quick look at the display showed her that someone was calling from a mobile. It must be him.
She couldn’t answer it.
Then again, it might be about the job she’d been interviewed for last week. They wouldn’t call from a mobile though, would they?
It rang out until the machine clicked on. No message was left.
Now she didn’t know if she should have answered it or not. If it was about that job, they’d call back. They wouldn’t not give her the job just because she’d been unable to take the call. She’d spent years working in an estate agent’s office and she could do the job backwards. Besides being smart and intelligent, which was more than could be said for the gum-chewing girl sitting in the office when she’d gone for the interview, she had a knack for selling houses.
Her spirits lifted somewhat. Perhaps, after all, she had a job lined up. God knows, she needed it.
Seventeen years of marriage down the toilet, just like that. It hadn’t been a great marriage, but it still hurt. No doubt countless other women felt the same when their husbands left them for a younger model. Now, Ken had two step-kids and a baby on the way. That’s what hurt most.
She wasn’t going to dwell on that. Far better to think of the financial mess she was in. Ken had paid off the mortgage, thank God, but he’d made it clear he wasn’t going to pay the bills for ever. She desperately needed a job.
She couldn’t help thinking that if Sandra was the friend she claimed to be, she would have let her work in the salon on Fridays and Saturdays instead of employing that spotty sixteen-year-old. Yvonne had no intention of begging, though, especially to be a glorified skivvy to Sandra.
The caller would try again and she would have to answer it. Even if it was Anita’s ex, it was no big deal. Her, Maggie and Brenda—they didn’t know anything. They’d gone for a night out, as they often did. Anita had been chatting up some bloke, as she always did. They hadn’t seen her since. That was all there was to it.
It was no big deal.
Shortly before six o’clock that evening, the phone rang again and, this time, with a voice that shook, she answered it.
“Yvonne Yates?” a man asked.
It was him. She knew it. “Yes?”
“Ah, you won’t know me. My name’s Dylan Scott and I spoke to Sandra Butler—the hairdresser, you know?”
“Oh?”
“Yes. She said I should chat to you. It’s a bit embarrassing, to tell the truth, but I need to find Anita Champion.”
Yvonne’s hands were sweating so much, she half expected the phone to slide from her grasp. “Oh? Well, I’m sorry, but I’ve no idea—”
“I know, but you might be able to help. Might we talk perhaps?” At her hesitation, he said, “Tell you what, I’m staying at the Pennine Hotel. I don’t know what you have planned for this evening, but I hate dining alone. Perhaps you could join me?”
Damn it, why not? It was no big deal and, God knows, it was ages since she’d been out. Ages since she could afford it. She’d skipped lunch, there was nothing in the cupboards or the freezer, and, according to Sandra, he was all right. Not bad looking and a good tipper, she’d said.
“Okay.”
“Great. Thanks so much. About seven-thirty?”
“Fine.”
It was no big deal, she reminded herself yet again. Let some other sucker buy the drinks for a change.
Chapter Five
The Pennine Hotel was on Market Street, the road that sliced Dawson’s Clough in two. A solid stone building, erected in 1865 according to the plaque above the entrance, it looked very grand indeed from the car park. Inside, it showed signs of wear. The carpets, once a rich blue, were threadbare in places, the lift creaked from old age, and several light bulbs needed replacing.
Dylan’s bedroom was freezing. A massive old radiator beneath the tall sash window was hot to the touch but was having no effect on such a large, high-ceilinged room.
The bathroom didn’t even have a radiator. A small brown stain in the wash basin, an ill-fitting toilet seat, a huge white bath, several thick towels, but no radiator.
He sat on the bed, then got up to drag a chair close to the radiator, and phoned the marital home, ready to reason with Bev.
“Mum’s gone out,” Luke thwarted those plans, “so Cathy’s stopping with me. We’re having a game on the Xbox.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “She’s rubbish, Dad.”
“Girls are. So where’s your mum gone?”
“Dunno, but she changed her dress three times before she left. Must be important.”
A Monday should be a drink with the girls at one of their homes. She wouldn’t change dresses for that. She’d wear jeans, ready for an evening of chocolate, wine and gossip consumption.
“Perhaps she’s gone to the cinema with Lucy.” But she’d wear jeans for that, too.
“No,” Luke said. “Lucy just phoned.”
“Oh.”
“Will you be back for the match on Saturday?” Luke clearly had more pressing things on his mind.
“I will. Tell your mum I’ll call round about eleven.”
“Great.”
With his son happy, Dylan pushed all thoughts of his wife’s date from his mind. Besides, it wouldn’t be a date. She was probably going to a school function. Bev would be missing him as much as he was missing her. She’d soon come round. She always did.
He tapped in another number.
“Dylan?” Holly Champion answered on the third ring.
“The very same. I’ve nothing to tell you, I’m afraid, but I’m about to have dinner with Yvonne Yates. She’s on your list, but I wondered what you remembered about her.”
“I remember her well, probably better than any of Mum’s friends. She used to dote on me, and was always buying me presents. Mum said it was because she hadn’t any children of her own. She thought Yvonne was lonely. I quite liked her, probably because she made me laugh. She used to get drunk and fall over a lot. That’s funny when you’re a kid.”
Dylan hoped she wouldn’t fall over this evening. “Anything else?”
“Not really. She was always smartly dressed. She worked at the local estate agent’s, so I suppose she had to be because she used to show people around the expensive houses. Her husband, Ken, was always chatting up Mum. Sorry, but I can’t think of anything else.”
“Right. Okay. If I learn anything, I’ll be in touch.” He had to ask. “Are you still sure you want to go ahead with this?”
“Of course.”
“Right.”
“Do you have a clean shirt for your dinner date?” she asked, and, forced to smile, he looked down at a small stain on the pocket.
“I’ll buy a couple tomorrow…”
Dylan left his room and went downstairs to the bar. It was much warmer there, thanks to heavy velvet curtains that shut out the night and a pile of logs blazing in a cavernous fireplace. A few leather armchairs were arranged around the fire, but Dylan sat at the opposite end of the room on a stool by the bar.
Half an hour later, his pint of beer almost finished, he saw a brunette walk in, look at those present and wander toward him.
“Mr. Scott?” she asked.
“Dylan.” He offered his hand. “And you’ll be Yvonne. Thanks so much for coming. Now, what can I get you to drink?”
“A vodka, please. Vodka and tonic.” She sat on the stool next to his and put a small black handbag on the bar. “I feel as if I’m here under false pretences. There’s nothing I can tell you about Anita. She just vanished, you see.”
“So I gather.” The barman put their drinks in front of them. “The thing is, I really need to find her, and I’m hoping you might remember something—anything—that could help.” He chinked his glass against hers. “Cheers.”
Slim but shapely, Yvonne Yates was an attractive woman. She would have been even more appealing if she hadn’t looked so stressed.
“In any case—” he remembered his manners as well as his need for information, “—it’s a rare treat for me to have such an attractive dinner companion.”
While he offered a silent apology to Bev, Yvonne’s eyes, dark and green, sparkled at the compliment.
“Are you married?”
“Separated.” Thanks to Bev’s latest strop, that was technically accurate. “You?”
“Divorced.” She couldn’t quite meet his gaze. “It was finalised last month.”
“Ouch. I’m sorry about that.”
“It isn’t the end of the world, is it?”
Gaunt, weary-eyed and tense, she looked exactly like her world had ended.
“Of course not. His loss is another man’s gain. But let’s not talk of marital problems. Are you hungry or would you like another drink first?”
She downed her vodka and put the glass on the bar. “Let’s have one more, shall we?”
Dylan needed to watch her. Unless he was mistaken, that hadn’t been her first drink of the day and, with her senses blurred by alcohol, her memory would be worse than useless. Anyone would struggle to remember the events of thirteen years ago. Drunk, it would be almost impossible.
She grabbed her drink from the barman and Dylan decided it was time for business.
“Let me tell you why I’m here. As I said, it’s a little embarrassing. About fourteen years ago, I was a salesman covering this part of the country. I used to call at your friend Sandra’s, to get my hair cut. Anita Champion used to do it and we fell into conversation. I was away from home and—” He shrugged in a man-of-the-world way. “One thing led to another and we had a brief fling. I was twenty-four and she was almost thirty. I thought it was serious.” Another near-perfect man-of-the-world shrug. “Fool that I was, I gave her a ring that had belonged to my mother. An antique emerald. My father wants it back and—well, the truth is, I’m in deep shit. I need to find Anita Champion or her daughter.”
She’d listened without commenting or showing any surprise whatsoever. Dylan assumed Sandra Butler had already spoken to her.
“I wish I could help,” she said, “but I can’t. I’ve no idea where she went.”
“That evening, the night she went missing. Could you tell me about that?”
She nodded. “Me, Maggie and Brenda met her in the Commercial, the pub round the corner from her flat. She lived above Sandra’s hairdressing salon then. We had a couple of drinks there and then went on to the Oasis. That was a club on Pennine Way, but it closed down about ten years ago.”
“How did you get there?”
“Sorry?”
Dylan guessed her speech had been rehearsed and his question had thrown her.
“Did you walk? Catch a bus? Take a taxi?”
She frowned at the seemingly pointless question. “We walked. Why?”
“I’m just trying to picture it. And how did Anita seem?”
“Fine. The same as usual. Laughing, happy, out for a good time.”
“And when you arrived at the club?”
“We split up. You know how it is. A chap asks one of you to dance—you meet up with someone you know and have a chat with them. I saw Anita dancing with one man. Then, the next time I saw her, she was dancing with another. That was it. I didn’t see her again.”
The barman interrupted them. Their table was ready.
When they’d settled in the dining room, studied the menu and placed their order, Dylan came back to the point o
f the evening. “The men Anita was dancing with that night—did you know them?”
“No.”
“Did she seem happy to be with them?”
“Of course. That was why she went out. To flirt. Us three went out for a few laughs. Anita went to get a bloke or two.”
Such bitterness, Dylan thought, surprised.
Their soup arrived and he concentrated on small talk for a while. He chatted about the area, complimented her on her appearance, told her she must have been much younger than Anita, which pleased her immensely, and watched her slowly relax. She still picked at her food, but she did relax slightly.
“More wine?”
Giggling, she wagged a finger at him. “You’ll get me tipsy.”
She was already tipsy.
“We’re both consenting adults.” He winked at her.
Eventually, he managed to steer the conversation back to important matters. “What did you think when Anita vanished?”
She looked at him blankly.
“Presumably, you had all planned to get a taxi home at the end of the evening? You must have been—annoyed, I suppose, that she didn’t tell you where she was going?”
She thought for a moment. “It was nothing out of the ordinary. Men were like moths to a flame where she was concerned and she was—well, no offence, but she’d sleep with anyone.”
“None taken,” he said. “I’ve come to realise that. She was a right slapper, wasn’t she?”
“She was.” She warmed to her theme now. “Everyone knew what she was like. Good God, she even slept with—” She broke off and took a huge gulp of wine.
“She even slept with?” Dylan asked.
“Anyone. Young, old—she didn’t care.”
Which wasn’t even close to what she’d been about to say. “I remember she was talking about—oh, what’s his name?—a big noise—club owner down in London.”
“I’ve no idea.” She seemed genuinely puzzled.
“Oh, it’ll come to me. He was a wealthy bloke. Ah, Terry Armstrong. That was his name”
“The property owner?”
“Could be.” He could be into anything.
Presumed Dead Page 4