by Sam Short
She pushed past the two men, and as she opened the door, she suppressed a giggle. ASSHAT funds must have been really tight if their transportation budget could only provide them with the vehicle which stood outside. “It’s smaller than I thought it would be,” she said. “You can park it alongside my cottage, on the right, where it won’t be in my way.”
“It’s a classic,” said Mister Anon, opening the rust-spotted driver’s door. “It’s a nineteen-eighty-one VW T25, and it’s inconspicuous — nobody will suspect we’re alien hunters. It’s perfect for our requirements.”
Sergeant Spencer slipped his notebook from his chest pocket and began writing in it. As the campervan’s engine sprang into grumbling life, a plume of dark grey smoke billowing from the rattling exhaust pipe, he spoke to Millie and Judith. “As you can probably imagine,” he said. “I don’t trust those two. There’s something very weird about them. I’m going to run the vehicle registration through the system and see if I can find out just who those characters are. I’m staying here while you two begin trying to find out what may have happened to Tom — I don’t trust that they’ll stay away from that demon, and the last thing we need is one of them becoming possessed.”
“I’ll stay here if you like,” said Millie.
Sergeant Spencer frowned. “No. Even though you have the badge I gave you, I sense that Mister Anon won’t accept that you have any authority over him. As Henry said, he’s a conspiracy theorist. It’s better that I stay and guard the murder scene. I’ll look for clues here, can you two think of anywhere you can begin asking questions? Is there anything Tom might have said or done that might give us a non-demon suspect?”
“We should begin with the members of the Spellbinder Sand Diggers metal detecting club,” said Millie. “They seemed very angry that Tom was finding gold and they weren’t. One of them, Eric, even told Tom to watch his back. He sounded very threatening. Stan had to throw him out of the pub.”
“Where is the metal detecting club?” said Sergeant Spencer.
“I don’t know,” said Millie. “But Eric mentioned he’d been to a pawn shop to have a Roman coin appraised, the same shop Tom had visited — it seems the pawn shop owner is the go-to person for detectorists who find rare items. We could start there. The shop owner will probably be able to point us in the direction of the metal detectorists.”
Sergeant Spencer nodded. “I know the shop, and I know the man who owns it. He’s got a colourful criminal history — nothing serious — receiving stolen goods, that sort of thing. But yes, that sounds like a good idea — start there. Ask him where he was last night, too,” he said, watching as Mister Anon struggled to reverse the campervan. “I’ll find out who those two alien hunting clowns really are. If it wasn’t for the fact that they’d bring all manner of unwanted attention down on our town, I’d have thrown them off your land already, Millie. With any luck, I’ll be able to soon enough.”
Chapter 9
As Millie prepared to enter the pawn shop, Judith tapped her on the shoulder. “Oh, my gosh! Look,” she said, her voice raised to compete with the roar of the black motorcycle which zoomed past them, the rider raising a gloved hand in greeting, and his passenger giving them a wide smile from the open-faced helmet she wore. The same helmet Millie wore when she rode on the back of George’s bike.
“What?” said Millie, gripping the door handle in a knuckle-whitening grasp, and wincing as her teeth dug into her bottom lip. “It’s just George taking a ride. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”
“With a blonde bombshell on the back of his bike?” said Judith. “I haven’t seen that before. You’re the only female I’ve seen on the back of his bike since you moved to town. Who do you think she is? Do you think it’s that nurse he mentioned?”
“It’s nothing to do with me,” said Millie, her stomach churning as she caught a final glimpse of the bike negotiating the corner at the end of the road, the shapely blonde pillion passenger clinging tightly to George’s waist. “Nothing to do with me at all. I don’t care what George does! Or who he does it with!”
“Are you okay?” said Judith. “Your cheeks are red.”
Millie span to face her friend. “I’m fine! It’s a warm morning!” she said. “Okay? I’m fine.”
Judith lifted both hands in mock surrender. “Okay. Okay. You’re fine. I get it. I won’t mention it again. I won’t mention her again.”
“Good,” said Millie, pushing the shop door open. “Anyway, that blonde girl won’t be smiling so much if George has a crash. I doubt a mini-skirt is going to offer her much protection.”
“Or those high heels and tight t-shirt,” added Judith, following Millie into the shop.
Millie took a deep breath and closed her eyes, ridding her mind of the unwelcome image of George and the… woman. When she opened them, she focused on the smells of the cluttered shop, enjoying the scent of old vinyl record sleeves, and the fragrant aroma of whatever the polish was the long-haired man behind the counter was massaging into the body of a guitar.
Millie smiled. “Is that a Gibson Hummingbird?” she asked, admiring the flame red and honeyed amber of the wood, decorated with an engraved pickguard featuring its namesake feeding from a flower.
The middle-aged man stood up, looking Millie up and down. He placed the guitar gently on the counter and wiped his hands on his denim jacket. “It is,” he drawled. “This one’s a real beauty. You know your guitars.”
“My mother played,” said Millie. “That was her dream guitar.”
“Oh?” said the man. He traced a thin finger over the curves of the instrument, and ran the tip of his tongue across his moustache sheltered upper lip. “This one sings like a bird,” he said. “If you know how to treat her right. If you treat her like a lady, that is. And I know how to treat a lady. I know how to treat a lady real —”
“Okay!” said Judith, rolling her eyes at Millie. “We get it! You’re a ladies’ man!”
The man frowned. “Why do you say that? I’m just trying to sell a guitar to the young lady. She seemed interested.” He smiled at Millie. “It’s a bargain at two-thousand-nine-hundred-and-ninety-nine. With spare strings, a case and a strap.”
“You were flirting,” said Judith. “Quite obviously.”
“Sex sells,” said the man. “And I wasn’t flirting. I was using sensual imagery to encourage a sale. I learned it from an online course.”
“I hope the course didn’t cost too much,” said Judith. “Because either you’re misinterpreting the material you were taught, or you’ve accidentally been studying a course aimed at teaching losers how to pick up women.”
The man ran a hand over his stubbly chin. “Can I help you at all? You seem like a very tense young lady. I’ve got a massage chair out the back. Only two-hundred quid. I have a feeling it might help you.”
“I don’t want a massage chair, thank you very much,” said Judith.
“Then what do you want?” said the man, sitting down. “I’m busy.”
“Are you Pete?” asked Millie. “Pawn Shop Pete?”
“That’s what they call me,” he said, nodding slowly. “Those that need to. Who’s asking?”
“We’re here on police business,” said Judith. “Important police business.”
Millie had never witnessed a face drain of colour before. She’d read about it, and had always assumed it was simply an author’s way of expressing a character’s state of shock, but watching Pete’s face literally drain of colour from the forehead down, was quite the sight.
Pete bent down, and fumbled with something beneath the counter, before attempting a smile. “Oh. Now I recognise you. You’re Sergeant Spencer’s daughter,” he said, speaking to Judith.
“I am,” said Judith.
“How can I help you?” said Pete, a bead of sweat forming on his forehead, and the corner of his left eye twitching. “I keep records of everything I buy from people. It’s not my fault if they stole those items, is it? How could I possibly know?”
Judith smiled. “We know about your criminal record, Pete,” she teased. “And it’s quite obvious that you have something under the counter that you don’t want us to see, but we’re not here about such trivial things. We’re here about a murder.”
Pete’s face whitened further, and his cheeks seemed to sink, making his bony jawline more prominent beneath his scruffy stubble. His mouth slowly dropped open, and he placed both hands on the counter to steady himself. “Murder?” he said. “What murder? You don’t think I did it, do you? I wouldn’t hurt a man — or a woman. It could be a woman, couldn’t it? Was it a woman? Who could do such a thing to a woman — not that I know what was done to her, of course! Was it strangulation? A stabbing? Electrocution? Blunt force trauma? Poor, poor woman — oh my, what has Spellbinder Bay come to, if a woman can’t —”
“Stop talking, Pete,” said Millie. “You’re babbling! Calm down and take a deep breath.”
Pete nodded, both hands on his chest and his lips forming a circle as he blew out a slow breath. He gazed at Millie with frightened eyes. “Underneath this counter, I have two laptops which I’m sure are the proceeds of a house burglary. I’ll hand them over to you, but you must believe me when I say I’d never hurt a fly — literally! My house is full of them in the summer! They only have a twenty-eight-day lifespan. Who am I to shorten it any further?”
“You sound like a very kind man, Pete,” said Judith, glancing at Millie. “But before we go any further, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you where you were last night? Between the hours of eleven, and one o’clock this morning.”
“At home!” said Pete. “I’m always in bed before midnight!”
“Can anybody confirm that, Pete?” said Millie. “A wife, a partner?”
“Of course,” said Pete. “My mum can confirm it! She saw me go to bed, and if I’d sneaked out at night, I’d have woken her — she’s a very light sleeper!”
“Your mum?” said Millie.
“Yes,” said Pete, picking his phone up and tapping at the screen. “I’ll ring her right now, you can speak to her!”
“That won’t be necessary, just yet,” said Judith. “We came here to ask you some questions about gold. Specifically gold found by Tom Temples.”
Pete stood up and hurried around the counter. “I’ve got his gold! It’s safe — in my safe. It’s in my office, come on, I’ll show you. Do you suspect he murdered someone? I’d be shocked if he had — I’ve only met him once or twice, but he seems very nice. Certainly not the killing type.” He paused. “Unless he got the gold fever. That can lead a man to violence.”
Guiding them through the door next to a shelf displaying an eclectic mix of old vinyl records on one side, and a glass cabinet containing jewellery on the other, Pete glanced over his shoulder. “Well?” he said. “Have I got a murderer’s gold in my safe?”
Millie followed Pete into the cluttered office. “I’m afraid it’s not like that,” she said. “I’m sorry to have to tell you that Tom is the victim. He was killed last night.”
The colour draining from his face again, Pete dropped to his knees in front of the large safe standing next to a parched potted plant.
He fumbled with the combination wheel and gave a heavy sigh. “Poor Tom,” he said, pulling the door outward. “This gold was supposed to pay for a new house. He was so happy. I was looking after it for him until it went to auction. He didn’t want to keep it at home — he told me he was worried that other people had their eyes on it. He was going to let me keep ten-percent of the profits for keeping it safe, and arranging the sale.”
“The people he was worried about,” said Millie. “Did he say who they were?”
Pete retrieved a large leather pouch from the safe and placed it on his desk, the jangling sound of metal suggesting its contents. “He was over-reacting,” said Pete. His eyes dropped. “Or so I thought. It was just the guys from the metal detecting club. Eric and the others. To be honest, I thought Tom was a little paranoid, but I wasn’t going to turn down the offer of guarding his gold for him. Ten percent of the profits would have been a very nice nest egg. Very, very nice.”
“How much gold did he find?” asked Judith.
Pete opened the drawstring holding the pouch closed, and poured the contents onto his desk. “That much,” he said, as gold coins spilt from the neck of the bag and formed a pile. “A lot. That sort of haul is almost unheard of in the metal detecting community. He must have found a real hotspot.”
Millie reached for the glittering pile, and picked up a coin. “Napoleon Empereur,” she said, reading the letters which surrounded the head of a man, presumably Napoleon. She flipped the coin over. “Forty francs,” she said.
“This pile is worth a fortune,” said Pete.
“Isn’t it classed as treasure?” said Judith. “Shouldn’t it be reported?”
Pete licked his lips. “It should be,” he said. “But the sales I arrange are attended by people who don’t much care about little details like those.”
“So, not only have you got stolen items on your premises, but you’re also breaking the law by not reporting the discovery of treasure?” said Judith.
“No law has been broken yet,” said Pete. “The finder has fourteen days in which to report any finds of importance. Tom only found this gold over the last few days.”
“Forget about that for now,” said Millie. “Keep the gold locked in your safe, Pete, and don’t do anything with it.”
“I won’t,” said Pete. “The gold is tarnished now anyway.”
“I thought gold didn’t rust,” said Judith.
“Not tarnished in that way,” said Pete, beginning to refill the pouch with coins. “Tarnished by violence. It happens with all precious metals and stones. The human race shouldn’t be allowed pretty things — we don’t know how to deal with them. That’s what my mother says.”
“She sounds very wise,” said Millie. “We need to speak to the guys in the metal detecting club, Pete. Can you tell us where we can find them? Where their club-house is, or whatever it’s called?”
“They don’t have a club-house,” said Pete, locking the safe. “Not what you’re thinking of anyway. They meet in one of the sheds on the allotments at the end of Fish Row.”
“Okay,” said Millie. “And do you know when they meet there?”
“You’ll find somebody there most days,” said Pete. “Two of the guys are retired, and the other one is a part-time mechanic. They don’t do much else with their time.”
“Thank you for your help, Pete,” said Judith, leaving the office and crossing the shop floor. “And don’t you dare sell those computers you’ve got under your counter, I’m sure my dad will be interested in them after we get to the bottom of Tom’s murder.”
When the door had swung shut behind them, Judith smiled at Millie. “Fancy a visit to the allotments? If you’re lucky, you’ll find somebody kind enough to give you some nice fresh potatoes.”
“What?” said Millie. “Why do I want potatoes?”
“For tonight!” said Judith. “George and I are coming for turkey, roast potatoes and cranberry sauce, remember?” She winked. “Unless for some reason you don’t want George coming anymore? Unless he’s done something that makes you mad? Jealous, even?”
Millie gritted her teeth, shrugged and walked in the direction of her car. “You’re both still welcome to come,” she said. “Like I said — I don’t care what George does, or who he does it with. Dinner is still going ahead. As planned.”
Chapter 10
With a fish processing factory at one end of the road, and allotment gardens at the other, the residents of Fish Row lived in terraced houses built on one side of the narrow road — sandwiched between the two suppliers of healthy eating staples. With the sea to the front, and the cliff with Spellbinder Hall atop it, away to the left, it seemed a pleasant place to live.
Millie parked the little two-seater car next to the open allotment gates, and gazed out to sea. A jet-
ski bounced over waves close to the shoreline, its engine sound resembling the buzzing of an angry insect, and sun-worshipping holidaymakers were beginning to claim the areas of beach they would inhabit for the day.
The cafés, ice-cream parlours and tourist gift shops were already doing brisk business, and the aroma of frying onions emanated from the burger van parked alongside the small hut, from which people could rent old-fashioned wooden deck chairs for the day.
Seagulls squawked as they stood sentry on walls and roofs, waiting for the moment in which they would pounce on dropped food, and a group of elderly people, dressed in sporty clothing, hurried along the promenade.
“That’s the pensioner’s fitness club,” said Judith. “And see the woman in the front? The one with white hair, wearing pink shorts?”
Millie nodded. “Yes. She looks very fit. I hope I can power walk like that when I reach her age.”
Judith laughed. “That’s Mrs Raymond,” she said. “The lady who keeps asking Dad for a lift home from town with her shopping! Does she look like she needs any help to you?”
“Your father is a kind man,” said Millie, smiling as Mrs Raymond dropped to the ground and began performing press-ups while the rest of the club caught up with her. “But I get your point. I think she’s taking advantage of him.”
“It’s up to him, I suppose,” said Judith. She sniffed at the salty air. “It’s a shame we’re investigating a murder. I wouldn’t mind feeling the sand between my toes today.”
Millie dragged her eyes from the seaside scene before her, and turned to face the allotments. “Speaking of which,” she said, “let’s get on with it. I want to find out who killed Tom. He was a nice guy. He didn’t deserve a shovel in the skull.”
“Which way?” said Judith. “There must be fifty sheds here, at least. It’s not a small allotment, is it? Which shed do you think is the one the metal detectorists use?”
