Vanished (6 page)

“What happened?” Dylan asked her. “You phoned me, said you wanted to make it all up, but then you vanished.”

Her fingers with their shiny purple nails opened and shut against Dylan's jacket. Clean fingers, Michael noted, not stained with blood.

He looked away, hoping Dylan hadn't noticed his friend inspecting his wife's hands for traces of murder.

“Yeah, I did,” she said, her words coming in ragged spurts. “I meant to give Willie up as a bad business—there was no way forward, not with him. But then, yesterday afternoon, he called and said his ship had come in and he was leaving Blackpool for good, and if ever I wanted to leave, start over again, this was the time. You've been away, Dylan. You've had your sports tours in the U.S.
and all, but I've never been farther than Scarborough or Darlington. I've asked you to go somewhere else, to Newcastle, maybe even London, not this little…”

“I've got to mind the shop, Naomi. We can't afford to give that up and start over.”

She shook her head. “And I couldn't afford to stay and give up my dreams. So I came to the boat, this boat, yesterday evening. Willie was waiting. Said he had to run back to his flat for the coins and we'd leave this morning after the petrol dock opened.”

“And?” Michael asked, in as gentle a tone as he could muster, while Rohan roamed the deck behind him.

“He was nervy then, looking over his shoulder, but when he returned he was downright demented, in a fury one moment and a misery the next. He said the coins were gone. He'd been robbed. His ship had come in and then sank like the
Titanic.
”

Looking over his shoulder,
Michael repeated silently. Had someone threatened him, or had the scene at his flat scared him? Or both?

Dylan's eyes were bleak. Michael knew his friend was thinking the same thing he was. Willie had found his gold coins, his nest egg, gone. Michael felt a pang of guilt. If Dylan hadn't called him and Molly to the flat, if he himself hadn't found the coins, if Fotherby hadn't taken them… Then Willie's attacker would have.

“It wasn't fair,” Naomi went on. “He wanted to make an honest sale of honest goods. Leastways they were honest by the time they reached him.”

“The coins he wanted to sell to Hopewell,” Michael said.

Naomi peered at him, her makeup so smudged her eyes reminded him of a badger's. “Yeah. That prat Hopewell was going to make him a rich man. Save he couldn't get
to Hopewell, could he? That's Willie for you, all bark and no bite.”

“Where did he find the coins?” Rohan asked.

“I don't know,” said Naomi. “He'd only had them a few days.”

The boat rocked and rolled. The sound of the band came faintly over the water. Above the town rose cliffs honeycombed with secrets, and beyond them the peat bogs that isolated Blackpool from the rest of Britain. No surprise its inhabitants would dig into the hillsides like prisoners trying to escape a dungeon.

“There was no reasoning with Willie,” Naomi finally said. “There was no reasoning with you, Dylan. But I'm sorry I didn't phone.”

Dylan didn't point out that reason had very little to do with the situation. “Thomas Clough told me you'd bought two bacon rolls and two cans of lager last night, but he didn't know where you'd gone with it.”

“Back here. I was afraid to go home, Dylan.”

Dylan flinched at that.

“We ate and drank the beer, and I had me a Valium or two and went below deck. I fell asleep and dreamed, really strange dreams, Dylan. I thought I heard you calling for me—”

“I
was
calling for you.” Dylan tightened his grasp of her slender shoulders.

“—and then it wasn't your voice at all, but Willie's and another one. I could barely hear them from where I was in the cabin, and they weren't shouting but talking low and urgent like, with a sort of snarl. Then it was quiet, and when I woke up again I wondered why the boat was rocking so bad, being at the dock and all, and I came up here. It was an accident, wasn't it? The boat lurched and he hit himself on something…”

Once again she buried her face in Dylan's jacket. It was Rohan who looked over at Willie, curled into a fetal position, beyond all hope and care. “I don't know how he was hurt, Naomi, but it was no accident.”

Michael checked Willie's vital signs again. They were even fainter now, but his wounds were so extensive, Michael had no idea how to help him. By the looks of it, Willie had probably been stabbed or shot. He'd bet on the former, since the sound of a shot would have carried across and someone would have noticed.

Whatever it was had happened on the deck where the bloodstains started. Willie had staggered to the wheel and collapsed, his life's blood leaking, pooling, draining away, leaving his eyes sunken, his complexion gray and his breath shallow as Blackpool's beach at high tide.

Or… Michael followed the blood droplets to the railing of the boat. Perhaps Willie had collapsed where he was wounded, and his attacker's
weapon
had left the trail of gore. “The boat was tied up at the pier when you went to sleep?” he asked Naomi.

Rohan stepped forward, leaned over the railing and pulled a rope on board. He held it up. “It's been cut, not untied.”

“Any blood on it?”

“The end's been dragging in the water… What's this?” Rohan reached into a metal crevice in the boat and pulled out an open pocket knife. “There's blood on this.”

“Put it down, Rohan. That's probably the murder weapon.”

Rohan dropped it instantly.

Naomi's muffled voice said, “Willie used that to cut our bacon rolls. That's all I know. I didn't see anything. I didn't hear anything.”

Well, no, Michael thought, she wouldn't have, would
she, sleeping off the effects of the drugs in the cabin below deck?

Then he remembered Daisy Coffey's voice saying, “She had a row with Willie that set my crockery to rattling.” Although that might not have been Naomi at all, but the mystery blonde woman. And even if it had been Naomi, it didn't mean she'd killed the man.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “Dylan, I'm so sorry.”

M
ICHAEL AND
M
OLLY SAT
side by side on the blue plastic chairs of the hospital's casualty department waiting room. Even though this was hardly the time and place to be angry, she couldn't resist a mild, “You didn't have to rush off to a crime scene like that.”

“Dylan needed my help. So did Naomi. It was just the scene of the crime, not a crime in progress.”

“I know,” she said. “I'm glad for that much.”

“I suppose Fred's running with the story, as he always does?”

“Oh, yeah.” Fred had been waiting at the pier when the Blackpool constabulary, for once working with commendable efficiency, brought Willie in and transported him to St. Theresa's hospital. “I figured if I didn't tell him about poor Naomi, he'd get a twisted version from Daisy or Rebecca Hislop or someone.”

“A little bit of spin, is that it?” While Michael's words were teasing, his tone was grim.

With a sigh of both affection and aggravation, Molly massaged the tight tendons in the back of his neck. “I know, I know, we didn't intend for any of this to happen. Maybe the person who attacked Willie didn't intend for it to happen, either.”

“I wouldn't bet on that,” said Michael.

The door labeled Staff Only Past This Point swung open, and a man clad in a white coat and wearing a
stethoscope plodded through. His thick glasses turned from side to side, and his high forehead furrowed beneath thinning strands of gray-blond hair. “Michael Graham, is it? And Molly? I'm Dr. Harvey Parker.”

Michael and Molly stood up and shook Dr. Parker's hand, which was dry and squeaky-dusty—he'd just removed latex gloves. “Ah, yes, we met at the library,” Michael said, “when Mrs. Hirschfield opened the miniatures exhibition. You made several of the ships in bottles that are displayed next to Charles Crowe's miniature of Blackpool. Well done!”

“Thank you.” Parker's smile flashed like the beam of a lighthouse and then vanished. “I thought D.C.I. Paddington was here…”

“I am here.” Paddington walked down the hall from the main entrance as though he was marching to his own band. “Reporters! That Jenkins fellow and Purnell are lying in wait at the porte-cochere, along with visitors who think this disturbance is a jolly good show, and even townspeople who ought to know better.”

At that moment, Molly agreed with Michael that Paddington resembled a cross between Charlie Brown and Adolf Hitler.

Before Molly could add her two cents—or two pence, depending—Paddington started grilling Parker. “What about Myners?”

“He died a few minutes ago. He never came round. He'd lost too much blood—there was nothing we could do.”

Molly closed her eyes. Death. Sudden death. Another murder. She and Michael had already seen enough. She opened her eyes to find Michael's face pale but composed.

Paddington's expression was set like concrete. He pulled out a little notebook and pen. “Was he stabbed?”

“Yes,” Parker replied. “A long, narrow blade perforated his abdomen.”

“How long a blade?” asked Michael. “Three or four inches, about the length of a pocket knife?”

“Larger, I expect. But I'm not a trained medical examiner. I'll sign the body over to the forensics team, Inspector, and they can sort the matter out.”

“Fotherby says there are no knives on the boat, save that small one your friend found, Graham.”

Molly suspected Paddington wasn't going to thank Michael for his part in alerting the town to a new murder case, and she was right. His moustache twitching, he stepped closer to Parker.

“When was Willie attacked?”

“At a guess, at about a quarter to eleven.”

Michael chimed in, “Owen Montcalm said that he gave up trying to keep people out of the marina so he decided to go and enjoy the festival. He left around ten and everything was in order.”

“I have officers on the case, thank you, Graham.” Paddington's pen scratched across the notebook.

A nurse held the swinging door open. “Doctor?”

“If you'll excuse me.” Parker hurried past her and the door closed behind him.

“Well then,” said Paddington, “what's all this about Dylan Stewart and his wife?”

Michael's words came reluctantly. “Naomi meant to run away with Willie.”

Paddington tutted. “Hell hath no fury like a man betrayed, eh? Dylan's a sizeable chap. If he took to violence there'd be no stopping him.”

Michael said nothing.

“Or Naomi herself stabbed Willie. Lover's quarrel.”

Molly waded in. “There are a lot of people in Blackpool with grudges against Willie,” countered Molly. “You yourself saw Robbie Glennison arguing with him. Not fifteen minutes later, I overheard Willie on the
Black Sea Pearl
trying to get past Martin Dunhill so he could show Trevor Hopewell a gold coin.”

“A gold coin?” Paddington asked. “Oh, please, not that rubbish about treasure again.”

“It's not rubbish. We found three gold coins and a silver one in Willie's flat.”

“Didn't Fotherby hand them in?” Michael asked.

“Fotherby?” demanded Paddington. “He reported a spot of bother with the pair of you and Stewart at Willie's flat. Stewart broke in searching for his wife.”

“Dylan didn't break in,” Michael pointed out. “The door was open.”

“Fotherby was watching the place,” Molly said.

“Willie needed watching,” said Paddington.

“And now Fotherby's got his coins.”

“He's police, isn't he? What makes you think these coins were Willie's?”

“What makes you think they weren't?” Molly retorted. “He may have found them in the tunnels, just like a couple of boys did in the 1840s… Oh! Maybe they're even the same coins!”

“Where did Willie get them, then?” asked Michael.

“Good question.” Molly made a mental note to research where the 1840 coins had gone.

Paddington raised his voice to override both of theirs. “That's what I'm asking—where did Willie get any coins? Douglas—P.C. Fotherby—was very wise to take custody of them. I'll have a word with him, soon as the Scene of Crimes team from headquarters in Ripon arrives.”

Raised voices and quick footsteps sounded from the entrance hall. A heavily pregnant teenager burst into the room. Her plump cheeks streaked with tears, her blond curls sagging, she gasped, “Rebecca saw Willie being carried up from the pier. Krebs said he'd been hurt. Where is he?”

“Who are you?” demanded Paddington.

“I'm Michelle Crookshank. I'm Willie's fiancée.”

“Fiancée?” Paddington repeated.

Michael said, “How do you do, Michelle. I'm Michael Graham and this is my wife, Molly.”

At least someone was worried about the man, Molly thought. Darting a quelling look at Paddington to give the girl a few minutes before dumping the bad news on her, Molly headed to a counter that held an electric kettle and an array of cups and tea bags. If she'd learned nothing else from Iris it was that here in Britain, anything from a broken heart to a cracked foundation could be helped by a good strong cup of tea.

Michelle sat down and sniffled like a drain in need of Drano. With a put-upon sigh, Paddington handed over his huge handkerchief and the girl buried her face in it. Molly's eyes met Michael's.
A round, blonde lass.
Was this the woman Daisy had heard arguing with Willie on Friday?

The kettle whistled. Molly dunked a tea bag in the hot water, laced the black brew with several lumps of sugar and a dollop of milk from a nearby carton, and pressed the resulting medication into Michelle's unoccupied hand.

Paddington sat down, the chair creaking beneath his weight, and turned toward the girl. “Michelle, is it?”

She raised her mottled face. “That's me name.”

“You heard Willie had been hurt?”

“Been stabbed, Krebs was saying. I reckon my dad done it, because of the kid here.” She pointed to her rounded abdomen.

“Your dad… Krebs!” Paddington produced his walkie-talkie and bellowed into it. “Find a man named Crookshank, first name—what?”

“Geoffrey,” Michelle said.

“Geoffrey,” Paddington repeated.

“Michelle,” Molly asked gently, “were you buying drugs from Willie?”

“Drugs?” Paddington's round face flushed with frustration. “I could never prove that's what he was up to.”

“What else is there to do in a dump like this?” Michelle retorted with a thin, defiant smile. “Booze, pills, smokes, a few giggles at the old train station, that's about it. Lessen you're after digging about in the old tunnels, but not me. There's a bad smell in there, and bats.”

Paddington prodded, “Had a special relationship with Willie, did you?”

“Are you deaf? We're engaged. We're getting married.”

Molly cast a sympathetic look at Michelle's belly, bulging against the confines of her blouse. Yeah, that line about marriage had been working for unscrupulous men since the Stone Age.

“Did you argue with Willie at his flat about caring for the child?” asked Michael.

“Yeah. But that's when he told me he'd been waiting all this time for his ship to come in, and it finally had. We don't have to wait no longer. We're gonna get married at a registry office, and we're gonna find us a nice flat in Newcastle with room for the baby.”

Waiting for his ship to come in.
There was a metaphor used often in Blackpool, Molly thought. Michael had said
that Naomi had used it, too. Sometimes it was more than a metaphor, like when Trevor Hopewell's
Black Sea Pearl
came sailing in.

Paddington leaned closer to Michelle. “Did Willie threaten you? Were you carrying a knife, by any chance?”

“You think I stuck him? Are you daft? Willie's gonna take me away from here.”

“Now, now,” Paddington began, but was interrupted by more footsteps. This time it was Krebs and a weathered older man dressed in well-used fisherman's garb.

“He was just outside,” Krebs announced, “looking for the lass, here.”

Michael recognized the older man. “I know you. You were at the pub yesterday afternoon. I thought you wanted to have a word with Dylan, but you never spoke.”

“Yeah, that was me.” Geoffrey Crookshank sat down on Michelle's other side. “I seen Dylan slapping Willie around, and you and the Jamaican lad stopping him. Pity, that. I'd have let Dylan dig that bloke six feet under, then I'd have shaken his hand and bought him a pint for doing Blackpool a public service.”

Michelle set up another wail. “Dad, how can you say that?”

“Dylan Stewart actually knocked Willie about? And here's me, talking about him being such a sizeable chap.” Paddington smiled, no doubt feeling he was on top of the situation.

“Made more than a few threats, as well,” Geoffrey said. “Ask Chuck at the Dockside. Ask anyone.”

Paddington turned to Michael. “Is this true, Graham?”

Between his teeth, Michael said, “Yes. But didn't you already know that? Fotherby seemed to.”

Paddington mumbled something that sounded like, “Of course.” Dylan hadn't been mincing words.

“Everyone had heard the rumors that Willie and Naomi Stewart was—” Geoffrey stopped in midsentence and glanced over at Michelle.

“Naomi didn't mean anything to him,” Michelle protested. “They had a row and she walked out.”

So both women had fought with Willie? Interesting, Molly thought.

“I've got both Stewarts at the station, along with the Jamaican lad,” Krebs told Paddington, and regarded Michael. “We'll be needing your statement, Mr. Graham.”

“Yeah,” Michael said, and extended his hand to Molly.

She took it, thinking how warm living flesh was, how reassuring. How fragile.

“Well now, Crookshank,” Paddington said, “We'll be obliged to interview you and your daughter about hurting Willie, since he did Michelle here wrong.”

“He didn't do me wrong!” Michelle insisted. “He loves me! We're gonna get married!”

Geoffrey pulled Michelle against his side. “It's all right, pet. None of this is the little one's fault. I'll see to the pair of you, never you worry.” And his red-rimmed eyes glared up at Paddington. “How could she have stabbed the man. Look at her!”

“Who said anything about Willie being stabbed?” Paddington demanded with a glint of triumph. “Who
hasn't
said it? Fotherby's standing just outside describing the crime scene to Fred and that skinny telly reporter. By now everyone in town knows all about it.”

Paddington rolled his eyes heavenward. “Where were you between half past ten and eleven this morning?”

“We was together at home,” Michelle replied. “I was making the sandwiches.”

Geoffrey added, “I've got a couple of sports signed on for a fishing trip this afternoon. They always expect me to feed them as well as bait the hooks and reel in the fish. No worries, though, I charge extra for the sandwiches and the flask of tea, and double charter rates during the festival.”

“Of course, publicity for the festival hasn't helped anyone in town,” Molly told Paddington from the door, then hurried out into the hall.

Behind them, Michelle screamed. “Dead! No, no!”

“There, there.” Geoffrey sounded desperate. Paddington must have just broken the news about Willie. “Think of the little one.”

Michael at her side, Molly outpaced Krebs from the antiseptic-tinged, gloom-ridden air of the hospital into the sunshine of Mariner Street.

Yes, quite a few people stood along the sidewalk and around the corner onto Leaning Cross Street. Henry Marley was working his way through the crowd with a tray of samples from his nearby chocolate shop.

She and Michael held back, letting Krebs clear a path past Fred Purnell and Tim Jenkins, who now had a sound person with a boom microphone as well as his camera operator in tow. They were close to tearing P.C. Fotherby limb from limb in their eagerness to get an interview. “Now, now,” said Fotherby, simpering with self-importance, “I'll have a few words for the national media first.”