Stolen (10 page)

E
ARLY
M
ONDAY MORNING,
S
IMON
Wineguard showed up at the Blackpool Rail Station to start principal shooting for the documentary. His eyes were bleary and he looked hungover. His voice was a gruff roar that carried through the fog-shrouded forest.

Molly rested against her Mini and watched. She hated the standing around. For her it was more fun and challenging to gather facts and write up the grant proposal than to manage the project afterwards. Normally she would have let someone else handle the day-to-day operations and only taken meetings when necessary. Her expertise was dreaming up ways to get monies and people together to support an idea or project. She liked working independently.

The rail station lay just to the west of Blackpool. It had been an afterthought in the late nineteenth century and hadn't made it much past the 1970s. Faded and graffiti-covered band posters fluttered on the station walls.

The actual train robbery had taken place a couple miles away, but Simon had wanted to do some of the preliminary narrative intros in front of a rail station. The video team had cleaned off the front of the building and made it presentable.

The young woman Simon had chosen to provide the narration was dressed warmly against the morning chill, but in the thin sunlight piercing the overhanging tree canopy she looked stark and vulnerable. She'd memorized all her
lines and spoke clearly without fault even when Simon made her stop and start over to add emphasis.

A police car rolled up beside Molly's and came to a halt. Inspector Paddington opened the door and climbed out from behind the wheel. He lit his pipe and joined Molly.

“Good morning, Mrs. Graham.”

“Good morning, Inspector. What brings you to see us today?”

“Don't worry. I'm not here to bother your director. I came to talk to you.”

“All right. I appreciate you keeping the media away from the area.”

Only a few BBC reporters and channel news types remained. Since there had been no break in the murder investigation, and nothing substantial to tie the woman's death to the potential missing treasure from the train wreck, most of the media outlets had found other stories to move on to.

Simon broke the narration once more and moved the video crews, then had the young woman begin her spiel again.

“Heard you had a visitor on Saturday.” Paddington lit his pipe.

“Actually, I dealt with several. Your two constables should have kept you informed. Was there a particular one you were interested in?”

“Big bloke at the Smokehouse. Fotherby spotted him. Followed him to Grimsby's.”

Charlotte Grimsby ran another of the bed-and-breakfasts in Blackpool. The Bullock and Rooster tended toward a lower-rent crowd, usually university students out for a run at the local girls over summer break.

“With as much surveillance as your department is doing on me of late, I'm surprised your constables have time to follow anyone else.”

“Fotherby didn't like the way this bloke looked. After I saw him, I liked him even less.”

“You drove out here to tell me that?”

Paddington studied her. “I'm concerned about you, Mrs. Graham. Your little production has dipped into some dark places.”

“Not counting Mrs. Whiteshire's death?”

“I would never discount that.” Paddington frowned. “Did that man say who he works for?”

“He did. Bartholomew Sterling.”

“What do you know about Sterling?”

“That he's not an especially nice man.”

Paddington spat on the ground and mumbled a curse. “He's a dirty sod is what he is. London Metro has tried to make him for a dozen crimes and can't get anything to stick.”

“I'd heard that.”

“What did he want with you?”

“To deliver his employer's business card.”

“Sterling wants to meet with you?”

“Yes.”

Paddington waited, then realized she wasn't going to offer any more information. He sighed. “Well? Have you spoken with him?”

“Wouldn't your constables have mentioned it?”

“We're not monitoring your phone or Internet.”

“I'm glad we have some privacy left. Regarding your question, I haven't called Sterling. Michael and I have…reservations about contacting him.”

“That's both fortunate and disappointing.” Paddington leaned a hip against Molly's little car, which sagged under his weight. “It's fortunate because you don't need to be around his sort. But it's disappointing because you don't know what he wants.”

Molly silently agreed. She and Michael had talked about the subject Saturday and Sunday. But they'd decided that it was safer to avoid the man.

“I can't see what he would want with me.”

For a moment, Paddington smoked his pipe, seemingly lost in thought. “It might not be you that Sterling's ultimately interested in.”

Molly focused on the inspector. “Do you have something to tell me?”

“No.” Paddington sighed. “But I feel I
must
tell you. You'll probably find out soon enough.” He nodded at Simon Wineguard. “There's no love lost between your director and Sterling.”

“I'd heard that, but I don't understand why.”

“Simon Wineguard had a daughter. Twenty years old and attending university in London. She was found dead of an overdose six years ago. The investigators on the case didn't find any evidence of foul play, but the girl often frequented one of Sterling's clubs. He has a string of them, actually, and many cater to the younger set. Wineguard pushed the case, urged us to dig for some evidence that could tie his daughter's death to Sterling, but that didn't happen.”

“A daughter? Why don't I know anything about her? She didn't show up in the information I read on Simon when I was considering him for the job.”

“She went by her mother's name. The story barely touched the papers, but a mate of mine worked the case.”

Standing there in the wispy fog, Molly felt colder. She turned up the collar of her long coat. “I'd heard Simon took this project on because he planned to leverage it into a piece on Bartholomew Sterling.”

“Any chance of that happening?”

Molly shrugged. “Evidently Simon believes so. One
thing's for certain—he's gotten Bartholomew Sterling's attention.”

“I wasn't sure how much of this you were aware of, Mrs. Graham. I thought about going to your husband first, informing him of how dangerous this could potentially be in the hopes that he would talk to you and maybe get you to back away from this project.”

“That wouldn't happen, Inspector. Michael might voice his concerns, but he wouldn't try to tell me what to do. Nor would I try to coerce him.”

“I figured as much, Mrs. Graham. That's why I came directly to you.” Paddington spoke plainly, completely confident in the way he'd handled things. “Still, I wanted you to know you might be at the center of a cross fire. If you didn't know that already.”

“I didn't. I appreciate your concern.” Molly regarded him. “So what are your plans in light of this?”

For a moment, Paddington just smoked quietly. “I'm going to see what happens. I've still got a murder to investigate. Wouldn't make much sense for me to chase off the principle persons of interest, would it?”

“I suppose not. Have you explored the possibility that Sterling had something to do with Mrs. Whiteshire's death?”

“Some might take it as a warning to Wineguard.”

“If Sterling was willing to kill someone, why not go directly after Simon?” Molly couldn't believe she was talking so calmly of murder.

“That's my major argument for not believing Sterling was connected to the murder.” Paddington narrowed his eyes. “On the other hand, Simon Wineguard has an equally compelling agenda he's following.”

“You already implied that Simon had a motive—publicity.”

“Ah, but as you pointed out, now he has another one—he's hoping to leverage this documentary into revenge on Bartholomew Sterling.”

“But to kill someone who was not even involved?”

“I suspect Wineguard would be a lot harder to kill than Mrs. Whiteshire. God rest her.” Paddington nodded at Simon. “When I questioned him, I recognized a desperate man if I've ever seen one, Mrs. Graham. Near the end of his tether, he is.”

Watching Simon yell at the actress and film crew, and remembering how he'd behaved around Syn Roderick, Molly silently agreed. The director wasn't acting like the man she'd interviewed for the documentary months ago.

“And if it wasn't him, perhaps I should take a closer look at that personal assistant of his,” Paddington added.

“Miss Abernathy?” That made even less sense than suspecting Simon. “She wouldn't harm a fly.”

“Are you sure of that?”

Molly refrained from speaking.

Paddington continued, “Miss Abernathy has got very strong feelings for Mr. Wineguard. That bloke is either a blockhead and doesn't know it, or he chooses to ignore her. Perhaps she thought murdering Mrs. Whiteshire might help draw more attention to her boss's project.” Paddington glanced at the line of reporters scattered behind the police sawhorses set up around the rail station. “Seems to be working, if that's the case. This little film of yours has a body count now. That's going to be interesting to a lot of people.”

“That's ridiculous.”

“Is it?” The inspector gave her a dry, mirthless smile. “I've seen people kill each other for a whole lot less, Mrs. Graham. And whoever wanted Mrs. Whiteshire murdered only had to hire someone to have it done. He—or
she—didn't have to do it personally. That makes a difference. More easily denied.” He paused and tamped his tobacco down in his pipe. “I'm just suggesting you exercise more caution in dealing with these people.”

“I appreciate your concern, Inspector.”

“You're welcome. And if you discover something I might be interested in, give me a ring, won't you?” Paddington touched his hat and walked away.

Molly stood there and felt more vulnerable than she had only minutes before. She hated the way her mind kept poking and prodding at all the possibilities Paddington had presented her with. But they wouldn't go away.

 

P
EDALING HIS MOUNTAIN BIKE
under the noonday sun, Michael followed the old spur of the rail tracks to the site of the train robbery. His muscles were warm and liquid, moving powerfully as he pushed through the forest. He loved the physical challenge of the terrain. Luckily hunters and kids walked the tracks often enough to leave a trail for him. Still, the ride was uneven and rough, and he was beginning to feel the effort.

He finally crested a hill and looked down into the hollow where the train robbery had taken place. Taking his digital camera from his small backpack, he opened up the black-and-white pictures he'd captured from the microfiche files.

Seeing the site in color and three dimension made identification less obvious. But the general contour of the land matched that in the pictures, confirming the location. Michael thought it was odd not to see the overturned train there. As he'd crested the hill, he'd had the inescapable sense that he would.

Locals had long claimed that Blackpool was home to
a number of ghosts—way before Liam McKenna and his sister had set up Other Syde Haunted Tours.

Is that what you came out here for, mate? To see if there were any ghosts lingering?
Michael laughed at himself and reached down to the bike frame for his bottle of water. He drank deeply but not long as he didn't want his muscles to tighten up.

But he wasn't quite ready to go down into the hollow, either.

“Having second thoughts about goin' down there, mon?” The voice was melodic, carrying a hint of the Caribbean with a slight British accent.

The man sat on a boulder to one side of the trail. He was of medium height but had an athletic build, broad shouldered and good looking, with dark skin that hid him in the shadows. His hair hung in dreadlocks to his shoulders, tied with colorful bands. A short goatee framed his mouth. His arms rested on his knees, which were almost level with his chin, and he leaned back against a tree, his bike helmet upside down in his hands. He wore a warmup suit with the jacket left open, showing a bright blue tank top beneath.

“I'm having second thoughts, too.” The man grinned, his teeth white against his dark face. “I came out here to see the ‘scene of the crime,' so to speak, then I thought about having to climb back up that steep incline.” He shook his head good-naturedly. “I don't know if I want to see it bad enough.”

Michael unfastened his brain bucket and hung it by the chin strap from one of the handles. “Out here by yourself?”

“I am.”

“You with the media?”

The man shook his head. “Not me, mon. No way. I
just recently moved to Blackpool. Workin' as a handyman. Carpentry. Bricklayin'. Swampin' boats an' some engine repair where I can get it.”

“You sound like a busy man.”

“I try to be, but I wouldn't mind bein' busier. It's hard breakin' into the local circles. They don't much care for strangers 'round here.”

“No, they don't. Work would be easier to come by in London.”

“Probably. But I heard about this place an' wanted to explore it myself.”

“You heard about Blackpool?”

“Yeah, mon. Stories my gran'mother told me. One of my ancestors served aboard a pirate ship a long time ago. He's supposed to be buried 'round here somewhere.”

“Unfortunate. Blackpool has a tendency to lose graves from what I've heard.”

“Especially from back in the day.” Pushing himself off the boulder, the man stood and walked over to Michael. “Rohan Wallace.” He offered his hand.

“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Wallace. Michael Graham.” Michael felt the strength and heavy calluses in the other man's grip. Rohan Wallace was definitely an outdoorsman and used to hard labor.