Play Dead

by Anne Penketh

  He took another look at the young woman in the picture. Her doe eyes looked out at him through mascara-coated lashes. She seemed younger than her age. She was so delicate, so pretty, and she seemed somehow vulnerable.

  He hadn’t noticed Bullard standing behind him.

  “Did I hear you say unicorns?” Bullard asked. They both turned towards him. “My daughters are obsessed with them. You wouldn’t believe the stuff they’ve got. Unicorn pillows, unicorn mugs — you name it.”

  “Show him,” said Clayton, motioning to the phone. Bullard examined the photo.

  “Yes, that’s it, the pastel colours, blues and pinks,” he said.

  Clayton turned back to Braithwaite, who seemed bemused by their conversation. “Aren’t you worried about her?”

  Braithwaite shrugged. “Why would I be?”

  “We hear she may have been into drugs,” said Clayton.

  “Who says?”

  “Mike Proctor, that’s who,” said Clayton.

  “Well, he would say that, wouldn’t he?” said Braithwaite, raising his voice. “He’s the one who fired her. That’s when she went off the rails.”

  “Is it?” asked Clayton. Braithwaite said nothing.

  Clayton moved closer to him and said in a low voice, “Maybe she went off the rails before she was fired.”

  Braithwaite recoiled slightly. His eyes were dark pools.

  “So you’ve no idea where she might be? Is she still in Norwich, do

  you think?” Bullard chipped in.

  “I told you, I haven’t a clue where she is.” His voice shook a little.

  “But is it fair to assume that her departure coincided with her losing her place in the orchestra?” Clayton asked. Don’t give me the run-around.

  “I just told you that,” said Braithwaite. He was rubbing an arm in agitation. “Is there anything else? Because I’ve got to go out.”

  Clayton looked across at Bullard, who was flicking through his notebook.

  “So you must have known Kristina Manning quite well?” Bullard asked.

  “Of course.”

  “And were you at her party, by any chance?”

  “What party?” said Braithwaite. Clayton stared at him, hard. Was he telling the truth?

  “The one the day before she died,” said Bullard.

  “Oh. I didn’t know anything about a party. She didn’t invite me.” Braithwaite’s gaze didn’t falter.

  “So there wasn’t much socialising going on with the strings then?” Bullard continued.

  “No. Yes. Some of them saw one another, I suppose. Lauren was mainly friendly with the other woodwind players.”

  “You mean, with people like Sarah Cooper?” Bullard asked.

  He nodded. “Yeah. She liked Sarah.”

  Clayton wandered along the dark corridor and into the narrow kitchen, while Bullard kept the questions coming. The sink was indeed piled high with washing up. There was no room for anything else, other than an electric hob on the kitchen counter and a fridge.

  “So who else lives here?” he heard Bullard ask.

  “Students mostly. Nobody at the moment though.”

  “Were the ones you had staying here musicians too?”

  “Yeah. With the UEA symphony orchestra. I might get some more in, now that Lauren’s gone, to help out with the rent. But it’s harder midterm.”

  “I’ll need names, please, and contact details,” said Bullard. Braithwaite went through his phone contacts. Clayton waited while Bullard wrote down four names.

  “So you’re here on your own at the moment?” Bullard said. Braithwaite nodded. “And what do you do, Mr Braithwaite?”

  “Primary school teacher. Doing supply teaching at the moment.”

  “And Lauren?”

  “She’s also a teacher. Or she was. That’s how we met, at the school, like. Her pupils were older. But there were budget cuts, so music and Lauren had to go.”

  Clayton raised an eyebrow. So she lost her place in the orchestra and her job. Double whammy.

  “Which school was it?” Bullard asked.

  “Magdalen Street Primary,” said Braithwaite.

  Bullard closed his notebook and looked across at Clayton. They were done here.

  * * *

  “What a dosshouse,” Bullard said as they walked back to the car. “Reminds me of my student days.”

  Clayton grinned. “Do you think he was telling the truth?” he asked.

  “Hard to tell. He seemed to be forthcoming enough. Do you think he does drugs?” Bullard asked.

  “Yes. Did you notice his pupils were dilated?”

  “Yeah,” said Bullard. “Like I was saying — they’re all on the pills in this orchestra.”

  “He didn’t exactly confirm what Proctor said about the woodwind teaming up with the percussion to push him out,” said Clayton. “I wonder which way Sarah Cooper voted?”

  They got into the Vauxhall and slammed the doors.

  “I think we need to pay another visit to Mr Braithwaite, this time with a search warrant,” said Clayton. “Let’s see if we find their happy pills, and any trace of a girl who likes unicorns.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Melissa took another sip of her bespoke gin and tonic. A teasing smile played across her lips, and her cheeks dimpled.

  A fire crackled next to their table at the Unthank Arms, conveniently located exactly halfway between Clayton’s house and hers.

  “So, come on,” she said. “What was your real reason for not coming to the NFO fundraiser then?”

  Clayton scratched his head. “I know this thing about a conflict of interest sounds silly, but it could be that we’ll end up investigating the choir while we try to find who killed Kristina Manning.”

  “What? Are you serious?”

  He shrugged. “Honestly, at this point, I can’t rule anything out. Stuff is just piling up. And if we were seen together at the fundraiser, it might have been a bit awkward, that’s all.”

  “Oh, I see. I get it,” she said. “Don’t worry.”

  “Not that I don’t want to help,” he added. “I’ll give you a fiver for the cause.”

  “That’s very generous of you, sir,” she said. “You might have won the raffle.”

  He stood up and drained his glass. “It’s hot in here, isn’t it? Do you want another?”

  She shook her head. He didn’t want another pint either. He needed to get home to prepare for briefing Bligh in the morning.

  “Guess what,” she said, standing up and picking up her mac from the back of her chair. “I heard something over the tea and biscuits that might be of interest to you.”

  “You mean at the fundraiser?”

  She nodded. “Some people there were talking about Alex Parker. In the light of what happened to Kristina Manning.”

  “Alex Parker? Who’s he?”

  “He was one of the NFO trumpeters. This may be nothing, of course, but he died a few weeks ago. In the middle of a concert, in fact. There were a couple of paragraphs about it in the paper.”

  “And?”

  She lowered her voice. “Well, it turns out that people in the orchestra are wondering whether his death really was accidental.”

  Now she had his full attention. What is going on with this orchestra?

  “Of course, it might be just a conspiracy theory,” she said.

  “No, you’re right to tell me,” he said. “This could be important.”

  He’d noticed before that people confided in Melissa. He wondered whether it was her job that made her so approachable. More likely she’d chosen her job because of her extrovert personality.

  “The choir master was there, by the way. Did you talk to him yet?” she asked.

  “Christ, I completely forgot. Remind me of his name again?”

  “Dowling. Rod Dowling. He’s a retired church organist. He was saying that he’s a bit stressed out by having to deal with professional soloists as well as us lot.”

  “Not to men
tion Armani — I mean Romano,” he said with a smile.

  He put his arm round her to escort her to the door. It was drizzling outside. He kissed her goodnight on the pavement, smoothing back her hair so that he could see her face.

  “You got a brolly?” he asked. She pulled one out of her handbag.

  “When shall I see you?” she asked.

  “I’ll ring you,” he said. “This case is going to keep me busy for a bit.”

  He watched her go, thinking, This is a disaster. One murder, one attempted killing and a suspicious death. How on earth was he going to explain all this to Bligh?

  Chapter Thirteen

  Bligh waved Clayton into her office, swivelled round and adjusted her specs, ready to listen to what he had to say.

  He cleared his throat. “Ma’am, we’ve had a couple of developments linked to the Kristina Manning case.” He felt hot as he told her about the attack on Proctor and the suspicions surrounding Alex Parker’s death.

  She listened intently, wearing one of her characteristic frowns — which Clayton had never learned to read.

  “So you’re saying there’s a potential serial killer on the loose?” She sighed.

  “Not necessarily a serial killer, because we don’t know if it’s the same culprit. But it’s beginning to look like that, yes, ma’am.” He examined his fingernails, those on his left hand, cut straight for his guitar, while she sat frowning. Finally, she picked up a pen and notebook and wrote something down.

  She looked up at him. “You want me to reopen the Alex Parker case? I must say that I’m sceptical, if your theory is that musicians are being killed by their own instruments — I mean we’re not going to arrest a trumpet for murder, are we?”

  He smiled at her rare attempt at a joke. “No. But what I am saying is that if you add the trumpeter to the mix, the killer, or killers, could be sending out a specific warning with these murders, don’t you think? A message.”

  “But it would only be a message, wouldn’t it, if it was clear to everyone about the role of the instruments. And in two of the cases — thank goodness — the would-be killer didn’t succeed. I mean, in Parker’s case nobody thought he’d been murdered, and Proctor is still alive.”

  “True enough, ma’am.”

  Bligh played with her pen for a while. “Well, even so, I don’t see how someone could have been killed with a trumpet,” she went on. “A trumpet . . . The coroner recorded accidental death, correct?”

  “Yes, ma’am. That’s what was concluded from the post-mortem.”

  She reached for the phone. “Let me talk to Fiona. We’ll need further tests.”

  Clayton sank into his seat with relief. “So we’re reopening the case?”

  She nodded. “Pending approval from on high, yes,” she said. Clayton beamed. He stood up.

  “Oh, and there’s one other thing,” he said, suddenly remembering to tell her that they needed a search warrant for Braithwaite’s house.

  “So, is he a suspect then? That sounds like progress,” she said.

  “To be honest, I’m not sure. We don’t have enough to caution him. But he lived with Lauren Garner, who would have good reason to bear a grudge against the conductor who fired her—”

  “Yes, but what about Kristina Manning? She’s the one who’s dead. What would Lauren have against her?”

  “That’s what we need to establish, ma’am,” he said. “We’re onto it. The thing is, though, Lauren seems to have gone missing. That’s why it would be helpful if we could go back to the house to search for clues.”

  “Very well. Thank you, Sam,” she said.

  He almost ran out of the door and went straight downstairs to gather up Julie and Dave Bullard.

  “Things are hotting up,” he said with a smile which came out like a grimace. He could feel his heartbeat through his shirt.

  Like Bligh, they listened without interrupting.

  Then Julie said, “You know this could be a waste of time, don’t you? Reopening the case I mean. Haven’t we got enough to do?”

  “Come on, Julie. What if there’s a connection to the cello murder? It puts it in a whole new light.”

  “Whatever you say, boss,” she said, clearly unconvinced.

  Clayton was running on adrenalin now. He moved to a whiteboard beside his desk and began writing names in capitals. He stood staring at the list with his arms folded. Then he turned back to the other two.

  He held up a hand and began ticking off tasks on his fingers.

  “Right, just as soon as we get the go-ahead from upstairs, can you two go to Parker’s house and see if they’ve kept his trumpet? We’ll need it for forensics. And find out whatever you can about who might have had it in for him. In the meantime, I’m going back to see Proctor in case he’s had any thoughts about Lauren Garner and Chris Mercer. Julie, can you arrange to go to Lauren’s school?”

  She nodded enthusiastically.

  “Dave, we need all you can get on Mercer, and I want you to arrange a little visit. And then of course, we’ll be making a return visit to Braithwaite’s place. That’s for all of us. Then I’m going to make sure that someone talks to the choir director and the principal cello. And the wind section and percussion — they were the rebels who got Proctor pushed out. Anything else?”

  He sat down. Julie held up her hand. “Do you want to hear about my meeting with Sarah and Marie at the hospital?”

  “Of course, yes. But just give me the top line, and I’ll read your notes on the system.” Julie looked disappointed.

  “The main thing Sarah said was that she saw Lauren in Norwich a few weeks ago.”

  “What? Where?” Clayton stretched out a leg and kicked over the wastepaper basket. Julie and Bullard watched as the contents spilled out next to the desk and waited. They were used to this.

  Julie continued. “It sounded like Lauren didn’t want to talk to her though. According to Sarah, she pretended not to have seen her and crossed the road before going into Jarrold’s.”

  “But they were friends, weren’t they?” said Clayton.

  “Yes, absolutely. That’s what Sarah said. She also said that Lauren should have seen it coming when Proctor fired her. Apparently, she resigned from school immediately afterwards. It obviously hit her hard.”

  “OK. That’s why I need you to go to the school. Magdalen Primary, right?” Julie nodded. “Can you get hold of the head and double check why she left? Her boyfriend told me a different story, said they let her go because of budget cuts.”

  He got up again and looked at the board, massaging his chin.

  “But doesn’t Sarah know where she is?”

  “Afraid not, boss.”

  “What about drugs?” Bullard said.

  “Oh yes,” said Julie. “Sarah thinks Lauren was on something pretty strong. Apparently, she was often high as a kite at rehearsals.”

  “OK. I wish we’d known that before we saw the boyfriend,” said Clayton. “He didn’t seem to think that she was using. He was probably so far gone himself that he didn’t even notice. And what about the other woman — Marie?”

  “She couldn’t stay very long,” Julie said. “She gives private lessons and I suppose she takes her role as lead violinist seriously. But she did say something interesting in terms of connections. She reckoned there were tensions between Kristina and Lauren.”

  “What? You mean in the orchestra?” Clayton said.

  “Well, yes, a sort of professional rivalry. I don’t think it was sexual or anything like that. According to Marie, Kristina complained to Proctor about Lauren’s behaviour and so she in turn blamed the cellist for what happened.”

  Julie stopped, and the three of them were silent while they digested all this. Then Clayton said, almost jubilant, “At last! A motive. We have lift-off!”

  All heads in the office turned towards their little group. Julie and Bullard smiled at each other.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “OK, let’s see what we’ve got,” Clayton said
to himself, staring at the timeline in front of him.

  He practised his kickboxing breathing technique to help him calm down. Then he picked up the rubbish bin and shoved the crumpled papers back inside.

  Springing to his feet, he scrubbed out the names he’d written on the whiteboard, in order to rearrange them in chronological order.

  The new factor was the trumpeter’s death, which preceded that of Kristina Manning. He put the name of Alex Parker at the top. Then most recently, the attack on Proctor, so Proctor’s name went at the bottom. Somebody still held an active grudge against the orchestra.

  What about Lauren Garner — where did she fit in all this? She’d disappeared between the deaths of the trumpeter and the cellist. “A few weeks ago,” Braithwaite had said. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t involved in the later attacks, did it? Not if she was hiding somewhere.

  He inserted a note on the timeline with her name. Then he found a photo of her and stuck that next to it.

  He sat down and put his feet on the desk, frowning at the timeline. Remembering the photo he’d taken of Proctor’s pills, he phoned down to forensics to see whether Fifi was there. She was.

  * * *

  Clayton knocked on the glass of the chief pathologist’s office door. He could see her inside, seated at her desk in her lab coat.

  “Come in, Sam,” she said. “To what do we owe the honour?”

  “It’s these pills, Fiona,” he said, holding out the phone. “I took this photo over at Proctor’s place.”

  “Mike Proctor who was rushed to hospital?”

  He nodded. “That’s right — tramadol overdose.”

  She made a clicking noise with her tongue. “Do you know about tramadol, Sam?”

  He shook his head. “I know it’s a painkiller, but beyond that . . .”

  “Well, what’s interesting is that tramadol is a synthetic opioid. You’ll have heard about opioid drug addiction because it’s all over the papers.”

  Clayton nodded.

  “Like the others in that class of drugs, it’s potentially addictive,” she said. “Doctors simply shouldn’t be prescribing it. I’m fed up of finding it in my bodies. But that’s my personal gripe. Do we know where Proctor got his tramadol from?”