But he wasn’t going to worry on that score. He was Bev’s husband. He belonged with her. And with Luke. They were a family.
Chapter Eleven
On Monday evening Alan Cheyney locked up his shop and went into the back storeroom, a huge, ugly place that had been used to hang animal carcasses when the shop had belonged to the butcher. A few hooks still dangled from the steel beams.
There wasn’t much in there as he couldn’t afford to buy stock, but it served as his office and kitchen. He threw himself down in a chair, put his legs on the desk and stared at the wall.
He could add up the day’s takings or he could take himself off to the Pheasant and drink the meagre profit.
To hell with it, he’d have a pint and worry about everything in the morning.
After double-checking the locks and the alarm, he left the shop and crossed the road. He stood for a moment to look back at his little empire. The recently painted sign, Cheyney Angling, looked impressive. It was the only thing that did.
His brother, Pete, had called him all kinds of a fool, but Alan hadn’t taken any notice. Being made redundant at the age of fifty-four had seemed like a godsend. He’d always loved fishing, and he’d thought it would be easy enough to open a shop that catered for fellow anglers’ needs.
Totting up the day’s takings wouldn’t have taken long. He’d sold four pounds of maggots and a fly rod for a hundred and eighty pounds. Profit for the day? About thirty quid.
He’d worry about it tomorrow.
When he pushed open the door to the Pheasant, he was surprised to see half a dozen people at the bar. Monday nights were usually as dead as his shop.
Bill Thornton and Geoff Lane were perched on stools so Alan took the one next to them.
“How’s it going?” Geoff asked as Alan paid for his pint.
“It isn’t.”
“Wrong time of year, I suppose,” Bill said. “Far too cold for fishing.”
“Is it hell?” On reflection, though, perhaps Bill was right. Only the hardy, experienced anglers went out in January, and they had all the kit they needed.
Geoff grinned. “You’ll go out fishing all night, mate, but other folk have brains.”
“Trade will pick up in the summer,” Bill said.
Alan doubted he’d survive until the summer. He was behind with his rent, two of his suppliers had refused him credit—
“Probably.” He didn’t want to think about it.
“Course it will,” Bill said.
Would it? Alan had an online shop, but the big boys were selling far more cheaply than he could. As for a shop in Dawson’s Clough, it was a waste of time. There were plenty of good fishing sites around, but angling was dying out. Kids would rather hang around street corners taking drugs.
Pete had been right. He was a damn fool.
“Tell you who we were talking to the other night,” Bill said. “Wednesday it were. A bloke called Dylan Scott. He were looking for Anita Champion. You’ll remember her, Alan.”
“I do. I saw him, too. He came into the shop asking about her. Funny that, after all this time, I mean.”
“Where do you reckon she is?” Geoff asked.
“God knows.” Why exactly was Dylan Scott trying to trace her? He was posing as an ex-boyfriend, but Alan didn’t believe that for a moment. “Probably married to some rich Arab sheik,” he said, trying to make light of it.
“Never in a million years,” Bill said.
“Here we go again.” Geoff rolled his eyes, grinning.
“You can scoff,” Bill said, “but no way did she walk out on young Holly.”
“Bill here reckons she were abducted by aliens.” Geoff chuckled.
“Aliens would make a beeline for Dawson’s Clough.” Alan supped from his glass. “Come to think of it, I saw a few intelligent life forms hanging around outside the library.”
“I never mentioned aliens.” Bill was getting irritated. “Bloody daft, you are.”
“Maybe this Dylan Scott will solve the mystery,” Geoff said.
“That shop of yours, Alan,” Bill said. “You rent it off that Armstrong bloke, don’t you?”
“Yeah.”
It was odd having Dylan Scott asking questions about Anita and then mentioning Terry Armstrong. Bloody odd.
But if Alan didn’t want to think about his day’s takings, he certainly didn’t want to think about Armstrong. They’d only met once, and he’d seemed pleasant enough then, but when the standing order for the rent didn’t go through in December, he’d sent a bloke to the shop to discuss the matter. Alan hadn’t liked him at all. A big bloke, full of aggression.
“That Dylan Scott thought Anita might have known him,” Geoff said. “I can’t believe that, though. For one thing, he didn’t live round here in her day. For another, she weren’t in his league.”
“Dunno. I can’t imagine her knowing him.” Alan wished they’d forget it. “You having another?” He opened his wallet.
Over the next pint, talk centred around the weather, the roadworks that would be starting in the summer, and the lack of facilities for kids in the town. Alan was glad of that. January’s standing order for rent hadn’t gone through either, and he was expecting another visit from Terry Armstrong’s assistant.
No point worrying, though. If he lost the shop, he lost it. He’d get another job on the lorries. It was easier than running a business. A lot easier.
It was gone eleven when he left the Pheasant. He’d planned to have a pint, maybe two, then walk home via the fish-and-chip shop, but that had closed for the night. As the kebab shop was open, waiting for the last few stragglers to leave the pubs, he stopped to buy one of those instead.
He ate it as he walked, a few bits of meat dropping for the pigeons, and only had a small portion left when he turned into his road.
A big dark car was parked outside his house, but he paid it no attention until, as he drew level, the door was flung open, hitting him in the ribs and tossing the last of his kebab to the ground.
A tall, well-muscled man, whisky on his breath, bundled him into the car.
“We need a chat,” he said, as the driver floored the accelerator and the car shot forward.
“What the hell—”
“Just a friendly chat.”
“Who the hell are you?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Stop the car. Stop the fucking car!”
A fist banged into the side of his face. “Shut your fucking mouth!”
The car screeched round corners until it came to a halt by the disused rail tracks.
“What do you want?” Alan tried to get out, but the back doors were locked. “Money? I can get you money!”
The driver was soon out. It was he who opened the back door and yanked Alan out. The two men pinned him against the car.
“You’ve got the wrong bloke,” Alan shouted.
“I don’t think so. You see, a little bird told us that you’ve been a naughty boy,” the driver said. “It seems you’ve been chatting up your landlord’s wife?”
“What?” Alan had no idea what he was talking about.
“At the golf club. A Friday night. A couple of weeks before Christmas. Ring any bells, does it?”
“I was—” His teeth had started to chatter. “I was there, yes, but—”
“We know that. You were seen. Now, your landlord doesn’t want the likes of you pawing his wife around. Got that?”
Alan remembered the event, but nothing had happened. There had been a crowd at the bar and someone had jostled him so that he’d spilled some beer on her dress. Naturally, he’d apologised. He’d taken a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the stain. She’d laughed, he recalled. Said it was lucky his mother brought him up properly, making sure he never left the house without a clean handkerchief. And that was all.
“Look, you’ve got this all wrong—”
“It never pays to make a fool of your landlord, you know. It made him look at you and your rent.
Seems like you owe him some money. Quite a lot of money, in fact.”
“Look I’ll pay the rent. I said—”
A fist hammered into his face and his words were lost as a tooth flew from his mouth. Punches rained down on his head and his ribs. Alan could taste blood. Could feel himself losing consciousness.
When he dropped to the floor, he was kicked front and back.
“You’ve got till Friday!”
Two doors slammed and, mercifully, the engine fired into life and the car sped off into the night.
Alan lay on the ground, his face finding welcome relief on a clump of wet grass. Every time he coughed, pain shot across his chest, and he tasted more blood. There was a gaping hole where a tooth had been.
He should get up and go home, but he wasn’t sure he could stand, let alone walk.
You’ve got till Friday.
Four days.
Chapter Twelve
On Wednesday evening Dylan left Dawson’s Clough and began the 25-mile drive to Manchester.
Monday had been a complete waste of time. After a weekend of highs and lows—the main high was spending a lot of time with Luke and the low was not seeing Bev—Dylan had returned to Lancashire in a keen, enthusiastic mood. That had evaporated as he’d spoken to one person after another and learned precisely nothing.
He’d talked to people who’d worked at the Oasis nightclub but staff there were treated too badly to stay long. They were all young, too, and although some had heard of Anita, no one remembered her.
Yesterday had been equally pointless until the evening when, nursing a pint of beer, he found someone who not only remembered Anita, but also knew and kept in touch with Sandra Butler’s boyfriend, Eddie Swift.
“Well, when I say I keep in touch with him,” Glyn said, “I really mean the wife does. A Christmas card and birthday cards for the kids, you know the sort of thing.”
Dylan nodded to indicate that he did.
“I’ll give her a call. She’ll have his address.”
“Really? That would be great.”
As Glyn hit a number on his mobile phone, Dylan went to the bar to refill their glasses. This piece of news was worthy of celebration on two counts. First, he’d found Eddie Swift. Second, and more important, the man was alive and well and obviously hadn’t suffered anything too drastic at the hands of Sandra and her devious chums.
He carried their drinks back to the table but Glyn, pen poised over a beer mat, still didn’t have that address.
“I’ll be home as soon as I’ve finished this pint.” As he spoke, Glyn nodded his thanks for the fresh drink and rolled his eyes in despair. “I don’t know, do I? Half an hour perhaps. An hour at most.”
Dylan sympathized. He’d had exactly the same conversation with Bev many times. Women couldn’t grasp that “a swift half” or “a couple of pints” were merely figures of speech. They seemed to believe they were accurate timescales that must be adhered to on pain of death.
Glyn finally scribbled an address on the beer mat and switched off his phone.
“Why do women have to make such hard work of life?” Glyn emptied his glass and took a sip from his fresh pint. “I’m not to give you this, she says, until I know exactly what you’re up to. Oh, and while she wasn’t prepared to give his phone number to a complete stranger, she’s calling him now to let him know you’ll be paying him a visit.”
“I can understand that. Better to be safe than sorry. After all, I could be anyone.”
“Eddie can take care of himself. He’s ex-army and still keeps himself in good shape.”
Hopefully, Dylan would soon find that out for himself.
Glyn’s wife hadn’t wanted to give out Eddie Swift’s phone number, but it had been easy enough to look it up in the phone book. Dylan had tried the number a couple of times this morning, and then again this afternoon, but no one had answered. Assuming that Mr. and Mrs. Swift worked during the day and the children attended school, Dylan had decided to drive to Manchester this evening.
The address Glyn had given him was for a modern detached house on the outskirts of the city, and it looked as if Dylan’s luck was in. Two cars were parked on the drive and lights shone from within.
His knock on the door was answered by a smiling blonde. “Ah, you’ll be our mysterious stalker.”
“That’s me. Dylan Scott. I assume Glyn’s wife warned you I’d be calling?”
“She did. She also warned me you’d been drinking with Glyn so I was to watch you.” This was accompanied by a laugh. “Come in out of the cold. We’re just having dinner. Will you join us?”
“Oh, no. Thank you, that’s kind, but I couldn’t. And I’m sorry to interrupt. Would you rather I came back later?”
“Don’t be silly. Have something to eat with us. There’s plenty, so you won’t be putting us out.”
She led him through a hall and into the kitchen where a man and two children of around ten years old sat at the table eating a curry that set Dylan’s mouth watering. The man stood and offered his hand. He was well over six feet tall, towered above his petite wife, and looked as if he was no stranger to the gym. “Dylan Scott, isn’t it? Eddie Swift. Sit yourself down and have something to eat. Rosie always cooks enough for twenty.”
“I have to.” His wife laughed. “Eddie always has lots of mates calling round. They only come for a meal.”
The room was as welcoming as its occupants. Postcards sent by friends and family were stuck to the fridge with magnets, magazines were scattered around, fresh flowers shared the window sills with healthy-looking plants, and schoolbags had been abandoned on the top of a cupboard. It was a room that reflected the warmth of its occupants.
The children, Flora and Harry, were polite and as friendly as their parents. They were also keen to escape to their rooms and, as soon as their plates were wiped clean, they were gone.
Rosie, meanwhile, put a generous portion of curry in front of Dylan and sat to finish her own food.
“This is so generous,” Dylan said. “I feel terrible now. I’ve come here to be nosey and you’re feeding me.”
“You’re trying to find Anita Champion, I hear,” Eddie said.
“That’s right, yes.”
If Eddie had anything to hide, he would have had plenty of time to work on his story. There was nothing Dylan could do about that, though. Glyn, when prising the address from his wife, had had to repeat the old story about the antique ring. In any case, Dylan didn’t think Eddie was hiding anything. He and his wife were genuine—and generous—people.
“I spoke to the hairdresser, Sandra Butler, and she said that you and she used to date at one time?”
“Eddie’s got girlfriends in all corners of the globe.” Rosie’s eyes shone as she teased her husband, and Dylan experienced a sigh deep inside. He and Bev should be like this. They should enjoy this easy banter.
“And some are best forgotten,” Eddie said. “Like Sandra Butler. You didn’t tangle with her if you had any sense.”
“Oh?”
“We’re going back—what?” Eddie did a quick mental calculation. “Thirteen years. I was in the army and having a grand old time. I used to come home on leave, flirt with all the pretty girls, and then head back. It might sound a bit callous, but I forgot most of them. Sandra was difficult to forget, though. We went out three or four times when I was home on leave and, when I went back to my unit, she wrote me letters practically every day. The way she spoke, you’d have thought we were engaged.”
“You broke her heart?” Rosie seemed genuinely concerned.
“I don’t think she had a heart.”
Dylan was content to eat and let Eddie do the talking. The curry was delicious—tender pieces of chicken, nice and spicy but not too hot.
“That last time I came home on leave—” Eddie skewered a piece of chicken with his fork. “Sandra assumed we’d get together and carry on as if we were practically married. I didn’t particularly want to hurt her feelings so I told her I had other pla
ns and took her assistant, Anita Champion, out instead.” He gave Dylan a knowing look. “That was no hardship. Anita was something special, wasn’t she?” Laughing, he grabbed Rosie’s hand, lifted it to his lips and kissed it soundly. “Not as special as you, my love, obviously, but she was something.”
With mock indignation, and laughing as she spoke, Rosie snatched her hand back. “You’re full of crap, Eddie Swift.”
“I know, but you love me all the same.”
Until now, Dylan hadn’t believed the perfect relationship existed, yet it looked as if Eddie and Rosie Swift had exactly that. It was difficult to imagine them having the blazing rows or the sulky silences other couples did.
“So I spent the night with Anita. She was a breath of fresh air compared to Sandra. She knew how to have fun without thinking strings were attached. In any case, she had a daughter and that’s all she cared about. Unlike Sandra, she wasn’t looking for a husband.”
“What happened?” Dylan asked.
“Sandra found out and I have no idea how. I can only imagine she was spying on us. Well, spying on me probably. I kept giving her excuses as to why I couldn’t be with her, you see. I’d tell her I’d arranged something with my mates or I had to visit my parents. I think she must have followed me and seen me with Anita.”
“What did she say?”
“What didn’t she say? I’d agreed to see her on the Saturday night. I was determined to get through to her that I wasn’t interested. I planned to tell her she was a lovely woman, but I didn’t want a relationship—you know the sort of thing.”
“Would you believe I could marry such a rogue, Dylan?” Rosie didn’t wait for a reply. “Let me get you some coffee.”
Eddie watched his wife as she cleared away their plates and prepared the coffee.
“Sandra let me into her home and then slapped me across the face.” His smile was rueful. “She was screaming like a banshee and telling me how I could fuck off because she wouldn’t touch anything that had been near that slag Anita. Believe me, it got pretty ugly. I’ve never hit a woman but I came close that night.”
Having met Sandra and her friends, Dylan knew how tempting it must have been.
Presumed Dead Page 8