A shake of the head indicated that he’d probably pinched the trolley from an unsuspecting shopper.
“I suppose it is now.” Dylan gave him the coin, which disappeared into the pocket of a black anorak.
“It’s Stevie, isn’t it? I saw you in the pub—the Pheasant—when I was chatting to Bill Thornton and a chap called Geoff.”
Another nod had Dylan wondering if the man could talk.
“Dylan. Dylan Scott.” He offered his hand which, after a brief hesitation and wiping his own hand on spotless jeans, Stevie shook.
It was too early for a beer, and Dylan didn’t fancy another coffee. Stevie was the one who looked as if he needed a good cooked breakfast washed down with something hot.
After a brief inner debate, Dylan decided that getting on the right side of Stevie might be beneficial. It was often the case that quiet people—and they didn’t come more tight-lipped than Stevie—had sharpened powers of observation.
“Do you fancy a cup of tea or coffee?” he asked. “Or something to eat?”
Stevie regarded him with mild surprise. “Yes,” he said finally and, although it was closer to a grunt than a word, Dylan breathed a sigh of relief. At least he was capable of speech.
This was proved when, at the food counter in Asda’s cafe, Stevie said to the girl behind the counter, “Big breakfast and extra toast, please.”
Dylan got himself a cup of tea. They sat at a table by the window that gave a view of the car park and the town, and Dylan watched, both fascinated and appalled, as Stevie shovelled in mouthful after mouthful.
Neither spoke until the plate had been cleared and wiped clean with a square of toast saved specially for the task.
“Good,” Stevie said with satisfaction.
“You’re welcome.” But there was no such thing as a free breakfast.
Dylan reached into his pocket and pulled out the best photo he had of Anita Champion. By now, he’d shown it to so many people that it was beginning to look creased and tatty.
“Do you know this woman?” He slid the photo across the table to Stevie.
“Yes.”
“Yes? You know Anita Champion?”
“Yes.”
Dylan stared at him in total amazement. Stevie spoke, grunted at least, as if it were the most natural question in the world.
“Have you seen her during the last thirteen years?”
“No.”
Stupid question. Of course he hadn’t. No one had.
“Did you know her well?”
Stevie seemed to consider the question seriously before answering. “No.”
“Did you know her daughter Holly?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know her well?”
Again, a long pause before he answered, “No.”
For all the surprise Stevie showed, Dylan might have been asking him about the weather. Or perhaps he’d been warned that Dylan was asking questions. And the only person who would warn him would be the one with something to hide.
“What about Yvonne Yates?” Dylan asked. “Do you know her?”
“Yes.”
This process would be speeded up considerably if only Stevie would expand on his answers. However, on this cold, wet Thursday morning, Dylan had to be grateful for anything.
“So you know the women Anita went out with the night she disappeared? Yvonne Yates, Maggie Gibson and Brenda Tomlinson?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see Anita the night she vanished?” Dylan asked.
“Yes.”
“You did? Where?”
Stevie thought for a moment, probably realised that yes or no wouldn’t suffice, and rose to his feet. With a grunt and a wave of his hand, he indicated that Dylan should follow him.
There had been a brief shower while they’d been in Asda’s cafe but, although the pavements were slick and the air was damp, it wasn’t raining as they walked through the car park.
Stevie said nothing as he limped along, and Dylan was too busy thinking to talk.
They cut through two alleyways and walked along Market Street until they turned into Rose Walk and then Pennine Way, close to Dylan’s hotel. Stevie stopped outside what had once been Oasis, the nightclub Anita Champion had visited on that last night.
It would have been so much easier for Stevie to simply have told him.
“You saw her here?” Dylan asked. “In the nightclub?”
“No.”
Stevie tugged on Dylan’s sleeve and led the way to the alley at the side of the building. Halfway along, he stopped. He looked ahead, looked back as if judging the distance, then pointed to the ground at his feet.
“She was here?” Dylan asked in amazement.
“Yes.”
Dylan had always considered himself a patient man, but Stevie’s short answers would soon have him tearing out his hair.
“She was lying down?”
“Yes.”
“She was ill, wasn’t she? Probably being sick?”
“Sick. Yes.”
Two words. With luck, they would soon progress to a whole sentence.
“Did you talk to her?” Dylan asked.
“Yes.”
“What did you say? What did she say?”
“Taxi,” he replied. “She said taxi.”
“She wanted a taxi?” Dylan had imagined an ambulance would have been a more apt mode of transport.
“Yes.”
“Where to?”
Stevie would have set off again, presumably to show Dylan her intended destination.
“Whoa. Hang on a minute, Stevie, let me get this straight. How long were you with her here?” He pointed at the ground. “Five minutes? Ten? Twenty?” he added to speed things along.
“Thirty,” Stevie answered with a shrug that was perhaps intended to convey the word “approximately.”
“Right. You spent half an hour with her—while she was being sick?”
“Yes.” He pointed at the building. “Water.”
“You got her some water?”
“Yes.”
“So she drank the water and then wanted a taxi, right? Could she stand at this point?”
“Yes.” Stevie hesitated for a moment, then took half a dozen paces, bouncing off one wall and then the other. “Drunk.”
“Ah.”
Drugged more like.
Stevie gave a sharp pull on Dylan’s sleeve and, this time, Dylan followed him to the end of the alley.
Stevie pointed to a spot a hundred yards along the road ahead of them. “Taxi.”
Sure enough, there were three cabs waiting on the rank.
“You walked along the alley with her? You helped her to walk along?”
“Yes.”
“And you helped her into a taxi—there?”
“Yes.”
“Did you go with her?”
“No.”
Dylan knew a sudden urge to throw himself under the bus that trundled into view. Why wouldn’t Stevie communicate? What the hell? Dylan was no psychiatrist. “Do you know where she was going?”
“Morty’s.”
“Morty’s? Where’s that?”
“Gone. Come on.” And Stevie set off.
It looked as if Yvonne Yates and her merry band of vipers were in the clear. There had been a man in the alley and it seemed that, after all, Anita had been well enough to go on to Morty’s.
Odd that Yvonne and her chums hadn’t known that. Surely the local coppers would have found out and word would have spread. Perhaps they hadn’t. Maybe, they, too, had been content with the idea of Anita Champion abandoning her daughter for a new life.
That was so unlikely though. No one knew of anyone special in her life, and no way would she have gone off with someone she had met that night. Anita Champion might have been all sorts of a fool, but, when it came to men, Dylan would bet she’d been wary. A good time, yes. Commitment, no.
On and on they walked. Had Dylan known the distance involved, he would have insiste
d they get a taxi. They had walked the length of Dawson’s Clough and ended up on the Manchester Road, a wide, busy road with three-storey stone-built terraced houses on either side.
When they reached the end, Stevie pointed. “Morty’s.”
It was a former mill that had been converted, quite recently by the look of it, into luxury apartments with all the security imaginable. Several expensive vehicles sat in designated parking spots.
“Okay.” Enough was enough. If they tried any sort of conversation at Stevie’s pace, they would see in next year. “I realise you don’t like talking to people, Stevie. I even sympathise. Sometimes, I’d rather not get involved myself. The thing is, though, conversation is a necessary evil. Okay? I need you to tell me all you know about Morty’s—and what you know about Anita Champion’s movements the night she vanished. Okay?”
Stevie nodded, which wasn’t promising.
“The night she went missing,” Dylan said, “what happened? You saw her get in a taxi to come here, yes?”
“Yes.”
Dylan waited but that was it.
“Did you see her again?”
Stevie shook his head.
“What about her friends? Did you see them?”
Stevie was a long time answering, which meant he was probably wondering how he could condense all he knew into the fewest words possible.
“Leaving Oasis,” he said at last. “The Yates woman at eleven o’clock. The other two after midnight.”
It was perhaps the longest speech he had ever given.
“Where did they go?”
“Don’t know.”
Dylan turned his attention to the building in front of them. “What was Morty’s?”
“Club. Disco. Drink. Drugs.”
“When—?” What was the point? He could easily find out when the place had closed down. It would be quicker than asking Stevie. “Do you know who Anita saw that night?” he asked instead. “Do you know if she was meeting someone?”
“No.”
“Did you tell the police she’d come here?”
“No.”
“Did they ever speak to you about it?” Dylan asked.
“No.” Stevie grinned suddenly to show a couple of gaps in his teeth. “Simple Stevie.”
Officers wouldn’t have questioned him for two reasons. One, he wouldn’t have made a reliable witness. And two, no one would have had the time or the patience.
“Do you know who worked at Morty’s?” Dylan asked.
“No.”
He couldn’t take any more of this. His life was slowly ebbing away.
“Tell you what, Stevie, I’ll meet you at Asda tomorrow morning and treat you to breakfast. About ten o’clock?”
“Good.”
With that, Stevie limped back toward town with his head down.
It had been a long, frustrating morning, but at least Dylan had made progress. He knew that Anita Champion hadn’t met her end in that dark alley by Oasis. Despite being drugged by her so-called friends, she’d been well enough to make it to Morty’s.
When Stevie was out of sight, Dylan, too, walked back toward the town centre. Now he didn’t mind walking. In fact, he liked it. It aided his thought processes.
He went straight to Dawson’s Clough’s Library, a small building right in the centre of town, where a bored-looking young woman on the desk sent him in the right direction.
“The reference library is on the first floor. Take the stairs, then the second door on your left. You’ll find all the old copies of the newspaper there. Sorry, but we haven’t got them onto microfilm yet.”
“That’s okay. Thanks.”
“Or it might be quicker to find what you want on the computer. Any big stories will be on the internet if you do a search.”
Dylan had thought of that, but he couldn’t imagine the workings of Morty’s being newsworthy enough to get on to the internet. It was worth a try, though, and it would be much easier than trawling through old newspapers.
Once signed in and seated in front of a computer, the end one of a row of six, he searched for “Monty’s, Dawson’s Clough.” Several hundred hits were thrown up, and the first told him that apartments on Manchester Road were finally offered for sale in May 2007 following problems with planning permission on the site that had once been Mortimer’s, fondly known by local residents as Morty’s.
An hour later, he’d discovered that in 2005, following rumours of financial problems, the owner, one Phil Mortimer, had put the club up for sale. Dylan had also gleaned that Stevie had been right about drugs being bandied about the premises.
As for Phil Mortimer, Dylan could find nothing. There were plenty of Philip Mortimers, but whether any of them was the ex-owner of Morty’s was anyone’s guess. Perhaps he was still in Dawson’s Clough running another business. Or perhaps, like Anita Champion, he had vanished.
That evening Dylan phoned Holly Champion and, as was usual because of the number of jobs she juggled, had to leave a message. He couldn’t imagine being so obsessed with anything that he’d work all the hours God sent simply to pay someone to ask a few questions.
But she was paying for more than that. She wanted him to find her mother. He could only do that, though, if Anita had abandoned her daughter for a better life. Holly wouldn’t want a result like that.
If he did find out what had happened to her mother, what would she do? Her purpose for living would be gone. Would she give up the part-time jobs and stick to teaching? Would she keep working and use her spare cash to finance exotic holidays? Would she still buy her clothes from Oxfam?
Dylan had no idea. He firmly believed, however, that Holly’s obsession was unhealthy. If it were him, he’d accept it and move on. Life was too short.
Not that he was in the same position, he thought grimly. So far today, his phone had registered four missed calls from his mother.
His hotel room was far more spacious than his own bedroom, but the freezing temperature was beyond a joke. He’d spoken to the receptionist and, after apologising profusely, she’d promised to send someone up to check it. Whether anyone had been, he had no idea.
Forgetting the cold for the moment, he lay back on the bed, hands linked behind his head, and thought about Anita Champion.
Why, when she must have been feeling like death, had she taken a taxi to Morty’s? To keep a date? In the hope of meeting someone special? Wouldn’t the sensible thing have been to write off the evening and go home to her bed?
She didn’t strike him as a sensible woman, though. He envisaged her as impulsive, always game for a laugh or an adventure, hopeless with money, a dreamer—
For all that, he also thought of her as loyal to her daughter. Fun-loving, yes, but not to the point of recklessness, not when it came to Holly.
His phone rang. He sat up and, with fingers almost numb from cold, answered Holly’s call.
“What do you know about Morty’s?” he asked, getting straight to the point.
“Morty’s?”
Obviously not a lot.
“It was a nightclub,” he said.
“Sorry, but it means nothing to me.”
“I believe your mother may have gone there the night she vanished.”
“Really?”
He heard the catch of excitement in her voice, the hope that progress was being made.
“It’s possible.” He didn’t want to raise her hopes only to dash them again. “Do you remember a chap called Stevie?”
“Stevie who?”
“Ah.” Dylan didn’t know his surname. “Once seen never forgotten. They call him Simple Stevie.”
“That Stevie. Yes, of course I remember him, poor chap. Why do you ask?”
“He’s the one who claims your mother went to Morty’s that night.”
“I see.” Her excitement lessened slightly. “Well, I suppose he could be right, although I can’t think his memory would be too reliable.”
“What do you know about him?”
“All us
kids grew up knowing about Stevie, but I expect the story was exaggerated over the years. Apparently his mother was killed when he was about five years old. She was walking him to school one day when a car mounted the pavement and hit her. It’s said she was dragged along the road for a hundred yards. There’s worse, too. Because she was holding Stevie’s hand, he was dragged with her.”
“Dear God!” Dylan shuddered.
“It was awful. Poor Stevie hasn’t been right since. Apart from his physical injuries, and I gather his leg was badly crushed, the mental scars are unthinkable. His grandmother and his father brought him up for a while. She was a strict, no-nonsense sort of woman, so I don’t believe he saw much love or affection from her. I don’t know about his father. I expect he was a bit traumatised, too.”
“More than likely.”
“Stevie ended up in care eventually.”
Dylan felt a rush of sympathy for his new friend. No wonder he didn’t speak much.
“I’m surprised Stevie talked about Mum,” Holly said. “When I knew him, you couldn’t get two words out of him.”
“You still can’t.”
“I think Mum liked him. All us kids called him Simple Stevie and she hit the roof one day. She said we should all thank God we weren’t suffering like him and show him a bit of kindness.” She sighed. “She was quite right, of course, but you know what kids are. They can be cruel.”
“So can adults.” Children had the excuse of ignorance. Adults like Bill Thornton and Geoff didn’t. “Okay,” Dylan said. “If I find out anything else, I’ll let you know.”
“Thanks, Dylan. I really appreciate all you’re doing.”
“I haven’t got anywhere yet.”
“But you will. You’re the best.”
For a long time after they ended the call, Dylan thought about that. To his wife, he was a drunkard and a loser. As far as the police force was concerned, he was no longer fit for the job because it was believed, on the say of an habitual offender, that he’d used unreasonable force during an arrest.
Yet, for some reason, Holly Champion had faith in him. He only hoped it wasn’t misplaced.
Knowing he couldn’t put it off any longer, he called his mother.
“Dylan, there you are! I was beginning to worry. I’ll tell you what, though, this flat of yours is growing on me. I’ve bought some more scented candles today and I’m just arranging them in the bathroom. Really, that’s the best room in the flat—”
Presumed Dead Page 10