The Case of the Missing Letter

by Alison Golden

  Lillian’s head bobbed furiously. Graham’s use of the White House Inn’s reception manager’s first name appeared to have unnerved her. “Of course,” she said, a little uncertainty creeping into her voice.

  “You see, Ms. Hart, we understand that your client, Ms. Hughes, asked you to call Mr. Barrios and attempt to buy an old family letter she was trying to locate. And, Ms. Hart, we have phone details that make a connection to Ms. Hughes and Mr. Barrios via a third party. Now would that third party be you, by any chance?”

  “No.”

  “So this isn’t you, then?” Graham placed Charlotte Hughes’ phone on the table and played a voice message. Lillian’s voice rang out.

  “Charlotte, it’s me. Where the hell are you? The fool wouldn’t play ball. I’m going to try one more thing. Be in touch soon.”

  “This was placed shortly after a call from the same number was made to Felipe Barrios.” Lillian pursed her lips and shut her eyes briefly. “I’m guessing that wasn’t from you, either?”

  “So what? All that proves is that I made a call,” Lillian practically spat at him.

  “Ms. Hughes has already told us that she was looking for an item that might be damaging to her family’s reputation. What can you tell us about that?”

  “Nothing, nothing at all” Lillian had transformed. Now she was smiling nervously, apparently eager to help but unable to do so. “Charlotte told me she was worried and asked me to help her find it. I did call Mr. Barrios, but he told me he was completely unaware of such a thing.”

  “And you didn’t go to Mr. Barrios’ workshop later that evening?” Graham raised his eyebrows.

  “No, why would I do that?”

  “Perhaps to apply a little more pressure…?”

  “Look, I demand you release me. I have done nothing wrong!”

  “You see we found the weapon that killed Mr. Barrios in Don English’s room—”

  “Then why are you questioning me? It is he that should be sitting across the table from you. Not me.”

  “Except that he maintains his innocence.”

  Lillian scoffed, seizing the opportunity to go on the offensive again. “Well, what does that prove? He would, wouldn’t he?”

  The door behind Lillian opened and Janice poked her head in. She flashed a thumbs up sign and quickly closed the door again.

  “So when we examine your DNA and compare it with the evidence we found alongside the murder weapon, we won’t find a match?”

  “No.” Lillian rubbed her nose. “How could you? I already said. I was in bed being kept awake in that godforsaken guest house.”

  “You’re lying, Ms. Hart.”

  “No, I am not,” Lillian was sitting up in her chair, rigid.

  “I put it to you that you knew if this letter were exposed, it would cover your client in scandal, and therefore, you. Charlotte Hughes would risk losing the Parliamentary seat she is campaigning for. And you didn’t want that, did you?”

  “Are you suggesting I murdered a man all over some letter that may have harmed my client’s reputation? That’s preposterous. Of course it wasn’t me. Murder? Me? Why would I do such a thing?”

  “Because you thought you could get away with it. To protect your client. To protect yourself.”

  “Rubbish.”

  “Ms. Hart, we know you called Mr. Barrios to offer to buy the letter from him. We can also place you at Don English’s B&B the day after the attack. I know for a fact that the desk is only manned at the White House Inn until midnight, so we only have your word for it that you were there all night. And we have a match for your DNA on hair found with the murder weapon. It’s only a matter of time before we place you at the murder scene. Now tell me, are you sure you had nothing to do with the murder of Felipe Barrios?”

  Lillian stared ahead, her mouth turned down, her eyes lidded.

  “Ms. Hart?”

  Lillian pulled herself to her full height and exhaled. She looked at Graham defiantly. “Yes, yes, I did it. The stupid man wouldn’t take my money. I went there to persuade him. He wasn’t supposed to die. I just wanted to knock him out so I could search for whatever it was I was looking for. And I still didn’t find it.”

  “And you planted the murder weapon in Don English’s room to frame him?”

  Lillian sneered. “Don English is a moron. He’ll never amount to anything. He’d be no loss to society.” Her mouth pursed in an ugly plum streak. She held Graham’s gaze, her back ramrod straight. “I did it for my client and her constituents. They are the losers in this.”

  “It’s just marvelous, this,” Roach enthused. He had traveled to the mainland to visit Dr. Oxley in his offices. “A few hours ago, this document was completely soaked with blood, but now…”

  Oxley held the piece of paper aloft with a pair of tweezers. “Not bad,” he conceded. “I’ve seen better, but this will do nicely. We have the author to thank, though.” He set the document down in a plastic tray and slid it under the body of a machine that was so new that, as Roach observed, it still had that ‘new hardware smell.’ At first glance, it appeared that a design team had become confused as to whether it was producing a flatbed scanner, a fax machine, or a high-end cappuccino maker.

  “The author?” Roach asked. “How did he help?”

  “Well,” Oxley said, orienting the tray below a scanning arm and pressing a sequence of buttons on the machine’s LCD display, “he used a type of ink which was pretty low in iron content. Blood naturally contains a good deal of iron, and old-fashioned common iron gall ink would have really confused matters. As it happens, we should be able to read the whole document, once the X-ray scan is complete.”

  “Remarkable,” Roach breathed again. “How does it work?”

  Twenty minutes later, Roach considered himself a minor expert on the use of X-ray technology to peer inside damaged and ancient documents. “So, even after its been wet,” he summarized, “the X-ray scan picks up the tiny rises in the contour of the paper caused by the impression of the pen, and the presence of the ink?”

  “Spot on,” Oxley said, relieved that Roach had a quicker and more agile mind than he had initially expected. “And, drum roll please…“ The printer networked to the X-ray scanner began producing a high-resolution image, one fraction of an inch at a time, until the two men were virtually hopping from one foot to another with impatience.

  “So, your boss,” Oxley said as the print-out inched glacially along. “Smart chap, isn’t he? Very deductive, I hear.”

  Roach didn’t take his eyes off the emerging printout, as he replied, “As smart as they come. He’s a detective, right down to his bones. Eats, sleeps, thinks, and breathes crime-solving. He’s been very good to me.”

  Oxley nodded. “What do you think this is all about?” The letter was almost ready, but Oxley had already warned Roach against yanking it out of the printer prematurely.

  “I think the letter was originally hidden in the desk,” he said. “And I think it’s going to fill in a lot of gaps in these cases we’ve been working on.”

  The printout dropped into the output tray and Oxley promptly picked it up. He turned it, so that they could read together. Three minutes later, as Roach dialed Graham’s cellphone, Oxley said, “What are the chances that the person finding this would have the knowledge to know the significance of it?”

  “Pretty tiny, I should imagine,” Roach replied.

  “Pity Mr. Barrios didn’t turn this in right away. He might still be alive,” Oxley said.

  Graham picked up. Roach spoke seriously into his phone. “He was a traitor, sir. Sir Thomas Hughes. A traitor.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  The Palace of the People

  Antigua de San Marcos

  19 May, 1974

  My dear Thomas,

  What a pleasure it is to write to you amid the peace and quiet of a restful afternoon. You must be concerned about our wellbeing, but let me assure you that the recent unpleasantness is quite at an end. We are relaxin
g after a lengthy cabinet meeting this morning – Julia sends her kisses, both to you and Susannah, whom we hope is very well. I’m sure she is as beautiful as ever.

  Perhaps I should revise my greeting, above – it is Sir Thomas now, is it not? Congratulations on this long overdue honour; finally, your imperialist Queen has seen fit to elevate you as you deserve, some twenty months after San Marcos bestowed her highest award upon our most loyal European friend. It is no less than you deserve.

  It is out of friendship that I write today, Sir Thomas. Words cannot express the great debt that is now owed to you by the freedom-loving people of San Marcos. I say this only to you, as I am certain of your discretion. We were staring into the abyss, my friend. The rebels were rampaging through the countryside, looting and burning. Even my military commanders were beginning to plan for the worst. There was talk of a massive barricade around the city. Without proper intelligence or air power, the advance would never have been stopped, and we could not long have endured a siege.

  But then, the angels came in the form of you! Long moribund and gathering dust at our three aerodromes, our helicopters, refitted thanks to your kindness, took to the skies and saved the revolution! I begged our neighbors, our friends, even the KGB, for the spare parts to bring our air forces back to life, but only you responded. You recognized the danger, and you took swift and decisive action. And for this timely response, I owe you my presidency and the future security and happiness of my country as well as my life and those of my family.

  Please be assured of my complete and utter discretion. I am indeed aware of the jeopardy you put yourself in to help us, and the danger to you should your role on our behalf become known. I realize you will be seen as an Enemy of your People. This is not a debt easily repaid, Sir Thomas, but I will find a way. Please know that, should it become necessary, there will always be a home for you here. In the meantime, the people of San Marcos owe you the deepest and most profound thanks. I will forever hold you in the very highest esteem. You have my own deepest and sincerest thanks, as well as my fond and lifelong friendship.

  Your loyal and grateful brother,

  General Augusto Fuente

  President of San Marcos

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  THE RULES WERE firm and clear. Graham knew he couldn’t close his office door during this delicate interview with Laura Beecham. Instead, the intensely curious, but assiduously toiling Sergeant Harding and Constable Roach would be able to witness much of the meeting from the open-plan office outside his own. Graham was determined that it appear as professional as possible.

  “I know I promised coffee,” Graham said, “but in truth, I’m much more of a tea man.”

  Sitting across from him, in dark jeans and a gray sweater, Laura bit her lip anxiously. Her first scheduled encounter with this attractive, interesting man was taking place, not at a coffee or tea shop as they had planned, but at a police station. In his office, no less. And as part of an investigation that had yielded the arrest of a man wanted for multiple murders.

  “Mrs. Taylor did warn me,” she said. “What type of tea are you treating me to?”

  Graham could tell by the scent of the leaves, without even checking the container. “Jasmine from Taiwan,” he said. “Very aromatic, just a little floral. Full of antioxidants too, so they claim. Apparently it can help people recovering from serious illness.”

  Laura gave him a small smile. “Well, I’m recovering from a bit of a shock, I’ll admit, but I have you to thank that it wasn’t more serious. That gunman could have killed me.”

  Graham sipped his tea and began making notes. “I can’t take any credit, I’m afraid, much as I’d like to. Constable Barnwell was your savior, not me. I was wrapped up in a murder case. I didn’t know anything about it until it was all over.

  Laura brushed this off. “You can’t be everywhere. And your constable was magnificent.”

  “I’ll make sure he knows that,” Graham said. “But I have to ask, Miss Beecham…”

  “Laura,” she said. “Please.”

  “I have to ask, Laura, why would a notorious mob figure like Frank Bertolli come down to Jersey to kill you?” Graham had spent a significant part of the last hours developing several theories, but each was less credible than the last. Laura was not the type to have become involved in any criminal activity; at least Graham hoped she wasn’t. Though he’d have said the same thing about Don English, Adam Harris-Watts and perhaps even Charlotte Hughes. Lillian Hart, on the other hand, was an aberration that couldn’t be anticipated.

  “Okay, but this must all remain ‘off the record,’” Laura said leaning forward and lowering her voice. “That has to be a condition of my explaining it.”

  Graham closed his notebook and pushed it away. “No problem.”

  “And,” she asked, turning to glance behind her, “could we close the door?”

  “It’s against the rules,” Graham explained, “without another officer present.”

  “Just for a few moments,” Laura requested. “I want to make sure this isn’t overheard.”

  Graham hesitated, then moved to close the door. He thought he caught the tail end of Harding and Roach ducking their heads, but they appeared to be working with an uncommon focus. He sat back down and allowed Laura to tell her story in her own way.

  She exhaled and began. “I was working in a pub just by Stratford Station in east London.” She gave him a quick smile to hide her embarrassment. “A librarian’s pay isn’t enough to live on in London, that’s for sure. Do you know the area?”

  “Vaguely. Where the Olympic Park is?”

  “Right. Well, there were a group of men who came in regularly. Over a few weeks we got friendly, you know, them telling me their problems, troubles at home, or at work, just banter, typical stuff,” she shrugged.

  Graham nodded, “Go on,”

  “Well, one Sunday night, they came in quite late and in a good mood. The landlord stayed open after closing time and asked me to stay on to serve them. It was just them and me. I thought they’d come from the Premiership game or maybe the dog track. They were buying champagne and expensive liquor. It was out of character.”

  Arms folded, Graham leaned back and pictured the scene. “So what were they celebrating? A win on the dogs?”

  Laura looked over her shoulder just once to make sure the door was closed. “A diamond heist. One of the biggest. Diamonds worth a hundred million pounds.”

  Graham couldn’t prevent his mouth from falling open. “The Marble-Kilgore heist?” he gasped. “They admitted it?”

  “Not in so many words,” Laura cautioned. “But I overheard enough of what they said. I went to the police and agreed to become a witness, but…”

  “You needed protecting. And what better way than to spirit you off to a quiet little island in the English Channel?”

  Laura nodded and tucked a strand of blond hair behind her ear. “Exactly. The Met wanted it kept as quiet as possible.”

  “So quiet,” Graham pointed out, his eyebrows raised, “that they didn’t even tell the Jersey Police about you.”

  Laura frowned, “The officer in charge of the witness protection scheme said that…”

  “Someone down here might blab,” Graham said. “Sensible enough, I suppose, though a little over-cautious. Besides,” he added with just a hint of frustration, “if we’d known you were here, we could have protected you.”

  Laura gave a long sigh. “I recognize that now. If I had the time over, I’d do things differently.” She looked at him apologetically.

  “It wasn’t your fault.” Graham met her gaze. “Thank you for leveling with me. I have to admit the whole thing had me rather stumped.”

  Laura feigned surprise. “The legendary DI Graham, stumped? Surely not.”

  He let his professional demeanor drop a little. “Well,” he grinned sheepishly, “only for a few hours. But still, if you hadn’t come down here, we wouldn’t have collared Bertolli.”

  “And we
would never have met,” Laura pointed out.

  There were ten seconds of silence before Graham found the courage to dispense with the rules for the second time in almost as many minutes and say what he most wanted to. “You know, I’m actually due half a day off.”

  “And the library is closed for repairs.” Laura said, smiling.

  Graham stood. “I wonder if you would allow me to show you around the island. Maybe take you to some of the sights?” He made a fuss of opening the door and was gratified to find Roach and Harding once more silently intent upon their work. “Any calls come in, Sergeant?” he asked Harding.

  “Nothing we can’t handle, sir,” she replied. “Taking a half-day, sir?”

  He shot her a look but only briefly. “I think I will,” he said.

  “We all deserve a break, I reckon,” Constable Roach piped up. “We’ve had quite enough excitement for a while. And, I’ve got my sergeant’s exam in ten days.’”

  “Ten days?! High time for a quiz then, wouldn’t you say?” Harding bustled around, getting down the police duties manual.

  There was a bang, and they all turned to see Constable Barnwell burst through the doors.

  “Mornin’ all. How are we doin?’” Barnwell noticed Graham shrugging into his jacket. “On your way out, sir?”

  “Yes, Constable,” Graham said in a tone that didn’t invite further questioning. “While I’m gone, sort that room out in the back. It’s like Piccadilly Circus in there.”

  Graham and Laura left them to it and headed out into the spring sunshine. “Where first?” Laura asked. “I haven’t been to the castle yet.”

  Graham smiled knowingly. “Let me give Stephen Jeffries a call. The exhibit hasn’t opened yet, but there are some displays in the basement that you won’t believe.” He dialed Jeffries number. “Ready?” he asked.

  Laura gave him a smile that matched the sunny day. “Ready.”