Vanished (13 page)

Irwin lowered the bat, straightened his glasses, and joined the Grahams and Iris in the front hall. “First the alarm went, and a moment later Holdover phoned. I heard footsteps, someone running down the drive, so I thought I'd help him along a bit. He climbed the front gate, I reckon.”

“You should have called for help,” Iris told him.

“Who should I call, then? P.C. Fotherby?” Irwin's hair stood on end like so many iron filings stretching toward a magnet. “If I'd laid my hands on the villain…”

The man would be mincemeat,
Michael concluded silently. Raising his phone, he informed Holdover that the situation was under control. Then he inspected the neo-Gothic arched window beside the door. One of its diamond-shaped panes was smashed, the glass littering the tile of the floor and crunching beneath his
slippers. A rock the size of a brick lay in the midst of the destruction.

“That stone's from the herbaceous border by the driveway,” Iris noted.

“I'll stop by Norton's tomorrow and buy a new pane of glass,” said Irwin.

“So who was trying to break into our house at—” Molly glanced at the clock ticking away imperturbably at the foot of the staircase “—four o'clock in the morning? I'll tell you one thing. It wasn't Michelle Crookshank.”

“At least this time we were here and they didn't get in,” said Michael, remembering the mayhem they'd discovered after the theatre murder last spring.

“The villain was after the silver tea service, I daresay,” said Iris. “You get back to bed. I'll sweep up the mess.”

“Thank you, both of you,” Molly said. She trudged up the stairs, Michael at her heels. At the landing, she turned to him. “They weren't after the silver tea service.”

“No.” Michael wrapped her waist with his arm and felt the flutter of her heart. All the alarms in the world couldn't restore a feeling of safety, not after such violation. “I guess there's not much point to calling the police now. We'll face it in the morning.”

 

M
ICHAEL SAT DOWN AT
the table in the breakfast nook and sniffed the air. “Iris is cooking again?”

“Oh, yes,” Molly replied. “She thinks an army marches on its stomach.”

“We're no army.”

“I've noticed.” Molly seemed rather colorless this morning, as though she'd had a session with a vampire during the night.

He leaned over to kiss that cheek reassuringly, and welcomed her smile. Then he turned to business. “I viewed
the feed from CCTV cameras mounted round the house. All that's visible is a dark shape chucking a rock through the window, then legging it down the drive.”

“Great. Things are really getting out of hand.” She indicated the morning's
Blackpool Journal,
propped against the teapot—the everyday Portmeirion china one. “Fred's done himself proud this time. ‘Crowe Treasure To Be Revealed At Last'.”

“Fred removed the question mark for this edition, I see.”

Molly scanned the front page. “It's a shame Fred's article is sharing space with one about Daisy's murder. Yes, D.I. Ross was here with the Scene of Crimes team. No, he doesn't have anything to say… I guess we can't accuse Fred of murdering Willie and Daisy just to increase circulation.”

“That's thinking too far outside the box, love.”

Iris carried in two plates brimming with eggs, bacon, tomato, mushrooms and beans. “Here you are. A proper fry-up will get you up and going.”

Molly raised her fork as though girding herself for battle.

Michael dug in. “You were born and bred here in Blackpool, Iris. What do you think of the legend of Charles Crowe and the gypsy gold?”

“The story's been going round for a donkey's years,” Iris answered, “since long before my time. But as for the facts of the story itself, like any tale it's grown in the telling, with each teller thinking, ‘This will make it better, this will improve it.' I've always believed there was very little behind it all, but after the last couple of days, I'm not so sure.”

An electronic chirp sounded in the distance. Still chewing, Molly leaped up and raced into the other room. When
she came back, she told Michael, “Last night I e-mailed one of my contacts at the BBC.”

“The BBC?” asked Iris.

Michael explained, “Yesterday morning, at Havers Customs House, Dunhill called Hopewell away for a phone interview with—what did he say? The BBC's legal department?”

“When Fred asked about it, Trevor said something about corporate law. But he lied about that, too. He's being sued for illegally taking items from a shipwreck at Tobermory Bay, on the Island of Mull. It's all very hush-hush, since the case hasn't yet come up in court.”

Michael nodded. “I'm not surprised.”

“Hopewell's another of those chaps who thinks his wealth excuses him from obeying the law,” Iris said. “I'd not put it past him to have sent a thug up here last night. I'll freshen the pot.” Iris carried the teapot back into the kitchen.

Sitting back down, Molly stabbed her fork into a mushroom, sending it flying onto the table, where it left a grease mark on the polished wood. “Okay, maybe you were right about Trevor.”

“Not necessarily. Hard to imagine Mr. Perfect murdering—”

“You can stop with the insults, already. I'm not attracted to Trevor. He's nice to look at, is all.”

Michael put down his knife and fork and raised his brows at Molly. “Excuse me?”

“You're even nicer to look at, okay?”

He smiled. “Okay, sorry for getting off topic. It might not have been the murderer breaking the window, it might have been someone after the gold coins. Daisy Coffey could have been putting it about that we still have the coins.”

“Poor Daisy.” Molly plucked a piece of toast from the rack and broke it in two with a snap. “She was murdered because she knew things she wasn't supposed to know. And here we are, trying to find out things
we
aren't supposed to know. I don't think anyone tried to break in at all, Michael.”

“You mean the rock through the window was a warning.” He considered his own piece of toast, spread with bloodred jam. “This would be a fine time for a shopping trip to London, Molly. You could visit Harrod's, buy yourself some new shoes.”

“You think you can distract me with shoes?” She was slathering her own piece of toast with butter, knife flashing. “Why don't you, oh, go snowboard down Mount Everest or something?”

“I'm not backing off,” he told her.

“Neither am I,” she retorted.

For a long moment they glared at each other, then, as one, their expressions relaxed into rueful smiles. “Here's me,” Michael said, “annoyed with you for trying to get me to back off, and all the time I'm wishing
you'd
back off.”

“So I guess all we can do now is keep on keeping on,” Molly replied.

Michael's smile tightened into a grimace. “Right.”

M
OUNDS OF WHITE AND
gray cloud floated like galleons in the blue of the sky. The water in the harbor was so calm that every boat left a wake like a knife-edge, and the ocean beyond rose and fell in a lazy swell. The damp, still air seemed dense, and Molly's hair was a heavy curtain on the back of her neck.

She and Michael grabbed the last two parking places behind the old train station—he'd driven his own car to town so he could go back to the house for his tunnel gear, if necessary—and they walked up Dockside Avenue. Below the seawall lay the abbreviated beach, a strip of wet sand and pebbles striped by ridges of rock and dotted by blotches of seaweed. Human figures poked into every crevice and waved metal detectors over the ground. But Molly doubted that Willie had found his coins beach-combing.

Rohan met up with the Grahams outside the Blackpool Café, a paper cup in his huge, calloused hand. “Good morning,” he said with a grin. “You two are slow off the mark today.”

His grin faded as Michael told him about the early morning alarm, concluding, “It was just harassment, I expect.”

“You sure you don't want to take a long vacation until all this blows over?”

“Or until Dylan ends up in prison?” Molly asked. “I'm
afraid we're committed, Rohan. Or maybe we should be committed.”

Expelling a long sigh, Rohan said, “Adam Abercrombie and Grace Norton are tellin' me there's traffic jams in the tunnels. Everyone and his dog is searchin' for the spot where Willie found the gold coins, and mon, I think we should be down there, too.”

“Great.” Molly wrapped her arms around her waist so tightly they were gouged by the tiny rhinestones decorating her T-shirt.

“Speaking of the tunnels,” Rohan went on, “last week Connor Abercrombie saw Willie Myners leaving the one that comes out in the old toy shop just behind Olivia Tarlton's book shop. I'm goin' to see Olivia now, about refinishing her grandmother's dining-room table. I'll take a look at the toy shop while I'm there.”

“That might give us something to go on,” Michael said.

“Grace and her sister, Hannah, also noticed Willie hangin' about the Customs House cellar. That's the best-known tunnel entrance in town—you've been there yourself, Molly.”

Shivering, Molly remembered the ancient wooden door in a dark corner, the stones around it oozing moisture and the tunnel mouth exhaling a dank breath. “Give me a cliff top in a gale, no problem, but I have trouble digging the Christmas decorations out of the closet.”

Michael could do cliff tops and caverns both. At the moment, though, he was looking at something beyond Molly's back. “What's Jenkins on about now?”

Rohan and Molly glanced around to see the reporter using duct tape to mark out a spot on the sidewalk, one with a particularly photogenic view of the
Black Sea Pearl
and the harbor. His crew, which had now increased to
four, was jostling other news teams beside Grandage's, where police tape still festooned the barrels and the fishing net.

“As if the murders weren't enough to stir everything up,” said Molly, “Fred's article about the lost treasure has unleashed utter madness.”

Rohan nodded agreement. “So when are we joining in, Michael?”

Michael reached for his phone, but Molly was quicker, raising her wrist to check her watch. “It's a quarter to ten.”

Michael inspected the screen of his phone. “All right, let's do it. Half past eleven at the toy shop, Rohan?”

“Sounds good. See you then.” Rohan strolled closer to the media action.

Michael put his phone to use, calling Iris and asking her to get his thermos ready and his equipment laid out, while Molly led the way to the police station. Just as she reached for the doorknob, the door flew open and Fred Purnell spurted out. “Oops, sorry there, Michael, Molly.” His color was high and his eyes bright. Two cameras hung on his chest like oversized medals and a notepad peeked from the breast pocket of his shirt.

From the interior of the building came Paddington's voice. “I'd bear that in mind, if I were you!”

“I'm not you,” Fred retorted over his shoulder. “And a good job I'm not, else no one in town would have a clue about current events! Next time, just phone me and I'll stop in. No good having P.C. Krebs bring me in and scare the children.”

“See that there's no next time,” shouted Paddington.

“Is he threatening you with jail again?” Molly asked Fred, as he edged into the street and she and Michael maneuvered into the doorway.

“Of course he is. I gave him my speech about freedom of the press, to no more effect than usual, but I'm not going to faint in amazement at that.” Gaining the sidewalk, Fred turned toward Dockside Avenue. “Paddington's had word from Ripon about the postmortem on Willie and a preliminary report on poor old Daisy. Me, I'm trying to organize an ever-so-accidental meeting between Tim and Aleister Crowe. Crowe's on board the
Pearl
just now… Sorry, must dash.” And dash he did, trotting down the street and away.

“The man's a glutton for punishment,” Molly remarked to Michael.

“So are we.” Removing his aviator sunglasses, Michael waved her ahead of him into the building.

Luann Krebs sat at a desk just behind the counter, facing a computer. With a sharp glance over her shoulder, she closed the window on the screen in front of her, but not before Molly glimpsed the heading, “Controlled Drugs Act.”

“Can I help you?” Krebs asked.

“We want to see D.C.I. Paddington,” Michael replied.

“What is it now?” called Paddington from the back, and with a shrug Krebs returned to her computer.

Molly and Michael found the inspector ensconced behind his battered metal desk and its tidy stacks of folders and forms with this morning's copy of the
Journal.
A paper cup of muddy instant coffee steamed into the air. His face was flushed a shade somewhere between strawberry and pomegranate.

“Good morning,” said Michael.

“What is it now?” Paddington asked again, not even taking his eyes from the file in his hands.

“Someone broke one of our windows in the wee hours of the morning, that's what,” said Molly.

“The CCTV cameras showed a man running away,” Michael added.

He looked at them then. “You've called attention to yourselves with this gypsy gold business, haven't you now?” Paddington reached for another folder and extracted a form. “Vandalism,” he said slowly as he wrote. “Thorne-Shower Mansion.”

Michael helped himself to a chair and pulled another one forward for Molly. “I'd say the
murderer
has called attention to himself. First Willie, then Daisy.”

When Paddington didn't respond, Molly asked outright, “How
are
the investigations going?”

“Ross thinks Daisy Coffey was killed with the same knife that did in Willie Myners. A flat blade about seven inches long. Which he hasn't found, never mind his fancy team dragging the water below Grandage's.”

“What were you saying last night,” Michael cut in, “about Daisy leaving you a message?”

“You heard that, did you? Yes, she said she wanted a word, that she had an idea how Willie's murder was done. I thought at the time she was just making herself important, but…”

“She did live right next door,” said Molly. “She did report the break-in—according to Fotherby, although he got there awfully fast.”

Paddington frowned. “It doesn't matter, does it, whether she knew how the murder was done or not? She told everyone she did, the killer heard, and he lured her to a dark, quiet place and murdered her.”

“What about the number,” Michael prompted, “that Daisy drew in her own blood?”

“What?”

“Wasn't that a number two right next to her forefinger?” asked Molly.

“No, it was a smear caused by her twitching about, poor thing.”

Molly wasn't so sure about that, and, judging by the furrow between Michael's eyes, neither was he. After a moment of silence, she went on, “Please tell us you're not still thinking Dylan's the murderer. Why would he kill Daisy?”

“She reported him breaking in to Willie's flat, that's why. If he killed Willie for revenge, then it goes without saying he's capable of murdering Daisy for the same reason.”

“He didn't kill Willie,” Michael stated. “He didn't break in to Willie's flat. Someone was there when he got there.”

“So he says, but there's no evidence supporting that claim. Your posh lawyer may have him out on bail, but we'll lay him by the heels yet. Unless he's covering for his wife. That's always a possibility.” Paddington leaned back in his chair, his weight making its frame squeal piteously, and sipped from his cup.

“Have you cleared Robbie Glennison, then?”

“Yes. He was with Temperance Collins at the time of Willie's murder—Thomas Clough saw him cleaning the floors in her gallery, just as she said. And Robbie was safe as houses here at the station when Daisy was killed last night. First thing this morning, Fotherby took him to the train station in Darlington, made sure he got on the London train. That's one step toward righting things here in Blackpool.”

“But only one,” Molly said. “You say there's no evidence Dylan's telling the truth about Willie's flat….”

“Fotherby secured the crime scene, didn't he?”

“Sure he did. How about the dark blue bit of cloth hanging from the lamp? Or was Fotherby more concerned about the gold coins? You do have those now, don't you?”

“Yes, they're in my safe.”

Michael said, “Have you ever asked yourself why Fotherby didn't turn them in until
after
Willie was murdered?”

Paddington's eyes narrowed. “Yes, Graham, I have. Internal police affairs don't concern you.”

Did that mean Paddington was suspicious of Fotherby? Molly asked herself.
Good.
“Speaking of Fotherby, what did he do with Robbie Glennison's filleting knife?”

“It's gone in to Ripon.”

“Could it be the murder weapon?” Michael asked.

Molly knew he was headed in the same direction she was. If Willie's nuisance factor had started to outweigh whatever Fotherby might be getting from him, the constable could have gotten the bright idea of using the knife to kill Willie and letting Robbie take the rap. Discovering Robbie was working at the gallery yesterday morning might have come as a nasty shock.

Whether that shock translated into Fotherby's killing Daisy, Molly asked herself, was another matter, especially since they had no more proof of his guilt than Paddington had of Dylan's.

“No,” said Paddington, “I doubt the filleting knife is the weapon that killed Willie. I think Ross is a by-the-book chap, and more power to him. The sooner we get these murders solved, the sooner he can stop commuting in from Ripon and we'll have us peace and quiet here in Blackpool—as much as we can with the tourists bringing in con artists like the McKennas, and pickpockets and other criminals.”

Not necessarily, Molly thought. The crowds would only go away when they got tired of searching for gold. But one issue at a time. “The tourists bring in business, too. As for the McKennas, are you just assuming they're con artists or have you checked them out?”

Paddington smiled condescendingly. “I know my business, Mrs. Graham. Yes, I checked them out. They've got a misdemeanor or so in Cumbria, a couple of fines.”

“Are they really gypsies?”

“What?” Paddington stared.

“The legend of Charles Crowe,” Michael explained. “What if the McKennas are gypsies who are pursuing the treasure? They lived downstairs from both Willie and Daisy.”

“The legend of…” Paddington laughed. “Gold causes murders, there's no doubt of that. But gypsies? You really are going on a bit, aren't you?”

From the front room came the ring of a phone and Krebs's voice answering. From outside the window came the sound of footsteps and voices. Between his teeth, Michael asked, “What of other possible suspects, like the Crookshanks?”

Paddington snorted. “The lass couldn't have killed a mouse, not in her condition.”

Having no imagination, Molly thought, could be quite a handicap. “And Geoffrey? He bought a new gaff at Grandage's the morning of Willie's murder.”

“Did he, now?” Paddington reached for another paper and jotted that down. “That's a long shot, though. A gaff doesn't fit the medical examiner's description.”

“No, but—”

“Geoffrey's not going anywhere, not with Michelle to look after.” Paddington threw down the pen and reached for his pipe. “Anything else?”

“There's the
Black Sea Pearl,
” Molly suggested. “Trevor Hopewell has had quite a few shady dealings in regards to valuable artifacts, and Martin Dunhill has a criminal record.”

Michael smiled at her implicating Trevor, but not smugly, thank goodness.

“Yes, I know. But in order to search the ship, I'd be obliged to produce a warrant, and no warrant's forthcoming without cause.” Paddington shut the file in front of him with such force, paper flew into the air. “Now. Should I give you the lecture about leaving the investigation to the professionals, or did you learn your lesson the last time? You can't depend on your friendship with Dylan Stewart to keep you safe.”

“He didn't kill anyone,” Molly insisted.

“It wasn't him chucking a stone through our front window,” added Michael.

“Then you're caught between a rock and a hard place, aren't you?” Striking a match, Paddington smiled with satisfaction. Huffing, Molly rose from her chair.

Michael was already opening the door of the office. “Thank you, Inspector.”

Behind the smoke, Paddington's eyes gleamed. “You're welcome. Mind how you go, eh? Two murders, Seafaring Days, tales of treasure—I've got quite enough to deal with here. I don't need the pair of you walking into trouble.”