The Case of the Missing Letter Read online

  Don slowed before turning into the parking lot of a quiet country pub. Another thought occurred to him. It was something his mother had stated – about the “terrible things” people had said about the author of the letter. “What was all that about?” he asked the interior of his hire car as he killed the engine.

  Don ducked as he passed through the doorway of the pub into the deep, dark interior. Outside, the quaintly named Frog and Bottle, with its whitewashed frontage and tiny windows, had offered the prospect of a wonderfully varied selection of beers. Don found the promise kept as he perused the chalkboard on the bar. But before ordering a pint to go with his sandwich, he stopped himself short. He would drink no booze, no whisky, no wine, and none of the dozen items on the beer menu he was anxious to try, until he finally had the letter in his possession. That would be reason for real celebration.

  CHAPTER TEN

  CONSTABLE JIM ROACH jogged into the reception area carrying his football boots in one hand and his gym bag in the other. “Thanks so much for this, sir,” he said. “It’s the last but one game of the indoor season, and we’re playing the Civil Servants again. One more win and we’ll be confirmed Division champions.”

  DI Graham cut a slightly incongruous figure behind the reception desk, dressed in his white shirt and brown blazer instead of the customary desk officer’s police blue. “Go ahead and grab yourself a hat trick. I only hope you don’t get spotted by some talent scout and offered a contract by AC Milan. I don’t know what we’d do without you.”

  Roach acknowledged the compliment with a nod. “Old Mrs. Hollingsworth has called in again. A suspicious character, she says. I’ll drop by on my way. Check it out. I’m sure it’s nothing. It never is.” Roach said.

  “Okay, let me know if anything changes.”

  Roach grinned and headed to his recently acquired, third-hand car. If he were lucky, he’d arrive in time to warm up before the game. He was the team’s first choice midfielder, but he was useful on the wing and even played up front when pressed. Roach was looking forward to giving their pen-pushing opponents a good thrashing. First though, he’d attend to Mrs. Hollingsworth’s call. It shouldn’t take too long.

  The man observed the library through a side window. He could see the woman he was looking for. For a library as small as this, it was taking Laura a long time to tidy it up. She had put away newspapers and stacked some other things that he couldn’t see on the shelves. Then she busied herself around the distribution desk and moved some more piles of books from place to place, checking items off a list on her clipboard. She turned off the library’s lights, section by section, until only those above the distribution desk remained lit. She would be out soon. He was ready for her.

  Tires crunched on the gravel of the library’s short driveway. A car was approaching. The man swore colorfully under his breath and headed along the side of the building and into the park where he sprinted a short distance. He was lost in the shadows within moments.

  He turned and looked back. The car had stopped, and a young man had got out. He recognized him as one of the coppers he’d familiarized himself with when he arrived on the island. The policeman nosed around for a moment, shining his flashlight into the bushes and around the back of the building, but he didn’t come close to illuminating him before returning to his car and driving off. The man turned his attention back to the library.

  Laura appeared to have seen and heard nothing, finishing her tasks just as the clock struck seven. All was quiet and dark. She came outside with an armful of books and made her way over to her car. When the library door slammed shut behind her, she stopped suddenly and raised her face to the sky, but after hesitating for a few seconds, she continued over to her hatchback and deposited the books in the back. She climbed into her car and drove away.

  The man edged back toward the library parking lot and watched her leave. He cursed again. Foiled and frustrated, he sat on a bench in the park, listening to an owl hooting in the distance. He cursed his luck. He made sure that his silenced pistol had its safety on, deep in his jacket pocket, and then sent a brief text: Found her, getting closer, all under control. Will update tomorrow.

  The man sighed and headed back to his digs, a simple B&B in the town.

  It hadn’t been a difficult decision for Graham to head to the station after his Sunday dinner. His evening options basically boiled down to sitting around in the dining room or on the terrace of the White House Inn, where there was every chance Mrs. Taylor would bring over at least one likely female companion to entertain him. To escape that, he occasionally took himself down the pub, but that was something, with his history, he was keen to avoid. This evening, he’d determined that if he were going to be sitting, he may as well catch up on some paperwork at the office.

  Graham was leafing through a file when a figure appeared at the lobby doors. “Er, hello?” she said tentatively, as though uncertain anyone would be there.

  Of all the gin joints in all the world…

  Graham gave her a welcoming wave. “Good evening, Miss Beecham.”

  “Laura, please,” she said, huffing a little as she calmed herself down.

  “What can I do for you, Laura? Is everything alright?”

  “I’m very relieved you’re here. I’m afraid I’ve gone and done something rather silly.”

  Graham put down the file. “How do you mean?”

  Laura’s shoulders sank. “Well… But… It’s just that… Well…”

  “Miss Beecham, Laura,” Graham began, “if I told you the top five most embarrassing things that have happened while I’ve been working here, you wouldn’t believe three of them.”

  Laura couldn’t help but laugh at that. She looked a little chilly, dressed only in a blouse and a long wrap skirt. “Well, alright then, I’ve locked myself out of the library.”

  Graham couldn’t repress a chuckle. “I wondered if that might be it,” he said. “Well, at least it’s an easy fix.” He tapped out a number from memory, spoke briefly with someone called Jock, and replaced the receiver. “Help is on its way. Now, if you don’t mind me asking,” Graham said, “how did you manage it?”

  Laura began to relax a little. “I was putting some books in my car and the door shut behind me just after I’d set it to lock. The library keys are inside.”

  “You didn’t call the other librarian for help?”

  After an embarrassed glance down toward the lobby’s linoleum floor, Laura admitted, “I left my phone on the distribution desk. And, did you know, the police station is actually closer to the library than the nearest phone box?”

  “I’m a bit surprised we still have any,” Graham said. “But I’m pleased you came here first. The ever-helpful Jock will be along presently.”

  Laura raised an eyebrow. “Does he work for you?”

  “No,” Graham laughed. “Jock is a very fine locksmith. He used to work for the wrong team, but these days, I put a little work his way when I can. Please, take a seat.”

  They waited together, sitting in the reception area’s blue plastic chairs. “I haven’t seen you around the White House Inn for a few days,” Graham offered.

  “My shifts at the library mean that I grab a late breakfast and I miss dinner. Mrs. Taylor leaves a plate out for me. She said you’d been here about six months,” Laura added, crossing her legs and rubbing her shoulders with both hands to warm up. “Down from London too, I hear?”

  Graham grabbed his own jacket from the coat stand and offered it to Laura. “Ah, the formidable intelligence-gathering apparatus that is Mrs. Taylor,” he marveled. “Yes, I was in the Metropolitan police, but I fancied a new start. Sounds like you’re a little bit the same.”

  “Something like that,” Laura said, gratefully sliding the jacket over her chilly shoulders. “London was getting a little too… how shall I say… intense for me. Too crowded, too big.”

  “Lots of people down here would agree,” Graham said. “Jersey’s a great escape from city life. It’s quiet.”<
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  “So,” Laura asked, “you haven’t been up to your ears in big cases?”

  Graham gave an equivocating shrug. “Not up to my ears exactly, but there’s been more action than I expected.”

  “Really?” Laura frowned.

  “But most of it’s small, everyday stuff that you see in police stations the world over. The odd drunk, theft, locked-out person…” His eyes twinkled as he looked over at Laura. She blushed and shrugged her shoulders.

  “Mrs. Taylor mentioned that you helped out with something important right after you arrived at the Inn. She was a bit cagey about what.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Graham told her. “There was a poisoning there.”

  Laura blinked. “Really? But you caught the person responsible?”

  Graham nodded. “It involved a little more drama than I’d have preferred, but yes.”

  “Congratulations,” she said. “And I’m told that wasn’t your only success.”

  The DI shrugged this off. “Our job is to catch criminals, Miss Beecham, Laura. Sometimes it takes longer than we’d like, even a few years,” Graham said, remembering the long-delayed conclusion to the Beth Ridley case last November, “but we always try to get there in the end.”

  Laura looked at him curiously, a slight smile on her face. She wasn’t quite sure what to make of him. He seemed accomplished but self-effacing, certainly reserved and something of a local hero by all accounts. There was a worldliness gained through his own undoubted competence that Laura found absorbing, especially on an evening when she was feeling particularly naïve and clueless. And lastly, a hint of melancholy presented itself, the source of which she suspected he kept very close to his chest.

  “Ah, Jock,” she heard him say. Graham rose to greet the locksmith, a stocky sixty-year old with more wrinkles on his weather-beaten face than there were hairs on his gleaming head. “I wonder if you’re able to take things from here?” he asked Laura. “I gave the desk constable the night off so he could play for the Jersey Police five-a-side, and I don’t want to leave the desk unmanned.”

  “No problem,” Laura smiled. “You’ve been very helpful.”

  “My pleasure. And thanks, Jock,” he said to the locksmith.

  “Any time, guv’,” the man said, snapping out a salute. “Come on then, m’lady. Let’s get you fixed up.”

  “Please drop into the library if you’re passing, Detective Inspector.” Laura gave him one of her lovely smiles and followed Jock out to his van.

  Graham watched them leave and returned to his seat behind the reception desk. Eventually, he opened his file and started reading again. First, however, he stared out of the window into the Gorey night, deep in thought. He picked up his pen and made a list of all the points of local history he had been meaning to research since he’d arrived on Jersey but hadn’t got around to. It was high time he did.

  Nobby found that the best method of staying awake was to patrol the museum’s rooms in a random pattern, and keep adjusting the lighting.

  He ambled from the grand entrance, past the ticket desk, and into the ballroom, ensuring once more that the windows were all locked and that everything was in its place. He shone his flashlight around the dark room, under the piano and along the rows of paintings on the walls. “Right as rain,” he said. This was another of his habits. Nobby was fond of chattering away to himself to help pass the time.

  The three-room display suite at the back, once a drawing room, library, and smoking lounge, was also in good order. He had long since gotten used to their illustrious bequest. The desk’s mother-of-pearl inlay shone, iridescent, in his flashlight’s glow. “Ezekiel Satterthwaite,” he tried. “Now there’s a name to conjure with.”

  The night guard position was proving the ideal way for Nobby to earn a little extra money to supplement his government pension. It helped him to afford the occasional Saturday afternoon down the pub, preferably one with a big screen that was showing Premiership soccer. He liked to work steadily through three or four pints while enjoying a well-played game.

  Nobby returned to the ballroom and sat on the bench of the grand piano for a moment’s rest when he heard the unmistakable sound of glass breaking.

  “Oi!” he hollered. He rose quickly, a little too quickly. His head swam. He trotted toward the source of the sound. It had come from the museum’s rear. “Is someone there?” he called. He turned on the lights and looked left toward the mannequins and then right.

  There was a large man dressed all in black, his face masked by a scarf standing next to the Satterthwaite Desk. The man was frozen in the beam of Nobby’s flashlight.

  “Alright, just hold it there. Let’s not have any trouble,” Nobby began, more calmly than he felt. He wasn’t armed, but he knew the flashlight could do some damage if it were wielded with force. He also had a radio tuned to the police frequency.

  “Don’t move,” the man said. He had a very deep, gruff voice. “I said, don’t move.” Nobby saw now that there was a revolver in the intruder’s hand, a snub little .38.

  The night watchman’s hand stopped short of his radio’s buttons. “Take it easy, mate,” he breathed, his heart thumping loudly in his ears. “No need for anyone to get hurt.” He felt a pain in his chest.

  “Hands on your head,” the man said, his voice low and brusque.

  The intruder’s demeanor, his clothes, the gun, small but powerful and useful at close range, all told Nobby he was facing a seasoned professional. He knew he should do as he was told, but Nobby hated being pushed around, and the museum at night was his responsibility. “What kind of silly bugger breaks into a little, local museum?” Nobby asked. “They’ll have you for armed robbery, so they will. Ten years, that’ll cost you, if not more.”

  The figure in front of him was not in the least intimidated. The gun rose slightly. “What would murder cost me?” he growled.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE RED PHONE rang just as Jim Roach was setting his morning coffee down on the desk. “Gorey Police,” he said and then listened. He made quick notes on the pad of white forms kept by the phone. “Understood,” he said. “Ambulance on its way?” “Good. Ten minutes. Remind the crew to tread carefully,” he said.

  Graham had heard the phone and was at his office door reaching for his jacket. “Constable?”

  “Body discovered at the museum, sir. Curator called it in.” Roach began to phone Sergeant Harding, whose shift wasn’t due to start for another six hours. He was following the procedure Graham had drummed into them in the event of a major incident. After that, he’d call Barnwell.

  “Damn,” Graham observed momentarily, but then he straightened up. “Right, I’ll be on my way. See you there.” He donned his jacket and headed to the museum alone, knowing that Roach would catch up.

  On the way, Graham called Tomlinson. “Marcus, body at the museum.”

  “Just got the call, old chap. I’ll be right there as soon as I finish my breakfast.” Graham imagined the pathologist sitting at his dining table, boiled egg in its cup, meticulously set aside buttered toast, a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice and equally freshly brewed coffee. He hoped Tomlinson wouldn’t be too long about it. “First thing on a Monday morning, eh?” Graham marveled as he steered his marked police car speedily along the lanes which linked Gorey to the rest of the island.

  “Death always comes at a bad time,” Tomlinson said, deadpan. “I’ll be there soon. Tell the ambulance crew not to…”

  “I know, Marcus.“

  The ambulance was already parked at the entrance to the museum when Graham got there. The Detective Inspector walked around it to find a short, balding man leaning against the outside wall of the building. He was shaking tiny green mints from a small plastic container into the palm of his hand.

  “Sorry,” he said nervously, tossing a couple of the mints into his mouth and obliterating them immediately with a decisive crunch. “I’m not dealing with this very well.”

  “Who are you, sir?” Gr
aham asked.

  “Sorry,” the man said again, wiping his palms on his suit jacket. “Adam Harris-Watts. I’m the curator of the museum.”

  “Good morning, sir,” Graham said with a more sympathetic tone. “You were the one who found the body, I understand?”

  “Yes,” Harris-Watts said, his jaw twitching for another mint to grind. “It was awful. I mean, I’ve known Nobby for three years. Such a nice fellow…” The curator sniffed.

  “We’ll find out what happened here,” Graham promised. “There’s nothing you could have done.” He had said the very same things for over a decade to bereaved spouses, parents, siblings, and other loved ones who were out of their minds with grief. “When my colleague, Constable Roach arrives, he’ll take a statement from you. Then you’ll be free to spend the rest of the day as you wish.”

  Harris-Watts coughed. “I have to call the museum’s board right now. They’ll need to know what’s happened.”

  “Alright, just please don’t go anywhere,” Graham said. He left the agitated man and walked past the ticket desk and into the ballroom where he spotted the paramedics standing in a room at the back of the house. It was filled with paintings and artifacts, as well as a strikingly beautiful desk. At its feet lay the body of a man in a blue sweater and black pants. His first thought was that there was less blood than he’d expected.

  “Morning Sue, Alan,” he said to the ambulance crew.

  Sue Armitage and Alan Pritchard were dressed in blue coveralls, but were standing away from the body. “Morning, DI Graham. Great way to start a Monday, eh?”

  “What have we got?” Graham asked, his hand reflexively bringing out his notepad and pencil.

  “Night watchman. No signs of a pulse when we arrived. Seems like he’s been dead for a few hours, at least. Thought it best to leave him until you got here,” Sue said.