by Heide Goody
“What we are doing here is a piece of commissioned work,” said Sam.
“Pornography for plushies, is it? I’m not stupid.”
“It’s part of a risk assessment and will help to inform best practice for my client’s new venture.”
“So, knowingly putting a child at risk, are we?” Dr Hackett said and dragged the boy away.
Sam was debating whether to follow when there was a sudden shout of “Get down!”
The bison, in a bid to escape the sabre-toothed tiger, had climbed up onto the low roof at the south end of the Otterside building. There was a step ladder which the bison had used to get up there, surely very un-bison-like behaviour.
“That’s cheating!” shouted the tiger woman.
A pair of zookeepers took the opportunity to shoot the tiger with their Nerf gun tranquilisers. The tiger, incensed, was having none of it. She wrested a Nerf gun off one of the zookeepers and began firing up at the bison.
“Die, you cheat!”
“Come on,” said a zookeeper. “It’s just theatre.”
Whether this comment was directed at the tiger or the bison, the tiger took exception to it and turned the gun on the zookeepers, shooting them one by one with tranquilisers. There were groans and tuts, then one of them, as the rules dictated, fell to the ground as though sedated. The others took this as their cue and tried to outdo one another in falling with an over-theatrical manner.
“Tigers can’t shoot keepers!” Sam shouted.
The tiger wasn’t done. She ran to the ladder. Further along the roof, the bison jigged among the aircon outlets and skylights, trying to make his escape.
* * *
Marvin Applewhite had of course invited Iris to join him and Polly in the stage area as their new assistant. An older audience liked little more than seeing a little girl doing something cute. They cooed and chuckled as she helped Mr Marvellous with his next trick. Iris had been equipped with a floppy hat and an over-sized wand, and was waving it over a decorator’s table where her teddy had been placed beneath a velvet cloth.
“You’re not going to chop it in half, are you?” Polly whispered aside to Marvin.
“Nothing so gruesome,” Marvin grinned. “The lady has a tender heart, doesn’t she? Now, to make sure I don’t interfere with this trick, I will ask you to handcuff me securely to the table with these handcuffs.”
“What is going on here?”
Erin stood in the doorway, Jack at her side, a furious look on her face.
“Gosh,” said Marvin, almost hiding his own annoyance at yet another interruption. “It’s like Piccadilly Circus in here, isn’t it?”
Erin ignored him. Her attention and her anger were focussed entirely on Polly. At once Polly could see herself as Erin now clearly saw her: a foolish old woman wearing inappropriate clothing and showing off in front of a crowd.
Polly put a hand on Iris’s shoulder. “We were just entertaining her while we waited.”
The lanky police detective tried to speak to Erin. “I found your daughter round the back. Perhaps if we could have a word…”
“Iris. Come here.”
“But we haven’t finished the trick,” said Iris.
“Dr Hackett. We’ll just be a moment,” said Marvin.
“Now,” said Erin.
Marvin pulled a face for the audience. “She’s a busy lady. Just moving house.”
Polly had felt herself drowning, sinking in the hateful gaze of her niece but Marvin’s words jolted her back to the room. Moving?
Iris dragged her heels as she walked over to her mum.
“Well, that’s the end of that trick, then,” said Marvin with just a hint of bitterness.
There was a thump and a crack from above. Suddenly, in a shower of skylight safety glass, the teddy on the table was replaced by not one but two human-sized teddies. The table collapsed instantly under their weight. Handcuffs and wand flew aside. Polly hollered in shock. She was not the only one.
One of the figures, some sort of buffalo creature, groaned loudly as it rolled on the carpet. The big orange cat coughed and grunted. “Ow. That hurt.”
“Magic!” yelled Iris in delight.
“Jesus facking hell!” exclaimed Strawb and started to clap. Half the stunned audience joined in.
48
Later, in the front car park, Sam collected body cameras from actors and tried to comprehend and compartmentalise the day’s events.
An ambulance had been called and the bison and tiger were being checked out by paramedics. A few of the retirement village residents had been alarmed by the sight of two squabbling Ice Age animals crashing through their ceiling but, by pure luck, no one had been hurt or suffered a heart attack.
Cesar and his foul-tempered wife had taken their children and were off before Sam could offer her sincerest ‘Please don’t sue us’ apologies. She’d wait for any fallout that might strike DefCon4, but since she could barely get a word of communication out of her employers, Sam doubted Dr Hackett would have much luck making a complaint.
She made notes on the key takeaways from the day, adding three items to her list.
* * *
Somehow prevent competitive element between animals
Clarify rules on climbing (even if realistic)
Animals not allowed to use weapons
* * *
“Marvellous show. Marvellous show,” said Rich. Peninsula was by his side, empty picnic hamper on his arm.
“I think we might need to do another one,” said Sam.
“Of course. Without a doubt.” Rich picked at something stuck between his teeth. “I’d pay good money to see all that again.”
“I’d rather we didn’t have that again,” said Camara, strolling over.
Rich frowned at the taller man.
“DC Camara,” said the policeman. “You’re Rich Raynor.”
“One and only,” said Rich proudly.
Camara turned to take in the scene of excitable residents, equally excitable actors, partially unclothed ice beasts and perplexed staff. “I’d struggle to explain what happened here,” he said. “No one’s reported a crime being committed, but I’m sure if I thought about it long enough I’ll find one.” He smiled brightly at Rich. “I’d probably start by querying whether you had permission to land your helicopter on the beach.”
“I have nothing but the highest respect for the law,” Rich assured him, drawing himself up to his full height, which was nowhere near enough to even approach Camara’s.
“Glad to hear it. Now, I wonder if I can steal Ms Applewhite here…”
He gestured for Sam to come with him. She was perfectly happy to go. Anything that took her away from this car crash of an afternoon was preferable.
“I’m not in trouble, am I?” she asked Camara.
“No. I just wonder if now might be the time for you to point out the woman who was one of Greg’s clients.”
“No closer to working out who killed him?”
“The wheels of justice turn slowly…” he said.
“But they turn,” said Sam and pointed. “There. Janine Slater. In the pink hoodie.”
Janine was with some of the other residents, consoling the woman, Polly, who was quite overcome with emotion. Sam had no idea if those emotions had anything to do with the fact Polly was squeezed into one of Linda’s old magician’s assistant outfits.
“And you said you saw her sneaking out of the premises one night,” said Camara thoughtfully.
“Not the night Greg died,” said Sam, then corrected herself. “Not the day I last saw Greg. I was the last one to see him alive, wasn’t I?”
“He paid a visit to a house he had recently finished working on, maybe an hour after he saw you. The gentlemen there did not have complimentary things to say about him.”
“A hard man to like,” she agreed.
“You have access to the CCTV here?” he said.
“Don’t you?”
“I’d have to ask.”
“But it would be easier to ask me.” She gave him a shrewd look. “Suddenly, I don’t think you came here to look at the Ice Age escape drill.”
“I can multitask.”
She led him inside. At the door they were confronted by a bespectacled woman. Camara stiffened, almost stumbled. The look the woman gave him was unreadable, but it was not a nice one.
“Mrs Duncliffe,” he said, nodded, and slipped past.
“What was that about?” said Sam, intrigued.
Camara shook his head. “Dealt with an incident involving her family some time ago. Nasty business.”
She gestured towards the manager’s office and security cupboard next to it. Chesney, still in his blousy show gear, was haranguing a pair of cleaners. Something about dealing with the mess in the south lounge. Sam ignored him completely.
“Here.” She dropped into the seat in front of the screen and brought up the video. “First, the night of Drumstick’s murder.”
“And Drumstick is a turkey, yes?”
“Yes.”
A few minutes searching relocated the imagery of Janine creeping along the corridor in her burglar gear.
“She’s watched too many cheesy crime dramas,” said Camara.
“Right,” nodded Sam. “Let’s fast forward to the day Greg died. Maybe we’ll see her again.”
There was a practical choice to be made, whether to try to locate Janine and follow her throughout the day, or focus on the CCTV near the exit and try to spot her amongst the flow of people going in and out. The latter was nearly impossible; these were not stay-at-home old people. They were out and about until the evening. Watching Janine’s apartment door was easier.
She didn’t emerge until mid-morning. Sam and Camara followed her to the swimming pool entrance, then back to her rooms. The door remained closed until mid-afternoon, when she went to the café. Half an hour later she returned to her rooms. Sam fast forwarded through the footage, but the door remained closed until long after midnight and into the next day.
“If he died that day, it wasn’t by her hand,” said Camara.
“Unlikely anyway, I suppose.”
There was a presence at the doorway. The bloke in the black trilby, Strawb, popped his head round the doorframe.
“Are you Mr Marvellous’s manager?” he asked.
“Roadie, agent, generally dogsbody and, oh, daughter,” said Sam.
“Right,” Strawb nodded. “He says he’s packed up and ready to go home.”
“Is he now?” said Sam and sighed.
Strawb glanced at the screen of CCTV cameras. “Big Brother spying on us, eh?”
“Just checking everything’s in order, sir,” said Camara, turning the screen off.
49
Without asking for permission, Polly pulled a narrow armchair over and sat at the north lounge table with Margaret, Strawb and Jacob. The south lounge was out of action while glaziers repaired the damaged skylight. She’d been to have a look.
“We were in the middle of a committee meeting,” said Margaret, not unkindly.
Jacob pointed to his book of minutes as evidence of this.
“All hell will break loose if we can’t discuss the Boxing Day sequence dancing evening in secret,” said Strawb.
“Oh, I don’t think it will be as bad as that,” said Jacob, failing to note the sarcasm.
Polly ignored their words. She had come here to speak and had lined up what she wanted to say. “Let’s say you’re not joking. Let’s say you really are asking me to kill that man. What do you want me to do?”
Margaret placed her hands on her lap. “Killing people is against the law.” She paused as though Polly might need time to let that sink in.
“Yes…?” said Polly.
“If you were caught you would probably go to prison for the rest of your life. Naturally, we would claim to have no knowledge of what you were up to.”
Polly thought about this a second. “Okay.”
“This would be something you do alone. Without any practical assistance from us. There would be no physical evidence to implicate anyone but yourself.”
“But I’d want to get away with it,” said Polly.
“And, to that end, we can offer you advice,” said Jacob.
“You have a lot of experience killing people?”
“I wouldn’t say ‘a lot’. What’s ‘a lot’? Personally, I’ve—”
Strawb squeezed Jacob’s shoulder to stop him talking. “We know what works and what doesn’t.”
“We know why murders are sometimes unsuccessful,” said Margaret. “Mostly it boils down to lacking the conviction to go through with it.”
“Let’s pretend – and we’re still pretending, just for now – let’s pretend I think he really deserves to die,” said Polly.
“Squeamishness is your enemy,” said Margaret. “Squeamishness and cowardice.”
“And physical strength,” added Strawb. “If that’s going to be required.”
“Any murder method requiring you to do something and keep on doing it until the person is dead – strangulation for example – has the drawback of you possibly losing your nerve partway through. Or think you’ve finished the job when you haven’t.”
“Short, sharp and irreversible is often the best way,” nodded Strawb.
“So shooting him,” said Polly.
“If you have a gun.”
“Pushing him in front of a speeding train.”
“If only Skegness wasn’t the end of the line and the trains moved at anything other than a crawl.”
“Off a tall building.”
“If you can get off the roof before the police arrive,” said Jacob.
“Or you can go subtle,” said Strawb. “Poison.”
“Like ricin.”
“Or something that isn’t impossible to source. Sleeping tablets will get you fifty percent of the way there.”
“You can get cyanide from apple seeds or cassava,” said Jacob.
“Assuming you can get someone to ingest facking huge quantities of crushed apple seeds.”
“Carbon monoxide poisoning would be effective,” said Polly. “And painless.”
Margaret hmphed lightly. “You would need access to the home, or the car, and know what you were doing. And does the man deserve a painless death?”
“He deserves to drown,” said Polly.
“And there’s your problem with enough physical strength to hold someone under water,” said Strawb.
“You could utilise the ‘brides in the bath’ technique,” said Jacob. “Grab the legs and lift sharply. The shock of water rushing in causes instant loss of consciousness.”
“Which begs the question why Polly is in the man’s bathroom while he’s having a bath,” said Margaret.
Jacob nodded. “You’re right. Most people have showers these days.”
“Not quite the point I was making.” Margaret looked at Polly, and Polly realised she was being studied. Was Margaret looking for a reaction to this conversation? A flicker of fear, doubt or disgust?
“If you were to kill James Huntley,” Margaret said with slow precision, “then you have the distinct advantage of there being no link between you. You have no personal motive. You are not an obvious suspect. But if your murder method requires you to get close to him personally – to slip him that poison, drown him in that bathtub—”
“Or shower,” said Jacob.
“—then that advantage is lost. And if you kill him in public then, in this day and age, you have a strong chance of being caught on security cameras.”
“So,” said Polly, “I have to get to know him intimately but remain a stranger, be part of his life but keep my distance, kill him in private but not be part of his private life.”
“It’s quite a conundrum,” Margaret agreed.
“Yeah, but the thing you’ve got to remember,” said Strawb, “is that you’re an older person now.”
“No one suspects little old ladies?” said Polly.
>
“That as well. But what I meant is this is a chance to do something new, something unique, at a time of life when we don’t get to do things for the first time.” He smiled. “So, however you do it, you’ve got to remember to have a bit of fun. Do it the way you want to. Have no regrets.”
“Murder can be fun?” she said.
“That’s the spirit!”
50
The nights were drawing in fast. Midwinter was approaching. Dark a couple of hours before six, with wintry winds rattling the wooden window frames of Duncastin’. Friday night was clearly a night for snuggling down in front of a fire in the living room, with a cocktail and crappy television. Sam sat with her feet up on the sofa and two pairs of socks on for warmth.
“What do you call this one?” said Marvin.
“Gogglebox,” said Sam.
“I meant the cocktail.”
Sam tried to remember. She believed drunkenness should always be approached with a level of creativity. Only a few select favourites made repeat appearances. “An East India gimlet. Gin, lime, dill and celery bitters.”
“We had celery bitters in?”
“I had to improvise. Blended celery and vodka sieved through a tea strainer.”
Marvin sipped and coughed. “Smooth. Called a gimlet because it’s like having holes gouged in your taste buds.”
“If you don’t want yours…”
Marvin cradled his glass protectively. He nodded at the television. “And just to be certain, this programme is us watching other people watching television programmes that we’re currently not watching?”
“It’s what passes for entertainment these days. The alcohol helps.”
“We had proper telly in my day,” he said.
“Oh, hazy reveries,” said Sam. “Alcohol helps me deal with those, too.”
“Hush, child,” he said, smiling as he said it. “Friday night, we had The Duchess of Duke Street, Dick Emery, The Rag Trade, Mr and Mrs, Starsky and Hutch. Real programmes.”