Authors: Shirley Wells
“What? He walked out on us!”
“He claims, and I can’t think why he’d lie, that your mother wanted him gone. Do you remember having an accident and going to hospital when you were about three?”
“I should do,” she replied. “I’ve still got the scar to prove it.”
“What happened?”
“I tripped over at Yvonne Yates’s house,” she said in a matter-of-fact way, “and landed, neck down, on the dishwasher. Or, more accurately, on a carving knife that had the blade sticking up.”
“Hmm. That’s what Ian Champion told me.”
“So?”
“He also said that, while you were in hospital, blood tests confirmed that he wasn’t your biological father.”
Silence met his statement. A silence so long that, in the end, Dylan had to check if the phone line was still live. “Holly? Are you still there?”
“Yes. Yes, of course. I don’t know why he’d say that.”
“Perhaps it’s true.”
“More likely he’s invented that story so he didn’t have to stay with us, so he never had to hand over any money to my mother.” Her voice was scathing. “People will think better of him that way. He could hardly tell people he was a piece of shit who turned his back on his wife and daughter and never bothered with them again.”
Dylan was taken aback by the strength of her feelings. He’d never heard her swear, and it wasn’t an experience he wanted to repeat. “According to him, he wanted to stay with you both. Also according to him, he phoned often, but your mother wouldn’t speak to him. He claims, too, that he sent you letters and cards but that your mother returned them to him unopened.”
Silence met this statement, too.
“Then he’s lying,” she said at last. She spoke far more calmly now.
“Why would he do that?”
“How should I know? You’re the private investigator.”
“He has a three-year-old granddaughter now. I met her, too. She idolises him. He seems to be a happily married family man who enjoys pottering on his allotment.”
“Does he?” No interest whatsoever.
“He seemed proud when I told him about you—that you were a teacher.”
“Proud?” She gave a short, humourless laugh at that. “Why would he be proud? If, as he’s telling everyone, he’s not my father, there’s nothing for him to be proud of. And as he’s had nothing whatsoever to do with my upbringing, it’s irrelevant anyway.”
If she truly believed her father had walked out on her, Dylan supposed she had every right to feel angry. “He spoke of you fondly. And he told me to say hello from him.”
“Did he indeed?” Still no interest. “Exactly why did you go to see him?”
“When people disappear, family members are usually the ones in the know. Now, while I agree that he’s been out of the frame for a good many years—well, you never know, do you?”
Like everything in life, including murder, family members were always the first place to start.
“And did he tell you anything useful?” she asked.
“Not really.”
“Then it was a waste of time, wasn’t it?”
Dylan ran his free hand over the warm radiator. Had it been a waste of time? He didn’t think so. “We’ll see. But other than that, there’s nothing to report.”
“Well, thanks anyway. Thanks for the work you’re doing, I mean. I appreciate it, I really do.” Ian Champion was forgotten and she was her usual sunny self again. “You’ll get there in the end, Dylan. I just know you will.”
Dylan wished he was as confident.
He wanted to press her for more information about her mother, about the possible identity of her real father—if indeed Ian Champion wasn’t her natural father—but he decided to quit while he was ahead. She would be able to tell him nothing. As far as she was concerned, her father was Ian Champion, a cowardly man who had walked out on his family.
Dylan wasn’t convinced. He believed Ian Champion’s story.
“I’ll be in touch,” was all he said.
Eureka! Dylan had been hoping to meet up with Stevie, and he was pleased to see his new friend in Asda, gazing at iPod accessories.
“Breakfast?” Stevie’s eyes lit up at the sight of Dylan.
“Why not?”
They took the escalator to the first floor and, when Stevie had his breakfast and Dylan his cup of tea, they sat at what was becoming Their Table.
Dylan wasn’t sure what he wanted from Stevie. That was the problem, of course. With Stevie, you had to ask questions that had a simple yes or no answer. Stevie observed, he knew about people, but getting that information from him would have tested the patience of angels. Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained.
Dylan knew better than to interrupt Stevie’s eating so he drank his tea and watched shoppers park their cars and stride across the slush-covered tarmac to the store. Scowling women clutched lists. The few men brought along for the Big Shop wore resigned expressions.
“Stevie,” Dylan said, when his companion’s plate had been wiped clean with a square of toast, “have you thought of anyone else who might have been with Anita Champion the night she went to Morty’s?”
A long pause for thought. “No.”
“What about Matthew Jackson?” he asked. “Did you know him?”
“Yes.” So why in hell’s name hadn’t he mentioned him? The trouble with Stevie was that you had to know the answer before you asked the blasted question. “I was talking to Anita’s friend on Wednesday, Maggie Gibson, and she said that Matthew Jackson was a special friend of Anita’s.”
“Yes.” A smile almost broke out on Stevie’s face.
“Did you see him that night? The night Anita went from Oasis to Morty’s, did you see Matthew Jackson?”
Stevie thought for a moment. “No.”
“But he might have been at Morty’s?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see Anita with him often?” Dylan asked.
“Yes.”
“Anita liked him, didn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“What about Terry Armstrong?” He handed the photo to Stevie, who looked at him blankly. “Did you ever see Terry Armstrong with Anita?”
“Yes.”
“You did? Where?”
Stevie got to his feet. “Come.”
Dylan groaned. It wasn’t snowing, in fact it had thawed a little, but the pavements were an inch deep in slush and, knowing Stevie, they could have a long hike in front of them. Yet what was the alternative? Conversation was impossible.
As Stevie limped out of the car park, Dylan knew a rush of guilt for his unkind thoughts. If he’d been dragged along the road with his dead mother, spent God knows how long in hospital, then been bundled into a care home,
he
probably wouldn’t feel like talking either.
They walked into the centre of Dawson’s Clough. When they were at the back of the Co-op, Stevie turned into a short street of modern terraced houses. At one of these properties, number seven, he took a key from his pocket and opened the door.
“This is your home, Stevie?”
“Yes.”
It was a flat, small but clean. Dylan passed a kitchen with spotless white units on his way to a sitting room that housed a well-worn suite and very little else.
He stood in that room while Stevie disappeared through another door. There were no pictures or books. There wasn’t even a TV. A pile of newspapers shared a long, low glass-topped table with a phone. The sofa faced a gas fire with a gleaming brass surround. A cream rug, also unbelievably clean, sat in front of that.
Stevie returned with a large cardboard box that he set down on the rug.
He gazed at the fire for a moment, then took the decision to switch it on. Dylan was glad of that because the flat was seriously cold.
With that accomplished, Stevie opened the box.
“Good grief!” Dylan stared in amazement at hundreds, no,
thousands
, of newspaper cuttings. “Do you save everything?”
Stevie thought for a moment. “No.”
But he saved
almost
everything. Local news and sport, all the hatch, match and despatch notices.
“How far back do they go?” Dylan asked.
“1974.”
Dylan experienced a sudden hollow pain. “From the accident? When your mother died?”
“Yes.”
The lad had been five or six years old at the time. He must have sought out the old newspapers years later. Or had someone saved them for him? Surely not. Adults would have wanted the child to forget.
The dates 1995–2002 were written on the side of the box in thick black ink. Sitting on the rug were details of anything remotely newsworthy that had happened in Dawson’s Clough—for all the cuttings were from the
Dawson’s Clough Journal
—over seven years.
Stevie turned the pile upside down and, quickly for him, discarded cutting after cutting.
“What are you looking for?” Dylan asked.
“Mr. Armstrong and Mrs. Champion.”
“Do you think there will be anything?” It seemed highly unlikely.
“Yes.”
Half an hour later, Dylan needed to answer a call of nature. “May I use your bathroom, Stevie?”
He didn’t look up. “Yes.”
“Where—? Oh, never mind.”
The first door Dylan tried led into a bedroom. It was a large room that housed a single bed that had been pushed up against the wall, a wardrobe, a set of drawers and dozens of boxes that presumably held yet more newspaper cuttings.
The room next to that was the bathroom, and the cleanliness put Dylan to shame. The white suite was spotless and the chrome taps sparkled.
As Dylan relieved himself, he wondered how Stevie could need such an array of medication as sat on the window sill. There were bottles and boxes of pills in all sizes and colours.
He washed his hands, careful not to leave splash marks, dried them on a spotless white towel, and returned to the sitting room where Stevie was still on his knees working his way through those cuttings.
Dylan sat and watched him. Nothing was said. All was silent other than the hiss of the gas fire and the soft rustle of old newspaper.
Half an hour must have passed when Stevie suddenly grunted and thrust a piece of paper at Dylan.
It was a wedding photo, two strangers with radiant smiles. Underneath was a brief description of Matthew Jackson’s marriage to Julie Carrington at St Mark’s Church, Dawson’s Clough.
“So this is Matthew Jackson,” Dylan said.
Stevie nodded and carried on with his search.
It was difficult to tell, as most people were at their best on their wedding day, but the man looked as if he’d have no trouble at all attracting women. Perhaps he wasn’t tall, perhaps his wife was exceptionally short, but his hair was thick, blond and quite long, his face perfectly proportioned and his teeth were strong and white. It would have been easy to picture him on a Californian beach or a Hollywood film set.
His wife had short dark hair and an elfin, almost vulnerable appeal with large, doelike eyes.
The cutting was dated March 1995. Anita’s one true love, if indeed Matthew Jackson qualified, had married his Julie two and a half years before Anita disappeared.
Stevie continued to search and Dylan continued to watch. By two o’clock, he was starving.
“Shall I nip out and get us fish and chips or something?”
“Good,” Stevie said.
The chippy was less than a hundred yards away and the Chinese lady behind the counter was soon wrapping two pieces of battered haddock and enough chips to feed the population of east Lancashire.
When Dylan got back to the flat, Stevie broke off from his task to take two plates from a cupboard, put a piece of fish and half the chips on each and place them in the microwave for a few seconds. Spotless cutlery was given to Dylan. He’d assumed they would eat from the paper but, for all his odd ways, Stevie had standards.
When they had eaten, Stevie went back to his box of paper. Less than five minutes later, he found something that interested him.
“Here,” he said.
Dylan took the piece of paper. It was dominated by a photo of a crowd of about twenty people standing by a bonfire.
“Well, well.”
Most in the photo were hidden beneath thick coats and hats, but it was impossible to miss Anita Champion despite the large collar on her coat and the scarf wrapped around her neck. Standing next to her, so close their shoulders were touching, was none other than Terry Armstrong.
The fireworks display had taken place on the fifth of November, 1997, just days after the two were photographed at the charity dinner, and little more than three weeks before Anita Champion vanished.
“Stevie, may I borrow this?”
“Yes.”
“Thanks. I’ll make sure you get it back.”
“Yes.”
Stevie was still sorting through papers.
“I’m setting off for home now,” Dylan said. “That’s London. I’ll be back on Monday. I’ll see you at Asda’s cafe at about eleven o’clock on Monday, shall I? If you find anything else, you can bring it along, yes?”
“Yes.” Stevie didn’t even look up as Dylan let himself out of the flat.
Dylan was whistling as he walked back to the hotel. Terry Armstrong could say what he liked, but he’d known Anita Champion. Twice they’d been photographed together, and that was taking coincidence way too far for Dylan’s liking.
On Saturday morning Dylan decided enough was enough. His mother was meeting a friend at the V&A and Dylan was standing in his room surrounded by enough unwashed clothes and bedding to keep a laundry business going for six months. If Stevie could exist in that soulless flat and keep the place clean, it wouldn’t hurt him, Dylan, to wash a few clothes.
He made a coffee and, while drinking that, hunted for the washing machine’s user manual. He knew one existed because he’d seen it when he moved in, but he couldn’t find it anywhere. Perhaps he didn’t need it.
The machine’s door was open so he put a dozen shirts inside. One was maroon so he took that out again. He knew you weren’t supposed to mix colours.
He rooted out a box of wash powder tablets from under the sink, but how many did he need? Deciding it was better to be safe than sorry, he unwrapped four and put them on top of his shirts.
Then came the tricky bit. There were a whole host of numbers to choose from on the machine. He’d checked labels inside the shirts, but they hadn’t told him anything. Nothing he could understand at any rate. Then he spotted it—Quick Wash. He hit that button and the machine whirred into life.
How many times in the past had he asked Bev about her day, only to hear she’d done a couple of loads of washing? Good grief—it wasn’t rocket science, was it? He’d have the lot done by lunchtime.
Satisfied that all was working as it should, he left the flat and went to buy a newspaper. He’d have a leisurely morning doing his washing and, this afternoon, he’d iron it all.
By the time he got back, the machine was in full spin mode. There seemed to be a worrying amount of foam spinning with the clothes, but perhaps that didn’t matter.
When all was silent, he removed his clean shirts, filled the machine with more, put less powder in this time, and, feeling smug, sat with his feet up to read his newspaper. Oh for the easy life of a housewife.
His reading was interrupted by the phone.
“It’s me,” Bev said. “I have to go out tomorrow morning so I wondered if you could pick Luke up at nine o’clock instead of ten.”
“Of course. Where are you going? Anywhere good?”
“Only out with—What’s that noise?”
“The washing machine’s just started spinning.” He couldn’t keep the note of pride from his voice.
“The—You’re using the washing machine?” She gave a sarcastic laugh. “Good grief. You never cease to amaze me. Anyway, must dash. Thanks for that. I’ll see you tomorrow. Bye.”
Dylan was at the marital home at nine o’clock sharp the following morning.
Luke was pleased to see him but Bev dashed down the stairs, coat and bag in hand, and was on her way out of the door. “Behave yourselves,” she said. “And don’t be late back, Dylan.”
Dylan watched her go with a heavy sigh. She hadn’t even noticed his neatly ironed, blindingly clean shirt. Ah well, he’d see her later.
“What shall we do then, Luke?”
“Ten-pin bowling?”
“Yep, sounds good to me.”
“We could have our lunch at McDonald’s and go down the amusement arcade on the way home.”
Dylan didn’t care what they did. Luke was easy to be with and they always had fun.
The bowling was hectic, but they had a lot of laughs. Over lunch in a packed McDonalds’s they discussed such weighty issues as penguins’ ability to fly underwater and why Luke couldn’t have a dog. The dog subject had been discussed for the past five years. They spent over two hours in the amusement arcade before returning home.
Bev was sitting at the kitchen table with a magazine open in front of her and a coffee in her hand.
“D’you want a coffee, Dad?” Luke asked.
“Yes. Thanks. That would be great.”
“I’ll make it.” Bev shooed Luke away from the kettle. “So what have you both been up to? Have you had a good day?”
To give her credit, she always showed an interest in the time he spent with Luke.
“Brill,” Luke said. “We went ten-pin bowling and guess who won? Me.”
Bev smiled at that and Dylan guessed she was assuming he’d let Luke win. He hadn’t.
“And we had lunch in McDonald’s,” Luke said.
“Really? Nice and nutritional then.”
“Yeah.” Luke was lucky in that her sarcasm went right over his head. “I’ll make myself scarce, shall I? I bet you want to talk about grown-up stuff.”
“We do.” Dylan spoke before Bev had chance to argue. He could see she was going to.
Luke grabbed an apple and raced into the sitting room. The television would soon be on.
“Are you going to tell me you washed and ironed that shirt?” So she had noticed.
“This one? Yes, I did.” He was still proud of his achievements but spoke as if it was nothing.
“Wonders will never cease.” She laughed that laugh again and put a cup of coffee in front of him.
“Thanks.” Right, it was time for a serious discussion. “Luke’s right, you know. We do need to talk, Bev. This is silly. Why don’t we put it all behind us and get back to normal?”
She was about to sit at the table again but changed her mind. “Dylan, I told you, I can’t live with you any more.”
“You told me a lot of things. Like the fact that I’m a drunk and a loser. I’m neither of those and you know it. I’m working, Bev.”
“And I’m pleased for you.”
“So let’s try again.”
“No.” She sighed impatiently, as if she were addressing a four-year-old. “How many times do I have to tell you? It’s over.”
“And how many times do I have to tell you that I’ve learned my lesson—”
“This isn’t about teaching you a lesson, for God’s sake. This is about what I want. Me!”
“And what is it you want exactly?”
All he saw in her eyes was uncertainty. She didn’t know what she wanted. To Dylan’s way of thinking, that just proved she was being deliberately stubborn.
“It’s more what I don’t want, Dylan. I don’t want to live with you anymore.”
Dylan stayed for another half hour, but she wouldn’t see sense. If they talked about Luke or the weather, she was fine. Anything more important, like the state of their marriage, had her changing the subject.
He left with his usual sense of frustration and wasn’t in a good mood when he reached the flat.
On top of everything else, his mother showed no sign of going home. She claimed to have raced to his side because he needed her. What nonsense. Who’d spent all of yesterday washing and ironing? Not her. She hadn’t so much as washed a shirt for him. Her own clothes were washed, by hand, every day. What had she done for him? Nothing.
As mothers went, however, he had always accepted that his was worse than useless. He loved her, God knows why, but she specialised in hindering rather than helping.
He decided to put stubborn wives and impossible mothers from his mind and concentrate on more pressing matters.
Holly Champion answered her phone on the second ring. “Dylan? How are you?”
“Fine, thanks. I don’t have any real news, I’m afraid. I was just wondering if the name Matthew Jackson meant anything to you.”
“Matthew Jackson. Um, no, not really. Well, it rings a vague bell, but I can’t think why.”
“I think your mother was friendly with him. They were at school together. He owned a garage in Dawson’s Clough.”
“No, sorry. I might have heard the name but I can’t think where.”
Their chat was brief. She didn’t sound her usual cheery self and he wondered if she was still sulking about Ian Champion’s story.
He went to bed and, two hours later, got up again. He wanted an early night because he needed to be back in Lancashire by eleven to meet Stevie. There was no point lying in bed unable to sleep, though. He may as well make a cup of tea.
The door opened and his mother, clad in the thickest, oldest dressing gown he’d ever seen, joined him.
“You having tea?” She clicked her teeth. “That’s the last thing you need if you can’t sleep, love. The caffeine will keep you buzzing for hours.”
Dylan was far from buzzing.
“You need camomile,” she said. “I’ll make you one.”
Ramming foul-tasting substances down his throat was the closest she came to helping.
When the pale brew was made, she sat beside him at the table. “What’s keeping you awake then? Beverley?”
“No.” The question took him by surprise. “She’ll come round. She always does.”
“What if she doesn’t?”
That wasn’t even worth considering. “She will.”
“I still can’t believe you did all that laundry,” she said. “Good for you. See? You can cope admirably.”
“I know I can. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.” Hope sparked. “So, really, you can go home, Mum. I’m in Lancashire most of the time anyway, and I can’t see myself getting to the bottom of this one very quickly.”
“Oh? Is it going badly?”
“It’s not going at all. But it all happened so long ago.” For once, Dylan had more important matters on his mind. “Tell you what, if you wanted to go home, I could drive you up there tomorrow.”
“Dylan!” She hooted with laughter. “Anyone would think you wanted to get rid of me.”
Anyone would be right.
“I’m taking Luke out on Wednesday evening,” she said. “We’re going to the cinema. And I’m meeting up with a friend on Thursday. Don’t you worry about me, love, I’m enjoying seeing a bit of life.”
“Right.” He knew when he was beaten.
“What about you? Aren’t you enjoying getting away from the city?”
He looked at her, surprised. As it happened, he
was
enjoying the change of scene.
“You’re a country boy, love.” She smiled indulgently. “I’ll never forget the tears we had when I dragged you to Brum. You loved it in Lancashire. Loved the farm. You must have cried for a month. Solid.”
Dylan had never thought of it like that, and because the possibility of her being right was unpleasant, he simply shrugged.
“It’s gorgeous around Dawson’s Clough, isn’t it?” she said.
“It’s okay.”
“Almost home for you, too.”
He had no idea what she was talking about.
“You’re what?” she asked. “About fifty miles from the farm?”
“About that, I suppose.”
“And the farm, the countryside—it was always home to you.”
He wasn’t sure about that. After all, he’d been five when they’d moved to Birmingham, and he hadn’t lived within fifty miles of open countryside since. He did like Dawson’s Clough, though. He liked the area. He liked the pace of life, the warmth of the people, the humour, and the fact that strangers weren’t afraid to strike up a conversation.
Two road signs in particular had made him smile. Someone had seen the official Lancashire—A Place Where Everyone Matters road sign and, courtesy of a can of paint, had replaced it with Lancashire—A Place Where No One Matters. Another had been changed to Lancashire—A Place Where Everyone Mutters.
“My life’s here,” he said. “My wife and son are here. Born here, both of them. It’s where I belong.”
“If you say so.” She smiled, humouring him.
“Anyway, it’s time I was off to bed.”
“But you haven’t drunk your camomile.”
“You’re right, Mum, I haven’t. Goodnight.”