Presumed Dead

by Shirley Wells

  “I know him. Well, know of him,” she said, “but Anita didn’t have anything to do with him. There’s no way she could have known him because he wasn’t around back then. He moved up here from south somewhere.”

  So Terry Armstrong was living in Lancashire. Well, well.

  “Perhaps it was my mistake,” Dylan said. “Or perhaps it was wishful thinking on her part. Let’s face it, if she was out for all she could get, he’d got a lot.”

  “Someone like him wouldn’t have looked twice at her.”

  Ah, but he had. Dylan had the photograph to prove it.

  “And as I said,” she added, “he only moved up here six or seven years ago. She couldn’t possibly have known him.”

  “Perhaps I’m wrong. Forget I mentioned him. Tell me what the rest of you did that night. Did you take a taxi home and assume she’d turn up the next day?”

  “Yes. Well, I wasn’t feeling well so I went home before the others.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’d had too much to drink,” she said. “I told Maggie and Brenda I was going, and they both waited outside with me till the taxi arrived.”

  “I see.” Dylan was still wondering what had brought Terry Armstrong to Lancashire. “Would Anita have gone off with a stranger? After all, she had a young daughter waiting at home for her, didn’t she?”

  “Holly, yes.” Her face softened. “Poor kid. Anita didn’t deserve her.”

  “You got on well with her daughter?”

  “I liked her, yes. But I do get on well with children. I always have.”

  “Do you have—?”

  “No.” Another gulp of wine. “No, I couldn’t have any of my own.”

  “Ah, I’m sorry.” Was that the cause of her bitterness?

  “You learn to live with it. Do you have any?”

  “A boy,” he replied. “Luke. He’s eleven going on thirty. He’s a good kid. The best.”

  “Like I said, Anita thought of no one but herself. No one was surprised that she went off.” She smiled another of those pinched little smiles. “I’d love to help, really, but I’ve no idea where she went or who she went with.”

  Dylan resorted to socialising for the remainder of the meal. Small talk wasn’t his forte, but he knew he had to make an effort. While they lingered over a second coffee, he decided that, as he’d bought her dinner—at least, Holly Champion had bought her dinner—complimented her and flirted with her, he was owed some information.

  “I’m sorry to have to drag all this up after so long,” he said. “It can’t be pleasant for you, and I’m sure you were questioned for weeks by the police.”

  “They asked a few questions, yes.”

  But not enough. “I bet they did. They always do, don’t they? When there’s a child involved, I mean.”

  She nodded, but didn’t comment.

  “What did they ask you about?”

  “The same as you’ve asked about, really. They just wanted to know what had happened that night. We couldn’t tell them anything, though, could we? I mean, we don’t know.” She glanced at her watch. “It’s time I called a taxi.”

  “I’ll get the barman to do it,” Dylan said. “Look, I know I’m being a damn nuisance, and I know it’s unlikely anyone can help, but—well, I’m pretty desperate. Do you have phone numbers or addresses for your friends Maggie and Brenda?”

  She looked at him, considering, then, with a hint of defiance in her voice, said, “Sure.”

  She took a black diary from her bag, tore a page from the back, then looked through the A-Z sections for the two addresses. “Sorry, but I don’t have phone numbers for either of them. Just addresses. And for all I know, they might have moved. We don’t keep in touch.”

  “That’s okay.”

  Ten minutes later Dylan stood outside the hotel in the biting cold, waving her off. She’d promised to keep his phone number and call him if she thought of anything else, but Dylan knew he wouldn’t hear from her again.

  So that was that. He had nothing to tell Holly Champion, nothing at all. Except for the fact that Yvonne Yates knew more than she was saying.

  Chapter Six

  Pandemonium always ruled when Maggie donned her coat and boots. She didn’t even have to reach for the leash before Tess, her bouncy, two-year-old golden retriever, began yapping like a lapdog and leaping around as if she were on springs.

  This morning, with the doorbell chiming at the exact moment she reached for the leash, the dog almost went into orbit.

  “For God’s sake, Tess!”

  Maggie tried to open the door to the porch without letting Tess out, but the animal was having none of it. A spider plant went flying from the table, and compost scattered everywhere.

  She’d chosen a retriever because everyone agreed they were calm, sensible, reliable dogs. What had clinched it perhaps had been seeing blind people guided along the streets by gentle retrievers who didn’t put a paw wrong. Despite attending training classes at the town hall, Tess was still liable to head into the path of oncoming buses.

  Maggie yanked open the front door and Tess, deaf to all commands, launched herself at the stranger. Her paws almost reached his shoulders as she tried to lick his face.

  “Tess, get down. Now!” Maggie yanked her back by the scruff of her neck.

  “Sorry about that,” she said, although if this man was trying to sell her something, it served him right.

  “No problem.” He brushed hairs from his jacket as if being molested by dogs was an everyday occurrence. “Mrs. Waters, is it? Maggie Waters?”

  “It used to be. I’m Maggie Gibson now. Tess, get down! Down!”

  Tess finally contented herself with weaving between their legs, her tail wagging with the sheer joy of the moment.

  “My name’s Dylan Scott. I spoke to Yvonne Yates last night and she gave me your address.”

  “Oh?”

  There had been a time when Yvonne and Maggie had been friends but, now, even the birthday and Christmas cards had fizzled out. They might bump into each other in town a couple of times a year and go through the “Lovely to see you” and “We must get together sometime” routines, but that was all.

  “Yes,” he said, “I’m trying to find Anita Champion or—”

  Maggie felt every last drop of blood drain to her feet. She was aware of his voice, as if coming from a great distance, but she couldn’t take in a word.

  Anita Champion. She hadn’t heard that name for years. Didn’t want to, either.

  She bent to grab Tess’s collar and fasten the leash, more in an attempt to hide her shock than anything else.

  “Hasn’t she told you I’d be in touch?” he was asking.

  “Anita?”

  “Er, no. Mrs. Yates. Yvonne.”

  “No.” How could she, the bitch? How could she give this stranger her address? “No, she didn’t. We don’t keep in touch.”

  She had to get rid of him. No way was she going to relive—

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  He didn’t look like a police officer, but you couldn’t tell. These days, all coppers, teachers and doctors looked young and scruffy. Not that this man looked either. She’d put him at late thirties. His clothes were good quality if a little crumpled. But if he was a policeman—

  It didn’t matter who he was. She didn’t want to speak to him or anyone else about Anita Champion.

  “I’m sorry but, as you can see, I’m on my way out.” She checked Tess’s leash. “I’m sorry you’ve had a wasted journey.” That must be his car. An old yellow sports car.

  “I’ll walk with you,” he said, much to her disgust. “Perhaps we can talk as we walk?”

  Maggie didn’t know what to do. What could she do? She couldn’t forcibly throw him from her path. Nor could she refuse to speak to him.

  With fingers that shook, she locked the front door and shoved her hands in her pockets. It was sunny, but the wind still carried that icy chill with it. She was glad of it, though. Glad of the chance
to take in huge gulps of air.

  “Who are you?”

  “Dylan Scott.” He fell into step beside her. “Years ago, about fourteen, I knew Anita Champion. We had a bit of an—well, a fling, I suppose you’d call it.”

  Was there a man who hadn’t?

  “The thing is, I was a stupid young fool, and I gave her a ring. An antique emerald. It had belonged to my mother and wasn’t mine to give away.” He rubbed his hands briskly in front of him. “But I thought it was going to be marriage, kids, the works.”

  Funny, but he didn’t look that foolish. Still, youth was a dangerous thing. Few people knew that better than Maggie did. At eighteen, she’d married Dave and imagined her life would be one long romance.

  “I need to find Anita or her daughter,” he said. “As I mentioned, I saw Yvonne Yates last night and, although she told me all about the night Anita went missing—”

  “Then I hope she told you I wanted no part in it.”

  He stopped mid-stride and Maggie cursed her quick tongue.

  “Tess, heel!” She gave the leash a sharp tug.

  “No part in what?”

  Now what did she say? “What did Yvonne tell you?”

  “Just that the four of you went out for the evening, that you split up at Oasis, and that none of you saw Anita again.”

  “That’s true enough.”

  “So what was it you wanted no part in?”

  “Oh, the evening, that’s all.” They reached the park gates and she bent to free Tess from her leash. “I didn’t want to go out that night. They were heavy drinkers and I wasn’t. That’s all.”

  Although his hands were deep in his coat pockets now, he didn’t seem to mind the cold wind or the drizzle that had started.

  “I see,” was all he said.

  Tess was running free, oblivious to anything other than the park’s scents and the wind-blown leaves. The dog would be expecting to spend an hour here, maybe more. Usually, Maggie enjoyed the woodland walks and the sculpture trails, but today she strode on, wanting this ordeal over.

  “Do you still keep in touch?” He broke the silence. “With the other women, I mean?”

  “No.”

  They had for a while, but whenever they’d got together, talk had invariably turned to Anita. It hardly made for fun times.

  “Did you get on well with Anita?” he asked.

  “Yes. Yes, I suppose so. I had nothing against her.”

  “What about her daughter?”

  “Holly? Oh, I liked her. Animal mad, she was. Longed for a pony, or even a dog or a cat. But that was out of the question, of course.”

  “Because of Anita’s work?”

  “There was that. Holly had school, too. She was a bright kid and into every activity going, so it would have been left to Anita to look after. But it was the money mainly. Anita lived from day to day. If she worked more hours or got more tips, she spent it all. It never occurred to her to save something for a rainy day.”

  “Did she have serious financial problems, do you know? Big debts? Someone chasing her for money?”

  “Not that I know of, but it wouldn’t surprise me.”

  “Can you think back,” he said, “to anything Anita might have mentioned? A man who was special? A place she longed to go? Family and friends she was close to?”

  “No.” The reply was too abrupt, but she couldn’t help herself. She wanted to forget Anita Champion. She wished the woman had never existed. “There was no one special.” She knew she had to tell him something. “As for family, there was only her married sister. Joan or Joyce, something like that. Young Holly went and lived with her when—when it became obvious that her mum wasn’t coming back.”

  Maggie began to relax a little. She’d told the truth, and she could talk about Anita. It was in the past. Almost forgotten. Life had moved on.

  Back then, she’d been a twenty-six-year-old who had dreaded going home to a husband who would shower her with kisses or punches depending on his mood. Or, more accurately, depending on his alcohol consumption. She had escaped all that. The divorce had come through five years ago, almost to the day.

  Last year, she’d married Ron, a gentle, caring, steady and reliable man. That made him sound boring, but he wasn’t. There was a difference between steady and boring. He had a good job, leaving her free to work four mornings a week at the rescue centre. Ron had his two boys, but they were polite adults and made no demands on them. Maggie had Tess. Life was good. It was uncomplicated.

  “And no one’s mentioned her since?” Dylan Scott asked.

  “No. Well, the police got involved for a while afterwards, but that was all.”

  “No one came looking for her?”

  “No. Not until now. You.”

  It was the truth. Today was the first time in over twelve years that she’d heard Anita’s name mentioned by anyone other than Yvonne, Brenda or Sandra. And that was fine by Maggie.

  Her first instinct on seeing Dylan Scott had been to look up Yvonne’s phone number, assuming she hadn’t moved, and give her what for. It was a damn cheek giving her address to strangers. What did it matter, though? No harm had been done and she had no wish to speak to Yvonne.

  They were soon exiting the park and heading for home. Maggie couldn’t get there quickly enough and was relieved when they turned into her road.

  She stopped by his car and offered a regretful smile “I’m sorry I haven’t been able to help.”

  “Not at all. You’ve been very helpful.” He reached into his pocket and wrote his name and mobile number on a page he tore from a notebook. “If you hear anything, or think of anything else, will you call me?”

  “Yes, of course I will. Well, goodbye, Mr. Scott.” She left him standing by his car.

  Taking her keys from her pocket, she strode up to her front door. She turned, smiled, waved, and then let herself inside.

  Damn. She’d forgotten the mess from that spider plant. It would have to wait a few minutes.

  With Tess unclipped from her leash, and with her own coat and boots removed, Maggie went to the kitchen, tore that scrap of paper into tiny pieces and dropped them in the bin.

  Chapter Seven

  The large estate was a mix of modern townhouses, semi-detached and detached properties, and the roads had been named after birds—Kingfisher Rise, Swallow Drive, Heron Road. You certainly couldn’t accuse the planning departments of lacking imagination, Dylan thought.

  Brenda Tomlinson lived at number four, Nightingale Avenue, a detached house with a neat front garden. At least, if Yvonne Yates was to be believed, she lived there.

  No one answered the door but curtains twitched at the house opposite so Dylan dashed across the road, cursing the steady rain, and rang the doorbell.

  “If you’re looking for Brenda or Tom,” an elderly grey-haired woman said, “you’re out of luck. They’ve jetted off to Corfu.”

  “Ah. No matter.” At least he had the right address. Courtesy of a small canopy above her door, he was sheltered from the rain for the moment, too. “I’ll catch them when they get back.”

  “A week on Tuesday.”

  “It’s all right for some.”

  “If that’s what appeals.” She sniffed. “It’s not my cup of tea. All they’ll get in Corfu is a jiffy tummy. Foreign food? You can keep it.” She pulled a face. “Still, live and let live, that’s my motto.”

  Dylan very much doubted that. “Be nice to see some sunshine, though.” Although the wind had dropped and the temperature had risen slightly, it had rained solidly since two o’clock this morning.

  “You don’t see much sunshine when you’re confined to bed with food poisoning.”

  “True. All that hanging about at airports, too. It’s not for me.” He nodded at Brenda’s house. “Been before, have they?”

  “Always jetting off somewhere. Three foreign holidays a year. They always have a fortnight about now, a week in June and another in September.”

  “Very nice. Well, nice if yo
u can afford it.”

  “He’s a car salesman,” she said, as if that explained everything. “Still, I suppose you’ll know that.”

  “No. It was Brenda I was hoping to see. We’ve not met, but a friend gave me her address. She knew an old friend of mine—Anita Champion.”

  The woman looked blank. “You’ll have to come back a week on Tuesday then.”

  “I’ll do that. Thanks. And I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

  Dylan drove back into Dawson’s Clough, parked the car, grabbed his big black umbrella and went for a walk round.

  He’d done the same yesterday, after his meeting with Maggie Gibson, and he still needed to get to know the town. It was much bigger than he’d imagined, and an odd mix of old and new. The cotton industry had brought prosperity to the area and, with the looms now silent, the mills were either in various states of disrepair or had been renovated to provide fully-serviced luxury apartments. The pedestrianised shopping centre had been revitalised, yet the buildings around its perimeter looked old, tired and forgotten.

  Tesco loomed large in front of him and he decided to have a coffee and a sandwich while he thought of the best course of action. He needed to talk to Yvonne Yates again and, as he would be the last person she wanted to hear from, he would have to use all his charm.

  He was shaking excess rain from his umbrella, about to walk in the store, when he saw a sign. Two shirts £10.

  He inspected them and wondered how much profit there could be in selling what looked like good quality shirts at that price. Perhaps it was down to sweat shops and child labour. Surely Tesco wouldn’t go along with that?

  With four in his hands—two blue, one maroon and one grey—he double-checked they were a sixteen-and-a-half collar size and carried them to the till.

  If he did nothing else, he would get the washing machine working at the weekend. Perhaps his mother could do it while he took Luke to the match. Fat chance. She would be too busy meditating or practising her tai chi, whatever that was.

  He didn’t want to think about his mother, though. He wanted to know why Yvonne Yates and Maggie Gibson had lied to him. What were they hiding?