“Occasionally. I know he’s had a few losses. But nothing terribly serious.” A feeling of dread came over me as I reflected on the various times Reginald had borrowed money after a night at the gambling halls. But he wasn’t so heartless as to steal funds meant to feed the poor and destitute . . .
Or was he? If he could do that, was it a far cry to think he could arrange a train robbery and murder any witnesses? “Surely, you don’t think . . . ?”
Isaac leveled his gaze on me. “We need to have a look at those ledgers.”
26
Remi waited next to their rental car while Sam put their suitcases in the trunk.
Oliver reluctantly handed over his own suitcase. “Do you really think this is necessary?” he asked, as Sam put it in next to the other two, then closed the lid. “Staying somewhere else?”
“Definitely.”
“Because,” Remi said, seeing how worried the man looked, “if Selma finds out where these two other cars are located, we’ll be ready to go.”
When Sam looked over at her, as he walked around to the driver’s door, she raised her brows, tilting her head toward Oliver. The man had enough to worry about without the added burden of what might happen if they stayed at Payton Manor. “Right,” Sam said. “Save us a trip back here. The sooner we get all this information together, the better for your uncle.”
“Didn’t think of that,” Oliver replied, taking the backseat, behind Remi, as Sam slid into the driver’s seat.
Remi smiled at Oliver, glad to see he appeared relaxed. The real reason they had him pack a bag was that they didn’t trust that they’d be safe at the manor. That morning, just before dawn, Sam had awoken to a dog barking. When he got up and looked out the window, he’d seen someone in the distance, watching the house. The moment the sun came up, the man drove off in a dark sedan.
Not that he or Remi had been surprised, especially after everything that had happened these past few days. It did, however, give them reason to suspect that Oliver might not be safe if left on his own—something he’d actually considered, pointing out that a few days’ rest would help his injured arm heal faster.
The events concerning his uncle and the estate were beginning to wear on him, and the effects were obvious. He jumped at the slightest sound, and the circles under his eyes grew darker each day. About ten minutes down the road, Remi looked back and saw that he’d fallen fast asleep. When he started snoring, Sam checked the rearview mirror, then Remi. “Didn’t want to say anything, but we’ve been followed since we left the estate.”
Remi looked in the side mirror, seeing a dark-colored vehicle in the distance. Oliver lived far enough out in the country that traffic on these roads was infrequent. They still had miles to go before they hit the motorway, where they could easily lose the car in traffic. “Watchful eye?” she said, keeping her voice low.
“For now.” He patted his Smith & Wesson in the holster hidden in his jacket. “If they get any closer, take a tire out.”
She slipped her 9mm Sig Sauer from the glove box, placing it along her right thigh, in case it was needed. The car, however, kept a safe distance, the driver, apparently, content to simply follow—for now.
When they finally neared the motorway, Remi pulled out her phone and accessed the map app, the address of the mechanic already entered. Chad Williams lived in a small village north of London, which meant they still had several hours of driving. And several hours of being tailed. She glanced in the side mirror, noting the car was still behind them. “What’re the chances it’s just someone heading to London like we are?”
“I’d believe it, if I hadn’t seen them watching the house this morning. Same car. The good news is, it’s only one car.”
When Sam hit the motorway, he headed north instead of south. The car followed, matching their speed. After ten or fifteen minutes, Sam pulled alongside a bank of cargo trucks, coasting next to them. “Keep an eye on our tail,” he told Remi, his eyes locked on the rearview mirror. A moment later, he braked sharply, veering the car between two of the trucks.
Unable to squeeze in behind them, the sedan drove alongside their car, the driver glancing over. Remi took a picture with her cell phone. “Looks familiar,” she said, as Sam coasted along between the two trucks, watching for the next exit. When they reached it, Sam suddenly turned off. Their tail, however, was unable to make the lane change in time and continued on down the motorway.
Oliver stirred as Sam braked to a stop. “Something wrong?”
“Took a wrong turn,” Sam said, driving beneath the overpass to get on the motorway going in the opposite direction.
Oliver nodded, sat back, and within a few minutes was asleep again.
“Why that exit?” Remi asked. “Not that I was worried, but there were four other exits before that could have gotten you back on the motorway as quickly.”
“Because his next exit is eight miles from here. Depending on how fast he drives, or if he wants to risk backing up with all that traffic hurtling toward him, that should buy us at least ten or fifteen minutes.”
“Clever, Fargo.” She watched the exit in her mirror, saw nobody else taking it. “Looks like we’re in the clear.”
“For now.”
She enlarged the picture she’d taken, for a better view. “One of our two friends from Pebble Beach.”
“Followed us all the way out here?”
“As entertaining as we are? People just gravitate toward us.”
Sam laughed. “Have you ever considered that we should tone it down a bit? Explore a more sedentary life?”
Remi looked over at him. “Right. You let me know when you’re ready and I’ll start researching our options. What were you thinking of? Gardening? Needlepoint?”
“Worthy hobbies.”
“For someone who enjoys that sort of thing. You? Not in your DNA.”
“Skydiving or spelunking, maybe?”
“Hmm . . .”
He looked over at her as she typed something into her phone. “What’re you doing?”
“Sending that photo to Selma, to go with that video you took on the train. Maybe we can get an ID . . . Done,” she said, pressing the send button. “Now, about your new hobbies . . .”
They passed several small villages, on through rolling green hills dotted with cottages, farmhouses, and scattered sheep. Once they left the motorway, Oliver awoke, surprised to find how far they’d driven. He pointed toward a church spire in the distance. “That’s Chad’s village. First right after the church.”
Sam turned onto a cobblestone street, following Oliver’s directions until they’d reached Chad’s shop.
Oliver directed him around the corner. “Easier to park over here. His aunt lives just down the street. He uses her carriage house to work on one of his classic cars.”
Sam turned, parking about midway between Chad’s shop and his aunt’s carriage house. When the three of them walked up to the shop, they discovered the garage doors locked tight and a Closed sign hanging in the window.
Oliver nodded in the other direction. “Let’s try the office,” he said. “Maybe he’s taking a break.” He led them down a graveled path that led along the side of Chad’s shop. “Ah, yes. See? The door’s open.”
He started forward, but Sam blocked him with his arm. “Wait here,” he said, drawing his gun. Which was when Remi noticed the splintered doorjamb.
27
Sam aimed his gun toward the office door, signaling for Remi to cover his back and Oliver to remain behind while he checked the shop. Standing to one side of the threshold, he listened a moment, not hearing a sound.
Two steps in he saw the shop’s office had been ransacked. A desk chair was turned over, the drawers opened, and file cabinets emptied. Another door led to the garage, where a late-model blue BMW was parked, driver’s door ajar. Other than that, the car looked relatively untouched.
Not so the rolling tool chest, with all its drawers opened; same with the doors of the metal cabinets along one wall.
The place, however, was empty, and he returned outside. “Someone was looking for something,” he said, stepping aside so they could see.
“Oh no . . .” Oliver stood in the doorway, shaking his head. “He’s not—”
“Here,” Sam finished for him.
“Thank goodness,” he replied.
“You don’t happen to know what car he drives?”
It took a moment for Oliver to draw his attention from the ransacked office. “Sorry?”
“Car?”
“Oh, right. When he drove out to Payton Manor, he was in a yellow Renault. But he also drives a lorry for the cars.”
Sam walked up to Remi, saying quietly, “Call the police. I’m going to take a look and see if the car is parked anywhere nearby.”
He walked around to the front, then back through the alley. The flatbed tow truck was there, but the car wasn’t. “What about this carriage house you said he uses?”
Oliver’s expression brightened. “Of course he’d be there. Why didn’t I think of that?”
He led them down the street, stopping in front of a driveway that led to a garage behind a two-story house, both half-timbered, with high-peaked thatched roofs. “Chad’s aunt lives here,” he said. “She doesn’t drive, so lets him use the carriage house.”
“The police are on their way,” Remi said, joining them.
Sam tugged on the lock hanging from the hasp on the garage doors. “Oliver, maybe you should wait by the shop. Let me know when the police arrive.”
Remi eyed the lock, turned to Oliver, smiled. “I’ll meet you there in just a minute.” She waited until he was gone, then stood guard while Sam picked the lock and slid open the door. He did a double take when he turned on the light switch, saw the antique gray Rolls-Royce parked inside.
Remi stepped in after him. “Is it . . . ?”
When his eyes adjusted to the interior light and he saw the weld marks and color differences of the body, he shook his head. “Too short. Maybe an early twenty–twenty-five.”
Remi found a clipboard filled with papers on the workbench. She lifted a page, followed by several more, saying, “Franken-Rolls. Pieced together, apparently. The rebuilt engine’s from one car, the body another, and the chassis . . . Well, if I’m reading this receipt correctly, it’s a replica.”
“I guess we know his specialty,” he said, looking around at all the various body parts stacked in the corners and hanging on the walls, along with engine parts. “Could probably cannibalize everything in here and put together a fairly decent car.”
He returned his attention to the rebuilt car. Not exactly a prime specimen. There was some rust on the body, and the seats were clearly in need of reupholstering. The body was similar to that of the Gray Ghost, even down to the color of the torn leather upholstery, and he wondered if it had also been built by Barker Coachworks.
Remi lowered the clipboard and looked around. “You get the feeling that whoever was here meant to come back?”
“Definitely,” he said. The vehicle’s engine was exposed, the tool chest rolled up right next to it. And sitting on top of the chest was a full mug of coffee and an ashtray, where a cigarette had burned into one long ash. He walked Remi out. “Do me a favor. Stay with Oliver until the police arrive. Make sure he’s on the same page as us. I’d rather keep our involvement low-key.”
“Easy enough. What’re you planning on doing?”
“Have a better look around. Whatever happened, the guy left in a hurry. It’d be nice to know why.”
He looked at the house, saw a white-haired woman peering out the window at them. The curtain dropped, and, a moment later, she opened the back door, waved. “Over here!” she said. The woman’s smile faded as Sam and Remi approached. “Oh, you’re not the plumber . . . ?”
“Actually,” Remi said, “my husband is very handy with a wrench, just show him what you need done.” She looked over at Sam, her green eyes twinkling. “I’ll go check on Oliver.”
With no other choice, he smiled at the woman. “What is it you need help with?”
“A clogged garbage disposal. I was rather hoping you were the plumber. Chad said he’d call one for me.”
“How long ago was that?” Sam asked.
“Well, this morning, of course. He was helping me, but something happened, and he had to leave. He did say he’d call someone. But then, that was five hours ago.”
“How often do you see him?”
“Every morning, working on that car out there before he starts work at his shop. Heaven knows what he finds so fascinating about that rusty old thing.”
Sam followed her into the kitchen, eyeing the half-filled bucket sitting beneath the open drain trap. “What happened?”
“Potato peels. My garbage disposal didn’t like it much better than the celery that got stuck last week.”
He picked up the pipe wrench from the floor in front of the cupboard. “They don’t like carrot peels, either.”
She sighed. “I’m not sure my disposal likes anything. Chad keeps telling me I should replace it.”
“Any idea where he went off to?” Sam asked, climbing beneath the sink to empty the peels that were stuck in the trap.
“I have no idea. He’d just loosened the pipe when he got a phone call. Talked for a couple of minutes, then left.”
“That right?” Sam asked, clearing the pipe, fitting it back into place. “Wonder where he took off to?”
“Wherever it was, he was in a hurry.”
He gave one last twist with the wrench. “If you have a towel, I’ll wipe this down for you.”
“Thank you. That’s very kind of you,” she said, picking up one from the counter. “Hard for me to get down there, these days.”
Sam mopped up the water that had spilled, got up, held the towel over the sink, wringing it out. “Don’t suppose you heard what they were talking about?”
“You can hear for yourself. He left a message on my machine. Something about a ghost.”
28
A ghost?” Sam said, as the woman handed him a clean dish towel to dry his hands.
“That’s what I heard. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop. It’s just that he had the call on speaker while he was working under the sink. It was all very odd. Something about how they knew he’d taken their ghost and to bring it back. He said he didn’t know what they were talking about. All he had was a phantom. Honestly, I have no idea what it was about. Something he didn’t want to talk about in front of me, because when he saw me walk in, he picked up the phone and turned off the speaker.” She offered an apologetic smile. “I would have left to give him privacy, but, before I knew it, he was racing out the door.”
“Did he say where he was going?”
“No. But later he said he’d call a plumber for me. I don’t think he did, though, or someone would have come by now, don’t you think?”
“Probably.” Sam ran the faucet, turned on the disposal. “Good as new,” he said, as he shut them off.
“I can’t thank you enough. How much do I owe you for this?”
“Glad to help.” He nodded at the telephone on the wall. “You were saying something about Chad leaving a message?”
“Yes. I was outside, and the recording came on before I could get to the phone.” She pressed a button on the answering machine, stood back so he could hear.
It’s me. Oliver is on his way there and he’s not answering his phone. I need you to get a message to him. They’re—
The sound of the phone picking up, then, Chad? Is that you? Why are you talking so soft?
Just get this message to Oliver. He’s on his way.
What about my sink? You said you’d fix it.
I’ll call for a plumber lat
er. Can you get the message to Oliver?
Of course.
Tell him to bring the Ghost or— I have to go.
Chad?
The line went dead.
The woman smiled at Sam. “That’s it. All very strange. I have no idea what he’s mixed up in—something to do with those cars, probably.”
As much as Sam didn’t want to alarm the woman, clearly the man sounded stressed. “I’d be glad to pass on the message to Oliver. Would you mind if I recorded it on my phone? Then he can hear it for himself.”
“Is he here?”
“Just down the street, at Chad’s shop.”
“Oh. Did he bring his uncle? I should go say hello.” She made a beeline for the front door, opened it, stopped at the sight of a police car. Her expression was one of mild curiosity, not something Sam expected to see. “The police are still here?” she asked. “I thought they’d left already.”
“You know what happened?”
“Someone broke into Chad’s shop last night. He was here at the time, thank goodness. I told him it wasn’t a good idea to live there after the last break-in.” Shaking her head, she watched as Remi and Oliver walked the constable back to his car, waved as he drove off. “This used to be such a quiet village—”
“There was another break-in?” Sam asked.
“A couple of weeks ago. Probably just some vandals, since nothing was taken. Still . . .” She gave a tired sigh. “I don’t think I’ll mention this to my sister. She keeps telling me I need to sell this place, but I won’t. I like it here.” Giving a determined nod, she looked at Sam. “I’m sure you have better things to do than listen to an old woman . . . And I have a sink full of dirty dishes that need washing.”
* * *
—
“APPARENTLY, the burglary was already reported,” Remi told Sam when he returned.
“So I heard,” he said. He played the recording of the phone call for Oliver. “Any idea why he thinks you have the Ghost?”