Vanished (21 page)

Paddington said, “Willie threatened to expose you to your boss, was that it? Reveal that you'd been using Hopewell Transport as a vehicle for your drugs?”

“Blackmail,” said Molly. “There's your motive. Blackmail and the coins added later for good measure.”

“It's all about money,” Michael remarked.

“What of Daisy?” asked Rohan. “Did she see Gary as well as you? Were you afraid she'd literally put together two and two?”

“And she'd tell everyone in town about it, until it got back to me,” Paddington finished.

Martin didn't speak.

Molly said to Michael, “I can just hear him—Trevor, that is—carrying on about nurturing a viper in his bosom or whatever the verse is.” Michael nodded.

For half a tick he let himself wonder just who or what he and Rohan had seen slipping away along the fence, right before Dunhill leaped on Molly. A sheep, no doubt, its shape distorted by the fog.

After all, he didn't believe in ghosts.

“Take him away,” Paddington said.

And with one last wary look onto the grounds of Ravenhearst, a place that had already absorbed so many curses, they hauled him off.

 

M
OLLY DRAINED THE LAST
bit of delicious, sweet, milky tea from her cup and sat back. The morning sun sent a bright glow across the floor of the breakfast nook. Iris had strutted her stuff with breakfast—even Ross had chowed down.

Michael had bruises on his throat, and she had bruises on her arm, but…

It was all over but the shouting, and she and Michael didn't have to shout.

She glanced across at Irwin and Iris, enjoying the last of the tea with the Grahams and their guest. “I felt like an extra in
The Hound of the Baskervilles,
” she told them.

“That may be just about the only story not told about Ravenhearst,” Iris said, “a spectral hound dripping phosphorescence from its jaws.”

“Was that your forensics chaps who phoned earlier?” Irwin asked Ross.

The detective patted his lips with his napkin and folded it beside his empty plate. “They found Martin Dunhill's fingerprints on the dagger, and shreds from the rope tying Myners's boat to the dock on his jacket as well as curly gray hairs that match Daisy's. Analysis of the bloodstains on the neckerchief will take a while longer, but they look to be Myners's.”

“Has he confessed?” Michael asked.

“Yes. I'll spare you the details, though—it was hard going getting useful information from the bragging and the bravado. Gary was a bit more forthcoming, but then, he's the sailor. Martin's the captain.”

Iris placed the lid on the butter dish and started collecting the plates. “And Trevor Hopewell?”

“Eager to please,” said Ross. “He was shocked that the Dunhills were running a drugs operation from the depths of his own corporation. We'll investigate further, of course. I expect some of his collecting activities would bear scrutiny, as well, but…”

“They're not your brief,” said Molly.

Ross nodded acknowledgment. “Dunhill bribed Hopewell's secretary not to check his references. The man's been sacked.”

“I should hope so,” Irwin remarked.

“Martin Dunhill and Myners did meet in prison. Dunhill drew Myners into his family's drugs operation—had no problem adding one more port in case of a storm in Newcastle, so to speak. Here you are—cheers.” Ross handed his plate to Iris. “Dunhill never expected Willie to have anything valuable, which is why he wouldn't at first let him through to see Hopewell.”

Molly said, “He didn't know Willie had already contacted Trevor.”

“Right. But it was only a matter of time until both Dunhills learned about Willie's gold coins.”

“And both of them turned over Willie's flat?” Irwin asked.

“Yes, but the lad, Addison Headerly, scared them away before they found the coins.”

Michael shook his head. “They weren't well hidden—I turned them up quick smart. If I'd known I was playing into Dunhill's plans, and putting Daisy in jeopardy…” Molly took his hand beneath the table.

“By finding the coins, you helped expose P.C. Fotherby,” Ross told him. “Well, yes.”

“The break-in was also meant to put the frighteners on Willie,” Ross went on, “showing him that as an agent for the Dunhills, he'd best cooperate.”

“That's why he called Naomi,” said Molly with a sigh. “He was going to take his windfall—the coins—and run, and he wasn't about to saddle himself with Michelle and her child. What a rotter, as Geoffrey said. And yet, I feel sorry for him.”

Iris lifted the tea cozy off the pot and shook it. “Another pot?”

“No, thank you.” Glancing at his watch—a rather posh model for a policeman, Molly noted—Ross scooted his chair back. “If the Dunhills had left well enough alone, the Dunhills would have had their drugs trade. But they wanted the gold, too.”

“Treasure,” said Michael. “There's a grand motive for all sorts of crime.”

“Myners phoned Dunhill on the Sunday morning, said he was willing to deal. But when Dunhill arrived, the
deal
Myners suggested was blackmail—that was his last, desperate gamble. If Dunhill paid him the worth of the coins, then he wouldn't tell Hopewell about Dunhill's past, let alone Dunhill's present, which would cost him his access to the inner working of Hopewell Transport. They argued. Myners lost his temper and pulled his pocket knife on Dunhill.”

“But Dunhill's knife was bigger,” Molly said.

“Quite so, yes. As a villain himself, Dunhill sensed villainy, and armed himself with a handy weapon when he left the yacht.”

“The fact he set Gary up as an alibi indicates he expected there to be trouble. After he killed Myners, he
texted Gary to talk briefly with Trevor—albeit with a hat—to solidify that alibi further. I suspect we'll discover more about whether Dunhill meant to frame Hopewell by using that distinctive knife, giving his boss yet one more reason to be distracted from the internal affairs of his corporation.”

No one offered an answer to that.

Ross went on, “After hearing about town that Naomi had been on the boat as well, he and Gary followed her, and sniffed round the bicycle shop. They thought Naomi might know where Myners found the coins. They figured she might have seen Martin stab Myners, come to that. If they'd managed to kidnap her, well…” His smile was tight as a high-tension wire. “Dylan was looking after her.”

Michael exhaled loudly. “And thank goodness for that.”

“No kidding,” said Molly, “even if they never patch things up. Now, that's beyond
our
brief.”

“The Dunhills also heard about town that the coins were missing,” Iris suggested.

“They heard quite a bit, I reckon, not least from—and about—Willie's neighbor, Daisy,” Irwin stated. “Who knew too much and told even more.”

“Poor old soul,” said Iris, “using her last breath to write down that number two. Using her last breath to spread one more bit of information about the folk around her.” Molly sighed.

“Was it Martin or Gary who lobbed the rock through our window?” Michael asked. “He wasn't actually meaning to break in, was he?”

“It was Gary. He and Martin only meant to intimidate you. Your security system has a reputation. But then, you and your wife have a bit of a reputation, as well.” Ross's smile crisped at the corners. “I don't need to tell you, Mr. and Mrs. Graham, to mind how you go. You might see investigating crimes as an extreme sport, but…”

“No. We don't see it as sport at all. We don't go looking for these things. They just happen.” Michael squeezed Molly's hand beneath the table.

Ross got to his feet. “Thank you for the five-star bed-and-breakfast. I must be off, though. The paperwork always takes longer than investigating the crime. To say nothing of the interaction with folk like your Fred Purnell and Tim Jenkins.”

Laughing ruefully, everyone else stood up. In a flurry of activity they helped Ross collect his gear and saw him into his car and down the driveway off to Ripon.

Iris and Irwin went to attend to other duties, leaving Michael and Molly alone on the front step. “Seafaring Days are over,” she said. “But it will take a while for the Blackpool Gold Rush to slack off.”

“Autumn's coming soon. More fog, rain, cold—that will calm things down.” Michael held the door open for her. “What are you planning for the morning, love?”

“To start working on a grant for a local drug rehab program.”

“Good,” he said, but he'd already pulled his phone from his pocket and was thumbing through the screens.

“Gold, treasure, edged weapons, pirates, ships, fog on the moors—you have more than enough material for your new game,” Molly told him with a smile, and craned around his arm to get a glimpse at what had caught his attention.

His photos of Charles Crowe's model of Blackpool slipped one by one across the screen. “If Blackpool's haunted by anyone, it's Charles Crowe.”

“If?”
With a cautious glance over her shoulder, as though the man's ghost threatened to walk up the driveway, Molly pushed Michael into the house and shut the door.