The Case of the Broken Doll (An Inspector David Graham Cozy Mystery Book 4)

by Alison Golden

  “Thing is, you see,” Ann began, “it won’t make any difference to me whether you find a scrap of new evidence or not. I know,” she said, fist in her palm, “that my Beth is alive. I dream about her. I hear her voice in her room. I hear her footsteps on the stairs. She calls to me, but she’s always gone by the time I turn around.”

  Graham gritted his teeth through a painful moment before he was able to speak again. “Mrs. Leach, I want you to know that I understand exactly what you mean.” Roach looked at his boss in mute surprise. “And it’s out of respect for just that certainty that we’d like to ask you again about the day she disappeared.”

  Ann checked the wall clock and with a guilty smile, said, “I know it’s only lunchtime, but you won’t mind if I have myself a little G&T, will you?”

  “Not at all,” Graham said.

  “Join me?” she offered.

  “No, thank you,” Graham replied.

  Inwardly, this simple interview was a tremendous battle for him. The greatest pain a human being could be asked to bear was the loss of a child, and the memories of his own were never far from the surface. Such pain made his whole system cry out for relief, and a bottle of good gin, the familiar sound of the tumble of ice cubes into a glass, and the fizz of the tonic, all called to him like the mythical siren on the riverbank. He swallowed hard, gripped his notepad and pen, took a deep breath and began asking questions.

  “Tell us about that morning, Mrs. Leach. What time did Beth leave for school?”

  Ann’s eyes were sad and distant for a moment, and then she sighed and began to describe the day she’d lost her daughter. “I made her a packed lunch, as I had every school day for ten years,” she said. “Her uniform looked clean, and she had washed her hair the night before. She was a bit tired, but a cup of tea and breakfast seemed to give her some energy. You know how teenagers can be in the mornings,” she smiled brightly, her eyes filling with tears. “She wanted to drop her doll off at Mr. Greeley’s on her way to school. The leg was a little wobbly and he would do doll repairs for her on the cheap.”

  “Did she say anything as she left?” Graham asked.

  “Just, ‘See you later, Mum,’ as she always said. You know, I’ve wracked my brains about every moment, and about every day before that, and I cannot for the life of me think of any reason…” She stopped, and for a moment it was all too much. She pressed her hands to her face and breathed hard. Roach shuddered slightly.

  “We can come back another time, Mrs. Leach…” Graham began.

  “No,” Ann said, gathering herself. “You’d get the same sad display. I’ve thought it through a thousand times, and I can’t tell you anything to explain why she’s not here with me, right now.”

  Graham glanced across at Roach, who seemed to take strength from Ann’s fortitude. “Go ahead, Jim,” he said quietly.

  “Mrs. Leach, did Beth have anyone in her life who might have wished her harm?”

  She shook her head.

  “Please think about it for a moment, Mrs. Leach. Perhaps a former friend or a classmate she had a fight with?” The head-shaking continued. “Someone who claimed Beth had wronged them? Cheated them?”

  “Everyone loved her,” Ann said, her voice a thin wail.

  “How well do you think she got along with her teachers?” he tried.

  Ann thought for a few moments, drying her eyes with a handkerchief. “Her homeroom teacher was Mrs. Blunt,” she said. “She was always very positive about Beth during parent-teacher evenings. Said she was a ‘model student.’”

  “Anyone else you can remember from her school?” Graham asked. Then he turned to Roach. “Who else taught your classes, back then, Jim?”

  “Mrs. Wells,” Roach said. “She was our math teacher. There was Mr. Knight, who taught geography and something else, I can’t remember.”

  “And Mr. Lyon,” Ann said, as if remembering after a struggle. “Her science teacher.”

  “Oh, yes,” Roach confirmed. “He was a bit heavy on the homework.”

  Ann was nodding. “Yes, Mr. Lyon. I remember. He gave a lot of homework, and Beth used to go to the library after school to get it done. You know, they only had a handful of computers in the library back then, so two or three of the students used to share one and research the questions. Beth preferred books. She said she didn’t have to wait for a modem to dial up, and she could just look things up in the back of a book.”

  Ann smiled a little at the memory.

  As she was speaking, Graham noticed that in one of the more recent photos of Beth, there was a tall, heavy-set man with thinning, dark hair. “Could I ask about your late husband, Mrs. Leach?” Graham asked sensitively. “That’s him, there, in the photo, isn’t it?”

  Ann didn’t turn around. “Yes, that’s Chris. He passed away two years ago last summer. Brain tumor. The doctors didn’t see it until it was too late. Only twelve weeks, from diagnosis to funeral.”

  “I’m truly sorry,” Graham said. “You must miss both of them terribly.”

  “More than I can say,” Ann said.

  “Did Beth get along well with her stepfather?” Graham watched carefully as Ann seemed to think this through at some length.

  “Yes,” she said. “He loved her very much. I know that she respected him and that she wanted us to be happy. To be together.”

  Graham made a note and in his own, personal hieroglyphics, inscribed the word “equivocation.” Then he asked, “Do you have a room for Beth, Mrs. Leach?”

  “Oh, yes. I’ve kept everything the same.”

  “I wonder if it wouldn’t be too much of an imposition for us to see it.”

  Ann led them upstairs, apologizing for the mess in the other rooms. Ann’s own bed was unmade, Graham saw to his surprise, and the upstairs part of the house could have used a lick of paint and a good airing out.

  But Beth’s room was immaculate. It wasn’t so much a bedroom as a carefully arranged memorial. Every last object from Beth’s original bedroom had been arranged just as it was in the Ridley’s previous house.

  “She collected dolls,” Ann said. She showed them into the room, but she didn’t follow. “She had nearly a hundred, but the American Girl dolls were her favorites. She was trying to collect the complete set,” she recalled. “Lord knows how many there are in total.” The dolls were arranged on Beth’s bed in a neat display, their clothing pristine and positions neatly composed. “Her clothes, her books, everything is just how it was then.”

  While Ann waited outside, apparently unwilling to enter, the two officers looked around the room. Graham took his time, committing objects to memory – each book, each ornament, and the positions of the objects on her shelves. However, it was Roach who drew his boss’ attention to an apparently innocuous green exercise book that sat with a pile of others on Beth’s dresser. Rather than being entitled, “Geography 2004,” or “French Vocabulary 2005,” as others were, this book was simply inscribed, “SECRET.”

  “Her journal,” Roach said quietly. “It was mentioned in the case file.”

  Graham thought back. “Didn’t they dismiss it as… what was it? Plans for a cartoon, or something?”

  “They thought they were notes for a children’s book that Beth hoped to write one day,” Roach replied. Graham opened the book and saw at once what his predecessors had meant. Over half of the book was filled with jottings that depicted the antics of various animals.

  “You know what they say about a book and its cover, sir,” Roach said. “I think we shouldn’t judge this by how it appears. I’d like permission to have a closer look if Mrs. Leach doesn’t mind.”

  “Go ahead and ask, Constable. If you’ve got a hunch about this, I say we should follow it.”

  Roach made the request as politely as he knew how, and Ann immediately responded that he could remove anything that might be helpful. “Just provided,” she cautioned, “that you return it exactly as you found it. No damage or markings.”

  “I promise, Mrs. Leach,” R
oach said.

  There seemed little more to add, and so Graham led Roach downstairs to make their exit. “We appreciate your time. Please, if you think of anything that might be helpful, let us know.”

  “I think,” Ann said sadly, “of nothing else for most of each day.”

  She showed the two men out.

  “Good work with that journal, Constable,” Graham said as they made their way to the car. “I wouldn’t have thought of that.”

  “Like you said, sir. It’s just a hunch.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  JANICE HAD RELUCTANTLY agreed to man the reception area while Barnwell responded to a call from the marina. She was continuing her investigation into the missing girl’s case on her computer. Even a month earlier, it wouldn’t have been possible, but with their police computers now networked, she could interrogate national – and even international – databases from any of the office machines or her own laptop through a secure connection.

  “The marina? What’s going on down there?” she had asked Barnwell.

  “Theft reported, last night,” Barnwell said, pulling on his uniform overcoat. “Shouldn’t take long.”

  Barnwell was very glad of any excuse to escape. He found himself willing the phone to ring or for the door to swing open and present him with an exciting challenge. Anything to interrupt another dreary day. Graham and Roach had the car, so he laboriously cycled the mile and a half to the marina. He’d have given nearly anything, he mused as he locked up the bike, to hear the squeal of his pursuit car’s tires as he chased down a fleeing bank robber. But for the moment, this rather less dramatic assignment would have to do.

  He strolled over to a man who was washing his boat with a long-handled, soft-bristle boat brush.

  “Morning, sir. Looking for Captain …,” he looked down at the note he’d made, “Drake,” he finished.

  “Aye, that’s me.” Drake was a weather-beaten sixty-seven year-old who had spent as much time at sea as any man alive. He was a professional fisherman who knew the seas surrounding the UK, from Iceland to the Baltic to the coast of Portugal, like he knew Gorey itself. Drake waved Barnwell aboard his boat, Clementine. “Mind your step, now.”

  Clementine was a dedicated fishing vessel. “Just back from the German Bight,” Drake reported. “Bloody awful over there, even for November.”

  “Did you catch much?” Barnwell asked. For someone who had lived in Gorey for the last six years, Barnwell knew shockingly little about the town’s primary industry.

  “Damn near bugger all,” Drake cursed. “But once the weather settles, we’ll be out there again. And again, and again until we hit our quota.”

  Barnwell noticed how neat and orderly the boat was, until he saw one glaring exception. The glass window of the pilot house was smashed. “Tell me about this,” he said. “When did you notice it?”

  “I slept ashore last night,” Drake said, “but when I came down at six this morning, I saw some filthy bugger had made off with my doobury!”

  Barnwell took out his notebook but then paused. “Your what’s-that-now?”

  “My GPS!” Drake said. “That digital doobury that used to sit up by the wheel.” He pointed to a now empty spot on the boat’s dashboard. “Good kit, it was. Had sonar and everything! Worth nearly one thousand pound.”

  “You’re insured, I hope,” Barnwell asked.

  “Course I bloody well am,” Drake replied. “You ask the others. This kind of thing happens all the time. I tell you, there’s not a decent soul left in the world.”

  “So there’s been more thefts? Like this, off the boats?”

  “Aye, happens all the time.”

  “But why don’t they get reported?”

  “Dunno. They usually take smaller stuff. But they’re getting cocky now. And I don’t like being messed with.”

  The hair on Barnwell’s scalp started to tingle. Was he finally getting something to sink his teeth into?

  “Alright sir, let’s take down your statement, and I’ll look into it straightaway.”

  Barnwell completed his notes and wrote a detailed statement for Drake to sign. “Thank you for reporting this so quickly, sir. We’ll be in touch if we need anything else.”

  Drake grumbled something about wasted fuel and wasted time, bid Barnwell a gruff farewell and went back to his scrubbing.

  When Barnwell returned to the station, he found Janice deep in a search on the reception desk computer.

  “Let me have a moment on there, Sergeant, as soon as you can,” he requested, cheerfully.

  “Please,” he added quickly as Janice turned to give him an arch look. His first line of inquiry would be one unavailable to previous generations of investigators who were chasing down a potential fence. “I need to have a little look on eBay.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  IT TOOK GRAHAM and Roach only a few moments to track down Andrew Lyon, Beth’s former science teacher. They discovered that he’d stayed in Jersey after leaving the teaching profession.

  “Decided to make a career change, according to his website,” Roach said, reading from his phone as Graham drove them to the address. “Sounds as though he’s doing his own thing these days. Freelancing.”

  Graham kept slightly under the speed limit as they ascended the hill to the edge of the town and then turned left into a secluded street lined with some of the oldest trees on the island. “Nice spot to live,” Graham observed to himself. It would not be long before he’d be searching for a place of his own. He couldn’t stay at the White House Inn forever.

  “What kind of freelancing?”

  Roach skimmed a couple of online articles that carried Lyon’s byline. “’Life in the Age of the Snooper’s Charter,’” Roach read. “Looks like a detailed piece for an online cyber-security magazine about how to keep the government’s nose out of your Internet business.”

  Graham raised an eyebrow. “Interesting.” He pulled up outside Lyon’s house and turned off the engine.

  “And here’s another,” Roach read. “Oh, you’re going to love this one, sir,” he promised. “‘Putting the ‘Dark’ in DarkNet: How to Browse Anonymously.’”

  The DI took down a note as usual and then stepped out of the car. “Sounds as though our Mr. Lyon is someone who takes his privacy very seriously indeed.”

  “Very seriously, sir. You might say, to a professional level,” Roach agreed.

  “Well,” Graham noted as they rang the doorbell, “let’s see what he has to say.”

  The living room curtains twitched, and the door opened, “Yes?”

  “Gorey Police, Mr. Lyon. Just a routine inquiry,” Graham replied.

  “Inquiry? What kind of inquiry?”

  “It would be better to speak to you inside, sir,” Graham told him, giving Roach a meaningful glance. “It’s regarding the disappearance of Beth Ridley.”

  The reply was quick and rapid. “I don’t know anything about that,” the man said.

  Andrew Lyon was in his late thirties, bespectacled but well-groomed, well dressed, and trim. Graham had been expecting someone pale and paunchy, a never-married white man with an indoor lifestyle and hobbies.

  “I’m sure you don’t, sir,” Graham said, moving to his Plan B. “It’s just that I’m new to the area, and with the anniversary of her disappearance this week, I’m trying to gain a little context from that period. Beth Ridley was your student. I just need a few moments of your time.”

  The man stared at them, then seemed to reconsider.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Please, come in.”

  As Lyon led them down the hallway, Graham glanced around, mentally cataloging what he saw. As he passed the living room, he noted white walls, polished hardwood floors, and two cream sofas facing one another. Chrome light fixtures were mounted on either side of the fireplace. Between them was a huge Dali print depicting melting clocks. The room was pristine. Graham revised his view of the man in front of him once more.

  Lyon’s office was dominated by his com
puter setup. It was also spotlessly tidy. Under the desk was a range of power strips, neatly labeled, their cables tied with green twine. In Graham’s experience, computer cabling inevitably and without bidding took on a formation that made a plate of spaghetti look orderly.

  “So,” Lyon said easily, taking a seat in the office chair that faced his desk. He turned to contemplate the officers who were now seated on a couch, “how can I help you?”

  He’s like a Bond villain in his electronic lair, Graham thought as he began to speak. “Mr. Lyon, I’m sure you were as upset as anyone at the disappearance of Beth Ridley.”

  “I still am,” he admitted. “She was smart. Engaged in her school work. Such a shock. There was nothing to suggest… It’s something I’ve never really come to terms with. I donate to her foundation every month.”

  Graham turned to Roach who began to speak.

  “Sir, I don’t know if you remember, but I was a classmate of Beth’s, in your Year-10 Science class.” When Lyon did little more than stare at him, the Constable added, “Jim Roach, sir.”

  “Ah, yes,” Lyon said uncertainly. “How are you, Roach?”

  “Well, as you can see, it’s Constable Roach these days. I wonder if you could tell us what you remember about the day Beth disappeared.”

  Lyon puffed out his cheeks. “It’s a long time ago. I mean, for me, it was a day like any other, right up until I got the call that evening.”

  “Call?” Roach asked.

  “That Beth was missing, and that they were asking for volunteers to come forward and help with a search,” Lyon explained.

  “And did you volunteer?” Roach asked him.

  “Oh, yes. Like everyone else. We walked all over the island, it seemed to me. That night, the next day, the weekend, and for several weeks after. I used to hike a lot before my knee went iffy on me,” Lyon explained. “So I knew the countryside around Gorey as well as anyone.”