Demon on a Distant Shore (16 page)

“And Greg would not share that with strangers,” Royal mused after I repeated what Carrie said.

“He wouldn’t, nor would anyone in the village. Paul and Sylvia were the village darlings. It’s embarrassing, when someone you think you know so well radically alters your opinion of them. You feel betrayed,” from Carrie.

This was enlightening. The young Nortons skipped out to avoid paying their debts. “Are the police involved?”

“I don’t know, but I expect their debtors set the wheels in motion for a lawsuit.”

Royal returned to the back office. I sat in the swiveling office chair, went through the desk drawers and found the usual stuff: pads, pencils, pens, an empty stapler, a few empty file folders, a bunch of used telephone message pads. I got up and started on the file cabinets. Again, what you expect to find in a business office. One cabinet held accounts payable, another accounts receivable. I delved through the latter, looking for a file labeled Norton, but found nothing. I thought I would have better luck with the third cabinet, which held haulage records and contracts. Nothing there either. The fourth cabinet contained monthly, quarterly and annual financial reports. I didn’t bother with those, they were just a lot of numbers.

“My goodness! Will you look at this!” Carrie exclaimed.

I shot upright, knocking the chair back, and rounded the desk. My sudden movement brought Royal to the front office.

Carrie pointed at a trash can. “A chocolate éclair. Who in their right mind would throw away a perfectly good éclair?”

I sagged and met Royal’s eyes. “Carrie thinks tossing a chocolate pastry is criminal.”

He headed back to the other office. “I agree with her.”

Chewing on my lower lip, I sat on the office chair again. Surely the Nortons signed a contract, and it should be in a file with the identification and specifications of the vehicle they hired. There should be a record of when they took over the vehicle, how long they planned to use it, full or partial payment.

Royal spoke from behind me. “I doubt you will find anything there because it is in this file.” He moved around the desk and waved a manila folder. “I found this in the manager’s desk.”

I swiveled the chair. “Okay, tell me why it’s in the manager’s desk and not with the other records.”

He grinned smugly and handed me the file with a flourish. “Take a look.”

I put the folder on the desk, opened it and looked through the papers, Carrie hovering at my shoulder. Both parties signed the rental agreement between Pegasus Van Lines and Paul Norton. It named a destination, an address in Oban. A kind of log sheet showed the rental truck had not been returned. Then a copy of a stolen vehicle report made to Devizes police three days ago. Pegasus named the Nortons as suspects. The bottom section of the report noted the police had put out an all-points-bulletin on the Nortons.

Royal pointed at a paper. “See, they paid a deposit and should have paid the balance when they turned the van in at Oban.”

“Where is Oban?”

“On the west coast of Scotland.”

“They probably ditched it so they didn’t have to pay,” from Carrie. “I went to Oban with Barry years ago.” Her tone became wistful. “One of our rare holidays.” She gave herself a little shake. “We took the ferry to the Isle of Barra, but the sea was rough and we were sick all the way there and back. Oban is a nice enough town, but way up north, and I couldn’t understand half of what was said.”

“Carrie suggests they ditched the van so they didn’t have to pay,” I told Royal.

“Makes sense.”

“Damn! I knew something - ” I clamped my lips together.

“Was wrong,” Royal said, wearing a pained expression.

I handed the folder to him; he took it back to the manager’s office. Then we started again, going through both offices with the proverbial fine-tooth-comb.

Deep in thought, I slid in the driver’s side of the car.

Royal grinned. “Are you going to drive us back to Little Barrow?”

I opened the door and scooted out. “No way!”

He got in and fastened his seat belt as I climbed in the passenger side. We pulled away from the curb and drove slowly down the street.

I thought over what we had learned. Paul and Sylvia lost their jobs, their only income. The bills piled up with no way to pay them. They took off to avoid debt collectors, maybe hoping to start fresh in Scotland. But. . . .

It couldn’t be that simple. Paul disappeared right when his very wealthy relatives were trying to find him.

“This is terribly interesting. I haven’t had this much fun since Mrs. Combe drank a bottle of brandy in one go and locked herself in the lavatory. Her Tommy had to unscrew the hinges on the door to get her out,” Carrie said helpfully.

Another thing played on my mind. “I want to talk to Johnny’s mother.”

Royal unsuccessfully tried to muffle a sigh. “All right. No time like the present.”

I squeezed his hand where it rested on the steering wheel. “I’m sorry, but I have to.”

He shrugged. “I know.”

“Who’s Johnny?” Carrie asked.

“Johnny Marsh.”

“Oh,
our
Johnny. Wasn’t that a tragedy. Poor boy. Why do you want to talk to his mum?”

“Do you know who killed Johnny?”

Her voice lost its customary chirpiness. “Darnel Fowler, and he got away with it.”

“Well, Carrie, we hope to make sure he doesn’t.”

We left the small industrial park and headed back toward Little Barrow. We could detour to Basingstoke and be back at the inn for an early supper.

Chapter Nine

Johnny’s mother lived in a terrace house in a suburb of Basingstoke. I could tell the houses started out the same, but now some had porches of various styles and materials, or awnings over the windows. They were not major additions, but did individualize the homes. The postage-stamp size yard fronting the Marsh home consisted of a neatly edged lawn and narrow flower borders inside a low brick wall. A trellis dangled a froth of roses over the ground floor windows, ivy crawled over the walls.

We parked across the street in the deep shade of an old oak. “Two people are inside,” Royal said.

He pointed down the narrow driveway which ran beside the house, to a small garage with a shed built on the side of it. “If she still has Johnny’s scooter, it could be in either place.” He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “Both are padlocked. I need a few minutes to get in, but if someone happens to glance through a rear window they will see me. We need a distraction.”

“Don’t look at me,” from Carrie.

I sighed. A distraction. That had to be me. I grumbled under my breath as I climbed from the car and headed over the street, through the open gate and up the path to the door with Carrie in tow.

A few packing cartons were stacked against the side wall and two sat outside the blue front door. I looked over my shoulder at the empty car as I knocked on the door. Royal must be at the side of the house.

A woman in tight blue jeans and a white button-up sweater opened the door a minute later, but didn’t come out on the step. In her forties, short, plumpish, cropped blond hair and no makeup, her big hazel eyes looked tired.

“Yes?” she said uncertainly.

“She’s showing her age,” Carrie commented.

Had we been alone, I would have said perhaps losing a son put lines on your face. I lifted both hands and flapped them, trying to look helpless. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m lost.”

“Ooh, you do tell whoppers,” from my delighted companion. I couldn’t even glare at her.

“Mum? Who’s there?” a young voice called, and a boy came up behind the woman. Six or seven, he had Johnny’s eyes and narrow face, and short brown hair. His navy-blue shorts and T-shirt were rumpled. Skinny legs ended in scuffed black sneakers. “What’s wrong, Mum?”

She flung back one hand and he stopped just behind her. “Nothing’s wrong, son. This lady is lost and needs directions.”

The boy tucked himself under his mother’s arm. She smiled down at him as she asked, “Where are you heading, love?”

“Basingstoke.”

“Can you be specific, it’s a big area. Or do you mean the old town itself?”

I nodded enthusiastically.

“This is Oakley. If you find your way back to the Andover Road, it will take you to Basingstoke.”

She gave me directions, then asked, “You’re an American?”

It seemed to be a favorite question when people heard the accent. “Yes, I am.”

“Visiting?”

“On vacation – I mean holiday. My friend and I are staying in Little Barrow. It’s - ”

“I know Little Barrow,” she interrupted, her features flattening out. “Lived there most of my life.”

I widened my eyes. “What a coincidence!”

“Until our Johnny died,” the boy said in a piping voice.

Her gaze didn’t leave my face. “Hush, Gil.”

I let a pause linger between us before I said, “Oh, I’m sorry.”

“Gil’s brother. It was an accident.”

“Weren’t an accident,” from the boy.

She laid a gentle hand over his mouth. “I said hush.”

She gave me a small, wavering smile. “Best you don’t mention it in Little Barrow, Miss. People don’t like to be reminded.”

“What a load of cobblers! Johnny’s death was all anyone talked about for ages. Anything unusual or different is the talk of the town in Little Barrow. Scandal’s best, but gruesome suffices,” Carrie said.

Mrs. Marsh pulled a breath in through her nose and stepped back, taking Gil with her. “Must get back to unpacking; we only just moved here. I hope you find your way to Basingstoke.” One more step, and the door closed in my face.

I turned and slowly wandered back to the car. She was afraid. I smelled the stink of fear on her.

Royal handed me two plastic baggies. One held the penknife, the other a large flake of blue paint.

We drove away. I held the baggies close to my eyes. “They look the same to me, but I’m no expert. We need a lab.”

“To which we do not have access.” Royal eased nearer the grass verge as a bus came from the other direction. “We could mail it to the police, along with our suspicions.”

I glanced at him. “Anonymously?”

He smiled slightly and slid his gaze at me. “I do not particularly want to give an official statement.”

I nodded glumly. “But we won’t know if they investigate, unless they arrest Fowler while we’re in Little Barrow.”

“I know. It is the best we can do, Tiff.”

I sighed out a disconsolate breath. “Don’t you think it odd, what Johnny’s mom said about not speaking of his death in Little Barrow because people don’t like to be reminded?”

“And I told her it’s rubbish,” Carrie said.

“Hm,” Royal hummed. “I imagine the villagers are like most, they enjoy a good gossip, even when the topic is a sad one.”

“Carrie said the same and I agree with her.”