In three hours Elizabeth collected £35. But Jens’s efforts were not nearly as successful. In an hour and a half, he collected only £5. More important, he almost got busted. While walking from one house to another he was stopped by two bobbies who demanded to see his credentials. Jens proffered the can, but they said that was not enough, that he also needed a badge. Feigning ignorance, he talked his way out of being hauled in, but he was so unnerved by the experience that he abandoned his collections and went back to the room to wait for Elizabeth to return. The journal entry for the next day noted that they had decided to abandon the collection because it was too “dangerous.”
Wright noted that there were only a couple of entries left in the journal and they had not yet described how they developed the idea to defraud Marks & Spencer. Unhappily, the document that started so interestingly ended on a whine. On February 18, Jens wrote that he was worried that Elizabeth was pregnant. On February 21 he seemed close to panic. Then, on February 23, he wrote with obvious relief that it had all been a false alarm.
Wright leaned back in his chair. “Kenny,” he said to Beever, “I think we’ve got enough here to sew them up for fraud.”
PUTTING THE DIARY ASIDE, HE BEGAN WADING THROUGH the stack of letters they had found in a suitcase in their flat. When he began reading them, his eyes really popped. Spellbound, he pored over Elizabeth’s and Jens’s “Christmas letters,” reading with growing fascination their dialogue about possible ways of “getting rid” of Elizabeth’s parents.
“You know what, Kenny?” Wright said, turning to his colleague. “I think they’ve murdered them. I think they’ve done them in. Look,” he said excitedly, shoving Elizabeth’s “Colorado letter” in front of him, “read this.”
Beever squinted at the penmanship. Wright had been at the letters for four days and he was getting good at deciphering
Elizabeth’s scrawl. It took several minutes for Beever to interpret the scribbling, but then he, too, got excited. “Hey,” he said to Wright, “listen to this.” Aloud, he read the passage in which Elizabeth said they could be rich if only her parents were dead. Then he enunciated the tag line in which she claimed her parents could not entirely disinherit her.
Wright grinned. “I know,” he said. “I know. Isn’t that great stuff?”
Beever enthusiastically agreed that it was. But then he threw a bucket of cold water on his partner’s ebullience.
“We don’t know for sure
who
was murdered,” he reminded Wright. “Not even for certain that they were murdered. We don’t know
when
, and we don’t know
where.
”
“We could always ask them.”
“No,” Beever shot back, “that might be the worst thing we could do. We need to get as many details as we can before we let them know that we’re onto ’em. Otherwise they’ll clam up so tight we’ll never get anything.”
“You’re right,” Wright agreed. “You have any suggestions on where to start?”
“Well, we can begin with the assumption that the murdered party or parties are her parents, so they probably will be named Haysom. We know it happened sometime after early March 1985 because they were still writing about it at that stage. We can assume it happened in a place called Bedford, which is probably in the United States or Canada, more likely the United States. And there appear to be a couple of policemen involved named—what was that?—Reid and Gardner.”
“Well,” Wright sighed, “it’s not like we didn’t have anything at all to go on.”
IT WAS FRIDAY, MAY 30, ALMOST LUNCHTIME. RICKY Gardner was plodding through a pile of paperwork, trying his best to concentrate, when the phone buzzed. He jumped as though he had been poked with a cattle prod. Before it could ring again, the investigator snaked out his left hand and lifted it off the cradle.
“Ricky Gardner.”
“Ricky,” said the department operator, “there’s some guy on here with a funny accent who says he wants to talk to you.”
Just what I need, Gardner thought, stabbing at the blinking button.
“Is this Detective Gardner?” asked a voice in an accent so thick it had to be fake.
“Yeah,” Gardner answered unenthusiastically.
“This is Detective Constable Terry Wright in Richmond, England.”
“Sure it is,” Gardner drawled. To himself he mumbled, I’ve been to Richmond, and it sure as hell ain’t in England.
“I beg your pardon,” the voice said.
“C’mon, Chuck, I’m busy,” Gardner said, thinking this was a hell of a joke for his ex-partner to be pulling. Now that Chuck Reid was no longer with the sheriff’s department, he could see the more humorous side of life, at least more humorous as he defined it from a civilian’s point of view.
“Are you the Mr. Gardner who’s looking for a Jens Soering and an Elizabeth Haysom?” the voice persisted.
“Who is this?” Gardner asked sharply. “Is that you, Chuck?”
“This is Detective Constable Wright in England,” Wright said patiently, “and I have two questions for you.”
“Okay,” Gardner mumbled. “I’ll humor you. Shoot.”
“Are Elizabeth Haysom’s parents dead?”
Gardner rolled his eyes. “They sure are.”
“Were they murdered?”
Gardner pulled the receiver from his ear and stared at it. Listen to this guy, he said to himself. He’s really wound up today. “How long does this game go on?”
“This isn’t a game,” the voice announced. “I’m a detective in England, and I think we have your murderers incarcerated.”
Suddenly, it clicked. The police chief in Charlottesville had contacted Sheriff Wells two days before and said he had heard that Jens and Elizabeth had been arrested in London for shoplifting. Wells had gone immediately to Interpol, who told him to sit tight for a few days while the bureaucracy did its work. Wells felt no sense of urgency because they had no more evidence then than they did when Elizabeth and Jens fled—they still had nothing to tie them directly to the killings. But how did this guy in England know about
murder?
“What makes you think there were murdered?” Gardner asked carefully.
“Because of the letters,” Wright answered.
Gardner was dumbfounded. “Letters?” he stammered. “What letters?”
“Their letters to each other,” Wright said. “The ones we found in their flat.”
Gardner’s heart began to pound as if he’d just run up four flights of stairs.
“Where did you say you were at?” he asked excitedly, jumping to his feet.
“I’m in Richmond, just outside London. I think you should get over here right away.”
Sure, thought Gardner. I’m on my way. Give me directions. “Look,” he said, trying to keep calm, “I can’t just drop everything and come to England. I have to talk to my boss.”
“That sounds reasonable,” Wright replied.
“What’s your number there?” he asked, reaching for a pencil. “Okay,” he said, writing hurriedly. “I’ve got it. What time is it over there?”
Wright told him it was almost five in the afternoon.
“Don’t leave,” Gardner yelled excitedly. “Don’t go away. I’ll call you right back. Don’t leave that phone. Okay? Don’t leave.”
Hanging up, he punched the number for Commonwealth Attorney Jim Updike.
“Jim,” he screamed, “this is Ricky. What are you doing?”
“I’m going through a brief,” Updike answered, mildly perturbed at the interruption.
“Throw it on the floor,” Gardner said. “I’m coming right over and you aren’t going to
believe
what I have to tell you.”
Three minutes later, an out-of-breath Gardner burst into Updike’s office, slamming the door so hard the glass threatened to collapse.
“They’ve got Elizabeth and Jens,” he shouted. “They’ve tied ’em to the murders. They want us to come over.”
“Slow down,” Updike said. “Take it easy. Who has Elizabeth and Jens? What about murder?”
“The police in England.”
“Where in England?”
“Some place called Richmond. They have a Richmond, too. I think it’s near London. They want us to come right over. They’ve connected them with the murders. They have letters they say implicate them in the killings. God, I can’t believe it. Not after all these months.”
Updike’s blond eyebrows went up an inch and a half.
“What kind of letters?”
“I don’t know what kind of letters. He just said ‘letters.’ But they know about murder so the letters must say something about that.”
Updike felt the blood rushing to his face. “Are you serious?”
“Dead serious.”
The lawyer leaned back in his chair and put his hands
behind his head. For longer than Gardner could hold his breath, Updike sat there, staring off into space. From past experience Gardner knew it was better not to disturb him when he was thinking. But then he couldn’t take the silence any longer.
“Look,” he said, thrusting his note at Updike. “Here’s the number. They’re waiting for a call back. They want us to come right over.”
Updike reached for the phone, lifted the receiver, then put it back. “Let’s call from your office,” Updike said, jerking to his feet. “That way if they have any questions, your files will be right there.”
“Good idea,” Gardner said.
Both of them ran for the door.
WHILE UPDIKE TALKED TO WRIGHT, PULLING OUT AS many details as he could, Gardner paced nervously around the tiny investigator’s office. It wasn’t easy, pacing, considering the room had almost filled with nosy detectives.
“Uh huh,” Updike said. “Okay. Is that right? Uh huh. No kidding?”
Gardner thought he was going to pop.
Finally Updike hung up. “Old man,” he said, looking Gardner in the eye, “are you ready to go to England?”
“You mean it?” Gardner asked. “You think they’ve really got something we can nail them with?”
“Sounds like it,” Updike answered. “I can’t wait to see those letters.”
“When are we gonna see ’em?”
“That’s one of the problems. They want you to come over as soon as possible.”
“Me?” Gardner said. “I’ve never been out of the country. I’m not going over there by myself. You come with me.”
“Whoa,” Updike urged. “First off, I don’t know if I can. I have to check my schedule. Then there’s the money. I don’t have any funds in my budget for a trip to England.”
“Money hell,” Gardner roared. “We can’t let a few bucks hold us back now.”
“Maybe I can ask the Board of Supervisors to hold a special meeting to see if we can dig up some funds …”
“Maybe the sheriff can pay for it.”
“The sheriff’s out of town,” one of the detectives reminded Gardner, “at the national convention in Las Vegas.”
“Damn, that’s right. Where’s Ronnie Laughlin?”
“He’s off today.”
“Well, let’s find him. Time is really important here.”
A deputy found the chief deputy working in a pasture on his farm, explained the situation to him, and asked him if he had any suggestions. “Tell ’em hell, yeah, they can go,” Laughlin said, scraping the remains of a cow patty off his boot. “We’ll find the money somewhere.”
The decision sent Updike and Gardner into a whirl. Since neither had ever been abroad, neither had passports. That was the top priority. Calling a local photographer and swearing him to secrecy, they arranged to have their pictures taken. Swearing the clerk of court to secrecy, they began a search for the documentation they would need to clear the hurdles at the passport office. Secrecy was vital, Gardner and Updike agreed, because they didn’t want the news media getting wind of the project. They figured if they could show up in London unannounced and confront Jens and Elizabeth, the shock of seeing Updike and Gardner there might help to loosen their tongues. It was a good plan, but it never got a chance to be put into operation.
ALMOST IMMEDIATELY THEY RAN INTO A PROBLEM. Gardner sped home and returned immediately with his birth certificate. Updike raced to his safety deposit box and came back with what he thought was his birth certificate. In fact, it was a registration of birth, a notification from the hospital to his parents that Mrs. Updike had delivered a child. It was not official; it wouldn’t satisfy the passport office.
Frustrated, Updike called the local congressman and asked for his help in snipping some of the red tape. He would help every way he could, he promised, but first Updike had to be able to prove he was an American. Updike
scraped up every document he could find: his marriage license, affidavits from his parents, copies of his oaths of office, school diplomas … Finally he had it all together. “This is going to have to do it,” he told Gardner. “Keep your fingers crossed.”
They left Bedford on Sunday, June 1, and spent the night in Washington so they could be at the door when the passport office opened Monday morning. Laughlin had made them reservations on a flight leaving from Dulles late that afternoon. They were cutting it close.
While they waited for their documents, they smoked one small cigar after another, enough, they joked, to substantially raise the city’s pollution level. And they laughed nervously about the prospect of going to London.
“We can make a movie out of this,” Updike quipped.
“How’s that?”
“Call it ‘Goober and Gomer go to England.’”
“I’ll be Goober.”
“And I can jump off the plane, look around and say, ‘Gaaaawwwdd Daaaaammnnn.”
“But first,” Gardner reminded him soberly, “we need to get the passports.”
Much to their relief, the documents were ready shortly after noon. Since they still had a few hours to kill until their flight, Updike did some last-minute shopping.
“You know what I’ve always heard about London?”
“What’s that?”
“I’ve heard it rains all the time. I’d better get an umbrella.” He bought a travel iron, too. And a hair drier. And then he was ready.
BUCKLED SECURELY INTO HIS SEAT IN THE SMOKING SECTION of the British Airways jumbo jet, Updike reached for his usual cigar, then remembered cigar smoking was prohibited on airplanes.
“You know,” he confessed to Gardner, “until you got that phone call, I was really beginning to believe we’d never see ’em again. Did you feel that too?”
Gardner thought about it. “No,” he said slowly. “I guess I just always figured they’d stub their toes somehow. I just kept telling myself that someday this case was going to be solved, but it wouldn’t happen until the good Lord was ready. It was going to be at his leisure.”
Updike nodded. “I wish I’d had your faith. Right now I have to believe that this is going to result in some type of conclusion.”
“Tell me again,” Gardner said. “How are we going to handle this?”
“I’m not going to question them. I can’t. I’m just there as your legal adviser. We need to take a look at those letters and work out a plan of attack.”
“Sounds good to me. Right now I’m going to get some sleep.”
“Before you doze off,” Updike said, “let me bum a cigarette.”
Gardner handed over his pack, then slumped in his seat. In a matter of minutes, he was snoring softly. But Updike sat wide-eyed, lighting one cigarette from the end of another. While
Young Sherlock Holmes
flickered on the screen, Updike ran over in his mind yet again the legal steps he thought would be necessary to bring Elizabeth and Jens back to Virginia for trial. As it turned out, he thoroughly underestimated the machinations of the extradition process, especially when one side started playing power politics.