The Case of the Missing Letter

by Alison Golden

  “What are we looking for, sir?” Barnwell asked as Graham handed him a pair of latex gloves.

  “Anything, Constable, anything that could tie Don English to the break-in at the museum or the Barrios’ murder. Here, bag the toothbrush for DNA,” Graham held out an evidence bag, “and go take a look in the bathroom.” Barnwell picked the toothbrush out of a cloudy glass and dropped it into the bag before disappearing down the hallway to the bathroom Don had shared with his host.

  Graham wandered over to the window. After giving the papers that lay on the table underneath it a cursory look, he started opening drawers in the chest next to it. There was nothing in them. Don clearly hadn’t settled himself in, and so Graham moved to the open suitcase that lay on the floor. It was a jumble of clothes and belongings.

  “Nothing in there, sir,” Barnwell said coming back in the room. “Find anything?”

  Graham stood up from the suitcase. “Nothing in this case, that’s for sure. Take a look at those papers on the table by the window. Do they look like the notes that Don English dropped in the café?”

  Barnwell looked them over without touching them. “Yup, I’d say. ‘LETTER,’ ‘DESK,’ ‘MYSTERY PERSON.’ Looks pretty incriminating, sir.”

  Graham moved over to the tall, imposing oak wardrobe in the corner of the room and turned the key that sat in the lock. The door swung open immediately, creaking. There on the bottom shelf was a gun. Graham picked it up carefully. He knew immediately it was a fake. It wasn’t nearly heavy enough to be real. He held it up to the light.

  “Cowboys and Indians, sir?” Barnwell asked.

  “Cowboys certainly, son.” Graham bagged it and set it down next to the piles of paper. “Check under the bed, would you?” Graham moved over to the bedside table, opening the drawer and flipping through the pages of the dusty Bible that he found inside.

  “Sir?”

  “Hmm?”

  “There’s something here, sir,” Barnwell was lying on his front, his arm outstretched as he strained to reach under the double bed. Carefully he dragged out an object wrapped in a cloth. Barnwell sniffed.

  “It smells of something, sir. Can’t place it, though.” Graham came over.

  “Varnish, Constable. Well, come on. Open it up!”

  Barnwell gingerly opened the cloth. His eyes widened. “Got him, sir!” Wrapped inside was a thin round metal file about ten inches long.

  “Would you boys like a cup of tea?” The two men turned, surprised by Mrs. Lampard’s voice.

  “Oh no, thank you. We’ll be done shortly,” Graham said, disappointing Barnwell who could have murdered a cup.

  “Did you find anything? This is my room normally. I can make more money from it than the spare room. Is Mr. English in any trouble? I do hope not.

  “Just routine, Ma’am,” Graham said.

  “Not for me, Inspector. It’s quite exciting, isn’t it? Are you sure you don’t want a cup of tea?”

  “Quite sure, thank you. But you can put the kettle on, if you’d like.”

  “Oh, why’s that?”

  “Because this room is going to be crawling with a crowd of Scenes of Crimes officers very shortly, and I’m sure they’d like a cuppa when they’re done.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  “OH GOOD,” DON breathed as the Graham came into the interview room, “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  Graham glared at him as he sat down opposite. “That’s not a reaction I get very often,” he said. In contrast to Carl Prendergast, Don’s solicitor sat quietly, taking notes.

  Don shrugged. “I think I’ll be the least complicated part of this whole business,” he said. He held his hands up, “I confess.”

  “Really?” Graham opened his notebook in a response conditioned by years of interviews. He began to write.

  Don put his elbows on the table and rubbed his face with his hands. When he pulled them away, he sighed and said, “I broke into the museum last Sunday night. I was looking for a hidden compartment inside the Satterthwaite Desk, but I didn’t get very far.”

  “You were interrupted by someone?” Graham asked.

  “The guard. We said a few things to each other. Threats and such,” Don said. “He was in the middle of backing off when he just went down like a sack of spuds.”

  Graham kept writing. “He had a name, Mr. English. Nobby Norris. He’d been working as a security guard at the museum for three years. He enjoyed soccer and having a pint down the pub.”

  “Yes, sorry. I feel terrible about his death. I’m so sorry.”

  “And so Mr. Norris collapsed, did he? Right in front of you?”

  Don mimed the event with his hands. “Thump. I figured he’d just lost his balance, or fainted for a moment.

  “You didn’t think to come to his aid?”

  “I expected him to get right up and chase me out of there! I was so scared that I legged it back out through the window.”

  “But he didn’t get up, did he?” Graham asked.

  “I didn’t know that!” Don insisted. “It was dark in there, and I couldn’t see what had happened to him. Not properly. I’m not an experienced criminal, you know. Never even stolen a pack of gum from the corner shop.”

  “A man died, Mr. English. He left behind a widow, two sons, and three grandchildren. I doubt they care two hoots about the status of your criminal record at this point. You threatened him with a gun! The fact is he may still be alive today if you hadn’t broken into the museum and scared him to death.”

  “Yes, yes, Detective. You’re right. I feel terrible, but I didn’t mean it to happen. If I could turn the clock back, I would. I simply wanted to see inside the desk.” Don appealed, his palms up. “I think it better to own up to what I’ve done and let justice take its course. It was utterly stupid of me, and I won’t ever forget it. I’m sorry. I know I need to pay.”

  Graham sighed and set aside his notebook. “The thing is, Mr. Norris’ death notwithstanding, you’re in a pile of other trouble, aren’t you?” Don looked at him blankly. Graham waited for him to speak, but when nothing was forthcoming, he continued, “That desk you were so keen to check out. The person repairing it, Felipe Barrios, he was murdered.” Graham noticed small beads of sweat had appeared on English’ brow.

  “Yes, I know. I heard about it on the news. Terrible.”

  “So what do you know about that?”

  “Nothing.” English shook his head.

  Graham looked at him carefully, “Talk to me about your room at the B&B you’re staying at.”

  Don pursed his lips and shook his head slowly from side to side. “It’s just a B&B. I checked in on Sunday. The landlady is pleasant enough. Good breakfasts. Why?”

  Graham bent to look at the notes in front of him. “What about the object we found under your bed?” He looked up at Don, skeptically.

  Don stared at him. “What kind of object?”

  “A file.”

  “A file?” Don asked, at length. “You mean, like papers?”

  “A metal file,” Graham said.

  Don raised his eyebrows and shoulders simultaneously. He gave a sheepish grin. “Oh, I don’t know anything about that. I don’t do DIY.” There was a confused look on his face.

  “I don’t suppose you do murder, either,” Graham said quietly. “Maybe just dabble in it now and again when you’re feeling like it, hmm?” He placed both hands on the table. “We have reason to believe the file we found under your bed was used to murder Mr. Barrios.”

  Don lurched up and to the right, startled into a spasm of panic. “Mur… Murder?” he gasped. “But, I…”

  “The file was wrapped in a cloth that we have good reason to believe came from the victim’s workshop. Will we find your DNA on it, Don?”

  Shaking, muttering, then trying to stand, Don was a miserable sight. “No,” he said, over and over. “No, that’s wrong, that’s wrong, that’s wrong. No, no, no, no, noooooo!”

  Graham ignored Don’s dramatic display. It was ju
st this kind of questioning that brought suspects to those points of extremis and panic where the truth would emerge. “Where were you the night Barrios was killed?”

  “In bed, of course. At my B&B.”

  “Can anyone vouch for you?”

  “My landlady doesn’t like people coming and going after 11 o’clock, and I’ve been respecting her wishes. She could confirm it.”

  “Do you have a key?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Hardly a cast iron alibi then, is it Mr. English?”

  Don said nothing.

  There was a knock on the door. It was Harding. “It’s Tomlinson,” she said, handing Graham a phone when they were outside the room.

  Graham tapped the mute button. “Marcus? Are you going to make my day even more extraordinary?”

  “Results on the file, old chap. It was definitely the murder weapon. Plenty of Barrios’ DNA on it, but no prints or anything to connect it to Don English. Or anyone else for that matter.”

  “Damn! What about the cloth? Did that come from the workshop?”

  “The chemical composition of the varnish on the cloth matched that found in a can on the workbench next to the desk, so I think we can be pretty sure on that. The strange thing is, there’s a hair caught up in the threads of the cloth. Isn’t a match for anyone. Not Barrios, his wife, Charlotte Hughes, or English. It’s an odd color, a sort of lavender.”

  “Probably the landlady’s. She has a purple tint to her hair. I’ll send someone to get a DNA sample from her. Anything else?”

  “No, nothing, sorry.” Tomlinson rang off. Graham blew out his cheeks and looked up at the ceiling.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  GRAHAM GAVE THE departing van a quick salute. “Farewell, Adam Harris-Watts. Until your trial, anyway.” Charged with three different offenses relating to the theft of the medal, he expected Harris-Watts to be bailed and required to wear an electronic tag until his trial.

  Graham strode back through the reception area. For Janice and Jack’s benefit, Barnwell was re-enacting his rugby tackle of Frank Bertolli, whose arrest was causing quite a flutter at the Metropolitan Police Headquarters in London.

  “He’s wanted in connection with six gang-related murders,” Harding told Graham.

  “Yes, but what the hell was he doing on Jersey?” Graham asked. “And at the library, for heaven’s sake?” Harding gave him a look that he found hard to interpret.

  “…Murder weapon, gun.” Barnwell moved on to the find of the morning. “There was all kinds of notes about the desk and such. Even a cloth that smells of varnish. Couldn’t be more obvious. A metal file, about ten inches long. We sent forensics down there, pronto.”

  “Don’t count your chickens. The metal file was definitely the murder weapon, but SOCO hasn’t turned up anything to connect us to a murderer yet,” Graham said, striding through reception on his way to his office. “Barnwell, I need you to get a DNA sample from Mrs. Lampard. We need to rule her out.”

  Graham’s interview with English and his conversation with Tomlinson had left him puzzled. He’d pushed, and Don had wilted. He’d pressed, and Don had looked ready to fold. But the bedeviled man hadn’t actually admitted anything. Without DNA evidence to connect Don to the crime or a confession, Graham was looking at highly circumstantial evidence at best. That wasn’t good enough.

  “I’m going to take another run at Charlotte Hughes, Janice. Can you bring her to the interview room?”

  “Before you do that, sir,” Janice said, trotting alongside him. “Jack has found something interesting.” She showed Graham Felipe Barrios’ phone records. “Remember he received a call in the evening before he was murdered? We can’t trace it. Must have come from a burner.”

  “Tell him to keep at it, Harding,”

  “He also found something else.” Janice’s tone stopped Graham now. He listened carefully.

  “The number comes up again. This time on the records of a completely different phone.”

  “Whose?”

  “Charlotte Hughes. Charlotte Hughes and Felipe Barrios both received a call from the same untraceable number the night he died.”

  Graham sat opposite Charlotte. He was tired. It had been a long day. “Felipe Barrios received a call on the night of his death. Prior to that call being made, you also received one from the same number. Is there anything you’d like to say about that, Ms. Hughes?”

  Charlotte sat back abruptly in her seat. She turned down the corners of her mouth and shook her head. “No. Who is this call supposed to be from? I receive a lot of calls.” She shrugged.

  “I was hoping you’d tell me.”

  Charlotte flushed. She looked about her, drawing her breath in one long inhale.

  “Is there something you’re not telling me, Ms. Hughes?” Charlotte looked up at the ceiling, her hands clasped across her body. Her thumbs were tapping her sides furiously. “Because if there is, and you’re not,” Graham continued, “I could have you bang to rights on so many charges, your dreams of a future, let alone a parliamentary career, would be but a puff of smoke.” He leaned in toward Charlotte, who lowered her head to look at him.

  “I don’t know anything that’s relevant.” Charlotte responded.

  “Let me decide what’s relevant.”

  Graham waited. He didn’t take his eyes off the woman across the table. Charlotte looked away.

  “Look, I—” She sighed. “I wanted to flush out if Felipe Barrios had the letter by offering to buy it. But it didn’t go anywhere. Barrios wouldn’t sell or didn’t have it. I don’t know which,” she added quickly.

  “So you called him?”

  “No, I couldn’t risk it,” Charlotte took a deep breath, as she seemed to find some resolve. “No, I wasn’t brave enough to make the call myself.” She looked back at Graham.

  “Then who did?”

  “I asked my campaign manager, Lillian Hart, to do it for me.”

  “Where is this Lillian Hart now?”

  “At home, I assume. Miles away. In Market Ellestry.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Charlotte stared at him, “Well, no actually. I haven’t spoken to her since I asked her to make the call to Barrios.”

  “And when was that?”

  “Tuesday. Tuesday evening.”

  Graham frowned. “What does she look like?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Late fifties, five foot ten, large build. Likes bright loud clothes, lots of makeup. Smokes like a trooper.”

  “Hair?

  “Short. Pixie cut.”

  “Color?”

  “Lavender. Purple is her signature color.”

  Graham thundered out of the interview room and walked into his office, slamming the door behind him. He dialed a number.

  “Mrs. Lampard? It’s Detective Inspector Graham from Gorey Constabulary. I came to see you earlier.”

  He paused, “No nothing’s wrong, I just have a couple of extra questions for you. Has anyone inquired about your room in the last few days?”

  Mrs. Lampard spoke on the other end.

  “I see, did she ask to see the room at all?” He waited as the elderly woman answered his question.

  “And did you leave her alone?” Another pause.

  “I’m sure it does, Mrs. Lampard. Well, thank you, that is all. You’ve been very helpful. Goodbye.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  “THEY’VE GOT HER, sir. Boarding a flight to the mainland. They’re bringing her in now,” Harding said. Two immigration officers had intercepted Lillian and handed her over to St. Helier police.

  The doors were pushed open and Lillian, her mascara streaming and her lipstick smeared, jostled her way into the lobby between two bomber-jacketed policemen. Her hands were cuffed in front of her.

  “This is outrageous!” she bellowed at Janice, who looked at her without batting an eyelid. Lillian saw Graham standing at the back of the office area, regarding her. “Are you in charge? I demand that I be released immediately
!”

  “Ms. Hart, if you don’t calm down, you will be put into the cells until you do,” Janice said. Graham hadn’t moved, and she knew he had confidence in her to handle the prisoner.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “One more word, Ma’am, and we’ll put you in a cell,” Janice repeated.

  “Well, really.” Janice booked Lillian in and took a DNA swab kit from a drawer under the desk. “Would you provide us with a DNA sample?”

  “Is it really necessary?” Lillian objected, crossly.

  “It is entirely voluntary at this stage, Ma’am, but it will help our investigation.” Lillian huffed but submitted, opening her mouth to allow Janice to wipe the swab around her mouth before she took her to the interview room. Graham continued to watch silently.

  It took two hours for Ms. Hart’s solicitor to arrive. During that time, she sat at the interview table or paced back and forth across the room. Periodically, she’d demand that she be allowed to smoke a cigarette and each time, Sergeant Harding, who’d been given the task of guarding her, refused.

  Eventually, everything was in place for the interview to start. Graham entered the room quietly, in marked contrast to the huffing woman. “I am Detective Inspector Graham, Ms. Hart.”

  “Why am I here?” Lillian almost shrieked. Her voice was shrill.

  “You’re here in connection with the murder of Felipe Barrios.”

  “You’re being absurd. Do you know who I am?”

  “We understand that you flew in from the mainland three days ago? Can you tell me where you were on Wednesday night?”

  “In my horrible boarding house, the White House Inn, trying to sleep despite all that clanking. Their heating system is simply appalling!

  Graham suppressed a smile. He knew all about the “clanking.” “Can anyone vouch for that?”

  “I have no idea. You’ll have to speak to the staff,” Lillian responded.

  “So if I spoke to Otto at reception, he’d tell me that he saw you go up to your room and that was all he saw of you until morning.”