Presumed Dead by Shirley Wells Page B

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.

Chapter Eleven
    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