Presumed Dead

by Shirley Wells

  “We were walking up to her when we heard someone—it was a man’s voice and he was saying something to Anita. Brenda grabbed my arm and pulled me back to the club. All the while, she was threatening me, telling me that I should keep my mouth shut.”

  “I see.”

  “I did,” Maggie said. “I’ve kept my mouth shut ever since. But that was the last time any of us saw Anita, and I’ve always wondered—”

  “If you’d killed her?” Dylan said, and she nodded, her skin as white as the porcelain cup on which she fixed her gaze.

  “I should have gone to the police,” she whispered. “I know that, but I was too scared.”

  “Of the police or Brenda?”

  “I know how it sounds, but Brenda mostly. At the time, you see, I was married to a drunken bully. She’d threatened to tell him I was seeing someone else. He’d already put me in hospital twice, and I couldn’t face—I just couldn’t face it.”

  Dylan lifted his own cup and slowly, thoughtfully, drank his tea. Perhaps he could put her out of her misery. “The man you heard was Stevie—oh, hell, I still don’t know his surname. Some people call him Simple Stevie.”

  “It was—Stevie was there?”

  “Yes. He fetched her some water and stayed with her for a while. Then he saw her into a taxi. Anita went to Morty’s. People—Sean Ellis, the DJ—saw her there.”

  “Oh. So—” A tear slid down her face. “So she was all right?”

  “I think so. She was dancing. Drunk. But yes, as far as I know, she was all right.”

  Maggie was hanging on his every word, seemingly oblivious to the tears rolling down her cheeks.

  “We knew she would have gone on somewhere else that night, but—well, she might have got ill later, a delayed reaction or something. She might have fainted or something. Fallen into a ditch. Grown confused and wandered over the moors—”

  “Indeed,” Dylan agreed. “And for all I know, any of those things might have happened.”

  Her relief faded slightly.

  “But if she went to Morty’s,” he said, “and I’m fairly certain she did, who would she have met up with?”

  “I don’t know.” Her voice was shaky. “She would have flirted with Sean Ellis. He was the DJ there then.”

  Dylan nodded.

  “She wouldn’t have gone out of her way to meet him, though. There was Matthew Jackson, of course. He used to go there quite often. Perhaps she was hoping he’d be there.”

  “Matthew Jackson?” The name meant nothing to Dylan.

  “Anita was a bit tight-lipped about him, but I always thought she still had feelings for him. They’d been an item years before, but he dumped her. I don’t believe she ever got over him.”

  “Oh?” Why had no one mentioned him?

  “I always thought that was why she could laugh and joke with men so easily. After Matt, no one meant anything to her.”

  “Is he still in Dawson’s Clough?” Dylan asked.

  “No. He moved away. Him and his family.

  “He was married?”

  “Within six months of dumping Anita, yes. He had two boys.”

  “How long ago did he leave Dawson’s Clough?”

  “Ages ago. It wasn’t long after Anita vanished. Six months maybe.”

  “I see.” Dylan would ask Holly if she remembered him. “What do you know about him, Maggie?”

  “He came to the Clough with his parents during our last year at school. He was different. He came from Scotland for a start, and he was nice-looking, clever, good at sport. You know the sort.”

  Dylan certainly did. Every school had one of those. They always had their pick of the girls and made the other boys feel totally inadequate.

  “Anita used to hang around with him even then. He used to play her along. He loved to have another girl on his arm to make her jealous. In fact, I think she only went out with Ian to make him jealous.”

  “Ian?”

  “Her husband. Holly’s father.”

  “Ah, yes.”

  Because the man had been out of Anita’s life for so long—eight years before she vanished, in fact—Dylan kept forgetting about him. Was that wise? Maybe he’d returned to claim what he thought was rightfully his—his wife and his daughter.

  “That was a marriage doomed to failure if ever there was one,” Maggie was saying. “Ian liked to settle in front of the telly every night, whereas Anita wanted to be out having fun. There’s no way Anita would have married him if she hadn’t been expecting Holly.”

  She smiled briefly at old memories. “Anita was scared to death of being a wife and mother. She wasn’t the sort to settle down. The very word responsibility brought her out in a cold sweat.”

  Yet she’d done a good job raising her daughter. Holly was well-balanced, intelligent and hard-working.

  “What did Matthew Jackson do on leaving school?” Dylan asked.

  “All sorts of things. In the end, he had his own garage. It’s still there now, on the industrial estate. He sold it and moved away. Someone said he’d gone abroad but I wouldn’t know about that. He was a bit of a loner. In fact, I don’t know anyone who kept in touch with him. I suppose people get like that when they’ve spent a childhood moving around.”

  She reached for her cup and saw that it was empty.

  “More tea?” Dylan asked, and after the briefest of hesitations, she nodded.

  “That would be good. Thank you.”

  She was far more relaxed now. Knowing that Anita Champion had at least made it to Morty’s on the night in question had laid several fears to rest. The responsibility for Anita no longer lay so heavily on her shoulders.

  Snow had been falling for most of the day, and it now lay, a couple of inches deep, on the pavements. Gritters had been back and forth, and the main roads through Dawson’s Clough were a slick, dirty mix of grit and slush.

  At this time of night, a little after ten o’clock, there were few people about. Taxis overtook Dylan as he walked, and a few people stood outside pubs to smoke, but other than that, he had the town to himself.

  As yet, he hadn’t thought any more about taking up running again. He knew he should, and he knew he’d enjoy it. He also knew that the hardest part was getting started.

  His passion for walking depended on his mood. When life seemed straightforward, not that he’d experienced that for a while, the idea of walking didn’t appeal. Yet, as soon as he had puzzles to fathom, he loved to walk. Usually things became clearer with every step.

  Tonight, however, everything was as clear as the slush in the gutter.

  Unless, as Maggie had worried, Anita had wandered onto the dark moors alone and fallen to her death, someone knew what had happened to her.

  She was dead, Dylan was almost sure of it. People could say what they liked about her irresponsible lifestyle, but he couldn’t believe she would leave Holly behind.

  Dead or murdered?

  If the latter, random, accidental or premeditated?

  His imagination was running away with him. She had few friends, but no enemies that he knew of. She was a hairdresser, for God’s sake.

  But what about Terry Armstrong? The idea of Anita being close to someone like him was too difficult to comprehend.

  If he’d had an affair with Anita, and plenty had by the sound of it, how would he have ended it? Would she have taken it lightly? Had she threatened to make a scene, to expose him, to sell her story to the local rag and tell his wife?

  It was possible, Dylan supposed. Unlikely, as he couldn’t imagine Anita as the vindictive type, but it was possible. And how far would a man like Armstrong go to ensure a woman’s silence?

  He shuddered as his subconscious answered that one for him.

  What about Ian Champion, Anita’s ex-husband? How did he fit into things? Dylan tried to put himself inside the man’s shoes. If he and Bev split up, if Luke was three years old and Dylan had to live away from him, from them both—

  Dylan didn’t know what he’d do. H
e did know, however, that he wouldn’t remain silent for years. Even if his marriage was over, he would have to know his child. He would have to. Most fathers would have idolised such a pretty daughter. What had made Ian Champion so disinterested?

  Dylan still had to find Colin Bates, one-time bouncer at Morty’s and small-time criminal. He’d regularly obtained free drinks for Anita. Why had he been so generous toward her? Had he fancied his chances? Had there been something deeper between them?

  And now Matthew Jackson had been thrown into the equation. If Maggie was to be believed, he’d been the love of Anita’s life. Had he sent those highly prized Valentine’s Day cards?

  Dylan’s coat was dotted with huge soft snowflakes now. Presumably his hair was the same. He guessed, too, that his shoes would soon have an ugly water mark on them.

  Walking in this weather was madness.

  He stood beneath a street lamp and pulled out the photograph of Anita Champion that went everywhere with him. He gazed at her smiling face, as he’d done so many times before, but inspiration didn’t strike. All he knew was that, if you were that desirable, that different, you courted trouble. There were too many jealous women in the world. And too many men anxious to protect themselves, their marriages, their reputations—

  One only had to think of her acquaintances. Sandra, her employer, was furious because her boyfriend had leaped into bed with Anita. Yvonne Yates and Brenda Tomlinson were jealous of her, couldn’t wait to see her fall flat on her face—literally. Maggie might have been a friend, but she was too weak to stand up to the other girls. Ian, her ex-husband, seemed totally disinterested. Matthew Jackson had enjoyed toying with her emotions…

  Had Anita had any real friends?

  There was Bill Thornton, of course. He’d been a friend. As had Stevie. Were those the only friends she’d had?

  The thought saddened him. He hadn’t known Anita, but he felt he was beginning to know the woman she had been. And he was certain he would have liked her and been proud to call her friend.

  So what now? He could trawl the pubs again and try to talk to yet more people. He couldn’t face it, though. Not tonight.

  He walked slowly back to his hotel. Tomorrow was a brand new day. Tomorrow, he would find out all he could about Matthew Jackson.

  Chapter Twenty

  Frank Willoughby stood for a moment and admired his snow-covered garden. Artists and architects could do their best, but nothing could outshine Mother Nature. Other than a few marks left by birds and a neighbour’s cat, the snow, and it was five inches deep on the bird bath, was untouched. It dazzled in the early morning sunshine.

  He put a couple of pieces of bread and a fat ball on the bird table, then returned to the kitchen for seeds to top up the feeder. Until the thaw, the birds would stand no chance.

  Such beauty had him re-evaluating life. He’d discovered that, after a heart attack, it was the easiest thing in the world to sit and vegetate. Frank had no intention of doing that. With that attitude, he might as well be in his box. The scene before him simply reinforced that.

  Anyway, he had more important things than his health to worry about, and the murdering bastard currently topping his list was none other than Terry Armstrong.

  Frank had first come across him years ago, when Armstrong had been ensconced in London and Frank had been sent south on one of his many undercover jobs to try and get close to the man.

  Impossible. No one got close to him.

  Except Pamela. Armstrong’s first wife had got too close…

  Frank had seen more than enough dead bodies during his career, but none like hers. Even now, the memory made him sick to his stomach. And if he lived to be a hundred, no one would convince him that Armstrong hadn’t been responsible for Pamela’s butchering.

  When Armstrong moved to Lancashire, probably because there were too many other murdering bastards after him in London, every copper in the area soon knew all about him. Yet they’d never found anything to pin on him.

  A couple of his enemies had been murdered but, each time, Armstrong had an ironclad alibi. He’d be smiling for cameras at a function that came with a hundred witnesses. And no one talked. Men would rather get banged up for life on a murder charge than risk upsetting Terry Armstrong. Revenge tended to come in the form of a long, slow death.

  Everything Armstrong touched was legit. He made sure of that. His accountant was one of the most respected in Lancashire, as was his lawyer. To all intents and purposes, Terry Armstrong was a fine, upstanding member of the community.

  The murdering bastard!

  Smiling for the cameras—

  “Christ!”

  Frank’s heart began to race. That wasn’t good for him, no doubt, but it was a familiar feeling that he welcomed.

  “Christ!” he said again, as he went to the house and picked up the phone. He tapped in the number, waited as it rang out, and eventually heard the sleepy voice of Dylan Scott.

  “Sorry. Did I wake you?” he asked.

  “You did. It’s—Oh, is it eight o’clock already?”

  “Closer to half past.”

  There was a rustling sound. “What is it, Frank?”

  “I’ve had a thought about Terry Armstrong.”

  “Oh?”

  “I knew the first of November, 1997 rang a bell. That charity dinner, the one where he was photographed with Anita Champion, took place on the same night that a bloke called Chris Bentley was murdered. He was as bent as they come. Had a habit of acquiring passports for anyone who was willing to pay.”

  “And?”

  “There was a witness, and we caught Bentley’s killer. Well, when I say caught, I’ll amend that to found. With a bullet through his head. We never did find out who shot him.”

  “What’s it got to do with Armstrong?”

  “Maybe nothing. He wasn’t a suspect. No reason why he should have been. But it has his trademark and it’s made me think. You see, him and Bentley were banged up together. Same place, same time. A bit of a coincidence Armstrong being in Dawson’s Clough at the time, too. According to him, he only ever visited the place to keep his wife happy. Strange him being here. Funny that he had so many witnesses that night, too.”

  “Interesting.”

  Frank’s thoughts exactly. Of course, Armstrong being at a function where he knew the local rag would have cameras proved nothing.

  “He’s back in Dawson’s Clough,” Dylan said.

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. He flew back from Florida last week. I was planning to call on him today.”

  “I’ve had a few run-ins with him in my time, Dylan. It might help if I went along with you to have a chat.”

  Silence.

  Frank felt all kinds of a fool. He was no longer Dylan’s boss. The man was working on a case that he was quite capable of solving on his own. Why would he want help from Frank?

  “When can you go?” Dylan asked at last.

  “In five minutes, if you like.”

  “Yeah, well, let me have breakfast first,” Dylan said, and Frank was relieved to hear a smile in his voice. “I’ll come over to your place in about an hour. Okay?”

  “Great.”

  When Frank replaced the receiver, he was aware of adrenalin pumping through his veins for the first time in months. At last he had something to think about other than his health, his bloody boring diet and endless hospital appointments.

  He was smiling. And who would have believed that thinking about that murdering bastard, Terry Armstrong, could cheer him up?

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Christ, you don’t go in for comfort, do you?” Frank said.

  “It’s an acquired taste.” Dylan had to smile. Many people admired the Morgan’s classic design, but few managed to enjoy a noisy, bumpy journey. “The suspension’s a bit stiff, that’s all.”

  “You could flog this and get a proper car, you know.”

  Dylan slowed to a stop as the lights turned red. “This is a proper car.”

>   Frank grunted and sat more upright in his seat.

  “Terry Armstrong,” Dylan said, as he pulled away. “What do you know about him, Frank?”

  “I know he’s a murdering bastard. He was born in the east end of London in 1957. His father and uncle were both behind bars at the time. Terry came up through the ranks, working for uncles and cousins, all crooks, until, aged about twenty, he went into business on his own.”

  “As what?”

  “We’d say loan shark. He chose to believe he was offering a public service. He added to that with several of those tanning shops—not leather, but sunbeds and that sort of thing. A front for money laundering, we always reckoned.”

  When Dylan had been on the force, Armstrong had been under investigation for money laundering. They’d never got anything to stick, though. Rumours had been rife about Armstrong having senior police officers on his payroll.

  “He employed a couple of thugs to make sure everyone kept up to date with their payments,” Frank said. “If they didn’t, they’d have a few bones broken as an incentive. We had one chap, Ross Williams, on assault. Almost murder. Of course, Armstrong pretended to be horrified and said Williams had been overzealous. Williams ended up behind bars, and his missus seemed to come into a bit of money.”

  “A present from Armstrong?”

  “We couldn’t prove that.” Frank paused for thought. “Then, and we’re talking 1990, maybe 1992, it became common knowledge that Armstrong’s wife, the lovely Pamela—lovely if you have a passion for vipers, at any rate—was having an affair with Tom Andrews.”

  “Who was he?”

  “Another of Armstrong’s employees. Built like the proverbial brick shithouse. Another who used to collect loan repayments.”

  “Ouch!”

  “You can say that again. Pamela was brutally murdered. And I mean, Christ, it was brutal. Slow and bloody painful. She’d have been begging to die.”

  Dylan put his foot down as they joined the M65 heading to Burnley.

  “What happened to the boyfriend, Tom Andrews?” he asked.