Murder on a Yacht: A Diane Dimbleby Cozy Mystery Read online

  “He did!” says Darrell. “I think he’s found his footing.”

  The forensic investigator exits the yacht’s cabin and joins the inspector on the pier. In his hands are two worn pieces of paper, each in their own evidence bag.

  “Darrell? Are you still there?” Diane asks on the other end of the phone line.

  “Just one moment Diane.”

  “Are these the letters you were after, sir?” the forensic investigator asks.

  Darrell takes both in his hands and reads the small font, all caps, typed in the centre of each page. He reads the content to himself:

  “DEAR MIKE DAVIES, KINDLY WITHDRAW YOUR LATEST MANUSCRIPT OR ELSE YOUR DAYS ARE NUMBERED.”

  and

  “THIS IS YOUR LAST WARNING. CANCEL THE BOOK DEAL BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE FOR YOU.”

  He holds the letters up towards the setting sun and can faintly make out a watermark.

  “Diane, can you tell me what you remember about the watermark on the threatening letters?”

  “I remember a CP in cursive. CP stands for Copse Publishers.”

  “I’m going to catch the early morning ferry tomorrow and I’ll meet you at the publisher’s office at 10am.”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful. Thank you Darrell… thank you.”

  When they hang up the phone, Darrell worries that he may be leaving the island too soon, but the forensic team appears to be almost finished. And Sergeant Golden is turning out to be an excellent second-in-command.

  Speaking of Sergeant Golden, Darrell sees him practically sprinting towards him with the constables in tow. The mighty-but-limber police supervisor stops in front of the inspector. He’s carrying a heavy object encased in an evidence bag and passes it to Darrell with inquiring eyes.

  Darrell carefully handles the large piece of granite and scans it closely. He flips it over and sees a few roughly-ripped strands of white hair stuck to a sharp sliver of the rock – they’re held in place by a reddish-brown substance. This could be Mike Davies’ hair and blood.

  “Well done Golden!” says Darrell, patting the sergeant enthusiastically on the back. “Where did you find it?”

  “We searched the entire beach, sir,” the Sergeant says, pointing to the rocky shore next to the pier.

  “Most impressive!” beams Darrell. “Can I trust you to take this to the lab to test it for fingerprints and DNA?”

  “Yes sir!” Golden practically shouts. He cannot hide his full-tooth smile.

  Before passing the rock back to Golden, Darrell takes one last look. He wonders how many millions of years old this very piece of granite is and what stories it could tell from across the ages. Was this the very first murder it ever witnessed or played a role in?

  Darrell cannot think about that now. He has to concentrate on making sure everything is organized before leaving the island. His biggest challenge perhaps is explaining to Mrs. Poole at the Puffin’s Nest that he will not be staying long enough for the full breakfast she promised of poached eggs, griddle cakes, baked beans, grilled tomatoes and ‘Old English’ sausage.

  Chapter 5

  Diane finds a spot to park less than a five-minute walk away from Copse Publishers. She leaves the high-traffic road to find the pedestrian-only street where the boutique publisher is located.

  The time is five minutes before 10, so most of Birmingham’s workforce has already completed their Monday morning commute. Diane finds herself among mostly women, some with tots in tow, window shopping among the procession of independent and name-brand stores.

  Diane spots Darrell heading towards a barista holding a tray of samples – some sort of espresso-based drink topped with whip cream – who is outside trying to drum up business for her café. By the looks of the bags under Darrell’s eyes he could use several shots of strong espresso.

  “You made good time!” Diane says to the inspector, while trying not to laugh at the whiff of whip cream stuck to his nostril. She pulls a napkin out of her purse and points to his nose.

  “I got the island’s conservationist to run me over to the mainland in his motorboat,” says Darrell. “I didn’t want to wait until this morning, so as soon as the forensics was done, he took me over last night.”

  Darrell had taken a brief nap in his car and then drove to Birmingham first thing this morning. Diane shakes her head like a concerned mum. For a moment she wonders whether she should have got her friend involved in this case. But who could do a better job than he?

  “Well, we best go meet Mrs. Petrie,” says Diane, pointing to the small “Copse Publishers” sign situated above another sign, one that reads “Ainslie Graphic Design.” Both signs are bolted above a red doorway, tucked in between a shop selling bath and beauty products and a sushi restaurant.

  They climb the stairs to the second floor to the publishing house. Darrell is a little surprised by the size of the office. As far as he can tell the entire space is three rooms at best; two offices and one reception room. It’s definitely not as large as he expected it to be.

  “Well, they are not a magazine or a newspaper publisher, pushing out a new issue every day or every month” whispers Diane. “They publish books, and only a few a year. And the actual printing happens in London.”

  “Newspapers? Do they still exist?” Darrell whispers with a smirk.

  He then realizes it works to their advantage that Copse Publishers is smaller than he had anticipated. This means dealing with less potential “persons of interest”… it means the pool of people who had been technically allowed to read Mike Davies’ manuscript is small.

  Darrell suddenly realizes that he forgot to ask Dianne whether she told Mrs. Petrie about the threatening letters and how they were written on Copse Publishers’ stationary.

  As if she is reading the inspector’s mind, Diane quickly whispers, “I did not tell her about the watermark on the pages of the threats.”

  She’s told Darrell just in time as they hear footsteps from the back office coming out to meet them.

  A short and spry woman dressed in a black pantsuit and pumps has come out to meet them. The skin tone facial concealer and her freshly-dyed, bright red hair do well to hide the marks she’s developed over the 30 years she’s spent working long hours in the publishing business.

  “I’m Julie Petrie,” she says, firmly shaking Diane’s hand. “Diane, it’s so nice to finally meet you face to face, even though the circumstances are not… the most comfortable.”

  She then introduces herself to the inspector. As she firmly shakes Darrell’s hand too, he looks her straight in the eyes. The publisher does not flinch one bit.

  “Thank you for taking the time to meet with us,” says Darrell. “Is there somewhere we can sit and chat?”

  Mrs. Petrie nods her head. She runs back to get her purse and invites Diane and the inspector to join her for a coffee at the café a few doors down. Once outside she tells them that it is perhaps better they speak outside the office.

  “Since talking to you yesterday, Diane, it got me thinking,” Mrs. Petrie whispers. “The walls might have ears, as they say.”

  Before Darrell or Diane can ask her if she suspects someone from the office in particular, Julie Petrie turns around and briskly walks towards the Java & Vanilla Bean Café. She swings open the purple-painted door that is bordered with painted images of multi-coloured mugs with steam rising above. Darrell jogs up to catch the door that Mrs. Petrie is holding open.

  A young woman with dreadlocks tied into a bun and a sedate but genuine smile asks them if they would like anything to eat or drink. Julie orders a ‘non-fat, extra-foam, extra-hot cappuccino in a large mug’; Diane and Darrell each order a cup of tea.

  There are no customers in the café. They sit down at a small table, the one furthest from the counter. Diane and Darrell each take out a small notebook. They look at each other and nod their heads – it can’t hurt for both of them to write down some pertinent details.

  For a moment, Julie plays with the poetry magnets attached to
a metal clipboard that is dangling just above their table; she then decides she’d better get on with it. She pulls her mobile out of her pocket and holds up the screen so only Darrell and Diane can see. She slowly swipes to show them pictures of four individuals, three women and one man. Each of them, knowingly posing for the camera, is clearly in an office environment at the time the pictures are taken. They are either sitting at a desk or beside a bookcase or a photocopier.

  “Are these all of the employees who work for Copse Publishers?” Diane asks.

  “Yes,” says Julie. “And these are the people – the only people – who have read the hard copy of the manuscript.”

  “To your knowledge…” says Darrell, who stops short when the barista delivers their hot drinks to the table. When she leaves, Darrell asks, “Is it possible that anyone else has been in the office and accessed it?”

  “I’ve been keeping the soft copy only on a flash drive, which I locked in the safe along with the hard copy,” says Julie. “I checked again this morning and both are still locked up tight.”

  Julie explains that she asked each of her employees to read the hard copy and to give her their notes. As each borrowed the pages, she had them sign them out to make sure the manuscript was always accounted for.

  “Is it possible that any one of them took the manuscript out to read at a restaurant or another public place during their lunch hour?” asks Diane.

  “Oh it’s possible, yes, but I would hope they wouldn’t be daft enough to leave the pages out on a table, unsupervised. Oh God, I hope not,” says Julie. “But the reason I brought you here, away from the office, is I have to tell you about one of my employees.”

  Julie holds up her phone and swipes back to the picture of Ingrid Bauer, who works as a copy editor but also does some online marketing for the small publishing house. Diane stares at the picture to see a woman, smiling yes, but with eyes that are not reciprocating.

  Ingrid Bauer had told Julie that she tragically lost her father 25 years ago, right around the time of the fall of the Berlin Wall. Her father had been an East German soldier and had been in charge of guarding a British agent, an agent who had been captured on the East Berlin side of the Wall. The British agent was part of MI6. He then was successfully rescued, but during the extraction Ingrid’s father was apparently killed.

  “Ingrid said, ‘The MI6 shot and killed my father. The MI6 are murderers!’ She was quite emotional…understandably,” recounts Julie.

  “When did she tell you all of this?” asks Diane.

  “Right after she read the manuscript,” says Julie.

  Diane and Darrell look at one another without saying a word. The inspector hates to jump to conclusions, but it looks like Ingrid Bauer has made it to the top of the suspect list. He will need to interview her as soon as possible. As for the other three individuals in Julie’s photographs – the other Copse Publishers employees – they do not appear to have any particular personal interest in Mike Davies’ story. But as we all know, appearances can be very deceiving, and Darrell should interview all of the publishing house personnel, including a formal interview with Julie Petrie. But first he has to make an appearance at the station in Shrewsbury. He is due to see the superintendent this afternoon.

  Diane and Darrell thank Julie for meeting with them and leave her to finish her especially foamy cappuccino.

  “Diane, do you mind walking me to my car?” Darrell asks, as they leave the Java & Vanilla Bean.

  Diane looks around at the casual pedestrians and shopkeepers in a jocular fashion. “Are you wanting me to protect you from this suspicious crowd?” she says in jest.

  “Hardy har har… I just want to run something by you,” says the detective.

  Darrell opens the boot of his Range Rover and climbs in. Diane stares after him, amused, wondering what he’s up to. Then she sees a small safe pushed against the back seat and Darrell is punching in the security code to open it.

  “You can never be too careful…” says Diane.

  “Ever since my wife’s car was broken into last year, I thought I better get a safe. All the robbers took was some footie equipment, but I kept thinking what if it had been my car and they had gotten their hands on some police evidence… or my lucky fishing lures,” Darrell winks.

  The inspector passes Diane some pages held in evidence bags. She’s seen these before, and not too long ago: “DEAR MIKE DAVIES, KINDLY WITHDRAW YOUR LATEST MANUSCRIPT OR ELSE YOUR DAYS ARE NUMBERED” and “THIS IS YOUR LAST WARNING. CANCEL THE BOOK DEAL BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE FOR YOU.”

  “Can you confirm with one hundred percent certainty that these are typed on Copse Publishers’ stationary?” Darrell asks.

  “If you had asked me this morning at quarter to 10, I would have said yes, but with 95 percent certainty. You see, I think I must have recycled the hard copy letters Julie Petrie had sent me using her company’s stationary. They were basically generic monthly newsletters sent out to a mailing list. Our main correspondence, Julie’s and mine, specifically about Mike’s book, had been through e-mail,” Diane says. “But now I can say with absolute certainty that these letters have the Copse Publishers’ watermark.”

  Diane pulls out a folded piece of paper from her pocket. She unfolds it and holds it next to the letters encased in the evidence bags. Just to be sure she holds all of them up to the sun to reveal the cursive CP symbols at the bottom of each page.

  “I nicked the page from a pile on the front desk when Julie ran to get her purse,” beams Diane.

  “You little devil!” Darrell laughs. “I’ll be in touch soon. Try to get some rest, will ya?”

  Diane leaves the inspector so he can get on his way to Shrewsbury. Before heading back to Apple Mews, she decides to walk back to the Java & Vanilla Bean – she’d quite like to try one of those foamy cappuccinos herself.

  Whilst thinking about Ingrid Bauer, Diane almost walks right into a mom pushing a double pram with a baby and tot inside; and again almost into a greyhound and his owner. But Diane cannot help thinking about the section of Mike’s book that must have entirely floored Ingrid.

  How Mike described the rescue of the MI6 agent was so vivid, and it did include an East German soldier being fatally shot. The level of detail, the emotion his phrases carried, made Diane feel that this had actually happened, and that Mike had not only witnessed the course of events, but had also been deeply affected by them. Diane had not dared ask him how accurate the depiction was nor did she inquire about what role he played. She was positive Mike hadn’t been the captive, but perhaps he had been part of the team that rescued the agent. Maybe Ingrid Bauer thought so too – maybe she even thought Mike Davies had been the one that pulled the trigger and killed her father.

  Passing by the window of the café, Diane sees that Julie is no longer sitting at the round table far from the counter. She re-enters the purple door and joins the queue inside the now busier Java & Vanilla Bean.

  After pulling out her wallet, Diane looks to the front of the line and sees a slender woman, perhaps 40 years of age, with slightly dishevelled, sandy blond hair. Diane swears she looks similar to one of the photos she’d just seen on Julie’s mobile phone.

  “Are you having a dark roast today, Ingrid?” asks the barista with the dreadlocked hair.

  Diane drops her wallet on the floor. Her clumsiness due to being caught off guard has made a noise so loud that everyone in the café, including Ingrid, looks her way. Diane quickly picks the wallet up, looks in Ingrid’s eyes for a brief moment, and scurries out of the café.

  “I think I’ll have a cuppa when I get home,” Diane says under her breath, and she hurries towards her car.

  ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠

  When Darrell arrives at the Shrewsbury Police Station, he finds the superintendent sitting at Darrell’s desk.

  Darrell has great respect for Superintendent Ian Groves, a superior who can be stern when he needed to be, but who is always fair. When he sees Darrell, he shoots him a warm but serious
smile.

  “You’ve covered a lot of territory the last couple days, Crothers,” says the superintendent in his husky voice.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “As you know, I have no objection to the work you’re doing – we haven’t had much to worry about around here lately, so I like to share resources when we can.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The superintendent tells him that there is someone here who wants to talk to “Inspector Crothers” especially. All that he’s told Superintendent Groves is that he’s Agent Somerset from MI6.

  “I can’t say I’m surprised, based on what you’ve told me about your murder victim’s work history,” says the superintendent.

  Darrell can’t help but smile. The grapevine, in instances such as these, works faster than emails or text messages. Still, is it a tad disconcerting that an agency like the MI6 would still be keeping such active tabs on their retired agents?

  The superintendent leads Darrell into his office and shuts the door. Agent Somerset stands when they come in.

  “Agent Somerset, this is Inspector Crothers.”

  The two men shake hands but neither sits. The superintendent walks around the desk to sit in his own chair, and with a determined look, urges Darrell to do the same. The agent follows suit but only after he begins to talk.

  “I am aware of Mike Davies’ sudden death, and I’m sure you have already uncovered that he was a retired MI6 agent,” he says.

  The superintendent and Darrell nod, and Darrell says, “May I ask how you came to know about his death… and this inquiry?”

  Agent Somerset ignores Darrell’s question and says, “It is probably some vandals living on or around the island who are responsible.”

  “With all due respect,” says Darrell, “the evidence we’ve retrieved so far doesn’t really point to the work of vandals. We have to explore all motives and all possible suspects.”

  “May I remind you that Lundy Island does not fall under your jurisdiction,” says Agent Somerset. “And in the grand scheme, the Shrewsbury Police rank low within Britain’s chain of command.”