The Case of the Hidden Flame

by Alison Golden

  “How did you find out all that?” Roach wanted to know.

  “Easy. You just stand behind a potted fern,” Barnwell explained, “looking like you’re doing nothing except guarding the lobby, and you keep your ears open. People will say all sorts in front of a stationary copper. It’s like you’re not even there.”

  “Any indication that Mrs. Pilkington might have hurt Sylvia?” Graham asked, though he was pretty certain of the answer.

  “No, sir. The way I see it, she’s angry about this for the first time, not the second, if you see what I mean.” Graham was nodding. “If she’d killed Sylvia, would she still be giving her husband daily bollockings for having had coffee with her?”

  “Good point,” Harding observed. “What else?”

  “There’s that South American bloke, Carlos Alves,” Barnwell reported. “He was down at the marina for a while, but he spent almost the whole time on the terrace, just staring out to sea.”

  “He’s got a lot on his mind,” Graham informed them.

  “Such as?” Roach asked, irritated to be playing second fiddle to the likes of Barnwell. “Guilt, maybe?”

  “His son died,” Graham said.

  “On Sylvia’s watch,” Barnwell reminded them. “I checked and there was a question of negligence, of not being up to the job. It was in the papers at the time. There was an internal investigation, but they decided against suspending her or taking it further. His wife,” Barnwell said, then whistled, “sounds like quite the character. Wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of her. They’re an odd couple, right enough.”

  “Grief,” Graham commented quietly, “does terrible things to relationships.”

  Only Harding spotted the distant, despondent look on his face, but she said nothing.

  “Doesn’t that make him our prime suspect, sir?” Barnwell asked. “There’s certainly motive, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I would, but I interviewed him in detail, and I see no reason to suspect that he’s here to do anything but sail his boat and stare at the sea. He’s grieving, not vengeful. Not actively, anyway.”

  Roach joined Barnwell’s protests. “Seriously, sir, I think we should consider him. I mean, we all read your notes, right?” The others nodded. “Didn’t he say that he’s glad she died?”

  “He said that. But he didn’t kill her,” Graham replied. “Leave him for now. What about the others?”

  “Alice Swift keeps to herself. She was in her room for almost the whole day. Came down for morning tea but had lunch and dinner brought to her room by Marcella,” Barnwell said.

  “She’s working on a tapestry,” Graham explained. “A very gifted lady.”

  Harding frowned but quickly regained her composure. “No indication that she’s mourning. It’s not clear that she even knew Sylvia,” she commented. “We can probably just rule her out.”

  “Who did she have tea with?” Graham asked.

  “Er… Colonel Graves,” Barnwell said, consulting his notes.

  The conversation stopped. “Wait, they know each other?” Harding asked.

  Barnwell checked his notes. “They talked about money, that was all I could gather. It was hard to hear,” he reported. “There were other people around and they were leaning in close, you know.”

  “Money?” Roach wondered aloud. “What’s the Colonel doing, now he’s retired from the army?”

  “Real estate investments, across the pond,” Graham told him. “Maybe Alice and he are in business together. She seemed wealthy enough, right, Sergeant?”

  “Wealthy enough to speculatively open a niche weaving business in a ritzy, expensive part of London,” she remarked. “Certainly didn’t seem like she was short of a penny.”

  “What about Sylvia?” Graham said. “She wasn’t exactly poor, either.”

  “I mean,” Harding said next, “anyone who’s staying at the White House Inn has got a good chunk of cash under their mattress, that’s for certain. What does Mrs. Taylor charge her long-termers, maybe £70 a night?”

  “About that. Or maybe a little more,” Graham confirmed.

  “Here’s a theory,” Barnwell began. “The Colonel is in financial trouble, right? Housing market over in the States takes a dip or whatever. He asks Sylvia for a loan, and she says no.”

  “Go on,” Graham said, a little skeptical already.

  “So he’s putting pressure on her to show him that she loves him, that she trusts him, you know, by giving him money. But it all falls apart between them because she won’t fork over the cash, and he’s short on the mortgages or whatever, so his properties are at risk of being foreclosed on.”

  It was a more thorough theory than Graham had initially expected, but it wasn’t without weaknesses. “And so…”

  “So, he poisons her. End of story.”

  Barnwell sat back, a look of pride settling across his face.

  “Well, that was anti-climactic,” Harding grumbled.

  “Got a better suggestion?” Barnwell shot back.

  “Take it easy, Constable,” Graham told him, but kept his tone light. The man was trying his best, he could see. “We’ve already satisfied ourselves that Colonel Graves is genuinely grieving.”

  Barnwell shrugged. “Can’t you grieve for someone’s death, even though you’re responsible for it?”

  “That’s pushing it a bit,” Roach argued. “I mean, the bloke was properly upset. You heard his voice on the phone, right when he found her. You said he was devastated.”

  “And,” Harding said, finger aloft, “we already know how frequently the murderer calls in the body. Right, sir?”

  “Right, Sergeant,” Graham agreed. “It’s not ‘never,’ but it’s pretty rare.”

  “Bugger,” Barnwell cursed. “Thought I was onto something, didn’t I?”

  Graham gave him a consoling look. “Keep doing what you’re doing, Constable. We’ll crack it, I promise.”

  Barnwell wasn’t ready to give up just yet. “Couldn’t we talk to him, one more time?” he asked. “I mean, it’s just the way they were sitting together, leaning close, keeping their voices down, in the tea room. It just… I don’t know, it just seemed odd.”

  Roach couldn’t resist. “Well, you’d know odd when you saw it.”

  Barnwell ignored him. “Sir? How about it?”

  Graham was on his feet. “We’ll crack this case by being thorough. Let’s do it.”

  “Righto,” Barnwell said, giving Roach a provocative look before following his boss out to the car.

  “You drive,” Graham ordered. “I’ll call him.”

  * * *

  Barnwell drove with deliberate care and attention, partly to impress Graham, but also because of the number of tourists, often woefully unfamiliar with Jersey’s driving code, milling around and slowing everyone down. As usual.

  “I wouldn’t have thought of that, boss,” he said.

  “Hmm?” Graham replied. He’d been writing in his notebook once more.

  “Inviting the Colonel to dinner. It’s a nice touch, given what he’s been through this week.”

  Graham clicked his pen closed and slotted the notebook away. It had become the most fluid of actions, done almost without thought, like changing gear or shaving. “It’s not purely charity, Constable. People tend to say more when they believe they are not under suspicion. As far as the Colonel is concerned, we’re just ascertaining background details.”

  The White House Inn was busy, but Mrs. Taylor found Graham and Graves the quietest table still available, on the terrace overlooking the English Channel. Carlos Alves was there once more, smoking a cigar. He nodded gravely but politely to the two men and carried on his evening vigil, scanning the waves as though the happiness so brutally stolen from him might somehow emerge from the deep.

  “I’ll take a dry sherry,” Graves told Marcella. “And for you?” The Colonel looked at DI Graham.

  “Oh, just water. Thanks, Marcella.” Marcella glided away.

  The two men looked at ea
ch other. “I actually wanted to begin by thanking you,” Graham said. “Your assistance has been invaluable in this investigation.”

  Graves was surprised. “I only did what anyone would do. There might be,” he speculated, “some kind of closure for me in finding whoever did this.”

  “Well, we’re getting closer all the time,” Graham assured him. “Look, I’m sorry if this is indelicate, but…”

  “Please,” Graves said, his palms open.

  “It’s about your real estate investments. You mentioned them briefly when we last spoke. Can you say a little more about your portfolio?”

  Graves took a sip of his sherry and then smiled. “Looking to invest, Detective?”

  “On my salary?” Graham snorted. “Hardly.”

  “Well, here’s how I’ve been working it,” he said, setting down his glass on the pure white tablecloth. “I put up a good portion of the money to buy a nice, high-end, beachfront property near Miami, for example. Perfect for a young lawyer who wants a view of the ocean, that kind of client.”

  “I see,” Graham said. “You don’t mind if I take notes? Just routine,” he assured the Colonel.

  “Not a bit. But no stealing my investment ideas! I worked bloody hard for that money.” Starters arrived, and Marcella was gone in a second.

  “So you’re one of several investors?”

  “That’s right,” Graves said, stabbing a shred of romaine lettuce with his fork. “We all pitch in together, do the place up, get a local agent to generate some interest among the right crowd, and then they sell it for us. They get a cut, and after all the taxes and what-not, we divide the rest.”

  “And how many of you are there?” Graham asked. His carrot and ginger soup was rather tasty, he found.

  “Seven, this time around. So we’re looking to clear probably…” He calculated in his head. “About thirty thousand dollars profit, each. Maybe a little more. Then we go again. I only deal in cash, you see. I’d never borrow to front a property deal.”

  “Why not?” Graham asked. “Most people do.”

  Graves chuckled. “Not me, old chap. Too wise,” he said, tapping his nose. “If everything goes belly up, I’d owe some blood-sucking bank a sodding fortune with nothing to sell except the shirt off my back. Put my all into this, I did.”

  “Why take the risk?” Graham asked.

  “All I really wanted,” Graves said, his face falling, “was to do a few good deals over there, cash in, and marry Sylvia. We’d get ourselves a nice little cottage somewhere like this,” he said, glancing out into the bay, “and just live out our lives together.” The sadness permeated him now, and Graham felt for the man. A life of service and sacrifice, and now there would be no one to share the remainder with, and only precarious overseas investments to keep him solvent.

  “I’m sorry, Colonel. It’s dreadful, what’s happened.” He felt like saying more, even reaching to take Graves’ arm or shoulder, but it seemed inappropriate.

  “We all go on, you know. Life doesn’t stop because you have a bit of bad luck.”

  Graham’s eyebrows shot up of their own accord. Something about the Colonel’s tone told him the older man didn’t just mean Sylvia’s passing. “Bad luck, Colonel?”

  “Yes. Over in Miami. The buggers got a step ahead of themselves. Nobody consulted me, of course. Must think I’m bloody made of money.” The anger was real, and coming so soon after the grief and sadness, it was a shock to Graham.

  “Do you mind if I ask about it?” Graham deliberately pushed his notebook away a few inches, as if reassuring the Colonel that they were speaking off the record.

  “There was another apartment in the same building. My investor friends saw this as an easy sell, you know. We’re already marketing to the right clients, already canvassing the right neighborhoods. May as well get two sales for our efforts, right? So they quickly chucked in another seventy-five thousand dollars each. I mean, can you imagine?”

  “A little rich for your blood?” Graham guessed.

  “Too bloody right! They never even asked. And then they turn around and said, ‘Well, if you’re not interested in doubling down like this, we’re not sure we can work with you.’ In danger of losing my place in the group. Getting turfed out because I lacked the… Well, you know what I mean.”

  “I think I do. Very presumptuous of them.”

  “Oh, they’ve been doing this kind of thing for years, the bloody sharks. Thinning down the ranks until there’s only three or four of them left to share the best leads, the best deals. They court potential investors, persuade them to join, treat them nicely, then squeeze them out when they don’t show sufficient fortitude, you know, the willingness to front serious cash. It’s a cutthroat business. Unless you’re bringing millions to the table, they treat you like an amateur.”

  “So, where do you stand?” Graham asked.

  “Up a certain navigable waterway without a certain instrument,” the Colonel grimaced. “Until…” His eyes gained a curiously faraway look. “I probably shouldn’t mention this, but I know I can speak in confidence.”

  Graham pushed his notebook another few inches away. “My lips are sealed.”

  Leaning in close, the Colonel delivered the news in a conspiratorial whisper. “Alice loaned me the money. All of it. Fronted me for the second apartment, helped me keep myself in the game. I showed those buggers who they’re dealing with!”

  “Alice Swift?” DI Graham was anxious to confirm.

  “The very same. Remarkable woman. Sees the best in people, you know?”

  “I’m sure,” Graham replied. Inwardly, he was a blur of thought. He had so many questions, each more difficult to pose than the last. “And, if it’s not too indelicate a question, what was the nature of your repayment agreement?”

  “Oh, all fair and above board,” he said. “I even started paying her back a little, last month, from the proceeds of a small sale up in the Florida Panhandle. Only my third effort and not a bad one,” he said, rubbing his hands slightly. “But nothing on the scale of these Miami properties,” he said, as if himself in awe of the risks he’d agreed to take.

  Although badly distracted by this new complexity to their case, Graham kept up appearances for the remainder of their dinner. The Colonel, to Graham’s relief, had no interest in dessert, as he was trying to ‘keep trim.’ Just after nine, Graham left Graves to enjoy an after-dinner Scotch. “I might catch up with that fellow, Alves,” the Colonel told him as he was leaving. “Not much of a talker, but when he does… fascinating chap. Been everywhere.”

  Graham decided to sleep on the new information, rise early, and call everyone together for a morning meeting. Later, he tried to sleep, tried to let his thoughts settle on something other than the unhappy demise of Sylvia Norquist. But he was kept awake past midnight by the persistent thought that this case, frustrating and elusive by turns, was finally ready to break wide open. Something told him that tomorrow would be the day.

  CHAPTER SIX

  GRAHAM INITIALLY THOUGHT that bringing in a blackboard on an easel might help them brainstorm more efficiently. Seeing it now, covered in scrawled notes, scratched-out and half-deleted ideas, and a couple of hare-brained diagrams, he was beginning to wonder. They had been ‘bringing together the investigative strands,’ as he’d originally put it, which in reality was closer to arguing like cats and dogs, for three hours, and he was ready for a break.

  “Okay, take ten, boys and girls,” he said, relieved to be shooing them out of his office for a moment. “We’ll all feel better after a breath of fresh air and a cuppa.”

  The two constables argued all the way to the front door, where they berated each other for the duration of Barnwell’s cigarette. Back in his office, Graham gave Sergeant Harding a tired smile and shook his head.

  “Feel as though we’re getting anywhere?” he asked.

  Harding took one look at the board, grabbed the eraser and cleaned the whole thing. Then she began writing in large, clear letters.r />
  “We’ve got Sylvia. Late of this parish. Known to all the suspects,” she says. “This fits with the very high probability that the victim knew the murderer.”

  “Near certainty,” Graham confirmed.

  “There’s the exotic and charismatic Mr. Carlos Alves. Visitor from South America,” she said, writing his name on the board with a dotted line to Sylvia. “Father of a teenaged boy who died while under her care.”

  “Bloody tragic,” Graham added.

  “But not present during the period leading up to the murder. We have confirmation of that,” she said.

  “From none other than the investigative powerhouse that is Constable Roach,” Graham quipped.

  “Marvelous. His terrifying wife is nowhere to be seen, and we have no reason to believe she’s on Jersey, so the people with the most obvious motive can be ruled out.”

  “Ninety-nine percent,” Graham confirmed. He was never happy with “always” or “absolutely.” There had already been too many exceptions and rarities during his career.

  “Then we have the Pilkingtons,” she said, adding their names to the list. “Known to Sylvia through her work. Nigel was the recipient of successful cancer treatment, though in his unfortunate case, the Big-C appears to have returned,” she said.

  “Much to the shock of Mrs. Pilkington,” Graham added.

  “And she was just as shocked that her husband had seen Sylvia without her knowledge. And angry. Are we putting that down to… well, them just being a funny couple?”

  “You tell me, Sergeant. How likely is it, all things considered, that an oncologist becomes involved with a very sick patient?”

  “It must happen, but I can’t think it’s too frequent.”

  “And, not to be rude about the man, but you saw Nigel. Not exactly male model material. Am I right?”

  “You are,” Harding confirmed. “I mean, it wasn’t as though the years were weighing heavily on Sylvia. She could have done so much better.”

  “Hard to say,” Graham told her. “I’ve only ever seen her buried in a sand dune, or laid out on a mortuary slab, dead as a dodo.”