Vanished (18 page)

“No one's going to get rich off Willie's gold save the lawyers,” Addison stated.

All Molly and Michael could do was raise their glasses and touch his in silent agreement. She upended her half-pint, draining the last of the golden lager into her mouth. From the corner of her eye she saw two police cars crawling through the pedestrians thronging Dockside Avenue. “Hmm. The team from Ripon is here. Again. Michael, Ross is going to want to talk to you, since you found the body.”

“What body? Where?” Addison asked, probably the last person in Blackpool not to have heard about the new—albeit very old—murder case.

The Grahams quickly filled him in, then paid for the
food and accepted Addison's thanks for the Coke and for not marching him off in handcuffs. Then they ran.

By the time they reached Dockside Head, the squad cars were sitting in the car park below the lighthouse and a couple of constables were unrolling a second ribbon of crime-scene tape. Before the police could move the watching people back to a perimeter line much farther from the scene, the Grahams slipped by and up the steps.

The red-haired detective was now standing in the lighthouse door, his hands folded behind his back while Luann Krebs made her report. So bloated with importance that her barely convex chest almost touched the front of his suit, Krebs wound down with “And Michael Graham…” just as Michael's long legs carried him into the scene.

He introduced himself to the detective, adding, “And this is my wife, Molly.”

“Detective Inspector Jason Ross,” said the detective, his beak of a nose turning from one Graham to the other, taking their measure. With his red hair and freckles he reminded Molly of Addison after a self-confidence transplant, except he didn't speak in Addison's university-trained accent but in a soft Scots brogue. “You're the Grahams, are you now? I heard about your assisting the police in solving the theatre murder.”

“Assisting the police” was often a euphemism for “under suspicion and being questioned,” but Ross meant it straight. It was discomforting to learn that both her and Michael's names were permanently enshrined in the annals of the North Yorkshire Police Authority.

The constables, finished with the tape, climbed the steps. “Show my team the scene, please,” Ross told Krebs.

Peeling herself away, she led the men into the lighthouse.

“D.I. Ross,” Molly went on, “did your forensics team ever get any evidence from the break-in at Willie Myners's flat?”

“No. I was informed that P.C. Fotherby was seeing to it, but we never received a report.”

“Well then,” Michael said, but was interrupted by a stir in the kibitzing crowd, somewhere between the microphones and the cameras.

It had to be Paddington coming to protect his turf. Sure enough, the all-too-familiar bearlike figure emerged from the throng and labored up the steps to the lighthouse. “Always in the thick of it, aren't you?” he asked, his baleful gaze landing like a wet towel on both Michael and Molly.

“More so than you know.” Bracing herself and without naming her sources, Molly told him the whole story—Willie Myners's flat, Fotherby watching the place and taking the coins but not delivering any evidence to Ripon, the rumors going around town of his complicity in Willie's drug trade. Michael interjected the occasional fact-check.

Paddington's face darkened to its patented red-fruit shade. “You're saying that P.C. Fotherby is bent? On the take?”

Ross's face had changed neither expression nor color. “I wouldn't have thought there'd be enough profit selling drugs in such a small town to make bribery worthwhile.”

A woman's voice said, “But you still don't know everything yet.”

They looked around to see Luann Krebs emerging from the lighthouse, her eyes shining with zeal.

“If this is about those damnable coins,” said Paddington. “Fotherby might have taken his own sweet time
handing them in, but he said he'd been distracted by the festival, which is true enough, so I had a word in his ear about efficiency. But this…” His voice ran down into a sputter.

A glint in Ross's pale blue eyes registered the approaching figure of a raw-boned man in a constable's uniform. “That's the man himself, is it?”

“Yes,” said Michael.

Ross gestured as subtly as a shepherd to his sheep dog. One of the constables still standing in the parking lot stepped into Fotherby's path and engaged him in conversation.

Smooth,
Molly thought.

Paddington's eyes narrowed. “Krebs?”

P.C. Krebs stood to attention. “Sir. As I'm sure you're aware, there've long been reports of drugs trade all up and down the coast and into the interior, overseen by a group of villains in Newcastle.”

“There is that,” said Ross. “I've just seen a new report. The dealers are creaming off the drugs—pharmaceuticals, for the most part, with a bit of marijuana on the side—from legitimate shipments brought in from India and China. You're suggesting this Willie was your local agent?”

Before Krebs could answer, Michael interrupted. “Shipments? Like those made on vehicles belonging to Hopewell Transport?”

“Ah,” Ross said.

Paddington looked back at Krebs. “Is Hopewell involved?”

“I've not yet pursued the case from the top down, just from the bottom up, so to speak,” she replied. “The interaction between Willie Myners and P.C. Fotherby made me suspect Fotherby was bent. I followed him several
times to Myners's flat…including Saturday afternoon. I have pictures of money and illegal substances changing hands between Fotherby and Myners.”

Paddington stared, his throat emitting a sound like that of a teakettle on the boil.

“I was just about to hand in my report when Myners was murdered. But it's all on my computer, in a file titled ‘Controlled Drugs Act'.”

Molly nodded. So did Michael beside her. That's what Krebs had been up to, then. Finally, something that made sense.

“Well then,” said Ross. “Inspector Paddington, is it possible that Fotherby killed Myners?”

“He had motive, whether he had the opportunity, I don't know,” Molly said.

“D.I. Ross was talking to me,” Paddington informed them, his face now the color of ripe cherries. “Fotherby was with me at the station Sunday morning, seeing to his paperwork, at the time of Willie's murder, and he was walking to the festival with me Sunday evening when Daisy was murdered.”

Ross signaled again. The constable who had intercepted Fotherby moved aside and Fotherby climbed the steps to the lighthouse door. Paddington greeted him with a tight, “Douglas. May I have a word?”

Michael and Molly faded away, out of the line of fire. Michael stared up at the whitewashed cylinder of the lighthouse. Molly gazed into the distance. The blue of the sky was muted, as though covered by gauze, and darkened to Prussian blue where it met the sea. An early-evening sea breeze stirred the sultry air and rippled the water in the harbor.

Ross, too, had taken a step back while Paddington leaned into Fotherby's face, screaming his tirade, bits
of spittle flying off his lips. Fotherby's heavy features lengthened and his mouth fell open. Gobbling, he replied, “Now, Guv'nor, you can't be thinking— I was waiting at Myners's flat to read him the riot act, tell him to shape up or ship out—ha-ha, ship out.”

Paddington was not amused, the color of his face that of a red flag waved before a bull.

Fotherby's attempt at a smile evaporated. “Yeah, yeah, I was watching for Willie on Saturday—I can talk to the man, can't I, without breaking any laws?—I saw that chap from the
Pearl
go up the steps…”

Molly and Michael moved closer again.

“Martin Dunhill,” said Fotherby. “He sneaked into the flat, didn't he?”

“Well, did he?” Paddington demanded.

Yes,
Molly answered silently. That's who Addison saw. That was corroborating evidence.

Ross inspected the spit-shined leather of his shoes, but his ears twitched like a cat's.

“Yeah, it was Dunhill,” Fotherby said. “Just caught a glimpse of him, with the neckerchief and all, but that's who it was. Then I saw that lad's been chasing young Lydia go in after him, and then Dylan—the murderer, right?”

Paddington didn't rise to the bait.

“And the Grahams, there.” His voice rising to a sound like that of fingernails down a blackboard, Fotherby turned toward them.

Before he could speak, Molly told him, “Don't you dare blame us.”

Paddington took so firm a grasp of Fotherby's collar that the constable's voice was choked off. “It's time you were seeing our cells from the inside. Come along.” And, to Krebs, “Good job, lass. Good job.”

Despite the condescending “lass,” Krebs's thin face lit with a grin, one that grew even wider as Paddington dragged the now slumping Fotherby away.

M
ICHAEL HAD BARELY
exchanged a smile of satisfaction and relief with Molly before Rohan appeared in the lighthouse door. Squinting up at the sun, which was sinking toward the high ground to the west, he said, “Mon, I thought I'd missed the entire day and gone into the night. I wouldn't have made it without the tea, Michael, thanks.”

“Meanwhile,” Molly said, and filled him in from the medallion to Fotherby's fall.

“All right! One more copper off the streets—oh, sorry there, didn't catch the name. Rohan Wallace.” Rohan extended his hand toward Ross, then, seeing how mud-encrusted it was, let it drop to his side.

He was so much grimier than Michael remembered. He wondered if Rohan had taken the opportunity to do some exploring on his own, despite the danger.

Ross introduced himself to Rohan, then pulled out a small digital recorder and proceeded to pump Michael and Molly for information. He walked them through the entire sequence of events at Willie's flat, Krebs interjecting a question or two of her own. By the time Ross had saved all the particulars, several men bearing boxes and bags were walking out of the lighthouse. Krebs danced attendance on them down the steps to their cars. Funny, Michael thought, how her body language had gone from pompous to self-confident.

“We'll be taking the bones and other evidence to the police station now, sorting out what needs to go on to Ripon. I'll suggest to D.C.I. Paddington that he interview this Addison Headerly.” Ross traded his recorder for several business cards, handing them to Michael, Molly and Rohan. “Give me a shout if anything else happens, eh? Oh, and if you can recommend a B and B or hotel, I'd be obliged. I'm thinking I'll stop here for the night, have myself a good look round. Settling the events at Myners's flat is all to the good, but that was only the preliminary to two murders.”

Molly said, “We have guest rooms at Thorne-Shower Mansion, Inspector, though it's a bit out of Blackpool proper.”

“Yes, please join us.” Michael visualized enlightening conversations about police procedure and more over drinks.

“We'll let our housekeeper know to expect you. Anyone can direct you to the house.” Molly waved in the general direction of home.

“Thank you kindly.” Ross's smile made a perfect rectangle below his nose, like a base beneath a column. With an affable but still professional nod, he followed his team and Krebs toward the police station, drawing quite a few of the onlookers with him. The cries of “Inspector, Inspector!” died away in the distance.

Rohan said, “The guy in the secret room is one murder Paddington and Ross won't be able to solve.”

“I wouldn't be so sure,” Molly told him. “I bet that murderer had the same motive as the man who murdered Willie—to get the gold coins.”

“You said last night we needed to think outside the box,” Michael replied.

“Well, yes. There's blackmail, as you mentioned earlier,
though ultimately that's about money, too. People do kill for love, or hate or to keep a secret hidden.”

“A secret dealin' with a family reputation?” suggested Rohan.

“The bones in the tunnel may not have anything to do with the Crowes,” Molly acknowledged, “but, darn it, that medallion indicates the same time period, and there were definitely Wallachian coins involved with that murder, too.”

“Unless,” said Rohan under his breath, “there's more to the story than the gold.”

“Aleister Crowe can't have killed Willie,” Michael reminded Molly. “You proved that yourself. There's only one possible name now.”

“Yeah, that of a coin collector, treasure hunter and drugs dealer named Trevor Hopewell.”

“Posh prat like Hopewell probably thought we'd assume he wasn't up to doing his own dirty work,” muttered Michael.

“But it was Dunhill that snuck into Willie's flat,” Rohan cut in.

“Sure,” said Molly. “Dunhill could have been looking for the coins to sell to Trevor himself, take out the middleman. Or Dunhill could have told Trevor about the coins, and Trevor ordered Dunhill to shake Willie down for them.”

“Hopewell also lied about visitin' Blackpool three years ago.”

“And about having seen a Wallachian coin before,” Molly said. “So what else has he been lying about?”

Michael replied, “Not about wanting to see the maps of sunken ships, not at all.”

“That's it!” Molly exclaimed. “That's where I saw one
of Naomi's maps of Blackpool! On Hopewell's desk, along with charts of the coast.”

“And he does have a big collection of weapons…” Michael's thought slipped down a dark alley and he tried to follow.

“Knives,” Rohan said. “Like the murder weapon.”

“The murder weapon
twice over,
” said Molly. “If it's not Hopewell's Elizabethan knife, then what is it? If it is, then where is it? The police dive team searched the water around Willie's boat, and they dragged the area beneath the pier where Daisy was found…” Her brown eyes lit with the luster of amber. “Oh, boy. That would be genius.”

“You're thinking that after killing Daisy, Hopewell chucked the knife into an area that had already been searched.”

“Beneath Willie's boat,” said Rohan. “It's been there less than twenty-four hours—should still be visible.”

“Worth a shot.” Michael galloped down the steps, across the car park and into the bicycle shop. It was easier to keep his diving gear there with Rohan's and Dylan's than to haul it all down from Thorne-Shower Mansion every time he wanted it.

Dylan was stooped over a bicycle tire. “Dylan!” shouted Michael. “We need the scuba kit!”

Rohan ran through the door after him and dumped his rucksack and Michael's flask behind the counter, next to the paraphernalia Michael had left there earlier. Molly made a third, her chest rising and falling very attractively beneath her T-shirt.

Dylan looked up, still holding a patch in one hand and a tube of glue in the other. “Right you are, but what—”

“We think the murder weapon's in the water beneath Willie's boat,” Molly explained.

Dropping the patch and the glue, Dylan hurried to a storage locker. Within moments Rohan and Michael were back out on the street burdened with neoprene dry suits, swim fins, air tanks—and Dylan, who seized his own equipment and headed out, leaving Naomi in charge of the shop.

“Good luck,” she called from the door, adding a quiet, “Please, please end this.”

The three men and Molly pushed through the people thronging Dockside Avenue and the town square. Many of the vendors had given up and broken down their stalls, but others were still doing brisk business, among them Peggy Hartwick and her pastries and Thomas Clough and his meat pies. Rebecca Hislop, though, had folded her tents and stolen away. Flowers, Michael supposed, only held up so long, especially in this weather.

Although the sea breeze was easing the heat. At the
Black Sea Pearl
's masthead, the Jolly Roger gave a desultory flutter. The water in the harbor rippled and splashed against the pilings of the pier.

Molly held the oars while Dylan, Rohan and Michael piled their things into Dylan's little boat. But when she said, “Oh, hello,” Michael looked up.

Geoffrey Crookshank's seamed and stubbled face peered over the edge of the pier. “What's all this?”

“We're diving for the murder weapon,” Michael answered.

“Let me help you then, lads. I'll steady the boat while you dive. Willie was a rotter, but he was my grandson's father, and I'd like to see his killer behind bars.” Geoffrey's large red hands took the oars from Molly's small white ones. She handed them over with a smile of thanks, no doubt aware that despite her frequent workouts, she lacked upper body strength.

“Thank you.” Michael made room in the boat and Geoffrey clambered down a ladder—as the tide ebbed, boats rode farther below the decking of the pier.

Unfortunately, taking Geoffrey on board meant no room for Molly. With a brave smile, she threw off the mooring ropes, stepped back and gazed around. And stopped, her brows rising.

Even as the boat's outboard engine turned over and began thrumming, Michael followed the direction of her eyes. A masculine shape stood at the railing of the
Black Sea Pearl,
topped by a glistening white yachtsman's cap. Trevor Hopewell.

The man Michelle saw behind Grandage's hadn't been wearing a hat, or so Molly reported. But that proved nothing. It was the man's dark blue coat that was important—not the blue strip of fabric caught in Willie's desk lamp, although that had been a useful diversion.

Hopewell had a navy blue jacket. So did Martin Dunhill. So did others of Hopewell's crew, like the ones Michael had seen walking along with Holly McKenna. But it was Hopewell who had means, motive and opportunity. And if he wanted to stand there watching while Michael, Rohan and Dylan—the man he was happy to send to jail in his place—proved his guilt, then fine.

Michael waved to Molly. She looked back at him just in time to respond with a wave of her own, annotated by a grin. Dylan, having guided the boat to a spot near Willie's shabby cabin cruiser, cut the engine.

Leaving Geoffrey at the oars, fine-tuning their position, Michael, Dylan and Rohan pulled on their neoprene suits. Zippers and seals, fins, regulators, masks—within minutes the three men were rolling off the gunwales into the water.

The water closed over Michael's head and its chill sent
a shock wave through his body. He blinked at the sudden plunge from daylight to dusk. Slowly, methodically, he took a breath of stale air from his mouthpiece and swam toward the bottom of the harbor. The lumpy expanse of mud was broken not only by jutting ribs of bedrock, but also by the regular shapes of man-made debris—wood planks, an anchor, a cement block, a broken chain.

Michael blinked up at the underside of Dylan's boat, the oars like wings. The sleek chevrons of Willie's cabin cruiser and the
Pearl
—large as a basking whale—hung nearby. Each of the other boats in the marina became less distinct the farther away it was, and the pier itself diminished like an exercise in perspective as he went deeper until all was consumed by the blue-green-brown shadow of the sea.

A prickle ran down his back, not water leaking into his suit, but his senses alerting him to shapes moving in those shadows…. There was nothing beyond fish and other sea creatures, Michael told himself. Not even the mermaids he was depicting in his new game. He forced his attention to the search.

Dylan and Rohan were quartering the area near the pier, fading in and out like ghosts. Every now and then one of them would pull the odd tree branch or whiskey bottle from the mud with a small explosion of silt. Flexing his legs, Michael, too, coasted along, trying to distinguish the shapes.

That long stone trough looked like a sarcophagus, right down to the rounded end. And there—a human form? He thrust himself closer, and saw that it wasn't even as interesting as an old bowsprit, just a plastic mannequin from a clothing store.

Despite his gloves, his hands were growing cold. His ears reverberated hollowly with the sound of deep water
and his own breath.
Come along, come along, we've got to find it. It's got to be here!

Again, Michael looked up, taking his bearings. There was Willie's boat. There was the pier, its pilings wearing flowing skirts of seaweed that camouflaged the high- and low-tide marks.

He examined the mud beneath him. Two beer cans. A sudden spatter of little fish. A long, dull gleam…

There it was! Michael fumbled at the evocative shape, his hands stiff, then grasped it and held it up to the others.

An Elizabethan dirk or dagger, its wire-wrapped handle emitting a furtive gleam of gold.

Rohan made a triumphant gesture. Dylan pointed heavenward, either in gratitude or to say,
Let's get out of here.
In a clump, they swam back to the boat, levered themselves up the ladder and tumbled onto the deck.

Before Michael could even remove his mouthpiece, Geoffrey was pointing toward the pier. “There's something caught on that piling, at the high water mark. Can you see it?”

Working his lips and mouth, inhaling the free air, Michael peered in the direction Geoffrey pointed. A reddish blotch like a misshapen starfish clung to the gray wood. “I'll check it out. In the meantime, here, have a care.”

He handed the knife—the murder weapon—to Geoffrey. Geoffrey held it between thumb and forefinger, his arm extended, the way he'd hold a live grenade.

Michael's hands were too cold to manipulate his phone. He searched the decking of the pier, meaning to content himself with an enthusiastic wave and a thumbs-up at Molly.

She was no longer standing where she'd been when they set out. Where had she gone? And why?

“You looking for the missus?” asked Geoffrey. “She was having a blether with Montcalm.”

“Oh, thanks.” Of course Owen Montcalm would come to see what was happening in his marina. Good for Molly, keeping him distracted.

Starting the engine, Dylan maneuvered the boat up to the pier and partially beneath it. Michael balanced out over the gunwale and yanked a piece of cloth from where it had caught on the thornlike splinters of the piling. A good thing the tide was ebbing or Geoffrey would never have seen it. The dive team from Ripon probably hadn't noticed it because it was in the shadow of the pier and the tide had been high.

“That's one of the
Pearl
's neckerchiefs,” said Rohan.

This time it was Dylan who extended forefinger and thumb. “It's barely touched the water. It's more damp than wet. Likely Hopewell dropped it when he leaped from Willie's boat to the pier—thought it went into the water when it actually blew onto the piling. Those brown stains…you suppose they're…”

Willie's blood.
No one had to say the words.