The Reluctant Detective

by Finley Martin

  Anne brought up Barclays’ website and copied the number for their Charing Cross branch. Then she picked up the phone. After a few minutes the international operator connected her with the London bank. With luck she could catch them before they closed for the day.

  “Good afternoon, my name is Anne Brown. I represent Darby Investigations in Canada. We are processing a credit check on a Mr. Robert Somerville who is doing business with a firm here. And we want to verify whether or not he has a current account with your bank.”

  The bank clerk’s “one moment, please” extended into several moments. Then the moments became several minutes. Anne’s fingers drummed a nervous pattern on the desktop. At last, the clerk returned.

  “We can affirm that Lord Robert Somerville has an account with us.” Anne felt as if she had been subtly put in her place.

  “Thank you,” she said and hung up. Hhmmn, she thought. This guy has done his homework.

  Anne thumbed through the Somerville file. Mrs. Murphy had filled in a few more bits and pieces about him during her morning call. He was staying at the Milton Burtons home on North River Road. The Burtons had become quite taken with him and insisted he stay at their home. He lived in a guest apartment above their attached garage. It had a separate outdoor entrance, one which opened into the upstairs hallway of the main house. They not only gave Somerville free run of the entire house but, when the Burtons went on vacation last week, they’d also left it in his care. Mrs. Murphy had also noted that his schedule recently included yoga classes one evening a week. One of those classes was tonight. And Anne planned to nose around there to see what, if anything, might turn up.

  Anne closed the folder, stood up, and headed toward the file cabinet just as the phone rang.

  “Darby Investigations and Security. Anne Brown speaking. May I help you?”

  There was a disconcerting period of silence at the other end. Anne was about to hang up when a male voice said, “I’d like to speak to Mr. Darby, please.”

  “I’m sorry, but Mr. Darby is unavailable. Can I take a message?”

  “It’s urgent. I must speak with him.” The voice seemed anything but urgent. In fact, Anne felt it was cold and dispassionate and, oddly, rehearsed.

  “Mr. Darby is not here. Nor will he be available for some time. He’s… in the country. Can I…”

  “Listen carefully,” said the voice. “Mr. Darby and I have an agreement. I give him a package. He delivers it tonight. It’s been prearranged.”

  “I’m aware of all of Mr. Darby’s business dealings, but I’m not aware of this one. There’s no active client contract of this nature on file… so if you wish to come in and…” Anne felt a growing abrasiveness punctuate her words even before he interrupted her.

  “It was a private agreement.”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t accept any package or perform any services without his okay,” she said with a cool finality.

  “On the contrary. It’s a done deal. Talk to Darby. The package is outside your office door right now, and, by the way… tell him not to fuck this up.”

  The line went dead. Unidentified Caller flashed on the phone’s LED display screen. Anne hung up the receiver and hurried to the office door. Outside, she found a mid-size brown leather valise.

  Anne heard no sound on the landing above or on the stairs leading down, but she thought she heard a light swish of the street door closing behind someone. She hauled the valise inside the office, dumped it on Billy’s desk, and looked out the window to the cobbled avenue below. Among the few early tourists no one hurried away, and no one else looked out of place or suspicious.

  Anne locked the front door, closed Billy’s office door behind her, and stared at the suitcase, her hands caressing the soft leather top. She didn’t like the tone of the anonymous caller, but she couldn’t give the valise back, and she was hesitant to open it. Who knew what it might contain? Perhaps, like Pandora’s box, she was better off not knowing. And why would Billy have gotten involved with something as off-the-record as this? That wasn’t like him. And not telling her? That made even less sense, she thought.

  “For God’s sake, Anne, get a grip,” she said out loud. “Open the friggin’ thing!”

  She tugged firmly at a belt strap which fed underneath the hand grip and freed it. She squeezed the trigger locks on the hasps, and they parted. But as she started to lift the top, a chill ran up between her shoulder blades. She wondered if whatever lay within would reveal some dark secret in Billy Darby’s life, something that would deeply disappoint her, something which would stain his memory forever.

  What happens, happens, she thought. With a quick snap of her wrists, the lid flew open. She peered in.

  Then she gasped.

  11

  The bell for first class rang. Carson “the Kid” White didn’t like being late. So he bounded the last few yards through the hallway and slipped through the door just after the ringing stopped. His morning classes began in automotive repair. Mr. Hutchins, his shop instructor, was head-down, tinkering with a carburetor, and hadn’t noticed Carson’s tardiness.

  Two things Carson had learned in his sixteen years of dodging trouble. First, don’t do anything that gets you noticed. Second, be polite. It always amazed him how much forgiveness that generated.

  A row of metal lockers lined one wall of the shop. Carson opened his, traded his jean jacket for a pair of stained grey overalls, and headed for a black Saturn on one of the lifts near the bay doors. Yesterday he had replaced the Saturn’s brake shoes. This morning he checked out the hubs. The old brakes had scored the inside rim. So he took the hubs to the grinder, set them up, adjusted the cutting tool, and listened to the rhythmic scraping – almost like the beat to his favourite rap song, he thought – as the machine did its job of smoothing and rounding the beat-up hubs. Near the end of first class the Saturn was ready to go. Carson lowered the car, signalled another student to open the bay doors, and backed the car out of the building and into a parking spot nearby. As the bay doors closed behind him, Carson rifled through a stack of CDs in a case between the front seats. One caught his eye. A disk by Cuz Y, a hip-hop group. He slipped the disk inside his shirt and returned the empty case to where he found it.

  It was break time. The bell rang again, and Carson joined a group of half a dozen other students outside the school behind a separate utility building for a smoke. Phillip Watson, Deke Jennings, and Krystal Conohan were regulars in the group. Each was in auto repair class. Each wore the standard grey overalls. But even in sloppy overalls, thought Carson, Krystal couldn’t hide what turned him on. Whenever she moved, her breasts and hips and ass shifted like one finely tooled piece of machinery. Even old Mr. Hutchins noticed her. Carson had seen him staring at her gyrating ass one day as she bent over a car fender, ratcheting out a set of spark plugs. She wasn’t a bad mechanic either.

  “Got somethin’ for ya,” Carson said to Krystal. The bell for second period had just rung. He butted his cigarette in the grass.

  “Like what?” she asked. There was an edge to her voice. She was naturally suspicious.

  “Picked up a CD. Thought you might like to copy it or somethin’.”

  “Which one?”

  “Cuz Y. Their new one. Know them?” She took the CD he handed her and looked at it.

  “Cool,” she said and tossed him a thank-you smile. “No case?”

  “It broke. Got stepped on. We’ll talk later maybe.”

  “Maybe.”

  It was only ten minutes into second period when Carson started for the washroom. Mr. Hutchins never made his students sign out but, when Carson headed for the door, Mr. Hutchins said, “Where are you going?”

  “Washroom, Mr. Hutchins.”

  “You just got back from break,” he said.

  “I know. I’m sorry, but I got the runs.”

  “Okay, okay, go. Go.”
>
  Carson headed for the men’s room. It was a few doors down the hall. It was empty. He took off his overalls, balled them up, and hung them in a stall. Then he walked out, headed for the main corridors of Charlottetown Central High School, and knocked on the door to the teachers’ lounge.

  “Yes?” asked a teacher gruffly. A coffee cup was in her hand. She looked past him as if no one was there.

  “Is Mr. Hutchins here?”

  The teacher opened the door wider and looked back over the tables behind her. Several teachers on their free period were drinking coffee; two others were on the staff computer; another was red-pencilling a stack of examinations near the back window.

  “No,” said the teacher. “Try the shop area,” she added and closed the door.

  Carson had made a mental note of which teachers looked preoccupied in the staff room. Mr. Gale, Mrs. Webb, Mrs. Robertson, and Miss Chandler. He knew that most of the male staff kept their money in their wallets and their wallets in their pockets. So they were out. The women, on the other hand, sometimes left their purses behind, or kept small amounts of cash in their desk drawers. And it was toward their classrooms that he headed.

  The hallways were empty this early into the period. Classroom teachers were just settling into their lesson plans, and kids hadn’t started their bathroom runs. Mrs. Webb’s was the first door he came to. It was locked. Miss Chandler’s was one flight up. She had left her door ajar. He went inside and closed it behind him. He searched her desk. Nothing in the bottom drawer. Small change in the pencil drawer. He scooped about half of it into his hand and put it in his pocket. The filing cabinet was next. He pulled the top drawer open. Bingo. At the back of it was Miss Chandler’s purse, and inside the purse was a wallet. Six twenties, two tens, and a five. He took two twenty-dollar bills. He ignored the credit cards.

  Carson had learned in elementary school that if he took only a few bills, it would likely go unnoticed. If he took everything, the wrath of teachers wronged would come down heavily on the entire school. Greed was the ruination of a good thief, he believed.

  Much of Carson’s cleverness at stealing was self-taught. More recently, he had picked up pointers from Sean McGee. Sean was older, mid-twenties. They’d met at a motorcycle shop. Sean belonged to a local biker club, Satan’s Chosen, and Carson had a natural fascination with motorcycles. Eventually, Sean tutored Carson in the art of break and enters, among other things. In fact, Carson’s late arrival at school that morning had been due to an encounter with Sean. Sean wanted Carson for a special job. He needed Carson this evening, and Carson had agreed to meet him later.

  12

  The sight of so much money took Anne’s breath away and, for a moment, her hands hovered above it, afraid to touch it, afraid that to do so would transform a surreal dream into a disturbing reality. But as her surprise ebbed, her hands settled and rested upon the stacks of green bills. They were smooth, crisp, palpable. They were real. This was real. And it frightened her.

  Bundles of hundred-dollar bills filled the valise. She counted one stack. Fifty bills in a stack, five thousand dollars in a bundle. All of it US currency. And there were many, many bundles.

  Anne stepped back and looked again at the mound of cash. She felt a little giddy now, as well as frightened.

  A thick grey envelope lay on top of the money. Anne reached for it and tore it open. Inside, five more bundles of bills and a typewritten letter tumbled onto the rest of the money. She picked up the letter:

  Darby,

  This package contains $1,500,000 plus your $5,000 fee. Take the bundle in this envelope for yourself. Deliver the rest at 12:30 a.m. on June 21st. Follow these instructions: Take the Perimeter Road to where it intersects the Upton Rd. Turn left. Enter the Industrial Park at Fourth Ave. Continue on Fourth past two large buildings on your left. Beyond that, there is a field where three truck trailers are parked. Place the package between the left rear double wheels of the middle trailer. Then leave the Industrial Park. Your job is done. Once the money is collected, another party will reclaim the ransomed material.

  There was no signature.

  Okay, let’s think about this, Anne said to herself. It looks like Uncle Billy arranged something, though I can’t imagine why he wouldn’t let me in on it… unless it would put me at risk… though I can’t imagine how… or maybe he thought it was dangerous and I’d worry about him… but that doesn’t make much sense either. I know he’s capable and experienced, and he wouldn’t take unnecessary risks. He has no reason to. So what’s this all about?

  Her question hung in the air without an answer.

  The 21st is tomorrow. So the package has to be delivered just after midnight tonight… if I decide to deliver it. I’m under no obligation legally. I have no experience with this sort of thing. Maybe I’d be better off staying out of it. Maybe the client would be better off, too. Maybe I should have told him straight up that Billy was dead.

  Images of Darby’s funeral flashed into her mind, and an empty ache filled an empty space within her. Darby had been as much of a father as her real one had been. In fact, Anne had shared more confidences with Billy than she ever had with her dad. Billy didn’t judge, he just listened. And that was often all the support she’d needed to solve her own problems and ease her own frustrations as a young girl and later as a young woman.

  Thoughts of the funeral gave way to a sweet sadness at her more cherished memories. Then a note of self-pity spoiled the moment. She despised that feeling because it was seductive. It was as alluring as it was poisonous. It weakened the soul; it demeaned the person. And the scent of it in the air drove her back to the matter at hand – what to do with all that money.

  Billy made a deal, she thought to herself. So I’ll take care of it for him. No big deal. It’s a simple drop-off. Besides, maybe the ransom is for something really significant. And maybe somebody will get hurt if the ransom isn’t paid on time. And there’s also the possibility that ransom is for some one, not some thing. Who knows what’s happening at the other end?

  She took in a long, deep breath and let it slowly escape.

  “No big deal,” she repeated with confidence. “I can do this.” Then, with a little smirk, she added, “An hour’s work for five grand. I’m liking this job more and more!”

  A sharp, loud rapping on the outer office door extracted Anne from her deliberations. She couldn’t leave the money in the open. So she grabbed the valise. Her eyes were on the safe door when her foot caught a corner of the desk, the suitcase slipped through her fingers, and the contents spilled across the floor.

  The rapping grew louder.

  “Hold on a minute. I’ll be right there,” she shouted, hoping to be heard through the two closed doors.

  Anne grabbed at the bundles, threw them back into the valise, chucked everything into the safe, closed the heavy door, and spun the dial.

  More rapping.

  “I’m coming!”

  More rapping.

  “Mom! Are you in there?”

  Jacqui leaned against the door frame in her most bored and impatient pose and, when Anne opened the door, she let out an exasperated sigh.

  “Where were you?” she asked. Even at fourteen Jacqui stood eye-to-eye with her mother. She wore her hair shoulder-length, straight, and unadorned. Her face was rounder than her mother’s and her frame was sturdier and athletic, like a soccer player’s. “It’s late. I’m starving,” she pleaded.

  “Okay, okay. We’ll grab a bite downstairs. I’ve got some things to do this evening. I won’t have time to cook. How was school?”

  “Great! Second-last day. Then it’s over.”

  “Any plans?”

  “Marilee and Becca heard about some great beach parties next week. Everyone’s going. It should be fun. I’ll probably take that in with them.”

  “No, but good try.”

  “Oh Mom! Why
not?”

  Anne answered with a knowing smile, grabbed her jacket from a rack, and closed the door behind her.

  13

  After dinner, Anne dropped Jacqui at home. Then she returned to the office and prepared for the evening’s work. First, she planned to follow up one of Mrs. Murphy’s leads and trail Somerville. After that she would make the money drop.

  She had left the car in front of her office so she didn’t have to lug the ransom money very far. The valise that held it fit snugly on the floor behind the driver’s seat. She set her camera case next to it and, before she left, she tossed a blanket over both. On the way she stuffed her $5,000 retainer into a deposit bag and dropped it down the after-hours chute at her bank.

  Parked on a side street of North River Road, Anne had a clear view of the Burtons’ home where Somerville had been staying. There had been no activity around the place in the hour she had been watching. It was a quiet neighbourhood. So she had expected little. Mrs. Murphy had told Anne of Robert Somerville’s schedule, as best she knew it, and, for a short-time visitor to the Island, he seemed to fill his time quite nicely. He frequented lectures at the Confederation Centre, recitals at the University’s music department, weight training at the Metro Sports Centre, and advanced yoga classes, which were part of a smorgasbord of volunteer-taught evening classes held at Charlottetown’s Central High School. Today was Tuesday. Today was yoga class.

  Anne took a long sip of water from a sports bottle and fitted a 70-210 telephoto lens onto the ring mount of her Nikon camera. She sighted down on one of the windows in the apartment above the garage and turned the lens until it focussed clearly on the drawn curtains. She saw them move once. Then the casement window wound shut. A few minutes later the garage door lifted and a black Buick sedan emerged. Somerville was driving.

  Anne followed Somerville cross-town to the school. All classes began at eight and ended at ten. At quarter to eight the parking lot was half-full, maybe fifty or sixty cars. People carrying guitar cases, cameras, sports bags, and notebooks made for the nearest entrance. Anne watched where Somerville put his car. Then she circled the block a few times, re-entered the lot, and parked. She changed the telephoto for a 35 mm lens, slipped the telephoto into her coat pocket, and followed a few latecomers into the main corridors.