Who's That Girl

by T S Hunter

  “More importantly, who would want to kill Danny?” Patty asked. “He’s one of the most popular guys we know. Who’s going to tell his poor wife?”

  Skinner had sauntered over in their direction in time to hear the last comment.

  “He had a wife?” Skinner asked, incredulously.

  “Jean,” Ron confirmed, shining a glass and putting it on the shelf. “She’s sick enough as it is. This might just kill her.”

  “A word please, Mr Dixon,” Skinner said to Russell. It was more of a command than a request. Russell’s hackles rose immediately.

  “Sure.”

  Russell gave Joe a subtle, warning wink as he got up. Keep an eye on me. Joe knew the background between the two men, and would step in to calm things down if he saw either of them looking tasty.

  Skinner led the way back into the wings, where Danny’s body had now at least been covered with a blanket.

  “Well, you and your friends just can’t seem to keep out of trouble, can you?” Skinner asked. “What exactly was going on here tonight? And you can spare me the seedier details.”

  Russell unclenched his fists. It would be so easy to swing for Skinner right now, but that would only land him in trouble. Skinner may be a hateful man, but he had friends in high places, and would certainly win any pissing contest Russell tried to start. That much had been proved already.

  “Oh, don’t worry. It was nothing to offend your delicate sensibilities,” Russell said. “We’d organised a fundraiser for the Campbell Centre. Dan Carter was our compère for the evening.”

  “And how well did you know him?”

  “Not that well, I’d seen him perform at one of his regular nights in Camden. It was Joe who knew him. Persuaded him to come down and help us out tonight.”

  “You say he was compère. What did that entail exactly?”

  “He did a little opening spiel to get the audience warmed up, and then he was supposed to introduce each of the girls.”

  “Girls?”

  “The acts,” Russell emphasised, rolling his eyes.

  Skinner’s lip curled again.

  “And people pay money to see this kind of thing?”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

  “Good.”

  Skinner bent down and lifted the blanket enough to reveal the stab wound on Danny’s chest.

  “Stabbed, once, through the chest,” Skinner said. “Would have been quick enough.”

  Russell peered at the wound again. It was quite wide, for a stab wound. Perfect size and shape for the stiletto heel Joe had found outside. Whoever had done this would have had to stamp pretty hard on Danny’s chest to inflict the wound. And he’d have already had to be on the ground for it to work. It seemed an odd way to murder someone.

  “Strange shape, isn’t it?” Russell said.

  “What’s that?”

  “The stab wound. It’s an odd shape. More circular than you’d expect from a knife blade.”

  Russell was testing him, as he always had when they’d worked together. Not only was Skinner a vile person, he was also a lazy detective.

  “Hmm,” Skinner looked again, without much interest. “Blade probably twisted as he went down. Seen it before.”

  Russell doubted he had. He stood up, his feet crunching on a shard of broken glass from Danny’s spilled drink.

  “Perhaps,” he muttered. “Or perhaps he was stabbed with something else altogether—not a blade at all.”

  “I don’t recall asking for your contribution,” Skinner snapped.

  Fine. He knew he should mention the shoe Joe had found, and the drag act he’d seen running from the scene, but the look on Skinner’s face stopped him. Even if that mysterious drag queen had killed Danny, Russell didn’t want Skinner to be the one arresting or charging him—not with his reputation for violent homophobia. Russell decided to keep quiet for now.

  Russell studied Danny’s body again. What happened to you, Dan? Whatever it was it had obviously been quick and silent. Patty had started performing as Danny left the stage. The applause had died down, and she’d been singing a relatively quiet little number. If Danny had screamed when he'd been stabbed, everyone would have all heard him. So he must either have been silenced, or he was already unconscious when the fatal blow was struck.

  “And where were you then, Mr Dixon? When all this was happening?”

  There was something so disingenuous about the way Skinner used the “Mister” these days, now that he was no longer forced to respect Russell’s position in the chain of authority.

  “Hmm? Oh, I was out there with the rest of the audience,” Russell pointed to the tables. “Watching the performance.”

  “And can you describe what happened, exactly, in the moments leading up to the discovery of the body.”

  “Danny had been out on the stage to introduce the next act, the lights went down as she came on, so it was just Patty in the spotlight. The audience clapped and she started singing.”

  Russell was making sure he referred to all of the performers in the feminine, knowing it would jar on Skinner’s nerves every time.

  “She’d barely got past the first chorus when there was a scream from backstage, and I ran through to find another of the performers standing over Danny’s body. I moved her aside, checked for a pulse, found there to be none and had someone call the police.”

  “I see,” Skinner said, casting his eye back to the small group gathered at the bar. “Are you able to identify that person for me?”

  “What’s that?”

  “The person you saw crouching over the body when you got backstage. He is still here, I presume? Could you point him out?”

  Skinner’s turn to stress the pronoun. It was a cheap retort, but not unexpected. Russell signalled over to Joe, who was comforting the performer in question, Maybelle Leen.

  Joe spoke quietly to the young man, and Russell saw him glance at Skinner and flinch—none of them liked talking to the police.

  Joe followed the guy over, the blue stiletto still dangling from his hand. Russell sidled in front of him, blocking it from Skinner’s sight.

  “Detective Skinner,” Joe said. “This is Matthew Dean. He was the one who found Dan.”

  Matthew said nothing, looking at the ground. He still had traces of mascara smeared under his eyes, and the thick line of foundation made it clear where his wig had been. Russell wished he would just look up and meet Skinner’s eye, brave it out.

  “Right,” Skinner said, his usual, charmless self. “Maybe you can tell me what happened.”

  Matthew frowned.

  “I don’t know,” he said, nervously. “I finished my set, left the stage. Danny went on as I came off, to introduce Patty Cakes. I wished her luck and went to the loo. When I came out, I thought I’d sneak a look at Patty’s act from the wings…”

  He was babbling. Nervous. Skinner pursed his lips sourly.

  “Just stick to what happened to him, if you will,” Skinner said, pointing to the covered body on the floor.

  “Right, sorry,” Matthew said. “Right. So I came out of the loo, walked back up the corridor and when I got to the wings, I saw Danny’s feet sticking out of the shadows. I thought he was messing around, but then I came over and he was dead.”

  “And you saw no one else?” Skinner asked.

  “Back here? No. It was just me.”

  Russell could see where Skinner was leading him, and Matthew really wasn’t doing himself any favours.

  “So you’re telling me,” Skinner said, the suspicion heavy in his tone, “that Mr Carter here introduced the previous act to the stage, retired to the wings, and mere moments later you turned up and he was already dead. And yet you saw nothing and no one?”

  “Yes,” said Matthew, for the first time not babbling.

  “And you expect me to believe that you had nothing to do with his death? Despite his blood being on your hands, and you being the only one back here, by your own admission.”

  �
��I...” Matthew looked helplessly from Joe to Russell.

  “If that’s what the lad says happened,” Russell began.

  “When I want your opinion, Mr Dixon, I will ask for it,” Skinner snapped. “Until then, keep your nose out.”

  Russell knew better than to push it. Skinner was just itching for a reason to come down on him.

  “So, if your version of events is true,” Skinner said to Matthew. “And you were the only one back here, then I have no choice but to arrest you on suspicion of the murder of Daniel Carter.”

  Matthew, Joe and Russell all began protesting at the same time, but Skinner heard none of it. He was too busy rushing through Matthew’s rights and cuffing his hands behind his back.

  “You can’t do this,” Joe protested. “Matthew didn’t do anything.”

  “He can prove that to me down at the station then, can’t he?” Skinner replied, caustically.

  “Don’t be so stupid, man,” Russell stepped in, trying to stop Skinner from leading Matthew out. “There’s no way he could have done this.”

  “Get out of the way, or I’ll arrest you too. Do not test me.”

  Russell stepped aside. He’d be no help to Matthew in the cell beside him, and he didn’t doubt Skinner’s conviction.

  As Matthew was led away, he looked back beseechingly at Russell.

  “Help me,” he mouthed, wide-eyed.

  “It’s okay,” Russell called to Matthew, as Skinner shoved him towards the door. “We’ll sort this out.”

  As the door to the pub swung shut again, the bar was silent for a second before erupting into a chorus of anger and disbelief.

  “Shouldn’t we tell him about this?” Joe said, holding up the shoe again. “And the woman I saw?”

  “It won’t stop him right now,” said Russell. “Skinner’s on a mission to get this wrapped up quickly, he’ll just find a way to use them to convict Matthew.”

  “We’ve got to do something,” Joe said to Russell. “Matthew didn’t do this. We both know that.”

  “I know,” Russell said, closing his eyes in frustration. “But if they’re wasting time with him, it will buy us some time to figure out who did.”

  2

  Russell had managed to get hold of one of his less aggressive former colleagues—also working on the case—who had told him, reluctantly, where Danny’s wife, Jean, was being looked after. He’d also warned Russell not to get involved. Apparently Skinner had made it clear he was still gunning for his former boss.

  As Ron, the barman, had suggested, Jean’s cancer was in its final stages and she was being cared for in a private hospice near Camden.

  Ron and Danny had been close friends when they were younger, though Ron had told them he hadn’t seen Danny much in the intervening years.

  Still, he said he felt bad that he hadn’t even been to visit Jean since her cancer diagnosis, and he’d insisted on coming down with Joe and Russell to smooth the way for any questions they may have, and figure out if she was even up to talking to strangers.

  The hospice was an institutional building with very few frills. It reminded Joe of the place his grandmother had been in, though she had outwitted all of them and needed discharging again after she staged a miraculous fight back to her own cancer.

  In the end she’d lived another year and died at home. “Vitriol. That’s what kept her alive so long,” Joe’s father had claimed of his mother-in-law.

  The police had already been in earlier to deliver Jean the bad news of her husband’s murder, and the nurses were worried more visitors might be too much for her to take. Ron had agreed, solemnly, but had played up their friendship and her dwindling time, and they’d finally let all three of them in, on the condition that they didn’t distress Jean any further.

  Joe sat on the plastic chair in the corridor, legs twitching as Russell paced the tiled floor. Ron had been in with Jean for a good ten minutes already, and Russell was terrible at waiting.

  “Just sit down,” Joe chided. “He’ll be out in a minute.”

  Russell sighed and took the seat beside Joe’s, leaping up again the second the door to Jean’s room opened and Ron stuck his head out, his eyes looking bloodshot.

  “She’s up to seeing you, boys,” he said. “But take it easy, alright?”

  They agreed, filing into the room and standing awkwardly at the end of the bed.

  “I would shake your hand,” Jean said, her voice cracked and tired. “But they’ve got me wired up to all this gubbins. I can barely move for setting something off.”

  “Thanks for seeing us, Mrs Carter,” Joe said.

  She looked so small. Thin and frail, propped up on pillows and supported by wires, drips, and machines. Her skin was almost translucent, her hair gone, and the light blue bandana she wore had slipped slightly to one side.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” Russell said.

  “It’s just awful, isn’t it,” Jean replied, stoically. “Although, I suppose it stops me worrying about what he’ll do after I’m gone.”

  Ron shuddered.

  “I’m going to get us all some tea,” he said, and shuffled out of the room.

  Joe didn’t blame him. The smell in here was antiseptic, chemical, deathly. He looked across at Russell, who was staring at his hands. He seemed strangely distracted by seeing her so reduced. Joe decided to take the lead.

  “We were both with Danny on the night he died,” he said, stepping forward. “He seemed happy. You know? Pleased to be there. Not worried about anything.”

  “He did love performing,” Jean acknowledged. “And he was ever so fond of all the girls.”

  Jean said it with a fondness of her own, which surprised Joe. Her breath rattled in her chest as she spoke, prompting a huge paroxysm of coughing. She spat into an old, yellowing handkerchief and smiled at Joe—a surprisingly radiant smile, given her situation.

  “Sorry,” she said. “Disgusting isn’t it? I’d be better off coughing the whole bloody lung up. At least it’d be out then.”

  “Was anything going on, Jean?” Joe said. “Only, I spent a fair bit of time with Danny in the last few months. And I know it was just in clubs and we didn’t really talk properly, but I never got the sense he was in any kind of trouble or that he had any enemies.”

  He knew he was rushing, but he didn’t know how much time the nurses would let them have with her, and he wanted to get any information he could. Russell put a hand on his arm.

  “As far as we knew, Jean, he was well liked by everyone. I think that’s the thing,” Russell said. “We just can’t imagine anyone wanting to kill Danny.”

  “I know,” she said. “But don’t kid yourselves. Everyone’s got someone who’d be happy to see them six foot under, ain’t they? We’ve all got our skeletons.”

  She was so cockney, it was almost stereotypical. But she was right. Joe hadn’t thought his friend Chris had any enemies at all until they’d started digging into his life. We’ve all got our skeletons. But how many would go as far as murder? And in such a public place, too.

  Joe was reminded of the dark-haired drag act he saw running away—the Cinderella with the broken shoe.

  “Had he fallen out with any of the acts, do you know?”

  “Danny? Nah. He loved them girls. He’d never hurt them. And they’d never hurt him.”

  “I know,” Joe said. “That’s what I told the police.”

  “Look, let the boys in blue deal with it, lads,” Jean said wearily. “It’ll no doubt end up just a case of him being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He always did have rotten luck, my Dan.”

  “Is there anything we can do for you, Jean? Anyone we can call?”

  She collapsed in another coughing fit, and a flustered nurse bustled in, slipping a small tray beneath Jean’s chin just in time to catch the phlegm that came up.

  “I think that’ll do for today, gentlemen,” she said sternly. There would be no more questions for Jean.

  “Wait,” Jean said, her breath rat
tling. “Pass my bag a minute, will you?”

  Joe lifted the small, burgundy handbag from the bedside cabinet and passed it to her. She fished around inside as the nurse fussed with her pillows. Finally, she pulled out a little plastic covered address book and opened it up. She held the page out for Joe to see.

  “Could you call this number? Ask for Violet.”

  Joe jotted the number down on a piece of scrap paper.

  “She’s my sister,” Jean said. “Tell her I’m really sorry, but I do need to see her again, after all.”

  “Of course,” Joe said, patting her hand and tucking the slip of paper into his pocket.

  He thanked her for seeing them as the nurse ushered them out of the room.

  In the corridor, they found Ron edging his way through a set of double doors at the far end, three polystyrene cups of tea in his hands.

  “Alright lads,” he said. “I got us some tea. What’d she say then?”

  “Exactly what we thought. That Danny didn’t have any real enemies and she couldn’t think who would want to hurt him,” said Joe.

  “You were in there a while to start with, Ron, what were you two talking about?”

  Ron looked affronted.

  “This and that,” he said, obtusely. “Just old times. The truth is, we’ve all drifted apart over the years. I thought it would be a good idea to clear the air. I felt guilty, you know?”

  “That was good of you,” Joe said.

  “Yeah, well...”

  He handed out the teas, looking distracted. Regret and remorse were what inevitably remained after friends had died. Joe knew it only too well.

  They all sipped their teas at the same time, both Joe and Russell burning their lips. Ron didn’t seem to notice the heat.

  “Jean asked me to call her sister,” Joe said.

  “Really?” Ron said, shocked. “Why she’d want you to do that?”

  “Why not?”

  “Hmm?” Ron sipped his tea, distracted and frowning. “Far as I know, no one’s seen Vi for years, least of all Jean.”