Presumed Dead (10 page)

“No.”

“Did you tell the police she’d come here?”

“No.”

“Did they ever speak to you about it?” Dylan asked.

“No.” Stevie grinned suddenly to show a couple of gaps in his teeth. “Simple Stevie.”

Officers wouldn’t have questioned him for two reasons. One, he wouldn’t have made a reliable witness. And two, no one would have had the time or the patience.

“Do you know who worked at Morty’s?” Dylan asked.

“No.”

He couldn’t take any more of this. His life was slowly ebbing away.

“Tell you what, Stevie, I’ll meet you at Asda tomorrow morning and treat you to breakfast. About ten o’clock?”

“Good.”

With that, Stevie limped back toward town with his head down.

It had been a long, frustrating morning, but at least Dylan had made progress. He knew that Anita Champion hadn’t met her end in that dark alley by Oasis. Despite being drugged by her so-called friends, she’d been well enough to make it to Morty’s.

When Stevie was out of sight, Dylan, too, walked back toward the town centre. Now he didn’t mind walking. In fact, he liked it. It aided his thought processes.

He went straight to Dawson’s Clough’s Library, a small building right in the centre of town, where a bored-looking young woman on the desk sent him in the right direction.

“The reference library is on the first floor. Take the stairs, then the second door on your left. You’ll find all the old copies of the newspaper there. Sorry, but we haven’t got them onto microfilm yet.”

“That’s okay. Thanks.”

“Or it might be quicker to find what you want on the computer. Any big stories will be on the internet if you do a search.”

Dylan had thought of that, but he couldn’t imagine the workings of Morty’s being newsworthy enough to get on to the internet. It was worth a try, though, and it would be much easier than trawling through old newspapers.

Once signed in and seated in front of a computer, the end one of a row of six, he searched for “Monty’s, Dawson’s Clough.” Several hundred hits were thrown up, and the first told him that apartments on Manchester Road were finally offered for sale in May 2007 following problems with planning permission on the site that had once been Mortimer’s, fondly known by local residents as Morty’s.

An hour later, he’d discovered that in 2005, following rumours of financial problems, the owner, one Phil Mortimer, had put the club up for sale. Dylan had also gleaned that Stevie had been right about drugs being bandied about the premises.

As for Phil Mortimer, Dylan could find nothing. There were plenty of Philip Mortimers, but whether any of them was the ex-owner of Morty’s was anyone’s guess. Perhaps he was still in Dawson’s Clough running another business. Or perhaps, like Anita Champion, he had vanished.

That evening Dylan phoned Holly Champion and, as was usual because of the number of jobs she juggled, had to leave a message. He couldn’t imagine being so obsessed with anything that he’d work all the hours God sent simply to pay someone to ask a few questions.

But she was paying for more than that. She wanted him to
find
her mother. He could only do that, though, if Anita had abandoned her daughter for a better life. Holly wouldn’t want a result like that.

If he
did
find out what had happened to her mother, what would she do? Her purpose for living would be gone. Would she give up the part-time jobs and stick to teaching? Would she keep working and use her spare cash to finance exotic holidays? Would she still buy her clothes from Oxfam?

Dylan had no idea. He firmly believed, however, that Holly’s obsession was unhealthy. If it were him, he’d accept it and move on. Life was too short.

Not that he was in the same position, he thought grimly. So far today, his phone had registered four missed calls from his mother.

His hotel room was far more spacious than his own bedroom, but the freezing temperature was beyond a joke. He’d spoken to the receptionist and, after apologising profusely, she’d promised to send someone up to check it. Whether anyone had been, he had no idea.

Forgetting the cold for the moment, he lay back on the bed, hands linked behind his head, and thought about Anita Champion.

Why, when she must have been feeling like death, had she taken a taxi to Morty’s? To keep a date? In the hope of meeting someone special? Wouldn’t the sensible thing have been to write off the evening and go home to her bed?

She didn’t strike him as a sensible woman, though. He envisaged her as impulsive, always game for a laugh or an adventure, hopeless with money, a dreamer—

For all that, he also thought of her as loyal to her daughter. Fun-loving, yes, but not to the point of recklessness, not when it came to Holly.

His phone rang. He sat up and, with fingers almost numb from cold, answered Holly’s call.

“What do you know about Morty’s?” he asked, getting straight to the point.

“Morty’s?”

Obviously not a lot.

“It was a nightclub,” he said.

“Sorry, but it means nothing to me.”

“I believe your mother may have gone there the night she vanished.”

“Really?”

He heard the catch of excitement in her voice, the hope that progress was being made.

“It’s possible.” He didn’t want to raise her hopes only to dash them again. “Do you remember a chap called Stevie?”

“Stevie who?”

“Ah.” Dylan didn’t know his surname. “Once seen never forgotten. They call him Simple Stevie.”

“That Stevie. Yes, of course I remember him, poor chap. Why do you ask?”

“He’s the one who claims your mother went to Morty’s that night.”

“I see.” Her excitement lessened slightly. “Well, I suppose he could be right, although I can’t think his memory would be too reliable.”

“What do you know about him?”

“All us kids grew up knowing about Stevie, but I expect the story was exaggerated over the years. Apparently his mother was killed when he was about five years old. She was walking him to school one day when a car mounted the pavement and hit her. It’s said she was dragged along the road for a hundred yards. There’s worse, too. Because she was holding Stevie’s hand, he was dragged with her.”

“Dear God!” Dylan shuddered.

“It was awful. Poor Stevie hasn’t been right since. Apart from his physical injuries, and I gather his leg was badly crushed, the mental scars are unthinkable. His grandmother and his father brought him up for a while. She was a strict, no-nonsense sort of woman, so I don’t believe he saw much love or affection from her. I don’t know about his father. I expect he was a bit traumatised, too.”

“More than likely.”

“Stevie ended up in care eventually.”

Dylan felt a rush of sympathy for his new friend. No wonder he didn’t speak much.

“I’m surprised Stevie talked about Mum,” Holly said. “When I knew him, you couldn’t get two words out of him.”

“You still can’t.”

“I think Mum liked him. All us kids called him Simple Stevie and she hit the roof one day. She said we should all thank God we weren’t suffering like him and show him a bit of kindness.” She sighed. “She was quite right, of course, but you know what kids are. They can be cruel.”

“So can adults.” Children had the excuse of ignorance. Adults like Bill Thornton and Geoff didn’t. “Okay,” Dylan said. “If I find out anything else, I’ll let you know.”

“Thanks, Dylan. I really appreciate all you’re doing.”

“I haven’t got anywhere yet.”

“But you will. You’re the best.”

For a long time after they ended the call, Dylan thought about that. To his wife, he was a drunkard and a loser. As far as the police force was concerned, he was no longer fit for the job because it was believed, on the say of an habitual offender, that he’d used unreasonable force during an arrest.

Yet, for some reason, Holly Champion had faith in him. He only hoped it wasn’t misplaced.

Knowing he couldn’t put it off any longer, he called his mother.

“Dylan, there you are! I was beginning to worry. I’ll tell you what, though, this flat of yours is growing on me. I’ve bought some more scented candles today and I’m just arranging them in the bathroom. Really, that’s the best room in the flat—”

Dylan lay back on his bed and let her talk. No response was necessary.

Stevie’s head ached when he woke up. He was surprised to find himself in bed, and he tried to think how he’d got there and why he was still wearing his clothes.

He couldn’t remember.

He tried to decide, unsuccessfully, what day it was. It didn’t matter as they were all the same, but he had a notion he was supposed to be somewhere today. Was it today the Council was sending people to fit a new front door?

He got out of bed, put a hand to his aching head, and walked into the hall where he saw a brand new white door. He remembered now. Two men. One big and fat. The other was thin and moved quickly. Stevie had made them a cup of tea.

He put on his anorak and went outside. The best thing was to walk. The doctors had told him that. Said he must keep walking along the road. Said it wouldn’t happen again.

He walked along to Market Street where the cars moved slowly. There were so many of them, they had no option but to crawl along. The drivers tapped steering wheels or spoke into mobile phones. Some were smoking, others yawning.

Stevie liked Market Street with its slow-moving traffic. He took a left onto Pringle Street. Cars moved slowly here, too. Some parked outside the newsagent’s, causing congestion. Stevie could overtake them easily.

He kept walking until he was on the Manchester Road. The pain in his head increased with the noise of the cars. Here, the cars raced toward the M66 and Manchester. Four rows of cars. Noisy. Powerful. Smelly.

He stopped walking as he remembered. Yesterday—was it yesterday?—he’d walked along this road with the man. They had walked all the way to Morty’s. The man had asked him about Anita Champion.

Breakfast. The man had said to meet him at Asda for breakfast.

Stevie cheered up. He didn’t have to walk along this road, he had to go to Asda. The man had said so. He mustn’t tell the doctors, though.

The man wanted to talk about Anita Champion. Stevie had liked her. She’d been kind to him. Once she’d given him a sandwich. He’d been sitting on one of the benches in Moors Park and she’d come to sit beside him.

“Isn’t it a lovely day, Stevie? I wish I didn’t have to go back to work this afternoon. I could quite happily sit here all day.”

She was always smiling. Talking and laughing, too.

“Do you want a sandwich? Cheese and onion?” She opened a bag and offered him one. “You may as well take one. I won’t eat all these.”

So he took one of her sandwiches. It was good. Thick crusty bread and slices of cheese with thickly chopped onion, it was delicious. He could remember that. He could remember a lot of things.

“What about you, Stevie? What are you doing today?”

“Walking.”

“Oh? That’s nice. Where are you going?”

He had no idea. The destination wasn’t important. “Doctors say so. Say I must walk by the cars.”

“Oh, Stevie, I’m sure they don’t mean every day.” She had looked appalled. “I expect that was years ago, after the—accident. It’ll be like falling off a bike, when they tell you to get straight back on again. It’s so you’re not afraid to do it.”

Stevie wasn’t afraid to walk by the cars. It made his head hurt, but that was because of the noise and smell. He wasn’t afraid.

He’d stood and brushed a few breadcrumbs from his jeans. The pigeons would be along for those.

“Walking,” he’d told Anita, and he’d set off for the main road.

The man wanted to talk to him about Anita Champion, but Stevie couldn’t remember. He could remember her getting in the taxi that night, and he could remember walking up to Morty’s. He hadn’t actually seen her there, though. But he wouldn’t have. He must have walked there and straight back. He couldn’t remember doing so, but he must have because he could remember her friends—those women—leaving Oasis.

But that was all. The next thing he remembered was waking up in his bed the following day.

He was at Asda’s store before nine o’clock. As he took the escalator to the cafe on the first floor, he could smell freshly baked bread. The man wasn’t in the cafe, though, so Stevie went outside again.

The trolleys were lined up by the dozen, each chained to the one in front. If they let him walk with one of those, he would be fine. All he would hear was the satisfying, comforting squeak and rumble of the wheels. He wouldn’t hear the cars and his head wouldn’t hurt so much.

He walked across the car park, back and forth, sometimes using the zebra crossings, occasionally stepping straight between the rows of cars.

“Morning, Stevie!”

“Morning, er—”

“Dylan,” the man said. “My name’s Dylan Scott. Remember?”

“Dylan.”

They walked inside and took the escalator to the cafe.

He liked the man. Dylan. He would remember that.

He liked the breakfast, too. His plate held an egg, two sausages, three rashers of bacon and a portion of mushrooms. On another plate, he had two slices of toast and two individually wrapped chunks of butter.

The man had a pot of tea. “I’ve had breakfast,” he said. “At the hotel. It’s included in the cost of the room.”

Stevie had never been inside a hotel.

“So,” the man said as Stevie tucked in, “have you thought of anything else? Is there anything you’ve remembered about the night Anita Champion went missing?”

“No.” He couldn’t remember. He’d tried, but he couldn’t.

“What about Morty’s? Was there a bouncer working there? Did someone get free drinks for Anita?”

Stevie couldn’t remember. No, he was sure he hadn’t known anyone who worked there. “No.”

“I spoke to Anita’s daughter last night, Stevie. You remember Holly, don’t you? She remembers you. She said her mum liked you.”

Stevie felt his mouth curl into a smile at that. He couldn’t help it.

“Yes.” He remembered Holly. It was nice that she said Anita Champion had liked him.

The smile vanished. He wanted to remember, but he couldn’t. Anita Champion had got into the taxi, he knew that, and he could remember walking up Manchester Road to Morty’s. He must have turned round and walked back into town, but he didn’t remember doing so. He could remember seeing those women, three of them, leaving Oasis. One of them, Yvonne Yates, had left early. There had been something wrong between the other two. They had been angry about something.

What had happened, he worried, between the time he walked up to Morty’s and the time he was outside Oasis?

“Who used to go to Morty’s, Stevie? You must know that. You know Anita Champion went there. You must know others who did.”

But Stevie didn’t. His breakfast was finished and his head was hurting. He didn’t know. Couldn’t remember.

He shouldn’t be here. He should be walking along the road. The doctors had said so.

“Must walk.”

He limped out of the cafe, down the escalator and across the car park.

“Must walk,” he reminded himself.