For the last twenty-five years, Arthur Foley had made a living supplying Gorey’s boating community with the myriad essentials of maritime life. There were huge tubs of bait, coils of rope, endless shelves of books, and big racks full of maps and charts. Furthermore, he sold every electronic gadget a mariner might ever need. Barnwell had been called out to investigate yet another theft. Immediately on spotting the glass case full of GPS devices and other expensive boat technology, Barnwell suspected that he knew what had been stolen.
But he was quite wrong.
“The blighters were away before I could even shout at ‘em to stop,” Foley explained. “They just strode in here, bold as brass, grabbed two cans of paint, and legged it.”
“Paint?” Barnwell said.
“Aye. Not the kind of thing you’d decorate your kitchen with, either. Specialist paint for boats.”
“Boats need special paint?” Barnwell asked, reminded yet again just how little he knew about the sea and those who plied their trade upon it.
“Gawd, yes,” Foley explained. “Dutch company. Makes a range of paint that repels barnacles. Bloody magic, actually.”
“What?” Barnwell quipped, “The barnacle takes one look and decides he wouldn’t be seen dead on a boat with such a garish color scheme?”
Foley rolled his eyes but patiently explained. “It’s chemistry. The barnacle can’t stick to the paint.”
“I thought every boat in the world had its fair share of limpets and such,” Barnwell said. “Went with the territory.”
“Aye, but it’s bloody expensive,” Foley told him. “You ask any of the old boys outside how much extra fuel they’d need because the streamlining of their hull was all shot, owing to barnacles. Slows them down by as much as a knot.”
“Interesting.” Barnwell said, “You know, I’ve learned a lot since I started investigating these thefts. Tell me about the shoplifters.”
“Came in, looked around, found the paint, grabbed the cans, and buggered off like greased lightning,” Foley repeated. “They were wearing those ‘hoodie’ things, so I couldn’t see their faces.”
“Do you have CCTV?” Barnwell asked, but Foley’s facial expression gave him the answer.
“Costly,” was all he said.
“Very well. I’ll do my best, Mr. Foley. But it would help if you could take a stab at how old they were.”
“It’d only be a guess,” Foley told him. “Early twenties? I mean, they ran off at quite a pace.”
“Height?”
About five foot eight, nine, I’d say. The other was taller, nearer six foot.”
“Build?”
“Both slim.”
“Anything else you can tell me?”
“Nope, can’t say that I can.”
“Well Mr. Foley, if you see or hear of them again, be sure to give us a call. I’ll ask around and see what I can find out about these two, but I suspect they’re the same ones who are nicking stuff off the boats at night.”
“Yeah well, I hope you catch ‘em soon.”
Barnwell finished his notes and took his leave of the shop owner before clambering back on his bike and making his way to the station.
On his arrival, he found himself warmly welcomed by Janice.
“You’re back! I thought you’d run away to sea,” she exclaimed.
“Hilarious. I was called out to the marina again. They’ve had another theft down there. Paint, this time. That’s two in one day. They’re getting bold.” Barnwell explained.
“Eh?”
“See, I’ve been thinking.”
“Always dangerous,” Janice interjected with a wry smile.
Barnwell ignored her. “I figure,” he explained, “that there are three types of thief. The first type nicks things because he wants to sell them. Either to order or speculatively. Part of a plan or spontaneously.”
Janice grinned as she typed another search into her laptop. “’Speculatively’ and ‘spontaneously,’ eh? I think those are the longest words I’ve ever heard you use, Constable.” Barnwell continued to ignore her, concerned only with expounding his theory.
“The second are those thieves who need the thing for themselves. In this category, I might include those who steal specialist boat-hull paint. It doesn’t really make any sense otherwise.”
“And the third?” Janice asked, reaching for her tea.
“Kleptomaniacs. Those who get a kick out of stealing. Wouldn’t even matter what the goods were. It’s all about the thrill.”
Janice closed the laptop. It was about time to head home, and she’d done all the digging on Lyon and Beth Ridley’s disappearance that she could for one day. “Couldn’t kleptomania explain your paint thieves’ behavior? They saw that security was poor and that they’d probably get away with it. Chose something portable to pinch.”
“Sure,” Barnwell allowed. “But there were a couple of them. Be unlikely to find two such weirdos in a small place like this. And why paint, of all things? I mean, there are plenty of other items in that store. Books, maps, fishing tackle boxes, boots, oars, you name it. But they chose something heavy and practically useless to anyone who isn’t refurbishing a boat.”
Janice packed her laptop into her satchel. “I think you’re answering your own questions, Constable.” She regarded him sympathetically. “Are you going to be at the marina tonight?”
“I told them I would,” Barnwell sighed.
“Better you than me.”
Barnwell nodded ruefully.
“Well, night, Bazza,” Janice said. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
Barnwell took off his uniform cap and ran both hands through his short, brown hair. He glanced around the marina, where he’d spent the last three silent, freezing hours achieving absolutely nothing, and made sure he was alone.
“Bugger,” he said with sincerity.
It had been a tedious night, one he was anxious not to repeat. There had been no signs of break-ins or likely thieves, only a drunken tourist who would probably have fallen into the harbor if Barnwell hadn’t shocked him into sobriety with a flashlight and a judicious telling-off. The man staggered back to his hotel, full of apology and whiskey, once more leaving Barnwell to contemplate the deserted boats tied up at the wharf.
He’d already considered and roundly dismissed the notion that the fishermen were in cahoots with one another, pulling some kind of insurance scam. It just didn’t fit with what he knew about them. They were fundamentally decent souls, wedded to their boats and the sea, far more willing than most to put themselves in danger in order to put bread on the table. He knew that the local fish stocks were depleted, but that didn’t mean these old salts would descend to insurance fraud to make ends meet. He just couldn’t see it.
No, this was targeted thievery by someone who knew what they were doing and what they wanted.
Aching and exhausted, Barnwell unlocked his bike and reluctantly hauled himself into the saddle.
As he was contemplating this disappointment, he spotted movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned to see two figures, both in dark clothes and wearing hoods. They were beating a hasty retreat from one of the boats at the far end of the wharf. Each of them held an oar.
“Oi!” Barnwell bellowed. “Stop right there!”
The two thieves bolted at an impressive speed. Barnwell cursed the confounded bicycle, turning it laboriously around and then peddling as quickly as he could along the pedestrian area that ran parallel to the boat slips. He gained speed quickly, his blood now singing in his veins.
“Gorey Police!” he shouted. But the two were swift, dodging between parked cars as they headed into the alleyways behind the shops that lined the street. They disappeared so quickly, he figured that they’d probably worked out an escape plan in advance.
Barnwell reached the shops and cycled around for a few minutes, hoping to catch the thieves breaking cover. There was no sign of them until he spotted two shapes in an alley opposite the Flask & Flagon, one of his favorite pubs
.
He brought the bike to a squealing halt and leapt off as quickly as his bulky frame allowed, leaning the bike against the wall and proceeding down the alley.
“Gorey Police!” he shouted again. “Show yourselves!” He shone his flashlight down the alley and then winced at the sight.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Barnwell growled. There was a sheepish smile from the woman and a terrified expression from the man.
“Get yourself home to the wife quick before I call this in.” The man mumbled a quick thanks as he sidled past Barnwell and out of the alley. “And you should know better,” he said to the woman. “Get going, and don’t let me see you around here again unless you want to do another thirty days.”
“I’m going, I’m going,” she confirmed, before quickly leaving.
Barnwell returned to the bike and leaned against the wall. He was more exhausted than he should have been after a half-mile sprint on the bike and was furious that he had let the thieves get away. He checked left and right and saw that he was alone.
This time, he said it with real feeling. “Bugger.”
CHAPTER TEN
IT TOOK NEARLY an hour after their arrival for Roach’s stomach to settle down. A crossing from Jersey to the port of Weymouth, on England’s south coast, made for a pleasant jaunt in summer, but in November, it could be hellish. The ferry had been tossed around, the sea sufficiently rough to have a good number of passengers reaching for sick bags. Roach was among them, embarrassed to be quite so stricken in front of his boss. One elderly passenger, seemingly immune to the rolling, pitching, heaving experience, commented dryly that a uniform and a badge did little to protect someone from the forces of nature.
“Reminds us that we’re all equal before the Lord,” the old man said. “Something to think about.”
“I’m mostly thinking,” Roach confessed as he breathed deep and hung onto a rail for dear life, “about trying to keep my breakfast where it should be.”
Graham fared better, although deliberately overdosing on seasickness medication had left him groggy. They stopped at a café so that he could take on a pot of tea, after which he felt nearly human again.
“Did you get anywhere with Beth’s journal?” Graham asked, just before requesting the check.
“I did,” Roach said, showing more enthusiasm than he had thus far that morning. “I’ve identified at least two of the characters,” he said. He chose his words carefully. He didn’t want his closeness to Beth and appearance in her journal to jeopardize his place in the investigation.
“Good lad. Who are they?” Graham asked.
“‘Canary’ is her mother,” he said with certainty. “She’s attractive and bright, but not particularly deep or thoughtful.”
Graham smirked a little at this. “I reckon a lot of teenagers would make similar criticisms of their parents.”
“I certainly did,” Roach admitted.
“Although canaries can signal a problem before anyone else realizes there is one. They can be pretty astute. Useful, too.”
“And I’m pretty sure that ‘Cuckoo’ was her stepfather, Chris.”
“Ah,” Graham said. “The pretender who makes use of the nests of other birds. Very clever.”
“As for the others, I think ‘Puppy’ might be a school friend who was especially immature, but I can’t link the name to anyone. And ‘Mouse’ is another friend, someone who’s making a lot of mistakes.”
“Good work, Jim,” Graham said, leaving cash in a saucer on the table. “Alright, Constable, let’s have a quick word with Mr. and Mrs. Updike.” They left the café, “And then I’m afraid it’s back on the boat for us.”
Roach took a look back at the port. It was enough to bring on a new wave of nausea. “Can’t wait, sir. Really.”
Godfrey Updike and his wife of fifty-one years, Petunia, lived in a row house about three miles from the port. Graham hailed a cab and re-read the pages from Beth Ridley’s case file that described their original statements from ten years before.
“He saw Beth walking to school, and they had a short conversation,” Graham summarized.
“Not much to go on,” Roach said. The cab ride was bringing his nausea to the surface once more. He couldn’t wait to sit on the Updikes’ sofa or in fact, on anything that wasn’t moving.
“I suppose we’ll see. It’s a bit of a long shot,” Graham said. “You feeling alright?” he asked, concerned at the greenish tinge that was shading Roach’s face.
“Will be, sir. Don’t you worry.”
Graham paid the taxi driver, and they found themselves standing in front of the Updikes’ home. “Seeing as you’re not feeling your best, I’m happy to do most of the talking,” Graham offered.
“Righto.”
As soon as Godfrey Updike opened the door, Graham realized that despite outward appearances, this was not an ordinary row house in Weymouth. “Good afternoon, there. Jersey Police I presume,” Godfrey said, and then chuckled amiably. “Welcome to our little museum.”
Shelves, alcoves, cabinets, and every other available surface were all crammed with ornaments and knick-knacks. Graham’s encyclopedic mind went into immediate, involuntary overdrive, cataloging the vast array of objects. There was simply nowhere for the eye to rest.
“Come on through to the living room,” Godfrey said after the introductions were handled. “Petunia’s just working on something. Can I offer you some tea?”
“I’d never say no to that,” Graham smiled.
Updike was now seventy-six, according to the file, but was sharp of mind, with clear blue eyes and a straight back. Godfrey gave the impression of a man given to rigor and order and Graham immediately suspected a military background, although that was at odds with the fussiness that surrounded him.
“Petunia, love, those two police officers from Jersey are here.” His wife, a beaming woman with curly white hair, was sitting on the sofa, painstakingly assembling a three-inch tall scale model on a lap tray. “Can we tear you away from William and Catherine?” her husband asked.
“And little George!” Petunia pointed out. “Forgive me for not rising, gentlemen,” she said. “But I’m waiting for William’s glue to dry.” Graham peered at the orderly assemblage of pieces and tools on the tray; the box for the mini-diorama showed Queen Elizabeth alongside the British monarch’s grandson and his wife on the balcony of Buckingham Palace, exhibiting their new son George to the world.
“Coming along nicely!” Godfrey announced.
The Updikes’ home was nothing short of an unofficial annex to a royal museum. Commemorative plates, mugs, tankards, paintings, models, books, photos, posters, and innumerable other objects showed that their enthusiasm for the British Royal Family had wandered toward the obsessive.
“We spoke briefly on the phone,” Graham reminded the couple as Godfrey took a seat beside his wife.
“Yes,” Godfrey remembered. “You’re reopening the investigation into Beth Ridley.”
Graham cautioned him politely. “I wouldn’t go as far as that, sir. The anniversary of her disappearance is this week, and I was just a little disappointed to see such a paucity of information in the case file. We thought it was time for a review of the case.”
Graham brought out his notepad. It was a reflex action, like a smoker reaching for his lighter. “For the moment, we’re just trying to flesh out our understanding of what happened on that morning.”
“Well,” Godfrey recalled, looking down at the beige carpet, “Petunia and I took our caravan to Jersey every year for… What would it be, love? Ten years or so?”
Petunia explained, “We got a little bored of the Dordogne and fancied a change of scenery somewhere a little closer. Back then the South coast and Channel Islands were our stomping grounds. These days, we head over to the Brecon Beacons, sometimes the Cotswolds.”
“We love the caravan, you see. Cost effective and we can do as we please,” Godfrey added. “If we’re not enjoying the scenery, we’re following the Roy
als around,” he added.
“Following them?” Graham asked. He glanced around the room, every wall reminding him of the Updikes’ abiding fixation with the monarchy.
“You know, we follow their diaries and turn up to see them arrive at their official engagements. We like to wave to the Queen as she goes to church when she’s staying at Balmoral in the summer or Sandringham at Christmas,” Godfrey said with a smile. “That kind of thing. It’s like a hobby.”
“Once, she was gracious enough to wave back at us,” Petunia added proudly.
Graham shifted in his seat, more than ready to move on from these anecdotes and return to the point of their visit.
“How long had you been on Jersey prior to the day that Beth went missing?”
“That was the Monday, wasn’t it?” Godfrey said. “Our last day there. We were due to head back up on the afternoon ferry.”
“And when did you see Beth?”
Godfrey’s eyes narrowed as he recalled the details he could still remember. “I left the caravan at about ten past eight or so, after the news headlines had finished. I remember thinking that we needed a few things for the journey home, and that I’d pop into the newsagent. I was crossing the street when I saw her.”
“What do you remember about her?” Graham asked, noting down Godfrey’s recollections in a sequence of detailed hieroglyphs.
“Pretty,” Godfrey said. He glanced at his wife but she said nothing. “Tall for her age, I’d say. She had a black rucksack over her shoulder, and just as I was crossing the road, she stopped and looked inside it.”
“What happened then?” Graham prompted.
“She brought out a doll. It had brown hair and a green dress, I think,” Godfrey narrowed his eyes as he remembered. “She seemed to check or confirm something, and then walked off with it in her hand.”
“Did you speak to her?”
“I called out ‘Good morning.’ She turned and smiled at me. That was it.”
“What time was that?” Graham asked.
“It was about a five minute walk to the newsagents so I’d say, what, 8:15? Naturally, once I came out again, she had gone.”
The Case of the Broken Doll (An Inspector David Graham Cozy Mystery Book 4) Page 6
