The Case of the Broken Doll (An Inspector David Graham Cozy Mystery Book 4)
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THE CASE OF THE BROKEN DOLL
Alison Golden
Grace Dagnall
Contents
FREE PREQUELS
PRAISE FOR THE INSPECTOR DAVID GRAHAM MYSTERY SERIES
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
EPILOGUE
SPECIAL OFFER
INSPECTOR DAVID GRAHAM WILL RETURN…
THE CASE OF THE MISSING LETTER
THANK YOU
OTHER BOOKS IN THE INSPECTOR DAVID GRAHAM SERIES
ALSO BY ALISON GOLDEN
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
THE CASE OF THE BROKEN DOLL
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PRAISE FOR THE INSPECTOR DAVID GRAHAM MYSTERY SERIES
“I'm in love with him and his colleagues.”
“A terrific mystery.”
“These books certainly have the potential to become a PBS series with the likeable character of Inspector Graham and his fellow officers.”
“Delightful writing that keeps moving, never a dull moment.”
“I know I have a winner of a book when I toss and turn at night worrying about how the characters are doing.”
“Love it and love the author.”
“Refreshingly unique and so well written.”
“Solid proof that a book can rely on good storytelling and good writing without needing blood or sex.”
“This series just gets better and better.”
“DI Graham is wonderful and his old school way of doing things, charming.”
“Great character development.”
“Kept me entertained all day.”
“Please write more!”
CHAPTER ONE
IT WAS A Saturday morning, and it was not starting out well.
Graham awoke feeling groggy, tired, and uncomfortable. In his dream, someone had been knocking repeatedly on the roof of his police car, either demanding help or just trying to annoy him, he couldn’t tell which. He remembered trying to open the driver’s door, but it was stuck or locked, and so he struggled fruitlessly with it while the knocking became louder and louder…
“Bloody pipes again,” he grumbled, swinging his tired frame out of bed. The White House Inn suffered from an antiquated heating system that struggled to warm the old building, and its pipes knocked and clanged throughout each night. As he started his morning routine, Graham remembered that the same knocking sound had afflicted his dreams for the past few nights, ultimately waking and leaving him in a state that was decidedly unrefreshed. He looked in the mirror, frowning at the dark lines under his eyes. “I look a lot older than thirty-six,” he told his reflection. It showed no signs of disagreement.
He showered and shaved as he always did, but he knew that nothing whatsoever would lift his mood until he’d had his morning infusion of high-quality tea. In truth, Graham had never planned to stay at the White House Inn for ten weeks, but the daily pleasure of coming downstairs to the dining room and sitting at his own table by the window with a big pot of Assam or Darjeeling still felt wonderfully indulgent. Every day one of the waiters – Graham knew them all by name now – would bring him a steaming pot of utter perfection, and the day would begin in earnest. His eyes regained a little of their sparkle just thinking about it.
This Saturday morning, it was Polly, a bubbly redhead. “What’ll it be, Detective Inspector?” Try as he might, Graham could not persuade the staff to call him simply “Mr. Graham.” Even an informal “David” would have been alright, given how long he’d been staying there. But after success with two high-profile murder cases and the recent celebratory article about the Gorey Constabulary in the local paper, his title had become a firm fixture.
“I feel like having something from China today, Polly.”
“Isn’t that how you feel every day?” Polly replied, grinning cheekily and standing patiently with her notepad and pen.
“That,” Graham admitted, “is probably a fair comment. Lapsang Souchong, please. And make sure to bring the…”
“Timer. Yes, Detective Inspector.” Polly scurried away to place the order and handle Graham’s unusual request. There was absolutely no point, Graham insisted, in serving some of the world’s best teas if the customer had no idea how long the tea had been steeping when it arrived at the table. His solution was to have the waiter start a small digital timer as soon as the boiling water came into contact with the tea leaves. That way, Graham knew when his tea was at its absolute peak. Some would have called him fussy. But on matters of such importance, he knew he was merely being correct.
Polly also brought the morning paper. The front page was splashed with reports of the celebrations marking Guy Fawkes Night, the annual commemoration of November 5th, 1605, the day that King James I survived an assassination attempt by a group of English Catholics.
This year, two evenings earlier, the town had fired off its biggest ever fireworks display. An impressive sum had been collected for local charities, and better yet the district hospital was glad to report only three minor injuries, far fewer than in previous years. Graham made a note to give his team a solid “well done” for their “Safe Fifth” safety campaign. He especially wanted to single out Constable Roach, whose idea it had been.
On the “Announcements” page, there were the usual births, marriages, and deaths – none suspicious – but it was just this relative peace and quiet that was beginning to bother Graham just a little. His first few weeks in Gorey had seen a pair of thoroughly unpleasant murders, requiring the very best from himself and the Gorey Constabulary, but in the last few weeks, their investigative powers had been focused on more routine matters like stolen cars, shoplifters, and the odd break-in. There had been a spectacular case of vandalism at the high school, but even there, little challenge was to be found. The guilty party had obligingly signed his name, for heaven’s sake, at the bottom of the colorfully defaced wall.
Revitalized by the tea, Graham set off on the day’s errand. He was determined to finish his Christmas shopping well in advance of the annual crush that he had been warned could make Gorey’s small shops nearly intolerable. As usual, he assigned a single objective to this outing: a suitable present for his now ex-wife.
“What’s she into?” asked the first shop assistant he spoke to. “You know, hobbies? Interests?”
The question stum
ped Graham. He could hardly confess that he was looking for the kind of gift that might cheer up a woman who had barely smiled in months. “I think she’d enjoy something a little… different.” When this was no help, he tried, “Perhaps something with some history? With a story behind it?” Graham was met with a blank expression.
The second shop was hardly any better and was even more crowded. “You mean,” the female assistant tried, “like something used by a sleb?”
“A what?”
“A sleb. You know, a celebrity, a famous person.”
Graham tried again. “Something that is special because of where it has been or what it was used for, as much as for what it is.”
The assistant frowned. “Nah, I don’t think we have anything like that.” Then she bustled off to address a question about Christmas lights, and Graham searched fruitlessly before making his exit.
Further along, he came upon an antique shop, and after some thought, he decided to give it a try. “How about this?” the storekeeper asked, presenting him with a highly polished, eighteenth-century pistol. “Belonged to a notorious pirate, that did,” he said proudly.
“Anything a little more… peaceful?”
In the end, he found what he felt to be the perfect gift. It was a small and beautifully detailed painting of Gorey Harbor, based, he was told, on a sketch found in the notebook of a priest who had lived on Jersey some four hundred years before. It showed the castle, splendid and dominating on its hilltop, above a harbor busy with fishing vessels, the old wharf, and a bustling fish market. “Eighty-five pounds,” the storekeeper said. “But for a member of our brave Constabulary, let’s just call it eighty.”
As he was leaving with the painting neatly wrapped in brown paper under his arm, Graham noticed something that he’d overlooked on the way in. In the front corner of the shop’s window was a doll dressed in an ornate, eighteenth-century nightgown, with curly blond hair and blue eyes. Something about it stood out. Perhaps he’d considered one of these dolls for his daughter’s birthday one year?
No, that wasn’t it. He pondered the doll as he made his way back to the White House Inn, past the three other shops he’d tried. And there in the window of one was a nearly identical doll, dressed the same way, but with black hair in neat braids. It was displayed just as prominently, right by the door.
Moments later, he saw another one. This one seemed older, slightly more worn, and hardly in saleable condition, and yet it stood prominently in the center of the window. He spotted two more staring out at him before reaching The White House Inn, and as he made his way through the front doors, he saw yet another. On the reception desk sat a pale-skinned, beautifully made doll in a green bonnet.
“Mrs. Taylor?” he asked, his curiosity welling up.
The proprietor looked up from her tablet, which she had been studying with an unusual frown. “Oh, hello Detective Inspector,” she said brightly. “Been doing your Christmas shopping?”
“Indeed so, Mrs. Taylor, but I have to ask… These dolls,” he said. “I’m seeing them everywhere. They must be in half of all of the shop windows. Am I imagining things?”
She clicked off the tablet and sighed slightly. “No, sir, you are not. But I’m surprised no one’s told you about her yet.”
“Her?”
“Beth Ridley,” she said sadly. “Poor thing.”
Graham was embarrassed to admit the girl’s name meant nothing to him, but obviously it carried real emotional weight for Mrs. Taylor. “I’m afraid I don’t…”
“She disappeared, you see. Ten years ago today. Only fifteen, she was. The brightest, nicest girl you could ever meet. She was well known around Gorey. Everyone loved her. Absolutely tragic.”
“What happened to her?” Graham asked.
Mrs. Taylor shook her head. “That’s just it. She was walking to school one morning and simply vanished into thin air. No phone call, no sightings, nothing.”
“But surely there was a search for her?”
“Oh, goodness me, yes!” Mrs. Taylor replied. “They searched the whole island. All the woods and the beaches. The Coast Guard patrolled out at sea, looking for her. But all to no avail.”
“So what do people think happened to her?”
Mrs. Taylor frowned darkly. “Well, not long after she disappeared, people started talking about her in the past tense, if you know what I mean, Inspector.”
He nodded, his lips pursed. “Does her family still live on the island?”
“Oh, yes. Haven’t you heard of Mrs. Leach?” The Inn’s proprietor seemed to have extra time on her hands during this pre-Christmas lull. “The poor woman was beside herself, of course. Her only child, gone. Can you imagine?”
Graham didn’t have to imagine, but he chose not to share that very private pain. He simply nodded again.
“So, the community rallied around her. Made sure she had everything she needed. Then some people at the Rotary Club, I think, set up a charitable foundation for her. People donated money so that she could keep the search going. She hired private detectives, forensic scientists, even sent experts over to Europe to look for her. None of it came cheap, of course, and I hear the private investigations have tapered off quite a lot lately, but her charity is quite well-known here, and a lot of people give what they can every month.”
“Hmm, it’s not uncommon for the parents of missing children to carry on the search and at least try to keep hope alive. Even when…”
Mrs. Taylor gave Graham a look that pulled him up short. “Hope springs eternal, Inspector. There are cases, you know, of kiddies going missing and then showing up in some basement years later…”
This, he had to concede. “It’s rare, but it happens.” But mostly, Graham thought morosely, there was a murderer who had thoroughly disposed of the evidence. Or had got lucky.
There were other possibilities, of course. A child could be spirited away to live elsewhere. Or they might have simply run, never making contact with those they were running away from. All over the country, the filing cabinets of “cold cases,” those with no practicable leads, grew in number while grieving families could be told nothing to ease their pain.
“Poor lamb,” Mrs. Taylor said in summary.
“But why dolls?” Graham asked.
“Oh, yes, I quite forgot. She collected them, you see. Had quite a number. Her uncle in America sent them to her. She had one in her bag when she disappeared, as I remember. The theory goes,” Mrs. Taylor confided, “that the doll was somehow damaged in whatever struggle took place. Nothing but its leg was ever found.”
“Its leg?” Graham said, thoughtful. He reached for his notebook but found he’d left it in his room.
She caught him as he turned to go. “Are you going to…? You know… Look into it?”
Graham smiled thinly. “I really can’t say, Mrs. Taylor. It’s a very old case, and we’re short-staffed at the station.”
“People hereabouts,” she said, leaning in close, “would think the world of you for even trying. Not that they don’t already,” she added quickly. “But, you know, it would give her family hope.”
“I’ll see what I can do, Mrs. Taylor. Would you be an angel and keep our conversation to yourself, just for now though, please?” he asked politely.
“Of course, Inspector. You can rely on me.”
Graham returned to his room and set up his laptop. Mrs. Taylor had not exaggerated the case’s high profile or the extent of public sympathy. There was a Wikipedia page, a dedicated website, and all manner of opportunities to contribute to the Beth Ridley Foundation. Graham began bookmarking sites and taking notes.
As his research deepened, he became engrossed in it, and he quickly found himself greatly enlivened on what would otherwise have been just another Saturday afternoon.
CHAPTER TWO
ON MONDAY MORNING, Graham arrived a few minutes early, as usual, and found Constable Roach at his desk, taking a phone call. Roach took notes as he listened, and Graham decided to hover
briefly and find out what the call was about. But as he did so, he noticed that there was – of all things – what he now knew to be an “American Girl” doll on the edge of the desk, by the stack of public information leaflets. Next to the doll, in a small, silver frame, was a photo of a girl.
“Missing person, sir,” Roach explained as he replaced the receiver. “Our old friend, Mr. Hodgson.”
Graham sighed. “Oh, God, not again.”
“Seems that he did a runner in the middle of the night, according to his long-suffering mother. She found his bed empty and called us straight away.”
Graham set down his briefcase and slid off his jacket. Gorey’s weather had become markedly cooler, and he was finding the extra layer indispensable in the morning hours. “Well, Constable Roach, why don’t you utilize your growing investigative acumen and have a guess as to what’s going to happen next?”
They both stared at the phone for a second, and then it rang. Roach listened for a few moments, extended his thanks, and ended the call. “What do you know, sir? Mr. Hodgson has returned! Alive and well, yet again.”
“What’s that, four or five times, now? Where do you think he goes?” Graham asked.
“Sleepwalking?” Roach offered.
“Possibly. But consider this: how old is our Mr. Hodgson?”
“Seventeen, sir.”
“And what does that tell us about the likely nature of his nocturnal adventures?”
“Well, if he’s anything like I was at that age…” Roach began.
“I don’t need to learn too much about your personal life, Constable,” Graham warned quickly.
Roach blushed. “I’d just say, well, girls, sir.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me for a moment. Pity someone can’t clue his mother in to the nature of seventeen-year-old boys and their nighttime habits. Save us all a bit of bother. And, speaking of missing persons, I’ve been noticing these dolls all around town.” Graham picked up the doll and then the silver-framed photo. “Beth Ridley?”