by Anne Penketh
“There’s quite a lot of rental property where she lived. Want one?” Julie asked, holding up a steaming takeaway cup. He shook his head. He’d wait until he could nip down to the canteen and have a bacon sandwich with a decent coffee. They went along the corridor to the incident room, where DCI Bligh was waiting for them, standing in front of the desk.
Pictures had already been assembled on a board behind her. She pointed to a photo of the cello pinning the victim to the floor. “What we have here is a premeditated murder. The victim is Kristina Manning” — the name was spelled out on the board — “she was thirty-five and worked as a music therapist at the hospital.”
Clayton wondered whether his ex might have come across her. It was possible — Claire was in neurology.
“She’d been with the NFO for the past three years and had lived in Costessey for the past two. Alone,” said Bligh.
She paused and adjusted her spectacles. As usual she was immaculately, if mannishly, dressed. Her style had always been severe. Clayton’s late colleague, Neil Pringle, had often remarked on their boss’s ‘butch’ appearance, probably due to nothing more than her short-cropped hair. Clayton imagined her as a bit of a whip-cracking dominatrix. Maybe she’d had to adopt that look so as to be accepted in their macho environment. He missed the office banter he used to exchange with Neil. He couldn’t be so free with the women officers, and the other men he worked with were practically half his age. More politically correct. Looking up at the clock, he was reminded that it was almost the time of day when Neil would have been bringing round the coffees. It had been part of his daily routine.
Bligh pointed to a picture of the crime scene. “Then there’s this,” she said. They craned their necks to see the cello pinning the woman’s body to the floor. “Is the killer trying to tell us something?”
Give us a twirl, Neil would have said with his characteristic black humour. Clayton suppressed a grin.
“DI Clayton’s team will be talking to her boyfriend, Nigel Henderson,” Bligh went on, “and following up with the neighbours. What we know so far was that there was a party at Manning’s house last night. Her dishwasher contained a dozen wineglasses. Forensics also found a rubbish bag filled with throwaway plates in the bin. Could the murderer be someone who was at the party?”
She waited while her small audience digested the information. “We’re waiting for a full analysis, of course, but the time of death is estimated at around eleven thirty yesterday morning. No signs of a forced entry, so we’re assuming it was somebody she knew. As I said, it may have been someone at the party. Or not. Any questions so far?”
“Am I right that the NFO isn’t a professional orchestra?” Mandy, a young DC, piped up.
Bligh looked in Clayton’s direction in acknowledgement of his musical background.
“That’s right,” he said. “All the musicians have jobs outside the orchestra, which could have a huge impact on the scope of the investigation. Not to mention all the people in the chorus.” Clayton immediately thought of Melissa.
“Well, before we get into those particular circles of hell, we’ll start with the boyfriend and the usual drill,” said Bligh. “And we’ll soon find out whether this was a sexually motivated attack.”
While the others shuffled out to attend to their duties, Bligh walked over to Clayton. “You’ll take DC Bullard on this one. OK?”
“Yes, of course, ma’am.” Bullard was graduate intake. The trouble with that lot was that they mostly made up for their lack of experience with arrogance. But Dave Bullard was different. Clayton hadn’t heard any complaints about him. In fact, they’d worked together before, on what had turned out to be Neil’s last investigation. He’d died before it was all wrapped up. Bullard, who was in his twenties with a young family, had never shown how deeply affected he’d been by Neil’s death, but Clayton had his suspicions. Not that they ever spoke about it.
He wandered over to Julie’s desk. “Dave Bullard’s on the team for this one,” he said.
“Fine. Great,” she said. Her face was expressionless. “Shall we go down? Kristina Manning’s boyfriend should be here in a minute.”
* * *
There was no mistaking Nigel Henderson. Clayton recognised the blond Adonis from the photo in the dead woman’s flat immediately. He wore a blue suit, whose jacket brushed his thighs, and brown pointy shoes — what passed for sartorial elegance these days, Clayton supposed. The handshake was firm, but his lower lip was not. He had a deep horizontal crease in his chin. Must be tricky shaving that, Clayton thought, momentarily distracted.
“Are you OK?” Julie asked Henderson. “We can put you in touch with a family liaison officer if you would like to talk to someone.”
“That’s alright. I want to help if I can,” he said.
They led him into an interview room and Clayton began. He picked up a file from the table.
“So, Mr Henderson, you’re an accountant, right?”
“Yes. I was Kristina’s accountant, actually. That’s how we met.”
“And how long ago was that?”
“Not long after she moved to Norwich, so about two years ago, I suppose. She needed my help because she was self-employed, with various sources of income. She did some private teaching, as well as her job at the hospital.”
“Did she have any other work that you knew of?” Julie asked. “It might be important for the investigation.”
Henderson leaned back to think, brushing a stray hair from his jacket sleeve. “She did some freelance work too. In London,” he said, after a while. “But that’s it.”
“When was the last time you saw Ms Manning?” Clayton noticed Henderson’s eyes cloud over. He passed a hand over his forehead.
“She had a party on Saturday night and I went along for a bit. But I didn’t know anyone there, so I slipped away after about an hour.”
“It wasn’t a birthday party though, was it?” Clayton said.
Henderson shook his head. “Oh no. It was just a drinks party. Nothing special, as far as I know. The players often got together socially. Kris called it bonding sessions.”
“Did she and her friends do drugs?” Clayton said.
“Kris didn’t,” Henderson said in a firm voice. “I don’t know about her friends, but I never saw anything of that sort going on.”
“Were the guests all people from the orchestra?”
“Yes, mainly — at least when I was there. She said that some others were coming along later.”
“So, what time did you leave?” Julie asked.
“About nine. I arranged to meet Kris in town yesterday morning, but she never showed up.” His voice shook and he gulped.
“Mr Henderson, do you want a drink of water?” Julie asked.
“No thanks, I’m fine.”
“Can you help us identify the people from the party?” Clayton said.
“I can try. But I only know their first names, I’m afraid. I know most of them by sight but I’ve never met them properly. It’s not my world. That’s why I didn’t stay long.”
“How many were there?” Clayton asked.
“About twenty, I’d say. Maybe more.” Clayton remembered the glasses in the dishwasher. That didn’t compute. Then he thought that if the men were like him, they’d be swigging beer from the can.
Julie chipped in. “So, yesterday. When did you realise that something was wrong?”
“We’d arranged to meet for brunch at eleven at the Waffle House. I wasn’t worried about her being late, not after the party. I rang her mobile and there was no answer. At first I thought she’d overslept. But then . . .” His voice cracked. The detectives waited for him to compose himself. He looked up at the ceiling as though praying for help.
“Anyway, it got to half past twelve and I hadn’t heard from her, so I really began to worry. I drove over to her place.”
“What time was that?” Clayton asked.
“That would have been about one, I suppose.”
�
��And you let yourself in?”
“Yes. I have a key. And then I saw her.” He sniffed, covered his face in his hands and began to sob. Julie got up and left the room. Clayton turned his eyes away and stared at his file. He hated to see men cry. He never knew what to do. Where the hell had Julie gone? The door opened and she came back with a box of tissues. They waited while Henderson wiped his eyes and blew his nose.
“There was so much blood all over the place,” Henderson said. “Do you think . . .?”
Julie obviously understood immediately what he was driving at. “That she was sexually assaulted? We’ll soon find out from the tests, Mr Henderson.”
He nodded and closed his eyes.
“What did you do when you found her?” Julie asked gently.
“I knew I couldn’t save her . . .” He shook his head. “I rang the police straight away, of course.”
“Did she ever talk about professional rivalry between musicians, that sort of thing?” Clayton asked. He knew how orchestras could be — bursting with big egos fuelled by drugs and alcohol. Would it be the same in an amateur orchestra in Norwich?
Henderson sat back to think. “She did complain about the new musical director, who’s Italian and apparently came in with some big ideas. She also said the principal cello, a retired professional player from London I think, can be a bit of a control freak. She sat next to him. But I never gave it much thought. Like I said, it’s not my world.”
They wound up the interview and Henderson left, blowing his nose with a tissue.
“So we have maybe twenty suspects,” Julie said.
“If it was one of the party guests. Maybe more if it wasn’t,” said Clayton. “We need names.”
“What if it was someone she’d met in London?” said Julie.
He sighed. “Well, just for starters let’s get mugshots of the orchestra and get the conductor in. The pictures might jog Henderson’s memory. The cello at the murder scene must indicate a musical connection. Unless it’s a red herring. But what if we have to expand this investigation to the whole bloody orchestra? Do you know how many musicians there are in a symphony orchestra?”
“Haven’t a clue,” she said.
“About a hundred. And that doesn’t include the choir. What was it Bligh said about the circles of hell?”
Chapter Three
Clayton had heard it said that Norwich had a church for every Sunday and a pub for every day of the week.
By now he knew all the church towers and steeples. They helped him navigate his route around the city. As for the pubs, he was spoiled for choice.
He parked the car outside his house. It hadn’t taken him long to get used to the new place. After buying out Claire’s share of their large terraced house, he’d downsized to a grey brick one nearby. Both Claire and Melissa had said he’d been right to stay in the ‘Golden Triangle,’ where house prices only ever moved in one direction — up.
He wondered what Melissa found so fascinating about looking round other people’s houses. They were just places to live, after all. She was with the biggest estate agent in town. The signs advertising ‘Fawcett’s, The One to Trust’ were everywhere. His new place was on a quiet street. The tiny front garden, which sat behind a low wall, had just enough room for two rubbish bins and a couple of distressed shrubs. Inside, the stairs led straight up from the hall. The ground floor was open plan, with a fitted kitchen which must have been built originally as an extension. Thankfully, it hadn’t needed a coat of paint. All the walls were done in that warm grey which had replaced white since he’d last paid attention to interior decoration.
It was a bit soulless, if he was honest, and he’d lost some space, but what did it matter when the spare bedroom was filled with boxes anyway? At least this time they were his boxes, not Claire’s.
He went upstairs to his study overlooking the back garden, picked up his guitar and began to hum a Simon and Garfunkel tune that came into his head from nowhere — ‘America.’ “Let us be lovers, we’ll marry our fortunes together,” he sang, strumming. The song brought back memories of his early days with Claire. The unexpected emotion almost gave him a lump in his throat.
They’d finally both moved on from the pain of the divorce and the last three years, and Clayton had accepted that she was never coming back. They’d speak occasionally on the phone and his longing for her had gradually dissipated. She was still the only woman in his whole life who hadn’t lorded it over him. Now he had Bligh as his boss, of course, but what about Julie? He sensed that she was sharpening her elbows to push for promotion from detective sergeant. And why shouldn’t she? That’s probably why she seemed to resent the arrival of Bullard on the team. As for his own career prospects, Clayton knew that his temper was holding him back. Bligh hadn’t told him that in so many words, but she’d warned him about his violent outbursts. She’d once seen him grab Neil Pringle by the throat in the car park outside the station. Well, Neil had been asking for it.
The kickboxing classes had helped him get things under control. They’d called them his ‘rage issues’ at the anger management course he’d attended during his time in the Manchester force. Clayton looked down at his boxing gloves and holdall on the study floor. He stopped humming and checked his watch. Did he have time to nip over to the gym?
Or was it too late to invite himself round to Melissa’s for dinner?
He picked up his phone. “How’s Fawcett’s?” he asked.
“Hi, Sam. I just got home. You coming round?” About ten minutes later he was walking up the tiled path to her front door with a smile on his face and a bottle of red wine in his hand.
Melissa fussed around in her yellow-painted kitchen, knocking together some pasta with tomatoes and fresh herbs. He looked in the fridge for grated parmesan and realised that in this kitchen, the stuff didn’t come out of a packet. Melissa pointed to the grater with a “Watch your fingers.”
He carried his little dish of grated cheese through to the living room with the wine. A small dining table stood in the corner, draped in a dazzling white tablecloth and already set for two.
“So, have you got choir practice tomorrow then?” he asked.
“Yes. We’re doing Cavalleria Rusticana.”
“Great. I love that,” he said. The soaring melody of the ‘Intermezzo’ always gave him goose pimples. “Book me a ticket?”
She smiled. Those dimples again. “OK. But you’ll have to wait for a month or so.”
“I’m not going anywhere. So, tell me what you people think about the orchestra conductor? Isn’t he Italian?”
She smiled. “Massimo Romano? How did you guess?”
Clayton tapped his nose. “Top detective, me.”
“Well, he’s not exactly popular. They say he’s a bit of a slave driver. I heard they don’t like him assuming that because he’s Italian, they’ll be playing more Italian music. And he’s rather camp. You know what people are like here, very conventional, and they don’t trust outsiders. But they’ll get used to him.”
“Well, they probably had it easy under the last conductor. Hadn’t he been with them for years?”
“Going on for thirty, I think, man and boy,” she said. He watched her wrap spaghetti round her fork and raise it to her mouth. The gesture was elegant and swift, no shovelling it up after cutting the spaghetti into small pieces like his working-class family. He wondered whether he should have asked Melissa for a spoon. He picked up a napkin to wipe his lips and set it down covered in tomato sauce.
“You should have given me a paper serviette,” he commented.
She smiled, her eyes creasing. “But Mike Proctor took tough decisions when he needed to,” she said. “He might have looked like an affable old grandad, but he definitely had an iron fist in that velvet glove. He was the one who really raised the orchestra’s standards, so everyone says.”
“What’s he doing now?”
“He’s retired. I think he lives in one of those big houses on Newmarket Road near you.”
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“Ah.” Clayton scooped up another mouthful of spaghetti with his fork. He could sense Melissa watching the operation.
“This is good,” he said, with a grin, his mouth full. “What about Kristina Manning? Anyone said anything?”
She shook her head. “Tomorrow will be the first rehearsal since she died.”
“Oh yes. Of course.”
They fell silent. The image of the young woman lying on her kitchen floor, transpierced by her instrument, was seared into Clayton’s memory. Melissa reached across the table to take his hand.
“I’ll let you know, of course, if I hear anything.” She paused. “But I’m not doing your job for you.”
“Of course. God forbid. We’ve got enough women in the office as it
is . . . Joke!” he added quickly, before she had the chance to say anything.
Chapter Four
Massimo Romano was waiting at reception, his grey cashmere coat slung over his shoulders, a vision of Italian chic. He took off his sunglasses as Clayton approached.
Clayton couldn’t help staring. Who wears sunglasses in Norwich in winter?
They shook hands and he led the conductor into an interview room where Julie was waiting for them. The two detectives watched Romano shrug off his coat, which he was wearing over a black polo necked pullover. He then unwound a black scarf from around his throat. He was ready.
Julie and Clayton drew up chairs facing him.
The conductor ran a hand through his coarse, dark hair. Clayton saw it was flecked with grey. “How may I help you?” he asked in a soft lilting voice that was disconcertingly reminiscent of an Italian waiter.
“We’d like to talk to you about the death of one of your cellists, Kristina Manning,” Clayton began.
“Yes, of course. Vai-ry sad. She was a beautiful woman and a fine player.”
“Were you invited to her party on Saturday night?” Julie asked.
“Party? What party?” Romano said.
“So you didn’t hear anyone mention it? Do you know who might have been there?”
Romano shook his head, andante con moto.