Play Dead

by Anne Penketh

  “It wasn’t his. The people who tried to kill him brought it with them. He’s on an antidepressant called Seroxat — like in the picture. I was just wondering . . .”

  “You mean about drug interaction?” She frowned. “With Seroxat? I’m quite sure there is.”

  She turned to her computer and typed a few words. Then she sat back and looked at him.

  “Yes. Here it is. There’s a label warning about tramadol and SSRIs. Have you heard of serotonin syndrome? No, why would you? You’re not a doctor.”

  “Maybe in another life.” He grinned.

  “Well, serotonin is called the happy chemical, sometimes the happy hormone. SSRIs, including the one that Mike Proctor is taking, increase the amount of serotonin in the brain. But too much of it can be a bad thing, and if your system gets overloaded with it, the result can be fatal. And that’s where the warning about combining antidepressants with tramadol comes in. Got it?”

  “Got it,” said Clayton. “So, poor Proctor is lucky to be alive.”

  “Correct. Was there anything else?”

  He felt slightly flummoxed by her brusqueness. As usual, she hadn’t offered him a seat. “Yes, actually. I don’t want to hold you up but is it possible that tramadol can be prescribed for stage fright? I’m wondering how widespread these pills might be in the orchestra.”

  “I see. Yes. Some doctors do prescribe it for anxiety. But I can imagine that you might get players suffering from some repetitive strain injury because of their instruments, so they’d want a painkiller. You’re right of course that it’s a prescription-only drug, so that might limit its circulation.”

  “Yes, but Proctor told me that the players were sharing their pills with one another. That might make it more difficult to pin down those responsible for this attack.”

  “Oh dear. I’m sorry I can’t help you with that aspect. Good luck, Sam,” she said cheerfully, and turned back to her computer.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, Clayton was ringing the buzzer to the Proctors’ flat.

  Mike Proctor came to the door to greet him. Behind him, Clayton could hear the thunderous notes of Rachmaninoff’s second piano concerto.

  “You feeling better, Mr Proctor?” asked Clayton, gesturing inside. “Sounds like it.”

  Proctor beckoned him inside and went to the gramophone. He carefully put the record in its sleeve, and then held it up for Clayton to see.

  “Rubinstein. 1956.”

  “Wow.”

  “Do you play?” Proctor asked.

  “No, not the piano. I play classical guitar. At least I try.”

  “Well done,” said Proctor. “It’s the practice that makes perfect. But what can I do for you? You’ve not come here to discuss music, have you?”

  “I’m hoping to follow up on those two orchestra players. The ones you dismissed,” said Clayton.

  “OK, shoot,” said Proctor. He gestured to the chairs by the French windows. “My wife’s not here but I can make us a cup of tea if you like.”

  Clayton declined the offer. “I’d like you to explain why you told us that Lauren Garner wasn’t pulling her weight in the orchestra,” he began. “What exactly did you mean?”

  Proctor’s bushy eyebrows began to twitch. “Oh, simple enough. She wasn’t making any sound. You sometimes get that with players who haven’t been practising. They’re frightened they’ll be caught out, and so they pretend to play. She was blowing too gently into her instrument. But of course I knew exactly what was going on.”

  “And what was Kristina Manning’s role in that?”

  “She obviously had a good view of the wind from where she was sitting with the cellos. And yes, she did mention it to me. But what she complained about was how the clarinet wasn’t coming in on time, in particular during the rehearsals for a Mozart concert. Of course I could hear that from the podium, but I can assure you it’s extremely irritating for the other players when it happens a lot. Particularly in an amateur orchestra when we don’t have a lot of rehearsal time.”

  “So did you actually ask Kristina to report back to you?” asked Clayton, taking careful notes.

  “Well, not exactly, but she was very helpful in that regard.” He paused. “In fact, I do recall that she said something to me after a rehearsal one day which Lauren Garner might have overheard. She said the clarinet was distracting her again.”

  “And did the other players know there was bad blood between the two of them?” Clayton asked.

  Proctor nodded slowly. “I’m afraid so. The bickering between them got worse. In the end I had to choose between the two, and it was obvious that the cellist had to stay because she was behaving professionally.”

  “Right.” Clayton looked up from his notebook. “And did Kristina also report to you about Chris Mercer, the other player you let go?”

  Proctor shook his head vigorously, disturbing the hairs that had been carefully smoothed across his head. “Oh no. There was no need for that. He was dismissed because of absenteeism. He was a dilettante.” Proctor leaned forward and said quietly, “Discipline. That’s what you must have in an orchestra. You can’t have everyone doing their own thing. Sometimes it was like trying to control a bunch of unruly children. People have no idea!”

  So Kristina had been ratting on a colleague. But was that a reason to kill her?

  “So it’s safe to assume that when push came to shove and the players voted on who’d be their conductor, Kristina supported you?” Clayton asked.

  “Naturally. I would also have assumed that,” said Proctor.

  “And what about Alex Parker?”

  Proctor’s face clouded over. “Poor Alex,” he said. “Rachel and the girls are devastated by what happened. He was too young to die. He wasn’t even sixty.”

  “Yes, but I mean, was he one of your supporters too?”

  “Oh, of course. We went way back,” said Proctor. “Brilliant musician, by the way. Very accomplished player.”

  * * *

  Clayton had always liked the Alex’s lack of pretension, its cheap carpet on the floor and the bare wooden chairs. It reeked of authenticity and old-fashioned charm. He grinned to himself. Just like me.

  He bought himself a pint and put his jacket on the back of a chair, keeping on his scarf against the cold from the draught let in whenever the door opened. He didn’t have to wait more than a few minutes before Luke Martin came in, stamping his feet and rubbing his hands together.

  “Aw reet? My round,” said Clayton, getting up. “Thanks for the names, Luke. That was helpful.”

  The journalist acknowledged the thanks with a curt nod and asked for a pint of CHB. “And a packet of plain crisps,” he added.

  Clayton returned from the bar and sat down again. “I happen to know you might have missed a story that took place right under your nose,” he said with a smile.

  Martin took a sip of ale and put down his glass. “I’m all ears.” He opened the crisp packet and took out a handful. Clayton helped himself to one before Martin could wolf them all down.

  “Do you remember the trumpet player with the NFO who died in the

  middle of a concert?” Clayton said.

  “Of course. I did a few pars about it myself.”

  “Yes, I saw that. Did you ever suspect foul play when you were writing it up?”

  Martin didn’t miss a beat. Clayton could see he was on the defensive.

  “Of course I did. I went through all the motions, but the police told me it was an accidental death and there was nothing suspicious about it. Apparently, trumpeters can choke on their own spittle. Embarrassing, of course. As I recall, he started choking in the second movement of Beethoven’s Fifth. He managed to get off the stage and never came back.”

  “Well, strictly between us — and I mean that, Luke,” Clayton had been burned once before by Luke Martin but found him too useful to ignore for long, “there might be a connection between the murder of that poor cellist and the trumpeter. I’m looking into i
t.”

  “Right. OK.” Martin took a long slurp of ale and looked at the glass as though interrogating it. He held up the crisp packet and Clayton helped himself to the last two.

  “So was that why you asked me about rivalries in the orchestra? I’ve not been able to find out much on that front. All I know is that after concerts the brass players all adjourn to the Nelson Arms, right next to the hall.”

  “No, we’ve only just found out about the trumpeter, a guy called Alex Parker. So it’s early days. That’s why we can’t say anything yet about a connection between the two deaths.”

  “OK,” said Martin. “That would be a cracking story. Who’s in the frame?”

  “It could be someone else in the orchestra who has a grudge. Mind, you’d need a bloody major grudge to commit a crime like that. Or it could be a family member or, God knows, a work colleague. No shortage of suspects.” Clayton sat back and wiped his lips. “So stay tuned.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The heavy door opened a crack and Clayton could see Braithwaite’s rumpled profile. He held up the search warrant while pushing open the door.

  “Morning,” he said, handing Braithwaite a copy of the warrant. Bullard followed him inside, suppressing a cough at the rancid smell.

  “What’s all this about?” Braithwaite asked. He was in a T-shirt and jeans and stood barefoot on the tiled floor. Dragons done in black ink rippled up each arm.

  “We just need to check the place a bit more thoroughly,” said Clayton, indicating to Bullard to head upstairs. “As you can see from this,” he pointed at the piece of paper, “we have reason to suspect that Lauren may have had something to do with the death of Kristina Manning.”

  Braithwaite blinked.

  “And we also need a DNA sample from you — for elimination purposes only,” said Clayton, beckoning to an officer standing outside.

  “What do you mean?” said Braithwaite, his eyes wide.

  “It’s only a mouth swab, and it won’t go onto the national database.”

  Braithwaite went into the back room where he put on a pair of flip-flops and stood with the officer in a corner.

  Clayton walked past them into the kitchen and began opening cupboards. The stench of rubbish wafted up from under the sink. Was it possible for just one person to make so much mess? He knew the answer to that.

  He was heading into the back room when he noticed a dark wooden door in the little corridor.

  “What’s this? Where does this go?” he asked.

  “The basement,” said Braithwaite. He lifted the latch and leaned forward to switch on the light. “Be my guest.” Clayton preceded him down the steps.

  “This your smoking room?” he asked, breathing in the smell of stale tobacco. Braithwaite said nothing.

  A bare lightbulb revealed a small room whose walls were covered with black soundproofing foam. A drum kit stood in the centre. A folding chair leaned against a work counter, which was piled high with tools. Some electrical equipment and a pair of large headphones were spread out on top of a freezer.

  “So you’re a drummer as well,” Clayton said. His head was almost touching the ceiling. “Soundproofed, eh?”

  “You have to think about the neighbours round here.”

  “You sure do,” said Clayton.

  He picked up a hammer and a couple of screwdrivers from on top of the toolbox so that he could open it. It was filled with tools and packets of nails and screws. An electric drill lay on the floor. He took a couple of steps to the freezer and shifted a pile of scores onto the counter where the toolbox sat. Then he lifted the lid. The freezer was filled almost to the brim with frozen vegetables.

  “So you must have had a house full till recently, then?” Clayton asked.

  “Yeah,” said Braithwaite. “Like I told you the other day, there were four or five of us until the other week.”

  Clayton wondered what Bullard had found upstairs.

  He looked round the basement one last time and spotted a small case with a shoulder strap lying on the floor next to the freezer. Was it a laptop case?

  Clayton turned around and almost bumped into Braithwaite who was about to follow him up the steps.

  “Are you expecting me to believe that Lauren didn’t take her clarinet with her when she left?”

  “What do you mean? That’s her spare one,” Braithwaite said.

  Clayton bent down and opened the case. Inside was the instrument, its pieces nestling at the bottom.

  “We’re borrowing this,” he said. He was making his way upstairs with the instrument when he heard Bullard’s footsteps.

  Bullard was holding up a long woolly scarf. “This yours?” he asked Braithwaite.

  He shook his head. “Lauren’s. She must have left it here.”

  “We’ll need this for a bit,” Bullard said.

  “And I’ll need your phone too, please,” said Clayton. Braithwaite picked up a phone from the table and handed it over.

  “Thanks,” said Clayton. “Got a laptop? Tablet?”

  “No,” said Braithwaite, “just the phone.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Clayton stood by a newly built block of flats beside the river and pressed the buzzer by Massimo Romano’s name.

  Romano answered and told him to take the lift to the top floor. He was waiting for him when he stepped out.

  “I need to ask you about Alex Parker, the trumpeter,” Clayton began.

  “Yes, of course. Please come in. Vai-ry sad.”

  Clayton was ushered into a loft-style flat with stunning views over the city’s spires and towers.

  They sat facing each other on brown leather sofas. Romano’s open-necked blue shirt was so new that it still bore the folds from the packet.

  “Could you describe to us exactly what you saw when Mr Parker was taken ill?”

  Romano closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. He began to beat time with an imaginary baton.

  “It was the ‘Andante,’ the second movement of Beethoven’s Fifth, yes?” Romano pointed with his finger towards the invisible trumpet section. “Doo di doo doo doo di,” he sang. Clayton recognised the music.

  “Sorry to interrupt, sir, but how many trumpets did you have that night?”

  “There were two. But I noticed that after just a few bars, Mr Parker’s face became red and then he began to cough. I was worried of course, and I indicated to him that he must leave the stage.”

  “And then?”

  “He didn’t come back.”

  “But you didn’t stop the concert?”

  “Why, because I only had one trumpeter?” Romano said.

  “No,” said Clayton, “because one of them was sick.”

  Romano flared his aquiline nostrils. “Signor, what could I do? I am not a doctor,” he said waving his hands in the air. “I was hoping that the performance would not be affected by Mr Parker’s absence because the trumpets are needed in the third and fourth movements as well. Luckily, we still had the trombones, so it wasn’t a disastro.”

  He looked across at Clayton and added, “They told me that he was taken to hospital. What more could I do? Then I heard he died before he arrived there.”

  A silence fell. “And do you know who Mr Parker was friendly with?”

  Romano paused. “I think he was friends with the other trumpet player, of course. Steele. Brian Steele. And I saw him talking to the percussionist. Maybe to the trombones. But I cannot say I really noticed who he spoke to. I was too busy. I have only just found a replacement for Alex Parker.”

  “Steele is a vet, yes?”

  “If you say so. I’m afraid I have no clue, Ispettore,” Romano said. “It happened not long after I arrived in Norwich. I’m sorry.”

  * * *

  Clayton chewed the end of his pen, occasionally turning towards the door across the office, while he waited for the return of Julie and Bullard. He hoped that with the help of forensics they might stand a chance of cracking this case.

  He che
cked his watch. It was already four thirty. Where were they? He was expecting Julie to get back first. She’d been to interview Parker’s widow, while Bullard had gone further afield to see Chris Mercer, who now lived in Cley next the Sea.

  Julie came straight to his workstation.

  “How did you get on?” he asked.

  “The family kept the trumpet, thank God,” she said. “I’ve dropped it off downstairs. Same with his tux.”

  “That’s good. What else?” he said.

  Julie rattled through her notes.

  “The wife is Rachel Parker. They’ve got two daughters, school age. The Parkers had been married for twenty-one years. The family house is on Coslany Street.”

  She looked up. The address meant nothing to Clayton. “Down by the river,” she explained.

  She fished a photo out of her handbag and placed it on the desk. “She gave me this.”

  The picture showed a couple in their forties, a stocky man with a florid complexion sitting in a restaurant opposite a woman with red hair.

  “And this,” said Julie, placing a picture of the couple on their wedding day on the desk.

  “He put a bit of weight on,” said Clayton.

  “Apparently he liked his drink,” said Julie.

  Clayton told her he’d heard about the Nelson Arms being Parker’s pub of choice after concerts.

  “Not just after concerts,” said Julie. “According to Rachel, Parker and his mates from the orchestra spent a lot of time there.”

  “We’d better start interviewing those people,” he said.

  “Sure, guv,” said Julie. “But I must say that Rachel wasn’t happy when I told her that the coroner had agreed to open an investigation. Particularly as they cremated him back in September. She said it would stir up all the emotions again.”

  “Well, at least we’re not going to be digging up the body,” Clayton commented.

  “Wouldn’t be easy,” muttered Julie, returning to her notes. “She was adamant that nobody would have wanted to kill him. And she said he didn’t have any health problems in particular.”

  “What about his job? What did he do outside the orchestra?”

  “He was a sales rep in hair care. He sold stuff to hairdressers around Norwich.”