by Kris Pearson
I hoped I’d be able to leave a message, but luck wasn’t on my side.
“Carver,” he snapped. Maybe I’d woken him up? “Do you have more information for me, Ms Summerfield?”
I put the phone on speaker. “I do rather.” Had he recognized my number? Graham did that all the time.
“Spit it out then.”
Euw! “Well,” I began. “You mentioned the vase didn’t seem to be the murder weapon, but there’s another one the same.”
I heard him draw a deep breath. “St Agatha’s had a pair of vases,” I said before he could interrupt. “I’ve just had dinner with Paul McCreagh, the vicar. I might have had half a glass of wine too much and told him the broken one didn’t have any blood on it.”
“Might you indeed.” His tone was icy.
“And he said there was another one just like it, so we came back and had a look, and we think it needs checking out in case there’s any…”
“Blood.”
“Um, yes. And there’s something else. I meant to phone you earlier this evening but I got caught up feeding Isobel’s dogs and getting dressed for dinner.”
“Yeeeeessss…” he said in a resigned tone.
“Well, there’s a computer out at the Point. In a secret office. I found it quite by chance, and it looks like someone rushed out in a hurry because it’s still going. Put to sleep. Not turned off.” I swallowed, and glanced across at Paul. His eyes were huge and his jaw had dropped open.
“So I had a quick look,” I continued. “There’s very strange stuff on it. Files about stealing cars, maybe? And Black Ops. And moving to America. And making soap.”
“Soap?” Paul muttered.
“Soap?” Bruce Carver demanded.
“Yes, and I think I know why that’s there. It’s because Tom Alsop has a secret son with a woman called Elsa Hudson, and she’s a soap-maker, and she’s currently at a crafting conference out at Horse Heaven in Old Bay Road.”
Bruce Carver expelled a long half-whistle of frustration. “I think we’d be more interested in the stolen cars and Black Ops, Ms Summerfield. Where is this computer, please?”
“In a locked office in the locked garage out at the Point. It’s quite safe.”
Beside me, Paul had recovered somewhat and was trying not to laugh.
“I’ll be the judge of that, Ms Summerfield. I’ll get a team together and we’ll be out there as soon as possible.”
“No – I’m not there,” I bleated. “Come in the morning. Any time after eight. Hang on.” I thrust the phone sideways. “Tell him what time suits you for the vase.”
Paul sat there shaking his head at me. “What a dope you are,” he said. “Not you, detective,” he added hurriedly. “I was talking to Merry. Basically any time’s fine. The church is locked. No-one else has the key. I can open up any time at all for you. If you want a look now, no worries, although I don’t see the point in disturbing anyone so late at night.”
Bruce Carver harrumphed a bit and eventually conceded early in the morning would be fine.
“And you’ll need to take my prints,” Paul said. “I’d be the last person to handle the vase. I used the other flowers Isabel had brought and put them in the second vase to get them out of the way of your forensics people when they attended to the carpet.”
“Understood,” Bruce Carver said. “I’ll have someone there by eight, and then we’ll go on to the Point. I assume Ms Summerfield will be there by then?”
What a cheek! He was practically accusing me of sleeping with Paul and then dashing home at the crack of dawn.
I leaned over and snapped at him, “I’ll be there by midnight.”
“Then drive safely, Ms Summerfield. And thank you both for your co-operation.” He clicked off before I could say anything else.
“Merry,” Paul protested. “Why didn’t you tell me? Timing might be really important for those files.”
After that comment I certainly wasn’t going to let on I’d known about them for the last several days. “I’m sure there’s no hurry, Paul. Once I looked at them – only briefly – I was pretty sure it was Tom Alsop’s office and not Isobel’s. Isobel’s dead and Tom’s still away cruising, so nothing will be happening.”
His brow crinkled. “But why would Tom have an office on Isobel’s property?”
“Huh! There’s a story there. When I was walking the dogs and stopped to talk to Jim Drizzle about… ummm… whatever it was… he mentioned Tom had got Isobel’s family a good deal on that old Mini years ago and then paid to build a garage for it because of the salt spray. Jim had it down as a good deed because the old father drank and they had no money, but once I accidentally found the secret office it all started falling into place.”
“Not a good deed?”
“No – he wanted somewhere away from his home and away from his work to keep secret stuff. I’m betting it was a kind of bribe. Let me build this garage but the space down the end is mine. Isobel was definitely using it too, although maybe only recently.”
Paul pinched the bridge of his nose. “Are you safe to drive now?”
“Yes, drop me home and I’ll collect today’s clothes and catch up with Graham if he’s still awake. Drizzle Bay Road will be deserted at this time of night.”
Paul still looked skeptical. “Lock your car doors while you drive. Text me once you’re home.”
“Yes, Dad.” I rolled my eyes at him.
“And I’ll see you in the morning. I’ll follow the Police out to the Point.”
“They might have arrested you by then.” I grinned at him as I slipped my phone back in my bag.
“Not funny,” he said, starting the engine. “Apart from anything else, I’d be keen to see this ‘secret office’.”
*
As I predicted, traffic along Drizzle Bay Road was almost non-existent at this hour of night. I drove my Focus at a nice moderate speed, not wanting to be stopped for going cautiously too slow as though I might have been drinking, or far too fast as though I certainly had. Looking out at the deserted countryside I thought of Paul’s advice and clicked the button that locked all the doors. They made quite a noise in the quietly purring car, and I smiled at his protectiveness.
There was a big moon rising out of the sea, and almost no signs of civilization. People were either in bed by now or had their curtains drawn. The vet clinic had a light shining over the front door. The agricultural tanks depot had a surprising blue neon sign with ripples of water flashing on and off. Then there was nothing until Drizzle Farm which had ornate black lanterns on top of its brick gateposts. One lightbulb had blown.
I’d only had the car for a short while and it needed a name. I thought about that as I neared the cottage on the dark road, but I was out of inspiration. Effie for the two Fs in Ford Focus? Aubie for its aubergine paintwork? Something more snappy hopefully, but nothing else came to my tired mind.
The driveway gate was open so I coasted right in and braked close to the garage. I must have rushed out in a fair hurry because I generally latch it, but the dogs always stayed near the cottage, so not a worry.
I could hear them. Barking like fury, but not dashing out to greet me. Maybe they had a mouse bailed up in the vegie patch at the back?
I texted ‘Home’ to Paul and hopped out. Yes, there was a big sea running. The waves were really pounding. I stood listening for a few seconds, but whatever the dogs had found was more interesting than me. Then, in a sudden rush, a male shape appeared. Not a very big one, but I still had the high pink heels on, and the concrete was cracked and uneven.
“Missy Crombie,” the shape yelled, lunging for me. I went down in a heap, and the world turned dark.
Chapter 14 – Taped and terrified
Pinot Gris doesn’t give you a headache like this.
Why can’t I move my hands?
Why can’t I move my feet?
Why can I see all those stars?
Why are those dogs still barking?
I drifted in and out
of consciousness for hours. Or maybe I drifted in and out of sleep. Either way, it wasn’t good. I ached all over. Couldn’t move a muscle. Couldn’t say a word because my mouth had something over it. I tried loud moaning, but no-one heard. No surprise there.
I finally worked out I was in Isobel’s office. Imprisoned in her chair. Ankles taped together and secured to the central column. Wrists taped together in front of me, and bound against my chest. Pain like I’d never experienced before had spread through all my cramped limbs, and my head was pounding worse than the surf.
With a lot of wriggling I managed to get the toe of one of my shoes onto the floor. Even that seemed like a huge victory, although it achieved nothing.
How had that small man got my five-foot-eight womanly frame into the garage and onto the chair? No surprise he’d been able to open the garage – my keyring would have clattered onto the concrete with me. He’d obviously known all about the office and how to move the shelves. Surely he couldn’t have been alone? Thank goodness for my cardi, even though it wasn’t super-cozy. And maybe I should be grateful I hadn’t been left lying out on the cold ground like a trussed-up turkey. It was hard to feel very grateful though.
In the big skylight above me the stars slowly disappeared from the midnight-blue sky as it paled to twilight-blue. Or dawn-blue I suppose. And eventually there was enough light to see the iMac was missing, along with many of the notebooks and folders. I squinted through my disgusting headache, trying to focus on the spines of what was left. Couldn’t read a thing.
I was busting for a wee. Thank goodness I’d gone at home before driving back to the cottage but I wasn’t going to last much longer. Almost worse was the craving for water. Behind the tape my mouth was dust-dry. There was barely room to move my tongue over my gums for any relief.
I couldn’t see my watch of course – not with my wrists secured like that. And there was no computer screen any longer with its helpful time. I managed to push on the concrete floor with my one toe and swivel the chair slowly around. The shelf door was shut and no doubt secured. It had been so much effort to even turn around I didn’t bother trying to bump against it to check.
I dropped my head, defeated, then found I was buried in my own hair and slowly raised my face to the sky again. How long before the Police turned up? How long before Paul arrived?
It seemed an age, but finally I heard a noise. It was a lawnmower coughing and roaring and refusing to fire up. Alex must be here! How hadn’t I heard the scream of his noisy motor scooter? Had I passed out again? Had he walked from the farm so no-one heard him leaving?
The dogs started up at the lawnmower noise, still sounding some distance away. Well, at least they were alive… I wished I felt alive too.
The garden shed was pretty close to the garage as far as I could recall. With every ounce of my strength I pushed the toe of my shoe against the floor and crashed the chair backward against the edge of the desk, moaning behind the tape at top volume, and grateful my hands weren’t taped behind me. I managed it four times before I heard the unmistakable sound of knuckles rapping on the garage window and a man yelling, “Are you in there? Is someone in there?”
A lot of good that was going to do. I moaned and crashed again and finally heard a new noise; something scraping against the wall behind me. Then there was creaking as feet climbed a ladder and a body levered itself onto the roof. A few seconds later Alex stared down at me through the skylight window. His eyes widened with shock. Then he looked across to the road, gave me a thumbs-up signal, and creaked his way down again. The side window of the garage exploded with a huge crash as he hit it with something. Broken glass tinkled down all over the Mini and the floor, accompanied by the slam of car doors and bellows of “Freeze.”
He didn’t freeze. From the sudden crunch of big boots on shards of glass I concluded he’d vaulted through the window. “Police are coming,” he yelled.
I just about wet myself with relief.
“Got the little creep trapped,” someone shouted.
I heard banging on the shelves. At the wrong end. Then on the center shelf. Someone else landed on the broken glass and cursed before I heard the instruction, “Freeze,” again.
“She’s in there,” Alex shouted. “Tied up. Let me damn well go!”
“Merry?” That was Paul.
“Round the back, up the ladder,” Alex yelled to him. And then, to one of the Police officers; “If my mother hears you’ve tried to handcuff me, you’re dead meat!”
No doubt they’d heard more colorful threats, but I’ve met Elsa and I’d have been scared. Those eyebrows…
There was more creaking and then I saw Paul peering down at me, twice as shocked as Alex.
“Can we break the glass?” someone shouted.
“No way! We’ll cut her to pieces. She’s directly under it.”
I kept looking up at him. Best sight in the world.
Then I heard the rattle and squeak of the garage door rolling up.
“There’s got to be a way in.” That was the nasal twang of DS Bruce Carver.
His two officers banged on the shelves and threw things onto the floor to the accompaniment of swearing and grunts of frustration.
“Got it.” The latch scraped back and the shelves swung aside.
I’m ashamed to admit I burst into tears. Nothing had ever looked as good as that view of daylight and three men and a boy all staring at me with deep concern.
“We need a knife to cut her free.” That was Alex, sounding a lot older than sixteen.
Paul arrived back from the roof the same moment the knife was produced. “My job,” he said, reaching for it, kneeling, and carefully severing the tape holding my wrists together. Then he bent lower and freed my ankles. When I tried to stretch my long-confined limbs, excruciating pain flooded through every inch of me. I groaned and sobbed and possibly swore a bit. I didn’t need Bruce Carver’s overpowering cologne making things worse in the small space.
To my astonishment Paul slid one arm under my knees, the other around my back, and picked me up. “Bathroom?”
“Mmmmmmm….” I laid my head on his shoulder. By contrast, he smelled wonderful.
“Excuse us,” Paul said, virtually steamrolling Bruce Carver out of the way and striding toward the house. “Can someone unlock?”
I realized a bit woozily that if they’d opened the garage they must have found my key-ring.
A uniformed figure dashed past us and I heard the cottage door creak open. Two little white dogs erupted out in a storm of barking. “Poor chaps,” Paul said. “Looks like their door’s been blocked up all night.”
He carried me to the old bathroom and left me in privacy. Oh. My. Goodness. That was good.
Peeling the tape off my face wasn’t so good though, although my generous dollops of moisturizer might have greased me up a bit.
I staggered out a few minutes later and limped down the hallway to change into more suitable clothes. To my surprise Alex had the kettle boiling when I returned. “Tea or coffee?” he asked me. “I put the kitchen chairs out in the sun,” he added. “And found a couple more. That boss cop stinks.”
In possibly the least formal briefing ever, we sat around in the open air on Isobel’s old spindle-backed chairs. Alex played waiter, Bruce Carver threw questions, and Paul gave him the evil eye if he got too impatient.
Itsy and Fluffy soon trotted over and sat by my feet, eyes bright and hopeful. “Could you feed these two?” I asked Alex. “Bowls under the table, food in the pantry.” He clomped away in the heavy motor cycle boots that were so useful for landing on broken glass.
“The situation has obviously changed,” Carver said. “Can you please confine the dogs to the other side of the house in case they disturb any evidence out here?”
Wheel tracks and so on, I presumed. It didn’t seem likely, but I nodded along.
“As you know, we planned to uplift a computer and sundry files to do with car theft, but this is now a serious assault and attemp
ted homicide.”
I almost dropped my tea. “No!”
“Days confined without food or water? With the sun beating in through that skylight? The wound on your head untreated?” He turned to one of his men. “Call Doc Hopkins. Tell him he’ll soon have an assault victim with a head wound for a looksee. And get Forensics out here. With something to cover that broken window.” He sent Alex a glare that was never acknowledged.
“I’ll be fine,” I protested. “Someone would have found me.”
“The back of your head’s covered in blood, Merry,” Paul murmured. “You’re lucky you’re not dead already.”
I shuddered as I thought of the scene in the aisle of St Agatha’s. “Has Isobel’s killer tried again? This was quite a small man and he called me Missy Crombie. He wasn’t a Kiwi. He can’t have been alone or he’d never have managed to move me.” I cradled my aching head. “And if he’d already killed Isobel, why call me Missy Crombie?”
“Give it a rest, Merry,” Paul said. “Leave it to the experts.”
Bruce Carver closed his mouth. It looked like he’d been ready to say the same thing.
“Anyway,” I added, feeling gingerly around in my hair, “The computer might be gone but I sent the most interesting files into the Cloud so you can still access those.”
Poor DS Weasel’s face was a study in contradictions. Relief that all his evidence wasn’t lost. Disbelief that I’d do something as outrageous as stealing it. His mouth twitched and his eyes flickered and I saw his Adam’s apple bounce several times as he swallowed his pride or his outrage or whatever it was.
I shrugged. “Sorry – they were fascinating. I wanted another look.”
“Tampering with Police evidence,” he muttered.
Beside me, Paul shook with barely suppressed laughter.
I glared around the circle of men. “I didn’t tamper with it in the least. And it wasn’t Police evidence until I told you about it.” I blew out a long regretful breath. “Shame the emails are gone,” I added. “There was one from someone called Hannah Hertzog about retirement facilities in Florida. Sounded like Isobel was planning to move there, but the more I think about the situation the more likely it seems it was Tom Alsop planning to do a runner and using Isobel’s name.”
