Murder Between the Tides

by Campling Michael

  “We don’t know for sure she was inside the pub all that time,” Firth argued. “She could’ve grabbed a taxi, nipped out, come back.”

  “Not according to the landlord. Bentley said she arrived before seven and she didn’t leave for almost an hour. That ties in with the CCTV perfectly.”

  Firth scraped his hand down his face. “All right. Hammond was always a long shot, and that settles it. Even if she had an accomplice, and he picked her up as soon as she’d chained up her bike, I doubt whether she could’ve got across town, dealt with Rudge, then made it back in time. It just doesn’t add up.”

  “Agreed, Sarge. What’s our next step?”

  “We’ll go back through all the initial interviews and conversations. We need to collate all our notes and look for inconsistencies. Someone has lied to us, and we’ve missed it. That’s not good enough.”

  His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he answered the call. “DS Firth.” He listened, his expression unreadable, then he said, “Thanks, Mr Hargreaves, but—”

  His eyes widened, and when he spoke again his tone had changed, grown more urgent: “We’ll send a patrol. And I’ll be there as fast as I can.”

  He gestured to Kulkarni. “Looks like we’ve got a lead on that typewriter ribbon. Believe it or not, Hargreaves reckons he’s found where it was bought, and the shop’s owner identified one of the writers from the hotel.”

  Kulkarni got to her feet. “Who?”

  “Our suspect’s name is Mr Tim Kendall.” Firth grinned. “It’s a shame he wasn’t a doctor. And called Richard. I’ve always wanted to say that.”

  “Sarge, are you going for a reference to The Fugitive? Only that was Kimble, not Kendall.”

  “Close enough, isn’t it?” Firth shook his head. “Come on. You can drive. I’ve got calls to make.”

  And pressing his phone against his ear, DS Firth stormed across the office.

  CHAPTER 31

  Dan and Alan stood shoulder to shoulder outside Tim Kendall’s hotel room. From within, the strains of opera could be heard, Tim singing along. But the sound ended abruptly when Dan pounded his fist against the door.

  A moment later, the door opened fully and Tim stood before them, blinking blearily. “Ah, what a pleasant surprise. Unless, that is, you’ve come to complain about my music. I do hope it wasn’t too loud.”

  “It wasn’t the music,” Dan replied. “Is it okay if we come in for a minute?”

  “Well, I…”

  Dan stepped forward, forcing Tim to retreat, then he marched inside, closely followed by Alan.

  “Right, well, I suppose you’d better come in.” Tim pulled a comic face, trying to make light of the situation, but his voice wavered uncertainly. He turned away to close the door, and Dan saw a flash of alarm in the man’s eyes. But when Tim faced them, he’d composed himself, and he stood tall, his hands clasped in front of him.

  Dan gestured to the open laptop on the desk, its screen filled with text. “Were you working?”

  “Yes. As usual.”

  “And your music – do you stream it from your phone?”

  “My laptop,” Tim replied. “I have a playlist set up. I always like to listen to music when writing. But it has to be opera. I love the drama of it. It helps me to capture the mood.”

  “Albert does something similar,” Dan said. “And like him, I see that you use a smart speaker.”

  “My trusty Amazon Echo,” Tim replied. “It goes everywhere with me.”

  “Almost everywhere,” Dan said.

  “Pardon?” Tim plastered a bland smile across his features and turned his attention to Alan. “Your friend seems rather abrupt. What’s all this about, Alan?”

  Alan remained stony faced. “You’ll see. We have a few questions.”

  “Oh. What about?”

  “Little things,” Dan said. “Idle curiosity. I’ve always been fascinated by the way writers work. What’s your routine?”

  Tim let out a nervous chuckle. “I’m afraid my process is rather mundane. I sit in my chair and I type. That’s all there is to it.”

  “Really?” Dan asked. “Just now, you said you were working, but when we arrived, you weren’t sitting at your desk.”

  “What an extraordinary thing to say.”

  “Is it?” Dan paced across the room to the bedside table. “You need reading glasses to work, and yet, here they are by your bed.”

  “I make the fonts larger on my laptop,” Tim replied. “Honestly, what is this, the Spanish Inquisition?”

  Dan smiled. “Far from it. But when we came in, I couldn’t help noticing the puffiness around your eyes. You looked very much as though you’d been asleep.”

  Tim’s fingers went to the corners of his eyes, self-consciously massaging his lower lids. “If my eyes look tired, it’s because I haven’t been sleeping well. With all the terrible things that have been going on, it’s hardly surprising.”

  “No, it isn’t.” Dan picked up a small framed photograph from the bedside table. The image was black and white, professionally taken, and it showed a handsome young woman dressed in a formal gown, her neck bedecked with pearls, and her hair swept upward into an elaborate arrangement.

  “That’s my Cyn,” Tim said. “My wife. It was taken before we were married. She was Lady Cynthia Kington back then, but it’s my favourite photo of her.”

  “At the restaurant, you said you’d married well,” Alan put in. “Now I see what you mean. But you didn’t mention that you had aristocratic connections. Why is that?”

  Tim shrugged modestly. “One doesn’t like to boast. And you know how catty some people can be. There are those who will say I’ve only been successful because I’ve had certain privileges in life. But I’ve had to work damned hard for everything I’ve achieved.”

  “And what is that, exactly?” Dan asked. “What have you achieved?”

  “I don’t have to justify myself to you, Mr Corrigan.” Tim bridled, his lips drawn tight, his nose uplifted.

  “Indulge me,” Dan said smoothly. “Tell me about your work.”

  “Very well. If you insist.” Tim drew a haughty breath. “I’ve topped the bestseller charts, in both the New York Times and USA Today, on several occasions. In this country, my latest novel was selected as Book of the Month by The Times. I’ve won the Costa Book Award, and I’ve been shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize. My books are sold around the world and have been translated into forty-five languages. Is that good enough for you?”

  Dan tilted his head on one side. “An impressive empire. That’s certainly something you’d want to protect if it were to be threatened in some way.”

  “I don’t see what you’re getting at,” Tim said.

  “No?” Dan let an uncomfortable silence fill the room.

  Eventually, Tim said, “I suppose I’ve had my share of critics over the years. There are always those who snipe from the sidelines.”

  “So, how do you protect your reputation?” Dan asked.

  “I have a good lawyer and broad shoulders,” Tim replied. “I find that to be a winning combination. I can look after myself.”

  “But you’ve had others to consider, haven’t you,” Alan said. “Your father was a prominent man, and then there’s your wife.”

  “Leave my wife out of this,” Tim shot back. “Now, if I’ve satisfied your idle curiosity, perhaps you’d let me return to my—”

  “Typing,” Dan interrupted. “You’re quite an impressive typist, so I hear.”

  “What?”

  “And judging by your age,” Dan went on, “it’s safe to assume that you learned on a manual machine. An Olympia, perhaps.” He paused. “Or maybe even an Empire Number One.”

  For a split second, Tim’s features seemed fixed in place, like a photograph taken at an inopportune moment. But then he let out a snide chuckle. “I have absolutely no idea what the hell you’re blithering about, but I think you’ve wasted enough of my time, don’t you?” Without waiting for an answer, he opened t
he door and waved them toward it, flinging his arm wide. “Run along, gentlemen. You’ve seriously outstayed your welcome. Please leave before I have you thrown out.”

  “The shopkeeper at Newquay Interiors identified you,” Dan said, his voice calm. “You made a mistake there, Tim. Such an unusual typewriter, he was bound to remember it. And he remembered you; he was very clear about that.”

  “So what?” Tim demanded. “I bought a typewriter.”

  “Is it here?” Dan glanced around the room, his eyes alighting on a holdall in the corner. “We know you have it with you. It won’t be hard to match the machine to the notes you sent.” In three quick strides, Dan was across the room, and bending over the holdall, he pulled back the zip.

  “Don’t touch that!” Tim moved toward Dan, but Alan sidestepped, barring his way.

  Tim glared. “Get the hell out of my way.”

  “No,” Alan replied. “You’re fine where you are. Stay right there.”

  “Let’s have a look,” Dan said.

  Inside the bag, crumpled shirts were tangled together with socks and underwear. The bag looked full, but Dan reached inside, parting the thin layer of clothes to reveal a sheet of plastic bubble wrap. “What have we here?”

  “Stop!” Tim snapped. “You have no right to touch that. No right at all.” He tried to push past Alan, but Alan held him back, grasping his arm.

  Dan didn’t look up from his task. Unfolding the bubble wrap, he held his breath. And there it was. “Bingo.”

  The typewriter’s sleek black body gleamed darkly in its nest of plastic. And picked out in ornate gold lettering across the metal were two words: The Empire.

  “All right, I wrote a few notes,” Tim spluttered. “So what? It was only a bit of harmless fun.”

  Dan stood. “Edward didn’t think so.”

  “You can’t blame me for that,” Tim protested. “He’s highly strung. He’s always been like that. He can’t take a joke.”

  “But the threat wasn’t meant for him, was it?” Dan said. “You didn’t know about the room changes, so your plan went awry. But it wasn’t hard to figure out the intended target for your poison-pen letter. You wanted to make Rudge squirm, so you planned to send him a threat. And you came up with a scheme that appealed to your sense of melodrama. Writing a note to everyone, including yourself, was a nice touch, but I did notice that your own note was particularly complimentary. Your vanity came to the fore, even as you planned to destroy Dominic Rudge.”

  Tim tutted in contempt. “Nonsense. The notes were a practical joke, a bit of theatre. Yes, my note to Edward was a bit over the top, but I’d fallen out with him, so I wanted to give him a fright. How was I to know he’d fly off the handle?”

  “Oh, you’re good,” Dan replied. “He’s good, isn’t he, Alan?”

  “Compelling,” Alan said. “But he slipped up when he used that ribbon. He must’ve skimped on his research. Frankly, I’m surprised at him. As a historical writer, he should’ve known better.”

  Tim’s lips curled in a sneer. “How dare you. You’re nothing but a teller of bedtime stories for half-witted brats. I’m a historian, a respected authority in the field. My knowledge of the nineteenth century—”

  “Does not include the development of the typewriter ribbon,” Alan interjected. “I can see why you wanted the Empire. It was first made in 1892, so that fits with your interest in the nineteenth century. But perhaps you didn’t know that its three-quarter-inch ribbon was never popular, and apart from the Adler thrust-action machines, it wasn’t widely adopted.”

  Tim opened his mouth, but he seemed to be having difficulty choosing his first word.

  “Still, that nice thick ribbon must’ve been perfect for tying Rudge’s hands together,” Dan said. “There’s only one thing I don’t know for sure, and that’s why you did it. We know Rudge had a history of mistreating women. Was that the reason, Tim? Was that why he had to die?”

  Tim’s expression hardened, and he found his tongue. “You know nothing. You’ve got nothing. You have no proof whatsoever. But I was working when Rudge was killed. I was in here, on my own, the whole evening.”

  Dan smiled. “About that. Bear with me for a second, because there’s one more piece of the puzzle to put into place. You see, when we arrived, I believe I was correct when I said that you were asleep until I knocked on your door.”

  “Dan,” Alan began, “he can’t have been asleep. We heard him singing. And on the night of the murder, I heard him then too. He must’ve been in this room when Rudge was killed. We’ve made a mistake.”

  “Ha!” Tim shook his head, enjoying his moment of triumph. “You see! You’ve made a fool of yourself, Corrigan.”

  Dan held up his hand for quiet. “Alexa,” he said, “resume.”

  The speaker’s light pulsed blue, and a moment later the room was filled with the sound of opera. And with the unmistakable sound of Tim singing along.

  “You recorded yourself and played it on that evening to conceal the fact that you weren’t in your room,” Dan went on. “Just now, you were listening to it when you fell asleep. It took me a while to figure it out, but it all came together in the end.”

  Tim backed toward the door. “You bloody idiots. You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “We’ll see soon enough,” Alan said. “The police are on their way.”

  “Oh, bollocks to this!” Tim growled, and then he was out the door and away.

  Dan dashed forward to follow him, and he heard Alan fall in behind.

  Tim was already halfway along the corridor, moving fast, and Dan gave chase. “Stop!” he called out, but Tim gave no heed. He ran on, his clumsy footsteps thumping on the thin carpet.

  At the end of the corridor, Tim halted beside a plain wooden door. Glancing back at Dan, his eyes wild, he jabbed at the door’s combination lock, and then he was through.

  Dan put on a burst of speed, and just in time he caught the door before it swung shut. On the other side, an unlit stairwell offered two choices: up or down, both disappearing into darkness. Dan almost headed down, guessing Tim would make for the street, but he could hear him staggering upward, and he followed, feeling his way.

  Behind him, Alan called out, “I’ve found the switch.” And the stairwell was flooded with light.

  Dan’s eyes hadn’t yet adjusted to the dark, but even so, he squinted against the harsh glare of the fluorescent overhead lights. Ahead, Tim stumbled, but he carried on, his wheezing breath unnaturally loud in the confined space.

  “Tim, you’ve got to stop,” Dan shouted.

  But Tim did not slow. He was at the top of the stairs now, and already scrabbling at another keypad. He pushed the door open, and a gust of wind yanked it from his hands, then he disappeared.

  Dan dug deep, powering up the last few stairs. The open door swung toward him, slowly closing, its sluggish spring fighting against the wind. If the door closed before he got there, if the lock had time to engage, Tim would escape.

  The door was within millimetres of meeting its frame, and Dan hurled himself against it, barging it open with his shoulder. A jolt of pain shot through his arm, but the heavy door juddered open, and he was outside.

  Dan staggered to a standstill. In front of him, a low stone balustrade was all that separated him from a dizzying drop. Behind him, the grim slope of the hotel roof stretched upward, its dark slates worn smooth by the salty air.

  Dan stood on a narrow walkway, its stony surface slick with damp. At the far end of the walkway, Tim stood, looking down, his hands on the balustrade.

  Dan froze.

  Above them, a seagull wheeled through the air, shrieking as if affronted at having its territory invaded. It swept past Tim, and he turned to watch its flight.

  Catching Dan’s eye he said, “A European herring gull. Nothing special.”

  Dan swallowed. “Do you like birds?”

  “I used to, as a child.” Tim shrugged. “It was a long time ago, but you never forget.”<
br />
  Dan took a small step closer. “They all look the same to me. Seagulls.”

  “Oh dear.” Tim tutted. “There’s no bird called a seagull. Not all sea birds are gulls. It’s a common mistake to lump them all together.”

  “I’ll remember that.” Dan edged along the walkway as he talked, keeping his gaze on Tim.

  Behind him, someone hammered against the door. Damn! He’d let it swing shut, and now Alan couldn’t open it. But perhaps that was just as well. Tim was putting on a brave front, but his eyes were wild, his mouth twitching. His nerves were already strained to their limits; the presence of another person might be enough to make him do something stupid.

  Tim had heard the noise too. “Poor Alan. Never mind. We’re on our own. Just you and me and this most excellent canopy the air.”

  “Hamlet.”

  “Bravo.” Tim mimed a round of applause. “You’re not quite the philistine I thought.”

  “I had to learn that speech at school,” Dan said. “I can’t say I fully understood it.”

  “Ah, I should’ve guessed.” Tim’s expression soured.

  Thinking quickly, Dan said, “Tell me more about the birds. I saw a huge one the other day. It had a pointed beak and a long neck. Dark feathers. It stood on a rock and stretched its wings out. It was like something from a David Attenborough programme.”

  “A cormorant.” Tim smiled. “The common cormorant or shag, lays eggs inside a paper bag. Christopher Isherwood. Do you know it?”

  “No. Another childhood memory?”

  “Yes. I always loved nonsense poetry. Edward Lear, Hilaire Belloc, Ogden Nash. I must’ve known dozens of them by heart before I’d reached the age of seven.”

  “Did your parents read them to you?”

  Tim let out a burst of laughter so bitter that Dan stopped in his tracks.