Stolen (8 page)

J
OYCE
A
BERNATHY CROSSED
her small bedroom to the tiny window overlooking Blackpool's downtown area. She brushed aside the curtains bearing bright yellow roses and opened the window.

“I hate being closed up. Having to deal with the metal stink of the jail and that hard cot was horrible.” The woman sat on the window seat and waved Molly to the rocking chair across from the neatly made bed.

Molly sat, taking in the nautical theme reflected by a ship-in-a-bottle lamp, paintings of tall ships and carved figurines of fish on the television stand.

“I assume someone in the Cavendish family was a seaman.” Miss Abernathy touched the ship's lantern that had been converted into a lamp over the tiny writing desk.

“A captain, actually. Mrs. Cavendish's husband still captains a fishing boat.”

She gave her first smile. “It's a lovely place to stay.”

Molly had arranged the accommodations for both Miss Abernathy and Simon, although Simon had elected to room somewhere else. “I'm glad you think so,” Molly said. “When Simon stated that he'd rather not stay here, I was surprised.”

“He was just being difficult. I don't think he realized Blackpool didn't have a true hotel until our arrival.”

“Then why did he object to the lodging?”

“He enjoys being the prima donna from time to time. It feeds his ego.” Miss Abernathy grimaced. “That big, fat, pompous ego of his.”

Surprised at the other woman's intense—and negative—emotion, Molly remained silent. During the times she'd spent with Simon Wineguard and Miss Abernathy, Molly had only seen the two act like a well-oiled machine.

Embarrassment flitted across Miss Abernathy's face. “Honestly, Molly, can you see anything different from this bed-and-breakfast and the Seagull and Sandbar, where he's currently staying?”

“This is a more picturesque place, in my opinion.”

Miss Abernathy nodded. “It is. The key difference for Simon is that there's a pub across the street from the Seagull and Sandbar.”

Molly waited politely for Miss Abernathy to get back to the real issue at hand.

“I loved your idea of the Operation Pied Piper story, Molly. Truly, I did. But that wasn't what drew Simon here to Blackpool.”

“I'm afraid I don't understand.”

“Simon wants to do the documentary, as he's told you. But he has an ulterior motive, as well. You've heard of the Sterling family?”

“Yes. One of the children lost aboard the train was Chloe Sterling.”

“What do you know about the family?”

Molly recalled the material she'd gone over when pulling the presentation about the documentary together. “They were wealthy and influential. Involved in a number of businesses, mostly shipping and some industrial concerns like canning and furniture manufacturing. Lived in London. Chloe was the sole heir of the eldest Sterling, Richard. After the war the family fell on hard times.”

“I knew you'd done your homework.” Miss Abernathy smiled. “In many ways, you remind me of myself. Chloe Sterling's unfortunate end was a sad story. Richard Sterling passed away shortly after his daughter's passing. They say he died of a broken heart. He was a widower. Chloe's mother died in childbirth. Until I learned of the tale of the train robbery, I'd heard nothing but bad things about the family.”

“What bad things?”

“After Richard died in 1941, his brother Edward took over the family fortune. There was talk that he was helping the Nazis during the war. Nothing could ever be proven, though. The war occupied everyone's attention, and there's no evidence Edward Sterling was ever a Nazi sympathizer. He just didn't mind making money from the Germans. He fancied himself his own private Switzerland and supplied both sides with supplies and munitions.” She paused. “At least, that's what Simon believes.”

“Even if that were true, that was seventy years ago. What does it have to do with the documentary?”

“Because Simon is hoping to leverage the Operation Pied Piper film to pursue his next project—an exposé of the Sterling family and their ties to criminal syndicates.” Miss Abernathy shifted on the window seat. “Simon ended up crossways with Bartholomew Sterling—he's the current head of the family, son to Edward Sterling—over a woman, I think. I don't quite have all the particulars, but Simon has had it in for Bartholomew Sterling for years.”

Molly considered that. “Simon came here under false pretenses?”

“Not exactly.” Miss Abernathy sighed. “This is hard to explain correctly because I feel betrayed, as well.” She knotted a fist in her lap. “Simon should have told me what he'd planned right from the start.”

“When did he tell you?”

“Last night. After that poor woman had been murdered. And then the police were asking me so many questions. I knew if I relayed to the police anything he'd said to me it would only make Simon look guilty. Little did I realize that keeping silent only made
me
look guilty, and all I got for my loyalty was a night in jail. And Simon? Simon was
excited.
”

“About the murder?”

“Not about that. He felt horrible that she was killed. Responsible even. But he said her murder was proof that he needed to bring the Sterling family to its knees.”

“He believes the Sterlings had something to do with the murder? But why would they have any interest in Abigail Whiteshire?”

Miss Abernathy pushed herself to her feet and kicked off her heels. She began to pace the small room in her stocking feet.

“Simon is convinced they were sending him a message.”

“A message.”

Miss Abernathy nodded. “A warning.”

“About what?”

“Simon thinks they know he's planning to do a documentary about them and their association with the mob. After the war, even though the rumors of consorting with the Nazis couldn't be verified, Edward Sterling was ostracized by the London elite. For a while, the family's standing dropped dramatically. People stayed away from their businesses. Edward started working with some of the East End criminal organizations. Slowly, he built his fortune back up. Ultimately, though, the ties with the criminal organizations got tighter.”

“None of that ever turned up in my research.”

As she considered the matter, Molly thought about the men who had invaded her home. To get past all of the high-tech security Michael had had installed in the home, the burglars were professionals. And professionals were expensive.

“But did you ever take a hard look at the Sterling family in your research?” Miss Abernathy asked.

“There was no need. They weren't the story. The film was going to be about what happened to those children.”

“For you, yes. But not for Simon. The Sterling connection is the only story he's after.”

“Does he think they had anything to do with the train robbery?”

“No. Remember, Richard Sterling was still alive then. He was simply trying to protect his daughter by getting her out of London. And to help save all those women and children.”

“Have you talked with Simon this morning?”

“No. When I was released from jail, he was nowhere to be found. I tried his mobile, but he's not answering.”

“Have you checked his B and B?”

“I did. I went there first.”

Concern gnawed at Molly. “Did Inspector Paddington know where he might be?”

“I didn't ask. I assumed Simon would be in his room.”

“Perhaps I should search for him. Blackpool isn't so big that I can't find him.”

“I would offer to go with you, but I'm in no mood to see him right now. I think he might feel the same way about me.” Miss Abernathy's expression grew stern. “We get like this every now and again. I'm sorry you've been caught in the middle of it, Molly. It's not fair to you.”

“I'll be fine. Trust me, I've weathered much worse.” Molly could see Simon's assistant was exhausted. “You
should get some rest. We'll have a lot to deal with in light of everything that went on last night, but first I'll track down Simon.”

Miss Abernathy regarded Molly wistfully. “When you do, could you call me and let me know? I just want to know that he's all right. He's really not himself when the Sterling family is involved.”

“Of course.” Molly stood and walked toward the door. “Try to get some rest. I'll be in touch as soon as I can.”

Outside the Cavendish House, Molly slid on her sunglasses, and clicked open the doors of her silver Mini Cooper with her keys. After she buckled in and started the engine, she pulled her iPhone from her handbag and switched on the wireless function. She spoke Michael's name and the speaker system broadcast the ring tone as she pulled out onto the street.

“Hello, love.” Michael's voice sounded sexy and filled with suggestive promise. “Miss me?”

Molly smiled. “Always. Keeping yourself occupied?”

“Not with a game, though.”

“Really?”

“I swear. I'm at the Blackpool Library.”

“Researching train robberies?” Molly glided to a stop at one of the town's few stop signs and checked both ways. When she glanced up, she spotted a Blackpool police cruiser traveling a short distance behind her.

“As a matter of fact, I am. As you knew I would be.”

“I knew you wouldn't be able to resist.” Molly checked the rearview mirror a moment longer. The two policemen in the cruiser behind her tried to look at everything but her. “Actually, if you're not too busy today, there is a favor I have to ask of you.”

“Oh? Something strenuous, I hope.”

“You realize that these mobile signals bleed over onto maritime radios.”

“Embarrassed?”

“Not yet.” Molly started forward again. The police car stayed with her. “About the favor. Could you research Bartholomew Sterling for me?”

“Ah. The nephew of Richard Sterling.”

“You
have
been doing your homework.”

“I excel at research, love. As you are well aware of. Why the interest in Bartholomew Sterling?”

Molly quickly brought Michael up-to-date on Simon Wineguard's interest in the man.

“You realize you only have Miss Abernathy's word to go on.”

“I do. But I keep thinking about Mrs. Whiteshire. The killers shot her, then broke into her house using her key. That doesn't sound like a typical mugging to me.”

“Nor to me.” Michael hummed at the other end of the line. It was something he did when he was deep in thought, though he wasn't aware of it. The sound pleased Molly and made her smile. When Michael was humming, his mind was fully engaged.

“And there is the matter of the breach in our security.”

“Agreed. I don't think Blackpool has the necessary criminal talent to do that.” Michael took a deep breath. “While I'm here researching, what are you going to be doing?”

“I'm trying to find Simon Wineguard.”

“Gone missing, has he?”

“For the moment. Miss Abernathy suggested that he might be in his rooms. Or at a pub.” Molly glanced in the rearview mirror. The police cruiser was still there. “Would you believe that Inspector Paddington is having his men follow me around?”

“No.” Concern tightened Michael's voice. “But I have to admit that I'm not terribly surprised. The break-in last night left an impression on us, and I'm betting the inspector was also suitably impressed.” He paused. “Be careful, love. This is already shaping up to be a nasty bit of business and I would feel much better if you were well clear of it.”

“I'll be careful.” For a moment, Molly felt a chill as she remembered the dead woman lying in the street. “I'd just hoped that the murder was not connected to us in any way.”

“Me, too.”

“But you don't think that's true, either. That's why you're at the library this morning.”

He sighed. She knew him too well sometimes. “Yes.”

“Find out what you can about Bartholomew Sterling.”

“I will, and when I do, is there some kind of prize involved?”

“Perhaps.”

Michael chuckled. “Tease. In the meantime, what happens when you finally corner Simon?”

“He's going to fess up to his real intentions regarding this documentary.”

“I almost feel sorry for him.”

Laughing, Molly disconnected the call.

B
LACKPOOL MOVED AT A LAZY
morning pace. Weekend tourists who had arrived by boat wandered through the shops and restaurants. Glower Lighthouse stood tall out in the harbor. Festive sails belled and caught the wind, powering boats out to sea.

The police cruiser rolled to a stop behind Molly as she opened the door and got out. She walked back to the uniformed officers, conscious of the stares she drew from the townsfolk.

“Good morning, gentlemen.” Molly smiled at them and peered at the name badge on the driver. “Officer Fotherby.”

“Constable.” The big man raked a hand over his stubbled chin. The rasp of his beard cut through the purr of the car's idling engine. “Constable Fotherby.”

“Back home we call policemen officers.” Molly folded her arms. “Would you like to tell me why you're following me?”

A flash of irritation shadowed Fotherby's face. “Mrs. Graham, you're blocking traffic.”

Molly looked around the street. Gawkers stood around, watching what was happening. No other cars moved along the thoroughfare.

“I don't believe I'm blocking traffic, Constable Fotherby.” Molly kept her voice calm, professional, but she knew there was a hint of ice in her words.

Fotherby swiveled his gaze onto her with laser intensity, then upped the wattage. Molly supposed if she was the type to be easily intimidated, that would have done the trick.

“Perhaps you'd appreciate a ticket this fine morning, Mrs. Graham.”

“I'd protest it in court, Constable. And then things would turn ugly.”

The other man leaned over to Fotherby. He was older, smaller and slimmer, with a neatly cut mustache and gray hair. “Let it go, mate. The inspector knew we weren't going to exactly be on stealth mode for this bit.”

Fotherby shrugged off the other constable's words without breaking eye contact with Molly. “I've got my orders, Mrs. Graham. The inspector says we're supposed to stay with you.”

“Why?”

“For your own protection.”

Molly crossed her arms. “Really?”

“Yes, ma'am.” The other constable answered while Fotherby continued trying to stare Molly down. “Because of the murder last night. And the break-ins. Inspector Paddington considers it a wise precaution.”

“Thank you, Constable. The inspector might have mentioned that.”

“He didn't want to worry you, ma'am.”

Fotherby cursed. “Don't talk to her, Wallingham.”

“I'll talk to who I like, when I like, Fotherby.”

Molly focused on the older constable. “I assume I'm not the only one the inspector is having tailed.”

“Ma'am, I'm not at liberty to say what the inspector is doing.”

Thank goodness for all that grant money I secured for additional police officers during the documentary.
“I'm looking for Simon Wineguard. If you could point me to
him, I want to speak with him. That way you'll have two of us in one place and you won't have to follow me all around Blackpool while I search for him. Perhaps one of your teams could go for coffee. Or tea.”

“We're not here to plug your social calendar.” Fotherby slipped on a pair of sunglasses with mirror lenses. They gave him a cold, insectoid appearance.

“I'm trying to make this easier on all of us,” Molly said. “Otherwise you'll spend the day staring at my tailgate as I have no idea where Simon is.” She couldn't believe the man's stubbornness.

“Wineguard's at the marina.” Wallingham referred to a small notepad from his pocket. “On a yacht called
Crystal Dancer.
Slip P-62.”

Fotherby gripped the steering wheel more tightly and stared through the windshield as if he weren't a part of the conversation.

“Thank you, Constable Wallingham.”

Wallingham touched the brim of his short-billed cap and gave her a small smile. “You're welcome, ma'am.”

“I suppose you'll be along after me.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Molly cut her gaze to the younger constable. “I'll try not to lose you.”

Fotherby growled a curse.

Molly turned and strode back to her car. She thought about Inspector Paddington's interest and wondered where it was coming from. It was probably an overreaction—except for the break-ins and the “mugging” gone bad.

Of course, there was also the possibility that Inspector Paddington had discovered Simon Wineguard's connection to the Sterling family. Before coming to Blackpool, Paddington had worked in London's Metro unit.

Behind the wheel, Molly buckled herself in and made
an illegal U-turn, flouting the law deliberately to get under Fotherby's skin. She didn't care for the man or his attitude. In the rearview mirror, the police cruiser's lights came on and Molly wondered if she'd pushed the situation too far.

The two constables argued for a moment, then the lights went off. A moment later, they trailed behind her at a sedate pace.

 

M
ICHAEL STUDIED THE
photographs of the train wreck in the microfiche files as he nursed a cup of tea. The robbers hadn't mucked about in their efforts to stop the train. According to the story, they had felled trees to block the tracks around a curve only a few miles outside of Blackpool. When the train had ground to a stop in the forest, the robbers had triggered an explosive charge under the pulling engine as the engineer tried to reverse.

The explosion overturned the pulling engine and coal car and ripped them apart. The engineer and fireman had died in the blast, as well as several passengers.

Quietly, Michael surveyed the black-and-white images and imagined what those frantic moments must have been like. The line of cars had buckled and become a broken-backed snake. Carnage spread out from the tracks and into the forest. According to reports, passengers—including the children—were strewn across the landscape.

The gold bullion shipment had carried extra guards—a military attachment. Unfortunately, most of them were new recruits and hadn't ever been under fire. They'd responded to the attack, according to interviews with survivors, but hadn't been able to stand up to the intense fire of the robbers' machine guns and heavy rifle barrage.

Some of the photographs showed the damage close up. Michael analyzed the huge holes punched through the railway cars. An army liaison had speculated that the robbers
had used Browning automatic rifles in the attack. They were heavy, but men could carry them easily enough.

Blackpool Police Constable Henry Mullins had been shocked and appalled, according to the reporter. “Those weapons were designed as tank killers. Taking cover in those railcars would have been about as effective as taking refuge in a sardine tin. The guards never had a chance. This was a cold-blooded killing. Executions, the lot of them.”

The report was long and filled with details, including the fact that the car holding the paintings hadn't been fired upon at all. When the reporter had questioned the military liaison about whether the robbers had to have had inside information, the army representative had dodged the question.

Michael was fascinated by the logistics of the train heist, as well as the mystery. Although a part of him was horrified at the loss of life.

And the children.
He shivered in the room and wondered if the people around him reading the reports were equally moved.

The biggest mystery of the robbery was how the thieves had transported the stolen items out of the area. Moving that much gold would have been difficult under any conditions, let alone in the middle of the forest outside a small town with few routes of escape.

Michael picked up his pen and notepad, thinking how he would have handled the situation if he had been in charge of the robbery. Not that he would ever kill anyone.

Still, as a game designer he planned a lot of complex and intricate puzzles. Sometimes he wondered if he'd become too coldly analytical because of it. Then he realized how sickened he'd been while looking at the photographs and
had empathized with the victims for what they'd been forced to endure.

He shelved his emotions for the moment and gave his attention over to the problem.