The Case of the Missing Letter

by Alison Golden

  They both watched the man stumble into the center of the room and begin yet another sweep of the shelves to his left and right. He was too slow, too lumbering, and too unwilling to head down each row to see if they were hiding at the very far corner. He reached the end of the row of shelves, as far from the lobby as he’d ventured.

  “Now, Billy!” They ran behind the man and toward the distribution desk and the front door.

  The man caught their movements but turned too slowly. He let off a round which exploded through a hardbound volume of the Encyclopedia Britannica, throwing up a cloud of paper confetti. Another shot thunked into the wood of the distribution desk. He dashed forward and closed the distance between himself and the pair. Billy opened the library door and ran through it. He ran into the parking lot passing a large, burly police officer coming the other way, baton out and speaking quickly into his lapel radio.

  The policeman barged into the library, obstructing Laura’s escape. Her assailant grabbed her and pulled her back further inside the library, pressing her body against his and ramming his gun into her neck, his eyes defiant in the face of the bobby’s bulk.

  Barnwell cursed. He threw himself across the floor, sliding on his hip. He took cover behind the distribution desk. He was armed only with his baton and a canister of CS spray, which would be of no use over distance. “Gorey police!” he shouted from behind the desk. “Let’s stay calm now, alright?”

  There was a low, cynical chuckle from the gunman. “Oh, dear,” he chided, “You’ve gone and wandered into the middle of somethin’, haven’t you? You forget, I’ve got the girl. And the gun.”

  Barnwell rose to one knee. “Gorey police!” he repeated. “There’s no need for anyone to get hurt. Set down your weapon, and show me your hands.”

  Another chuckle resonated around the library, longer than before. “You think I’ll come quietly, eh, copper?” the man shouted. Laura gasped and shuddered against his body.

  Barnwell tracked their sounds. The gunman was forcing Laura past the reading desks and toward the library door. The officer drew his CS spray and began shuffling, as quietly as he could, along the length of the distribution desk, and toward the corner. There he would wait. He couldn’t risk rounding the edge of it.

  “We can work this out,” Barnwell shouted back. “How this ends is entirely up to you.”

  The man laughed.

  “Let her go,” Barnwell urged.

  “Let her go? She’s my ‘get out of jail free’ card,” the gunman laughed again. He was still walking forward. Barnwell could hear footsteps, and the man’s ragged breath. “I want out of here,” the gunman shouted to him. “A car. No funny business, or there’ll be more corpses to read about in the papers.” As the pair moved forward, Barnwell rounded the corner and slid along the short end of the distribution desk that was now behind them.

  In an instant, the man threw Laura sprawling to the floor and bolted for the door. Barnwell set off like a sprinter, CS spray in his left hand, baton in his right. The man began to turn, gun poised, and for a second their eyes locked like bulls in a fight. Barnwell launched himself, grabbing the man around the hips and toppling him with a rugby tackle that would distinguish a professional. The two fell to the floor. Barnwell unleashed the CS spray six times into the man’s face. The gunman gurgled and roared and spat at him, but he didn’t fire. A moment later, the gunman, his eyes streaming and nausea welling in his gut, found his hands cuffed behind him.

  “You’re a big, strong lad,” Barnwell said, puffing only slightly as he stood up, “to be chasing a woman and a boy around a library, at night, with a gun.” Then he spoke into his lapel radio once more. “Mike Bravo 882 to Gorey. Active shooter situation contained. Suspect in custody. One juvenile, one female in need of medical assistance for shock. Firearms team were a little slow, but everything’s under control. Over.”

  The reply was a decidedly non-regulation stream of congratulatory utterances from Constable Roach, followed by, “Hold tight. Transport on its way.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  “NO LAWYER, MR. Harris-Watts?” Graham asked as he took his seat. “Do you think that’s wise, sir?”

  Harris-Watts was shattered. He had cried throughout the hours he had spent in his cell, and he periodically broke down again whenever anyone spoke to him, even if it was to ask if he would like a cup of tea. “I was… I was going to plead guilty. I didn’t think I’d need… You know… With the cost, and everything.”

  Graham sat back and folded his arms. “Plead guilty to what, exactly?”

  Harris-Watts blinked repeatedly. He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. “The medal. You know. On the morning we found Nobby. I pinched it. I admit it,” he sniffed.

  “Ah, yes, the medal,” Graham said. “I’m glad you’ve cleared that up for us.” Harris-Watts stared at the table in utter hopelessness.

  “Tell me all of it,” Graham ordered. “Everything about what happened when you went to the museum on Monday morning.”

  Harris-Watts visibly fought with himself to look at the DI. “Okay,” he said, sniffing. He was rubbing his hands on his thighs, rocking back and forth, visibly trying to bring himself under control. “Okay. I went into work and found Nobby on the floor and glass everywhere. I called nine-nine-nine, and then checked for a pulse, but he was so cold, I knew he was gone.” He shivered at the memory. “Then, I checked to see if anything was missing. Nothing appeared to be, so I went to my office and checked the CCTV. With the images being so poor, I knew you wouldn’t be able to pin the break-in on anyone.” He looked Graham in the eye, more confident now he was confessing, “I’ve got debts, you see,” he admitted. “I’ve got expensive tastes. Too expensive for my salary. So, I forced open the medal case, instead of smashing it, you know, so it would look professional. I took one that I knew was valuable.”

  Graham listened, arms folded. “Go on.”

  “I put it on an underground auction site I sometimes look at, just out of curiosity, and someone bid on it. I thought I’d made thousands, and that no one would ever know. Then your constable came to my house and arrested me.”

  “And?” Graham pressed.

  Harris-Watts shrugged, blinking. “That’s it. Now, I’m here. It’s the first time I’ve been in a prison cell in my life. Will I… Will I go to… to jail for this?”

  Graham closed the door. He took several slow, deep breaths – a practice he called his “Buddha Moments.” They were a way for him to bring a greater clarity to the present and help set aside the often fruitless hours of accusations and counter defenses he waded through and was a part of. As he stood there, inhaling deep, slow breaths, he tried to unravel the strange conundrum this case had become.

  The DI approached the desk, where Roach and Harding were listening to the police frequency on the radio. “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “There’s been an active shooter situation at the library, sir,” Harding replied.

  “WHAT?” Graham stood still, wide-eyed, thoughts careering around his brain like a cascade of shooting stars hurtling around a galaxy.

  Harding set down the earphones and smiled. “The situation has been resolved, sir,” she said. “All is well. It was very quick. The hostages, the new librarian and Billy Foster, are safe and being checked out by the paramedics. The shooter is in custody. The suspect was apprehended thanks to the heroics of a certain Constable Barnwell. The press’ll be here soon, I’ll bet. Probably be another glowing article in the paper.”

  “But… But why didn’t you inform me?” Graham was staring at her. He appeared stunned.

  “Erm, well sir, we didn’t really believe it, see?” Roach said, looking sheepish. “We, Barnwell and I, just thought it was old Mrs. Hollingsworth imagining things again. Seems we got it wrong, sir. Sorry, sir.”

  “Sorry? An apology is hardly sufficient, Constable! This could have turned into a complete, unmitigated disaster.” Graham’s voice was hard now, “I can see that we shall have to put some serio
us effort into more training later in the year.” Roach looked at Janice who looked down at her feet.

  “Yes, sir,” Roach whispered.

  Graham glared at them momentarily, then collected himself and thumped the desk, gently. “Barnwell again, eh?” This was the third time the reinvigorated constable had been the hero of the hour in recent months. He was in danger of making it a habit.

  “He’s bringing the shooter in now, sir,” Roach said, talking quickly.

  “Where are you going to put him?” Graham asked.

  Roach smiled. “We’ve called St. Helier, and they’re sending a firearms unit to meet the prisoner here. They’ll handle him. Should be here any minute.”

  Graham marveled at how far his small, formerly raggle-taggle team had come in a few short months, even if there was still clearly some way to go.

  “I’ll leave you to it for now, Sergeant, Constable. Do come and find me if there’s a terrorist incident on our patch, won’t you?” He turned to go back into the interview room, but paused, “I’m all done with Mr. Harris-Watts. Would you be so good as to take him back to his cell?”

  “Yes, sir,” Harding was looking at him curiously.

  “Good,” Graham shifted again, “You’re quite sure that no one was hurt?”

  “Quite sure, sir.”

  “Well, then. Jolly good… Carry on, Sergeant.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  IT WAS A bright, cold Saturday morning. Don English sat in his cell quietly. He was in whispered consultation with his lawyer as was Charlotte with hers. Unsurprisingly, Charlotte had called Carl Prendergast within moments of arriving at Gorey station. Don was offered, and accepted, the court-appointed duty solicitor on call. When Prendergast finally arrived, direct from the airport, he had exuded the air of someone very reluctant indeed.

  “Ready, Sergeant?” Graham asked, setting down his teacup. “I say we start with Charlotte Hughes.”

  Harding and Graham exchanged a look as they stood at the interview room door. “Is this a case of ‘watch and learn,’ sir?” Harding asked. “Or do you want me to…”

  “Let’s see how we get on. You remember the signal?”

  Harding nodded, and Graham gave her an encouraging smile as he pushed open the door to the interview room. “Good morning, Ms. Hughes,” he said. He took a seat, and Harding sat next to him, opposite Charlotte and Prendergast at the small interview room’s table. “It’s been quite a few days for you, hasn’t it?”

  Prendergast laid out the formalities. “My client has decided to exercise her right to silence,” he said in his clipped, formal tone. He was short, balding, and somewhere in his mid-sixties. Graham felt he might make a good King Lear or an officious bureaucrat in a period TV drama. There was something about his manner – superior, a bit blustery and bombastic – which made Graham dislike him immediately. Although it was his legal obligation to let the lawyer speak, and for his comments to be entered into the taped record, Graham ignored almost everything Prendergast said.

  “As you already know, you’ve been arrested in connection with the murder of Felipe Barrios,” Graham said, scanning Charlotte’s face for signs of a reaction. All he saw was a pale, wan visage that signaled exhaustion.

  “And when forensic evidence of the crime is presented to us,” Prendergast retorted in his testy, nasal tone, “we will understand quite why that is so.”

  “All in good time,” Graham told him.

  Prendergast looked at Charlotte, hoping for some kind of sign. She was absolutely white, drained of fight and spark, defeated in a way Graham found almost pitiable. She wore a blue, hooded sweatshirt and pants that Janice had found for her the evening before as they bagged her clothes for forensic examination. Her designer blouse had been torn beyond repair during the bitter exchanges on the battlements.

  “You live on the mainland, Ms. Hughes, is that right?”

  “Yes, in Market Ellestry. I am, was, hoping to become their Member of Parliament at the next election. Doubt that will happen now,” Charlotte said, a hint of bitterness creeping into her tone.

  “And what are you doing on Jersey? The elections aren’t that far away. Shouldn’t you be in your constituency? Knocking on doors? Pressing the flesh?” Graham was being droll. He didn’t have much time for politicians.

  Carl Prendergast leaned forward and opened his mouth to interrupt.

  “Shut up, Carl!” Charlotte’s mouth curled as she said the words. Her arms were folded. She turned her head away from her legal counsel and stared down at her lap.

  “I came here to arrange for repairs to my father’s desk.”

  “I see. Is that all? Couldn’t that be done over the phone?”

  Charlotte coughed several times to clear her throat. “I was concerned… About the break-in at the museum and the damage to the desk.” Graham lifted his chin and waited. Charlotte looked at him, eventually sighing. “And, well if you must know, that Don was missing after speaking to Carl about the desk in the hours before the break-in.” Graham stared at Prendergast.

  “You spoke to Don English about the desk?”

  “Yes,” Prendergast said, “Is that a crime?”

  “Yes! It makes you a witness! You cannot be representing Ms. Hughes if you’re a witness. Get out of here! Harding, take Mr. Prendergast and keep him in reception. If he gives you any trouble, arrest him. Jesus, man.”

  Prendergast didn’t need to be told twice. He scuttled out of the room.

  “Ms. Hughes, do you want to call the duty solicitor before we continue?”

  Charlotte sighed, wearily. “No, no. Let’s get this over with.” She leaned her forearms on the table and faced Graham across it. She seemed more at ease now that Prendergast was out of the room. “I thought Don might be here on Jersey looking for something. Something I really didn’t want found, something that could damage my bid for election. I wanted to find out what he knew, if he’d found it.”

  “And what was that ‘something’ pray?”

  “A letter,” she croaked, “I’ve never known what it said. But I knew it would be damaging to my family.”

  “And does your brother have it?”

  “Stepbrother,” Charlotte murmured. “No. Yes. Oh, I don’t know. I tried to flush him out, but well, you know what happened at the Castle. He just flipped. Crazy. He wants to ruin me, and with a temper like his, who knows what he’s capable of?”

  “What do you know of the repairs that were being completed on your father’s desk?”

  “I know the cost of them and the name of the person making the repairs. I also know that he was killed.

  “And do you know anything about that? About the killing of Felipe Barrios?”

  Charlotte looked Graham squarely in the eyes. She stared into them for a full three seconds before replying. “Absolutely not.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  GRAHAM SPIED BARNWELL at the reception desk. “Come with me, Constable. Harding can cover. We’ve got some investigating to do.”

  Ten minutes later, they pulled up at Don English’s B&B at the same time. Barnwell propped his bike up against the front garden railings. Graham found a parking spot just two doors down. He strolled along the sidewalk to join the constable outside the gate.

  “I’m impressed with your commitment, Barnwell. Would never have had you down as a cycling man.”

  “Does me good, sir. The fresh air and the exercise.”

  The sun was shining directly on to the small terraced house, the glare from the upstairs window forcing them to shield their eyes. Barnwell pressed the catch of the wrought iron gate with a “ting,” and they walked silently up to the front door. Blue and purple hyacinths in pots on either side emitted a delightful aroma as they waited for Don’s landlady. They held their police IDs at the ready to reassure her.

  “Yes?” Mrs. Lampard said as soon as she opened the door. She was well into her seventies and tiny. She peered up at the two men through horn-rimmed glasses. Graham reckoned that he towered over her by a
t least a foot.

  “We’re from Gorey Constabulary, Ma’am. I rang earlier. About your guest, Mr. English? We’d like to see his room.”

  “Oh yes, come on in,” Mrs. Lampard stood back to let them through. I’m glad to have caught you, I’m just back from the hairdresser’s.” She gently patted her cotton candy spun hair. There was a faint purple hue to it.

  “How is business at this time of year, Mrs. Lampard?”

  “It’s a bit slow right now, but starting the end of next month, I’ll be full until September. It’s always like that, like clockwork.” Mrs. Lampard held onto the bottom step bannister rail. She looked as though she could barely make a cup of tea, let alone a bed and a full English breakfast on a daily basis.

  “When was the last time you had a booking? Before Mr. English.”

  “Couple of weeks ago. God willing, I’ll have another before high season starts. My pension doesn’t go very far these days.”

  “If you’d be so kind as to show us Mr. English’s room….?”

  “First on the left at the top of the stairs,” she said, unnecessarily indicating the flight of stairs that loomed ahead of them. The two men trotted up as she watched.

  The room was sunny and decorated brightly. Yellow daffodils sat in a fussy blue vase on a chest of drawers. Next to it, there was a tray with tea-making paraphernalia and a plastic kettle. In the corner was a small, white ceramic sink. Beside the taps sat soap, a face cloth, and shaving equipment.

  Graham looked around, mentally cataloging everything he saw. The bed had been made. Don’s old-fashioned, striped pajamas were folded and neatly placed on the pillow. A battered paperback sat on the bedside table. In the corner was a wicker laundry basket that had seen better days. Several of the willow twigs had escaped their confines and splayed out waiting to injure the next person who came close. On a table under the window were papers neatly stacked.