Presumed Dead (7 page)

“Is your mum going to be in later?” Dylan asked his son.

They were enjoying the usual Saturday afternoon halftime ritual of a meat pie. Arsenal were beating Manchester City one nil and that always made the pies taste better.

“Dunno,” Luke said between mouthfuls. “She’s been out a lot lately.”

“Has she? Where?”

“Dunno.”

Dylan had hoped to worm his way back into Bev’s good books, but that was going to be impossible if he couldn’t see her. She’d come round, she always did but, given that his mother was still in residence and filling the place with the evil smell of scented candles, he wanted it to be sooner rather than later.

“Come on, Dad, they’ll be kicking off in a couple of minutes.”

They fought their way back to their seats and prepared to cheer on the Gunners.

Dylan was struggling to concentrate on the match. He couldn’t rid his mind of four women who thought it acceptable to drug a so-called friend and leave her to her fate in a dark alley on a cold November night. The thought made him shudder.

Bev had her funny little ways, hundreds of them, but she could never do something like that. Few people could.

How strongly would you have to hate someone to pull a stunt like that?

Anita’s crime? She had, allegedly, slept with her employer’s boyfriend. Yvonne Yates was right about one thing—it takes two to cheat and Anita had merely proved that the boyfriend wasn’t worth knowing.

Dylan could have kicked himself for not learning more. Yvonne had said that Sandra wasn’t going to let
either of them
get away with it. So what had happened to the boyfriend?

According to Sandra, she would have been out with the girls that night if her Eddie hadn’t been home on leave. Had the others dealt with Anita while she dished out Eddie’s fate?

If anyone else had wanted revenge, Dylan might have expected Eddie’s clothes to have landed in the street, or a fresh mackerel to have been hidden in his car’s engine. With Sandra, anything was possible.

Dylan needed to find this Eddie. Just as he needed to find the man, if indeed there ever was a man, who had gone to Anita’s aid in that dark alley.

The words
haystack and needle
sprang to mind…

Dylan slapped his gloved hands together for warmth. Despite his thick coat, scarf and hat, he was chilled and, unusually, he wasn’t sorry when the game ended. Arsenal had beaten Manchester City two-nil, but it hadn’t been a thrilling game.

As he drove, he began to thaw out and, by the time they reached the marital home, he could feel his toes again.

“Mum’s home!” Luke gave Dylan a sympathetic look. “I’ll try and put in a good word for you, Dad. And I won’t repeat what that bloke called the ref,” he added with a grin.

Dylan groaned. “Please don’t.”

“I won’t. He was right, though. The bloke was a—”

“Yes, yes. He probably was, although what he does in his spare time is his own business. Let’s just forget that particular incident, shall we?”

They walked inside and Dylan got halfway along the hall before a stern-looking Bev, arms folded across her very attractive chest, barred his way.

Luke wasn’t put off.

“I’ve promised to show Dad an old Arsenal program,” he said, and Dylan wondered when he’d learned to lie so easily. “I’m just going upstairs to find it.”

“Don’t be long then,” Bev warned him.

Dylan stood facing his wife. And she faced him straight back.

“It was a great game.” He decided to opt for a safe subject.

“Good.”

“Yeah. We won, two nil. It was cold, though. Not that Luke seems to feel it.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’ll make you a coffee, Dylan, and then you go.”

“Aw, thanks, Bev.”

He followed her into the marital kitchen. There was something different, yet he couldn’t see that she’d changed anything. Venetian blinds at the window above the sink looked the same. Kettle, tea, coffee and sugar canisters, bread bin—all were in their rightful places. The usual wrinkled apples and a couple of oranges sat in the wooden bowl. Bananas hung from the chrome tree, and the glove dangled from the cooker door.

“It used to be cream,” she said on a long sigh.

“Ah. I wondered.” He couldn’t remember it being cream. For all he knew, it could always have been this pale green. “It looks good, Bev.”

“It was nice to just get on and do it.”

“You should have said. I could have done it for you.”

“I did say, Dylan. I said time and time again for two years.”

“Ah.”

Now she mentioned it, he could vaguely remember her telling him he had plenty of time for painting.

“Thanks,” he said as she thrust a mug of coffee at him.

It was time for an “I’ve changed—you were right—how can I possibly make it up to you?” conversation. Unfortunately, Bev had other plans.

“Here’s Mum,” she said as a car door was heard being slammed shut. “Right, I’m off. See you, Dylan. And don’t stay too long!”

“Oh, er, right. Thanks for the coffee.”

“You’re welcome.”

Bev was gone and her mother, someone Dylan had always got along well with, took her place in the kitchen.

She gave him a hug, then clucked her teeth at him. “You’ve really done it this time, Dylan.”

“She’ll come round, Pam. She always does.”

Her expression as she patted his arm was a disturbing mix of sadness and frustration. “Don’t count on it, love.”

Luke raced into the kitchen, and Dylan noticed the way his son’s face fell when he spotted his grandmother. As much as Luke adored her, Dylan knew the lad had been hoping for a reconciliation between his parents.

“Has Mum gone out?”

“She has,” Dylan said, “so you’ll have to behave for your gran.”

“I always do. And don’t worry, Dad, I meant what I said. I’ll put in a good word for you.”

“Thanks.”

Dylan would talk to Bev next week. What she was doing, he suspected, was trying to make him jealous, to make him believe she had another man at her beck and call.

Come to think of it—

“Who painted the kitchen then?”

“It looks much better, doesn’t it?” Pam ran a hand over the wall. “That cream was too bland with the pine units. She’s thinking of doing this wall—” she pointed to the back, “—in an olive green. I’m not so sure about that. What do you think, Dylan?”

Dylan couldn’t see that it would make any difference. “Best to leave well alone, I’d say.”

“Yes, you’re probably right.”

Only when he was on his way back to the smallest flat in the land and his mother did he realise that his question hadn’t been answered.

Who had painted the kitchen?

But he wasn’t going to worry on that score. He was Bev’s husband. He belonged with her. And with Luke. They were a family.

On Monday evening Alan Cheyney locked up his shop and went into the back storeroom, a huge, ugly place that had been used to hang animal carcasses when the shop had belonged to the butcher. A few hooks still dangled from the steel beams.

There wasn’t much in there as he couldn’t afford to buy stock, but it served as his office and kitchen. He threw himself down in a chair, put his legs on the desk and stared at the wall.

He could add up the day’s takings or he could take himself off to the Pheasant and drink the meagre profit.

To hell with it, he’d have a pint and worry about everything in the morning.

After double-checking the locks and the alarm, he left the shop and crossed the road. He stood for a moment to look back at his little empire. The recently painted sign, Cheyney Angling, looked impressive. It was the only thing that did.

His brother, Pete, had called him all kinds of a fool, but Alan hadn’t taken any notice. Being made redundant at the age of fifty-four had seemed like a godsend. He’d always loved fishing, and he’d thought it would be easy enough to open a shop that catered for fellow anglers’ needs.

Totting up the day’s takings wouldn’t have taken long. He’d sold four pounds of maggots and a fly rod for a hundred and eighty pounds. Profit for the day? About thirty quid.

He’d worry about it tomorrow.

When he pushed open the door to the Pheasant, he was surprised to see half a dozen people at the bar. Monday nights were usually as dead as his shop.

Bill Thornton and Geoff Lane were perched on stools so Alan took the one next to them.

“How’s it going?” Geoff asked as Alan paid for his pint.

“It isn’t.”

“Wrong time of year, I suppose,” Bill said. “Far too cold for fishing.”

“Is it hell?” On reflection, though, perhaps Bill was right. Only the hardy, experienced anglers went out in January, and they had all the kit they needed.

Geoff grinned. “You’ll go out fishing all night, mate, but other folk have brains.”

“Trade will pick up in the summer,” Bill said.

Alan doubted he’d survive until the summer. He was behind with his rent, two of his suppliers had refused him credit—

“Probably.” He didn’t want to think about it.

“Course it will,” Bill said.

Would it? Alan had an online shop, but the big boys were selling far more cheaply than he could. As for a shop in Dawson’s Clough, it was a waste of time. There were plenty of good fishing sites around, but angling was dying out. Kids would rather hang around street corners taking drugs.

Pete had been right. He was a damn fool.

“Tell you who we were talking to the other night,” Bill said. “Wednesday it were. A bloke called Dylan Scott. He were looking for Anita Champion. You’ll remember her, Alan.”

“I do. I saw him, too. He came into the shop asking about her. Funny that, after all this time, I mean.”

“Where do you reckon she is?” Geoff asked.

“God knows.” Why exactly
was
Dylan Scott trying to trace her? He was posing as an ex-boyfriend, but Alan didn’t believe that for a moment. “Probably married to some rich Arab sheik,” he said, trying to make light of it.

“Never in a million years,” Bill said.

“Here we go again.” Geoff rolled his eyes, grinning.

“You can scoff,” Bill said, “but no way did she walk out on young Holly.”

“Bill here reckons she were abducted by aliens.” Geoff chuckled.

“Aliens would make a beeline for Dawson’s Clough.” Alan supped from his glass. “Come to think of it, I saw a few intelligent life forms hanging around outside the library.”

“I never mentioned aliens.” Bill was getting irritated. “Bloody daft, you are.”

“Maybe this Dylan Scott will solve the mystery,” Geoff said.

“That shop of yours, Alan,” Bill said. “You rent it off that Armstrong bloke, don’t you?”

“Yeah.”

It was odd having Dylan Scott asking questions about Anita and then mentioning Terry Armstrong. Bloody odd.

But if Alan didn’t want to think about his day’s takings, he certainly didn’t want to think about Armstrong. They’d only met once, and he’d seemed pleasant enough then, but when the standing order for the rent didn’t go through in December, he’d sent a bloke to the shop to discuss the matter. Alan hadn’t liked him at all. A big bloke, full of aggression.

“That Dylan Scott thought Anita might have known him,” Geoff said. “I can’t believe that, though. For one thing, he didn’t live round here in her day. For another, she weren’t in his league.”

“Dunno. I can’t imagine her knowing him.” Alan wished they’d forget it. “You having another?” He opened his wallet.

Over the next pint, talk centred around the weather, the roadworks that would be starting in the summer, and the lack of facilities for kids in the town. Alan was glad of that. January’s standing order for rent hadn’t gone through either, and he was expecting another visit from Terry Armstrong’s assistant.

No point worrying, though. If he lost the shop, he lost it. He’d get another job on the lorries. It was easier than running a business. A lot easier.

It was gone eleven when he left the Pheasant. He’d planned to have a pint, maybe two, then walk home via the fish-and-chip shop, but that had closed for the night. As the kebab shop was open, waiting for the last few stragglers to leave the pubs, he stopped to buy one of those instead.

He ate it as he walked, a few bits of meat dropping for the pigeons, and only had a small portion left when he turned into his road.

A big dark car was parked outside his house, but he paid it no attention until, as he drew level, the door was flung open, hitting him in the ribs and tossing the last of his kebab to the ground.

A tall, well-muscled man, whisky on his breath, bundled him into the car.

“We need a chat,” he said, as the driver floored the accelerator and the car shot forward.

“What the hell—”

“Just a friendly chat.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Stop the car. Stop the fucking car!”

A fist banged into the side of his face. “Shut your fucking mouth!”

The car screeched round corners until it came to a halt by the disused rail tracks.

“What do you want?” Alan tried to get out, but the back doors were locked. “Money? I can get you money!”

The driver was soon out. It was he who opened the back door and yanked Alan out. The two men pinned him against the car.

“You’ve got the wrong bloke,” Alan shouted.

“I don’t think so. You see, a little bird told us that you’ve been a naughty boy,” the driver said. “It seems you’ve been chatting up your landlord’s wife?”

“What?” Alan had no idea what he was talking about.

“At the golf club. A Friday night. A couple of weeks before Christmas. Ring any bells, does it?”

“I was—” His teeth had started to chatter. “I was there, yes, but—”

“We know that. You were seen. Now, your landlord doesn’t want the likes of you pawing his wife around. Got that?”

Alan remembered the event, but nothing had happened. There had been a crowd at the bar and someone had jostled him so that he’d spilled some beer on her dress. Naturally, he’d apologised. He’d taken a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the stain. She’d laughed, he recalled. Said it was lucky his mother brought him up properly, making sure he never left the house without a clean handkerchief. And that was all.

“Look, you’ve got this all wrong—”

“It never pays to make a fool of your landlord, you know. It made him look at you and your rent. Seems like you owe him some money. Quite a lot of money, in fact.”

“Look I’ll pay the rent. I said—”

A fist hammered into his face and his words were lost as a tooth flew from his mouth. Punches rained down on his head and his ribs. Alan could taste blood. Could feel himself losing consciousness.

When he dropped to the floor, he was kicked front and back.

“You’ve got till Friday!”

Two doors slammed and, mercifully, the engine fired into life and the car sped off into the night.

Alan lay on the ground, his face finding welcome relief on a clump of wet grass. Every time he coughed, pain shot across his chest, and he tasted more blood. There was a gaping hole where a tooth had been.

He should get up and go home, but he wasn’t sure he could stand, let alone walk.

You’ve got till Friday.

Four days.