Stolen (16 page)

“D
OESN'T APPEAR TO BE MUCH
here.” Keith shook his head morosely as he stared at his notebook computer. “Old guy doesn't pay attention to where he's going, steps off a curb and gets hit by a car. End of story. Surprised it even made the news.”

Michael stretched for a moment, then took a deep breath to relax. Not much of Byron Kirkwell's death had hit the media. There was no television coverage, and the newspaper pieces he'd researched on the Internet gave nothing more than Kirkwell's name, age and place of residence.

“Kind of creepy that it happened not far from where I live, though. Really didn't need that grim reminder right around the corner, so to speak.” Keith eyed his empty glass. “Why don't I get us another pint?”

“All right.” Frustrated, Michael gazed around the small pub not far from Helfers's flat and willed his mind to work.

The morning crowd loitered and watched a sports game on the wide-screen television over the bar. An older female bartender kept a running dialogue going with some of the obvious regulars.

Michael pulled up the obituary because it had more salient information than anything else he'd read. Byron Kirkwell had been survived by one granddaughter and three great-grandchildren. The granddaughter lived in the East End, as well.

“Your brow's all furrowed, mate.” Keith set the pints down on the tabletop, then pointed to his head. “I know that look. You're thinking something, but you don't like what you're thinking.”

After taking a sip of his beer, Michael nodded. “Helfers believes Kirkwell painted some—if not all—the forgeries that turned up.”

Keith sat and laced his hands behind his head. He was used to playing devil's advocate to Michael. “Even if you don't want to take the bloke's word for it, there are those initials.”

“I know.” Michael inhaled and let his mind spin. “If Wineguard did touch a nerve in his investigation for the documentary, and I'm still not sure if that's true, then Kirkwell would have been at risk.”

“A crime seventy years gone?” Keith shook his head. “Would it really matter at this point?”

“The gold belonged to the British military. They're long on memory and short on forgiveness.”

“Okay. But how many of those folks involved with that train robbery are still alive?”

Michael shook his head. “But maybe the government would make a greater effort at reclamation if they discovered who was behind the robbery.”

“If Philip Crowe was the mastermind, it would give this Aleister Crowe bloke something to fret about. Could be why he was so intent on Molly and her documentary. And it wasn't just the British government, mate. Bartholomew Sterling and some of them other art owners had a bone or two to pick with him, as well.”

“If Philip Crowe hired Kirkwell to forge the paintings, that could make Kirkwell a liability.”

“Might mean stepping off that curb last week wasn't an
accident.” Keith frowned. “Doesn't take much to shove an old man out in front of a car.”

“That thought crossed my mind.”

“It's all those video games you play, mate. Makes you see plot and intrigue everywhere.”

Michael grinned at the jibe. “Kirkwell has a surviving family member.”

“A granddaughter.” Keith nodded.

“Maybe I should call her. See if I could talk to her.”

“All she can say is no. Funeral was two days ago.”

“I could be disturbing her for no reason.”

“You could be. Probably are. But are you going to be able to go back to Blackpool without turning over that particular rock?” Keith grinned. “I know you, mate. You can't ever leave well enough alone.”

“Especially not if Molly's caught in the cross fire.” Michael searched the woman's name on Google and found a phone number for her. He took out his iPhone and called.

 

P
ENNY
T
ORRINGTON LIVED
in a flat with her husband and three children. By the time Michael and Keith got to her home, the kids were out of school but her husband was still on his bus route.

“Please sit.” Penny pointed to the couch in the small living room. She was in her late twenties, brunette and slim. She wore lavender hospital scrubs. “I don't have much time, I'm afraid. I'm going on shift practically the minute my husband arrives home.”

“That's all right, Mrs. Torrington. This won't take long.” Michael leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees.

“You said this was about my grandfather?”

“Yes.”

Penny shrugged. “I can't tell you much about him. He came around every now and again to visit me and the kids.

My husband didn't care for him and was sometimes rude about it. But Mr. Kirkwell said we were all the family he had left and that meant something.” She paused and tears glimmered in her blue eyes. “I hate that he didn't mean more to us, but he didn't. It's really sad. It's just one of those things that happens in a family, I suppose.”

“You knew he was an artist?” Michael felt uncomfortable asking questions. It was strange how easily it all came to him, and he suspected it was from watching too many police shows on television.

“Yes. He gave the children paintings of clowns and fantasy creatures. The kids weren't sure what to do with him, either, but he was nice to them.”

“Did the police talk to you about his death?”

“No.” Suspicion stiffened the woman's features and she drew back. “Should they have?”

“Not at all.”

“Seems an odd question to ask, Mr. Graham. You never did say what you were after about Mr. Kirkwell.”

“I'll try to explain.” Michael hesitated a moment, then decided to just tell the truth. “We believe your grandfather was involved in a train robbery near Blackpool.”

Penny frowned and looked uncomfortable. “The one that's been mentioned on the telly lately?”

“Yes. Did he ever mention it?”

“Mr. Graham, I don't mean to sound abrupt, but that's not something that Mr. Kirkwell and I would ever talk about. I was aware that he was a criminal and had been arrested a number of times, and even been to prison. That's one of the reasons I wanted to keep my distance from him, and why Bob doesn't—didn't—trust him. We didn't feel he would be a good influence on the children.” Penny shook her head. “If Mr. Kirkwell hadn't been so melancholy and so alone, I probably would have turned him away. But I
couldn't. Not after my mother died four years ago. She was the only one really close to him, and that wasn't good, either. He was like an old tomcat on his last legs. You could just tell.”

“Had he been acting any differently lately?”

Penny thought for a moment. “Actually, he came to see me a few days before he—the accident. He was acting nervous, fidgety. But he sometimes was that way. He was an alcoholic, and had tried to quit. Didn't want to come around the children breathing fumes.”

“One of my granddads was the same way.” Keith shrugged. “Just couldn't stay away from the stuff.”

“Then you understand.”

Keith nodded.

“Anyway, Mr. Kirkwell told me that he knew he wasn't going to leave much in this world. He seemed so maudlin that I wanted to help him. Try to find some worth in him. I suggested that he would leave something behind—all the paintings he'd done. He cried a little then, and it was so sad. He said that his best work couldn't be claimed, and that it wasn't even his. I didn't understand what he was talking about.”

“The forgeries he'd done.”

“Possibly. I just know that it was heartbreaking for him. He said he was never that good of a painter. In the end, his vision was failing and his hand wasn't steady anymore—made it harder to paint, you see. But he gave me a stack of journals. Made me promise to keep them, that he wanted someone to remember him after he was gone. I tried to refuse but he insisted. Bob was furious with me for accepting them, but he had already moved them from his home to ours. I told Bob I'd take them back to Mr. Kirkwell at some point, but that was the last time I saw him. Till I identified him for the police, that is.”

Michael clamped down on the surge of hope he felt. Artists and writers habitually made sketches and notes about projects, always planning on paper before they approached the final effort.

“Do you still have those journals?”

Penny nodded. “Yes.”

“Could I possibly see them?”

Penny led them to her hall closet, where she pulled a large box out from behind a line of coats. The box was open, and as Michael bent to examine the journals he saw that they had been beaten by time and hard use. All forty-one of them were ink-spattered and most had rolled spines. Strings tied them shut.

“It's depressing that all a man had to show for himself after a long life can be stuffed into a box like that,” she commented.

Michael knelt and rifled through the box in the hallway. “A lot of people leave nothing of themselves behind.”

“You're right. I suppose it could be worse.” Penny glanced at her watch. “Bob will be home soon. I should be getting the meal ready for him and the children.”

“I'd like to read these journals if I could. Perhaps borrow them for a while. I'd be glad to pay you a rental fee.”

“Just tell me you can find a place for them, Mr. Graham. Bob really doesn't want them in the house, and I haven't a clue what to do with them. But I can't bear the thought of simply throwing them away.” She gazed at the box of journals. “No matter what else they may be, those books are the sum of Mr. Kirkwell's life.”

“We have a library in Blackpool.” Michael stood up. “If it turns out that Mr. Kirkwell did have something to do with that train robbery, maybe they can make a home for them there. If not, I'll find another place for them.”

“Just give me your word, then.”

“You have it, Penny.”

A smile briefly lighted the woman's face, then quickly went away. “I hope you don't mind if I wish that you're wrong about Mr. Kirkwell's involvement, and that they won't stay in Blackpool.”

Michael nodded and smiled. “I don't mind.”

 

“Y
OU REALIZE YOU OWE ME
bloody big for all of this, don't you?” Keith set one of the two boxes they'd divided Kirkwell's journals into on a table in a pub round the corner from the Torrington residence. “Dragging me out of bed and me hungover, then turning me into a beast of burden.”

“A beast of burden would have carried everything and not been a pain in the arse about it.” Michael took off his jacket and hung it on the back of a chair, then he sat. “And I wouldn't be buying a beast of burden a few pints for his trouble, now would I?”

Keith grinned. “No, mate, you wouldn't.” He flagged down a passing server.

After only a few minutes searching, it became apparent that the journals weren't in any particular order, nor were they all dated or identified. Evidently Kirkwell had struggled with sobriety, but still he'd managed to keep the journals.

Michael and Keith sorted out the early ones first.

“He had a gift, mate. Had a good eye in the beginning.” Keith leafed through one of the journals. “Not quite so talented with composition. But he could copy someone else's work like nobody's business.” He showed Michael a rendering of the Mona Lisa.

“He had a hand for faces, too.” Michael held open a journal with street scenes of London.

A shoeshine boy with brushes and rags worked on a
gentleman's shoes. A policeman in the midst of a car wreck blew furiously on his whistle. An old lady carrying a shopping bag walked along an alley. In each of the scenes, the subjects' eyes held a deep, haunting emotion.

“You know what he needed, don't you, mate?” Keith's voice was sober. “A chance. That's all. If someone had seen him before he racked up a criminal record, he could have gone another way.”

“Yeah.”

Halfway into their second pint, Keith held up another book. “Hey. Isn't this that creepy lighthouse in Blackpool?”

Michael dragged his attention from the journal he was going through and gazed at the page. A lighthouse stood on a rocky promontory in the sketch.

At first Michael thought the drawing couldn't be of the Glower Lighthouse because there wasn't a pub at the bottom. Then he remembered the pub hadn't been built onto the lighthouse until the 1960s.

“Yeah, maybe.”

Keith turned a few more pages and stopped. Wordlessly, he showed the page to Michael. It was the same scene Michael had viewed dozens of times recently—the Blackpool train wreck.

But there was something about Byron Kirkwell's inked sketch that brought out the horror of that day more powerfully than any other image Michael had seen.

M
OLLY SAID GOODBYE TO
Michael and took the tube to the Elephant and Castle station, then walked the rest of the way to Audrey Cloverfield's building. The Blackpool police had given up following them at the town limits and she and Michael had left the car in a parking area in a protected lot in London proper.

After an unsuccessful Internet search, Molly concluded that Audrey Cloverfield either didn't have a phone or had an unlisted number. She felt bad that she couldn't call and let the woman know she was coming, but was no less determined to meet her.

Audrey Cloverfield lived in a second-floor walk-up. The neighborhood had once been a decent sort, but those days were over. Pockets of London continued to rot away as maintenance became too expensive and the economy struggled. Around the corner on a signpost, one of the bright red statues of an elephant with a castle turret on its back that marked the neighborhood made everything look cheerier.

Building security was nonexistent. Molly entered the foyer and climbed the stairs on her right. On her way up, she tried to figure out what she was going to say to the woman.
Hello, Mrs. Cloverfield. We haven't met, but I'm here to talk to you about the Blackpool train wreck. You know, the one where your young charge, Chloe Sterling, died?

The greeting needed work. Molly hoped that she could
simply wing it when the time came. She paused in front of the door and lifted her hand to knock. Then she spotted the thin cracks of splintered wood on the doorjamb and paint flecks on the floor.

Panic spread through Molly and she willed herself to walk away. She'd seen too many movies where characters met bad ends by going through doorways that obviously shouldn't have been gone through.

Just turn around and go back down the stairs.

Molly did turn, and started reaching into her handbag for her mobile with the intention of calling the police.

Then a big man in slacks, a pullover and a jacket stood in front of her and blocked her way. He was solidly built, probably in his late thirties or early forties. His face was broad, apelike, and a scar tracked his right cheek. Lank black hair hung down over his low forehead.

He grinned, exposing a gold bridge beneath the snarled scar that pulled at his lip. “Hello, pretty bird.” He nodded toward the door. “What say me an' you go inside? That's what you come 'ere for, right? For the old bag what lived inside?”

“I've got the wrong door.” Molly tried to keep the panic out of her voice, but she knew she hadn't managed it when her brittle words cracked.

“No, you ain't.” The man's face went cold and hard. “I was warned you might come sniffin' round 'ere. So I waited for you a bit. And 'ere you are. Now let's go on inside.”

Molly screamed and the big man grabbed for her. Reacting instinctively, she brought up the small canister of pepper spray attached to her key ring and tried to douse her attacker. In her haste, she dropped her handbag and mostly missed him. The spray hit his shoulder, but the noxious cloud filled the air between them with burning fumes.

Eyes watering and lungs racked with sudden spasms, Molly tried to bolt. The man roared in rage and flung his arms wide to stop her. Partly blinded and disoriented by the pepper spray, he slid his hand over her shoulder, but he managed to trap her against the door all the same.

Molly struggled to scream again but the choking haze of the pepper spray had robbed her voice. She felt the door behind her, groped for the knob, found it, twisted and almost fell as she stumbled inside the flat.

The man cursed at her and followed. But he misjudged the doorway and banged off the frame, then rebalanced and charged inside.

Molly turned and ran, barely registering the horror all around her. An elderly woman's body lay tumbled on the floor. She wore a long housecoat and a petrified expression. Her white hair fanned out in disarray across the rug. Purple bruises ringed her throat.

Fueled by adrenaline, Molly ran for the first door on the right. If her pursuer hadn't tripped over something on the floor, she might not have made it. Willing her fingers to work quickly, she locked the door behind her.

She was in a small bedroom. The bed was made and pictures hung on the wall. A bookshelf overflowed with paperback novels. Knitting sat in a basket, watched over by three blue ceramic cats.

The man thumped into the door behind Molly, but it held. He yelled curses and vile threats and slammed against it again.

Molly knew the lock or the door would eventually yield to his strength. And if the neighbors had heard the violence, they might not want to get involved. Cursing the fact that she'd dropped her handbag—with her phone in it—she prayed someone would call the police.

It won't be in time. Save yourself.

Spotting the window, Molly pushed herself from the door and crossed the room in three strides. She tried the latch on the window and was immediately relieved when it loosened. The door came off the hinges at the exact moment she got the window up. The man lunged after her as she hurled herself through the window onto the metal landing. She got to her feet, barely evading his desperate attempt to catch her.

Terrified, Molly kicked off her heels and sprinted down the fire escape to the alley. Her breath came in rapid gasps but she still couldn't yell for help. The metal stairs vibrated under her as the big man tumbled out onto the landing, as well. Even barefooted, Molly raced like a deer across the rough alley. Sharp pain bit into her feet but she didn't give in to it.

Six more long strides put her past the entrance of the alley and out to the street. She wheeled to her left and ran into pedestrian traffic. A man tried to grab her and she fought him off, realizing too late that he was only trying to keep her from falling.

“It's okay.” He held his hands up and backed away. A handful of people stopped to look. “Just didn't see you there is all.”

She spun around, breath rushing through her throat, searching for her attacker. He hurtled around the corner, saw the crowd and quickly retreated.

Molly turned to the man who had tried to help her. “Can you call the police?” she croaked, relieved to hear the sound of her voice. “Please? Tell them there's been a murder in flat 207.”

 

B
Y THE TIME
M
OLLY RETURNED
to Audrey Cloverfield's door, a crowd had gathered. Most of them were neighbors and appeared upset. Calmly, Molly retrieved her handbag
from the floor—grateful it hadn't spilled or been noticed—and pushed through, hoping her attacker wasn't back inside the room.

A man in the group caught her arm. “Who are you?” He stared at her suspiciously.

“Molly Graham. I came here to see Mrs. Cloverfield.” Gently, Molly removed her arm from his grasp. “I discovered her.”

Another voice from the crowd whispered, “She's the woman I saw in the alley.”

“Did she kill Audrey?” said another.

“There was someone else in there. A man.”

Molly turned to the group. “Did anyone recognize the man that was in the alley?”

No one answered.

Steeling herself, she entered Audrey Cloverfield's flat again.

“You really shouldn't be in there, miss.” A thin man in a black T-shirt and jeans lounged against the doorway. His hair was long and he had a wild goatee. Tattoos covered his forearms. “The coppers don't like you interferin' in a crime scene.”

“I'm not interfering.”

“Walkin' in there, bold as brass—some would call that interferin'.”

“Did you know Mrs. Cloverfield?”

“I did things for 'er now an' then. I do things for a lot of the women in this buildin'. Packages. Groceries. The post. Like that.”

“So you were in her flat a lot?”

The man held his hands up. “If you're tryin' to tie me into this—”

“No, I just was wondering if you could tell if anything is missing? Was this a robbery?”

Cautiously, the man entered the room and gazed around. “Nothin' missin'. Mrs. Cloverfield, she was a lady stayed by herself a lot. Didn't entertain much. Wasn't much in 'ere to nick.”

Another woman, one in her sixties or seventies, entered the room. Tears filled her eyes as she stared down at the dead woman. She put a hand to her mouth.

“Poor, poor dear.”

Molly's heart continued to hammer in her chest. She wanted Michael there with her. He was only a call away, but there wasn't time. She forced her fear away and studied the room. The murder hadn't been random. Otherwise, the killer wouldn't have been there waiting for her.

He'd said someone had warned him about her. But who? It was something to puzzle over, and she immediately realized she was more vulnerable than she'd thought.

A small Bible lay on the floor, probably knocked off the nearby side table. A photograph peeked from beneath the cover, and the thing that caught Molly's attention was the structure in the background. The photograph was in black and white, but she still recognized Glower Lighthouse.

However, she didn't recognize the little girl in the photograph.

“The coppers are here.”

“Police.” The voice was stern, used to being obeyed.

People at the doorway shifted. The man in the black T-shirt seemed to melt away.

Reaching down quickly, Molly picked up the Bible and put it back on the small table. Deftly, she pocketed the photograph and stood just before the first uniformed policeman stepped through the door.

“You.” The constable pointed at Molly. “Come out of there.”

 

DCI A
BNER
S
MOLLET WAS AN
overworked man, but careful about his investigations. He sat on the other side of the interview table and studied Molly under heavy-lidded eyes. The fluorescent lights gleamed off his bald head. His thin neck was wattled as a turkey's.

“You've never met the victim before, Mrs. Graham?”

“No.” Molly was calmer than she'd expected, but then it had been a most unusual week. Still, she was grateful Michael waited somewhere outside.

“And you came to London because you thought she might be able to shed some light on these murders in Blackpool?” Smollet glanced at his notes.

“Yes.”

The policeman sipped the cup of tea he'd brought with him. “I've spoken with DCI Paddington and he vouches for you.”

Molly waited, unsure of what to say to that.

“I'm going to take your statement as it stands. I don't see any reason to detain you further.”

“Thank you.”

Smollet laced his fingers. “What did you hope to learn from Miss Cloverfield?”

“She's—she
was
—the only person I'm aware of who was old enough to remember the Blackpool Train Robbery. I just wanted to talk to her.”

Smollet referred to his notes again. “Wouldn't this other gentleman, Mr. Simon Wineguard, be the one to interview her about the documentary?”

“I'd heard he did, but I wasn't privy to that conversation.”

“He didn't relay the information?”

“No.”

Carefully, Smollet added a few printed lines to his notepad. “I'm going to stay in touch with DCI Paddington
regarding his investigation and mine. We may need to bring you in again.”

“Of course.” Nervousness filled Molly as she thought about the photograph she had in her pocket. According to everything she had discovered about Audrey Cloverfield, the woman had left no family behind. That fact made the photograph of the little girl even more curious.