by Tim Ellis
All the books began with “The” except for the book by David Lagercrantz, which began with “Fall”. Whether that was significant or not, he had no idea. It was also interesting that the book had “Wilmslow” in the title. Wilmslow wasn’t far away from Marple. Surprisingly, for a detective, he’d never been particularly good at puzzles, riddles or conundrums and staring at the list didn’t improve his skill at it either.
Maybe Mrs Flagg had left clues in the books themselves. Had she kept the books out for three months to read them? Or leave a trail of breadcrumbs inside them? He thought about the idea of searching through each of the books, but immediately saw onerous obstacles in his way. First, there would no doubt be a number of copies of each book on the shelves, and some copies – including the copy they needed – might have been signed out. It was also possible that the books were no longer stocked in the library, or they could have been stolen or destroyed. Then, of course, there was the time involved in searching through each of the fourteen books, and then recognising a breadcrumb if one had been deposited there. No, it was a task better suited to the people in forensics. Tyree had collected together a cornucopia of peculiar human beings in forensics who thrived on wandering through labyrinths clutching balls of golden twine.
Lake reappeared. ‘Mister Pearson apologised. He was under the impression that you knew Mrs Flagg had accessed the safe deposit box on a number of occasions.’ She opened the notebook she had in her hand. ‘I have a list of dates here.’
‘Read them out.’
‘She first accessed the box on July 14, 2002, and then every year after that in the same month until January 23, 2016; and finally on March 29, 2016.’
He thought for a handful of seconds. ‘July 14, 2002 was a month after her husband’s death, and just before she returned to Chester.’
Lake said, ‘She travelled to Manchester from Chester every year on the same date to get something out of the box . . . Money?’
‘It sounds plausible. But then, last year on January 23, it seems that she visited Montague’s first before she came here to borrow fourteen books, which she returned after three months, and then deposited the library card in the safe deposit box for the final time.’
‘She knew she was dying in January, didn’t she?’
‘Yes, you’re probably right, Lake.’
‘Are you sure you’re feeling all right?’
He ignored her. ‘It’s also looking like this list of books is a message from the grave.’ He passed her the sheet of paper. ‘What can you tell me about that?’
The end of her tongue popped out from between her lips as she examined the list. ‘It’s in alphabetical order.’
He waited.
‘It’s a strange list.’
‘In what way?’
‘They’re not really women’s books.’
‘You mean, they’re not about romance? Have you read any of those books?’
‘Only The Hobbit by Tolkien. I also might have read The Vicar of Nibbleswicke by Roald Dahl when I was young as well, but I don’t remember the story.’
‘Is there anything else about the list?’
‘The titles all begin with “The” except one, which begins with “Fall”.’
‘And that means?’
‘Well, maybe nothing. Oh! Isn’t Wilmslow somewhere near here?’
‘Yes.’
‘That could mean something.’
‘Such as?’
‘I don’t know.’
He took the list back. ‘Thanks for your invaluable help, Lake.’
She squinted. ‘Have you got any answers?’
‘I have lots of answers, but not about the list.’ He smoothed the sheet of paper flat on the table, took out his phone, waited until Mrs Bluebell had her back to him and then photographed the list.
‘If you do that again, Mister Dark,’ Cerberus said, without turning any one of her three heads around. ‘I’ll have no other choice but to have you forcibly removed.’
‘Sorry.’
He wandered outside and called Burrows.
‘Yes, Sir?’
‘Are you working today, Burrows?’
‘No.’
‘Then why are you answering your phone?’
‘It rang.’
‘I’m sending you a list of library books.’
‘That you want me to read?’
‘Just because you’re on a day off, it doesn’t mean you can be flippant.’
‘Sorry, Sir.’
‘Get one of your people to look at the list. Preferably, not the same person who seems to be taking absolutely ages working out what the number on the stake means.’
‘What will they be looking for?’
‘A message.’ He sent the list.
‘Have you got it?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Any questions?’
‘No.’
‘Also.’
‘Yes?’
‘I’d like you to send a couple of your people to Marple Library to examine the physical books on that list to see if any messages have been left in any of them singularly, or in combination.’
‘How many people do you think we have in forensics, Sir?’
‘Is that a rhetorical question, Burrows?’
‘I’ll send some people.’
‘Good.’
‘Is there anything else, Sir?’
‘Do you have any more people left?’
‘No.’
‘Then, I think we’re done, Burrows. Have a great day off.’
‘Goodbye, Sir.’
He ended the call.
‘What about CCTV?’ he said to Lake.
‘Yes. Mister Pearson said they keep all CCTV recordings in cloud storage off-site.’
‘And can they access it?’
‘He said if we go back, he’ll show us Mrs Flagg arriving and leaving.’
‘I don’t suppose they have CCTV in the vault?’
‘I didn’t ask.’
‘Okay. Let’s go.’
‘Lunch?’
‘Do you have any money?’
‘No.’
‘You’ve brought a packed lunch with you?’
‘No.’
‘Have you spoken to your father yet?’
‘He’s not answering his phone.’
‘What about one of your spoilt siblings?’
She blew a raspberry. ‘We don’t get on.’
‘So, how do you propose to buy lunch?’
‘You could . . .’
He grunted. ‘I could do a lot of things, but buying you lunch again is not one of them.’
‘You know I’ll pay you back.’
‘I don’t know anything of the sort. So far, you’ve conned me out of a hundred and seventy-five pounds plus two days’ interest, promised me you’d pay me back today, but I haven’t seen one penny of it yet. If you owed the Ghenosu brothers you’d be walking around on crutches by now, or something far worse.’
‘But you’re not them.’
‘No, I’m too nice for my own good, and I don’t have recourse to persuasive techniques such as leg-breaking, so I’m simply not going to lend you any more money.’
‘I won’t be able to focus on the investigation if I’m hungry.’
‘Do you think I’ll be able to tell the difference?’
‘Very funny.’
He held out his hand. ‘Give me your phone.’
‘Why?’
He didn’t answer.
She placed the phone on his open palm.
He found “Dad” in her phonebook, pressed “Call” and held it up to his ear.
‘Hello, Love,’ her father answered. ‘How are you?’
‘It’s not your daughter, Sir. It’s your daughter’s boss, DI Dark.’
Lake scrabbled for the phone.
He turned his back on her and held her at bay with his extended free hand.
‘I’ve heard all about you from Chief Superintendent Henn, Dark.’
‘A
ll good, I hope?’
‘What do you think? If I had my way, she’d be with the main SCD, but she’s adamant she wants to work with you.’
‘Obviously a glutton for punishment. Anyway, the reason I’m calling is not to discuss your daughter’s career choices, but to inform you that she has no money with which to buy herself food.’
‘Again? That girl will be the death of me.’
‘I know what you mean.’
‘She’s like a bottomless money pit. Why didn’t she call me?’
‘I can only imagine. Anyway, she already owes me a hundred and ninety-three pounds, which she promised to pay back today after calling you, but she says she hasn’t been able to get through to you. Now, she wants me to buy her lunch. The money isn’t an issue, but I feel there’s something else going on with her.’
‘Tell her I’ll transfer five hundred pounds into her account.’
‘Why don’t you tell her yourself, Sir?’ He passed the phone to Lake.
She wandered away with the phone to her ear.
He returned to the Rav-4 and climbed in, turned the ignition and put the heaters onto a hefty four. His feet were like blocks of ice and could have been used to fashion ice sculptures.
After a good ten minutes she climbed into the car.
He noticed that her eyes were red and swollen.
‘You had no right to do that.’
‘I had every right. I was protecting my investment.’
‘Don’t worry, you’ll get your blood money.’
‘I was talking about you. I’ve invested time and energy into your apprenticeship, I don’t want that to be wasted.’
‘Oh.’
***
He turned the engine off. ‘Come on.’
‘Where?’
‘You want lunch, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘And I want my money back. We’ll walk down Market Street. There are cafes and cashpoints along there.’
‘Okay.’
On the way to the cafe at the other end of the street, Lake withdrew three of the five hundred pounds from the cashpoint outside the NatWest bank that her father had sent her.
She handed him two hundred pounds.
He gave her thirty back.
‘What about the interest?’
‘I’m not interested in interest. In fact, I’m not interested in the money. What I am interested in, which you’ll tell me over lunch, is why you have no money in your account two thirds into the month.’
‘That’s my business.’
‘Which you’ve made my business by scrounging money off me.’
They walked along in silence.
The Green Pepper cafe wasn’t too full. No doubt the freezing weather was keeping the regular customers indoors.
They were cosmopolitan in their food choices. He ordered the Greek salad, Lake went with the tagliatelle carbonara.
The waitress returned with their coffees.
‘Well?’ he said to Lake. ‘How do you manage to fritter away two thousand five hundred pounds each month?’
‘Stork scissors.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I collect stork scissors.’
‘Of course you do.’
‘I have over seven hundred pairs.’
‘That’s not a collection, it’s an obsession.’
‘I know.’
The waitress brought their food and they began eating.
‘They’re scissors that are designed as storks, are they?’
‘Yes. They started out as forceps used by the midwives of wealthy families to clamp off the umbilical cord of new born babies before cutting and tying them off. Over time, they evolved to become sewing scissors, and midwives used them for sewing or embroidery while they waited for the mother to go into labour.’
‘Surely a couple of pairs of scissors doesn’t swallow up your salary each month?’
‘This month I bought a pair of Victorian brass stork forceps dated 1902, which cost me two hundred and ninety pounds; a pair of Italian goldtone metal stork forceps dated 1876, which were four hundred pounds; and a pair of silver-plated Henkel-Fremont stork sewing scissors dated 1911, which cost me seventy pounds.’
‘You spent seven hundred and fifty pounds on scissors?’
‘Yes.’
‘In one month?’
‘Yes. This month has been a bad month for money, but a good month for my collection of stork scissors. I needed to buy them to take my mind off my mum’s death.’
‘No wonder you can’t afford food.’
‘I know.’
‘Once this case is over, we’ll arrange for you to see someone.’
‘See someone! See who? What for?’
‘Do you think what you’re doing is normal?’
‘I don’t see why not.’
‘It’s an addiction – like gambling, alcohol, drugs.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘What’s ridiculous is you spending half your salary on antique stork scissors, which are of no practical use whatsoever, when you have no food to eat.’
‘As I said, this month is a bad month.’
‘You remind me of someone who self-harms – that’s an addiction as well.’
‘Now you are being ridiculous.’
‘I’m certainly no psychologist, but I wouldn’t be surprised if the same underlying causes are at work in both cases. Some people cut themselves to cope, you choose to spend absurd amounts of money on scissors shaped like storks. So, you’ll be seeing someone as soon as we solve this case.’
‘You think I’m a basket case, don’t you?’
‘I think you have issues.’
‘And you don’t?’
‘No.’
They ate in silence for a while.
He had a thought. ‘How much money do you owe?’
‘I’ve just paid you back.’
‘Not me. Who else do you owe money to?’
‘No one.’
‘You have no outstanding bank loans?’
‘That’s none of your business.’
‘Does your father know?’
Tears ran down her face. ‘No.’
‘How much?’
‘Fifty thousand pounds.’
‘Jesus!’ He seemed to attract women, in one way or another, who had addictive personalities. Was that true of Ellie? Was she a nymphomaniac – addicted to sex? ‘Do you want to carry on being a detective, Lake?’
‘Of course, I do.’
‘Then, you have to clear your debts by selling your stork scissor collection.’
Her eyes opened wide. ‘No.’
‘It’s either that, or I suspend you.’
‘What for?’
‘A psychological assessment. Imagine what your father would say about that. Does he know about your collection?’
‘No.’
‘He’ll want to know why I’ve suspended you, as will Henn. The truth will out.’
‘You’ve just found a way to get rid of me, haven’t you?’
‘I’ve just found a way to keep you, Lake. As I said, I never give up. Even when it could very well be a lost cause. It’s up to you – stay or go. If you stay, you do things my way.’
‘What choice do I have?’
‘None if you want to carry on being my partner.’
‘Not your apprentice?’
‘Oh, you’re still my apprentice, but I’m sure that if you stick it out, you’ll reach the lofty position of partner one day.’
Chapter Sixteen
Victor Green, and his seventeen year-old daughter Arabella, lived at 27 Conway Close in Saltney, Chester. His wife – Mitsi – had walked out on them shortly after Arabella was born, and never returned. As such, he was still married to her, which therefore meant he hadn’t been able to marry Miranda Flagg. However, for all intents and purposes, they had lived together as if they were married for fifteen years, and Victor considered Toby to be the son he’d never had.
‘Did s
he ever speak about what had happened in Marple?’ he asked Victor.
They were sitting in the large kitchen of Victor Green’s stone cottage, which still had the original wooden beams, stonework and slate floor tiles. There was a log fire burning in the grate and a Welsh dresser full of crockery stood against one wall.
Victor was in his early sixties. Age had just caught up with him. He had thinning hair that needed a trim, wore rimless glasses and a barely noticeable hearing aid in his right ear, smoked a pipe and had hands that were used to manual work.
‘Only that Albert had been killed by a joyrider and the police never found the driver.’
He showed Victor a photograph of the note he had on his phone that they’d found in Toby’s apartment. ‘Did you ever see that before?’
‘No.’
He moved to the next photograph on his phone, which was the safe deposit box key, and which they’d also found in Toby’s apartment. ‘What about that?’
‘Sorry.’
‘Did she tell you about a safe deposit box that her late husband had rented in Manchester the day before he died in 2002?’
‘No.’
‘Did you know she visited Manchester to access the box on July 14, 2003, and then every year after that during July?’
He shook his head. ‘I knew there was a part of her that she kept hidden from me. I told myself that if she wanted me to know, she’d tell me, but she never did. Our lives together began in November 2002, a couple of months after she moved up here. She didn’t speak of her life with Albert before that, and I never asked.’
‘Can you think of any reason why she would visit Marple Library last year on January 23 and borrow fourteen books, which she then returned on March 29?’
Victor shrugged. His face looked drawn and tired. ‘Sorry, she didn’t tell me anything. I had no idea she kept going back to Marple and Manchester. She was an accountant, so she did a bit of travelling to see clients. What I can tell you is that she gave up fighting the cancer in January of last year. It was her New Year’s resolution. She didn’t want to spend her last few months in a hospital bed on chemotherapy wishing she were dead and puking up every five minutes, so she declined all further treatment.’ He stopped while he brought his emotions under control. ‘She wanted to die at home on her own terms, and that’s exactly what she did. She lasted until the end of May, and then one morning I woke up and she was lying next to me dead.’