Presumed Dead

by Shirley Wells

  “Good morning,” Dylan said.

  “English!” Jackson’s smile was dazzling now. “Oh, what a wonderful sound. Here on holiday, are you? A pity the weather’s not better for you.” Without waiting for a reply, he nodded at the boat. “Admiring her, were you? A beauty, isn’t she?”

  “It certainly is.” Dylan didn’t refer to his car as a “she”—cars were too reliable to be feminine—and he had no intention of referring to Jackson’s boat that way. And how in hell’s name could you name a boat Lucky Man and then call it “she”?

  “I’ve had her about a year now,” Jackson said. “I haven’t taken her out much lately, but I come here most days to check on her. Fancy a look round?”

  “Could we?” Frank asked.

  “Gosh, thanks.” Dylan tried to sound enthusiastic.

  As Jackson rattled off the specification, insisted they feel the cream leather upholstery, marvelled at the vast sun deck, and told them there was little change from two thousand pounds for the TV in the lounge, Dylan couldn’t help thinking that he was like a little boy showing off a new toy. Not that Dylan was averse to showing off his Morgan to anyone who showed interest.

  Jackson went through that boat, pointing out every gadget, like a whirlwind. Much as Anita Champion would have. Yes, Dylan could imagine the two of them together. He could believe that Anita had fallen in love with this handsome, energetic, charismatic man.

  “This is great—speaking English, I mean,” Jackson said. “Do you have time for lunch? My treat. You must sample the oysters. They’re the best in France!”

  In the distance reaches of his mind, Dylan could hear Anita Champion laughing with delight as she tucked her arm through Jackson’s and prepared to sample the best oysters in France.

  Now, of course, was the time to tell Jackson that they’d come from England to see him. On the other hand, all that would do was take away the pleasure of the oysters. With a glance at Frank, he indicated that he’d break the news later. Preferably after the bill was paid.

  They were ushered into a restaurant which, although it didn’t look anything special from the outside and only had a dozen tables, was obviously The Place To Eat. Diners looked to be worth a few euros, and the prices were suitably steep. Dylan definitely didn’t want to upset Jackson and get landed with the bill.

  “So how long have you lived in France?” Frank asked as they waited for the promised oysters to be brought to their table.

  “Twelve years.”

  “Any regrets about leaving England?”

  “None at all.” Jackson seemed to find that amusing. “I’m thinking of moving to the south coast, but I wouldn’t want to go back to Blighty. The weather’s naff and the roads are clogged.”

  “Tell me about it,” Dylan said. “Your boat, what did you say it was again?”

  “A Prestige 50.”

  “Here.” Dylan took his boat ticket from his pocket and a pen. “Write it down for me, will you? The full spec. It’s just that a mate of mine’s into boats and he’ll be pig sick when I tell him I’ve been shown over yours.”

  Smiling, Jackson wrote down the full spec of the boat, right down to the optional extras like the dishwasher.

  “There you go.” He handed it back to Dylan. “Tell your mate to start saving.”

  “Thanks. I will. He’s an accountant, but an honest one. If he saved from now till they put him in his box, he’d still be a few hundred grand short.”

  “So what about you?” Jackson asked. “Where are you from?”

  “Shepherd’s Bush.”

  “But not you.” Jackson nodded at Frank. “From that accent, I’d say you were from Lancashire.”

  “Spot on,” Frank said.

  “We haven’t even introduced ourselves. Dylan Scott.” He extended his hand across the table and it was dutifully shaken.

  “Frank.” Probably a wise move not to mention his surname. As he’d been senior investigating officer on Anita Champion’s case, the name might be familiar to Jackson.

  “Matt Jackson. Happy to meet you.”

  Dylan knew then that the truth might as well come out now. Hang the oysters.

  “You’re kidding.” He feigned amazement. “Matthew Jackson? Really?”

  “Yes.” Jackson frowned, as well he might.

  “Originally from Dawson’s Clough? Well, obviously, you are,” Dylan said. “God, what an amazing coincidence. We’ve come here looking for you.”

  “Oh?” The smile faded a little.

  “Well, I never.” Frank was playing along. “Do you know, I bet Dylan here a hundred quid that we wouldn’t find you.”

  “What are you wanting with me?” Jackson asked.

  “It’s a long story,” Dylan said, “but we’re looking into the disappearance of a friend of yours. You remember Anita Champion, I take it?”

  “Yes, of course. Hang on a minute, I’m going to see where our food’s got to. Usually you get good service here.” Jackson was on his feet and marching across the dining area to a small counter.

  Having spoken, in very good French, to the young girl there, he returned to his seat. “Sorry about that, but when you pay these prices, you expect a decent service. Now then, what were you saying?”

  “Anita Champion,” Dylan said. “We’re looking into her disappearance and, as far as we know, you were the last person to see her on the night she disappeared. It was a long shot, we knew that, but we wondered if you could tell us anything. Besides, we fancied an expenses-paid trip to France,” he added with a grin.

  “Anita? Yes, I knew her. You’d know that, of course.”

  “You were at school with her, I gather?”

  “Yes. As kids, we were even an item. I suppose you’ve been told that?”

  Everything from Jackson was a question.

  “Yes,” Dylan agreed.

  “So who are you?” Jackson asked. “Who are you working for? Police?”

  “Good God, no.”

  “Her daughter,” Frank said. “She had a daughter, as you’ll know, and it’s Holly who’s asked us to look into her mother’s disappearance. She’s twenty-five now.”

  The oysters arrived and Dylan dutifully oohed and aahed. He couldn’t say he was a lover of seafood, he was more passionate about pie and chips, but they were okay. Nothing on earth would persuade him to pay so dearly for them though.

  For the main part, they were silent as they ate and Dylan wondered if they were giving Jackson time to invent a story.

  He decided Jackson’s time was up. “You know how it is when you’re looking for a missing person. You find someone who saw that person, and they tell you that they saw her later with someone else. And so it goes on. The last person we spoke to, a chap called Colin Bates, who worked as a bouncer at Morty’s for a while, said he saw her on that last night with you. Would that be right?”

  “It would.”

  “And I suppose you’re going to tell us that you saw someone else with her later?” Frank said.

  “Nope. She went off to the ladies’ and I got chatting to a load of mates. I didn’t see her after that.”

  “How did she seem?” Dylan asked.

  “The same as usual. Pissed. How do you mean?”

  “Bates, the bouncer, said she was happy. Excited.”

  Jackson thought for a moment. “No more so than usual as far, as I can remember. It’s a long time ago, Dylan.”

  “Don’t I know it. How did you find out she’d vanished?”

  “Sorry?”

  “When and how did you realise she hadn’t gone home that night?”

  Jackson shrugged. “I can’t remember.”

  “Oh?”

  “You know what it’s like in the Clough. Gossip spreads that fast, you can’t remember who told you.”

  “Were you surprised? That she hadn’t made it home, I mean?”

  “Of course I was.” Jackson signalled and the waitress scurried to their table. “Another bottle of wine, please.”

  “Are y
ou okay drinking and driving over here?” Frank asked.

  “It’s a lot better than being in Blighty, but I’m not driving today. My wife’s here, in Saint-Vaast, and she’ll be driving me home.”

  “Very convenient. Where’s home? Near here, is it?” Frank asked.

  “Two kilometres down the road.”

  “Handy for the boat then? I can’t tell you how envious I am. Not that I’m ever going to be able to afford such a beauty. Still, a man can dream.” Jackson was giving nothing away, and Dylan wanted to know how he could afford such a luxury vessel. “Are they any cheaper over here?”

  “Not really.” Jackson smiled. “You wouldn’t get much change from half a million pounds.”

  “Half a million?” Dylan whistled in amazement. “You’ve got a better job than me then. Any vacancies going?”

  Jackson laughed at that. “I’ve invested wisely over the years.”

  “Ah, so you don’t work?”

  “Only on my investments.”

  “And now I really am jealous,” Dylan said. “I suppose you made a good healthy profit when you sold the garage you had in Dawson’s Clough?”

  “Of course. I’d built up a lot of goodwill and that’s worth a lot. Well, it was back then.”

  Yet according to Harry Tyler, he’d let it go cheap for a quick sale.

  “I don’t want to get personal.” Dylan fiddled with the stem of his wineglass. “But we did wonder if Anita’s going off like that had anything to do with your decision to sell the garage. I know you can’t take notice of gossip, but people thought you were close. Very close.”

  “Dylan!” Jackson waved a finger and laughed. “I was a married man.”

  “So am I.” Dylan winked. “But Anita was some woman, wasn’t she?” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “I heard that you were the love of her life.”

  “Whoever told you that?”

  “Maggie. Maggie Gibson. Used to be Maggie Waters.”

  “Ah, Maggie the Mouse. I think you’ll find, Dylan, that her bedroom floor is a foot deep in Mills and Boon romances.”

  “Probably.” Dylan chuckled, as was expected, but he noted that Jackson hadn’t answered his question. “So why did you sell up?”

  Jackson shrugged. “It was all the rage back then. Everyone wanted to leave the rat race and live an idyllic life abroad.”

  “So they did. On the night Anita disappeared, what were the last words she said to you?”

  “I can’t remember.” He laughed at the stupidity of the question. “It’s thirteen years ago, for God’s sake.”

  It was. But Anita hadn’t gone home and, within in a few days, Jackson would have known that. When someone vanishes, or dies, people always—always—think back to the last time they saw that person, and the last conversation they shared. Given that the two had been close for several years, Jackson would have thought back to that last conversation on more than one occasion.

  “She went to the ladies’,” Jackson added. “Perhaps her last words to me were ‘I need a pee.’ Who knows?”

  He was lying.

  Or perhaps he wasn’t. Perhaps he was a selfish, uncaring bastard who had forgotten all about Anita Champion. Maybe he lived by the motto out of sight, out of mind.

  “That night at Morty’s,” Dylan said, “who else did she talk to?”

  “Anita? Can’t remember. She was anyone’s for a free drink. Now, I will say this for her, she could hold her drink.”

  “But you said she was pissed.”

  “She was drunk, yes, but no more than usual, and no more than anyone else.”

  “And you can’t remember her talking to anyone but you?”

  “No. And she didn’t say much to me. Just hello and goodbye.”

  “But she didn’t say goodbye, did she?”

  “Not in so many words, but you know what I mean. We had a quick natter at the bar, she went to the ladies and I went to chat to my mates. That was all there was to it.”

  “I see.”

  “We also heard,” Frank said, “that she had a bit of a thing going with Terry Armstrong. What do you know about that?”

  Jackson’s eyes narrowed. “Never heard of him.”

  “Really? He’s a bit of a crook. He’s from the east end of London, but he used to visit the area back then because his wife’s family were there. He moved up to Lancashire about eight years ago.”

  “A crook? He’s your main suspect then?”

  “Suspect?” Dylan repeated. “For what?”

  “For doing away with Anita.” Jackson was definitely rattled.

  “You think someone did away with her?” Dylan asked with a soft whistle.

  “Who knows?”

  The door swung open and Jackson’s expression changed immediately. Dylan turned in his seat and saw a tall, slim dark-haired woman approaching them. She had sunglasses resting on top of her head.

  “My wife, Francois.” Jackson was on his feet, moving forward to kiss his wife on both cheeks. “Two English friends,” he told her, “and I would love to chat longer, but alas.”

  Francois had no time to do anything but make a few polite pleased-to-meet-you noises.

  “I hope we’ll meet another time,” Jackson said, “but now I must bid you farewell. We’re already running late.”

  He took several large notes from his pocket, dropped them on the table and ushered his wife to the door. They were last seen striding across the road in the direction of the harbour and Jackson’s BMW.

  “Must have been something we said,” Frank muttered.

  “Must have. And what happened to his former wife, I wonder?”

  “Traded her in for a foreign model, I guess.” Frank let out his breath on a sigh. “He is a lucky bastard. A boat worth nearly half a million and a wife like that.”

  “Hmm.”

  “You didn’t like him?” Frank asked.

  Dylan had neither liked nor disliked him. Shallow was the word that sprang to mind. “It was a long way to come for that.”

  “True. But now we know where he is, we can get him checked out a bit. And find out what happened to the girl he married.” He gave Dylan a knowing look. “Let’s hope she hasn’t done a disappearing act, too.”

  Frank had echoed Dylan’s thoughts exactly.

  “He reminds me of someone,” Dylan said, “and I’m damned if I can think who it is.”

  “Oh?”

  “It’ll come to me.”

  “You’ve probably spent too long looking at his photo.”

  “Probably.” Dylan pushed it from his mind. “And I’ve got a nice sample of his handwriting. It’ll be interesting to see if the same hand wrote on Anita Champion’s Valentine’s cards.” He nodded at the cash on the table. “Do you think there’s enough there for another bottle of wine?”

  “Sure to be.”

  As they formed their own opinions of Matthew Jackson, they enjoyed another bottle of wine at his expense.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The following morning brought more blue skies and sunshine, and Dylan was happy to sit outside the small cafe, warm in his overcoat, and enjoy his croissants. He wasn’t a great lover of French food, perhaps his palette wasn’t sufficiently sophisticated, but he adored freshly baked croissants and could easily eat half a dozen.

  The miracle was that he had a decent mug of coffee to go with them. The young waitress, on discovering that he and Frank were English, had asked if he wanted “tall coffee.”

  He couldn’t understand why he’d imagined that bringing Frank along would have been an act of charity. It was saving him a great deal of time and effort. Frank had called his friends on the force, they in turn had contacted French officials and, early this morning, it had been confirmed that Jackson’s former wife was alive and well and owner of this cafe in Cherbourg.

  According to the young waitress, a girl whose English was as good as Dylan’s French, Julie had left the cafe for a hair appointment and would return shortly. At least, that’s what Dylan t
hought she’d said.

  “Are you still planning to go back on the two o’clock ferry?” Frank asked, and Dylan nodded.

  “I think so. Unless anything else comes to light.”

  Anything else? So far, nothing had come to light. He was no further forward than when he’d started on this case. He knew a lot more about Anita Champion, her friends and her habits, but he was no nearer to knowing what had happened to her.

  A woman dashed inside the cafe, and Dylan thought it might have been Jackson’s ex-wife.

  Sure enough, seconds later she was there, pulling out a chair at their table and sliding into it.

  “Two English gentlemen waiting for me.” Her smile was warm. “How lovely!”

  Her hair was longer these days, but the elfin features and large doelike eyes were just as Dylan remembered from the photo taken on her wedding day.

  “Julie—Carrington?” According to Frank’s sources, she had reverted to her maiden name. “I’m Dylan Scott and this is Frank Willoughby.”

  “Delighted to meet you both.” She shook hands with them, her fingers long and slender. “How can I help you?”

  Her face was heart-shaped, Dylan noticed, and her expression was open, friendly and genuine. He just hoped it remained so.

  “I’m a private investigator.” Dylan decided to come clean from the start. “My client has asked me to look into the disappearance of her mother, one Anita Champion. She lived—”

  “Good heavens. That’ll be Holly, won’t it?”

  “That’s right, yes.”

  “Of course, she’ll be grown up now, won’t she?” She did a quick calculation. “She must be twenty-five. Heavens, that makes me feel old.”

  “She’s working as a teacher now.”

  “Good for her. She was always a clever girl.”

  “Did you know Holly and her mother well?” Frank asked.

  “Not really. My husband—ex-husband now—knew her better.”

  “Ah, yes. We had a brief chat with your ex-husband yesterday,” Dylan said.

  “Really?”

  “Yes. He couldn’t help, though.”

  “I don’t suppose he could,” she said. “It was a funny business, though. And if I were Holly, I’d want to know what happened, too. I can’t begin to imagine how it must feel to be—abandoned like that. She had no one, did she? Well, an aunt and uncle, but it’s not the same.”