by Fiona Grace
From the other end of the foyer, Harold locked eyes with Lacey. Something flashed behind them. Recognition that she was the auctioneer he had ripped off? Suspicion that she might be on to him? Fear that his ruse was up? Whether he knew who she was specifically or not, the flicker in his eyes told Lacey he knew she was on his tail. Without missing another beat, he pelted for the exit and disappeared out into the dark night.
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
“Chester!” Lacey cried. “Get the others! I’m going after him!”
As Chester scurried back into the corridor barking feverishly, Lacey hurried down the stone steps, past the water fountain, and out the automatic glass doors onto the steps of the Lodge. A bracing chill hit her, and her gaze darted across the parking lot as she searched for the fugitive. She spotted Harold already halfway across the parking lot, hurrying toward an awaiting taxi cab.
“Stop!” Lacey cried, her words turning to mist in the chilly air. “Stop! That man is a criminal!”
She raced down the stone steps, two at a time, hollering and waving her arms frantically over her head as she went. But it was useless. Harold leapt into the back seat of the taxi, slamming the door behind him, and the taxi took off with a rev, belching exhaust fumes into the darkness behind it. “NO!” Lacey cried, slowing to a halt and watching helplessly as the taxi gunned out of the parking lot, kicking up gravel from its back tires. Either the taxi driver hadn’t seen her, or he was choosing to ignore her on the command of his customer.
Just then, she heard Chester barking. She turned to see him come running out of the Lodge and beelining for her Volvo, which was parked alongside Frank’s oversized cattle van. Lacey was hit by sudden inspiration.
“I can chase him!” she exclaimed.
She raced back across the dark lot toward her car, reaching it at the same time as Chester, who continued barking incessantly as she pulled her keys from her pocket and jammed them in the lock. As she heaved open the door, she turned to see where the others were, only to see Tom, Gina, and Frank come stumbling tipsily through the automatic glass doors of the Lodge, their silhouettes backlit by the bright glowing lights of the inn, and crowd messily together on the top step. None of them looked steady on their feet.
Lacey sighed. She’d wanted them in backup vehicles—thinking they might be able to block the taxi in if they caught up to it—but clearly no one but she was in a sober enough state to drive. She’d only had a sip of ale while the others had sunk several pints each. If they were coming, they’d have to come in her car…
“Lacey?” Tom cried, his wobbly voice carrying down the steps. “Where are you?”
“I’m here!” she cried, arcing her arm over her head.
“Are you leaving?” Frank asked.
“No!” she cried. “I need to chase the killer!”
“The what?” Gina called, before turning to her drunk comrades. “Did she say she’s found the killer?”
Lacey huffed with exasperation. “Look, I’ll explain everything on the way!” she cried. “Just get in the car!”
Finally, they came staggering and stumbling down the steps.
Lacey jumped into the driver’s seat, slammed the door, and turned the key in the ignition. As the car rumbled to life, she watched the others in her rearview mirror as they hurried across the gravel lot toward her, zigzagging as they went. She grimaced. Maybe it would be better to not take any of them with her at all? She needed to catch a killer, not babysit three tipsy buffoons. But it was too late to change her mind now. They’d reached the car. The back passenger door flew open.
Gina was the first in, dive-bombing into the backseat with such ferocity the car’s suspension bounced under her weight. Tom dove in after her.
“What’s going on?” Gina asked as she attempted to compose herself, her glasses askew.
But Lacey could still hear the edge of excitement in her voice, like this was all some kind of thrilling adventure. Not to Lacey. She was deadly serious about catching the killer.
“I know who killed Ronan,” she said rapidly, beckoning through the window to her father, the slowest of the bunch, to hurry up and get into the front passenger seat. “Dad! Come on! He’s getting away!”
Frank slid woozily into the passenger seat beside her, and slammed the door shut behind him.
Lacey didn’t even waste a second. She slammed the car into reverse and careened backwards out of the space at speed, before slamming it into drive and racing for the exit to the main road.
“Are we having a car chase?” a tipsy Gina exclaimed in the back seat.
Tom slumped over and groaned. “This is making me feel sick.”
Lacey ignored them both. She was too busy searching left and right out the windshield for a glimpse of the taxi that was carrying a killer. It was nowhere to be seen. Which way did it go? Right, toward town and the train station? Or left, toward London, to take Harold all the way back to his auction house?
“Who are we following?” came Frank’s voice from beside her.
“A taxi,” Lacey said, gripping the steering wheel tightly as she peered over it, deliberating over which path to choose.
“What, like that one?” Frank said, pointing to a small path heading through the hillsides.
Lacey’s eyes widened as she spotted the two red brake lights racing at speed along one of the quieter country roads.
“YES!” she cried, wrenching her steering wheel and heading after them.
She gunned it along the path, trying to close the gap between her and the car in front. It was taking the back route to town, along one of the loopy, bumpy old single-track paths that wove through the fields around the outskirts of Wilfordshire.
“I really feel sick!” Tom groaned from the back seat.
Up ahead, Lacey saw the taxi reach the T-junction and turn right, heading back onto the main road toward town. Lacey was in hot pursuit, barely slowing as she reached the T-junction and careened to the right after it.
“Look!” Gina cried, pointing a finger through the gap between Lacey’s headrest and Frank’s. “The traffic lights are turning!”
Hope leapt in Lacey’s chest. Up ahead, the lights were turning from amber to red, and the taxi was beginning to slow.
“This is our chance,” she said through gritted teeth. “I’m going to block it.”
Running a red light and getting a ticket was the least of her concerns right now.
But no sooner had the words left her lips than the back door of the taxi flew open and out leapt Harold Watson. He went racing on foot across the road, his blond wig flying off as he went, and disappeared into one of the narrow, shadowy, pedestrianized side streets of Wilfordshire.
“Damn it!” Lacey cried, thumping her steering wheel with frustration. There was no way through.
Just then, the passenger door of the Volvo swung open. Lacey looked over to see her father already halfway out of the car.
“DAD!” she cried, turning in her seat. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going after him!” Frank cried.
“Don’t be crazy!” she cried. Had he forgotten how old he was? It seemed as if a long evening of ale drinking had given him the courage of a man half his age!
Just then, the sound of a car horn blaring from behind made Lacey startle. She swirled back around to see the traffic light ahead of her had turned green, and the taxi was pulling away. The blaring horn of the car behind was added to by another that had joined the back of the queue.
Lacey looked helplessly out as Frank weaved on foot through the cars and disappeared down the same side alley as Harold. Only now, Tom was stumbling out of the vehicle, too.
“I’ll go after him,” he said with a hiccup.
“Not you too!” Lacey cried, too late. Her fiancé was already staggering off into the darkness.
As even more car horns joined in the fray, Lacey turned to Chester. “You’re the only one I trust right now,” she told him. “Go and make sure they don’t get themselves killed.”
Chester barked, and leapt out of the car after them.
“What about me?” Gina slurred huffily from the back seat.
Lacey simply rolled her eyes, put the car in gear, and accelerated away.
She took the first right, deducting that if Harold followed the side street to the end, this was the spot he’d come out. Alternatively, if he took the path that came off it, he’d end up in the graveyard a couple blocks the other direction. But what were the chances he’d even notice the shadowy footpath? Harold was only a visitor here, and that played to Lacey’s advantage. It gave her the upper hand. This was her home turf. Plus, he was on foot and was now in a car. He was on his own, and she had backup. Even if her backup was only two drunk men and a dog…
Lacey’s tires screeched as she careened down the street. There was no sign of Harold anywhere. Then, suddenly, Tom came charging out of the alley instead, and halted. Lacey pulled up beside him and wrenched down her window.
“I lost them!” he cried, panting. “I think he took the footpath!”
“In which case, he’s heading for the graveyard,” Lacey shouted back. “Cover the entrance. I’ll go round the back.”
Tom nodded and headed back the way he’d come.
Lacey put the pedal to the metal and went racing along the road. In the back seat, Gina went, “Wheeee!”
“I’m glad one of us is enjoying this,” Lacey muttered, as she gunned it to the end of the road and took a right turn.
Unlike Gina, she was anxious for her father. If Frank reached Harold first, then who knew what would happen. The man was a killer, after all, clearly not the most rational of thinkers. Then there was Frank, double his age, arthritic in the knees, and absolutely steaming drunk. It was a recipe for disaster. And Lacey couldn’t risk losing him again. Not now, after fighting to have him back. Not like this.
Determined and scared, Lacey floored the gas.
“There’s Chester!” Gina cried, her face suddenly appearing in the gap right beside Lacey.
Through the windshield, Lacey spotted her trusty pooch galloping across the street and disappearing in through the gate of the graveyard. Frank and Harold must have already made it inside. She prayed she’d not be too late.
She spotted Tom come huffing and puffing along next, heading for the entrance.
She turned, raced all the way around the side of the wrought-iron fenced graveyard, then turned again and halted by the back exit gates. If Harold was inside, there was no way out.
“Gina!” Lacey cried as she yanked the keys out of the ignition and leapt out of the car. “Catch.”
She threw the car keys at her tipsy friend, who promptly dropped them. “What am I meant to do with these?” she asked.
“Lock up the car!” Lacey shouted over her shoulder as she hurried into the graveyard.
Lacey was immediately plunged into darkness. There were only a few street lamps in the graveyard, and they were old, their light dim and patchy. The various tombstones looked creepy and unsettling in the darkness.
Lacey hurried to the crossroads. Up ahead she could just make out a dark figure coming her way. Her heart leapt into her throat. If it was Harold, she was the only thing standing between him and freedom. She’d have to tackle him to the ground!
She got into a fighting stance, knees bent, arms covering her chest, fists at the ready. Her heart was pounding out of her chest as the figure came ever closer. She was ready to fight tooth and nail if she had to.
But suddenly, she realized it wasn’t Harold at all. It was Tom accelerating up toward her. Relief flooded through her. She straightened up and dropped her hands.
Tom skidded to a halt. “I lost them.”
“They’re here somewhere,” Lacey said. “I saw Chester.”
Tom looked left and right, frantically. “Where did they go?”
Just then, they heard a bark coming from the distance.
“That way!” Lacey cried, pointing left.
They took off, following the path that led into the older part of the graveyard, where ancient stone statues loomed in the darkness and tall trees cast dark, streaky shadows. A group of alternative-looking kids were lingering under the tree-lined path, and they watched with curiosity as Lacey and Tom came pelting past them.
Suddenly, Lacey heard noises up ahead. It sounded like grunting? Scuffling?
“They’re fighting!” she cried, her heart leaping as she pictured her poor father being beaten by the awful killer Harold Watson.
“Yes, I think I see them!” Tom shouted.
And there, up ahead, illuminated by the moon through a gap in the foliage, Lacey spotted two figures grappling with one another. Her father…fighting with a killer.
Lacey’s stomach dropped with terror. She ran as fast as she could toward them. “DAD!”
Chester was jumping up and down at the two fighting men, barking and growling. Then suddenly, Lacey saw them fall to the ground, with one man pinning the other down.
“LEAVE MY DAD ALONE!” she screeched, flying like a possessed banshee the final steps toward them.
But as she reached them she realized the man pinned down was not her father. It was Harold.
Her father was the victor!
Lacey came staggering to a halt, blinking with astonishment at what she was witnessing; Harold, lying face down on the asphalt, writhing angrily beneath the knee of a man over double his age, pressed into his back expertly like some kind of cop.
Frank looked up at Lacey and grinned. “Bet you didn’t expect that from your old man,” he said.
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
Blue flashing lights illuminated the graveyard as cop cars came screeching in and several uniformed officers jumped out. The group of teens who’d witnessed everything, and had presumably called them in, pointed out the two men at the end of the path. Harold Watson was now seated at the base of an angel sarcophagus, hands pinned behind his back by Frank, his head drooping with utter defeat onto his chest.
A couple of cops stayed back, herding the group to the sidelines, while the two others came up to Lacey and Tom.
“We’ve had reports of a disturbance,” a male cop said. “Two men fighting. A possible dog attack.”
Lacey gestured to Chester sitting calmly at her feet. “The dog was helping take down your criminal.”
“I’m sorry?” the cop asked. “A criminal?”
She pointed at Harold. He looked pitiful. His sunglasses had fallen in the chase. His blond wig was long gone. And without his costume, there was no denying it now. The mysterious John Smith and the appraiser Harold Watson were one and the same man.
“That’s the man who killed Ronan Pike,” Lacey said.
The cop frowned as he looked at Frank and Harold. Then he eyed Lacey suspiciously as he clicked a button on the walkie-talkie at his shoulder. “PC Kemp requesting Superintendent Turner and DCI Lewis at the graveyard.” He let go of the button and addressed Lacey and Tom. “Can you two get back, please? Let us deal with this.”
He ushered her along with the rest of the teenage witnesses, and a gathering crowd of innocent passersby who’d entered the graveyard just as the cops did. They were all gossiping loudly, and theorizing what exactly had gone down.
Lacey ignored them, watching on as Frank and Harold were finally separated by the cops. Frank, as the perceived aggressor, was cuffed and taken to one side for questioning. Harold meanwhile was also cuffed and left sitting on the stone base.
The sound of a car racing toward them made Lacey turn. It was Superintendent Turner and DCI Lewis’s black Merc. It raced to the spot and halted. The two detectives leapt out and hurried over to the cops on the scene.
As they all began conversing with one another, Lacey decided to take her chance. She slunk away from the huddle and streaked through the darkness over to Harold.
His head darted up as she approached. “Who the hell are you?” he whined. “Why are you doing this to me?”
“You know exactly who I am, Ha
rold,” Lacey said, glowering down at him. “I’m the auctioneer. The woman who sold the fake that you said was real. So why did you do it?”
“Why did I say the letter was real?” Harold asked, incredulous. “Because I thought it was!”
Lacey folded her arms. “I meant why did you kill Ronan Pike?”
Harold pressed his lips together and narrowed his eyes. He looked away.
“I see, so you’re still not going to admit it?” Lacey continued. “Even though you’re caught. Even though the game is up. Then how about we talk about the letter? You really expect me to believe you thought it was real? You didn’t even get it tested! Surely in your line of work you know a visual examination isn’t adequate enough to determine whether something is genuine or not? All it took was one private analysis to detect it was a fraud.”
“Look,” Harold snapped. “I made a mistake, okay.”
Lacey shook her head. “I don’t believe you. If it was a mistake, then why did you undervalue it and offer to buy it from Ronan on the spot in the first place? Because you wanted a quick sale with no fanfare. Because you knew you could find a naive buyer among your mom and dad’s circle of aristocrats, one who wouldn’t even think to get it analyzed, and you’d get away with it. If it passed the visual inspection and you sold it on quickly enough, no one would ever be the wiser.”
“That’s not true!” Harold cried.
“Then why did you come to the auction in disguise?” Lacey continued, turning up the pressure. “You were tracking Ronan, weren’t you? You’d wanted to sell that letter yourself but when he chose someone else to do it instead, you followed him. Why? Because you knew he’d soon be a very wealthy man. Did you kill him for the money?” Then she shook her head, because there was no evidence to say Ronan’s bank account had been drained. “Or… spite? Because he took his custom elsewhere?”
“It wasn’t like that at all!” Harold cried. “I killed him by accident!”
