Reluctant Detective (5 page)

9

Anne had no intentions of letting Mrs. Murphy down. She'd dig the
skeletons out of Somerville's closet if she had to dismantle his entire
life, she thought. Then she sipped her coffee and smiled her warmest smile at Robert Somerville, who sat across the table from her.

“Dick called you
Lord
Somerville. Was he playing a joke on me?”

“No… no… it's true.”

“Oh,” she said feigning surprise, “I am impressed. But what does
that mean, really… being a lord? Do you get to lunch with the Queen?
Play polo with Prince Andrew? Perhaps I'm being silly, but I don't
understand how the whole aristocracy thing works.”

“Well, to begin with, I've never lunched with the Queen – though I did meet her once in a receiving line – and I've never played polo
with anyone. Never cared for horses. And I don't believe you're
being silly. Actually, you're the first person who has ever enquired about how it works… and, quite frankly, I don't know if I can explain it adequately myself. It's rather… complicated.”

“I don't do ‘complicated,' either,” she said. “What about the Aristocracy for Dummies version?”

“Well, I'll give it a go. Let me see. Let's go back a thousand years
or so. In those days a European monarch owned all the land in their
realm. In Britain the king needed powerful people to keep him in power. So he divided half of his land among a dozen or so knights
called earls. They worked the land and made money, some of which
they gave back to the king. When the king needed soldiers for a
war, the earls, who were lords, armed their peasants and came to
the king's aid. Their titles were passed down from generation to
generation.”

“So you're an earl.”

“No. Eventually the land of the earls became subdivided among
their heirs. The eldest male kept the title of earl. The others became lesser nobles, dukes and barons and such.”

“So you're a baron.”

“Not quite, I'm afraid. Here's where it becomes muddled. The subdivisions continued, land was bought and sold between barons and
earls. Sometimes a baron committed some unforgivable faux pas, and the king killed the lord and all his kin and took back his land.
In some cases, there was no male heir or no heir at all. And then we still haven't talked about the other half of the country which still lay
directly in the king's hand. Much of this was given out as manorial estates for special favours to knights or statesmen. Besides that,
there are lords who have no land at all, only a title. I believe there may be the odd rock-and-roller that fits into that category.”

“And you're which of them?”

“I'm not a rocker, I assure you. Rather, Lord of Briarsley, a manorial estate.”

“That's wonderful,” Anne said. “And that's a hereditary title.”

“Yes, and, theoretically, in a long line of ascent to the throne.”

“How long a line?”

“At least one-third of the population of Great Britain would have
to suddenly perish for me to become king. Perhaps you recall the
American movie
King Ralph?
”

“I do.”

“Well, Ralph would be leagues ahead of me in accession.”

“What are you two so deep in conversation about?” asked Dick
Clements, just returning from the washroom.

“American movies,” said Anne.

“It's been wonderful meeting you, Anne Brown,” said Somerville, standing up. “I must be off. Hope to see you again. Good-bye. Good-
bye, Dick.”

They watched Lord Robert Somerville walk out the door.

“Well, you two seemed to hit it off,” said Dick.

“He's a pleasant enough character. Good lunch company. What's your connection with him?”

“He's a new client.”

“For what?”

“I can't tell you that.”

“My! Aren't you Mr. Tight-Lips!”

“My memoir will be entitled
Charlottetown Confidential: 30 Years of Provincial Secrecy
.”

“In your dreams.”

“Listen to this: three Irishmen were at the wake of an old buddy.
One was a lawyer, one was a used car salesman, and one was a
banker. Did ya' hear this one before?”

Anne shook her head. “Do I have to?” Clements went on.

“One of them said, ‘Ya know, in the old country there used to be a
custom of putting some money in a dead friend's casket, so they'll
have something to spend when they get to the other side.' Each man nodded. They had all heard that story. The banker opened his wallet
and dropped a hundred-dollar bill into the coffin. The salesman did
the same. The lawyer thought for a moment. Then he picked up the
two bills, put them in his pocket, and wrote his dead friend a cheque for three hundred bucks. Isn't that a great one?”

Anne grinned. “Dick, you're the only lawyer I know who tells
lawyer jokes. My advice, counsellor: don't run for president of the Law Society with that material.”

“Never entered my mind. But you can write me a cheque for one-
fifty when you get the chance. That will cover my fee and a hundred
in taxes to probate Billy's will. The other papers you wanted me to
look at? Give me a bit more time.”

“After that heart-attack-on-a-plate you just put away, are you sure you don't want cash instead of my cheque?”

10

“Greg. Anne Brown at Darby Investigations. Got a minute?”

“Shoot. Whatcha need?” Greg Phelan leaned back on his wooden
chair at Green Isle Realty. A blue ballpoint pen dangled like a
cigarette from one hand.

“There was a property for sale near Fort Amherst. I understand
that Robert Somerville is buying it. Did he pay by cash or cheque?”

“What's this about? Is there something wrong with the property? Did he hire you?”

“No, no, nothing like that. Did he pay by cheque?”

“Yes.”

“A Canadian bank or British?”

“What's all this about, Anne? Should I be getting worried about now, or what?”

“Look, Greg, it's got nothing to do with you. I've got a client who
needs to transfer money to a reliable bank in England. I heard that
Somerville had dealings with you and thought you could tell me the bank that he deals with. That makes sense, doesn't it?”

“So, what exactly do you want to know? I can't give you any
confidential information. You know that.”

“Absolutely. Just tell me the name of his bank and the branch… if you can remember it.”

“I guess that's okay. I've got the cheque here in my drawer.”

“You didn't deposit it?”

“No, he just asked me to hold it until he could give his bank a
head's-up. You know, a big cheque from the remote reaches of the
Commonwealth and all.” Anne heard a sliding of drawers and a
shuffling of papers. “Here, it is. Barclays Bank, 25 Charing Cross Road, London.”

“And the account number?”

“Anne!”

“Easy, easy,” Anne laughed. “Just seeing if you were still awake,
Greg. Thanks. See ya.”

Barclays may be a bit reluctant to identify the names of depositors,
thought Anne. If so, she might have to retain a London investigator to do the job. She hoped to avoid that. If expenses grew very much,
she might have to dump the pro bono effort and charge Mrs. Murphy.
She'd rather avoid that, too. Still, she needed the information. Anyone can print up a stack of phony bank checks and pass themselves
off as real ones. And Anne couldn't help but think that asking Greg
Phelan to hold the cheque for a while was suspicious.

Anne brought up Barclays' website and copied the number for their Charing Cross branch. Then she picked up the phone. After a few minutes the international operator connected her with the
London bank. With luck she could catch them before they closed for the day.

“Good afternoon, my name is Anne Brown. I represent Darby
Investigations in Canada. We are processing a credit check on a Mr. Robert Somerville who is doing business with a firm here. And we want to verify whether or not he has a current account with your bank.”

The bank clerk's “one moment, please” extended into several moments. Then the moments became several minutes. Anne's fingers drummed a nervous pattern on the desktop. At last, the
clerk returned.

“We can affirm that
Lord
Robert Somerville has an account with us.” Anne felt as if she had been subtly put in her place.

“Thank you,” she said and hung up.
Hhmmn
, she thought.
This guy has done his homework
.

Anne thumbed through the Somerville file. Mrs. Murphy had filled
in a few more bits and pieces about him during her morning call. He was staying at the Milton Burtons home on North River Road.
The Burtons had become quite taken with him and insisted he stay
at their home. He lived in a guest apartment above their attached garage. It had a separate outdoor entrance, one which opened into the upstairs hallway of the main house. They not only gave
Somerville free run of the entire house but, when the Burtons went
on vacation last week, they'd also left it in his care. Mrs. Murphy
had also noted that his schedule recently included yoga classes one evening a week. One of those classes was tonight. And Anne planned to nose around there to see what, if anything, might turn up.

Anne closed the folder, stood up, and headed toward the file
cabinet just as the phone rang.

“Darby Investigations and Security. Anne Brown speaking. May I help you?”

There was a disconcerting period of silence at the other end. Anne
was about to hang up when a male voice said, “I'd like to speak to
Mr. Darby, please.”

“I'm sorry, but Mr. Darby is unavailable. Can I take a message?”

“It's urgent. I must speak with him.” The voice seemed anything
but urgent. In fact, Anne felt it was cold and dispassionate and,
oddly, rehearsed.

“Mr. Darby is not here. Nor will he be available for some time.
He's… in the country. Can I…”

“Listen carefully,” said the voice. “Mr. Darby and I have an
agreement. I give him a package. He delivers it tonight. It's been prearranged.”

“I'm aware of all of Mr. Darby's business dealings, but I'm not
aware of this one. There's no active client contract of this nature on file… so if you wish to come in and…” Anne felt a growing abrasiveness punctuate her words even before he interrupted her.

“It was a private agreement.”

“I'm sorry, but I can't accept any package or perform any services without his okay,” she said with a cool finality.

“On the contrary. It's a done deal. Talk to Darby. The package is
outside your office door right now, and, by the way… tell him not to fuck this up.”

The line went dead.
Unidentified Caller
flashed on the phone's LED
display screen. Anne hung up the receiver and hurried to the office
door. Outside, she found a mid-size brown leather valise.

Anne heard no sound on the landing above or on the stairs leading
down, but she thought she heard a light swish of the street door closing behind someone. She hauled the valise inside the office,
dumped it on Billy's desk, and looked out the window to the cobbled avenue below. Among the few early tourists no one hurried away, and no one else looked out of place or suspicious.

Anne locked the front door, closed Billy's office door behind her, and stared at the suitcase, her hands caressing the soft leather top. She didn't like the tone of the anonymous caller, but she couldn't
give the valise back, and she was hesitant to open it. Who knew
what it might contain? Perhaps, like Pandora's box, she was better
off not knowing. And why would Billy have gotten involved with
something as off-the-record as this? That wasn't like him. And not telling her? That made even less sense, she thought.

“For God's sake, Anne, get a grip,” she said out loud. “Open the friggin' thing!”

She tugged firmly at a belt strap which fed underneath the hand grip and freed it. She squeezed the trigger locks on the hasps, and
they parted. But as she started to lift the top, a chill ran up between
her shoulder blades. She wondered if whatever lay within would
reveal some dark secret in Billy Darby's life, something that would deeply disappoint her, something which would stain his memory forever.

What happens, happens, she thought
. With a quick snap of her
wrists, the lid flew open. She peered in.

Then she gasped.

1
1

The bell for first class rang. Carson “the Kid” White didn't like
being late. So he bounded the last few yards through the hallway
and slipped through the door just after the ringing stopped. His
morning classes began in automotive repair. Mr. Hutchins, his shop instructor, was head-down, tinkering with a carburetor, and hadn't noticed Carson's tardiness.

Two things Carson had learned in his sixteen years of dodging trouble. First, don't do anything that gets you noticed. Second, be
polite. It always amazed him how much forgiveness that generated.

A row of metal lockers lined one wall of the shop. Carson opened
his, traded his jean jacket for a pair of stained grey overalls, and headed for a black Saturn on one of the lifts near the bay doors.
Yesterday he had replaced the Saturn's brake shoes. This morning he checked out the hubs. The old brakes had scored the inside rim. So he took the hubs to the grinder, set them up, adjusted the cutting
tool, and listened to the rhythmic scraping – almost like the beat to his favourite rap song, he thought – as the machine did its job
of smoothing and rounding the beat-up hubs. Near the end of first class the Saturn was ready to go. Carson lowered the car, signalled
another student to open the bay doors, and backed the car out of
the building and into a parking spot nearby. As the bay doors closed
behind him, Carson rifled through a stack of CDs in a case between
the front seats. One caught his eye. A disk by Cuz Y, a hip-hop group.
He slipped the disk inside his shirt and returned the empty case to
where he found it.

It was break time. The bell rang again, and Carson joined a group of half a dozen other students outside the school behind a separate
utility building for a smoke. Phillip Watson, Deke Jennings, and
Krystal Conohan were regulars in the group. Each was in auto repair
class. Each wore the standard grey overalls. But even in sloppy
overalls, thought Carson, Krystal couldn't hide what turned him on. Whenever she moved, her breasts and hips and ass shifted like one finely tooled piece of machinery. Even old Mr. Hutchins noticed her. Carson had seen him staring at her gyrating ass one day as she bent
over a car fender, ratcheting out a set of spark plugs. She wasn't a
bad mechanic either.

“Got somethin' for ya,” Carson said to Krystal. The bell for second period had just rung. He butted his cigarette in the grass.

“Like what?” she asked. There was an edge to her voice. She was naturally suspicious.

“Picked up a CD. Thought you might like to copy it or somethin'.”

“Which one?”

“Cuz Y. Their new one. Know them?” She took the CD he handed her and looked at it.

“Cool,” she said and tossed him a thank-you smile. “No case?”

“It broke. Got stepped on. We'll talk later maybe.”

“Maybe.”

It was only ten minutes into second period when Carson started for the washroom. Mr. Hutchins never made his students sign out but, when Carson headed for the door, Mr. Hutchins said, “Where
are you going?”

“Washroom, Mr. Hutchins.”

“You just got back from break,” he said.

“I know. I'm sorry, but I got the runs.”

“Okay, okay, go. Go.”

Carson headed for the men's room. It was a few doors down the
hall. It was empty. He took off his overalls, balled them up, and hung
them in a stall. Then he walked out, headed for the main corridors of Charlottetown Central High School, and knocked on the door to
the teachers' lounge.

“Yes?” asked a teacher gruffly. A coffee cup was in her hand. She
looked past him as if no one was there.

“Is Mr. Hutchins here?”

The teacher opened the door wider and looked back over the tables behind her. Several teachers on their free period were
drinking coffee; two others were on the staff computer; another was red-pencilling a stack of examinations near the back window.

“No,” said the teacher. “Try the shop area,” she added and closed the door.

Carson had made a mental note of which teachers looked preoccupied in the staff room. Mr. Gale, Mrs. Webb, Mrs. Robertson, and
Miss Chandler. He knew that most of the male staff kept their money in their wallets and their wallets in their pockets. So they were out. The women, on the other hand, sometimes left their purses behind,
or kept small amounts of cash in their desk drawers. And it was
toward their classrooms that he headed.

The hallways were empty this early into the period. Classroom teachers were just settling into their lesson plans, and kids hadn't
started their bathroom runs. Mrs. Webb's was the first door he came to. It was locked. Miss Chandler's was one flight up. She had left her
door ajar. He went inside and closed it behind him. He searched
her desk. Nothing in the bottom drawer. Small change in the pencil
drawer. He scooped about half of it into his hand and put it in his
pocket. The filing cabinet was next. He pulled the top drawer open.
Bingo. At the back of it was Miss Chandler's purse, and inside the purse was a wallet. Six twenties, two tens, and a five. He took two
twenty-dollar bills. He ignored the credit cards.

Carson had learned in elementary school that if he took only a few
bills, it would likely go unnoticed. If he took everything, the wrath
of teachers wronged would come down heavily on the entire school. Greed was the ruination of a good thief, he believed.

Much of Carson's cleverness at stealing was self-taught. More recently, he had picked up pointers from Sean McGee. Sean was
older, mid-twenties. They'd met at a motorcycle shop. Sean belonged
to a local biker club, Satan's Chosen, and Carson had a natural
fascination with motorcycles. Eventually, Sean tutored Carson in the
art of break and enters, among other things. In fact, Carson's late
arrival at school that morning had been due to an encounter with Sean. Sean wanted Carson for a special job. He needed Carson this evening, and Carson had agreed to meet him later.