Stolen (14 page)

“T
HERE'S NO DOUBT IN MY MIND
that my agency and several others were snookered during the Blackpool Train Robbery.” Warren Oatfield-Collins was a serious man in a serious gray suit, and Michael could hear the capital letters in his inflection.

In his fifties, Oatfield-Collins was overweight but still appeared durable and hard. His gray hair lay neatly in place. He smelled of a liberal application of Dunhill aftershave, the same kind that Michael's father wore.

The two men sat at the bar in the Smokehouse and both of them had a pint. Oatfield-Collins had turned down the offer of a booth, stating that he preferred a less formal setting. “Snookered?”

Oatfield-Collins nodded. “I suppose the current term is
played.
The agencies insuring that shipment were definitely
played.
Snookered. Hoodwinked. Choose your word. The bottom line is that several insurance agencies paid off on bogus claims.”

“How many is several?”

“Eight agencies were confirmed to have taken hits.”

“For how much money?”

“In the low hundreds of thousands of pounds. For the time, that was quite extensive. With the war on, agencies were facing dire times as it was.”

Michael nodded and made notes on his computer. He had
it folded in Tablet PC mode and wrote with a stylus. The computer immediately translated his script into typing.

“Why did you come to Blackpool now?”

“When news of the documentary reached the office, the board of directors wanted an agent to cover it.”

“In the event that something turned up.”

“Exactly.”

“Given the time that's passed, and that most of the people who committed the fraud are now dead, what's the best your agency can hope for?”

“The paintings, Mr. Graham. Bristol and Brinker still owns seventeen of those paintings. If we can find them, they're ours.”

“And given current market prices, plus the fact that those paintings have doubtless appreciated in value—”

“Doubtless.”

“—your agency stands to make a considerable profit.”

“If we can locate the art, yes.” Oatfield-Collins's eyes narrowed. “Please don't think that my efforts here are based purely on mercenary interests. It's more than that. The people that run my agency are sons and daughters of the original owners. It doesn't sit well with them that someone bamboozled their fathers and got away with it.”

“Do they have any idea who the mastermind behind the robbery was?”

“Three men come to mind at once.” The insurance representative ticked them off on his fingers. “Philip Crowe. Richard Sterling. Victor Starkweather. All of them are deceased, but at the time of the robbery they had the resources to pull off an endeavor like this. Crowe and Starkweather were thick as thieves—and neighbors here in Blackpool. They could bribe and buy men to rob the train, and they had the connections to have the forgeries done.” He shrugged.
“The favorite at the agency—several of the agencies, actually—was Philip Crowe.”

“Because he was closest to the operation.”

“It was set up there in his home. Couldn't have been easier. He would have known everything. One way or the other.”

“Why Richard Sterling?”

“Because he lost the most paintings.”

“His daughter died aboard that train. That would be awfully coldblooded if he masterminded this.”

“But not unheard of. And he might have believed she would have been unharmed. We continued to investigate his involvement even after he died and his brother took over the family business.”

Michael opened a window and consulted his earlier research. It took him a moment to find the name he was looking for. “Victor Starkweather.”

Oatfield-Collins smiled. “The man was practically a pirate during the war. You've read up on him?”

Michael nodded. “Starkweather was caught stealing oil from British tankers and scuttling the ships.”

“Exactly, and letting the German navy take the blame for their loss. He was executed at the end of the war. He didn't have any valuables on the train, but that didn't mean that he didn't stage the robbery. The gold bullion would have been enough to spur him on. The paintings, especially if he could hire someone to replicate them, could have been a bonus.”

“When did the first forged painting show up?” Michael wanted to draft a timeline if possible.

“Nineteen forty-eight. In Tel Aviv, of all places. Israel had just been made a nation, and money was starting to pour into the area. However, with the Middle East in an uproar, many of the people living there wanted to put their
money in something profitable that didn't sit in a bank. Something portable that would hold its value.”

“Art.”

“Our expert believes that every forgery we've recovered so far was painted by the same man, but not all at the same time. There's a major discrepancy in the materials used.”

“How major?”

“Several years, probably.”

“That's intriguing.” Michael shifted on his seat. “Why wait so long?”

“That's a good question, isn't it?”

 

“R
EALLY
, M
RS
. G
RAHAM
, I'm fairly certain that Mr. Wineguard isn't in his room.” Thomas Tidewell managed the Seagull and Sandbar, the bed-and-breakfast Simon was supposed to be staying in. Tidewell was in his early sixties and possessed an elegant charm. He wore a suit and bow tie.

“I just want to be certain that nothing has happened to him. He's been under considerable stress since he's been here.” Molly followed the man through the narrow halls of the old rambling house.

“I understand. The terrible death of Mrs. Whiteshire has been disturbing to the whole community. I only met her the evening of her murder, but it's awfully disturbing all the same.” Tidewell stopped in front of the door to room six. The brass number shone brilliantly.

Tidewell knocked on the door and called Simon's name. There was no answer.

Molly curbed her impatience. “You met Mrs. Whiteshire that evening?”

The hotelier sorted through the large key ring he held, the clanking echoing in the empty hallway. “Yes, I saw her a little while before I left for the theater.”

“Where?”

“Here, of course. I don't get out much. I went to the theater that night for the first time in months.” Tidewell found the right key and inserted it into the lock.

“What was Mrs. Whiteshire doing here?” Molly glanced at Miss Abernathy, who quickly glanced away.

“She came calling on Mr. Wineguard.” The lock clicked and Tidewell turned the knob.

“Why?”

“I'm quite sure I wouldn't know, Mrs. Graham. I'm not sure how it is in other places, but here at the Seagull and Sandbar we try to provide guests with a modicum of privacy.” Tidewell knocked again and got no response. He opened the door a crack. “Mr. Wineguard?”

Still nothing.

Reluctantly, he opened the door. “Mr. Wineguard, I hate to trouble you, but there's been some concern.”

Molly followed Tidewell into the room and heard him gasp in astonishment before she saw the wreckage herself. Suitcases had been emptied on the floor and the contents of the closet and wardrobe strewn around the room. The destruction instantly reminded Molly of her ransacked office.

While Tidewell stood frozen, Molly brushed past him and searched the room. Thankfully, after a quick check of the bathroom, Molly confirmed that Simon wasn't there.

“Oh, my God.” Miss Abernathy appeared flummoxed. Her anger had vanished, replaced by fear. “We need to find Simon.”

Molly couldn't agree more.

She gripped Miss Abernathy's arm and hurried her along through the bed-and-breakfast. “Did you know about Mrs. Whiteshire meeting with Simon?”

“What does it matter? We need to find Simon,” the
woman repeated in a panicked voice. Outside, she barely checked the traffic before she strode across the street to the Bear and Viper Pub.

“You can't hold things back from me if I'm going to help,” Molly insisted.

“You can't help. If anyone could have made Simon stay away from this, it would have been me. But he wouldn't listen to me. He won't listen to you.”

“Why did Mrs. Whiteshire go to see Simon that night?”

Unable to contain the emotions warring within her, Miss Abernathy quivered like a nervous Pomeranian. For a moment Molly feared the woman might explode or pass out on the spot.

“Simon thought she had some information. That she had the key to striking back at Bartholomew Sterling.”

“He told you this?”

Miss Abernathy wrapped her arms tightly around herself. “Yes. But he didn't tell me
why
he thought that. From his disappointment after speaking with Mrs. Whiteshire, I gathered that he hadn't learned what he had hoped. That's why I didn't mention it before. I'm trying to remain as loyal as I can under the circumstances.”

She wiped away tears that suddenly spilled down her cheeks. “His daughter died in a tragic accident. No one forced her to take those drugs. And if the police could have done something about her death, they would have. Simon just refuses to accept that. He wants someone else to blame, because he can't bear to blame Jenna.”

“All right.” Molly touched the woman's shoulder. “Let's find Simon. Maybe together we can talk sense into him.”

 

T
HREE PUBS LATER
, M
OLLY FELT
like giving up. The Blackpool police had arrived at the Seagull and Sandbar, and
she had ignored two phone calls from the police department so far. Her feet hurt and she wanted Michael at her side. Whenever things got too turbulent, he was always her rock.

The phone rang again as she and Miss Abernathy walked down an alley behind the latest pub they'd searched. She started to answer the phone, then heard Miss Abernathy yelp in pained shock.

“No!” The woman fled across the alley to a large bin behind a bakery.

Molly started after her, wondering what had caused the reaction. When she spotted a familiar coat partially hanging out of the closed bin, dread clenched a fist around her lungs and made it hard to breathe. By the time she reached Miss Abernathy's side, the woman had dropped her handbag and lifted the heavy lid with both hands.

Inside the bin, Simon Wineguard lay in an inelegant sprawl, arms and legs twisted amid the bags of refuse. His sightless eyes stared up beneath the bullet hole in the center of his forehead.

M
ICHAEL SAT IN THE
B
LACKPOOL
Police Station waiting room and tried not to think about Molly being questioned in one of the interview rooms—again.

His mobile vibrated in the pocket of his cargo pants and he fished it out. The caller ID showed Keith's name and number.

“Hello, Keith,” he said, unable to keep the weariness out of his voice.

“Hello to you, too, but don't go out of your way to be overjoyed to hear from me.”

“Sorry. It's difficult to be joyous about anything when you're sitting in a police station.” Michael eyed the woman behind the desk in the corner. She was working at her computer, but she could be listening, doing clerical work or merely passing the hours on Facebook.

“Why are you there?”

“Simon Wineguard, the director of Molly's documentary, has been killed.” Michael spoke in a low voice and felt strange doing so. He wasn't used to being suspicious of being observed.

“Who done for him?”

“They don't have any suspects yet. But Molly found the body. The police are questioning her now.”

“Is she all right?”

“She is.” Michael shifted in the chair and sent a quick
glance at the woman behind the desk. She still seemed focused on the computer.

“I talked to Uncle Morrie. As I suspected, he hasn't got anything on the train robbery.”

“That's too bad, but—as you said—not unexpected.”

“I showed Uncle Morrie the pictures of those paintings you e-mailed me.
An Afternoon at the Fair?
That we had a little more luck with.”

Michael allowed himself to nurse a small hope. He took out his computer and woke it up. The screen came to life and he opened up a sticky note. “What kind of luck?”

“Maybe nothing, but it's worth a try. The time frame you're looking at for the first painting, Uncle Morrie says there's this guy, August Helfers, who was around back then. Guy's gotta be ninety now if he's a day. But during those years he brokered a lot of forgers—guys who had the talent, but they didn't have the connections to sell a painting.”

That was new to Michael. “So he was a specialty agent?”

“More or less, mate. Everything has a price. Usually there's somebody who puts a deal together. That's what this guy did. As well as some forgeries of his own.”

“Where does he live now?”

“He's here in London. Retired. Got busted by Interpol twenty years ago and they shut him down. Not before he made a fortune, though. He wrote a book on his life as an art forger without naming any names of people that would take offense, and kinda faded away into obscurity. Uncle Morrie says he's a lonely old bloke. Will talk your ear off when he's in his right mind. I got a chat set up with him tomorrow morning.”

“Morning? You?”

“Don't sound so disbelieving. You'll hurt my feelings.”

“Sorry. That just caught me off guard.”

“Right, mate. Anyway, it's a shot in the dark, but it could hit something.”

“I think so, too,” Michael said, though the idiom was unsettling with recent events. He checked his watch. It was still early afternoon. “Molly and I can be in London tonight. I'm going to talk her into taking a night away from everything. Shouldn't have too much trouble getting her to dodge the media now that Wineguard's been murdered. Maybe I can go over to August Helfers's home with you and chat him up.”

“All right.”

Michael told Keith he would see him later and rang off. He typed August Helfers's name into Google and quickly turned up information. Wikipedia had an extensive entry on Helfers, citing him as one of the last “gentleman” forgers. In fact, at his trial some of his victims even testified on Helfers's behalf, believing that he'd been hoodwinked as well because he was such a nice person.

“Something interesting catch your eye?”

Recognizing Molly's voice, Michael glanced up. She looked tired and a little shaken. He couldn't imagine what it must have felt like to find someone you knew with a bullet hole in his head.

“Possibly.” Michael put the computer on hibernate and shoved it into his bag. “How are you?”

“Tired of being here. I just want to go home.”

Standing, Michael took her hand. “Then let's get you home.”

 

“M
OLLY
?”

Seated in her chair at her desk, Molly opened her eyes and glanced at the doorway. Iris Dunstead stood there with Rachel Donner.

Iris frowned. “Are you sure you're up to company? You could probably use the rest.”

“I'm fine.” Molly rose and waved the two women to chairs in front of her desk. “Mrs. Donner, it was so good of you to come.”

Clasping her big handbag, Rachel Donner sat in one of the chairs. She pulled her sweater a little more tightly around her. “It wasn't a problem. But I'm curious why you asked me to drop by.”

“I'll bring tea. That will fortify us all.” Iris departed, gently touching Mrs. Donner's shoulder before she left.

“I wanted to talk about Mrs. Whiteshire, if you don't mind.” Molly took her seat. “You knew her quite well.”

“Her parents and mine were friends after their arrival here. Eventually, Abigail's mum and dad bought a house on the same street as my family's.”

“You'd always been friends?”

“Always. I didn't fit into this town very well in the beginning. I lost my family back in London.”

Molly remembered the story. Rachel Donner—Beckford then—had been orphaned during the war. The Beckford family had adopted her and raised her as one of their own with their four other children.

“Abigail and I got on at first because we'd talk about what it was like to live in London.” Rachel smiled. “Neither of us had any idea, of course. We were far too young to know when we got here on that train.”

Iris returned with a tea service and set it on a nearby table. She served out quickly and efficiently without asking how anyone took their tea.

Holding the warm cup in her hands, Molly let the heat soak into her palms for a moment. She was so tired she just wanted to sleep, but her mind wouldn't quit gnawing on the mystery.

“Did Simon Wineguard show any special attention to Mrs. Whiteshire?”

Rachel considered that, her hand trailing absently to the silver rose-shaped pendant she wore, but then shook her head. “Not that I was aware of. But Abigail did pester him a bit. I was afraid she was going to make him angry.”

“About what?”

“Abigail was angling for a part in the documentary. Either a role or one of the intros. After all, we were the girls Audrey Cloverfield rescued from the train after her own charge—little heiress Chloe Sterling—perished.” Rachel smiled. “When we were girls, Abigail always dreamed about being an actress. She was certain that she would have been in the movies or on stage if she'd remained in London.” She paused. “I always told her she could do it. But I guess neither one of us ended up having the life we'd intended to. She married badly again and again. She never was quite happy with her lot. But she was my friend.”

“You were a good friend to her.” Iris patted the other woman on the arm. “She thought a lot of you, you know.”

“I do know.” Rachel brushed tears from her eyes. “For a while, we roomed together. After we left home and before our first marriages. It was convenient. Both of us wore the same size clothing. Abigail used to say that our wardrobes were doubled just because of our friendship. We could each buy dresses and take turns wearing them.” She sipped her tea. “Those were good days.”

“Did she tell you she was going to Simon Wineguard's room at the Seagull and Sandbar that Friday afternoon?”

“Yes. Abigail was hoping to talk to Mr. Wineguard about a spot in the documentary again. She hadn't given up. I don't think she ever would have.”

“He agreed to see her, or she just went over?”

“Oh, he agreed to see her. In fact, he
wanted
to see her. He asked her to bring a particular photograph with her.”

Molly's breath caught. They had taken dozens of photographs, and video, of the people and sites that would be involved in the documentary—and that material had been the only things missing from her office and Iris's home. “What photograph?”

Rachel shrugged. “It was one of the group of survivors.”

Molly had taken multiple shots because getting all the survivors together in one spot had been problematic.

She brought up the computer files with the images she'd printed out. Luckily she had made digital backups of everything. After turning the monitor so Rachel could see it, Molly slowly brought up the images.

“I don't know.” Frustration tightened the woman's mouth and eyes. “They all look the same.”

Molly silently agreed. “You're sure Simon was specific?”

“He was. Abigail went through her pictures carefully.” Rachel leaned forward and nodded. “This one. I believe it was this one.”

The image on the monitor showed all seven survivors standing in front of the Blackpool Library. Molly couldn't see anything remarkable about the picture. Abigail Whiteshire and Rachel Donner stood next to each other, both smiling brightly.

“See how radiant she was?” Rachel spoke in a rasp, her voice thick with emotion. “Abigail was so excited that she was finally going to be a star. That's not how it turned out, though, is it?”