The Case of the Broken Doll (An Inspector David Graham Cozy Mystery Book 4)

by Alison Golden

  “Hmm?”

  “Traveling to interview people, I mean.”

  Graham glanced around and found that they still had one more floor to go. “Would you prefer that we had the power to summon people to the station?”

  Harding gave an equivocating tilt of her head. “It’d be more efficient for us,” she said.

  “Sounds a bit too much like something that might happen in a police state to me,” Graham countered. “Ordering people around, when they’re not even under suspicion.”

  Harding thought this through. “I guess it gives us a chance to see where people live,” she said. “Their context.”

  “Precisely,” Graham said. “For example, here we are in a modest apartment building in Gorey. What have we already learned before even meeting Miss Miller?”

  They were on their way to visit Beth’s best friend.

  Harding thought, glancing back down the stairs. “We know that she lives in a studio apartment, so it’s unlikely that she has a family. The place isn’t close enough to the harbor to have a view of the water, and I doubt there’ll be a view of the castle either, so the rent will be fairly low.”

  “Anything else?” Graham asked.

  “Parking isn’t easy around here, and the building doesn’t have its own spaces, so we can guess she doesn’t own a car. There’s a bus stop outside, though, so she might have chosen the building because she works somewhere beyond Gorey, perhaps St. Helier.”

  “All reasonable assumptions. Of course,” Graham said, “that’s all they can be, until we know more.” They finally arrived at the right landing and found the door marked 7B. “What kind of job do you think she does?”

  Harding puffed out her cheeks. “Could be almost anything.”

  “Well, there’s at least one piece of evidence on that score,” Graham reminded her. When Harding’s expression remained blank, he tapped his watch theatrically. “Her job allows her to meet with police officers in the middle of a weekday afternoon.”

  Harding pursed her lips and nodded while Graham knocked on the door.

  “You’re the detective?” A woman answered.

  “Detective Inspector Graham, ma’am. And this is Sergeant Harding.”

  “Hi, I’m Susan Miller.” She extended a hand. “Come on in.”

  She was exceptionally attractive, Graham noticed, tall and elegant, with long, auburn hair and a figure that suggested many diligent hours in the gym. “Thank you, Miss Miller. As I said on the phone, we’re investigating…”

  “Beth, yes,” Susan said. “I think it’s great that you’re trying again. Who knows what might come up?”

  “That was our thought, too,” Graham said, taking the seat offered around her kitchen table. The apartment was small, with a bedroom partitioned from the remainder of the space by curtains printed with an Asian motif. A calming Buddha watched over the room from a large print hanging on the wall as Graham began taking notes. “I wonder what you can tell me about that morning.”

  Susan poured them all a glass of water, but as she sat down opposite Graham and began to drink, she paused and set hers down. Tears came so quickly. “I waited for her,” Susan said, “until I risked being late. I had to run to school in the end. I just couldn’t imagine what had happened. It was so unlike her.”

  Harding used her most consoling tone. “You did nothing wrong, Susan. We’re just here to learn more in the hope that we can finally figure out what happened to Beth.”

  “I just don’t know anything,” she reiterated. “She didn’t call or leave me a message on my locker door the day before like she sometimes did. There was nothing. She just didn’t show up.”

  Graham made a note while Harding produced a map of Gorey and asked Susan to point out where she had lived back then. She did so without hesitation.

  “You see, that was her house, and here’s mine. My house is closer to school. Beth would walk to the corner of my street and wait for me, or I would wait for her.”

  “How long did it take to get there from her house?” Graham asked her.

  “About fifteen minutes,” Susan responded, shakily, “we always met at twenty past eight.”

  “Had she ever been late before?”

  “Never,” Susan said, drying her eyes. Graham kept up a professional front, but part of him couldn’t help regretting that such a beautiful face should be marred by distress. “She was one of the most punctual people I’ve ever known. We walked together every day for years. And then, she just disappeared into thin air.”

  “Did anyone pass you as you waited?”

  “Of course. Our meeting place was on a main road. I saw lots of people – people going to work, kids like us going to school, even saw a couple of teachers making their way in.”

  Graham asked Susan the same questions he’d posed Beth’s mother. Did Beth have any enemies? Who did she hang out with? Did she have trouble with any of her teachers?

  Susan latched onto this last question. “Well, not trouble in the academic sense. She was an excellent student, you know, always on top of her work. Would probably have scored A’s across the board if she’d taken her exams.” Susan let her emotions resurface for a moment before biting them down again. “But she really didn’t like one teacher.”

  “Who?” Graham asked. But he already knew the answer.

  “Mr. Lyon, the science teacher,” Susan told him, her voice tight. “He was always assigning her extra work, but…”

  She paused, staring down at the tabletop.

  “It’s okay, Susan. We’re speaking in strict confidence today,” Harding assured her.

  It took a long moment for Susan to gather herself and summon the courage to say what came next. “He and I… we had a relationship,” she said almost in a whisper.

  Janice waited a moment to see if anything else was forthcoming, then asked, “When was that, love?”

  “In the summer before Beth disappeared, before Year 10.”

  Graham was like a volcano ready to explode. It was all he could do to stay seated. After a pause, he went to make tea in the kitchen, giving the two women time to talk.

  “Go on, love,” Harding said. “I’m listening.”

  Susan closed her eyes briefly and took a deep breath. “I managed to convince myself that he was in love with me. I was in love with him.”

  Susan took another deep breath.

  “I would go over to his house during the day and then after school when we went back in September.”

  It began as a friendship, she told Janice, one that seemed harmless at first. “He was good-looking, much older than me, of course, but nice to me, kind. I was having problems at home, and he seemed genuinely concerned. It was a relief to talk to someone and I felt kind of privileged. I was flattered by his attention, I suppose.”

  Janice was full of questions, but she knew to let Susan tell the story in her own way.

  “And it kind of went on from there. I didn’t say no, but I never really said yes, either,” she recalled. “He treated me like a girlfriend even though we were never seen together outside his home. I didn’t have the heart to refuse him, though I suppose I must have known, deep down, that what we were doing was wrong.” She sniffed for a moment, avoiding the officer’s gaze, tears in her eyes. “Now I know differently. I can see how naïve I was, how manipulated. I should never have even gone to his house, let alone…” She broke down and needed a long moment to collect herself.

  “Did you ever suspect,” Graham handed Susan her tea after she had dried her eyes once more, “that there was anything more to his relationship with Beth?”

  She sniffed. “I know he was interested in her. I mean, of course he was, she was so pretty, and he paid her a lot of attention. He singled her out, gave her the odd smile. But she never told me about it, if there was.”

  “And did Beth know about Lyon and you?” Graham asked.

  Susan shook her head. “I kept it a secret. He told me it would get him sacked if it ever came out.” She burst into tea
rs again. Harding rose to comfort her, and an arm around her shoulders seemed to calm Susan.

  “When did your relationship with Lyon end?”

  “Erm,” Susan dabbed at her eyes, “before Christmas. After Beth disappeared.”

  Graham and Harding exchanged glances.

  Graham completed his notes. “Susan, I understand why you wanted this kept quiet at the time, but ten years have gone by. I wonder if, with the new investigation, you’d like to proceed differently.”

  “I don’t want to do anything,” she said definitively. “I don’t want to be the victim in all the newspapers and on TV. You have to keep me out if it,” she insisted.

  Harding spoke to her softly. “Susan, this man is a menace. If we can bring one case against him, he might tell us about others. Maybe even,” she hazarded, “about Beth.”

  “You think,” Susan said, “that he had something to do with her disappearance?”

  “We can’t know until we have something solid,” Graham told her. “We have uncovered some new leads, but until whoever was responsible tells us what he did with Beth, or we find…”

  Susan was shaking her head now. “You’re wrong.”

  “About what, love?” asked Harding.

  “There’s no way he could have been involved. He wasn’t like that.” Susan was certain. “It must have been someone else.”

  Later, emotionally drained and tired, Harding walked slowly down the stairs of the apartment building with Graham.

  “That was a lot more intense than I expected,” she admitted. “Poor girl. She just couldn’t tell anyone what was going on.”

  “Hmm, it sounds like she thought it all so normal at the time. The one great love.”

  “More like naïveté, hormones, lack of a stable home life, and the ability to keep a secret. Sir, do you think there’s a connection between Beth’s disappearance and the ending of their relationship? “

  “I don’t know,” Graham replied grimly, “but now that Susan’s told us her secret, we’re going to make that count for something. Come on, Sergeant, we’ve got work to do.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  IT WAS VERY quiet in the Sanctuary when Roach entered, hoping that the big, heavy, wooden door wouldn’t squeak or bang loudly in this silent, echoing place as he closed it behind him. St. Michael’s wasn’t the smallest church he’d been in, but it had that cozy intimacy familiar to rural houses of worship, especially those with considerable history. The smell that he remembered from his childhood – dust, old books, stonework, and something else that was hard to define assailed him with a wave of memories.

  The stone altar was covered with a brilliant, white cloth and adorned only by a gold, bejeweled cross that shone fetchingly in the late-afternoon light through the stained glass windows behind. Two people prayed silently in the front pews. Roach discreetly began to look around for the man he’d been told would be there.

  Joe Melton was sweeping the vestry, a small room just off the Sanctuary to the left. His movements were very slow and deliberate. He was of average height but very thin, bearded and gaunt, dressed in old jeans and a checkered shirt.

  “Mr. Melton? I’m sorry to disturb you at work.”

  Joe looked up to see the young police officer in his uniform. “Trouble?” he asked, but carried on with his slow and steady sweeping.

  Roach closed the vestry door so that their conversation would remain private. “Just a routine investigation, sir. We’re looking into the disappearance of Beth Ridley.”

  Joe stopped mid-sweep and straightened his back. “Ridley?” he asked.

  “Fifteen years old,” Roach said, producing a photo of Beth on his phone. “She disappeared ten years ago this week, and we’re asking around to see if any new information comes to light.”

  Melton peered at the digital photo for a long moment. “She was Ann’s daughter.”

  “That’s right,” Roach answered. “Do you know Mrs. Leach?”

  Melton sat down on a hard, wooden chair, wincing at some pain in his back or knees, Roach couldn’t tell. “She was kind to me,” he said, gazing at the vestry’s stone floor. “Good.”

  Melton was a known transient. An alcoholic, but not a drug user. No convictions or arrests. There weren’t even any reports of suspicious activities, something almost unheard of among the homeless community.

  “This was when you were sleeping rough, back on Jersey?”

  “Aye. Hard times.”

  “Go on.”

  “Ann talked to me. Gave me food. Kept me going. I’ve got demons, you see,” he said finally looking up.

  Roach took the only other seat in the room, next to the bookshelf. “How do you mean, sir?”

  “Drink,” Melton answered.

  “You seem to be doing well now,” Roach offered. It was a half-truth at best. Melton had the face, and in particular the eyes of a man who had been through a great deal. His bent body had clearly weathered storms, and Roach suspected he was suffering from a long-term illness of some kind.

  “Passable,” Melton qualified. “Haven’t had a sip in eight years. Not one.”

  “Good for you,” Roach said genuinely.

  “This is the best place for me.”

  Roach glanced around. “Are you a volunteer here?”

  “I live here,” Melton said. “Made a deal with the pastor and the church commission. Take care of the place, morning and night. Make sure the kids aren’t getting drunk in the churchyard. That kind of thing.”

  Roach made notes on his tablet. “And what do you remember about Ann’s daughter, Beth?”

  Melton shrugged. “Saw her walking to school a few times. Wasn’t stupid enough to speak to her. Kept my head down. Best to keep a low profile,” he added.

  “So you wouldn’t remember seeing her on her way to school that morning?”

  Melton relaxed in his seat. “Ten years ago?” He cracked a smile. “Couldn’t have told you what month it was back then. Lived day to day, bottle to bottle. Was all that mattered.”

  “She used to walk right past the spot where you slept at night,” Roach said.

  “You think,” Melton said, the smile fading, “I spirited her away?”

  “We’re just trying to trace her movements on that morning.”

  “Would have been easy enough,” Melton said next, raising his chin and scratching his neck thoughtfully as if considering it.

  “Easy?”

  Melton ignored the question. “Did they find a body?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Pity,” was all Melton said.

  “How so?” Roach asked.

  “Ann will forever think she’s alive somewhere,” Melton said. He trailed off and seemed to lose interest in their discussion, casting his eyes around the room before standing and resuming his sweeping.

  “Do you have any knowledge of what happened to Beth?”

  Melton shook his head.

  “Where were you, sir, on the morning of Monday November 7th, 2005?” Roach said, suddenly.

  “No idea. I told you. Probably sleeping rough somewhere. Probably near Ann’s house, like you said.”

  “Can anyone vouch for that?”

  “Course not.” Melton hadn’t stopped his sweeping.

  “Is there anything else you can tell me?”

  “Nope.”

  Feeling defeated after his sudden burst of forthrightness, Roach fought not to telegraph his dejection through his body language. He held out his Gorey Police card.

  “I see. Well, that will be all for now, sir,” Roach said, his voice tight. “We’ll be in touch if we have further questions. And if you remember anything—”

  Melton didn’t look at Roach. His eyes were fixed on the floor as his brush went back and forth, back and forth.

  Roach left the proffered card on the table and departed the vestry without another word.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  JANICE HARDING WAS tapping her teeth with a pen, thinking hard. “How about a wildcard search?
” she asked. “Add an asterisk to the search term and see what we find?”

  “Good plan. Give it a try.”

  Harding was working with Jack Wentworth, a computer engineer who provided support to the Jersey Police when they faced technological challenges. He had already proved his worth in assisting Janice with the reams of data returned by Andrew Lyon’s Internet Service Provider, and now she was engaging him on another issue.

  “I’m not sure the online records go back far enough,” Jack said. “We’re looking for cash transfers or payments to Lyon from about ten years ago, right?”

  “Surely they were electronic back then?” Janice asked.

  “Some were, but a lot were still manually typed in by a bank teller. Those records are either in an archive somewhere or lost, I’m afraid.”

  The work was fascinating, if at times a little frustrating. Janice was tasked with tracking down financial transactions between Lyon and the owners of the websites for which he’d done work. It had become part of her personal mission to build a case against the science teacher, and she secretly hoped to uncover evidence of his involvement in Beth Ridley’s disappearance.

  Working with Wentworth was a bonus. He was an expert in “digital criminality,” as he called it, a computer forensics expert. He had had remarkable success in tracking down wrongdoing by those who’d been careless when conducting illicit transactions online. It also didn’t hurt from Janice’s point of view that he was about her age, good-looking, and single.

  “Here,” Wentworth pointed out. “There are monthly payments going back at least to 2007 and continuing until the present day.”

  Janice scrutinized the columns on the spreadsheet in front of her. “Decent amounts, too. They are all a few hundred pounds, at least.”

  “As payment for what, though?” Wentworth asked rhetorically. “He set up their website years ago. The basic format hasn’t changed, just the content, which they can plug into a set of boxes on a traditional web form themselves. Wouldn’t even need him to approve it, let alone do new work on it.”

  The website they were looking at was in the same category as many of the others built by Lyon down the years: technically legal, but morally questionable. It purported to be a “dating exchange,” but in reality it had all the hallmarks of an escort service.