Vanished (10 page)

L
EAVING THE NEWSPAPER
office behind, Michael strode down Dockside Avenue and discovered Rohan sitting on the steps of the Mariner's Museum. “Sorry, I kept finding more people to talk to.”

“Any luck?” Rohan pulled himself to his feet and stretched.

Michael could almost hear his friend's muscles creaking. He, too, would be grateful for a session of hang gliding or the like. But not yet. “You be the judge,” Michael answered, and filled Rohan in on his conversations with Callum, Betsy and Fred.

Rohan whistled at the first, rolled his eyes at the second and shook his head at the third. Finally, he concluded, “Willie did find the coins in the tunnels, eh? I've never seen him out with the tunnel rats. But then, a football team and the seven dwarves could be walking around in that maze and one never cross paths with the other.”

“There is that. How's Naomi getting on?”

“Stunned. Scared, too. There's more at stake here than Dylan's name, mate.”

“Oh, yes. That's why I want a word with Alfie about the gold.”

Michael held the heavy doors of the museum's vestibule open for Rohan, then followed him into the dim, slightly musty interior. Normally, he'd have paused at the displays of local artifacts, including fossils, rock
samples and items associated with pirates—logbooks, spyglasses, compasses, pistols, cutlasses and daggers. But not today…

Wait a minute. Michael took a closer look at one glass-topped case. The spot where a curved dagger had once rested was empty, its shape outlined on the faded backing cloth. “Now where has that gone?” he asked, not that Rohan had an answer.

Michael took the first flight of the marble steps two at a time, then reminded himself to appear to be more of a casual passerby than a bloodhound following a scent.

They found Alfie Lochridge in the reading room. When he saw the two men strolling along inspecting the portraits on the wall—including one of Charles Crowe, his dark eyes aloof—Alfie stroked back his long gray hair as though to proclaim,
I'm ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille,
and adjusted his pince-nez. “Well, if it isn't Michael Graham. And—what's your name, young fellow?”

“Rohan Wallace,” said Rohan.

“Part Scots, are you? Fancy that.” Alfie smiled at Michael. “I hear we've had another murder here in Blackpool. Willie Myners, was it now?”

“I'm afraid so,” said Michael. “Did you know the man at all?”

“Only in passing. Though he did catch me on the front steps just yesterday, as I was returning from having a look at the
Black Sea Pearl
—trust Trevor Hopewell to arrive with a fanfare, eh? Willie had the neck to ask me for an appraisal of what he called ‘valuable artifacts'.” Alfie's fingers made quotation marks.

“Did he show you the artifacts?” Rohan asked.

“Good heavens, no. He patted his pocket and leered at me, is all. Can you imagine? What could that toe-rag have that could possibly be of value?”

Alfie was apparently the raisin on the Blackpool grapevine, his stem disconnected from the stalk. “What about three Wallachian gold coins and a silver thaler?” suggested Michael.

Alfie stared. The pince-nez fell off his nose and swung back and forth at the end of its cord. “You're joking.”

“No, I'm not joking. But Wallachian coins have turned up here before, right?”

“Yes, two lads unearthed several back in the 1840s. But those disappeared into the Crowe's Nest, never to be seen again. I had to call in a favor or two from the British Museum to borrow a similar coin from their numismatics collection to illustrate the story during the first Seafaring Days. And what a struggle that was, initiating the festival!” Alfie jammed his pince-nez onto the bridge of his nose. Behind them, his ash-brown eyes glinted. “If Alice Coffey and her crew had their way, the town would be famous as the residence of Little Bo-Peep and her woolly lambs, not the haunt of shady characters from Harold Skull-Splitter the Viking to Blackbeard the Pirate. Speaking of shady characters, Willie found himself a bit of the Crowe treasure, did he?”

“So it seems. If you didn't take the bait, might he have tried Trevor Hopewell?”

“That's logical. Hopewell's mad for historical artifacts, the more valuable the better.”

“I guess his reputation precedes him,” said Rohan.

“Very much, yes,” Alfie said. “Plus I spoke with him late yesterday afternoon when he came to collect the dagger.”

“The one from the display case downstairs,” said Michael.

“The Arabian with the curved blade and the scrolled hand-guard, right. He made us a very nice offer. I'm not
quite sure of the dagger's origins. I suspect it was made no earlier than 1900 or so, even though Aleister claims it's a souvenir of Charles Crowe's voyages. But
caveat emptor,
right?”

“Another possible murder weapon?” whispered Rohan from the side of his mouth. Michael nodded.

Alfie was still talking. “Hopewell offered on that Wallachian coin the first time he visited here, but, alas, it wasn't the museum's to sell.”

It was Michael's turn to stare. “The coin from London? Three years ago?”

Rohan added, “Hopewell said he'd never been here before.”

“And he told us he'd never seen Wallachian coins of…” Michael drew a blank. “What's his name, Vlad the Impaler or some early ruler.”

“Are you calling me a liar? Come along, I'll prove it to you.” Alfie stamped across the floor, each step resounding like a gunshot, and stopped by a lectern topped with a visitor's book and chained-up pen. From the shelf below, he pulled out another book dated three years earlier. He thrust it toward Rohan. “See for yourself.”

Rohan turned the pages. “Um, if Seafaring Days was held over the August bank holiday weekend then, like it is now, then we're looking at a date of…”

Michael leaned over his shoulder. Some visitors' names and remarks were neatly written, some were scrawled. “There! ‘Trevor Hopewell—excellent collections.'” It was written in a flowing hand better suited for a quill pen than ballpoint.

That explained why Hopewell was so quick off the mark when Fred had said something about the coins this morning.
But that doesn't explain why he lied.

Smirking, Alfie replaced the book and straightened his bow tie, its bloodred fabric imprinted with tiny skulls and crossbones. “That was a careless lie, wasn't it? He could have said he'd seen such coins in London. But to these fanatical collectors, acquiring pieces is a sport. There's always one more item to attain.”

Murder, thought Michael, is no sport. “This time round, then, Hopewell bought the dagger. I doubt that means he's no longer interested in the coins, though.”

“You've got that right. He was asking me about Charles Crowe's activities as a ship builder and master, what routes his ships followed, what sort of contacts he had in Eastern Europe, Africa, the Near East and the Orient. Did any of his ships come to grief on the way back to England, and so forth. I finally referred him to the Customs House for maps of sunken ships in the area.”

“Molly and I met up with him outside the Customs House this morning, though he didn't go inside. His first mate—Martin Dunhill—reminded him about a phone call and something to do with corporate law.”

“Ah,” Alfie said with a nod. “Perhaps Hopewell's looking to dive on some of the wrecks just off the coast. The legal ramifications experienced by independent salvors are complex enough to keep a battery of lawyers in business. I've written the prime minister with a list of changes to our own laws of treasure trove—no need to let the sticky fingers of the Crown have first choice, is there?”

Sensing Alfie preparing to get on his soapbox, Michael said, “Sorry, Alfie, must run.”

“Come back when you've time for another chat.” Again Alfie smoothed his hair off his collar. “I'll be happy to set you straight.”

“Good to meet you,” Rohan said, and managed to avoid
laughing until he and Michael made it to the bottom of the stairs. “Full of himself, isn't he?”

“There's a reason no other museums will take him. He knows his history, though.” The men walked toward the marina, still dominated by Trevor Hopewell's tricked-out yacht. “The
Black Sea Pearl,
” said Rohan. “Isn't that the ship in the first
Pirates of the Caribbean?
”

“That was just the
Black Pearl,
” Michael replied. “I wonder if the fact that Hopewell added ‘Sea' to the name of his own pirate ship means anything. Romania borders on the Black Sea, and he does seem keen on Charles Crowe's activities there.”

“Are you thinking ‘collector' is merely a polite way of saying ‘treasure hunter'?”

“In Hopewell's case, yes. Let's have a word or two with him, eh?” Considering that there might be a reason the man had a Jolly Roger flying from his mast—never mind that the masts were intended for decorative purposes only—Michael led the way through the crowd gathered near the crime scene, up the
Pearl
's gangplank and onto the deck. A sailor coiling a rope spotted them and nipped below. Within moments, Martin Dunhill appeared. His smile of welcome was pinched around the edges, sending creases deep into his jowls. “Ah, it's Michael again. And Rohan, was it?”

Michael asked, “Is Trevor aboard just now?”

“No, he's off to Whitby this afternoon. Some wrinkly historian offered a tour of the sites mentioned in
Dracula.
”

He didn't add, “appropriately enough,” and Michael didn't suggest it. “Well then, Trevor may have mentioned to you that I'm a video game designer and my newest game is based on pirate legends…”

Martin's smile was congealing fast.
Get to the point.

That's just it, Michael thought wryly, a point—one at the end of a knife or dagger. “I'd like a few photos of Trevor's knife collection, especially the Arabian dagger he bought from Alfie Lochridge. I'd been intending to take a photo or two of it there in the museum, but was just too late.” He held up his iPhone, glad Dunhill hadn't seen him taking the same photos with his camera during his tour of the ship the day before.

“Very good, then. Come below.” Not bothering to conceal his annoyance, Martin guided them down the narrow steps. He stood by while Michael took photos of the weapons in the display case. The Arabian dagger was there, nestled next to the Highlander's dirk, with its own neat computer-printed label. The items formed such a fine collection Michael wouldn't have been surprised to see Monty Python's holy hand grenade of Antioch, suitably polished and labeled, among them.

Finally, he tucked his phone away again. “Thank you. Very helpful.”

“Are you thinking one of them's the murder weapon?” asked Martin.

Michael stopped, his hand still on his phone in his cargo pants. Beside him, Rohan's shoulders twitched in an infinitesimal shrug. Right now, offense was the best defense. Straightening to his full height, Michael asked Martin, “So you've heard of the murder?”

“Who hasn't? There's not a Blackpooler who's not full of it—no play on words intended,” Martin added, which just proved he
had
intended the play on words.

“I've heard that the victim, Willie Myners, was here yesterday afternoon to see Trevor.”

“He was, but I intercept loads of confidence trick
sters bragging they've got something special to offer the boss.”

“Willie's gold coins were rather special, I should think.”

Martin snorted. “That's the rumor.”

“Had you and Willie met before?” Rohan asked.

“Being responsible for security, I meet a variety of villains. I knew Willie for what he was, an old lag, a criminal, not the sort you expect to have a genuine gold coin. Or more. Some are claiming he had sacks of the things.” Martin's eyes narrowed. “But rumor usually overstates the situation.” With a gesture, Martin urged Michael and Rohan toward the hatchway. “When did the murder happen, exactly?”

“Supposedly about half past ten this morning,” Michael answered.

“Is that so? And here's me walking through the vendor's stalls, meeting up with you, your lovely wife and Trevor at the Customs House. Missed the whole thing, didn't I? Pity.” Martin emitted a dusty chuckle.

Pity has nothing to do with it.
Michael said, “Thank you for your time,” and he and Rohan emerged onto the deck and walked off the ship. On the pier, they looked back.

“He's a cool one,” said Rohan. “What about those knives? If Hopewell or Dunhill murdered Willie for his coins, they cleaned up the evidence.”

“And they didn't get the coins for their pains. For Willie's pains, rather.” Michael gazed down the pier toward Willie's boat. With all the people standing about gawping, he could hardly see the new van and the remaining police car. The tall chap with the beak of a nose stood at the edge of the pier… Ah, that was it. He had a dive team searching the water around and beneath Willie's boat.

“We'll not get closer to those knives or any others on board the
Pearl,
” Michael told Rohan. “The police could do, but they'd need a warrant.”

“And they'd need actual evidence, not just supposition and hearsay, to get it. Maybe we should let the police do the legwork, Michael.”

“They're
doing
the legwork. We're just trying to make sure they don't miss anything, is all…. Is that Robbie Glennison?”

A thin young man, his eyes bulging, his complexion so white it was almost gray, hovered on the edge of the crowd, hands in pockets, shoulders curled, head hanging. He jerked away when Maurice Paddington bustled up and pushed by, but Paddington didn't seem to notice him. The inspector marched on by Fotherby and Krebs and up to Ross. Words were exchanged, Paddington making tight little gestures, Ross unmoving and replying in monosyllables. Every one of the navy of cameras pointed and clicked.