Written To Death (Alex Warren Murder Mysteries Book 3)

by Zach Abrams

  Annabelle's face flushed and her hand started to shake, nervously. “I'll tell you everything you want to know, but please trust me, I had nothing whatsoever to do with whatever happened to Sheila Armstrong.” She then paused for a few seconds, to regain her composure before starting her report.

  “I've always enjoyed writing stories, but it's only recently that I've started trying to do anything with them. A couple years ago, I attended a college course on creative writing and it gave me a lot of encouragement. Other students liked my work and told me I ought to do something with it. I then undertook further training and read everything I could get my hands on about self publishing. I found a group on LinkedIn which worked to assist authors in preparing and presenting their work and this gave me lots of support because there were other people like myself. We would exchange ideas and we sometimes helped by proofreading and editing each other's work. I wrote my first novel. It was a romance and I received a lot of help. I was able to encourage lots of other people too. Anyhow, having learned what to do, I managed to have it published as an ebook on Amazon. Sheila Armstrong was a member of the same group, but up until then I'd hardly come across her. I don't understand why she was there because she was already a published author through a big company and didn't need anyone else's help. The first I knew of her was when she offered to read and review my book. At first I was delighted. I thought she was being really kind and that I'd made a useful and important friend. I thought it would be a great boost to have my story reviewed by a known author. It was really naïve of me. When she wrote her review, she savaged my book. She didn't just criticise the writing, she became really personal. It was like being attacked. I felt I'd been violated. This was my own work, something very intimate, and she'd torn it to shreds. It was a horrible thing for anyone to do, but what made it worse was that she was meant to be a 'friend,' a close associate within a mutual help group. Worse still, the book had only been launched two weeks earlier and I'd put in loads of effort and spent a lot of money promoting it. At the time, she posted her review, I only had two previous ones, a five and a four star. But when her review came in as a one star, it destroyed all the good work I'd already done. No-one in their right mind would have considered buying my book after reading her review. All the effort was a write-off.

  “I protested and appealed to her to ask if she would remove or change what she'd written. In response, she posted the same review everywhere. Rather than try to help, she made a deliberate effort to maximise the damage. That was when I really reacted. I wrote to everyone else in the group to complain and I asked for her to be expelled. They showed sympathy, but I'm sorry to say they didn't really do anything to help. I think they were all afraid of Sheila and didn't want to put their heads above the parapet. They were afraid if they made themselves noticeable then she might do the same to them as she did to me. I wrote to Sheila herself and told her what a bitch she was and probably said things like I'd like to see her dead, but I didn't mean it, not literally.”

  “Have you given up writing because of her?” Steve asked.

  “No, quite the reverse actually. After what happened sunk in, I realised my book would never be a success as it was. There were a couple of small errors in it which Sheila highlighted in her review amongst her more general hateful remarks, but aside from that, the title and cover were both quite poor. I corrected the mistakes and I gave it a new title and a new cover and then re-launched. I abandoned everything I'd done to market it before and I used a different pseudonym, created a whole new identity, setting up new Facebook and Twitter accounts and this time it did really well. It actually won a couple of small competitions and has been selling internationally. I've since written a sequel and I'm part way through a third in the series. It's not made me a fortune but the royalties have helped to pay for this holiday.”

  “But we managed to trace you through your social network presence as Honey?” Steve enquired.

  “Well, yes, I kept the accounts going to maintain contact with some of the better friends I'd made, but I never let anything link to the new edition of my book.”

  “And you don't bear any grudges?” Phil asked.

  “No, what would be the point? It's really strange, but I suppose in some perverse way I owe my success to Sheila Armstrong. If she hadn't destroyed the first version of my book, then I'd never have had the incentive to change it.”

  “Thank you, you've been most helpful,” Phil commented. “Now you said you had some documentary evidence to show your travel arrangements and where you've been?”

  “No problem, please wait here and I'll go and get them.”

  Once Annabelle was out of sight and earshot, Steve shook his head. “What did you make of that?”

  “Not at all what I expected, but nevertheless, I'm sure she had nothing to do with it and we're wasting our time. Irrespective, we need to go through the motions and make sure all the 'I's' are dotted and 'T's' crossed. We need to show the boss we've handled it completely and professionally, particularly after what was said about the talk we had with Aaron this afternoon.”

  “If what she's told us is true, then it sounds like our victim has been a true, Class A bitch. I can't get my head round why she'd be so cruel. There can't have been anything in it for her. After all, Honey D'Lite could never have been considered a competitor. So why do it?” Steve considered.

  “Although Annabelle may have an alibi, it raises the question how many more people might Sheila have really pissed off, and which of them was angry enough and motivated enough to do something about it,” Phil speculated.

  “Yeah, if how she treated Honey is any indication of her character, then it looks as if she could have been capable of making enemies wherever she went. As always, the most likely person to do something about it is someone who is, or rather was, much closer to her. I think that's confirmed by the method of the murder. It had to be someone who knew her, and her story, well enough to set up the knives.”

  “Fair point,” Steve replied. “Listen, I could really get used to a place like this,” he added casting an appreciative eye over the well-stocked bar and the opulent surroundings.

  Within a few minutes, Annabelle returned clutching a handful of papers. She sat and laid them out on the table between them and explained the contents, a printed itinerary prepared by their travel agent together with flight confirmations and hotel bills from their destinations. She then produced a digital camera. “My holiday snaps will let you see where I've been and in what order. Is that any help for you?” she asked.

  Phil was mortified at the thought of having to work his way through her photos. “No, what you've given us with these papers is quite enough,” he said and took out his notebook to list the significant details of where she had been and was going and her contact information. Having quickly extracted all the information he needed, he explained to Annabelle what had happened, referring only to information already in the public domain and suggesting she may wish to keep her eyes on news reports in the following days.

  Chapter 11

  Alex and Sandra both arrived back at his flat in the not-so-early evening having exhausted themselves and their enquiries for the time being.

  They discussed their respective cases while they gorged themselves on the tasty selection purchased by Alex earlier in the day. He opened a bottle of Eisberg Cabernet Sauvignon and poured them each a large glass of the ruby-coloured liquid.

  “Not for me, Alex, I mustn't drink alcohol as I'm planning to be very careful for the sake of our baby.”

  “It's okay, you're allowed this one. It's alcohol free, look at the label. I checked the website too and they claim it's perfectly safe to have during pregnancy. All the same taste as wine but without the risk, from what they say.”

  Sandra took a sip. “Hmmm, not bad, but there's no reason why you can't have the real thing.”

  “I'm fine with this for just now.” Alex stood up then stretched wearily before taking Sandra's hand and guiding her across to the sofa
. He switched on the television and suggested they should have a lazy evening, clearing their heads of work and other responsibilities.

  “Sounds good to me, but there's one thing I wanted to tell you first. I'm taking a couple of hours out tomorrow morning. I've made an appointment to see my G.P. at eleven, to get a check-up and confirm what we believe we already know. Then I've arranged to see Mum and Dad for a brunch so I can give them our news.”

  “Would you like me to come with you? I can juggle my appointments so I can be available. It's no trouble.”

  “No, it's better if I do this myself, this time at least. It could be safer too with my parents. Let's allow them to get used to the idea a bit before we expose you to them.”

  “Don't worry, Sandra. I can handle it. They'll need to get used to me at some time anyway.”

  “I've thought it through and it'll be better as I've planned. I need to see the doctor alone anyway. However, if he confirms everything's okay, then next we should tell your boys. It's best done in private. What do you say we ask them to come over for dinner tomorrow after school. As for Helen, I'll leave you to give her the news yourself if you don't mind. It's as well she's told sooner rather than later because she's bound to find out after we speak to the boys.”

  Alex looked pensive for a moment. “Yes, you're right, of course, that's the best way. I hadn't given a lot of thought to Helen or how she'd take it.” Seeing Sandra's concerned look, he added, “It doesn't bother me what she thinks; she's history as far as I'm concerned, but I'd rather keep her sweet so she doesn't make things more difficult for me with the boys.”

  * * *

  Alex's morning was uncharacteristically unproductive. Anticipating his attention would be distracted, he left Sanjay and the team to proceed with the active enquiries while he sat in his office with the door firmly closed, thumbing through reports and statements looking for leads and anomalies. Any interruptions were met by barked orders for him to be left in peace unless there was something desperately urgent. Sitting alone, he deliberated over Sandra's appointments while running all possible scenarios through his mind. His emotions alternated between elation and despair. His jumpiness was exacerbated by caffeine from the multiple cups of coffee he consumed to help pass the time. He couldn't remember when he'd last felt so nervous.

  Every few minutes, he lifted his mobile, wanting to hear Sandra's voice and discover what news she had, but then he laid it back down realising he'd have to be patient. He stared at the words on the paper in front of him and realised he'd read the same report four times, yet still had been unable to digest its contents. However much he'd anticipated it, the incoming call didn't help. At 1.30pm, on hearing the familiar ringtone, he physically jumped from his seat. Reaching for the handset, his elbow upset a half full beaker of lukewarm liquid. Fortunately the coffee only dispersed over his blotter.

  “Sandra?” the panic in his voice was palpable.

  “What's wrong? Are you okay?”

  “Of course I'm okay. It's you I'm worried about. What did the doctor say?”

  Sandra had to stop herself from laughing hearing the emotion in Alex's voice, yet she was joyous realising this was an endorsement of how much he cared. “He told me I'm the fittest and healthiest he's seen me in years,” then after a moment's silence she added, “and he confirmed I'm pregnant. Everything's great.”

  “Thank God!”

  “You're not getting religious, are you?” she asked.

  “Not unless you want me to. Did you see your parents?”

  “Oh yes. Mum burst into tears and Dad was caught in a quandary not certain whether to be happy about becoming a grandfather again or wondering if he needed to find a shotgun to come after you.”

  Completely missing the intended humour, Alex continued, “Will he be okay about it? Should I speak to him?”

  “Don't concern yourself, he'll be fine. He just has to come to terms with the fact that his baby girl is no longer a virgin. Mum's already started talking about knitting and buying a hat. I had to tell her, and Dad, that there's no wedding on the horizon. I made it clear that it's me and not you that needs to be convinced, so they won't be nagging you. We can all get together soon, once work quietens down a bit.”

  “Well the next step is seeing Craig and Andrew. I've checked and neither of them has afterschool activities tonight. I'll call Helen and tell her I want to see them and I'll text them as well. I won't give anything away, but I'll say we want to see them now as we're back from the holiday and we've brought them some gifts, which is true enough. I can set it up for six tonight if that's okay for you. I'll arrange to pick them up at quarter to. We can order pizzas -and that way, the food's taken care of.”

  “Yes, good idea.”

  After making the arrangements, Alex was keen to catch up on his work. Now feeling quite elated, he swung open his door, and seeing Mary standing at the far end of the office, he called her over.

  “Take this,” he said handing her a twenty-pound-note. “Nip round to the bakers and buy a selection of cream cakes for the squad.”

  A broad grin covered her face. “Yes, Sir. What are you celebrating? Don't tell me it's your birthday and you've kept it a secret.”

  “Nothing like that, not today, anyway. I only want to say thanks to you all for the hard work you're doing and the extra hours you've put in,” Alex claimed lamely, belatedly realising he didn't want to give any hint of his real news.

  Mary took the cash and set off, wondering as she went what might be behind Alex's sudden mood swing. She and the others could talk about it later and speculate on the cause, maybe even have a gamble and run a book to see who guessed closest to the truth, assuming they ever got to the bottom of the mystery.

  Alex went out to the main office for an update on developments.

  “There are a number of bits and pieces,” Sanjay replied, lifting some folders and handing them to Alex to peruse. “You've already seen Phil and Steve's report on their interview with the American writer, but what she's said is reinforced by info we've heard back from the techies. They analysed Sheila's computer and have extracted her correspondence with D'Lite, but they've also traced several other times when she'd done the same or similar to other writers. She seems to have targeted new, self-published authors who'd been working hard to promote their first book and then she's done a hatchet job on them. They've found five others already but reckon there could be a lot more.”

  “I was going to ask the question, 'What kind of sick, perverse mind does something as cruel?' but there's no point. It would be rhetorical as we already know. In this bloody job, we get to meet every kind of sick preserve mind there is.”

  “Yes, Sir, but in this case, we only met the sick perverse mind after she was dead and our job's to find another even more perverse one that made her that way.”

  Alex chuckled and nodded his head without replying.

  “Some other things to update,” Sanjay continued. “We have a report back from the two uniforms who went to break the news to Sheila's mum and step-dad. The couple live in a large, semi-detached bungalow on the outskirts of Ayr. Apparently, he's a keen golfer and a member at Turnberry. From the report, they were really stunned by the news, but it seems they weren't a very close family. They hadn't seen Sheila for more than five years; there was some talk of a major fall out. Sheila had been much closer to her father and he died seven years ago in a boating accident. Her mother remarried within a year and the new man's a lot younger. Funnily enough, he seemed much more upset by the news than the mother was, so read into that anything you like. I don't know, maybe the mother was in shock, but in any event, she didn't appear overly distressed.”

  “Good police-work. It sounds quite a comprehensive report.”

  “Yes, Boss. You've got the file if you want to read the full details. It wasn't too different a story with her sister. We arranged for someone from Melbourne's finest to pass on the news in person. The sister's name is Dorothy Morgan, married with four children. She moved
to Oz nearly twenty years ago, married out there and has never returned, nor has any of the family been out to visit her, even for the wedding. She last spoke to her sister at Christmas. They maintained some contact, but limited. We've done our duty, but no information or leads to go on.”

  “You only seem to be closing doors. Have you not managed to open any?” Alex asked.

  “That depends what you're looking for. Going back to the technical reports we have some more information on the knives. Our people have stripped them down to the bare components and discovered something interesting. Hidden on the metal underneath the hilt there's a registration mark denoting the batch number. The set consisting of the real knife and the fake one which Graeme bought have the same number. It's the fake knife that we recovered from the bin and the real one that was used in the play before the on-stage switch. The same code is also shown as part of the reference number on the invoice Lionel gave us and that's what we would have expected. But what's really interesting is the second genuine knife, the one which ended up as the murder weapon, also had a registration mark.”

  “And what does that tell us?” Alex asked.

  “The number corresponds to a much earlier batch. It means it was part of a set manufactured about six years ago. Whoever planned the murder must have already had or been able to get hold of an old set of knives, and they've known how to match it up with the ones Graeme bought so they could carry out the crime. I'm guessing it's something the murderer already owned, and when they found out about the play, they put their plan together.”

  “I see what you're getting at, Sanjay, but I think you might be going too fast in jumping to conclusions. What you suggest is a feasible explanation but it's not the only one. After hearing about the play, the killer could have found out what props were going to be used and then set out to find copy knives. They may already have known someone who had them or where they could get them. Because they were manufactured several years ago doesn't mean they were sold then, they might have been held in stock by the manufacturer or by a retailer and only sold recently. There's also the possibility that it could have been owned and kept in store by a theatre group or a magic club, or even a magic performer. Then our killer, perhaps already aware of them and where they were, pilfered the weapon. There's even another explanation going back to the possibility that the murder weapon was manufactured as a copy by the killer. If he knew about the registration number, he could have stamped one on to make his copy appear even more authentic.”