Vanished (19 page)

Dylan found two clean plastic bags in a locker. Michael had Geoffrey slide the dagger into one, and Rohan slipped the neckerchief into the other. As Dylan guided the boat back to its usual docking place, Michael considered the weapon. Its wooden handle beneath its mesh of gold wire was somewhat swollen and buckled. If there was any blood caught in that mesh, or any fingerprints on it, only sophisticated forensics techniques could recover them. But the Ripon team had such techniques at its disposal.

Dylan killed the engine and left Geoffrey to see to the mooring ropes. Michael sealed the bags, then joined Rohan and Dylan as they tidied up their equipment and
stowed it in the locker—no need to drag it all back to the bicycle shop, not just now.

“Thank you, Michael,” Dylan said. “And Molly, too. This whole thing, Naomi vanishing, the murder, the coins, it's—”

“Not over yet,” Michael finished for him. “Not until we've had an arrest. Let's get these bags to the police station.” He turned toward the pier and froze.

Geoffrey was now talking with Owen Montcalm, but Molly was nowhere to be seen.

M
OLLY LOWERED HER HAND
from waving good luck to Michael and the others. Her grin contracted into a sigh of frustration. There had to be something she could do.

Chatting with Owen Montcalm wasn't that something, she added to herself when the weather-beaten old man in his oil-stained coveralls strolled toward her. “Hullo there. What's himself up to?”

Even as she answered with something neutral, the hair on the back of her neck quivered. She spun around, toward the
Black Sea Pearl.

Trevor Hopewell was still standing at the stern railing, peering across the harbor through a pair of binoculars, the lenses catching the muted light as the sun sank behind the hills to the west and shadow flowed over the town. Was he watching the divers? Did he suspect what they were looking for?

If he didn't now, his guilty conscience would very quickly work overtime once he saw the three men diving beside Willie's boat.

She had to distract him. And how better to do that than make sure he really didn't have the dagger that went with his Francis Drake costume? It was possible that Michael, Dylan and Rohan were searching for the wrong weapon. There was some risk that she could be walking into the lion's den, but if Michael did find Hopewell's knife on the ocean floor, he'd have the police on the boat in a shot.

Muttering some sort of excuse to Montcalm, she took a few hasty steps toward the yacht, then stopped and moderated her pace. Casual, she told herself. She was moving along because there was nothing to see in the harbor, that was all.

Molly loitered up the gangplank just as Martin Dunhill emerged from a hatchway. He smirked rather than smiled, his dark, beady eyes sweeping her up and down like an exploring hand. His jowls displayed less of a five-o'clock shadow than a ten-o'clock eclipse. If he went several days without shaving, he could easily play Wolfman to Aleister Crowe's elegant Dracula. Even his uniform was disheveled, his collar open.

His eyes returned to her face. “Good afternoon, Molly. To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit?”

Her own smile was refrigerated. “I'd like to speak to Trevor, please. I was hoping to take some photos of the costume he was wearing last night. I have a friend in public relations who's always looking for interesting photos of important people.”

That was laying it on a bit thick, but the taking-photos ploy had worked for Michael. She pulled her iPhone from her pocket and held it up, “I'd also like a picture of the pocket watch on Trevor's desk. Is it a family heirloom? That's the sort of human-interest story my friend loves to blog about.”

Whether Martin was convinced or not, he turned on his heel, clambered up a nearby stairway-cum-ladder and called to Trevor, “You've got a visitor, boss. Molly Graham. Wants to take photos.”

Instantly, Trevor was wafting down the ladder, every tooth gleaming. “Molly. How good to see you. What's this about a photo-op?”

She repeated her spiel, this time with a much warmer smile and the merest flutter of her lashes.

“How clever of you to recognize Drake!” Trevor replied. “I'd be glad to show the outfit off for you. I had it made by the costumer who did the clothing for the Elizabethan
Blackadder
television series, for one, and a Helen Mirren film for another.” Leaving Martin to do whatever he did on deck—skulk, Molly thought—Trevor escorted her below and out of sight of the recovery expedition at Willie's boat.

She paused beside the display case in the corridor. “The dagger you were carrying with your costume. Is it in the case here?”

“Ah, well, you see…” Trevor's chin wobbled. “The dagger has gone missing, more's the pity.”

“It has? When did you last have it?”

“My valet tells me it was with the costume Saturday evening. It must have disappeared during the day on Sunday, whilst I was visiting Whitby. My valet had gone with the rest of my crew to enjoy the Seafaring Days festivities—with my permission, of course. My crew's very much taken with your lovely town.”

“I bet they are.”

“Your Inspector Paddington warned me of the local criminal elements when I first arrived. I can only suppose some villain made his way on board despite Martin's vigilance. I had a word with him about that.”

Yes, we saw, in Michael's photo.
But Trevor had lied before, Molly reminded herself. His pose as a charming upper-class twit was an act. He was a hardened drug dealer and murderer. And yet, if the expression of mingled chagrin, irritation and frustration creasing his chiseled features was only an act, he deserved an Oscar.

“Fortunately the dagger's not genuine, but an authentic
reproduction, if that's not a contradiction in terms,” he went on with a deprecating smile. “It has a seven-inch Damascus blade with a haft made from oak taken from Drake's own ship, the
Golden Hind,
and wrapped with gold wire and tiny gold beads. I have a publicity still of it, if you'd like to have a copy. I'd be delighted for you to take some casual pictures of the entire costume. You said you'd like to take photos of the watch, as well? It was my grandfather's. It's somewhat battered to be a collector's item but of sentimental value even so. Please, come through.”

Molly followed his extended arm into his office and stepped up to his desk. She raised her phone and took a couple of snaps of the watch.

Yes, there was Naomi's map, now folded away to one side of a nautical chart of the Yorkshire coast. Pointing toward it, she once again deployed her eyelashes. “I see you have the map drawn by one of our friends. Lovely, isn't it? Did you get it during your tour of the town?”

“No, no, it was sent to me before I came here. Helped to convince me to come, in a way. Although…” Again that deprecating smile, which now spread into a sheepish grin. “I must confess, Molly, I shaded the truth a bit. I've visited Blackpool before, to see the Wallachian coin displayed at the Mariner's Museum three years past. This is the sort of thing one keeps quiet to dissuade other collectors, mind you.”

To say nothing of other treasure hunters, Molly thought, but she kept her own smile in place. Why was he suddenly being honest? Was he taunting her with his cleverness—you'll never catch me, ha-ha? Or did he genuinely have nothing to hide? If so, she and Michael had made some terrible miscalculation.

She tried a direct question. “So you were aware that more Wallachian coins have turned up here?”

“Can't pull the wool over your eyes, can I? Your reputation as a detective is well-deserved.”

Yes, Fred had said something at the Customs House about her and Michael being detectives.
Thank you very much, Fred.

Trevor tapped on the glass dome encasing the watch, making it sway back and forth like a reproving nod. “Willie Myners, of late but I gather less-than-lamented memory, contacted me via e-mail last week, then, at my request, he sent the map via Royal Mail.”

“Did you talk to him about the coins?” Molly took a step to the side, so that she had an unobstructed path to the door, just in case Hopewell was bragging before he pounced. But his relaxed stance tended the other way, toward a door in the back of the room.

“No. In my caution I neglected to fill Martin in on the complete picture. He recognized Willie from his days in prison.”

“You knew Martin had been in prison?”

Trevor's blue eyes widened. “Why, yes—not as a criminal, of course, but as a guard. He has a sterling record, one of the reasons I hired him to work security for me.”

It was Martin Dunhill, then, who was the liar. He must have forged his references and hidden his record. He might well be using Trevor's transportation network to obtain and move drugs, Trevor being none the wiser. And yet, Trevor still had to be the murderer.

Didn't he? They'd seen Dunhill. He'd spoken to Trevor.

“Well, then.” Hopewell walked on toward the rear door. “I'll adopt my Drake persona for you, if you don't mind waiting a bit. There's a fair number of fiddly little laces
and the like. Feel free to ring for tea. My chef bakes a lovely currant scone.”

“Thank you.” Molly had no intention of ringing for tea or anything else. As soon as Hopewell shut his door, she was heading for the other one. Just as she slipped her phone into her pocket, though, she thought of the sinister warning she'd heard earlier…

She whipped her phone out again and found the number of that call. She remembered every word of the ever-so-posh voice:
I suggest you take that flower basket seriously. The next time, neither you nor your husband will walk away.

Dialing the number again, she held her breath. But she heard nothing in the office or in the private quarters beyond, no pop tunes, no ring tones, no answer. If Trevor had used the numbers she and Michael had given him to threaten them, then his phone was not within earshot.

Michael could use his technological expertise to trace the call. So could Ross's people. But right now… Molly pocketed the phone again and sprinted out of the office, along the corridor, up the ladder and across the deck to the gangplank.

Michael stood at its foot, talking to Martin Dunhill. Or at him, rather. Martin stood with his arms crossed, not so much barring Michael's way as showing how little it mattered whether he passed or not.

Hearing Molly's steps down the gangplank, he turned and smirked again. “There she is, Michael. Untouched, it appears, although appearances can be deceiving.”

“Don't I know it,” Michael retorted. He took Molly's arm and guided her away from the yacht, shielding her with his own body from Martin's eyes. Several paces down the pier, he bent toward her ear and hissed, “What
was all that in aid of? What if Hopewell had gone for you?”

“So you're allowed to go into danger and I'm not?”

“Neither exploring the tunnels nor diving is the equivalent of paying a visit to a murderer!”

“He was watching you and the others! If he'd seen you pulling up the dagger—which he did lose— Did you find it?”

“Yes, that we did. Dylan's gone home, but Rohan's on our cabin cruiser. He phoned Ross and is keeping an eye on the dagger. And on one of Hopewell's neckerchiefs, as well. A bloodstained neckerchief. We spied it caught beneath the pier.”

They glared at each other a moment, then the tension broke. “If it's any help,” Molly said with a rueful smile, “I never really felt as though I was in danger. Trevor was still working his charm offensive.”

“
Offensive
is the word,” replied Michael, but ceased and desisted while she told him about Dunhill's lies, and Trevor coming to Blackpool to begin with because Willie had e-mailed him.

She finished, “Willie could have used one of the public terminals at the Jade Dragon to search for coin collectors and then sent the message. Or maybe, when he showed his coins to Charlotte, she said something about Hopewell wanting to buy the one Alfie Lochridge borrowed from the British Museum.”

“Just because Hopewell admitted he lied about the coins doesn't mean he's not the murderer. If he isn't, then who is?”

Molly looked around to see Trevor walking out onto the deck of the
Pearl
in his full Francis Drake outfit. Martin Dunhill slouched toward him.

“You said yourself…” Michael murmured, working
it out the way he'd run through a game scenario. “You said that every bit of evidence pointing to Hopewell also points to Dunhill. We've even got the photo of Hopewell angry with him over the lost knife, just as we thought.”

“But Martin can't have been in two places at once. Rebecca saw him at the festival at the time of the murder. I saw him buying a pie from Thomas Clough with my own eyes. And he was right in front of us, talking to Trevor. Wasn't he? By now I'm wondering if I know my own maiden name.”

“Sullivan,” Michael said.

“Well, yeah…” Molly had the distinct feeling a thread was dangling before her, if only she could grasp it.

On the yacht, Martin answered Hopewell's query by silently pointing out Molly standing beside Michael on the pier. Trevor turned and waved.

The thread whisked through her fingers. “Uh-oh. I'd better come up with some excuse for running out on him.”

“There's one just there,” said Michael, pointing to D.I. Ross.

The detective was working his way through yet another Other Syde tour, a raven in a drift of confetti. As he strode down the pier, he glanced up at the Elizabethan apparition on the deck of the
Pearl
and for a fraction of a second his pace faltered.

Molly thought she detected a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, but all he said was, “Good afternoon, Mr. Graham, Mrs. Graham. You've recovered the murder weapon, I believe?”

“Yes,” Michael said.

Molly motioned to Trevor, pointing to Ross and spreading her hands in a gesture of,
Sorry, something's come up.
He offered her a conciliatory wave. Beside him, Martin
offered nothing but a black look. It didn't matter whether either man remembered Ross from yesterday's Scene of Crimes operations. Events were moving along too fast to dissemble now.

Michael escorted Molly and Ross to the Grahams' own cruiser and sat them down in the tiny cabin, where Rohan was faithfully guarding the two plastic bags.

Ross lifted one, then the other, and questioned the men about where they'd found the contents. “The medical examiner dug out a bit of granular gold, a tiny bead, from Daisy Coffey's wound, just as he did from Willie Myners's. There's no doubt this is the weapon that killed them both. As for that neckerchief…” His thin lips curved downward, boding a hard time for the dive team that
didn't
notice it, high tide or no high tide.

Molly chimed in with the story of Trevor and Francis Drake, of Martin and his alibi. “At least, it looked like him buying a pie at Clough's, the navy blue suit, the white shirt, the neckerchief. Though he was wearing a hat when he came up to us and Trevor. But it was a sunny day.”