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Officious and no-nonsense as ever, Krebs held up a hand as Molly got out of the limousine. A frown darkened the woman’s square-jawed face. Her short blond hair moved slightly in the breeze. “I’ll have to ask you to stay there, Mrs. Graham.”
“I want to see my husband.” Molly worked hard to keep the panic from her voice.
Krebs put one hand on her uniform belt and jerked her other thumb over her shoulder. “We can’t disturb the site of the shooting. I can assure you that he’s fine.”
“He told me that much over the phone.”
Krebs shook her head. “Mr. Graham is being questioned. He shouldn’t be giving out information over his mobile.” She reached for the walkie-talkie at her belt.
Exasperated, Molly leaned a hip against the limousine.
The locals had turned out by the dozens. They stood just beyond the yellow tape and collapsible sawhorses used to mark the scene. All of them talked and gestured, pointing to the parking area.
A man’s body lay sprawled across the small lot but Molly had lost sight of Michael. Then she spotted Paddington. The Detective Chief Inspector was a large man but carried his weight well because he was broad shouldered. He paced in front of a Jaguar that looked suspiciously like Aleister Crowe’s and pulled at his fierce mustache. The inspector was in quite the mood, just as Michael had said.
“Does anyone know the identity of the man that was shot?” Molly asked Krebs, amazed she was calm enough to pose such a question.
Krebs pursed her lips before answering. “That’s police business, Mrs. Graham. I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say.” Her eyes locked on Nanny Myrie. “Is this Mr. Wallace’s family?”
“His grandmother, yes. Mrs. Nanny Myrie.”
A moment passed as Krebs considered the situation. “I think it would be a good idea if you and Mrs. Myrie went into the hospital. I know the inspector will want to talk to you, Mrs. Myrie.” The sergeant lifted the crime-scene tape. “Come along now.”
Talk to us or grill us? Molly wondered. Based on past experience with the inspector, she knew Paddington tended toward surly when upset. Reluctantly, Molly guided Nanny under the tape and toward the hospital.
PERCHED ON THE EDGE of Paddington’s car fender, Michael was glad most of his panic had subsided. Residual adrenaline still made his hands shake, but for the most part he was again in control of himself. He’d examined the knife wound and judged it to be minor, the bleeding already stopped.
“You’re sure you’ve never seen the dead man before today?” Paddington stood in front of Michael. The effort it took for the man to remain still made him almost vibrate. He kept his hands busy with his pipe.
“I’m sure.”
“But he knew Rohan Wallace.”
“He knew Rohan’s name. He called him ‘mate.’ But I couldn’t testify to how close their relationship was.”
Paddington puffed thoughtfully on his pipe. “He said Rohan left him hanging?”
“That’s what I heard.”
“And that people were looking for him?”
“Yes.” Michael was conscious of the microrecorder in the inspector’s pocket. He felt sick, and his awareness of the body lying only a short distance away felt more and more disturbing.
“He didn’t happen to say why they were looking for him?”
Michael gestured at his bruised face. “There wasn’t much time for chatting, Inspector. I walked in on him and he made to leave. I tried to stop him.”
“Why would you do that, Mr. Graham? You could just as easily have allowed him to go.”
Surprised, Michael considered that. Then he thought about why the inspector might have asked the question and pointed out the option. “I want to know what happened to Rohan. That man, whoever he was, offered an opportunity to find out.”
“What made you so sure of that?”
“I wasn’t. We didn’t get very far into the discussion when he pulled a knife on me. A switchblade. You’ll find it under Rohan’s bed.”
Paddington glanced at one of the policemen beside him. “Be a good lad and go secure that weapon.”
The policeman nodded and left.
Paddington swiveled his gaze back to Michael. “Rohan Wallace was shot while burgling the Crowe home.”
“I’m not satisfied that’s the whole truth of the matter.”
A short distance away, Aleister Crowe slid off his vehicle and approached Michael, thrusting an angry finger in his direction. “What are you trying to say? That I deliberately shot a man with no justification?”
Blood boiling with renewed anger, Michael stood and faced Crowe. “Did you?”
“No.”
“No one found a weapon on Rohan that night, Crowe.”
“You can strangle a man with your bare hands while he’s sleeping.”
“It’s not as fast as shooting people, though, is it?”
Crowe took another step forward and Michael automatically raised his hands in defense.
Quick as a fox, Crowe’s blond companion stepped between Michael and Crowe and held Crowe back. “Aleister. Aleister. Listen to me. You’re not doing yourself any good here. Let it go.”
Paddington had placed a big hand in the middle of Michael’s chest, but focused on the blond man. “Who are you?”
“Lockwood Nightingale.”
“What business did you have here today, Mr. Nightingale?”
“I’m a friend of Mr. Crowe’s.”
“Really?”
Breathing hard, Michael retreated to Paddington’s car.
Paddington shifted his attention to Crowe. “You often meet your friends at the hospital, Mr. Crowe?”
“I was here on business, Inspector.” Nightingale straightened his jacket and smiled.
“What business might that be?”
Crowe leaned in, his face tight with anger. “My business, and none of yours.”
Nightingale spoke in a soft voice. “Easy, Aleister. Let me handle this. Please.”
With an oath, Crowe turned away.
“I was here today as a favor to Aleister, Inspector Paddington.” Nightingale reached into his inside jacket pocket and took out an engraved cardholder. He flipped the holder open with a practiced flourish and produced an expensive embossed card. “I’m a solicitor.”
Paddington took the card and examined it. “Do you feel you need a solicitor, Mr. Crowe?”
Crowe started to make a scathing reply, judging from the apoplectic expression he wore, then subsided when Nightingale raised a hand.
“I advised Mr. Crowe that he might want to seek counsel regarding the shooting incident in his home.” Nightingale put the cardholder away.
“No charges have been brought against Mr. Crowe.”
Nightingale smiled unctuously. “We have two matters before us, Inspector. I believe the criminal matter has been put to rest, and that Mr. Crowe acted in the best interests of his family when he shot a trespasser in his home.”
Michael started to object, but Paddington raised an admonishing hand without looking in his direction. Bitterly, Michael swallowed his comments.
“But I also advised Mr. Crowe that Rohan Wallace’s family might seek to place fiduciary responsibility on him in civil court. We met here today so that I could deliver a court order to have copies of the injured man’s hospital reports released to me. In case we end up in court over the matter. A little prejudicial caution, I admit.”
“Rohan hasn’t had any family to speak up for him,” Michael said before Paddington could wave him to silence.
“But that isn’t the case anymore, is it? Mr. Wallace’s grandmother has arrived in Blackpool.”
Paddington raised an eyebrow. “How do you know that, Mr. Nightingale?”
The solicitor shrugged. “I witnessed her arrival only a few moments ago. I heard your sergeant acknowledge her.” He pointed toward the limousine.
Irwin stood at the front of the vehicle like a soldier at his post. Michael almost smiled at that; the man’s dedication to his vocation was reassuring.
“Therefore, Inspector, lines on this battlefront are changing.”
Michael gazed down at the dead man and couldn’t agree more.
Paddington’s mobile rang and he pulled it from his hip holster. He said his name and listened briefly, then closed the mobile and put it away. He glanced at Michael. “It appears they found the spot where the shots came from. Would you like to come along?”
“You’re asking me?”
“You needn’t if you don’t wish to.”
“No. I’d be happy to come. This just isn’t the kind of thing you’d normally invite me to.”
“This, Mr. Graham, doesn’t appear to be a normal day.”
CHAPTER FIVE
“THE SHOOTER STOOD HERE, Inspector, and he had a clear view of the hospital.”
Michael didn’t recognize the serious middle-aged man in the Blackpool Police uniform. He assumed he was one of the temporary officers that were helping out during the remodel of the marina. With all the new people in town, as well as the supplies and equipment, extra security had been necessary.
The officer looked earnest and neat as a pin. His short-cropped hair was barely longer than the stubble Michael wore. Creases showed in the corners of his eyes and lightly on his forehead. His tan was deep, burned into his flesh by years of working in the sun.
“Tell me your name.”
“Watts, Inspector. Trevor Watts.”
“Ah, yes.” Paddington nodded in satisfaction. “You’re the lad with exotic military training.”
“Yes, sir. I did a bit with the Special Air Service. Mustered out honorably with injuries a few years back.”
Michael was impressed. The SAS was England’s foremost special-forces unit. The team had seen action around the globe and were noted for their thoroughness and precision.
“SAS, eh?” Paddington gazed out the bedroom window of the second-floor flat they were in across from the hospital. Other than a few trees, the view was clear. “Then I’d assume you know something of shooting like this.”
“Yes, sir. I was extremely proficient.”
Paddington pointed his pipe at the spot where the dead man had gone down. “How far away would you say the target was?”
“Seven hundred seventy-eight yards, sir.”
“That’s awfully exact, Officer.”
Watts reached into a small bag on his belt and took out micro-size binoculars. “Opti-Logic Sabre II laser rangefinder. Good out to a thousand yards. After I saw that shot, I thought I might need this, so I got it out of my car.”
Michael’s curiosity was piqued. “What about the shot told you that you might need that device?”
“The round hit the man, correct, Mr. Graham?”
Michael nodded.
“Seven hundred and seventy-eight yards, though I didn’t know the exact measurement at the time, plus the fact that the bullet ripped through the victim’s apricot tipped me to the fact that we were probably dealing with an experienced sniper. That’s why I started scouting the buildings that fit the trajectory and the field of fire.”
“‘Apricot’?”
“Yes, sir. The medulla oblongata. Located at the base of the skull. Controls involuntary movement. Ensures an instant kill. You put a bullet through that, or the second cervical vertebra, and whomever you shoot is checked out of the festivities.”
“You make the shooter sound like he was really good.”
“He was, sir. No doubt about it. To pop a man like that, while he’s on the run? Bloody good, sir, and that’s the bottom line.”
Michael watched the man and wondered what he did when he wasn’t hanging about Blackpool, helping with security. He suspected it was generally something a lot more demanding, and they were lucky to have him.
Only then did Michael realize that Paddington had been carefully watching him throughout the exchange. Michael let out a breath and shook his head. “You knew the shooter could have killed me, too.”
“The thought crossed my mind simply because the shot that killed that poor devil was so accurately placed and you emerged without a scratch.” Paddington glanced around the bedroom. “I felt you should know what you were truly facing today.”
Michael’s knees were suddenly weak. “Do you mind if I take a seat?”
Watts pointed to a chair at a small computer desk. “There. Please stay out of the way. And if you’re going to be sick, please do so in the bin there.” He pointed to the small metal rectangle under the desk.
