Murder Most Frequent: three more Inspector Constable mysteries (The Inspector Constable Murder Mysteries Book 5)

by Roger Keevil

  “Never disregard that itch in the back of your brain, sergeant,” advised Constable. “Nine times out of ten it doesn't mean anything, but there's the odd occasion where it just makes all the difference. But no idea of who or whose this baby is?”

  “Not a clue, sir. Nothing written on the back or anything else helpful like that.”

  “Miss Jessica Davenport's, maybe? Hmmm. Okay.” Constable filed the matter away in the back of his mind. “What other treasures did the dressing rooms reveal? Any more itches?”

  “Afraid not, sir,” smiled Singleton in acknowledgement. “So then we moved on to the stage area. And there's so much clutter and rubbish around here that it could take forever to go through everything.”

  “Sadly, we do not have forever.”

  “Ah, well, you might not need it, sir. We've had a couple of things turn up which might interest you.”

  “Which I imagine are these next two?”

  “That's right, sir. Another bit of paper, which they have very kindly neglected to tear up.”

  “And 'they' would be who?”

  “That may be the puzzle, sir.” The next plastic bag contained a sheet of paper, apparently torn from a notebook, which had evidently been screwed up, but which had now been smoothed out for inspection. On it was the signature of Stuart Nelson, repeated eight times.

  “And this was found where?”

  Singleton pointed to the far side of the stage. “Over there in a rubbish skip.”

  “Do you reckon Stuart Nelson was expecting to be inundated by autograph-hunting fans, guv?” suggested Copper facetiously. “Do you suppose he was practising his signature so's he could avoid writer's cramp like mine?”

  “I'm amazed that you have the time to pass witty remarks, given that you are in the middle of making copious and comprehensive notes, Sergeant Copper,” responded Constable. “Or so I assume.”

  “Absolutely, guv,” muttered Copper, burying his nose once more in his notebook.

  “So,” Constable turned back to the forensic officer, “given the absence of fondue sets and cuddly toys, our final object is …?”

  “Rather a dinky pair of electrician's pliers,” said Singleton with a note of triumph in her voice. “I suppose I ought to have linked these with the wiring and so on at the start, sir, but I thought I'd save them as a pièce de résistance.”

  “Electrical resistance, would that be?” quipped Copper. “Sorry, guv – busily making notes as instructed.”

  Singleton continued as if there had been no interruption. “And these attracted our attention not so much for what they were, but because they were found where no such pliers had a right to be found – jammed down the back of that fire extinguisher out on the landing.” She indicated the piece of equipment which could be seen attached to the wall immediately outside the stage pass door.

  “Couldn't have been dropped down there by accident?” queried the inspector.

  “Doesn't appear likely from the position they were in,” said Singleton. “It looked to me as if there had been a definite attempt to conceal them. Which seemed, at the least, suspicious.”

  “It's an obvious link to the way Mr. Nelson died, sir,” observed Copper. “Is it too obvious to carry that on and link it with the company electrics man? After all, he was heard to make a definite threat against the dead man, according to what Mr. Mott told us.”

  “Just because a fact is obvious doesn't make it suspect, Copper,” said Constable. “If criminals didn't do stupid things along the way, we'd have a much harder time of it. But I agree, it's worth raising the point with Mr. Winston. I suppose there's always the possibility, however remote, that he may break down completely under our ruthless questioning and blurt out a confession, but I shan't be holding my breath.” He looked once again enquiringly at Una Singleton. “And that's it so far?”

  “So far, sir. But there are areas we haven't yet covered, and you did say go over the whole place.”

  “Then I won't hold you up from that any longer. Let me know if anything else interesting pops up – I shall be down in the Green Room taking the measure of our band of theatricals. Copper, you're with me – you can introduce me to your friends.” Constable gestured to his colleague to take the lead, and the two left the stage and started down the stairs.

  *

  “Oh, sergeant – you're just in time for a nice cup of tea.” On entering the Green Room, Dave Copper came face to face with Delia Armstrong, two steaming mugs in her hands which she swiftly handed to Matthew Edwards and Jessica Davenport, seated nearest the door. “I've just made a big pot, so there's plenty. And I expect you'd like some too, wouldn't you, Mr. … er …?”

  “This is Detective Inspector Constable, my senior officer, everyone,” explained Copper. “He's in charge of this investigation, and he's got some questions for you all. But yes, Miss Armstrong, a cup of tea would be great. You, sir?”

  “Not just at the moment, sergeant, thank you.” Constable's reply held a note of reserve. He addressed the room. “As Sergeant Copper has said, there are questions which need to be answered. And to confirm what I'm sure you already know, this is definitely a murder investigation. Mr. Nelson has been deliberately killed, and various pieces of information have come to light which need explanation.”

  “We've just had that young man with his interesting little machine down here taking our fingerprints,” twittered Delia, plying the teapot at the table in the rear of the room and handing a mug to Copper alongside her. “So clever – I thought it was all going to be smudgy ink-pads and pressing our thumbs on to pieces of paper, but it was all so quick and easy.”

  “We've all moved on since the days of Conan Doyle, Miss Armstrong,” said Constable with the ghost of a smile. “At least, with technology. Other things, less so.”

  “You'd better ask us whatever you want, inspector.” The man standing nearest the door seemed more prepared to be businesslike. “David Winston, by the way, in case you're wondering,” said the electrician. “I know I haven't got anything to hide. I can't answer for the rest.”

  “Well, no, Mr. Winston,” replied Constable, content to take up the offer. “On the face of it, you don't appear to have anything to hide, since I gather your antipathy to Mr. Nelson was extremely well known. You've made no kind of secret of it. And as far as we're aware, you're the only person who took that antipathy as far as physical action.”

  “Ah. That.”

  “Yes, sir. That.” Constable waited patiently for further reaction.

  “I didn't know anyone had seen that.”

  “Not seen, Mr. Winston – heard. But it amounts to the same thing. We know that you and Mr. Nelson had a violent altercation.”

  “All right – I admit it. So, yes, I gave Stuart a smack when he came up to my lighting box to carry on having a go at me, but that's because he deserved it. Oh, not just me – he treated everybody like dirt, and I'm not too sorry that he's dead ...” He turned to the woman seated close to him. “Sorry, Elizabeth. I know that's not the sort of thing one says, but this is the time for speaking the truth. I'm sure the inspector here agrees.”

  “I do, sir. So you'll also agree that you went on to threaten Mr. Nelson.”

  “What? Oh, you mean that stupid thing about the gun? Oh, for crying out loud, you can't make anything of that. The thing's just a replica – it's plastic. Ask Delia.”

  “Sorry?” The props supervisor looked up from her lap where her hands were cradling her tea. “Oh yes, inspector – it's not real at all. And anyway, Stuart wasn't shot ... was he?”

  “No, that's right,” said David. “That fingerprint guy said something about electrocution because the shower tray was wired up to the mains, or some such.”

  “Sergeant Copper,” said Constable severely, “would you please make a note to remind me to stress to our young colleagues on the SOCO team the virtue of discretion during a murder investigation.”

  “Will do, sir,” muttered Copper. 'Wouldn't like to be in Darren's shoes'
, he thought, having caught the rough edge of his superior's tongue in the past.

  “Oh, I see where this is leading, inspector,” said David, voice heavy with sarcasm. “Electrician has row with actor – actor killed with electricity – so obviously, the electrician is the one who killed him.”

  “Did I say that, sir?”

  “No, you didn't, but the implication's obvious, isn't it? Look, I'm a specialist. I can make electricity do all sorts of clever things. But you don't have to be an expert electrician to wire up a shower tray – anybody with a bit of DIY knowledge could do it. Any idiot can change a plug.”

  “Not everyone would have the equipment to do it,” countered Constable. “And one thing which requires explanation is the fact that a pair of electrician's pliers have been found discarded in an extremely odd location. Would you have any idea why that would be?”

  “So where are these pliers? Show me!” challenged David. “Have they got yellow tape on the handle?”

  Constable thought for a moment. “No, sir,” he said slowly. “I don't believe they do.”

  “Well then,” riposted David. “They can't be mine, because all mine have got yellow tape on them, and what's more, all my tools live on a board up in my room. Go and check to see if anything's missing if you like – feel free!”

  “Um, sir,” intervened Copper hesitantly from the background. “I think he's right, sir. I did notice the board, and there didn't look to be any gaps.”

  “Thank you, sergeant,” responded Constable, the wind slightly taken out of his sails. “But we shall double-check, Mr. Winston,” he added. “And it's entirely possible that your own personal items aren't the only tools in the theatre. So, for the moment, we'll move on. And one of the things we're anxious to establish is the precise sequence of Mr. Nelson's movements during his final hours, and who he had dealings with. Now I have details of most of the people he saw and spoke to, and when, but there is one gap in our knowledge. Mr. Nelson visited one of the other performers' dressing rooms, and had a brief altercation with one of the people inside. I wonder, can anyone shed any light on that matter?”

  “I suppose you mean me.”

  “Do I?” Constable turned to the young man seated close by in the circle of chairs facing him. “I'm guessing, from what my sergeant has told me, that you would be Mr. Edwards?”

  “Yes, I am … Matthew Edwards. And if you're talking about Jessica's dressing room, yes, it was me in there when Stuart came in.” The actor's hand stole unconsciously into that of the young actress seated alongside him. “About six o'clock, as far as I can remember. I'd gone in because I was worried about her – she'd been a mass of nerves all afternoon, and I wanted to see if there was anything I could do to help.”

  “I would have thought that attacks of nerves would be all part and parcel of an actor's existence,” suggested Constable mildly.

  “That's because you haven't spent much time around Stuart Nelson and his damned Victory Theatre Company,” retorted Matthew sharply. “You get used to being nervous in the ordinary way of things, but this wasn't like that, and I know it was all bloody Stuart Nelson's fault. He'd been all over Jessica like a rash ever since we started rehearsals. I would have told him to back off before if I hadn't thought it would cost me my job. But the way he was going on today, that was just too much for anyone to put up with.”

  “So did you decide that you would do something about that?” Constable's voice was quiet and undramatic.

  “Yes, I did.” Matthew caught his breath as he realised the implication of the inspector's words. “I mean … no! No, of course not.” The words tumbled out in a rush. “You mean, did I kill him? No! I couldn't do anything like that. I wouldn't have a clue how … I mean, that's not the sort of person I am. Okay, I went to see Jessica, and I did think that somebody had to say something and it probably had to be me, and then suddenly, in walked Stuart. And I was all set to have it out with him … but then I bottled it.” The young man slumped in his chair. “Couldn't get the words out. And he told me to get out, and I just went. That's it – I didn't see him after that.”

  After a moment's pause, Constable addressed the young woman next to Matthew, her hand still linked with his. “Miss Davenport, I take it?” A mute nod in reply. “You seem to have found yourself in the midst of a very upsetting situation. So how did that make you feel?”

  “I … I really can't talk about it.” Jessica's voice quavered, and she cleared her throat before speaking in firmer tones. “But I suppose I must. All this business with Stuart hovering around me ever since we started work on the play. I always felt there was something wrong about it all.”

  “You are, of course, much younger than he was,” said Constable sympathetically.

  “I'm twenty-nine,” said Jessica. “I didn't mean wrong like that. And of course, he was a married man, but that's not the point. No, it just felt weird right from the start, but of course, then I didn't really understand why. I just felt like my character in the play – a bit bewildered, with nobody to turn to. And I'm adopted too, just like her, so it all got tangled together.” She looked towards the young man beside her. “But Matthew has been so lovely to me – he's just like the big brother I never had.”

  “You're an only child?”

  “Yes.”

  Constable digested the actress's comments for a few seconds. “Miss Davenport raises a rather delicate question,” he began. “The fact that Mr. Nelson was a married man.”

  “You don't have to pussy-foot, inspector.” Elizabeth Hamilton spoke up from her position in a rather grand Queen Anne fauteuil, slightly distanced from the other occupants of the room. “My husband was not a man of great discretion in any aspect of his life.”

  “Miss Hamilton, sir.” Dave Copper spoke up from the back of the room by way of introduction.

  “So I gathered – thank you, sergeant. And my condolences, madam.”

  “Thank you, inspector.” Elizabeth was brief and dismissive. “But please don't imagine that anything you say here will produce any startling revelations. My husband and I had reached a perfectly satisfactory modus vivendi. Well, to he honest, perhaps neither quite perfect nor entirely satisfactory. But I've had enough years of putting up with Stuart Nelson's behaviour to have grown used to it.”

  “So … forgive me … the situation regarding Miss Davenport was not unprecedented?”

  “Far from it,” replied Elizabeth drily. “Don't think that Jessica Davenport was anything new or anything unusual – although having said that, of course, she was, but I'm the last person you should be speaking to about that.” The oblique look she sent in the direction of the young actress was hard to read. “Sometimes it's simply wisest to look the other way. Then again, sometimes not.”

  “And … forgive me again, but if similar circumstances have arisen in the past, how have they been resolved?”

  “Oh, the normal way.” Elizabeth gave a bitter laugh. “Which is what I suggested to Stuart when the matter first started to rear its ugly head – again. I told him to pay the wretched girl off and replace her, but he said you needed money to do that, and the way things were financially, he'd be surprised if any of us got our money unless something got sorted out.”

  “Therefore,” said Constable, “if the normal course of action was not available to deal with what looks as if it was becoming an increasingly intolerable situation, one might be forgiven for thinking that abnormal action could be seen as the only solution. In other words, someone took drastic action to free you, and Jessica, and the company as a whole, from the tangle.”

  “So someone committed murder as a favour to the rest of us? Is that seriously what you are suggesting, Mr. Constable?” enquired Elizabeth. “How extremely altruistic of them.”

  Constable began to feel that there was little to be gained by pursuing the matter further, given Elizabeth's current attitude, but one of her remarks sparked a fresh train of thought. “I believe that this is the first inkling we've had of any financial diffi
culties involving the company. Was anyone else aware of these?” A circle of blank expressions was the only response. “Surely you would have something to say on the subject?” he continued, turning to the one remaining man in the room who had not yet spoken. “Since I'm assuming that you would be Mr. Abbott? The company manager, if my sergeant informs me correctly?”

  “See here, inspector, this is all confidential stuff. And there's nothing wrong with the finances of the company that I can't sort out, given a bit of time,” replied Don Abbott.

  Beneath the facade of bravado, Constable thought he could detect considerable unease. “So all is well?” he probed. “No unexplained holes in the budget? No unaccountable expenses? Nobody with, for example, any personal financial issues which might impact on the general health of the Victory Theatre Company? No awkward questions from Mr. Nelson? Oh, not that we have any specific knowledge of anything of the sort, Mr. Abbott, I hasten to add. I'm simply seeking to cover all the possibilities.” He smiled blandly and waited patiently.

  Don moved close to the inspector and lowered his voice. “Look, Stuart was very good to me. All right, he'd made me a bit of a loan because I'd had some bad luck ...”

  Constable was quick to respond. “Any particular kind of bad luck, sir?”

  “Oh, just … just a string of bad choices, I suppose,” answered Don evasively. “Anyway, that wasn't the point, because I had it all under control. And as for Stuart, he had his finger firmly on the pulse, and all the payments had to go through him anyway. Nothing could ever happen without his signature, so it's not as if he wasn't aware of everything that was going on.”

  “And, no doubt, no concerns about the future either?” enquired Constable. “A new play – I imagine there must have been a certain interest among the public? Good advance bookings, and so on?”

  “So-so, I suppose.”

  “And although I've heard it said that there's no such thing as bad publicity ...”

  Don snorted. “Whoever told you that didn't know what they were talking about. What, a murder in the company? That's just what we needed! Oh my god!” A realisation seemed to hit him. “That means we're going to have to refund all the box office take. But … we'll never manage it.” He turned away and slumped in a chair, gazing unfocussed at the wall.