Murder Between the Tides

by Campling Michael

  With a considerable effort, Kulkarni kept her voice neutral as she asked her next question: “You seemed concerned when I mentioned CCTV earlier. Does that mean that you have other cameras — ones that actually record properly?”

  “One. Outside, at the back, in case of burglaries. If your lot did your job properly, we wouldn’t need it, but there you go.”

  “Do customers have access to the rear of your property?”

  “Yeah. It’s just a little yard, for the bins and that, but we had to put a porch up. For the smokers.”

  “Did Ms Hammond visit your smoking area?”

  “I don’t think so.” Bentley’s expression brightened. “I wonder if it’s her bike.”

  Kulkarni froze, her pen in mid-sentence. “Is it a Trek hybrid bike? Light blue frame?”

  “It’s blue. I don’t know about the rest, but it looks like a woman’s bike to me. It’s been chained to the railings all day. And just now, with you talking about it, I figured it’s probably been there since Tuesday night.” He grinned evilly. “I’d half a mind to take a pair of bolt cutters to that chain, flog the bike on eBay.”

  “That would be against the law,” Kulkarni said. “But forget about that for a minute, because that bike almost certainly belongs to Ms Hammond. Did you touch it?”

  “No.”

  “And you definitely have CCTV recordings from Tuesday night?”

  “Yeah,” Bentley said. “I just told you that.”

  “Yes, you did,” Kulkarni replied. “But it’s such good news, I can hardly believe my ears.” She gave the landlord a broad smile. “Now, Mr Bentley, let’s go and have a look at those recordings, shall we? I believe you’re about to make my day.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Standing in the high street, Dan stared at Alan in disbelief. “What do you mean, there aren’t any?”

  “I mean exactly what I say,” Alan replied. “There are no antique shops in Newquay. Neither are there any flea markets or junk shops. I’ve rephrased the search in as many different ways as I can, but I’m coming up empty. If you think you can do any better, then you’re welcome to try.”

  Dan blinked. He’d no reason to doubt Alan’s results; if he said there were no antique shops, then he was probably right. But he’d been so certain that the typewriter had been bought nearby. “What about the nearby towns and villages?”

  “If we widen the search, I can find several, but they’re quite spread out. We could try phoning them.”

  “No, it has to be in Newquay. I’m sure of it.” Dan turned, looking in both directions along the street. “Where else would you be able to buy an antique typewriter?”

  “Charity shops,” Alan suggested. “We’ve passed a few, and they sell all kinds of odd things.”

  “That’s a good idea, but the machine we’re trying to trace would’ve been quite valuable. Charities tend to sort through their donations, and if there’s anything that could fetch a high price, they sell it online.”

  “Then I’m stuck.” Alan pocketed his phone. “Look around you. Most of these shops you could find in any town centre. They’re all fairly standard, and none of them sell second-hand goods.” He paused. “I don’t want to stop, but I got up early and I’m starving. Shall we break for lunch?”

  “Why not? We need to have another think, and a hot meal might give us a boost.”

  “Do you want to go back to the Horizon Cafe, or shall we look for somewhere new?”

  “Let’s try somewhere else,” Dan said. “I’ve rather gone off the Horizon Cafe. I’m still smarting from the memory of Brian’s bill.”

  “Why? I paid it.”

  “I know,” Dan replied. “That’s precisely what’s annoying me. I should have been able to cover it.”

  “I’ll tell you what. You can make up for it by treating me to a pint. Let’s find a nice pub and sit by the fire.”

  Dan considered Alan’s suggestion, but not for long. “Go on then. You know the town better than me. Just so long as you don’t want to revisit the Drowned Sailor.”

  “Oh, I think I can do better than that,” Alan said. “Follow me.”

  The Rusty Saw was only a ten-minute walk from the town centre, but once Dan and Alan were ensconced in the corner by the log fire, they could’ve been sheltering from the wintry winds in the middle of Exmoor.

  “It’s a good find, this place,” Dan said, casting an eye over the pub’s interior. The pub had either been well maintained for decades or lovingly restored to its original splendour. Thick beams of dark wood crossed the ceiling, their stained surfaces gleaming warmly in the firelight, and the pub’s stone walls were so thick they might’ve been built to withstand cannon fire. The chairs and tables comprised a fascinating collection of shapes, styles and sizes; all different, but somehow working together to create an effect of old-world comfort. And beneath their feet, the oak boards had been worn smooth by generations of customers.

  “The beer’s good, too,” Alan replied.

  “Hint taken.” Dan checked he had his wallet. “What are you having?”

  “I saw an intriguing stout on the way in. I wouldn’t mind trying it. It’s a pint-of-stout kind of day.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Dan said. “I’ll be right back. And I’ll grab a couple of menus.”

  At the bar, Dan was greeted by a smartly dressed young man who gave off an aura of boundless enthusiasm. “Yes, sir. What can I get for you? Would you like the lunch menu?”

  “Yes, please,” Dan said. “And I’ve no idea how you pronounce it, but we’ll have two pints of this stout, please.” He indicated the black pump on the bar.

  “Mena Dhu,” the barman said, passing Dan two menus. “It means black hill, which was the name of the farm owned by the man who started the brewery. But it’s a thoroughly modern beer. It’s got an aroma of oak smoke, a hint of dark chocolate and a liquorice finish. You’ll enjoy it.”

  “I’m sure I will.”

  The barman took his time filling the glasses, letting them settle, then examining each one before topping it up. “Perfect,” he said, placing the pints reverentially on the polished bar. “Anything else?”

  “Not unless you’ve got an antique typewriter.” Dan chuckled as he tucked the menus under his arm and picked up his prizes. “Sorry, don’t mind me. Just a joke.”

  The barman furrowed his brow. “I don’t quite get it, but if you’re looking for the typewriter, it’s over there.”

  “Sorry?” If Dan hadn’t had his hands full, he might’ve pinched himself.

  “The old typewriter. It’s on the bureau, in the alcove.” The barman pointed, and when Dan turned to look, he saw an old writing bureau, its writing surface open to reveal several rows of storage compartments. And on its padded leather writing surface sat a vintage portable typewriter, its rows of circular keys edged with glittering steel, its black body pristine.

  “Does it work?” Dan asked quietly.

  “After a fashion,” the barman replied. “Some of the keys don’t seem to do anything. It’s like they’ve got disconnected or something. You can have a look if you like, but we don’t encourage people to use it. It’s there for show.”

  “Right.” Dan strode toward the alcove. “Alan, come and have a look at this.”

  Alan joined him as he reached the bureau. “My God,” Alan breathed. “What are the chances?”

  “Pretty low,” Dan said. “The barman said it only works after a fashion.”

  “And it’s the wrong make. Imperial.” Alan bent over the typewriter to inspect it more closely. “That looks like a standard half-inch ribbon to me.”

  “Hold these.” Dan thrust the two pint glasses toward Alan, and as soon as they’d been safely delivered, he strode back to the bar.

  The barman glanced at the menus still tucked beneath Dan’s arm. “Everything all right, sir?”

  “Yes. But do you, by any chance, have another typewriter? An older one, bigger?”

  “No, sorry.”

  “Oka
y, can you tell me where you bought that one?”

  “Well, I didn’t buy it myself. I only work here.”

  “Damn!”

  The barman looked slightly alarmed by Dan’s reaction. “Er, I can call the owner though. She takes care of all the decor, and she’s always keen to help.”

  “Would you mind?” Dan asked. “We’re collectors, you see. Very keen on typewriters.”

  “Right. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it.” Dan headed back to his seat.

  Alan had made himself comfortable and was already sampling his beer, but he lowered his glass and wiped the foam from his top lip as Dan approached. “What did he say?”

  Dan placed the menus on the table and sat down. “He thinks the owner bought it. He’s going to call and ask.”

  “That’s what I call service,” Alan replied. “Try your pint. It’s fantastic.”

  “It would be rude not to.” Dan took a long drink, the dark beer warming his stomach. “That’s bloody good.”

  “It’s like alcoholic treacle broth,” Alan said. “Sweet and savoury at the same time.”

  “We’d better get something to eat. I think that beer is going to your head.”

  Dan skimmed through the menu, his mind elsewhere.

  “I think I’ll go for the steak and ale pie,” Alan said.

  “Right. I’ll go and order.” Dan took a hasty sip of beer then crossed to the bar. “Any news on the typewriter?” he asked the barman.

  “You are keen, aren’t you?” The barman smiled. “I’m afraid the boss hasn’t got back to me yet. I left a message. Meanwhile, are you ready to order?”

  “Yes. One steak and ale pie, and the vegetarian butternut squash risotto; there aren’t any dairy products in it, are there?”

  “We get asked that a lot. Only the Parmesan shavings, and we can serve it without if you prefer.”

  “Fine. Without the cheese, please.”

  “Certainly.”

  Dan paid the bill immediately, circumventing any objection from Alan, then he returned to his seat. “On its way,” he told Alan. “Nothing else to report.”

  But it wasn’t long before the barman approached. “Here you go, sir.” He handed a slip of paper to Dan. “Newquay Interiors. It’s on Oakleigh Terrace. Not far from here.”

  “Thank you,” Dan said. “I really appreciate it.”

  As soon as the barman retreated, Dan grabbed his phone and opened the map, tapping in the address.

  “Of course,” Alan said. “People buy all kinds of vintage stuff as ornaments. We should’ve thought of that.”

  “Yes.” Dan looked up. “I’ve found it, and it has to be the place! It’s near the hotel.”

  “Good. Should we forget about lunch?”

  “No. We need to eat, and besides, I’ve already paid.” Dan raised a hand to ward off any negotiation, then he took a gulp of beer. They could afford to wait another half an hour or so. At last, they were closing in on the murderer.

  CHAPTER 29

  The proprietor of Newquay Interiors rose from his seat behind the counter and strolled to meet Dan and Alan as they made their way through the door labelled Showroom. A middle-aged man, dressed in an immaculate three-piece suit, he gave them an appraising look before offering a smile. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. Would you like any help or are you just here to browse for inspiration?”

  “Afternoon,” Dan said. “Actually, I’m looking for something specific.”

  “Interesting. A piece of furniture perhaps? We have some lovely dining chairs at the moment. They’re on display on our upper floor.”

  “Not today,” Dan replied. “I want a vintage typewriter, and I’ve heard that you’re able to supply them.”

  The man’s smile faded a little. “Yes, we have one or two on display on the lower level. I can show you, if you wish.”

  “Erm, we’re actually trying to find a particular typewriter,” Alan put in. “An Empire Number One or a Wellington. They were made by Adler.”

  The man’s expression said that he’d like to ask why but was too polite to enquire. “We have a very nice Olympia portable and an Olivetti. They’re the kind of thing that people generally ask for.” He hoisted his smile a little higher. “They’re very attractive pieces. I’m afraid we don’t have any brightly coloured machines at the moment. They’ve become rather hard to source since they became fashionable, especially the red models.”

  Alan took out his phone, and finding an image of the Empire Number One, he showed the screen to the proprietor. “We’re looking for something exactly like this.”

  “Oh. I had one of those once, or something almost identical. Let me see, it must’ve been about this time last year.”

  “Who did you sell it to?” Dan blurted.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Dan softened his tone. “I’m sorry. I know it sounds like an odd question, but I collect typewriters, and I really need to get hold of that machine. It’s quite rare, and I think it might’ve been bought by a rival collector. If I could work out who has it, I might be able to make them an offer.”

  The man pursed his lips, thinking, but then he came to a decision. “Funnily enough, he said almost exactly the same thing. He said he was a collector, and he asked me to keep the whole thing under my hat. But then, he also promised he’d come back. He swore he was having his whole house remodelled, and he made all kinds of promises. But I haven’t seen hide nor hair of him since.”

  “Shocking,” Alan said. “Perhaps, in the circumstances, you wouldn’t mind giving us his name.”

  “I’m not sure I recall. He paid in cash, you see, and he took the machine with him, so I didn’t need a full name and address.”

  “Could his first name have been Edward?” Dan asked.

  “No, no. It was something odd. Something short.” He frowned.

  “Albert?” Alan suggested. “Marcus?”

  “Buzz,” the man said. “No, wait a minute. Hang on. It was Boz. That’s it. ‘Call me Boz,’ he said.”

  Dan stared at the man. “Boz? Are you sure?”

  “Charles Dickens’ pen name,” Alan said. “Another piece that fits the puzzle.”

  “But it gets us no closer,” Dan replied. “We’ll have to go through some photos.”

  “I’ll see what I can find.” Alan busied himself with his phone.

  “This seems like a lot of effort for a typewriter,” the man said.

  “It’s a very important typewriter,” Dan replied. “This Boz character, would you recognise him if you saw him again?”

  “Probably.” The man chortled quietly.

  “What’s so funny?” Dan asked.

  “Pardon me, it was nothing really. It was just the way he typed. He wanted to try out the machine, and of course I let him. But he was hilarious. He was waving his hands around like this.” The man mimed an exaggerated display of typing, flicking his fingers upward at the end of each stroke. “It was like he was playing the piano or something. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “I have,” Alan said. He tapped out a search on his phone, then he turned the screen to face the shopkeeper.

  “That’s him!” the man exclaimed. “That was quick work. How did you know? Friend of yours, is he?”

  “Not exactly.” Alan showed the screen to Dan.

  “It’s Tim,” Dan said. “Tim Kendall.” He locked eyes with Alan. “We have to get back to the hotel.”

  “I’ll call DS Firth,” Alan said. “He needs to know about this.”

  Dan nodded once. “We can walk and talk. Let’s go.”

  The shopkeeper watched them, bemused. “Are you phoning the police? Why?”

  “Nothing for you to worry about,” Dan said, “but you’ll need to talk to them later.” He made for the door, Alan hard on his heels.

  “But I haven’t done anything wrong,” the man called after them. “What’s going on?”

  “Thanks for your help,” Alan replied, then he joi
ned Dan outside.

  “Come on,” Dan said, and they set off at a jog.

  CHAPTER 30

  “Here she comes.” At her desk in Bodmin HQ, DC Kulkarni paused the video playback on her monitor and checked the time stamp against her notes. “Six thirty-nine.”

  Behind her, DS Firth grunted. “Go on.”

  They watched the grainy image as Roz Hammond chained her bike against the railings behind the Drowned Sailor then walked out of view.

  “That’s it until…” Kulkarni forwarded the recording at high speed. A couple of figures flickered into view, one man smoking a cigarette before he disappeared. The second man inspected the bike and tugged at the chain. He took something from the handlebars, then he slouched away.

  “What did he nick?” Firth asked.

  “Cycling helmet.”

  “Little blighter.”

  “He’d have pinched the bike, but Hammond has a top-quality lock,” Kulkarni said. “Just as well. I checked, and that bike wasn’t cheap.”

  “How much?”

  “About a thousand pounds. Why, do you think it might be significant?”

  “No,” Firth replied. “My eldest is after a new bike, but I’m not going to shell out a grand, I can tell you.”

  “Here she is.” Kulkarni slowed the playback. On the screen, Roz went to her bike, but she seemed unsteady on her feet. Leaning against the railings, she paused for a moment, then she shook her head. She breathed out, sending a plume of misty breath into the air, then she strolled away without a backward glance.

  Kulkarni stopped the recording. The time stamp read seven forty-one. “Looks like Ms Hammond is in the clear,” she said. “We think Rudge was killed shortly before seven.”

  “Unless she killed Rudge, and then went for a stiffener.”

  “But Heath was with her at six thirty by Fistral beach, and they talked for several minutes. She must’ve gone straight from there to that pub. Heath said he’d told her to get a drink and calm herself down. I checked the route, and assuming she was on her way back to the hotel, the Drowned Sailor would’ve been the first bar she passed; the first one that was open at this time of year, anyway. She probably saw the sign and decided to follow Heath’s advice.”