Murder At Midnight Page 6

  “We don’t want to take any chances with your health, Meg. You’re still fragile, even if you don’t realise it.”

  “Well I think confronting our fears is the one way to make them disappear.” She unlaced her bowling shoes. “It isn’t as if I’d be alone there this time, you would be right beside me.”

  “Okay then. But even the least bit of uneasiness on your part, and we call it off at once.”

  “Agreed,” she said. “Oh and Scott, don’t tell anyone else about this.”

  As if I would, he thought, after what had happened the last time.

  * * * *

  Slater stared gloomily out his office window. A dog retrieved its ball from the courtyard fountain.

  He sat down, pressed the tips of his fingers together, and waited for the intercom to buzz. Len Barthrop was shown into his office.

  The chief investigator on the Craig case looked surprisingly well, for someone who had reputedly waged a life and death struggle against the demon drink. He had craggy features, a poker-straight back and moved with all the litheness of a puma.

  “You’re looking good Len,” said Slater. “Retirement obviously agrees with you.”

  “I’m retired from the Force but not from life, Neil.” He appeared relaxed, but with a certain wariness understandable under the circumstances. Slater had telephoned him earlier that day and said he wanted to see him about the unsolved Craig murder.

  “I can come over there, if you would prefer it,” he offered. But Len declined.

  “I’m going to be in the area anyway,” he said casually.

  Slater did not believe in mincing words, and got straight to the point.

  “As you know Len, we’re re-opening all the old unsolved murder files, and the Craig case was top of the list.”

  Len nodded.

  “Scott Preston, the Morning Herald reporter, has been putting a lot of time into this, and has come up with certain concerns, that make me feel uncomfortable as hell.”

  Len shifted uneasily in his chair.

  Slater asked him point-blank, why he had done such a half-assed job of investigating the case. “You didn’t even bother to interview the witnesses properly, that is when you deemed it necessary to speak to them at all.”

  “Now look here…” Len interrupted, but Slater cut him short.

  “You’ll get your chance late. You never thought to ask Marjorie Rawlins what direction the Craig girl was heading in when she got off the bus on the night of her death. You just assumed that it was towards her home. Then there was Jessica Drake, the best friend of the murdered girl. You didn’t think it necessary to speak to her either. And why didn’t you suggest hypnosis for the bus driver, and Marjorie? The press are really going to rake us over the coals on this one, then hang us out to dry.”

  Len cleared his throat and looked as if he would like to bolt out the door. But instead, he stroked his tie with a trembling hand, and defended his actions of over two decades ago, in a hoarse but determined voice.

  Slater heard him out without comment, and when he at last fell silent, fished a letter out of the top drawer of his desk and passed it across to him.

  “The newspaper article published on the anniversary of the Craig murder has stirred up a lot of renewed interest. This is the type of thing we have been receiving.”

  Len blanched and his left eye twitched.

  “Well?” Slater demanded.

  A fly buzzed around the desk lamp and Slater whacked at it with a rolled up newspaper, squishing it on top of a recent file about a Peeping Tom suspected of murder.

  “Well it’s not true, none of it. ” Len blurted out at last. “Why this is just bullshit,” he added in disgust. “Suggesting that I was on the take, why of all the sick lies. ”

  He looked directly into Slater’s dark eyes and insisted that he had never, at any time, compromised an investigation.

  “Good God Neil, you should know that better than anyone. You worked with me for years before I retired.”

  Slater sighed and leaned back in his chair, his hands behind his head. While he felt sure Len Barthrop was not a crooked cop, he suspected that he knew more than he would admit about the Craig case. Something about it seemed to cut him to the quick.

  “So this is the gratitude I get for spending close to thirty years on the Force, and retiring with an unblemished service record,” Len muttered bitterly. “I’m being accused of taking bribes and running a crooked enquiry.”

  “No-one is accusing you of anything,” Slater insisted; snapping closed the file and stashing it in a desk drawer. “Just trying to get some answers as to why this investigation was not conducted according to procedure.”

  “Oh yeah, and what about that damned…poison-pen letter?” Len argued. His eyes bulged with anger. “If you believed I was straight you would have tossed that…piece of filth into the garbage where it belongs. Instead of which, you confront me with it.”

  “Look, let’s not get into a slanging match, that’s not going to get us anywhere. There are bound to be questions regarding your handling of the Craig case. And these translate into the type of conclusions this letter suggests.”

  After Len left, Slater contacted Jerry Beamish and Marjorie Rawlins. “Would you be willing to undergo hypnosis,” he asked? It was what should have been done, but wasn’t, twenty years ago.

  They both agreed, but with reservations. “Hasn’t too much time passed since the incident we’re trying to recall?” asked Marjorie, and Beamish expressed similar misgivings.

  “Don’t worry,” Slater assured them. “The subconscious mind has no knowledge of time as we measure it, and it retains images forever.”

  While under hypnosis, Beamish recalled nothing at all of interest. But there had been better luck with Marjorie. She described in some detail the brooch Lisa Craig had been wearing on the lapel of her green cloak. “It was like a sword,” she said. “Silver, with an amber stone on the hilt.”

  “Please, don’t breathe a word about this to anyone,” Slater cautioned. For he already knew all about this unusual brooch. Lisa’s mother reported that her daughter had been wearing it on the night of her murder. Yet it hadn’t been found on her body.

  This then, was the piece of evidence the police had held back from the media. There was always something, used as an identifying tool that only they knew. In the Craig case it was the brooch.

  They had speculated about what had happened to the brooch over the years? Had her murderer taken it as a sort of sick-minded memento? Or, had she lost it somewhere between the Regal Cinema, Peach Tree Inn and Roanoke Park? Investigations at the time, at all venues came up blank. No one recalled seeing the brooch, including Boyd. Although Lisa’s mother swore she was wearing it before she went out on that tragic last night of her life.

  Now they knew that she was. That she still had it on while riding the bus that took her to her doom. Therefore, whoever killed Lisa, had to have taken the brooch.

  Find the brooch, thought Slater, and find the killer.

  In light of this new information, he would have dearly loved to search Garrick Boyd’s apartment, and any safe deposit boxes he might have. But he didn’t have enough evidence to apply for a search warrant. It had strengthened his determination though, to keep on probing until he had.

  “Boyd did it, Neil,” Len Barthrop had assured him. “I just didn’t have enough on him to make a charge stick.”

  * * * *

  Although muffled and disguised the voice was almost certainly male. “Lay off the Craig case or you’re dead!” it warned, with a sangfroid directness that struck a chill through Scott, despite the warmness of the day. It was the first time he had received a death threat, and the unexpectedness of it caught him totally off-guard.

  He slowly replaced the receiver then sat there for a while just staring at the telephone. It was as if it had become a malignant instrument with a will of its own. First, the unnerving event on the Sea-to-Sky Highway, when he had been run off the road and na
rrowly missed landing in the ocean, now this. He spun around in his chair and gazed out at the brilliant sun, searing a pathway from a sky as blue as cornflowers. It seemed that Lisa’s killer was getting worried about his enquiries into the old case, and was determined to either scare him off or kill him.

  But dammit all, he wasn’t that easily deterred.

  “What’s up?” asked Ben. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

  When Scott told him about the telephone call, he whistled long and low.

  “Well, you’re sure getting somebody worried,” he declared. “Who else could it be, but Lisa’s killer?” He suggested that it be reported to Slater.

  Scott shook his head. “No, I think we might be getting close to something here, and I don’t want any official interference.” Particularly, he thought to himself, as he and Meg were planning their trip back to Roanoke Park that very night.

  He felt mildly guilty about holding so much back from Slater, while justifying it at the same time. He hadn’t reported being nearly run off the Sea-to-Sky Highway, but then it may have been merely an accident with no malicious intent, just some drinking driver roaring back from a night on the town?

  Then there was Vera Holt’s accusation against Victor Kenny. He probably should have told Slater about this, after Victor refused to speak to him? Yet he didn’t really believe that this grotesque child of a man was the killer.

  Also of significance, was Jessica Drake’s belief that Lisa was highly sexed. If so, she might have been having affairs behind Boyd’s back. This made the “Ronnie” remark; overheard by the waitress at the Peach Tree, take on deadly significance.

  He didn’t want to share this with anyone at present. And it wasn’t out of any misplaced vanity about Slater grabbing the credit. Although he did feel the police should have been doing all the digging twenty years ago, that he was doing now. No, it was more about the bond this hoard of knowledge was forging, with the long-dead woman, who had so captured his soul.

  He longed to possess her, in the same way that she had reached out from the grave and captivated him. But how can one possess a spirit?

  * * * *

  When he arrived to pick Meg up––and she insisted they wait until midnight, to make it more authentic––Scott was aghast to find her dressed up as Lisa. It gave him quite a start.

  For not only did she have on the red wig and green cloak, but had made up her eyes with green eye shadow to more closely resemble the slain girl. Lisa’s eyes had been green.

  “Okay then, let’s do it,” he said, feeling reluctant and yet strangely excited as he walked beside this living replica of his obsession.

  Even the weather obliged by sending a misty night, and while not frosty like the February fourth anniversary, it was nevertheless, chilly and damp.

  Scott parked near the bus stop, scene of so much pathos in the past. Then he and Meg, whom he now thought of as “Lisa” walked together into the ferny clutches of Roanoke Park.

  She looked pale, yet composed, considering the circumstances. However, she started badly, when something small and furry scampered across their path. Scott kept a firm grip on her hand, which felt cold and slightly clammy.

  As they approached the trail, which led to the azara bush and Humpback Bridge, the trees above them were so dense they almost blocked the sky. Scott shone his flashlight on the rough pebbly path. A high wind the day before had left it strewn with fallen branches. It was also criss-crossed with tree roots, which could quickly trip up the unwary.

  “I have to pee,” Meg suddenly announced, and darted behind some bushes. Scott paced about, an eerie feeling of foreboding closing in on him from all sides. We shouldn’t have come back here, he thought anxiously. No good could possibly come of it. This was an evil and accursed place.

  A malignant silence cloyed at him as disturbingly as the fog. “Meg,” he whispered. For it didn’t feel safe to speak aloud. “Hurry up, let’s get out of here.”

  But there was no response.

  Scott called again, and then he plunged into the bushes where he last saw her. She wasn’t there.

  “Oh God,” he muttered. “This can’t be happening. Let me wake up, please.”

  He started to call her name loudly; the realisation of what was happening now more threatening than the silence of the sinister park.

  “Meg…Meg, where are you? Please answer…please…”

  He shone his flashlight on the trail and headed towards the azara bush. The last time he had been here, he found Meg lying, as if dead, beside it. Would history repeat itself again tonight?

  There was no moon or stars to light the way, and the darkness was all encompassing. The flashlight glanced off it like a mere pinprick on an expanse of black cloth.

  He arrived at the azara bush breathless and full of dread, but much to his relief there was no dead body––or one as good as––there tonight. For in this place Lisa had been found murdered, and Meg left for dead.

  But where was the girl? She wouldn’t have just taken off like that into the darkness and silence. Someone must have abducted her.

  Oh lord, this was a nightmare of mammoth proportions, one that he could never have foreseen when agreeing to this trip down a ghoulish memory lane. He thought with dread what Slater’s response would be when he reported her missing.

  Scott’s heart hammered so hard it hurt. He felt light-headed and disoriented, unable to move. For where he stood, was the exact same spot that had appeared so many times in his terrifying dreams.

  It was at this moment that he would look towards the Humpback Bridge with such dread that it was suffocating. And there would be the figure of Lisa, slowly beginning its turn.

  Scott now breathed so hard he gasped. Sweat poured down his face in streams. He would have to do it. While he compelled himself to look over towards the ghastly bridge, he resisted also.

  A bird of prey swooped close by and scared the wits out of him. It served to jolt him out of his fugue.

  There standing on the Humpback Bridge, which rose eerily out of the mist, was Lisa.

  Scott would never know afterwards how long he stood there transfixed with fear. Was this just Meg his frantic mind raged? Or could it––my God in heaven––be Lisa?

  He could not approach it; he remained frozen to the spot.

  The figure started walking towards him; long hair flowing, cloak swirling around it.

  “Sorry about tricking you like that, but I had to do this alone.” Scott breathed a convulsive sigh of relief. It was only Meg after all, and thank heavens alive and unharmed.

  They stopped by the Purple Onion for a much needed drink. Scott belted two shots back in quick succession.

  “That was one helluva thing to pull,” he told her angrily. “Didn’t you consider for even one damned minute how fuckin worried I’d be?”

  “I’m sorry, Scott. I know it was selfish of me.”

  A lone pianist on stage softly played some of the old favourites. The lighting was pleasantly dim. Meg moved closer to him in the booth. Her eyes looked green in the candlelight, her hair auburn, and she still wore the beguiling green cloak.

  She raised her glass to his. “Here’s to us, Scott.”

  The liquor was having an affect on him. He felt pleasantly relaxed, and because of her close proximity, and likeness to Lisa, he was also getting aroused.

  “God, how I want you,” he whispered, and pressed her close against him. “Let’s go somewhere more private.”

  They ended up balling in the back seat of his car like a couple of teenagers. Scott was in a frenzy and just couldn’t get enough of her. “We’ll go to my place,” he suggested. But Meg refused.

  “I have an early start in the morning,” she said. “Besides, you’re like a madman, it’s scary.”

  “I’m sorry Lisa,” he apologised, and then when it was too late to retract, realised what he had said.

  “That’s exactly it, isn’t it?” Meg fumed. “It’s not me you were doing just now, but Lisa Cr
aig. Well you can bloody well get stuffed, you sick bastard.”

  * * * *

  Scott helped Violet hang the quilt on the back wall.” It’s exquisite isn’t it?” she remarked. “Vintage Americana.”

  The scent of wisteria and lily-of-the-valley drifted in through the open shop door. A customer browsed around the china section and Gemma stretched out lazily in a circle of sunlight.

  Scott had volunteered to go to the Waverley Antique Auction the following week. There were a couple of items that Violet was madly keen to have, an ivory letter opener with a silver snake handle, and an Anglo-Indian footstool with ornately carved legs.

  “I’d go myself,” she explained. “But one of my oldest customers is coming in from out-of-town, and I have to be here for that.”

  “It’s not a problem,” Scott assured her. While he didn’t much care for auctions, this one should prove interesting as Philip Mitford––the owner of the Realty Company that had employed Lisa Craig and Garrick Boyd––was expected to attend.

  “In fact, I would say that wild horses couldn’t keep him away,” Violet declared. “He’s an avid collector of anything from the American Civil War period.”

  She leafed through the Waverley Auction Catalogue. “Here it is. This is what he will be bidding for.”

  It was a brief personal letter written by Ulysses S. Grant before he became President of the United States. “I’m glad I’m not interested in acquiring it,” she added ruefully. “Philip has a way of getting what he wants, regardless of the price.”

  * * * *

  The Waverley Auction, which offered some of the most valuable antiques in the local marketplace, took place in an unassuming, almost rundown building sandwiched between a sporting goods warehouse and a storage facility.

  Only a few blocks from Union Station and Terminal Avenue, it was a neighbour to the enormous geodesic dome built for Vancouver’s 1986 Exposition. Now home to the Science World Museum, the dome was a distinctive part of the City. It sparkled silver in the sunlight, and glittered at night like a bauble in a giant’s jewellery box.

  The hall was crowded, but bidding began right on time. Scott managed to acquire both the letter opener and footstool for a good price.