Stolen (11 page)

“Just call me Rohan. More used to answerin' that than Mr. Wallace.” He grinned.

“Call me Michael.”

Rohan nodded. “Your wife is the one that set up the movie everyone's talking about, right?”

“That's right.”

“Did that woman's death have anythin' to do with the film? If I'm out of line for askin', mon, just say so.”

“That's a question everyone's wondering. I don't have an answer for you. I hope not.”

“But there's still the chance. I'm not a big believer in coincidences.”

“This coming from the man sitting under a tree when I came out here this morning.”

Rohan laughed, and the sound was free and easy and musical. “
That
was a coincidence. I didn't even know I was going to be out here today until I found myself here lookin' over that hill. Then I thought I'd sit a bit an' think about it a little more.”

Despite Rohan's genial nature, Michael couldn't help but be a tad wary. The last few days had taken some strange turns, and it seemed many people involved in the documentary had misrepresented themselves.

“Just sightseeing?” Michael put his bottle of water back on the bike frame.

Rohan's eyes brightened and he hid them behind a pair of wraparound sunglasses with ruby lenses. “You think I'm out here treasure huntin', mon?”

“A lot of people in Blackpool have taken up the hobby.”

“That's true. But if I'd been in the mood for treasure huntin', I'd have stayed in Kingston. Got all kinds of stories about pirate ships down there.”

“I suppose you do.”

“My gran'mother tells me not to invest in such foolishness. She says a man learns to do things wit' his hands.” Rohan held up his callused hands. “That's all the treasure he gets in this world.”

“Sounds like your grandmother is a smart lady.”

“The smartest, mon.” Rohan thrust his chin down at the hollow. “Want to go down? Gonna be a long haul comin' back up.”

“Sure.” Michael hated the idea of leaving a task unfinished. He climbed on the bike and pushed himself forward.

W
ALKING BETWEEN THE PAST
and the present in his mind, Michael laid out the scene the morning the robbers attacked the train. His imagination was so finely attuned with the events that he could almost hear the tortured scream of metal, the frantic hiss of the steam from the overturned and smashed pulling engine, and the panicked cries of the wounded and dying.

“It must have taken the police a long time to get out here.” Rohan stood nearby with his hands in his pockets. Much of his lighthearted demeanor had vanished, leaving him a more somber companion.

“Over forty minutes.” Michael stepped onto a length of rusting rail track that shifted under his weight. “Some people reported that it was closer to an hour. When all of this happened, it must have been horrible and confusing.”

“Somethin' like this usually is. I've seen shipwrecked crews come back to shore freaked out of their heads. Had to help pull some of them out of the sea at times. People in the middle of something like that, even when you're helpin', you don't quite keep it together.”

“It would be difficult.”

“Didn't they have a radio? Weren't they invented then?”

“They were, but the transmissions were spotty here.” Michael looked back up at the tall hill. “Down here, reception was almost nonexistent.” He took his iPhone from his
pocket and checked the connection bars. He was down to one. Smiling ruefully, he returned the phone to his pocket. “Not a whole lot better now, even with geosynchronous satellites.”

“How did the town find out?”

“A fourteen-year-old boy that had hired on as manual labor went for help. He was a Blackpool local picked for the run.”

“He knew the area.”

Michael walked down the rails and pictured the scene. The boy had to have been terrified. “He did know the area, but he was also lucky. The train robbers spotted him and pursued him for a while. They shot at him several times. His mother was also one of the survivors, and she said she'd lain out here with her daughter thinking that each shot she heard was going to be the death of her son.”

“Brave kid.”

“Very brave kid.”

“What happened to him?”

“Joined up near the end of World War II and was killed fighting the Germans in France.”

Rohan grimaced sympathetically. “Tough break.”

“Yes, it was.” As Michael had dug through the material at the library, he'd thought of all the stories that he could tell. Whenever he encountered something that fascinated him, his mind naturally turned to game play and ways to set up the reveals for the players.

“The robbers knew they had some time to get out of here with the goods,” Rohan said as he kept pace with Michael on the other side of the tracks. “But they didn't have all day. They had to move fast.”

“But where would they go?”

“It would be easy to disappear in the woods, but that
wouldn't keep someone determined to find them from discoverin' them. An' they would have left tracks.”

“Yeah. But these guys…they just disappeared.”

Rohan shrugged. “I suppose the roads an' the sea would be the easiest ways to go.”

“The military had float planes in the harbor the day of the scheduled delivery.” Michael glanced around at the trees and was awed by the ruggedness of the countryside. “They checked the roads and the shore. Autos and boats got pulled over.”

“But no art, no gold.”

“No.”

“Maybe these guys got past security anyway.”

“It's possible.”

Rohan took a deep breath. “Or the gold an' those paintings are still out here.”

Michael shook his head. “The robbers didn't set this heist up to fail. They came for the gold and they got it. Maybe the paintings were a bonus.”

“Unless the paintings were what they were after. The gold would have been harder to transfer. But paintings? They'd be light. They could have escaped with the art while everybody was lookin' for the gold.”

The thought wasn't new to Michael. He'd been turning it around in his mind, as well. But he was surprised at how easily the notion occurred to Rohan. And then Michael realized he was standing out in the forest a long way from home with someone he really didn't know.

Rohan glanced at him. “How much were those paintings worth?”

“Millions.”

“That's a lot of reasons to do this. Then you have to wonder 'bout the people transferrin' those paintings. People in circles like that, they'd talk. Maybe they asked each
other if they were willin' to risk moving their artwork. Makes you think how many of them trusted each other.” Rohan paused. “An' if there was somebody among them that wasn't worth trustin'.”

Michael scratched his chin. He'd already considered that, as well, but he was taken aback how thoroughly Rohan Wallace seemed to have studied the matter. “That's not a scenario that would readily come to everyone.”

Rohan shrugged and gave a small laugh. “I'm suspicious of people.”

“Any people in particular?”

For a moment, Rohan merely walked on in silence as they followed the tracks. Then he glanced at Michael. “The Crowe family seems to be involved in a number of things that have happened in Blackpool. How involved were they in this shipment?”

Michael knew the answer to that. “The military liaisons set up a temporary command center at Crowe's Nest. At Philip Crowe's invitation. He was the head of the family at the time.”

Rohan laughed softly. “I guess that tells you how much information the Crowe family might have had about that shipment, doesn't it?”

“Yes.” Michael had already considered that, too.

“You gotta ask yourself if that particular Crowe was any more trustworthy than the rest of the family.”

 

S
YN
R
ODERICK MET
S
IMON
Wineguard at the small restaurant inside the Glower Lighthouse. She was dressed in a light green blouse, white Capri pants tailored to show off her figure, and a loose sweater.

Parked across the street, Molly debated going in after them. If she did, she knew they'd notice her immediately. The restaurant didn't seat a lot of people and the intimate
environment made anonymity impossible. People went there to see and be seen.

Someone knocked on the passenger window. When she looked to her left, Fred Purnell stood on the curb and waved at her. Molly rolled the window down.

“Hello, Molly. I suppose you followed Simon in from the video shoot.”

“I did. And you must have followed Miss Roderick.”

Fred grinned. “I did. In from her yacht at the marina. Interesting woman, that one, and I was intrigued by how she fits into all this.”

“Old friend of Simon's, I hear.”

Fred rolled disbelieving eyes. “Not that one.” He nodded at the lighthouse. “You're not going inside?”

“They would assume I was spying.”

“Of course. The very reason I chose to remain outside, as well. Because we are.” Fred pointed at the passenger seat on her left. “May I sit? I have news about Miss Roderick's relationship with Simon Wineguard you might find fascinating. I thought perhaps we could share.”

Molly unlocked the door and the newspaper reporter slid into the seat.

Fred held up a brown paper bag. “I brought tea and scones. Would you care for some?”

“Please.” Molly took one of the disposable cups of tea and a scone wrapped in a paper napkin. “At least one of us came prepared for spying.”

“Years of training, my dear. You're still new to it. Never fear. You'll soon get the hang of it.”

“I hope not. I intend to never get involved in something like this again.”

“Spying?”

“Murder.”

“Oh. That.” Fred grimaced. “Well, that's simply bad luck.”

“Worse for Mrs. Whiteshire.”

“Quite. I gather you know about Simon Wineguard's daughter?”

“Died in one of Bartholomew Sterling's nightclubs. The inspector dropped by this morning and told me.”

“I thought he might. Especially after Sterling's bruiser intercepted you and Michael.”

“You seem particularly well-informed.” Molly took a bite of the scone.

“I am the best reporter in all of Blackpool, after all.” Fred smiled gently. “And I was really good whilst I was in London.” He pointed toward the lighthouse. “As to why Miss Roderick is here, she and Wineguard appear to have joined up for a treasure hunt.”

That surprised Molly. “They can't possibly believe anything stolen from the train is still in Blackpool.”

Fred glanced at her and looked amused. “My dear, Friday night you as much as announced that very thing to the whole town.”

“I intimated that.”

“Very well, I must say. You had everyone's attention. Many were convinced. I've heard people have been going to the library in droves. Michael must have seen them while he was there poking about.”

Molly sipped her tea and gave the possibility some thought. “A treasure hunt.” She shook her head dismissively.

“I'm sure you personally researched the train robbery, but is it possible that Simon Wineguard and his people explored the subject further?”

“That was part of his job.”

“Are you certain that he shared everything with you that he discovered?”

Thinking back on all the things Simon hadn't told her, Molly immediately felt frustrated. “No.”

“My research into Miss Roderick's background indicates that she doesn't always make her money in a legitimate fashion.”

“Where did you hear that? Michael knows—knew—her and didn't mention anything of the sort.”

“I still have a few friends left on the Metro in London. The inspector I chatted with was as surprised as I was that Miss Roderick had come to Blackpool. He went on to say that lately Miss Roderick has dabbled in blackmail.”

“How do you
dabble
in blackmail?”

“Miss Roderick has always been in the public eye. She's used her influence to get close to a few people she later threatened to expose for one thing or another—drugs, sex, insider stocks trading—in order to leverage good positions for herself in various social and economic interests.”

Lovely woman you know, Michael.
Molly realized that was unfair and felt a wisp of regret, but she was human and a woman like Syn Roderick hit her personal radar as a threat. Focusing, Molly took a breath, sipped her tea and turned the possibilities around in her mind. No matter how she connected them, they didn't turn out well.

“I doubt she's blackmailing Simon.”

Fred gazed out the window. The steam from his tea fogged up the glass when he took off the lid. “Nor do I. But their relationship is fascinating, no matter how it works. Because there has to be something at the heart of it.”

 

M
ICHAEL LOCKED HIS MOUNTAIN
bike to a post in front of the Blackpool Café. He was tired from the long ride, and more frustrated by his inability to let go of the mystery of
the train robbery than he should have been. The distraction prevented him from noticing Hershel Conway's approach until the man was nearly on top of him.

For a big man, he moves awfully quietly.
Tension knotted Michael's stomach as he straightened up to face the man. He let the bike helmet dangle by its chin strap from his fingers. It wasn't much of a weapon, but at least it was something.

“Mr. Conway. How unexpected.”

Rohan Wallace stood by his bike only a few feet away. They'd agreed to get a pint.

“This mon a friend of yours, Michael?” With a casual step, Rohan moved in beside Michael.

“New acquaintance, actually.” Michael never took his gaze from Conway. “We're still getting to know each other. He's insistent.”

“Mr. Graham, my employer would like a moment with you.” Conway jerked a thumb over a massive shoulder toward a gunmetal-gray sedan parked across the street. “Since you and the missus declined Mr. Sterling's invitation, he thought he'd come to you.”

“I'm surprised he was able to find me.”

“Serendipity. We'd just finished dining here and were about to leave when you and your friend pulled up.”

“This is still an inconvenient time, I'm afraid.”

Conway breathed in and out like a stymied bull. “Let's be frank, Mr. Graham, Mr. Sterling would like very much to talk to you. He's stayed away from your wife because he thought you would take exception to that. He's gone out of his way to respect you. He could have gone to speak with her this morning at the video shoot. He's trying to go through…proper channels. Man to man.”

A chill ghosted through Michael and his mouth went dry.

“Don't know about you, Michael, but that sounds like
a threat to me.” Rohan's voice became deadly calm and he focused on Conway. “Maybe you and I should see how high this guys bounces.”

Conway pulled his coat away enough to reveal the pistol tucked into a holster on his waistband. He grinned broadly, but there was no humor in his expression. “I don't
bounce
so easily.” He never took his eyes from Michael. “And I'm not a patient man. I think we should all be civilized and allow Mr. Sterling to go inside and buy you a drink. How does that sound?”

“Like I don't have much of a choice,” Michael replied.

“I told Mr. Sterling that you were a bright lad.”