by Anne Penketh
“Mrs Proctor, please, what has happened?”
“And I found Mike slumped under the piano lid.”
“Is he sick?” Was this a police matter? Hadn’t she said he was depressed?
“No, that’s the point!” Her words tumbled over one another, but Clayton eventually made out what had happened: that Proctor had overdosed and that she had called an ambulance.
“So, he’s in hospital now?” Clayton asked.
“Yes, we’re here,” she replied, her voice quavering.
“At A and E? Is he going to be OK?”
“I’m waiting to hear. But I wanted to let you know because what was weird was that his head was kind of lodged inside the piano lid. And although he’s been depressed since leaving the orchestra, I know he’d never do anything like that,” she said.
“You mean try to commit suicide? So you think that someone may have forced him to take the pills?”
“Yes. Well . . . I don’t know. But what do you think?”
Clayton’s mind returned to the cellist skewered through the belly. Could it be? He reassured Mrs Proctor that she’d done the right thing and promised to send Julie straight to the hospital.
* * *
He found Julie bent over her laptop.
“What’s the matter?” she said, looking up at him. “I’ve just arranged for Henderson to come in.”
“Well, we might have a crime scene at Proctor’s place,” he said. He wondered about ringing Claire at the hospital to ask about his condition, but he knew it was against the rules.
“Just find out how Proctor is, and when we can go in to see him. And could you ask Mrs Proctor if we can have a look round the house? She might let you have the keys.”
He watched Julie pack up her things and head out. Then he returned to his workstation. They needed to track down the two players Proctor had fired as a matter of urgency. He flicked through his papers in search of names, landing on Lauren Garner and Sarah Cooper, who were identified as the clarinettists. But which one was the disgraced flute player?
* * *
A couple of hours later, Clayton slipped into his usual seat at the Alex and waited for Luke Martin to arrive. The crime correspondent of the Eastern Daily Press finally shambled in and threw down a plastic bag full of papers.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “Busy day. What’s your poison?” He pointed at Clayton’s empty glass.
“Pint of CHB if you’re buying.”
They settled down with their ale. Martin looked like he could do with a haircut. Then again, he was lucky to still have his hair.
“So, what’s the big story?” Clayton asked.
“Oh, some bullshit about a guy who fell into the Wensum, down by Pull’s Ferry. I’ve spent the last couple of days trying to find out if he was pushed. Turns out he was pissed.”
“Who did you speak to?”
Martin touched his nose. “That would be telling, wouldn’t it? And your press lot weren’t much help, I can tell you that.”
“Now there’s a surprise,” said Clayton with a smile. They both took a swig from their glasses. He knew Martin would be wondering what was coming next.
“Tell me, have you come across Mike Proctor? He used to be the NFO conductor.”
“Sure.” Martin wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “Why?”
“Well, I hear he got rid of a couple of players from the orchestra, but there’s nothing in the clips.”
“Huh. Tell me about it,” said Martin. “Did you hear what happened next?”
“I heard that as a result, there was some sort of players’ revolt against him and they ended up forcing him out.”
“Yeah,” said Martin.
“And?” Clayton set his glass down on the table.
“And nothing. We didn’t write about it because the editor didn’t think it belonged in the news section. And it was hardly something you could drop into a review in features. So we just left it.”
“Scoop!” said Clayton, shaking his head.
“Welcome to my world,” said Martin. “The story kind of fell through the cracks, I suppose. Not the first time that’s happened.”
“Anyway, listen,” Clayton said. “Can you dig out the names of the players he got rid of? And I need to know who the troublemakers are, or were, in that orchestra. Proctor himself says it’s a snake pit.”
Martin drained his pint. “Sure,” he said. “Our features editor might have some goss about the orchestra. But are you going to tell me what this is about?”
“All in good time,” said Clayton. His phone rang. It was Julie, saving him from having to explain anything further.
“Look, I’d better go. Got work to do. See you later,” he said, and made for the door.
As soon as he was out of earshot, he phoned Julie back. “What’ve you got?”
“Well, Proctor’s had his stomach pumped. The medics found an open packet of tramadol on the floor by the piano.”
“Isn’t that some sort of opioid?” Clayton said.
“It’s a painkiller. You can get it on prescription. But Mrs Proctor was sure there hadn’t been any tramadol in the house. God, it was lucky she found him in time. It could have been fatal.”
Chapter Eight
The next morning, Clayton got to the nick early, after having been for a run in the park accompanied by what felt like every dog in the city.
When Julie arrived, he gave her time to settle down to work before he went over to her desk, holding a piece of paper.
“What’s that?” she said warily.
“More names. Two of Kristina Manning’s friends who go to the hospital to do the music therapy stuff, to be precise. They’re called Marie Ridgewell and Sarah Cooper. And the two players sacked by Proctor. The clarinet is Lauren Garner and the flute is Chris Mercer. Yess!” Both Claire and Luke Martin had come through.
He held up his hand for a triumphant high five. She obliged, scrunching up her nose. “Where did you get that from?” she asked.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” he said. He enjoyed teasing Julie, particularly as she so obviously found it annoying.
He noticed she was on Facebook. “What are you up to?” he asked. “Having some down time already?”
“Hardly.” She turned back to her screen. “These are Kristina Manning’s friends. All nine hundred and seventy-one of them.”
Clayton pulled a face. “Let’s see if we can find your two,” said Julie.
She began scrolling through Kristina Manning’s profile. “Here we are. Look, two of them are tagged on her timeline.” She paused. “Wait. These photos were posted on the day of her death. Oh, God. They’re from the party!”
Clayton drew up a chair and stared at the screen. “But Kristina didn’t post them, did she?” This was making no sense.
“No. Look, it was this friend, Sarah Cooper, who shared it. She tagged Kristina and this other one, Marie Ridgewell. Those are the names you had, right?”
Clayton remembered Sarah’s name: she was the other clarinettist. He leaned forward for a better look. The three women were posing with their arms around one another’s shoulders. He recognised Kristina Manning’s kitchen cabinets. Kristina, striking in her red party dress and dark hair, stood between two laughing blondes, each holding up a glass. Two men were in the frame but with their backs to the camera.
“I wonder what else she shared,” Clayton said.
Julie clicked on Sarah Cooper’s timeline. “That’s lucky: she’s posted these for anyone to see,” she said.
“Can you copy these off, Julie? We can show them to Henderson. Well done.” He sat back and stretched out his legs.
“It shouldn’t be that hard to get the party guests identified,” Julie said.
He nodded. “Right. What else do we know? Did you check other social media?”
“Yes. Dave Bullard’s been checking too but he hasn’t come up with anything,” she said. “I suppose these women might be able to tell us if there was a row at
the party. I mean, whether Kristina was threatened by someone who came back for her the next day.”
“Could do. Yeah. Unless it was someone who wasn’t at the party at all. When’s Henderson coming in?” he asked.
“Tomorrow. So we’ve got time to sort out the stuff for him.”
“When can we see Proctor?” Clayton asked.
“Soon,” she said. “They’re keeping him in for a bit for observation. Mrs Proctor said he’d vomited. It must have been scary to find him like that, hardly breathing. She said his face was all swollen.”
“Thanks for taking care of her,” he said. He didn’t like to ask what time she’d taken Mrs Proctor home, but presumed it would have had an impact on her childcare arrangements. Julie was always very discreet about her work-life balance, but he knew that under her calm exterior she must be juggling a lot of balls.
“Forensics are checking the fingerprints on the doors and the piano, but there was no sign of a break-in. So presumably we’re looking at someone who knew him,” he said.
He went back to his workstation and onto the NFO website to look at photographs of the full orchestra. Zooming in on the clarinets, he assumed the one sitting next to Sarah Cooper to be Lauren Garner. She was wearing a long dark dress and had a floaty, ethereal air about her. Her ash-blonde hair tumbled in loose curls around a heart-shaped face. But there was something about her eyes, almost as though she wasn’t quite focusing. She was looking ahead, but Clayton couldn’t tell whether she had her eyes on the conductor or whether she was in a world of her own. Was she short-sighted, or spaced out, as Proctor had described her?
He ran his gaze along the line of players until he reached the flute section. Which of these two was Chris Mercer? One of the flautists was in his forties with muscles almost bursting through his dinner jacket and tight trousers. The other was younger, probably in his twenties, with blond shoulder-length hair swept back like a romantic poet.
He began googling Christopher Mercer, Christian Mercer and finally Chris Mercer who eventually appeared on a Facebook profile. So it was the younger one. Clayton shook his head as he scrolled through photos of the flute player, in various stages of undress, messing about with mates. Including Lauren. They were both about the same age. Do none of these youngsters protect their profiles? Earlier pictures showed Mercer looking dishevelled in a dinner jacket, bow tie slightly askew, with his arms round the shoulders of some other young revellers. The photo reminded him of old newspaper pictures of the Bullingdon Club.
He read the ‘About’ section. Oh, he’s a posho alright. Went to Eton and then art school. It didn’t say what his job was or what he was doing in Norwich. What had Proctor called him? A ‘poor little rich kid.’ Maybe he was a trustafarian living the vegan life in the countryside.
* * *
That evening Clayton, having arrived early to avoid being noticed, took a seat at the end of a row in St Andrew’s Hall. He took out his phone just as the orchestra began assembling to warm up.
A couple of women violinists were the first to wander on stage, followed in quick succession by the rest of the orchestra. One of the violinists, in high heels and trousers, was hot. Her companion was not, he noted with a smile. Mixing them up, Proctor had said.
Clayton noticed one of the violinists scouring the audience, evidently looking for someone in particular. He followed her gaze. She caught sight of a teenage boy and her features softened, but the boy’s eyes were fixed on his phone. At least these amateur orchestras could always be certain of drawing a crowd, thanks to all their family members and friends.
The front of the stage quickly filled up as the cellists took their places. Two double bass players picked up their instruments from behind them. One was so engrossed in tuning up that he didn’t even glance at his neighbour, who was trying to engage him in conversation.
Two trumpeters in tuxes and shiny black shoes walked on and sat down behind their music stands. One flicked through a score, while the other buzzed his lips and flapped his fingers across the valves. Clayton closed his eyes for a moment to isolate the different sounds which floated up from the stage. One of the trumpeters turned to speak to a trombonist beside him. Then he stood up and had a word with the percussionist behind him. So far, so convivial. But what had he been expecting?
His phone vibrated in his pocket. It was Melissa. She wanted to know if he was interested in accompanying her to a fundraiser for the NFO.
“Funnily enough, that’s where I am now,” he said. “On a work assignment.”
She laughed. “Work? At a Mendelssohn concert?”
“It’s a tough job, but someone’s got to do it,” he said. He lowered his voice. “Actually, I think that might be a bit awkward, what you’re mentioning,” he said. “It might look like a conflict of interest.”
“A conflict of interest? Don’t be silly,” she said. “You’re only saying that because you don’t want to wear a penguin suit, aren’t you?”
“If that’s a requirement, I’m definitely not coming!” he said. “Look, can we discuss this tomorrow? I’ll see you then.” Melissa rang off at once. He sensed she wasn’t happy.
He continued with his observations, turning his attention to the cellos. There was the older guy, the first cellist who’d been described by Kristina Manning’s boyfriend as a control freak. The chair beside him was empty. So the orchestra was still a cellist down.
He wondered how many of the players had been at Kristina’s party. Then he had a thought. It might be just as significant to find out who hadn’t been there.
His eyes slid along the woodwind section. With a start, he recognised Sarah Cooper, Kristina’s friend in the Facebook photo. She was sucking on a reed prior to warming up her clarinet. Was she friendly with Lauren Garner, the one who’d been sacked? And where was the other woman from the photo, the one called Marie?
He heard applause and saw Marie herself glide into the hall in a long black dress. So she was the lead violin. Clayton noticed she was carrying a white long-stemmed rose along with her bow. Instead of taking her seat, she went to Kristina’s empty chair and placed the flower there, inclining her head.
He realised this must be the orchestra’s first concert since the cellist’s murder. A murmur spread through the audience as the significance of this silent tribute sank in, and everyone began to clap. Clayton joined in, a lump in his throat.
Marie returned to her seat and acknowledged the audience with a faint smile. Then she raised her instrument and sat bolt upright, tucking a cloth over her chinrest. She looked across at the oboist, who dutifully intoned an A for the rest of the orchestra to follow.
Satisfied he’d taken a decent picture of all the assembled players, Clayton put his phone away.
At last, Romano flounced in. He stopped to shake Marie by the hand before moving to his stand, where he acknowledged the audience with a toss of the head. He waited for silence before raising his baton. With the players’ eyes pinned on him, he led the orchestra into the darkness of Mendelssohn’s Third Symphony.
Clayton sat back, rapt. This was the moment that Proctor had described, when the conductor had the entire orchestra in the palm of his hand. He scanned the players again. But before he could relax to the stately march of the strings, the image came to him of Kristina pinned to the floor by her cello. Was her killer in this hall?
Chapter Nine
Henderson was back in the interview room, a solicitor in a dark suit at his side. Clayton wondered if he knew what was coming.
The tape was running.
“Mr Henderson, thanks for helping us with your DNA sample and for attending voluntarily. You understand that we’re trying to eliminate possibilities at this stage of the investigation?”
“Of course. No problem,” Henderson said.
“Our scientists have established that there was no sexual assault on Kristina,” said Clayton. Henderson sighed and blinked. He looked relieved.
“You may be able to help us with some aspects of the in
vestigation. We’re trying to establish a motive for the murder, of course. But we need a firm timeline, so we have to pin down your exact movements on Saturday night and Sunday morning.”
Henderson nodded.
“OK,” said Clayton. “So, please can you confirm for us what time you got to the party, and what time you left.”
“I was one of the first to arrive — the time was about seven thirty, maybe a little after. And as I mentioned, I left about nine. I remember because I looked at the time before I went. I wasn’t drinking because I was driving, and I was bored with all the small talk.”
“Now we need to know exactly what time you went back to the house the next day.”
“It was about one o’clock.”
“You’re sure about that?” asked Julie. “Not earlier?”
“No, it wouldn’t have been earlier. I checked the time at twelve thirty and then I drove over to her place a few minutes later.”
“You mentioned you’d arranged to meet her at the Waffle House at eleven. Do you think anyone there could vouch for you?” asked Julie.
“I suppose they might, yes. I was sitting on my own there for about half an hour before I gave up and went home.”
“Right, well, we’ll need that confirmation as soon as possible,” said
Clayton. The solicitor made a note.
“Mr Henderson, contrary to what you told us, we now know that Kristina had taken a Class A drug on the night of the party,” said Clayton.
Henderson glanced at the solicitor and shook his head.
“Well, like I told you before, I never knew she did drugs. I’m sorry,” he said. “We weren’t living together, after all. She often socialised with the orchestra, and how would I know . . .?” His voice trailed off.
Julie leaned forward. “But didn’t you ever have suspicions?”
“Honestly? No. Not when she was with me,” he said. “And, frankly, I don’t see what it has to do with finding the person who killed her.”
Julie and Clayton exchanged a glance. Clayton sat back, his arms folded. Julie reached for a bundle of pictures lying on the table.