Flo started to turn away, but Alan said, “Please wait. Just a second.”
“Why? What do you want?”
“One of our friends is in trouble,” Alan replied. “She’s been questioned by the police. We’re sure she had nothing to do with the murder, so we’re trying to help her. If you have any information—”
“I don’t. The first I knew about this was when you told me.”
Dan opened his mouth to speak, but Alan laid his hand on his arm. “If Flo wants to talk to us, she can find us in her own good time.” Alan rummaged in his pocket. “Flo. Is it okay if I call you Flo? I’ve got some cards in here somewhere.” He took out a plastic case and removed a business card, offering it to her without closing the distance between them. “Please, take it. It has my mobile number, and if you want to talk, you can call me. But it will be just between us. We won’t tell the police about you, not if you don’t want us to.”
Flo pursed her lips. Then, just as Dan was sure she’d walk away, she stepped forward and took Alan’s card. “It says you’re a writer.”
“Yes. Children’s books.”
Her eyes darted to Dan. “And what about him?”
“He’s out of work, as he said,” Alan replied. “And I’m sorry if we’ve upset you. It wasn’t our intention. It’s been a difficult time.”
“Isn’t it always?” Flo tapped Alan’s card against her fingers. “I’m not promising anything. I might call. I might not.”
“Or you can find us at the Regent Hotel,” Dan said. “My name’s Dan Corrigan.”
“Like that’s going to happen.” Her eyes rolled skyward. “Not dodgy at all.”
“If you could call us, you’d be helping an innocent woman,” Alan said. “Please, think about it.” He smiled. “And I meant what I said about your music. It was great. I’d buy a CD, that’s for sure.”
Flo laughed, but it was a weary sound, born of hardship. “Nobody buys CDs anymore. Streaming, that’s the way to go. Or vinyl.”
“Vinyl never went out of style,” Alan said. “You can’t beat it.”
“Too right.” Flo smiled at Alan. “You’re all right. Shame about your friend.”
“He’s a philistine,” Alan said. “But what can you do?”
“I don’t know. Hopeless case.” And this time, there was genuine warmth in her laughter.
She cast a disparaging glance at Dan, then she walked away, her slim frame bent by the weight of her guitar case, but her stride purposeful and determined. It was her against the world, and she wasn’t about to go down without a fight.
“Do you think she’ll call?” Dan asked.
“No, I don’t think she will. But if she does, I’m afraid it won’t be easy to deal with.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that, whatever she has to tell us, it’s not going to be good.”
Alan stared down at the pavement, and Dan knew better than to ask what was going through his mind.
Already, Flo had vanished from view. That seemed to be the way of it with her: a fleeting existence, barely connected to the world. It was an odd contradiction, but for someone who went out of their way to perform in public, Flo seemed very keen to disappear.
I wonder why? Dan asked himself. But he didn’t want to think about the answer to that question. He didn’t want to think about it at all.
CHAPTER 22
After their encounter with Flo, Dan and Alan barely spoke as they trudged through the town. Then Dan said, “I’ve been thinking.”
“Oh,” Alan replied, his voice heavy with indifference.
But Dan soldiered on. “About typewriters. The thing is, the ribbon used on Rudge could’ve come from anywhere. The killer could have brought it with him, so the typewriter might be miles away.”
“Hm.” Alan drew a deep breath, rousing himself. “You’ve got a point. And now that I think about it, the ribbon might not have been taken from a machine at all. You can buy replacement ribbons easily enough.”
“But this was a rare size. Three-quarters of an inch. That would make it harder to buy, wouldn’t it?”
Alan shrugged. “You can get almost anything online. Still, it might give us an opening. I feel a burst of research coming on, but I should finish one job before I start another, and you wanted me to track down that journalist.”
“He can wait. I want you to get stuck into the hunt for the typewriter, while I go back to the notes. They could be the clue to the murderer.”
Alan frowned. “But they were to do with Edward, weren’t they?”
“I wouldn’t be so sure. Rudge had his hands tied with typewriter ribbon, and the notes were typewritten. That fact has been staring us in the face. It’s a direct link between the notes and the murder. But there’s more. You received your note after everyone else. What did it say?”
“From one explorer to another, and that Edward had nothing to fear. But I don’t see what you’re getting at.”
“Two things. We’ve already established that the notes were written recently; that’s the only way their author could’ve referred to Edward’s disappearance. But there’s a second implication. It’s not quite so obvious, but it’s much more significant.” Dan paused. “The notes definitely had a target, but it wasn’t Edward.”
“But the only threatening note was sent to Edward.”
“Was it?”
“Yes. It was pushed under his door.”
“But the note didn’t have his name on it,” Dan said. “Think about it. Everyone received a note because someone wanted to deliver a threat, and they wanted to cover their tracks while they were doing it.”
“I see. You think the culprit wanted to cause confusion and divert attention from what was really going on.”
“That’s right. But only one note mattered, and it was received by Edward.”
“You’ve lost me,” Alan admitted. “I thought you just said—”
“The threat was received by Edward, but it wasn’t intended for him.”
“My God! It was delivered to the wrong room.”
“That’s my theory,” Dan said.
Alan clutched his arm. “No. It’s a fact. You weren’t there, but when Edward got that note, he stormed off. I was worried, so I asked Dominic for Edward’s room number, and he gave me the number for Brian’s room by mistake.”
“Edward was in the Regency suite,” Dan said.
“I know, but Dominic had it wrong on his spreadsheet. He said Edward had changed his room just before we arrived.”
“What I wouldn’t give for a peek at that spreadsheet.”
“I can get it right now,” Alan said. “Dominic sent it by email a few days before the retreat. Everyone had a copy.” Alan stopped to take out his phone. “Give me a second.”
Dan peered over his shoulder. “Yes, that’s it. Tap the file to download it.”
“I know how to do it. I’m not a total dinosaur, you know.”
“Sorry. Can you open it yet? Why is it taking so long?”
“Rotten signal.” Alan held up his phone and turned around on the spot, frowning. “That’s better. Here we go.” Lowering his phone, he slid his fingers across the screen to zoom in.
“Who booked the Regency suite originally?” Dan asked.
“Dominic. That figures. He would’ve given himself the best room, but if Edward made a fuss, Dominic would’ve bowed to his demands.”
“It all fits,” Dan said. “The murderer had Dominic in his sights, but first, he wanted to make him squirm. So he sent a threatening note, not realising that Dominic and Edward had swapped rooms.”
“It’s not that simple,” Alan replied. “Brian said he’d changed rooms too. So he probably received the wrong note as well.”
“I can’t recall what each note said, can you?”
Alan thought for a moment. “Brian’s note was something about receiving the acclaim of his peers.”
“Suitably vague. That could be for anyone, but it fits Edward, especially since
he has a film deal in the pipeline.”
“Dominic’s note was a reference to Hamlet,” Alan said. “When sorrows come, they come not single spies. And there was something about new horizons.”
“Again, that’s not specific to one person, but I can see how it could’ve been written for Brian. He’s been down on his luck recently, hasn’t he?”
“And he’s working on something new,” Alan replied. “That could be his new horizon.”
“Right.” Dan ran his hand through his hair. “I’d like to get all the notes together and look at them properly. I could look for patterns, draw a diagram to map out all the possible combinations.”
“Back to the hotel?” Alan asked. “You could look into the notes while I do some research, then we could regroup for lunch and plan our next steps.”
Dan sent him an appraising look. “You’ve got the bit between your teeth.”
“This is nothing,” Alan replied. “You should see me when I’m belting out a final chapter. Sparks fly.”
“I’m sure they do,” Dan said. “Okay, let’s go back to the hotel. It’s time to harness all that restless energy.”
CHAPTER 23
Sitting at the desk in his hotel room, Alan took a break to stand up and stretch his back. He closed his eyes, massaging his temples with his fingertips, and visions of typewriter ribbons pranced through his imagination.
There were nylon ribbons, cotton ribbons, ribbons that came attached to spools, and those that had to be wound on by hand. Some had metal eyelets designed to trigger the auto-reverse ribbon feed, and some did not. It was possible to buy ribbon in a range of colours. As well as the regular monotone or red and black, you could buy pink, green, brown, orange, and even purple. Why purple? Alan wondered. Why on earth would anyone want to write in purple?
He’d also learned that, over time, there’d been at least twenty-six different types of typewriter spool for sale. Almost all had been designed for the standard half-inch ribbon, although maddeningly, many suppliers didn’t quote the ribbon widths on their website; they simply gave a list of compatible makes and models of typewriter, and that meant more searches, more checks, more work.
Alan went to the bathroom to splash some cold water on his face, and as he towelled his cheeks, he began to feel fresher. “Focus,” he told his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Truth be told, he’d been much less efficient than usual. He’d long hankered after a vintage typewriter, and too many of his searches had resulted in prolonged trawls through online stores. No more eBay, he told himself. No more getting sidetracked.
Retaking his place at the desk, he began again, concentrating only on three-quarter-inch ribbon. Soon, he’d narrowed his research down to one typewriter manufacturer: the German company Adler. The company was now defunct, but it had created a few machines that took the wider ribbons, particularly a popular machine branded as the Wellington in the USA and the Empire Number One in Canada. These typewriters were antique rather than vintage. Used models were rare, and if they were in full working order, sold for significant sums. The machine, if he could find one, would be easy to recognise. But could they assume that the ribbon used to tie Rudge came from the typewriter used for the notes? It felt like a stretch.
Alan grabbed his phone, thinking to call Dan with a progress report, but he saw he’d missed a message from Roz: Thnx. We’ll talk later. Not today. Take care xx.
How like Roz to tell him to take care, when she was the one under pressure. He had to try harder to help her. He had to do something, use his initiative. He couldn’t always be hanging on to Dan’s coat-tails.
And he could start by finding Charlie Heath. Dan had given him the journalist’s name, and as Alan had predicted, it wasn’t hard to find the man online. Charlie had profiles on LinkedIn and Facebook, and it was a short hop from there to his official website. Alan skimmed through the portfolio section, quietly impressed by the range and quality of the man’s credits. Charlie Heath was no mere celeb-hunter; he was a serious investigative reporter with a handful of awards to his name.
The site offered a phone number, and Alan added Charlie to his contacts before placing a call. He half expected to hear only an automated reply, but the phone was answered straight away.
“Charlie’s phone,” a woman intoned. “He’s out on a job, but I can take a message.”
Her voice was dull with weary resignation, and Alan smiled to lighten his tone before he spoke: “Hello, I wonder if you can help me. I’d like to speak to Charlie directly. Are you his receptionist?”
A snort. “You’d think so, the way he carries on. But no, I’m his wife. And before you ask, I haven’t spoken to him for days, but like I said, I can take a message.”
“Ah, it would help if you could give me his number. It’s really quite important.”
“Sorry, but he doesn’t like me to—” She broke off, and Alan heard children’s voices in the background. Her voice grew faint as if she was holding the phone away from her mouth “Sh! Mummy’s on the phone, darling, all right? You’ve got… yes I know. I know. Josie, let him have a go with the glitter. It is fair, darling. It’s for both of you. You’ve got to share.”
Alan grinned, and when the woman came back on the line, he said, “Let me guess. They’re making Christmas cards.”
The woman laughed. “How did you know?”
“I used to be a primary school teacher. I know what it’s like. The build-up to Christmas starts earlier every year, doesn’t it?”
“Tell me about it.” The woman sighed. “It sounds awful, but I’ll be glad when my two are old enough for school. They need something to keep them busy.”
“The pre-school years are wonderful but exhausting,” Alan said. “It sounds as though you’ve got your hands full.”
“Yeah, they’re good as gold really, but, you know…” The woman left her sentence unfinished, but she sounded much happier now.
She’s been cooped up with her kids for too long, Alan decided. Pouring as much charm into his voice as he could, he said, “I’m sure you’re doing a wonderful job. And it must be hard, with your husband away.”
“It’s not so bad. But listen, it’s been nice talking to you, er…”
“Alan. Alan Hargreaves. I’m calling from Newquay.”
“Right, well… Newquay?”
“Yes. I’ve seen Charlie around, and I thought we could meet up, but I don’t have his number with me.”
“Oh, I see.” The woman hesitated. “I suppose, since you know Charlie, I could give you his number.”
“It would save you the bother of taking a message.”
“That’s true. All right then. Here you go, Mr Hargreaves.” She reeled off the number and Alan scribbled it down.
“Thank you, Mrs Heath. You’re very kind. And good luck with the Christmas cards. Cover the tables with plenty of old newspapers, that’s my advice.”
“Too late. The place looks like an explosion in Santa’s grotto.” She chuckled under her breath. “You know, the house is full of old papers, but will Charlie let me have them for the kids? Will he hell. Research material, he calls it. Background.”
“I’d have thought it was all digital these days.”
“That’s what I keep telling him. But he doesn’t listen. You wouldn’t think it to look at him, but he’s old school is my Charlie. A newspaperman. Give him a chance and he’d march around in a trench coat and a trilby.”
“I might tell him you said that.”
“Don’t you dare!” Her laugh was louder this time, almost husky. “But I know you won’t say anything. You sound a lot nicer than most of Charlie’s mates, I can tell you.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Alan said. “Thanks again. Bye now.”
He ended the call, taking a moment to get his thoughts in order, then he tapped Charlie’s direct number into his phone and pressed the green icon to connect.
He didn’t have to wait long for his call to be answered: “Yeah? Who’s this?”
&
nbsp; “Mr Heath, my name is Alan Hargreaves. I’m calling from the Regent Hotel.”
“Oh.” A pause. “Hargreaves. Ex-teacher, author of the Uncle Derek books. Listen, if you’re calling about Rudge, you’ve got to be quick. I’m on a deadline.”
“Actually, I wanted to ask you about Roz Hammond.”
“What about her?”
“Roz is a friend. She was pulled in for questioning by the police, but we think she had nothing to do with Dominic’s death. If she was coming to see you—”
“She’d be in the clear,” Charlie interrupted. “But I can’t help her or you. Sorry, mate. Now, about Rudge. How long have you known him?”
“No, I won’t answer your questions unless you answer mine. On the night Rudge was killed, did Roz come to see you, yes or no?”
“All right, she came to see me. But it won’t do you much good. We didn’t talk for long, so she had plenty of time to slip off and do the deed.”
“What did you talk about?”
“Uh-uh. Your turn,” Charlie said. “How long have you known Dominic Rudge? Did you work together?”
“I first met Rudge about five years ago when I came on one of these retreats. But no, we’ve never worked together. Why do you ask?”
“You were both teachers. Thought you might have worked at the same school, that’s all.”
A sharp chill crept up Alan’s spine. “I didn’t know he was a teacher. He never mentioned anything about it.”
“Interesting,” Charlie said, his voice distant, as though he was concentrating on something else.
“Where did he teach?” Alan asked.
“Lots of places. Private schools mainly. And a stint abroad, working for a charity. Cambodia.” Charlie emphasised the last word, imbuing it with a dark significance.
“Are you…” Alan began. “Are you suggesting some kind of impropriety?”
“I don’t know. Am I? You tell me.”
“For the record, Rudge and I were not close friends,” Alan said firmly. “My only connection with him was through these annual meetings, and if there was anything suspicious in his past, I certainly wasn’t aware of it. Until you told me just now, I didn’t even know he’d been a teacher. As I said before, he never mentioned it.”
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