The Sholes Key (An Evans & Blackwell Mystery #1) (25 page)

A knock startled Theo awake. “What?”

Dorland opened the door. “Got it. It’s the agent’s home number, I believe.” He waved a scrap of paper from the doorway. “Did you want me to ring her?”

“No, I’ll do it.” He held out his hand and Dorland gave him the paper. “What about an address?”

Dorland nodded.

“Get your jacket. We’re going to pay this agent a visit.”

Kim Noland lived in a modern flat with a fine view of the London needle. Theo and Dorland found her name on the directory in the foyer and pressed the button. A woman answered.

“Is this Kim Noland’s residence?” Theo asked.

“Yes. Who is this?”

“My name is Detective Inspector Theophilus Blackwell. I’m with my partner DS Jackson. May we come up?”

“Yes, of course.”

They took the lift to the fifth floor and rang the buzzer. A man answered.

“Hello,” said Theo. “We’re here to talk to Kim.”

“That’s me,” he said. “What can I help you with?”

Theo let out a laugh and replied, “Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t know why we were expecting a female, but you’ll do.”

“Kim, yeah. Many people confuse the gender when they read the name. You look familiar. Do we know each other?”

“I don’t think so,” Theo said hesitantly, studying Kim’s features. “You represent those who write romance novels. Do you enjoy reading that sort of thing?”

“A variety of manuscripts, yes, especially when I know the book will do well in the market. Are you here about Helena?” The detectives nodded and he let them in. He took them into a small office and offered chairs across from his desk. “What a loss. She was a fine person. I heard the police took her computer with them. I’ll want to retrieve her work. We have a contract.”

Theo watched the man. He didn’t look worried, not even about the book. What would Sophia say to him? Why was he thinking of Sophia at all? “I’m sure when our team has finished with the evidence, you’ll receive what belongs to you. We’ve come about her scheduling. We were told you managed her appearances and would have a list of what she had going in the near future.”

“One thing of major importance was the American tour. Ten different cities in twenty days.”

“That seems somewhat strenuous.”

Kim shrugged. “Doesn’t happen often.” He rose and went over to the neat shelf by his desk. Taking down a large, legal-sized notebook with the label Helena Smithwick, he flipped through the pages until he came to the last page. “Chicago, meeting her family and spending five days there.”

“Can I get a list?” Dorland asked.

“Of course.”

Theo nodded. “What about before, any signings or readings in London?”

He flipped back a few pages in his book and ran his finger down the paper. “Libraries, she always liked libraries. They drive me mad. It’s difficult to sell books in a library. She always ended up giving away copies.”

“Why did you schedule it?” asked Dorland.

“She liked it, and she made me money. It would be ridiculous to complain about a library or two.”

“Did you collect any of her fan mail?”

“No, it doesn’t come here—she used an Internet fan club. On occasion, she’d go online and answer some of the reader’s questions. Why? Are you implying one of her fans killed her?”

“We can’t be sure. Maybe someone found the books she wrote offensive. Or perhaps she angered a reader in some way. Can you think of anyone with a motive to kill Helena?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “She was a romance writer, for God’s sake. What makes you think the killer didn’t kill her because he could, because he’s a sick bastard and for no other reason?”

“For our notes,” Theo went on, “can you tell us your movements on Tuesday last from ten in the morning, onwards?”

“I went to work, came home round seven and watched telly.”

“Alone?” Dorland asked him.

“Well, if I knew I was going to need an alibi, I’d have arranged my schedule accordingly. I watched the game. Leeds won, and I lost a large amount of money.” He shrugged. “Sorry I can’t be of any more help to you. I didn’t kill her, had no reason to. She made me money and now that she’s dead…”

“Can I get the address of that fan club?”

Kim Noland searched on his computer and wrote the web address on a piece of paper. “Don’t know who runs the site, but I’m sure you can find contact information somewhere.”

* * *

Halfway through lunch, Theo realized he missed a call from DI Hardcastle. The voicemail said, “I have a list of vehicles—similar make and color—that match the partial registration number. There were sixty-four. We are doing background checks on all owners but we hope to visit as many as we can. Can’t do it all myself, need your team to help. Ring me and tell me where you’d like to start.”

Theo rang back immediately and requested addresses in the Northwest part of London. He wanted to look for vehicles in the vicinity of Sophia’s house.

“I’m emailing the list as we speak. Let me know if you get any leads.” Hardcastle rang off.

“What are we doing?” Dorland asked when Theo returned his mobile to his pocket.

“Trying to find a bloody miracle. We have lists of addresses but no firm leads. We’re going to confirm the bloody obvious. Unless they seem to have a connection with the murders, which we will have to ask each one of them, then what? We need Sophia.”

“Sophia?” Dorland raised his left eyebrow.

“I mean, Miss Evans. If the killer knows her, she might know him. That would narrow it down.”

“Let’s hope it’s that easy,” Dorland replied, fingers crossed.

Theo rang Sophia’s mobile, but it went straight to voicemail. He was tempted to suggest they stop by her flat, but he knew she had been up late the night before. The last thing he wanted to do was wake her. He would run the addresses by her later.

A small cottage was the first place on the list. Obstacles blocked the rusty gate, and Theo had to push to make enough space to squeeze past. When they entered the yard, they caught sight of a man reclining on a cloth armchair in the middle of the lawn. Between the two detectives and his chair lay empty bags of crisps, bottles of fizzy drinks, and various chocolate-covered wrappers. Yellow, liquid cheese atop strewn stale nachos now coated the back heel of Theo’s right shoe.

“Damn,” Dorland cursed. He lifted the bottom of his left shoe and pointed to a clear object embedded into his sole.

“Mr. Ryan?” Theo asked as he neared the man. The man slept as the beer he held slowly tipped toward the grass. “Mr. Ryan?”

“What… what…” The man sat straight up. “Who—who are you?” He rubbed his eye, smashing the can of beer into his head. “Bloody hell.”

Theo held up his warrant card. “We’re looking for a Mr. Carlin Ryan. Can you tell me if he lives here?”

“I’m Mr. Ryan. What can I do for you fine folk?”

“Mr. Ryan, a few months ago you reported your car stolen. Can you please describe your vehicle to me?”

“That one?” He pointed to a dark, rusted saloon car of unknown original color, half hidden behind his house. Theo went over to the vehicle and inspected it. It looked nothing like the car caught on CCTV.

“Is that the car you reported stolen, the one sitting there? Was it a false report? Was it never stolen?” Dorland asked.

“I thought so. Turns out my boy took it out and then too sloshed to drive it home, left it in a field. I assumed someone stole it. What was I to do? I was already late for work that day.”

When they returned to his Jeep, Theo changed into a pair a trainers and placed the nacho cheese-covered shoes in the back. Only the first house, and Theo was already frustrated. He looked down the list. On the way to the next house—ten streets away—Theo’s mobile rang. DI Hardcastle.

“Have an address near you. Want to give it a go?”

“All right.” He wrote it down. “I’ll head straight there.”

The house, although it looked like the one they had just visited, had a remarkably different yard. The gate did not squeak, the lawn was uncluttered and neatly trimmed, and the small dog announced the visitors far enough in advance as to make it unnecessary to ring the bell.

A woman in her forties, hair tied up in a bun, opened the door. “I’m on my way to work. This really is not a good time.”

“We’ll not be long. We’re calling regarding a car with the registration number—” Theo read it off. “Does that car belong to you?”

“Yes, it belongs to my husband, but he’s at work now. Are you the police?”

Theo held up his identification. “Yes. Where does your husband work? Is it possible we can ask him a few questions there?”

“My husband works at the Tesco in Fulham. Do you know it?”

Theo nodded.

“He’ll be working until nine, so you have a few hours.” Theo thanked her as he attempted to kick the miniature poodle off his trouser leg.

Instead of heading straight to Tesco, they drove two minutes to a simple white house nearby. Though the owner was clearly not a gardener—no flowers or trees—her yard was kept neat. A sharp rap on the door did nothing to end the silence inside. Wandering around the side of the house, Theo discreetly peered in all the windows, trying to ascertain if anyone was at home. Dark and quiet met him. A small garage with a square window did not reveal a car.

“She must be out,” Dorland said, backing away from the window. “Are you sure this is the right address?”

Theo nodded and leaned against the house, exhausted. He rang Sophia’s number again with the same result. Where was she?

Dorland asked, “Where do we go to next, Boss? Or would you like to visit that… uh, what did you call her, Sophia?”

“She’s going to help us crack this case.”

The Tesco supermarket was close to Sophia’s house. Stranded trolleys and screaming kids pacified with sugared gifts or a good swaddling filled the crowded car park.

“I feel for my mother. She suffers through shopping on a weekly basis,” said Theo. He found a spot at the farthest point from the front doors.

“Why are we here?” asked Dorland, looking around. “Do we really believe the killer works at the local Tesco? All of a sudden I feel hungry.”

Theo stepped from his vehicle and slammed his door shut. It could be the one thing the victims had in common—they shopped at this Tesco. Did Sophia come here? “Lock your door, Dorland.” Theo headed toward the entrance. With a whoosh, the sliding front door opened. The smells of putrid, overripe cantaloupe and freshly baked dinner rolls greeted them. Theo searched for customer service among the signs hung from the ceiling.

Theo and Dorland made their way through the trolleys to the counter, where a line of ten people waited with products and receipts. Theo stood at the back and tapped his foot against the tile floor. When he could no longer wait patiently, he cut to the front of the line holding up his warrant card. “We’re looking for an employee—a Mr. Alvin Richards.”

A blonde-haired girl, not more than eighteen, picked up the phone. Within seconds, he heard over the intercom the request for Mr. Richards to come to customer service. Shortly thereafter, the girl pointed behind them.

Theo turned to see a burly man with a bloody apron approach. “Mr. Richards?”

“Who’s asking?” he replied in a deep voice. “I’m working.” Taking off his plastic gloves, he placed them in a large pocket on his apron.

Theo introduced them.

“We have some questions about your car,” replied Dorland.

The man looked at them incredulously. “Seriously? Now? Can’t it wait?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Theo. People were gathering round the detectives, taking an eager interest in the goings-on.

“Well then, would you mind coming to the back with me? I’m a butcher and I’d prefer not to stand around with the customers, you understand.”

They followed him past biscuits and cereals to an office off a large storeroom. Theo could see men walking in and out of freezers with slabs of meat. He shivered and rubbed his arms when the cold air hit him. Mr. Richards directed them to sit. Theo looked at the state of the cloth-covered seats, worried that the stains that covered his interviewee’s apron, covered the chairs. They were spotless.

Sitting down, Dorland got to the point. “Your car was caught on a CCTV camera a few nights back—Hammersmith on Stamford Brook Road near Ravencourt Park. Tuesday night to be exact, after ten. Is this the registration number?” He read the number aloud.

Mr. Richards looked at them dumbfounded. “Yes, that’s it, but I have no idea what you’re on about. Tuesday night? Are you sure? You must have the wrong car. I was never near Hammersmith.”

“No?”

“I worked that night and the car sat outside this store the whole time.”

“Can you describe your car?” asked Dorland.

“Not many interesting features, I’m afraid. It’s blue, four door, automatic, old, some rust in places, not much to look at.” He sat down behind his desk and rubbed his hands together.

“Is there anyone else who had access to your car? Maybe another family member?” Theo suggested.

Mr. Richards didn’t reply.

“What about your wife or children?” Dorland asked. “Is it possible they used the car?”

“No. They were home all night.”

“Can you confirm that?”

He hesitated but then replied, “Yes.” He held up a finger and picked up the phone. After dialing three numbers and saying a few words, he hung up. “He’ll be here soon.”

“Who?”

“My son.”

“Your son works here?”

“Yes, and he’s just about to start his shift.”

A minute later, a boy with a backpack and cap entered the office. He had the same facial features and wide shoulders as his father. He threw the pack down at his feet and pulled the buds from his ears.

“Son, these are police officers. Detectives, this is my son, Ivan.” The boy stood against the wall quietly. “Son, last Tuesday night, you were at home with your mother, right?”

Ivan nodded.

“They’re saying our car was reported stolen. That wasn’t you, was it, Ivan?”

He shook his head and slowly rolled the buds around his mp3 player.

“What do you do here at Tesco?” Theo asked him. He watched the boy bend down, open the bag, and pull out his work shirt. He just couldn’t see it—this boy, a serial killer? Sure, the father worked with knives, had access to freezers, and would be strong enough to strangle a woman, but he couldn’t see that either.