Presumed Dead (21 page)

The marital home was the same as ever. Bev, however, wasn’t.

“What are you doing here?”

Dylan knew he wasn’t the most observant of blokes when it came to women, but even he noticed that her hair had been cut and had very light blond streaks in it. She was wearing makeup, too. He couldn’t remember her not reaching for a lipstick first thing in the morning, but today, and it was only eleven o’clock on a Saturday morning, she looked as if she was about to star in a Max Factor commercial.

“It’s my house, remember?” Dylan wasn’t standing for this nonsense any longer. Apart from anything else, it was damned stupid to be paying rent
and
a mortgage.

After three long days in Dawson’s Clough achieving nothing, he wasn’t in the mood for pandering to her sulks. He’d spent most of that time with Stevie, searching through all those newspaper cuttings for a link between Terry Armstrong and Matthew Jackson. He hadn’t found one.

“Luke’s not here,” Bev said. “It’s Tom’s birthday so he’s spending the day with him.”

“I know. I do communicate with Luke, you know.”

Dylan had spoken to Luke last night and he knew his son was going bowling and then to some fancy restaurant with his friend. Tomorrow, they would spend the day together, but meanwhile, Dylan was determined to talk some sense into Bev.

“Shall I come in?” he asked. “Or would you rather give the neighbours something to talk about?”

“Five minutes.” She stepped back to allow him entry.

They walked into the kitchen where Bev stood, arms folded, with her back to the sink. She glanced at her watch, then at the clock on the wall, and then at Dylan. “Well?”

“Are you expecting company?”

“No.” He wasn’t sure if she blushed or not. “But I’m going out and I’ll be late. I need to get on, Dylan. Can’t this wait until tomorrow?”

“No, Bev, it can’t. I want to know what’s going on.”

“Going on?”

“With you. With us. I want to know how long I’m expected to stand it in that blasted flat.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Everything, but that’s not the point. I want to know how long it will be before we can forget all this nonsense and get back to normal.”

She took a breath and glanced at her watch again.

“I’ve told you. It’s over, Dylan. I can’t live with you any longer.”

“So are we talking divorce? Shall I go and instruct a solicitor, or would you rather sit down and talk finances now?”

He had, naturally enough, expected her to quake at the mention of solicitors and the D-word, but no. Credit where it was due, she was taking this strop all the way.

“I think we need to sit down and talk. But not now, Dylan. Really, I have to go out.”

“Tomorrow?”

She nodded, but he could tell it was a reluctant agreement.

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll be back with Luke by sixish. We’ll sit down then, shall we? Luke can join in and tell us how he feels about coming from a broken home.”

“For God’s sake, Dylan.”

“What? A broken home is exactly what it is.”

“We’ll talk tomorrow.” She looked at her watch again.

“Fine.”

With that, he marched off. Two could play at this game, he thought, as he got in his car and gave the door a (gentle) slam. She would spend the day thinking he was serious about a divorce, and then wonder how she could climb down gracefully without making herself look ridiculous.

He had driven about twenty yards when a Nissan drove round the corner and into the quiet road, slowing to a crawl. The male driver was studying house numbers.

The Nissan pulled up in the exact spot Dylan had vacated. Dylan had to stop and turn around in his seat.

The man, carrying flowers, walked up to Dylan’s front door and rang the bell.

He’d probably got the wrong house. Men took flowers to their wives if they’d been having an affair, or they gave flowers to their dying mothers, sisters or aunts. Yes, he must have the wrong house. Dylan put the Morgan into gear and slowly pulled away.

The next day, sitting in a draughty corner of McDonalds, Dylan did the unthinkable. He grilled Luke.

“Did your mum have any visitors yesterday?”

Luke poured ketchup over his chips. “Not that I know of.”

“Did she have flowers in the house?”

Sadly, Luke had inherited Dylan’s observational skills in the home. “I dunno.”

“Has she seemed different lately?”

“No. Why?”

“When I called in yesterday, she kept looking at the clock. Then, just as I was leaving, some man called at the house. He was carrying flowers.”

Luke’s mouth, stuffed with burger, gaped. “You reckon she’s got a bloke?”

“Ooh, I shouldn’t think so.” But Dylan didn’t know what to think.

“She has been making me tidy up a lot recently.”

“Has she?”

“Yeah.”

“What? More than usual?”

“I dunno really.”

Of course he didn’t. Bev was obsessively tidy at the best of times.

“Well, we won’t worry about it. I’ll talk to her later and we’ll soon get everything sorted out.”

“I hope so. I hate it when you’re not around, Dad.”

Dylan ruffled his son’s hair. “Me too. Don’t worry, we’ll sort it.”

They were about to leave McDonald’s when Dylan’s phone rang.

“Hello?” As it was a foreign number, he expected it to be a mistake.

“Monsieur Scott?” a female asked.

“Yes?”

“Ah,
bonjour.
Um, my partner, say you call at house. You asked for the man, Monsieur Jackson?”

“Ah, yes, that’s right.”

“I know the
monsieur.
I bought this house from the
monsieur.
”

Before Dylan could explain that he’d already found the
monsieur,
she went on, “He live in Saint-Vaast-la-Hougue.” She gave a tinkling laugh. “We call him Bond. If you had asked for Monsieur Bond, my partner, she would have known.”

“Monsieur Bond?” Dylan suspected that, once again, a lot was being lost in the translation.

“
Mais oui.
A friend of mine, he call him James Bond. He thinks he work for, er, MI5. A lot of, er, gadgets. And a lot of money.”

He certainly had a lot of money.

“Your friend,” he asked, “who is that?”

“Pierre. He has small house near Barfleur. He knows Monsieur Jackson.”

“Could you give me his number?”

“
Oui.
I have say to him that you will contact.”

Dylan took down the man’s number, thanked her for calling, and snapped his phone shut.

Then he opened it again and punched in the number she’d given him. There was no need to tell anyone he’d already found Jackson.

The call was answered and, no sooner had Dylan given his name, the man launched into faultless English.

“Yes, I was told you’d be calling, Mr. Scott. It’s about Mr. Jackson, I gather.”

“That’s right. I understand you call him James Bond?”

“I do.” The man chuckled. “One, because he likes his gadgets and two, because he has a different story for each day of the week.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“He’s told people he owned businesses in England.” He was still finding it amusing. “He’s told others he won the jackpot. I think he must be an undercover agent for your government.”

“I see.”

“A pretty lady might find out. He likes the ladies.”

“Don’t we all.”

“Anyway, you’re looking for him and I can tell you where he is.”

Dylan had most of the details, but he made a note of Jackson’s regular haunts.

Now what? he wondered as he closed his phone again. He couldn’t expect Holly to fund another trip to France and, even if he financed it himself, there would be no point. He’d spoken to Jackson, and to his ex-wife, and found out nothing.

MI5 indeed. There were many possible explanations for Jackson’s wealth, but employment by that particular agency wasn’t one of them.

All the same, Jackson was involved in Anita’s disappearance. Dylan was sure of it.

A pretty lady would find out.

The idea began to take form as Dylan drove Luke home…

“I’ll make myself scarce,” Luke said in a whisper as they arrived at the marital home.

Bev, Dylan noticed, didn’t look worried about a discussion centred on the D-word. He didn’t see any flower arrangements, though. He’d known, deep down, that the stranger had called at the wrong house.

Today she was wearing much less makeup, and jeans and a sweater were the order of the day.

“Coffee?” she asked him as soon as Luke had legged it to his room.

“Please. Yes, thanks.” That was a welcome surprise.

He wasn’t sure how to broach this. With care, obviously. “It’s half term, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

“Any plans?”

“No, not really.”

“Bev?” Grovelling was his best option. “I could do with some help. Your help.”

“Oh?” She sounded surprised and wary.

“Yes. It’s to do with this case I’m working on.”

She handed him his coffee and he told her all about Anita Champion. How she’d gone missing, how she’d been friendly with Terrence Armstrong, how Matthew Jackson had conveniently retired to France soon afterward, and how the man had more money than Croesus.

“Matthew Jackson is at the bottom of all this, I feel sure of it. So what I need is someone—well, not just anyone, obviously—someone who can act, someone attractive who can pander to his ego—”

“I thought you said he was in France.” She frowned.

“He is. On the coast, quite close to Cherbourg. We could nail it in a couple of days.”

“
We?
” It slowly sank in. “You want
me
to talk to this bloke?”

“Please, Bev. A couple of days, that’s all. Hey, an all-expenses-paid trip to France. That can’t be bad, can it?”

She was looking at him as if he’d arrived from Mars.

“You’re asking me to go to France with you?” She spoke as she might to one of her slower pupils. “At a time like this, when we have so much to sort out, you expect me to go to France? With you? To talk to a complete stranger about another complete stranger who vanished thirteen years ago?”

“I thought it might give us time to talk things over. On neutral soil.” He didn’t want her thinking that the problems between them were unimportant. “And I really would appreciate your help, Bev.”

“You’re unbelievable. Absolutely bloody unbelievable!”

“That’s why you love me.”

“Pah.” She picked up a place mat, only to return it to the same spot. “Neutral soil, you say?”

“Yes. On the boat, or in a swanky French restaurant.” She was weakening, he was sure of it. “We can get our problems sorted out. Mum’s here so she’ll be able to have Luke for a few days. And I expect you could do with a break, couldn’t you?”

She was considering it, and Dylan didn’t know whether to be shocked or delighted. He was a little of both.

“Dylan,” she said at last, “I truly don’t want our relationship to go sour. We’ve had some good times and, for Luke’s sake, I want us to stay friends. We need to sort everything out, obviously, but I’m sure we can do that without coming to blows.”

Her expression, a mix of sadness and regret, took Dylan by surprise.

“Okay,” she said. “Why not? You’re right, it will give us chance to discuss things on neutral soil. Then, when we get back, we can get things moving.” She gave him her all-pals-together smile. “When do you want to leave?”

“First thing in the morning?” Dylan was still trying to understand what she’d meant about getting things moving.

“Tomorrow? Oh, for—”

“Strike while the iron’s hot, eh?”

“Okay.”

He gained the impression she was humouring him.

“Great. Thanks, Bev, I appreciate it.” He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and wondered how long it had been since he’d kissed her. Too long. “I’ll be here around sevenish. We can drop Luke off at my place on the way.”

“Fine.” She shook her head in a despairing sort of way. “I’d better get packing then.”

Bev could see Dylan strolling along the street. He wasn’t looking left or right, he wasn’t acknowledging her, but she guessed he knew she was there, sitting by the harbour.

She still wasn’t sure why she’d agreed to this madcap scheme, but she knew much credit should go to Dylan and his ability as a storyteller. Yesterday, for a few moments at least, she’d been caught up in the story of Holly Champion and the puzzling disappearance of her mother.

He’d played on her emotions, pointing out that Luke was the same age as Holly had been then. He’d forced her to think of Luke in the same situation, of Luke never knowing what had happened to his mother, of not knowing whether he’d been truly loved.

Yet the world was full of tragedy, and people vanished all the time. A huge proportion of her pupils came from broken homes. Many didn’t know where their fathers were or, less often, their mothers.
Shit happens.

As much as she sympathised with Holly Champion, her main reason for coming was the thought that, away from all that was familiar, she and Dylan had a good chance of discussing the future in a calm, reasonable manner. She’d thought she might finally convince him that their marriage was over, even make him see that it was for the best. Now, she was no longer sure that was possible.

Whatever argument she offered, he would simply say he loved her. If she pointed out the flaws in their relationship, he would act amazed, pretend everything in their world was rosy, remind her that all marriages had ups and downs, and then insist there was nothing fundamentally wrong between them.

“I love you, Bev,” he’d say, and that, he thought, should be the end of it.

Perhaps she still loved him. She was no longer even sure of that.

He was one of those comfortable people it was so easy to be around. Or had been. For the past few years, ever since he’d been to prison, he’d been downright difficult to be around. He wasn’t even comfortable with himself.

Where once he’d been a proud member of the police force, confident and happy, his dismissal from the force had left him bitter, resentful and lacking in self-esteem. She’d tried telling him he was the same decent, honest person, but it hadn’t worked.

She might still love him, but she could no longer live with the bouts of despair, of self-loathing, drinking—

She’d called him a drunkard, and she regretted that. He didn’t drink often. When he did, though, he quickly descended into depression. She wished he could accept what had happened and move on. If they went out for a meal or a drink, he would inevitably start talking about how life would have been if he hadn’t been sent down.

She’d tried to talk to him about that on the ferry to France, but he believed he
had
moved on. He thought that this job, looking into the disappearance of Anita Champion, had given him purpose again.

“But what happens when it’s over?” she’d asked him.

“I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”

Which translated as him waiting to see what landed in his lap. He would solve the puzzle of Anita Champion’s disappearance—he wouldn’t give up until he had—but then what? He would sink back into his despair and talk of nothing other than how life
should
be treating him.

She couldn’t stand that.

The biggest problem, of course, was Luke. He adored his dad, always had. The two of them had been on the same wavelength right from the start. She hated the looks Luke kept giving her, the endless questions about when he’d see his dad, and when his dad would be home for good.

Round and round her thoughts went. She looked at Dylan and thought she loved him. When he wasn’t around, though, it was as if a cloud had been banished from the sky. Life was straightforward and pleasant again. She wasn’t constantly reminded of the way her husband had changed.

If she did love him, it was because he was easy to be with. Because he was—or had been—fun to be around. Because he could make her laugh when she was in the blackest of moods. Because she could trust him with her life. Because, even after all these years, sometimes, like now, she could watch him strolling along and fancy him like mad.

Yet she couldn’t live with him. He got too down about life, and he dragged her down with him.

He vanished from her view and she strolled along the harbour, pretending to admire the boats. Dylan had pointed out Matthew Jackson’s boat to her, but there was no knowing if he would come anywhere near it today.

“He told me he stops by most days,” Dylan had said.

“Most days isn’t
every
day.”

Still, she supposed she had nothing better to do and, away from home, she might be able to think more clearly.

If she and Dylan had a boat like the
Lucky Man
, perhaps things would be different. They could take off during school holidays and see a bit of the world. They would be able to relax, far away from the mundane of mortgages, decorating, gardening and ferrying Luke from one social event to the next.

But they didn’t have a boat like that and never would.

She wished she could pinpoint the exact moment things had started to go wrong between them. Was it when he’d been accused of assault, and their every waking thought had been about the court case? Perhaps it was when he’d been locked up like a common criminal, so that she’d had to steel herself to visit him. Maybe it was when she’d tried to explain to Luke, only seven at the time, why his dad, his hero, was in prison. Or was it when they’d had to cope without Dylan’s income…

The exact moment didn’t matter, though.

After an hour or so of sitting on the harbour wall, she crossed the road and went into one of the many cafes. She had only intended to alleviate the boredom by getting a coffee, but she had crepes as well.

No, it wasn’t boredom she was escaping. It was the thoughts that refused to be stilled.

On leaving the cafe, she walked up and down the harbour, keeping Jackson’s boat in her line of vision at all times.

It was getting on for four o’clock, and she was thinking of returning to the hotel when she saw it. A black convertible pulled into a parking spot right by the
Lucky Man.

She wondered if Dylan was watching.

The sight of Matthew Jackson, and it had to be him, had her wanting to laugh. “A flash, good-looking sort of bloke” had been Dylan’s description. This man was
gorgeous.
She only wished her friend Lucy was there because he was every woman’s dream. Tall, well muscled but not obscenely so, and slim. Faded jeans hung low on his hips, and a brown jacket in the softest leather covered a white T-shirt that clung to his broad chest.

She was only about ten feet from him, but he hadn’t even glanced her way. He jumped onto his boat. He still hadn’t noticed her.

“You’re stunning,” Dylan had said. “I have the feeling he’ll chat to a beautiful woman.”

Bev had been warmed by the compliment but now she knew how ridiculous that was. The man would have women hurling themselves at his feet.

Still, nothing ventured—

She walked forward and stood watching him for a moment.

“Hi!” she called out, and he straightened.

“Hi there!” He came forward and stood on the front of his boat, a hand lifted to shield his eyes from the sun. “What can I do for you?”

Another laugh tried to surface. It was probably nerves.

“You’re English,” she said. “What a relief. I’ve spent the last three days trying out my French and getting nowhere. Is this boat yours?”

“Yeah.”

Dylan had been wrong. “He’ll be showing you over that boat of his before you can say
bonjour,
” he’d said. But Jackson was paying her no attention whatsoever. He was frowning, looked as if he a lot on his mind. Somehow, she had to win his attention.

“I’ve just bought a place on the coast. Provence,” she said, “and, of course, my husband’s after a new boat now. I’m not so sure, though, and as I keep telling him, it’s my money. But I saw yours earlier, and I could probably get a liking for it. I love those leather seats.”

“Provence, eh?”

“Yeah. Mind, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. Everyone’s a bit stuffy. Me, I like a laugh when I go out.”

He smiled at that, showing off perfect white teeth.

“How much would this set me back?” She nodded at the boat. “A quarter of a mill? Half?”

“About half.” He eyed her seriously for the first time.

“I suppose that’s not bad, is it? I mean, you could almost live on it, couldn’t you?”

“You could. So what brings you this far north?”

“We’re heading home for a week, to England I mean, and my husband’s visiting some old friends of his today. I’m killing time until the morning and I’m bored, to tell the truth. Mind, I’ll let him have it if he has too much of the old vino tonight. He’s supposed to be meeting me at the ferry terminal in Cherbourg in the morning.”

“Would you like to kill some time looking round her?”

At last!

“Would I? Oh, wow! Yes, please.”

He reached for her hand and she jumped down onto the boat. Nice hands he had, too.

Despite what Dylan had said, Bev knew she was neither stunning nor beautiful. Her ankles were too thick and her stomach wasn’t as flat as it had been a decade ago. Added to that, her jacket made her look big round the hips. But she gained the impression that, even if she’d looked like a budding Miss World, he wouldn’t have shown much interest. If anything, he was amused by her. Perhaps he’d had his fill of lovely young women clamouring for his attention.

He was engrossed in the specification of his boat now, most of which was going right over her head. He showed her the wine cooler. Bev knew nothing about wine, only that she enjoyed drinking it, but she suspected the wines cooling were of the best quality. He’d come a long way from the Lancashire mill town of Dawson’s Clough.

“Join me in a glass?” he asked.

“What? Oh, I couldn’t. I’m sure you have lots to do. I’m just being a nosy nuisance.”

“Not at all. I’m taking her out for a quick run but another half hour won’t make any difference.” He took two long-stemmed wineglasses from a cupboard.

He was a showoff, nothing more and nothing less. Pleasing on the eye he might be, but she didn’t warm to him.

He filled a glass and handed it to her. “Cheers!”

She had a quick taste. It was good, but she was too nervous to enjoy it.

Dylan had called her a terrific actress. That was nonsense. She was a good teacher, could bring out the best in her pupils, but her parts in the amateur dramatic productions she loved so much were only average.

“This is delicious,” she said. “I’m taking a car full of wine back home tomorrow. Do you find that? If you don’t go back with bottles of wine, your friends go a bit sniffy on you?”

“I haven’t been home for years.” He shrugged as if he never thought about it.

“And where is home?” She pretended to seriously consider the matter. “You don’t have an accent that I can place.”

“Probably because I’ve travelled around quite a bit.”

“Really? That’s nice. I didn’t leave London until I was nineteen. Imagine that. So where did you come here from? I mean, what part of England?”

“Lancashire. A small town you won’t have heard of.”

“Try me!” She giggled as if it were some great game she’d invented.

“Dawson’s Clough.”

“Dawson’s Clough,” she murmured, trying to look thoughtful. “Dawson’s Clough. Yes, I’ve heard of it.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“No. I just can’t think—” She narrowed her eyes into what she hoped was a suspicious frown. “A friend of mine moved to that area a few years back.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Well, when I say friend, he’s not the sort to have friends. I did a couple of jobs for him, that’s all.”

He took a long, slow swallow of wine. “Anyone I might know?”

“No.”

He laughed at that, but it was a forced sound. “You could at least give me his name. I might know him. I lived in the Clough for years. I even ran a garage there.”

“You won’t know him.”

“Try me.” He was teasing her.

She smiled and rolled her eyes at him. “Terry Armstrong, if you must know.”

“Really?”

The air around them seemed to crackle with tension.

“More wine?” he asked, and she practically thrust her glass in his face.

“Thanks.”

“It’s funny,” he said at last, “bloody funny in fact, but it’s twelve years since I lived in the Clough and I’d never heard of Terry Armstrong. Now, you’re the second person to mention him in under a fortnight. How strange is that?”

“Oh? Who was the other person?”

“Some chap by the name of Scott. A private investigator, I gather.”

“Christ, I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes!” Bev chewed on her bottom lip. “Terry doesn’t like people sniffing into his business. Mind, I think he’s changed. Settled down now. The last time I spoke to him, about a year ago now, he was quite the man of leisure.”

“So why’s everyone so interested in him?”

“I don’t think
everyone
is. He’s got a reputation, that’s all. He’s done all right by me, though. If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t be thinking of buying my Sam a boat. Do a good job for him, and he pays well. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?”

“Nothing at all.”

Dylan was wrong. Jackson didn’t know Terry Armstrong. What’s more, he was suspicious now.

“One thing’s certain,” she said, “you don’t get the sort of money that buys comfort like this from a nine-to-five job.”

“No.”

“You had a garage, you say, in Dawson’s Clough? I bet you didn’t make enough on that to buy this boat?”

“I didn’t. Sorry, I don’t know your name.”

“Sylvia. And who are you?”

“Matt.”

“Pleased to meet you, Matt, but now, I’ve taken up more than enough of your time.” She emptied her glass. “I’ll leave you to it.” Her legs felt as if they might not co-operate. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so nervous.

“Why not come out on her with me?” he asked.

“What? Now? Oh, I couldn’t. Really.”

“Why not? You said you were bored. Just killing time, aren’t you? I’ll only be gone an hour or so.”