Presumed Dead

by Shirley Wells

  “The next day,” Eddie said, “I had my dad’s car parked in town. I stayed with Mum and Dad when I was on leave, and I often borrowed Dad’s car. Four months old it was. A top-of-the-range saloon. Anyway, I’d been round the shops and when I got back to the car, it had been trashed. All four tyres had been slashed, the paintwork had been scratched, and the word Bastard had been painted across the front bumper.”

  Dylan winced at that and knew a sudden urge to rush outside to make sure his Morgan was safe.

  “I was furious.” Eddie gave a small smile. “Almost as furious as my dad.”

  “I’m not surprised. I shudder to think what I’d do if anyone touched my car. I take it Sandra was responsible?”

  “Must have been. I couldn’t prove it, though. I stormed round to her house and demanded to know what the hell had possessed her to do such a thing. Of course, she claimed not to know what I was talking about. She was responsible, though. I’m sure of it.”

  Rosie poured the coffee and the smell must have alerted the children to the possibility of goodies. They burst into the room just as their mother was slicing a large chocolate Swiss roll. With a piece in their hands, they chattered non-stop.

  “Can we watch our DVD now?” Flora wiped her mouth on her sleeve and then her hands on her jeans. “You said we could, Mum.”

  “I said you might be able to. That’s might, okay? As in possibly yes and possibly no.”

  “So can we?” Harry asked.

  “You may.” Rosie grabbed Harry before he could escape. “You need to wash those hands first. And you Flora. Under the tap. Now.”

  The children laughed and splashed around enough water to bathe a small horse before racing for the sitting-room.

  “Do you have children, Dylan?” Rosie asked. “Or do you have more sense?”

  “I have a son, Luke. He’s eleven and he can twist me and his mum round his little finger.”

  “Kids seem to be born with that ability, don’t they? I never was. I had to do as I was told.”

  “What?” Eddie laughed at that. “You were spoiled rotten. Still are, come to that.”

  “Take no notice of him, Dylan.”

  Rosie gave Dylan and Eddie a large slice of chocolate Swiss roll and took a sliver for herself. She might have been dieting but she had no need to.

  “The day your father’s car was vandalized,” Dylan said. “When was that?”

  “The Sunday.” Eddie’s words were muffled as he tried to eat cake and speak at the same time. “While Anita was out with the girls on the Saturday night, Sandra was yelling at me and screaming like a fish-woman. The next day, Dad’s car was wrecked.”

  “So you confronted Sandra?”

  “Yes, and, of course, she denied all knowledge. She was gloating—telling me that Anita had stayed out all night so must have found someone better. At the time, that’s what everyone thought. They assumed Anita had spent the night with someone. It wouldn’t have been the first time. Not by a long way.”

  “When was the last time you saw Anita?”

  “The Friday night. I asked her if she fancied going out, but she didn’t. She’d been in Manchester that day and was knackered. Oh yeah, and she said she’d be out on the Saturday night so didn’t want two late nights on the trot.” Eddie licked chocolate from his fingers. “I could take a hint. I knew she was trying to let me know she wasn’t interested, just as I’d tried, and failed, to let Sandra Butler know.”

  “Did you see her after that?”

  “No. The next thing I knew, the police were looking for her. Not that they looked very hard. They, along with everyone else, were convinced she’d taken off with some man or other and would come back when it suited her. All the police were bothered about was making sure her daughter was taken care of.”

  “That’s crazy,” Rosie said. “No woman would leave a child alone.”

  “Anita would.” Eddie looked at his wife as he spoke. “She’d done it before—gone off for a week.”

  “Good God.”

  If only Anita had been like Rosie. If she’d been a more responsible mother, the police would have taken far more interest in her disappearance. Anita, however, wasn’t like Rosie. Nor was she like any other woman Dylan had known.

  “She definitely gave no hint about going away anywhere?” Dylan asked. “She didn’t mention anyone special in her life?”

  “No.”

  “What can you tell me about her friends? I’ve heard that, on the night she disappeared, she’d been out with Yvonne Yates, Maggie—”

  “And Brenda. Yeah, that’s right. They went out most Saturday nights and usually ended up at Oasis.”

  “I believe they did end up there. What are those women like?” Dylan considered telling them Yvonne’s story about the way Anita’s so-called friends had drugged her, but there was no point. Not yet.

  “Anita liked them well enough,” Eddie said. “She liked most people though. I suppose, in their way, they liked her, too. But they could be bitchy about her behind her back. They were jealous, plain and simple. While they spent money and time on clothes, hair and makeup, Anita could be dressed and ready to go out in ten minutes and still outshine every one of them. They hated it.”

  “Right.” Dylan was trying to imagine the scenario that existed thirteen years ago. “We know Sandra Butler was out for revenge on you because you’d been with Anita. What about Anita? Presumably she’d want to put Anita in her place, too?”

  “How do you mean?” Eddie asked.

  “What do you think Sandra would have done to Anita? She vandalized your car. What might she have done to Anita?”

  “I suppose she might have hurled a few choice words at her. But I can’t see her doing anything else. Anita was too valuable to her. She was a hard worker and popular with the customers. Sandra was a money-grabbing cow—still is, I shouldn’t wonder—and she’d have known that replacing Anita would have been nigh on impossible. As for possessions, Anita didn’t have anything valuable. No, I expect they had a row and that would have been the end of it.”

  Dylan wasn’t so sure. Again, he considered telling them Yvonne Yates’s story about the drug Anita was given, but there was no point until he knew more about it.

  “What about Anita’s other friends?”

  “It’s a long time ago,” Eddie said. “I only saw people in the Clough when I was home on leave. I used to catch up with family, drink too much, chat up the girls and then go back to wherever I was stationed. Anita knew practically everyone in the town but I couldn’t give you any names.” He tapped his finger against his teeth. “There was another nightclub in the Clough at the time. I’m damned if I can remember what it was called, but Anita and the others used to go there. I never went although I gather it was pretty seedy. From what I recall, the drinks were expensive and watered down and the place was raided by the police every fortnight. All the druggies hung out there.”

  Dylan would ask around. Plenty of people must remember it.

  “Unless I’m getting confused with somewhere else,” Eddie said, “I seem to think Anita was friendly with one of the bouncers there. He used to get her free drinks.”

  “Really?”

  “Maybe. Sorry, Dylan, but I didn’t go there. I’m only going by memory so I may be wrong. I was only home on leave a couple of times after that. Then I married Rosie and we spent the next three years in Cyprus.”

  “That’s great, thanks. I can ask around.”

  Thirteen years was a long time. People moved on. Memory became blurred.

  “It’s time I was going,” he said. “You’ve been more than generous—both with your food and your time—and I’m extremely grateful. If you think of anything else, Eddie, anything at all, no matter how stupid it seems, will you let me know?”

  “Of course.”

  Rosie reached for a pen and a black leather-bound phone directory. “If I don’t put your number in here, we’ll lose it.”

  She wrote his name and number neatly under S and t
hen again under D.

  “Thanks. And thank you for the food. It’s been a real pleasure to meet you both.”

  “You, too,” Rosie said. “Keep in touch, won’t you?”

  “Yes, let us know if you find out anything. I’ve always been curious.”

  “I will.”

  Rosie and Eddie were showing him out when he spotted a familiar object on the small table in the hall. “School raffle tickets?”

  “They’re a permanent fixture in this house.” Rosie laughed. “This time they’re hoping to raise funds for a swimming pool.”

  And next time it would be to improve the sports ground. Dylan knew all about that. He swore he’d bought Luke’s school four times over. “Give me a fiver’s worth.”

  He was reaching for his wallet but Rosie waved it away. “Dylan, no. You can’t do that.”

  “I can. I know how difficult it is to sell the things. Besides, I might win a—” He read the ticket and whistled. “A weekend in Paris? The best my son’s school comes up with is a couple of bottles of wine.”

  Rosie, very reluctantly, took the money from him and handed him the tickets. “Thanks.”

  As he left the house and the door closed behind him, the night air chilled him. Or perhaps it was more than the air.

  He sat in his car for a moment and gazed back at the house. What a delightful couple. That’s how he and Bev should be. Exactly like that. They would be, too. He was going to have a serious talk with Bev. It was high time she stopped acting like a child and saw sense.

  Feeling much better, he fired the engine and began the journey back to Dawson’s Clough.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Alan Cheyney sat by his bed to wait for the doctor.

  When Armstrong’s thugs had driven off on Monday night, he’d tried to walk home. He’d made it back into town, but then he’d passed out in the chemist’s doorway. A copper had found him and he’d been admitted to A&E to have his gum, lip and a gash above his left eye stitched. Three of his ribs had been broken, too, but he was still surprised to be in hospital on this cold Thursday morning. Considering beds were at a premium, he’d expected to be discharged yesterday.

  He could have discharged himself, but he was in no hurry. While the police looked for “two unknown assailants,” he was safer in hospital. He’d even toyed with the idea of feigning mysterious complaints just to remain in the haven of the building.

  Pete had called yesterday and, although Alan hadn’t gone into too much detail, his brother had promised to lend him a thousand pounds. It wasn’t enough, but Alan was grateful. It might keep Terry Armstrong off his back for a while.

  Pete had also taken the week off work to look after the shop for him. It was a week of his annual leave, too, so Kath, his wife, wouldn’t be happy. Alan owed him.

  The door swung open and a nurse came into the ward followed by a man carrying a huge, cellophane-wrapped basket of fruit.

  “Mr. Cheyney, a visitor for you.”

  “Me?”

  Alan looked past the fruit to the suited gentleman and he felt his guts, broken and bruised, turn to mush. It was Terry Armstrong.

  The last Alan had heard, Armstrong was in Florida, in the house where he spent four or five months of the year. Judging by his suntan, he hadn’t been back long.

  “My dear chap,” Armstrong said, “I’ve just heard the news. As I was saying to this lovely young lady, I take it as a personal affront if anything happens to one of my tenants.” He grabbed Alan’s hand and squeezed it. Hard. “Here, a few grapes for you.”

  The few grapes would have filled a fruiterer’s.

  “So tell me, Alan, what happened? Two men attacked you, I heard. I suppose they thought you had the contents of the till on you. What’s the world coming to, eh? Let’s hope the police soon catch up with them.”

  Everyone in the ward, the nurse included, was captivated by this genial, charismatic man.

  “Yes,” Alan agreed, realising he hadn’t spoken.

  Armstrong pulled up a chair close to Alan’s. “I can’t stop, but I wanted to say how sorry I am.”

  “That’s, um—”

  “I hear you’ll be going home later today. You’ll be glad of that, I’m sure. Back at work soon, eh?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hanging’s too good for them. Young kids, I expect. They think the world owes them a living.”

  “You’re right about that.” Charlie, in the next bed, had been waiting for the chance to join in the conversation. “They should bring back National Service.”

  While Alan’s stomach continued to churn, the entire ward chatted about the youth of Dawson’s Clough and what should be done about them.

  When, after about twenty minutes, Armstrong stood to leave, he’d formed his own fan club.

  He shook Alan’s hand again and leaned in close, his breath hot against Alan’s face as he whispered, “I’ll have my money tomorrow. Meanwhile, keep away from my wife.”

  With smiles and waves to everyone on the ward, Terry Armstrong made his exit.

  I’ll have my money tomorrow.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Dylan sat in Asda’s cafe, eating the biggest breakfast they offered—because he’d overslept and missed it at the hotel—while wondering where to start.

  Last night, driving home from Eddie and Rosie Swift’s house, he’d thought again about Alan Cheyney. The man remained a mystery. From the little Dylan had managed to find out, he was a decent, honest, hard-working type. He’d been made redundant after more than thirty years driving lorries for the same company and, with the small lump sum he received, opened his not-very-successful angling shop. Divorced, he lived alone in a small semi-detached house. An eight-year-old car sat on the drive. He lived modestly.

  But he’d had an affair with Anita and he rented his shop premises from Terrence Armstrong. Cheyney was linked to them both. He was also wary of answering questions.

  Dylan took his small notebook from his pocket and, fork in one hand, idly flicked through the pages as he ate.

  He pushed his empty plate aside and took his phone from his pocket. He hit a button and listened to it ring out three times, before it was answered by a voice so croaky it was impossible to guess at the gender.

  “Pikey? Is that you?”

  “Yep, still breathing. Just about. I thought I was getting over a dose of flu but I’m not so sure now. But never mind my groans, how are you, you old bastard? Hey, thanks for the Christmas card. Pity it got lost in the post.”

  “Eh? You didn’t get one? Hell, that’ll be Bev. She’s thrown one of her wobblers.”

  She hadn’t told him he had to deal with the cards, though, and he hadn’t thought about it. He wouldn’t have sent many but he would have sent one to Pikey. D.S. Keith Pike was a good mate. A big bloke with a shaved head, he looked more thug than copper, but he had a heart as big as a horse’s, and his wife and two daughters could do with him as they pleased. He would die for them. Willingly.

  He and Pikey had worked alongside each other for three years but, unfortunately, they hadn’t been together the night the call came through that ended with Dylan being put behind bars.

  If Pikey had been with him, it would have been sorted. Honest to the core, Pikey wouldn’t have been tempted to lie by the offer of promotion. He wouldn’t have been interested in showing Joe Public that complaints against police officers were taken seriously. Nothing but the truth would have mattered to him.

  “So how have you upset the lovely Bev this time?” Pikey asked.

  “Oh, the usual.” To be honest, Dylan wasn’t sure of the specifics. A drunkard and a loser, she’d said, but he had no idea what had brought that on. “She’ll come round. She always does.”

  “Always has,” Pikey corrected him.

  “Yeah, well. So how are Sheila and the kids?”

  “Great, thanks. You’ll have to come and see us. You must owe me a pint.”

  “I will.” If Pikey came good on this, he’d buy him a barrel. “
Tell me, do you have friends at Lancashire Constabulary?”

  “I have no friends at all. Best way, mate. All they do is phone you out of the blue when they want something.”

  “Aw, come on, Pikey. A great bloke like you must have friends everywhere.”

  “Ha! What exactly are you wanting from Lancashire Constabulary?”

  As he finished his coffee, Dylan told Pikey all about the disappearance of Anita Champion.

  “Leave it with me and I’ll see what I can do,” Pikey said when he’d finished.

  “Thanks, mate. I owe you.”

  “You do.”

  As he snapped his phone shut, Dylan tried not to think of the laughs he and Pikey had shared during the days Dylan had been a respected member of the police force. Instead, he tried to decide how to put the day to best use.

  He was gazing out the window across Asda’s car park when he spotted the unmistakable figure of—what was his name? Stevie? Had the unkind name been Simple Stevie?

  Dylan finished his coffee, put mug, plate and cutlery on the tray and quickly took it to the rack. He was soon going down the escalator and heading for the car park.

  For a moment, he thought he’d lost Stevie, but then he spotted him pushing a trolley toward the car park’s exit. Perhaps trolleys were his friends. At least they didn’t argue, beg for favours, answer back or call you cruel names.

  Dylan caught up with him and put a restraining hand on the trolley’s handle. “Perhaps we ought to take this back, eh?”

  He spoke gently enough, but Stevie, if that was his name, looked terrified.

  “It’s okay,” Dylan said, “but I think they like to keep them here. It could be useful having a few spares in Market Street, I know, but better not, eh?”

  Stevie nodded and released his grip on the trolley.

  “We’ll put it there.” Dylan pointed to the plastic-covered trolley park.

  Stevie nodded again, then, limping awkwardly, walked beside Dylan as he pushed the trolley.

  Dylan stacked the trolley with the others and removed the pound coin from the slot. “Is this yours?”