Presumed Dead (11 page)

As he drove on the M65 to Blackburn, Dylan wondered why the gods had it in for him. What had he ever done to anyone?

His wife had thrown him out, his mother had moved in, he was penniless—well, he would be if it weren’t for Holly Champion’s faith in him—and now, as if that lot wasn’t enough, he was on his way to meet the copper from hell.

Pikey had phoned him that morning, soon after Stevie’s abrupt exit from Asda’s cafe.

“You’ll never guess,” he’d said, laughing.

“Then I won’t bother. Out with it.”

“The senior investigating officer on the Anita Champion case was none other than your friend and mine—are you ready for this?—Frank Willoughby.”

“What? Oh, no. You’re kidding me.”

“Nope. I knew he hailed from Lancashire—hey, it’s a small world, isn’t it?”

“Small and full of shit,” Dylan groaned. “Of all the coppers in the world—”

“He’s retired now so perhaps he’s mellowed.”

“Fat chance.”

“I told him you’d like a word and he was more than happy for me to pass on his number. Said he’d look forward to hearing from you.”

“Look forward to kicking me in the bollocks, more like.”

Dylan and Pikey had experienced the dubious pleasure of working under D.C.I. Frank Willoughby when he had been sent down to the City on an undercover job. He was a damn good detective, Dylan acknowledged grudgingly, but he was a bastard to work for. Nothing they did was right. Nothing.

Every day had started with a bollocking for some misdemeanour or other. They had all prayed for his stint of duty to end.

“Soft fucking southerners” had been his favourite description of Dylan and Pikey.

There was no getting out of it, though. As he’d been the senior investigating officer on Anita Champion’s case, Dylan had to talk to him. For all he knew, they might have gathered all sorts of info.

So he’d phoned him.

“I’ll be out for an hour or so,” Willoughby had said. “About three would suit me best.” He’d given Dylan his address and that had been that. The conversation hadn’t been long enough to tell if he had mellowed or not.

With the aid of his sat nav, Dylan found the address fairly easily and stopped his car outside a solid detached house with a huge well-maintained garden. Very nice.

It was precisely three o’clock, so Dylan might earn a Brownie point for punctuality, another of Willoughby’s foibles. Either way, he would treat himself to a few pints if he managed to escape with his testicles in the right place.

He walked up the driveway, prodded the doorbell and heard a deep bing-bong echo through the interior.

Then he was face-to-face with Frank Willoughby.

It was getting on for sixteen years since they had worked in the same building, and Dylan was taken aback by the change in the man. He looked much older and, amazingly, almost frail.

“Well, well, well,” Frank said. “I never thought I’d see you north of Watford Gap. You’d better come in.”

“Thanks.” Dylan was led down the hallway, through the kitchen and into a conservatory—heated, thank God—where several newspapers and an empty coffee mug suggested that Frank spent a lot of time in there.

“How are you, Frank?”

“Can’t complain. You?”

“About the same.”

Frank must be heading toward sixty, Dylan guessed, but he looked older. His skin had a greyish tinge to it. His hair was still the same, though. Short, thick and dark.

“Retirement agreeing with you?” Dylan asked.

“Not particularly, but I had a heart attack a couple of months back, so any sort of work is off the agenda for a while.” He gave Dylan a searching look. “Retirement agreeing with you?”

“Not particularly.”

“Better than being inside, though?”

“Yeah, better than that.”

It had been too much to hope that Willoughby hadn’t heard about his spectacular fall from grace and dismissal from the force.

“You’re driving so you won’t want a proper drink, will you? Fancy a cup of tea?”

“That would be great. Thanks.”

While Frank clattered around in the kitchen, Dylan admired the view of the hills from the conservatory.

“Nice spot,” he said when Frank put the tea things on a wicker table.

“It is, yes. Now, sit yourself down.”

“Thanks.”

“Pikey seems to be doing well for himself,” Frank said.

“So it seems, yes.”

“He’s a good copper.”

Sixteen years ago, Pikey had been another soft fucking southerner, but Dylan refrained from saying so.

“He tells me you’re looking into the disappearance of Anita Champion,” Frank went on.

“I am, yes. Her daughter’s asked me to see what I can find out. I’m surprised that more wasn’t done at the time.”

“There was no money. Isn’t that what it always comes down to?”

“Not where you’re concerned, no.” The copper Dylan remembered wouldn’t have let a minor detail like resources affect an investigation.

“A month later, a child was abducted,” Frank said. “We were busy working on that. It was more important than chasing a grown woman across the country.”

There were two large slices of what looked to be homemade fruit cake on the tray, and Dylan helped himself to one.

“Is that what you thought? That she was swanning around the countryside?”

Frank let out his breath. “Not really.”

His answer surprised Dylan. “So what
did
you think?”

“We all hoped she would turn up, obviously. But there was no evidence of foul play, none at all, so there was nothing we could do, was there? Besides, we launched a massive search for Janice Bright, the missing child, so we would have found a body if there’d been one to find.”

“Not if the perp had buried her in his cellar.” Dylan took another bite of cake. It was heavy and moist, just the way he liked it. He’d skipped lunch, too, so he was starving.

“And whose cellar should we have searched?” Frank asked. “She had no enemies. There was nothing to suggest she hadn’t just taken off.”

“Leaving her daughter behind?”

Frank shrugged at that. “What have you learnt so far?”

“What makes you think a fucking soft southerner like me has learnt anything?”

Frank smiled at that. “Even soft southerners make good coppers. Sometimes.”

“This one didn’t. This one was dismissed from the force.”

“Yeah, I know. And I was sorry to hear it. Really sorry.”

Dylan’s head flew up. He’d imagined Frank would think a filthy cell the best place for him.

“I’ve arrested dozens of scumbags in my time, Dylan, and they don’t take kindly to it. I could have been in the same situation myself, many times. Any copper could.”

“Thanks. I appreciate that.” He did. More than Frank could know.

“Come on, then. Tell me what you’ve got so far.”

“Probably nothing. How about you tell me what you know?”

Frank smiled like an experienced hand indulging a young rookie. “I know we weren’t called in until over a week after she went missing.”

“Why was that?”

“Because everyone, her daughter included, assumed she’d met up with someone—a man—and would return when it suited her.”

“Her daughter was only eleven!”

“Yes, I know.” Frank put his hands together and rested the tips of his fingers beneath his chin. “So what do I know? I know she went out with friends, as she often did on Saturday nights. They started at the Commercial, went on to Oasis and then split up—as they often did—and, although she was seen dancing with a couple of unidentified men at the club, she was never seen again.” He shrugged a little sheepishly. “As I said, we were busy with other things. We put out an appeal for information, but nothing came of it.”

“So you closed the case? Just like that?”

“Of course not. The case is still open, but you can’t follow leads that aren’t there. She was a grown woman, Dylan. We made sure her daughter was okay. That was our main priority.” He leaned forward and picked up his cup of tea. “So what have you found out?”

“Anita Champion slept her with her employer’s boyfriend, one Eddie Swift. To teach her a lesson, the other girls—and I imagine Sandra, her employer was behind it—put something in her drink. God knows what. One of her friends, Brenda Tomlinson, was a nurse at the time so, presumably she could have got hold of anything. She’s on holiday so I haven’t managed to speak to her yet. Anyway, this had the desired effect and Anita was later seen by two of those friends throwing up in the alley outside Oasis. They heard a man go to her aid and then they scarpered.

“The man, Stevie—God, I still don’t know his surname. He’s a few pence short of a shilling and they call him Simple Stevie. According to him, he stayed with her for half an hour, got her some water from the club, and then walked with her to the taxi rank. He saw her get in the taxi and he knows she was intending to go to Morty’s. Morty’s was a—”

“Shit hole,” Frank said. “We used to get called out to that place most weeks.”

“Mm. Anyway, that’s the last time she was seen as far as I can tell. But I’ve only just found out about that, so I’m going to find—or try to find—people who worked there.”

“Right.”

“Eddie Swift reckoned that a bouncer at a nightclub used to get free drinks for Anita.”

“I’m impressed.” Frank nodded at the other piece of fruit cake. “You have that. I’m supposed to be watching my weight.”

Dylan was more interested in Anita Champion, but he was also starving, so he grabbed the cake.

Frank, meanwhile, left the room for a few moments and returned with a phone. He tapped in a number, then had a good chat with his caller.

Dylan’s patience was about to expire when he heard Frank say, “Tell me, mate, what was the name of that bouncer at Morty’s? The big ugly bugger we arrested?…Ah, yes, that’s it…Can you think of anyone else who worked there?…Oh?…Did he indeed?”

When the call ended, Frank returned the phone to the other room and came back with a pen and paper in his hand.

“Now then.” He wrote quickly. “Colin Bates was a bouncer at Morty’s. Ugly sod. We had him on an ABH charge. The bloke who did the disco for years was a flash prat by the name of Sean Ellis. He was crap at his job, but got to keep it because the ladies liked him. And, of course, you’ll know that Phil Mortimer owned the place?”

“Yes.”

“He and his wife run a nursing home now.” Frank grimaced at the notion. “There must be more profit in waiting for death.”

Dylan took the paper from him. “Thanks for that, Frank, I appreciate it. I owe you.”

“You owe me nothing, lad. But you’ll keep me informed, will you? It’ll give the old grey cells—” he tapped his head, “—something to work on.”

He was lonely, Dylan realised with a jolt. What about the attractive wife they’d met once? Who was baking fruit cake? “How’s your wife?”

“Ex-wife. Married three times, divorced three times. Not a great track record, is it? How’s your wife?”

“Bev’s fine.” Dylan’s reply was automatic. “Well, to be honest, she’s throwing one of her wobblers at the moment. She’ll come round, she always does, but in the meantime, it’s a damn pain. You know what it’s like, Frank.”

“I should do.” Frank sighed.

“Don’t tell me you’ve put your hand to baking.”

“Ha. That’s Esme, my next door neighbour. She’s taken to mothering me since the heart attack. But don’t worry, fending her off gives me something to do.”

Dylan was surprised to find himself liking Frank Willoughby. Who would have believed that? Retirement and a heart attack had softened his one-time boss. Or perhaps Frank had always been a likeable sort of bloke. He’d been hard on his underlings, but perhaps that went with the job.

“There’s something else,” Dylan said.

“Oh?”

“This.” Dylan took the photo of Anita Champion and Terry Armstrong from his pocket and handed it over.

“Christ! Where the hell did you get this?”

“From her daughter. It was taken four weeks before Anita vanished. The first of November, to be precise. Holly bought a copy from the local paper.”

“Taken where?” Frank asked.

“Dawson’s Clough. The Town Hall. It was a charity dinner. I’ve no idea how Anita came to be there, though. No idea how Armstrong came to be there either, come to that. I’ve looked it up in the local paper but there’s no mention of either of them.”

“Armstrong’s wife came from round here,” Frank said. “She’s as hard as he is, but she likes to be seen to be doing the right thing. They’ve been living here for about eight years now. Maybe it got too hot down in the smoke for him. Maybe he’s content to reap the rewards now.”

“Hmm.”

“But how the hell did someone like Anita Champion come to be with an evil bastard like him?” Frank didn’t wait for an answer. “You’ll do well to look very closely at Terry Armstrong.”

“I intend to.”

One thing was certain, if Armstrong’s name had come to light during the original investigation, Lancashire Constabulary would have found the resources for a very thorough inquiry.

“So how are you liking Lancashire?” Frank asked as he was showing him out.

“It’s okay. Beautiful in parts. It’s just—”

“The bloody awful weather.” Frank chuckled. “Always raining.”

“Yeah.”

“Ah, well, we’re all waterproof.” He nodded at Dylan’s car. “Very nice.”

“I restored it myself. So far—” he touched the wooden trellis on the wall, “—it hasn’t missed a beat.”

“Good for you!”

Dylan suddenly felt awkward, and he had no idea why that was. “Well, thanks again for your help, Frank. I’ll let you know if I find out anything else.”

“I’d like that. I’m usually here. You have my number anyway.”

“I have.” Dylan shook hands with him and then walked smartly to his car.

He fired the engine and took off without a backward glance. There was something sad, even a little pathetic, about ex-D.C.I. Frank Willoughby that unsettled him. Perhaps it was the knowledge that, unless he did something constructive with his life, Dylan would end up exactly the same.

Moorside Residential Home stood at the end of a long curving driveway. A large stone building, it was a couple of miles from Dawson’s Clough, alone on top of the hill and, even on a damp Monday morning, looked impressive.

Dylan yawned as he drove into the car park. He’d had an early start that morning and hadn’t slept particularly well over the weekend.

In fact, apart from the six hours he’d spent with Luke, having a few laughs at the bowling alley, his weekend had been a waste of time.

Instead of getting his washing done, he’d sifted through the papers Holly had given him. Most of it appeared to be junk, but there were two old and often-handled Valentine’s Day cards, both signed
Guess who?
in the same hand, which intrigued him. Dylan wished he
could
guess.

There were cinema ticket stubs, old lottery tickets, a bookmark made by Holly, dental appointments card, magazine cuttings. Dylan had been through it all a dozen times looking for clues…

There were several vehicles in the car park and Dylan pulled up between a gleaming Mercedes and a black Porsche. Ending your days at Moorside wouldn’t be a cheap option, Dylan presumed, so the cars might have belonged to relatives. And if this
was
a highly profitable venture, as Frank Willoughby believed, Phil Mortimer would be able to afford the best.

He walked into a thickly carpeted reception area where a young girl in a spotless white uniform looked up and gave him a bleached white smile.

“Hello, there, I was wondering if I might see Mr. Mortimer for a couple of minutes.”

Dylan hadn’t wanted to phone in advance because he preferred to catch people unawares. Given time, they perfected their stories. However, it was a hit-and-miss way to operate, and often resulted in Dylan being told the person in question had just left for a fortnight’s holiday.

“Is he expecting you?”

“No, but as I only need a couple of minutes—”

“Just a minute, Mr.—?”

“Scott. Dylan Scott.”

Still smiling as if she were auditioning for a toothpaste commercial, she lifted the receiver, waited a moment and then said, “Phil, a Mr. Dylan Scott would like to talk to you. May I send him through?” A pause. “Thank you.”

She replaced the receiver and emerged from behind her desk. “This way, Mr. Scott.”

Dylan was led along a hallway where large black-and-white photographs adorned the walls. One he recognised as
The Singing, Ringing Tree
, Burnley’s stunning panopticon, a sculpture of galvanised steel pipes that sat high above the town on Crown Point. Another was of Lancaster Town Hall.

His companion knocked on a door and Dylan was ushered into Mortimer’s office. Easy peasy, he decided with satisfaction.

“Thanks for your time.” He shook the man’s hand. “I’m not trying to book a place here,” he added in a jokey manner, “but I’d like to pick your memory, if I may.”

“We’re fully booked for the foreseeable future, so that’s just as well. As for my memory, that’s passable. How can I help?”

Judging by the excess flab around his girth, Phil Mortimer lived well and spent too much time sitting in his chair. He was mid-fifties with dark hair turning to grey, and a scar close to his left eye. His stomach hung over grey trousers and his white shirt strained at the buttons. There was a gold chain (expensive) around his neck and a chunky Rolex (
very
expensive) on his wrist.

After a brief hesitation, Dylan decided to trot out the somewhat well-worn story of the antique ring. It made him look like a love-struck fool so people opened up more. If he said he was working on the case for a client, it would be too official. People would be wary.

He rattled off his story, watching Mortimer’s eyebrows rise higher with each word.

“I need to know what happened to that ring,” he finished. “And to do that, I have to know what happened to Anita Champion.”

“Gosh.” Phil Mortimer leaned back in his executive leather chair, hands linked behind his head. “I haven’t thought of Anita in years.”

“You knew her well?”

“Not as well as I would have liked to,” he said with a wink.

“She was something, wasn’t she?” Dylan injected an air of wistfulness into his own voice.

“Stunning. The men fell at her feet, and the women stabbed her in the back at every opportunity.”

Not literally, Dylan hoped. “I’ve been asking around, and I believe she went to your club on the night she vanished. Is that right?”

“Really? I couldn’t say. It’s possible, of course. We’re talking—what?—ten, twelve years ago?”

“Thirteen. It was the twenty-ninth of November, 1997.”

“Was it really? How time flies.”

“Did the police ask questions at your club at the time?”

“Not as far as I can remember. They put an appeal on TV and the local papers mentioned it, but, no, I don’t recall them asking about her at the club. Presumably, if anyone had seen her there that night, or anywhere else for that matter, they would have told the police.”

“Presumably, yes. But you don’t remember her being there that night?”

“Sorry.” He shook his head. “Mind you, I couldn’t say for sure if I was there that night. I had good staff so I wasn’t there every night.”

“I see. Yes, someone said she was friendly with the staff—well, the DJ, Sean Ellis, and one of the bouncers, Colin Bates.”

“Bates?” Mortimer rolled his eyes. “I fired him. It soon became apparent that he enjoyed his job too much. Short on brain, but handy with his fists.”

“Do you recall Anita being friendly with him?”

“I can’t say I do. No.”

“What about the DJ, Sean Ellis?”

“A born flirt.” Mortimer smiled. “He was good for business. The ladies loved him. He could charm honey from bees when he tried.” He winked again, which Dylan found slightly disconcerting. “I expect Anita was friendly with him all right. Not that I ever heard anything.”

“Is he still in Dawson’s Clough?”

“He is. Not that you’d recognise him these days. The charm’s gone, I’m afraid. Knocked out of him by a blonde who managed to drag him to the altar. Has half a dozen kids now and spends all his time propping up the bar at the Red Lion.”

Dylan knew the pub. He’d spent an hour in there. Alone. He would have to call again and meet up with Sean Ellis.

“Who
did
Anita spend time with at the club?” he asked.

“You’d make a good policeman.” Again Mortimer spoke in that false, jokey manner of his.

“I used to be one.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.” Dylan wasn’t going into detail. “Which would make you think I could find Anita, but I’m drawing a blank. I’d be grateful for names.”

“I wish I could give you some.” Mortimer shook his head. “Sorry, but I can’t think of anyone. People went there, usually when the pubs closed, and either stayed or moved on. They chatted, they drank, they danced—”

“Took drugs?”

Mortimer’s good mood dropped a notch. “A few might have. You try to run a clean place, but there are always a couple who get through the net.”

“Of course. Do you remember the last time you spoke to Anita?”

“Yes. It was when she cut my hair. That must have been three or four weeks before she did her disappearing act because I turned up at the shop expecting a trim, only to be told that she hadn’t shown for a week.”

“Were you surprised?”

“Well, yes, of course. She was totally irresponsible, but she’d never pulled a stunt like that before. I assumed she’d see sense and return home.” He shrugged. “She never did, though. Now—well, who knows? She could be anywhere.”

“Dead or alive.” Dylan watched the other man’s expression carefully.

“Gosh, yes, I suppose she might even be dead now,” Mortimer said as if the thought had struck him for the first time.

“Or she could be soaking up the sun in the Caribbean.”

“Far more Anita’s style.”

Dylan stood up. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Mortimer. I appreciate it.”

“You’re more than welcome.” Mortimer also rose to his feet to shake Dylan’s hand. “I’m sorry I can’t help.”

“Don’t worry about it. It was a long shot anyway.” He indicated the room in general. “This must be a change for you after the club. Quite a career change.”

“Not really. My wife was a nurse, so with my management experience it was an obvious choice.”

“Ah, I see. Well, thanks again.”

Dylan left the room and deliberately headed toward the double doors at the end of the hallway. He found himself in a day room where several residents gazed at a large-screen television. Waiting for God, Dylan thought.

Still, there had to be worse places to wait. As these homes went, Moorside was the height of luxury.

He had a good look round on the way out, but it didn’t help. What had he expected? To see Anita Champion watching the latest Hollywood blockbuster?

No. People like Anita, people with spirit, wouldn’t last five minutes in this place. She might be dead or alive, but she wasn’t the type to wait for God. She would have to be dragged, fighting all the way, to her celestial resting place.

The Red Lion was worse than Dylan remembered. Judging by the decor, the pub hadn’t seen a lick of paint or a duster since the smoking ban became law.

On this visit, he wasn’t the only customer though. A couple in their late sixties were sitting at a table in a dingy corner saying nothing. They simply sat and gazed ahead, occasionally drinking.

The other plus point was the price of the beer. It was almost fifty pence a pint cheaper than the other pubs in Dawson’s Clough. Even that wasn’t pulling in the customers, though. Unsurprisingly, there were no guest ales and certainly no Black Sheep on offer.

Dylan had almost finished his pint and was unsure if he could face a second when another customer came in.

“Sean,” the barmaid greeted him. “Thought you were giving us a miss tonight. The usual?”

“Yeah, a pint of your finest, Beryl.”

Was this Sean Ellis? Anita Champion would be forty-three now, and this man looked to be around the same age. Maybe a couple of years older.

He was running to fat. Even his face looked pale and bloated. Tight black jeans were held up with a thick black leather belt. On top was a blue sweater and a black jacket that was shiny at the elbows. Two earrings, small gold hoops, dangled from one ear.

Dylan emptied his glass, walked up to the bar to stand beside him and ordered another pint.

His companion meanwhile was already halfway down his drink.

Dylan stared at him until he had his attention.

“Sorry,” he said, “but do I know you? There’s something familiar—”

“I don’t think so, mate.”

“I’m sure I recognise you. Mind, it’s probably from ages ago. I spent a fair bit of time in Dawson’s Clough about fourteen or fifteen years ago.”

“Oh?” His companion looked more closely. “Ever go to a club called Morty’s?”

Dylan slapped a hand to his forehead. “That’s it! You were the DJ there!”

“Sean Ellis.” He nodded and almost broke into a smile.

“You were good. Damn good.”

“Yeah, well.” The smile broke through.

“I had some great times at Morty’s,” Dylan said. “I bet you’d remember the girl I was seeing at the time—well, not seeing as much of as I wanted to, if you get my drift. Anita Champion.”

“Anita? Christ, yeah, I remember her all right.”

Everyone did. Yet no one seemed interested in where she was now. “Actually, that’s why I’m back in Dawson’s Clough. I’m trying to find her. Or her daughter.”

“Haven’t you heard? Did a runner, Anita did.”

“I heard about that, yes.”

“She’s not been seen or heard of for years. Ten years probably.”

“Thirteen.”

“Yeah, probably.”

“Can I get you a drink?” Dylan asked.

“Sure. Anyone can get me a drink. I’m not proud. Thanks.” He swigged the last dregs from his glass and banged it on the counter. “Beryl, how about we have some music? It’s like a bloody graveyard in here.”

Beryl obliged by hitting the button on an old CD player, and the Pogues began belting out “Bottle of Smoke.”

“That’s more like it.” Sean tapped his hands on the bar in approval.

Dylan paid for their drinks and was wondering how best to bring the conversation back to Anita when Sean spoke.

“Anita Champion. Christ, I haven’t thought of her in years. They don’t make ’em like that any more.”

“They don’t.”

“We had some fun, me and her.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.”

Dylan waited but Sean had been transported to a better place.

“She dumped me for some other bloke,” Dylan said at last. “Perhaps that was you?”

“Nah.” Sean took a long swallow of beer. “She were—oh, about eighteen when me and her got it together. I weren’t her first bloke, neither. God, she could drive a bloke insane with that body of hers.”

“Don’t I know it.” Dylan wondered about the Valentine’s Day cards that Anita had kept for years. “Together long, were you?”

“No. It were just—well, when we fancied a bit of the other, if you know what I mean.”

Dylan nodded.

“Mind,” Sean said, “that were my choice, not hers. I weren’t a one-woman bloke. Couldn’t see any sense in that. I mean, I like listening to the Pogues, but that don’t mean I don’t want to hear a bit of the Killers now again. D’you get my drift?”

“Absolutely. She seemed the same, though. She could pick and choose. I never got the impression she wanted to settle down.”

“Not with you maybe. She’d have married me all right.”

Would she? Or was Sean Ellis all talk?

“Have you never married then?” Dylan asked.

“Yeah, I got married all right. She were pregnant so I had to do the decent thing, didn’t I?” He nudged Dylan and grinned. “Not that I’m saying I’m a one-woman bloke, mind. As I told you, I can’t see much sense in that.”

Dylan could see sense in it. And if Sean Ellis had been married to Bev, he would have seen the sense in it, too. Fortunately, Dylan had never wanted to stray, but he couldn’t even begin to imagine Bev’s reaction if he had.

Dylan
was
a one-woman man. Which was why he was struggling to cope with this strop Bev was throwing. Many men would have taken it as an open invitation to find pleasure elsewhere. They would have a grand old time tasting forbidden fruit until it was time to go home. Not Dylan.