Vanished (11 page)

“What's Paddington going on about now?” asked Rohan.

“Just as a guess,” Michael replied, “he's telling the Ripon team to not spend any more time here than is strictly necessary. Blackpool is his patch and he doesn't take kindly to outsiders.”

Nodding imperturbably, Ross stepped back, allowing the divers to clamber up a ladder and onto the pier. Michael peered at them, not just interested in the details of their gear, but to see if any of them was holding an evidence bag.

“Doesn't look like they found anything,” Rohan said.

“Now
that's
a pity…”

Krebs went to attention. “You! Glennison!”

Good, Michael thought. Callum must've called the police about his missing knife, and Paddington and crew were taking it seriously.

Robbie turned and ran, limbs flailing, soft soles thudding on the pier.

“Here, you!” shouted Fotherby, and gave chase.

Robbie was heading right for Michael and Rohan. The two men exchanged a glance and a nod, and braced for impact.

M
OLLY STEPPED OUT OF
the Bait and Tackle Shop in time to see Michael and Rohan seize a running Robbie Glennison. The young man went limp in their grasp and crumpled to the water-stained planks of the pier.

Molly reached them just as Fotherby did, mere seconds ahead of Luann Krebs. Within moments Molly, Michael and Rohan found themselves in a tightening circle of humanity, the familiar faces of the townspeople—the Norton girls, Daisy, Margaret and Randall Coffey—outnumbered by those of visitors.

Fotherby dragged Robbie to his feet, but then, out of breath, could only stare accusingly at him. Robbie's watery eyes focused on his battered, unlaced sneakers. “I didn't do nothing,” he panted. “I didn't kill nobody.”

Claiming his other arm, Krebs pulled him away from Fotherby and leaned in close. “No one's accused you of anything, Robbie. Yet. Why'd you run?”

“Fotherby,” said Robbie. “He knocked me about Friday, at the Smokehouse. I didn't want nothing to do with him.”

Fotherby discovered his voice. “You deserved a bit of knocking about, lad. If you ask me, keelhauling wouldn't go amiss.”

Funny how no one had asked him. Molly extended a hand to Michael and he clasped it tightly in his own.

Paddington elbowed his way through the crowd and
regarded Robbie with such a triumphant smile his round head resembled a jack-o'-lantern. “What's this? Running away?”

“I didn't kill nobody,” repeated Robbie, wilting even further, so that Fotherby and Krebs both had to hold him up.

Before Paddington could approach the subject of hot tempers and cold steel, a woman's voice spoke from the back of the crowd. “He was with me at the time of the murder.”

The spectators parted like the Red Sea before Moses. Microphones made gantries over the gap. Cameras clicked. Temperance Collins made her entrance. In the sunlight her hair shone a brassy shade unknown to nature. Her fortysomething body was sausaged into twentysomething clothing and she balanced herself like an acrobat on nosebleed-high heels.

“Robbie was with me at the time of the murder,” Temperance repeated, still speaking loudly even though she was now only inches from Paddington's moustache. “I saw him going through the bins behind the Blackpool Artist's Gallery about half past ten, and we had us a few words, didn't we, Robbie?”

Robbie nodded eagerly. “Nothing wrong with a bit of bin-diving, Inspector.”

Paddington flinched, either at Robbie's breath or the thought of rooting around in someone's trash.

“I set him to work cleaning my floors. The antique Baltic pine's lovely, but needs waxing after every opening. Still, we girls have to have our stiletto heels, don't we?”

Krebs gagged. Fotherby's eyes weren't focused on Temperance's face. Paddington's eyes were focused nowhere but.

“Miss, um, Mrs. um, Collins…” Paddington stammered.

Temperance ignored him and turned to the cameras. “That's www.Blackpoolartistsgallery.co.uk. Unique art and artifacts. Representation for the artistic soul who can't be bothered with business. Investment opportunities galore for those who can.” Her eyelashes, thick as caterpillars, shivered in a wink.

Paddington exploded. “Madam! You cannot just walk into a murder investigation and, and— If Robbie was with you this morning, then the pair of you are coming to the station. Fotherby, Krebs…” He elbowed his way through the crowd and across Dockside Avenue, his features now looking less like a jack-o'-lantern than pumpkin pie.

Fotherby hovered at Temperance's side as she sashayed in the same direction, with Krebs doing a Darth Vader stranglehold on Robbie behind them both.

“Mon, is she tellin' the truth?” asked Rohan. “Or is she only wantin' publicity?”

“Dylan said Temperance wouldn't exhibit any of Naomi's ‘artistic soul,' or represent her,” Molly pointed out.

“Leaving Willie to represent her,” Michael said. “This is according to Betsy Sewell, who's selling some very nice maps drawn by Naomi.”

“Really?” Molly's mind scrambled, trying to work out some way Temperance's snub could be turned into motivation for Willie's murder, but came up empty.

“And I thought we were making progress,” Michael went on, “when Callum told me Robbie had taken one of his filleting knives.”

“One of the ones used for red herring, I guess,” Molly said, but no one smiled.

The van from Ripon inched down the pier and onto Dockside Avenue, followed closely by the police car.
Cameras and phones clicked. Then the Scene of Crimes team, too, was gone, the show was over, and the onlookers ebbed like the tide.

Molly, Michael and Rohan were left behind like flotsam on the beach.

Rohan squinted into the sky. “The sun's over the yardarm. I'm goin' for a pint and a pie at the Dockside. Michael? Molly?”

“Thank you, no,” Michael told him. “Molly and I need to compare notes, decide where to go from here. If anywhere, that is.”

“We have to go somewhere,” said Molly. “If Robbie's alibi is good, then Dylan's still on the hook.”

“What about having a tunnel crawl?” Rohan asked. “Maybe we can find out where Willie came up with those coins.”

“But just blundering around the tunnels won't help,” Molly said quickly.

Michael's hand tightened on hers. He knew how she felt about the tunnels. “Molly's right, mate. We need some hint of where to go. Though it wouldn't hurt to have a gander.”

“No, it wouldn't. Give me a call when you're ready to go underground.”

“That I will,” Michael told him.

Molly waved as he walked away. “It is time for happy hour, or tea or something, but now I'm not hungry. More frustrated than anything, I guess.” She led Michael to a bench near the Mariner's Museum that overlooked the harbor, and sat down close beside him.

The sun eased toward the hills to the southwest, and shadow stretched over the town, tucked as it was beneath the cliffs. But light still shimmered on the North Sea to the east. The lights along the crescent of Dockside Avenue
began to wink on. So did those draped from the
Pearl
's masts. Musicians filed into the bandstand and began tuning up, while gulls emitted mocking squawks.

Molly's tense muscles started to relax. This evening she'd intended to wear an outfit that looked like a Mardi Gras version of a pirate, from billowing satin blouse to gilt-buckled shoes, but she didn't want to return to Thorne-Shower Mansion to change into it.

“The murder's the fly in the ointment,” she said aloud.

“The murder. Yes.” Michael took a deep breath of the sea air.

Molly produced her phone and its list of names. “If only it was as easy as Santa Claus checking his list, going to find out who's naughty or nice.”

That was a lame joke, and it drew only a lame smile from Michael. “Willie wanted Alfie at the museum to evaluate some ‘valuable artifacts,' but Alfie sent him away with a flea in his ear. Nothing new there. But I did prove that Trevor Hopewell lied. Twice. He was in Blackpool three years ago, and while he was here he saw the British Museum coin and even made Alfie an offer on it.”

“Whoa!”

“He also bought that Arabian dagger from the museum. It's on the
Pearl
now, along with the Highlander's dagger. Rohan and I talked Martin Dunhill into showing us the display.”

“Could one of those be the murder weapon? Hard as it is for me to consider Trevor getting his hands dirty.”

“Ah, Trevor, the golden boy,” mocked Michael. Changing the subject, he told her, “Fred showed me his next front page, all about Charles Crowe and the gypsy gold.”

“Oh, that'll help!” Molly said, partly laughing, partly groaning. “There's not a person in town who doesn't
know Willie had gold coins of some kind. Rebecca, for example, thinks they're stamped with Dracula's image. Daisy Coffey could put Fred Purnell and Tim Jenkins out of work.”

“Right.”

Molly sifted through her conversation with Rebecca. “Here's something. Aleister was late to church, even though Lydia, Aubrey and Addison Headerly were there in plenty of time.”

“Perhaps his car broke down.”

“He's got a new one, an Alfa Romeo.”

“There you are, love. An unreliable new car.”

Molly smiled indulgently. “It was in the shop—that was where
he
heard about the coins. I bet Aleister was blindsided by the sudden appearance. Maybe he did kill Willie to keep him quiet about the treasure.”

“It would have been easier to have bought the coins and let Willie leave town.”

“Aleister doesn't necessarily take the easy way out, as we've seen before. His efforts last spring to suppress his family history regarding those stolen paintings blew it all up even bigger—and he's doing it again.”

“Well, yes. Mind you, he might be playing double or even triple agent with his family history, all to confuse the issue.”

“I wouldn't put it past him.” Molly added a few notes to her list. “Or Trevor could have stabbed Willie, then cleaned up and made it to the Customs House where we saw him. As for Martin Dunhill, Rebecca noticed him hanging around the festival at the time of the murder. And…”

“And?” Michael prodded.

“Michelle was also wandering around the pier and the
marina this morning. She may have been trying to make up her mind to confront Willie about Naomi.”

“Ah.”

“Geoffrey lied, too. He stopped by the Bait and Tackle Shop early today and bought a gaff. Jamey Grandage showed me a similar one. It's basically a spear.”

“Ah,” Michael said again. “A gaff wouldn't create quite the same sort of wound as a knife blade, but it would take a postmortem exam to tell the difference.”

From the corner of her eye, Molly saw a familiar figure and thrust her phone into her purse. “Look! There's Dylan! He's free!”

“For the moment,” warned Michael, even as he leaped to his feet and led the way to the corner of Compass Rose and Dockside, where Dylan and Naomi stood talking to Fred.

Or where Fred stood talking to them, rather, while they kept taking steps backward, trying to get away. At last Fred gave up, greeted the Grahams with a cheery, “Grand evening, isn't it?” and headed toward the ice cream van parked nearby.

Dylan turned to Molly. “Thank you for getting onto the lawyer. Even Paddington's little cell is not a place I'd like to spend time in, to say nothing of one of Her Majesty's prisons.”

“No problem,” she returned. “I hope we can help clear your name, too.”

“So do I.” Naomi's red lips were smiling, but her eyes were desolate. After an awkward silence, Dylan pointed past the museum toward the whitewashed flanks of his own shop, a spectral glimmer in the shadows below Glower Lighthouse. “Fancy a cuppa? Naomi's made shortbread.”

“Had to keep myself busy,” she explained.

They needed the Grahams like they needed two more wheels on a bicycle, Molly thought. “Thank you, but we, ah, thought we'd go listen to the music, see what people are wearing for costumes, you know…”

“Do the festival,” Michael concluded.

“All right then,” said Dylan. He looked at Naomi. “Get on home, love, I'll catch you up.”

Naomi's gaze moved from Dylan's face to the dim shape of the bicycle shop and its dark windows. She folded her arms across her navy blue pullover. “Well, it's been several days since I've heard the footsteps behind the walls, whether you think I'm hearing them or not, Dylan.”

“Just echoes from the pub at the lighthouse,” Dylan told her.

“Yeah.” She headed at a swift walk toward the shop, then stopped and spun back around. “Listen, I don't know what to say, how to help—there's too much…” Barely holding back a sob, she whirled and ran to the shop. Her shadowy figure disappeared inside and the windows flared with light.

Dylan turned to Michael. “I don't know what to say, either, mate.”

Resting a brotherly hand on his shoulder, Michael asked, quietly but urgently, “Dylan, I'm sorry, but is there any possibility Naomi killed Willie? It wouldn't have been difficult for her to lay hands on a knife of some sort and sneak up on him.”

“You're asking whether she killed the man and is standing by, letting me take the blame. Is that it?” He shook his head so firmly his crest of hair shuddered. “No. She can't be putting me in the frame. I can't believe that of her. I can't believe that she murdered him. She thought he was her way out of here.”

Molly caught Michael's eye. Naomi could still get out of Blackpool if Dylan went to jail. In fact, she'd come out ahead, because she wouldn't be burdened with Willie as the price of her escape. But the woman was obviously crushed by what had happened; Molly had no trouble giving Naomi the benefit of the doubt.

“Get some rest, Dylan,” Michael urged his friend. “I'll phone tomorrow, let you know how we're getting on. Rohan wants to have a look at the tunnels to see if we can trace Willie's path.”

“Does he? Well, if you find anything, give me a shout. I'll be here trying to make up for the business I've missed this weekend. Good job tomorrow's a bank holiday. Thank you for everything, Michael, Molly. Sorry to be such a bother.”

“I just hope we're helping,” Molly said.

“Don't worry, Dylan,” said Michael, although Molly could tell from the edge in his voice that he had plenty of worries. At least he could share them with her.

Side by side, they strolled through the twilight back toward the festival. The Dockside was heaving with customers. Voices, the clink of glasses and Coldplay's latest hit mingled with the waltz coming from the harbor side bandstand.

“Does Dylan know Willie was acting as Naomi's agent?” Molly asked.

“Maybe she's not telling him, afraid that would be rubbing salt in the wound.”