“It’s nothing that need concern you, Mr Corrigan. But if it helps, I can tell you that we checked the typewriters in the hotel basement, and they both took a standard ribbon. But that didn’t match the one that was used to tie Mr Rudge’s hands.”
“Oh? What size ribbon was used?”
“Er…”
“I find the details help me to deal with my… anxiety. They give me something to focus on.”
“Well, the ribbon used on Mr Rudge was three-quarters of an inch wide. Quite an unusual one by all accounts. Very old.”
“I see. Thank you, that’s very helpful. And what about Roz? Is she still with you?”
“After helping us with our enquiries, Ms Hammond wanted to go home. I drove her there myself last night. It was quite late by the time we got there, but she was in good spirits when I left her. Again, nothing for you to worry about, Mr Corrigan.”
“Does that mean she’s not a suspect?”
There was a pause before Kulkarni replied: “As I say, Ms Hammond is helping us with our enquiries. Those enquiries are ongoing, so that’s all I can tell you at the moment. Thanks for trying to help, but if we need to talk to you again, we’ll give you a call. In the meantime, if you remember anything that might prove useful, please get in touch. Goodbye.”
The call was ended, and Dan pocketed his phone. “The ribbon didn’t match the typewriter in the basement. The one used to tie Rudge was three-quarters of an inch wide. Much older, apparently.”
“Okay. And how about Roz? What did they say?”
“She’s at home. Officially, she’s helping the police with their enquiries. More than that, they wouldn’t say. But at least we know that she’s not in custody. They took her home late last night.”
“Thank goodness for that.” Alan took out his phone, but he stared at it, forlorn.
“Are you going to call Roz?” Dan asked.
“I’m not sure. She might be resting, or she might not want to talk. And she might be angry, wanting to know why we didn’t do more to help when they took her in. I won’t know what to say.”
“Send her a message. Let her know you’re thinking of her and say that she can call whenever she wants.”
“I could, but text messages always feel so impersonal.” Alan looked to Dan. “Am I over-thinking it?”
“Understandably so,” Dan said. “But believe me, Roz will be pleased to get a message from you. She’ll be glad to know you’re there for her.” Dan smiled. “I speak from personal experience.”
“All right.” Alan looked a little happier as his fingers tapped across the screen, then, satisfied, he pocketed his phone.
“Well done,” Dan said. “Now we can move on.”
“Yes.” Alan gave Dan a sideways look. “When you were on the phone just now, what was all that about you getting anxious? It’s the first I’ve heard of it. Something you’re not telling me?”
“Well, I had to spin her a line – otherwise she’d have given us nothing. But thanks to my little white lie, we have a valuable new clue. If we can find that typewriter, we can connect the notes with what happened to Rudge. And that will take us a great deal closer to catching the culprit.”
“I’m game. But where shall we start? With the typewriter or the waitress?”
“The waitress. The bar isn’t far from here, and maybe she plays there. She had her guitar case with her when she went in.”
“We could certainly use a break,” Alan said.
They started walking. Dan took deep breaths of the cold, salty air. And it did the trick.
“I’ve just remembered something,” he said. “Her name was Florence. The waitress. Rudge started banging on about Firenze, remember?”
Alan nodded. “Well done. This is more like it. We’ve talked to Brian, and assuming we believe his story, we can eliminate him as a suspect. I can’t see a man with a dodgy heart tackling Rudge on a clifftop, can you?”
“I’m not sure. It could be argued that Brian has nothing to lose. He’s facing an uncertain future, so he plans on going out in style, overeating, smoking, drinking and settling old scores. And you saw the erratic way he behaved. One minute he’s wallowing in self-pity, the next, he’s furious. He’s an intelligent man, capable of engineering a murder, but has he got it in him? Does he have the drive to carry off such a terrible crime?”
“I don’t have him pegged as the criminal type, but I finally feel as though we’re getting to the meat of the matter. Who has the guts to want Dominic dead, and why?” Alan rubbed his hands together. “We’re just getting started, but before long we’ll get somewhere. I’m sure of it.”
CHAPTER 21
Despite the board standing outside the bar, claiming it was Open All Day, the Drowned Sailor looked very much as though it was closed for business. Permanently. But the sign also advertised live music, so Dan and Alan pushed their way in through the heavy front door and stepped into the gloomy interior.
The temperature inside the bar was not much higher than that outside, and it smelt damp: the aroma of wet laundry mingled with the scent of stale beer. The carpet stuck to the soles of Dan’s shoes as he walked, and casting an eye over the room, his heart sank. This wasn’t the kind of place where you’d find answers; problems, yes, but never their solutions. Not even in the bottom of the badly washed glasses.
At the back of the room, a door swung open and a man appeared, one hand massaging the knuckles of the other. In his fifties, he was built like a beer barrel: squat and markedly wider around the middle. His hair was cropped short, almost to the scalp, and his watery blue eyes were anything but friendly. He let the door swing shut behind him, then he stood his ground. “You’re early, gents. We don’t open for half an hour.”
Dan fought the urge to turn around and walk out. He stepped closer to the man, glad to have Alan at his side. “We were just wondering about the live music. Is that a regular thing?”
The man shook his head. “No, mate. No music.”
Dan gestured toward the door. “There’s a sign outside…”
“Yeah, I never got around to changing it.” The man sniffed. “We had a few bands in summer, but not now. And like I said, we’re closed.”
Dan hesitated. The man had rings on every finger of both hands, and a poorly drawn tattoo traced its irregular path down the side of his neck: a chain, perhaps, or a length of barbed wire. Dan had faced down plenty of alpha males in the past, but they’d all been dressed in bespoke suits and handmade shoes; this was different.
“Okay,” Dan said. “We could come back later, but maybe you can help. We’re looking for someone who can play the guitar, and we heard there was a young woman who might be available. Her name’s Florence.”
The man’s expression did not alter. “Why?”
“We want to hire someone,” Dan said. “It’s for an event. A Christmas party. If we leave you a number, could you ask her to call us?”
“No.”
“Thanks anyway,” Alan said. He tapped Dan’s arm. “Time to go.”
But Dan stayed where he was. “She was here. I saw her the other day. She came in at around this time.”
The man narrowed his eyes. “You what? Are you calling me a liar?”
“No,” Dan said, keeping his voice level. “I’m just trying to get in touch with a young woman called Florence. It’s all above board. I just thought she could use the work.”
“Get out.” The man didn’t raise his voice, he didn’t have to: his meaning was abundantly clear.
“We’re going,” Alan said. “Come on, Dan.”
Alan made for the door and, reluctantly, Dan followed. Outside, Dan shook himself. “Ugh. What a dump. I dread to think what Florence was doing in there.”
“Looking for work?” Alan suggested.
“Then why wouldn’t he tell us anything?”
“Because he had no idea who we were, and in a place like that, suspicion is the default setting.”
“I don’t like it,” Dan said. “We’re wad
ing into darker waters.”
“I hope not. But maybe you’re reading too much into it. There could be a simple explanation. Maybe he hired Florence to work behind the bar, but her wages aren’t on the books. Or she might’ve popped in for a drink, or for any number of reasons.”
“Hm. Wait here.”
“Why? What are you going to do?”
“I won’t be a sec.” Opening the door as quietly as he could, Dan slipped back inside the bar. The barman had appeared very quickly last time, so perhaps there was CCTV or some other way for the man to monitor the door, but Dan was sure of one thing: he wouldn’t have much time.
Striding across the carpet, Dan searched the walls. Yes. There was a noticeboard, its surface littered with scraps of paper, their edges curling in the damp air. Hurrying to examine it, Dan heard a door open across the room, but he didn’t stop to look around.
“Oi! I told you. Bugger off!”
“One second.” Dan scanned the scattered notices: handwritten offers of items for sale, homemade flyers advertising a range of services from cleaning to website design, a couple of business cards. And there, a postcard-sized photo of a girl with a guitar. Dan grabbed it from the board, plucking it from its drawing pins. But as he turned the card over, the barman appeared at his side.
“I warned you,” he growled, snatching the card from Dan’s hands.
“But, she’s looking for work,” Dan protested. “She’s advertising, and I’m ready to pay. Where’s the harm in me having her number?”
The man thrust his face close to Dan’s. “Out. Now.”
Dan swallowed. “I’ll go. But if you see Florence—”
“She doesn’t come in here.”
“But she did,” Dan insisted. “You’ve got the evidence in your hand.”
“Once. She asked if she could put the card up, and I felt sorry for her, so I said all right. End of.”
“It’s important. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but a man was killed here last night.”
For the first time, the man’s expression betrayed him, a muscle twitching in his cheek. “What do you mean here?”
“In Newquay. He was pushed off a cliff.”
“And what’s that got to do with you? You’re not police.”
“No, but a friend of ours is in trouble,” Dan said. “She’s innocent, but the police are giving her a hard time.”
“And what’s that got to do with this girl?”
“We think she might know something. All we want to do is ask her a couple of questions. I swear.”
“Why didn’t you say all this in the first place?”
“You didn’t give me much of a chance.”
“Yeah, well.” The man took a breath, like a dog raising its snout to sample the air. “She plays in town. Busking. She’s there most days.”
“Thank you.” Dan tried for a smile. “And why didn’t you say that in the first place?”
“Because I don’t like your face. Now, bugger off.”
“Happy to.” Dan turned and started walking.
“And don’t come back,” the man called after him.
“I’ll try to resist the temptation,” Dan replied, then he barged out through the door and greeted Alan with a broad smile.
“Success?” Alan asked.
“Success. Let’s head into town. Florence is a busker, apparently, so at this time of day, there’s a good chance we’ll find her at work.”
“Good. And I shan’t be sorry to see the back of the Drowned Sailor.”
“Amen to that,” Dan said, and he set off at a brisk pace.
***
Dan cocked an ear. “Do you hear that?”
Alan furrowed his brow, but then he smiled. “Someone playing the guitar. It could be her.”
“Capital, Watson,” Dan said. “Follow that sound.”
They strode along the pavement, and when they turned onto the main street, they spotted Florence at once.
Standing alone outside a branch of WH Smith, she was singing her heart out to a haunting melody, strumming her guitar with a fierce passion, her eyes almost closed.
She can certainly sing, Dan thought. So much emotion. Florence had the kind of voice that carried, cutting through the background noise. Her words echoed from the shop fronts to reverberate through the wintry air, and the strolling shoppers slowed their pace, watching her as they passed. But Dan saw no one stop to throw money into the guitar case that lay open on the ground beside her. Instead, people veered away from her as if frightened of straying too near.
Perhaps the mournful song wasn’t to their taste. But more likely, they kept their distance for another reason.
An aura of intense melancholy emanated from the young woman. It wasn’t just the way her voice cracked as she poured her heart and soul into the song. It was in her posture, the way she stood, her chin held high, defying the world. And it was in the way she gripped her guitar, hugging it to her body and channelling all her energy into every chord, her pink fingers poking out through the tips of her fingerless gloves.
But although no one stopped to listen or to offer a handful of change, she didn’t care. She wasn’t playing for them; she was playing for herself.
It’s as if she isn’t here, Dan decided as they drew nearer. She sings to escape. But where does she go?
They halted in front of her, but Florence didn’t notice until she reached the end of the song.
She eyed them warily, and Alan stepped forward, producing his wallet. “That was excellent,” he said, slipping a five pound note under the few coins in her guitar case. “Wonderful.” Alan stepped back, keeping a respectful distance.
“Thanks.” Florence glanced at Alan’s contribution. “Thanks very much. Very kind.”
“I didn’t recognise the song,” Dan said.
“You wouldn’t. I wrote it myself.” She held Dan’s gaze as if expecting a challenge, ready to defend herself.
Flattery and warm words would be no use here, so Dan got straight to the point. “We bumped into one another at the coffee shop earlier. Sorry about that.”
“You ran into me, you mean.” Florence shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. Forget about it.” She looked Dan up and down, her eyes lingering enviously on his warm coat. “Are you going to throw some money in as well, or is your friend the generous one?”
“He can afford to throw money around,” Dan said. “I can’t.”
She snorted. “Yeah, right.”
“I’m serious,” Dan insisted. “Okay, I’m not broke, but I’m looking for work, trying to get by. Just like you.” He paused. “Maybe I should ask around at a few restaurants. They’re always looking for waiters, aren’t they. I could try that Thai place. The Temple Garden. I hear they’re short staffed.”
A flash of alarm lit her hazel eyes, but Florence kept a straight face. “I’ve had enough of this pitch. I’ll try somewhere else.” She pulled the guitar’s strap over her head, then scooped the money from the guitar case before laying the guitar in its place. There was a label beside the guitar case’s handle. A single word: Flo.
“Do you go by Flo or Florence?” Dan asked.
She looked up sharply. “I didn’t tell you my name.”
“No, but there’s a label on your guitar case.”
“All right, I’m Flo. You got me. I can’t stand that other name. No one calls me that.”
“Except for your employer,” Dan said.
“Ex-employer. Stuck-up cow.”
“Is that why you left the restaurant?” Dan asked. “A disagreement with your boss?”
Flo didn’t reply.
“We saw you there, at the Temple Garden, but only for a few seconds. You took one look at our table, then you disappeared. Why was that? Why did you run away?”
“Had to go. Got to go now.” Flo sorted through her scant takings, stuffing them into a small fabric bag she wore across her body.
“How much would you normally earn, busking for an hour?” Dan asked.
Flo didn’t look up. She fastened her guitar case, struggling with a catch that refused to stay closed. “Bloody thing!” she muttered. “It’s knackered.”
“It was a serious question,” Dan went on. “We just wanted to ask you a couple of questions. And maybe, if we gave you, say, twenty pounds, you could pack up for an hour, go somewhere warm, buy something to eat.”
The catch finally snapped shut and Flo stood, guitar case in hand. “Back off. I know what kind of questions blokes like you want to ask. And I’m not interested.”
“You misunderstand,” Dan said. “I only want to know why you ran out of the restaurant the other night.”
“Cos I felt like it.” Flo started walking.
“Who did you recognise?” Dan called after her. “It could be important. A man has been killed. Murdered. Dominic Rudge.”
Flo froze in her tracks, then slowly, she turned to face them. “What?”
“Do you recognise the name?” Dan asked.
For a moment, Flo didn’t react, but then she nodded.
“I’m sorry if this comes as a shock,” Alan said gently. “But Mr Rudge is dead.” He sent Dan a disapproving glance. “We shouldn’t have sprung it on you like that. It was unforgivable. I’m sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry about.” Flo took a faltering step toward them. “Are you taking the piss? Because if you are…”
“It happened last night,” Dan said. “It’ll be on the news today.”
Flo shook her head in disbelief. “The Grudge. Dead. Bloody hell.”
“His name was Rudge,” Dan said. “He was there, at the Temple Garden. Are we talking about the same person? Is that who you recognised?”
“It’s what we called him. The Grudge. It was kind of a joke. To get through it. But now he’s gone.” Flo let out a long breath. “Thank Christ for that. What happened?”
“He was found on the beach,” Dan said. “He’d fallen from a cliff. The police are treating it as murder. They’ll probably want to talk to you.”
“Not me. I’m not talking to anybody.”
Murder Between the Tides Page 15
