Play Dead

by Anne Penketh

  Clayton nodded and made a note. “How long had he been in the orchestra?”

  “Four or five years,” she said. “His wife said they’d met when he was doing gigs at a nightclub in Norwich. Mainly jazz, but then he got more interested in classical.”

  “OK. What about her? Does she work?”

  “Yes. She’s a part-time waitress in the café at Jarrold’s.” She looked up from her notebook. Bullard was powering through the office towards them.

  * * *

  “Sorry it took so long,” said Bullard, pulling up a chair. Clayton looked out and noticed the car park lights had been turned on in the gathering dark.

  Bullard turned the pages of his notebook. “Right. Chris Mercer. He left Norwich and moved to Cley after leaving the orchestra.” Clayton noticed he pronounced the names in the local way, Norwich rhyming with porridge, and Cley sounding like ‘Clye.’

  “I wonder why he went there? Bit of a way out,” said Clayton. He hadn’t returned to Cley since investigating a string of murders in one of the neighbouring villages a couple of years earlier. If he went running on the coast, he always chose Holkham with its windswept dunes and whispering pines. Cley was known for its windmill and the marshes, which seemed to go on for ever.

  “Nice place, I suppose. Pretty isolated though. It took me a while to find his house. It’s outside the village. He told me he can only pick up a signal on his mobile by hanging out of a bedroom window.”

  “Is the place his?” asked Clayton.

  “He told me it belongs to an uncle who never uses it.”

  “So, what’s he doing there then?”

  “Well, he keeps a dog. Probably one of the hunting, shooting, fishing fraternity. That’s his background, isn’t it, I suppose? He said he dabbles in painting. He had a big canvas in the cottage that he’s working on.”

  “And how did he strike you?”

  “Pleasant enough,” said Bullard. “He basically admitted that he couldn’t be bothered to go to the NFO rehearsals.”

  Keeping his thoughts about Eton toffs to himself, Clayton asked, “What’s the score with Kristina Manning?”

  Bullard went back to his notes. “Mercer didn’t have anything particular to say about her, and he wasn’t at the party. He did say, though, that he hung out with the younger members of the orchestra, including Lauren Garner and Mark Braithwaite.”

  “Hmm. That’s interesting,” said Julie. Clayton made a note.

  “Age?”

  “Let’s see . . .” Bullard looked down at his notebook. “Twenty-three.”

  “And Kristina was thirty-five. Quite a bit older.”

  “Oh, and he also mentioned Jake Easton, the percussionist. He’s another one in their circle. He works at the library.”

  “Yes. Good. A DC is going round to see him. Remember Proctor said the wind and percussion organised the vote against him. But what do we know about who voted which way?”

  “My understanding is that it was a secret ballot,” said Julie, frowning.

  “Was it though? I’m wondering if the people who died were the ones who stood by Proctor,” said Clayton. “According to what Proctor told me, Kristina and Parker were among his supporters, both of them.”

  “Yes, but we still don’t know that Parker was murdered, do we?” said Julie.

  Clayton was about to dispute this when his phone rang. He listened, said, “Yes, ma’am, on my way,” and slammed the phone back in its cradle.

  “Shit!” he said, jumping to his feet and grabbing his jacket. Bullard and Julie looked at each other.

  “That was Bligh. A body’s been found in a house on the Wensum. A male. It doesn’t sound like a suicide.”

  “Why’s that?” asked Bullard.

  “There are signs of a struggle and he’s got a violin string wrapped round his throat.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Can one of you come with me?” Clayton asked. Both officers got up.

  “Dave, how about you?” he said to Bullard, who went off to fetch his coat. “Julie, you can go but before you head home, try to set up a meeting with Brian Steele, the other trumpeter.”

  Julie’s eyes were wide open. Clayton wondered what was going through her mind. Then he realised they were thinking the same thing. Was this another musician killed by his own instrument? The thought made him feel queasy.

  “Was he another one with the NFO?” she asked.

  “That’s what we’ll have to find out,” he said, before setting out with Bullard.

  They drove through the dark towards the city in silence.

  Out of the blue, Bullard asked Clayton, “Do you ever think about Neil?”

  “Yes. A lot. Every time I have a coffee, actually. What about you?”

  “Yes, I do. I didn’t know him particularly well, but I guess we’ve all been affected.”

  They lapsed again into silence. When they approached the centre of Norwich, Clayton put on the siren in order to push their way through the dense rush-hour traffic.

  “Whereabouts do you live then?” he asked Bullard.

  “We’re in Drayton. Bit too close for comfort to the NDR,” he said.

  “What, the outer ring? I thought that was going to solve everyone’s traffic nightmares,” said Clayton.

  “Don’t get me started,” said Bullard, shaking his head. “The problem now is that people drive like the clappers. They don’t seem to realise that you’re supposed to slow down at roundabouts. These days the traffic’s slowed down by accidents.”

  They passed the Nelson Arms by St Andrew’s Hall and stopped at a red light.

  “Are you related to the Bullards Brewery family at all?” Clayton asked.

  “I wish,” he replied. “No, my family were farmers. Dad was the foreman on a farm outside Lowestoft, so I know all about barley.”

  Clayton smiled.

  “In fact, I was the first in our family to go to university,” Bullard added.

  Clayton mentally shook his head. So much for my assumptions. Bullard was probably just as working class as he was.

  The car dipped down Duke Street. Moments later, Bullard pointed to a white van gleaming under a streetlight. “There’s the SOCO,” he said.

  Clayton parked next to the van and they ran along the riverside to a modern house near New Mills Yard. Somebody had told him that the brick building on top of the bridge had been used for corn grinding long ago. He’d always liked this tranquil spot but, nearing it now, he could feel a vice clamping down around his chest.

  He pushed open the front door. In the living room, a young woman, bending over a toddler on her knee, was being comforted by one of the family liaison officers. Clayton nodded at her and gestured to Bullard to talk to the woman while he made his way upstairs, preparing himself for what awaited him. In one of the bedrooms the body of a man lay slumped like a broken doll on the floor. A violin string coiled round his neck was suspended from the handle of the French window overlooking the river.

  A SOCO in protective coveralls looked round when Clayton walked in.

  Clayton introduced himself. “If this guy is a violinist and he’s been strangled with a string from his own instrument, he’s the second or third one in only a few weeks, and this is a complete and utter disaster,” he blurted out.

  “At first glance it would appear that he has indeed been strangled,” the SOCO said. She pointed to the man’s neck, which was deeply scored. His face was red and swollen, the eyes bloodshot. “However, I wouldn’t like to jump to any conclusions at this point.”

  “Do you think the thing with the violin string could have been staged?”

  “As you can see, the string is tied to the French window,” she said, “and there are signs of a struggle. But the autopsy will show the actual cause of death.”

  Clayton looked round the room. A chair had been knocked over and brightly coloured pillows from the double bed littered the floor. Maybe forensics could at least pick up some fibres from the aggressor.

 
“Do you think there was only one attacker?” he asked.

  “Possibly more,” she said. “If he was struggling, it would have taken considerable force to subdue him.”

  His gaze returned to the body.

  “How long . . .?” Clayton asked.

  “Time of death? We think this afternoon. His wife found him when she came in from the kindergarten with their daughter.”

  “Name?”

  “Steve Carter. The wife is Emily and the daughter’s Skyla.”

  “OK, thanks,” he said. The door to the adjoining bedroom was ajar, and he peered inside. It was obviously used as a study. A powerful desk lamp curved over a work surface and two large computer screens stood on top of a desk.

  He went along to the main bedroom and gave it a cursory inspection. Bullard joined him at the top of the stairs.

  “He was in the NFO,” Bullard said in a low voice.

  “Did she say what line of work he was in?”

  “Graphic designer. Freelance. Working from home.”

  Clayton could hear the child crying downstairs.

  “There may have been more than one attacker,” he said.

  “You mean just like at Proctor’s? Could it be the same two?”

  “Possibly,” Clayton said. “I’m going back to the office. See you later.”

  * * *

  Clayton sat at his computer, shaking his head. He’d never heard of anybody being strangled by a violin string. It seemed such a bizarre scenario, he googled it, staring at the screen and frowning. He found what he was looking for: a Nazi spy had apparently met his death in this way in 1945. But was it true? He cross-checked the name, Admiral Wilhelm Canaris. He’d run German military intelligence during the war but then joined a small group plotting against Hitler, so the website said. His betrayal was discovered, and he suffered a long and lingering death.

  But what if Steve Carter’s death was staged? What is the murderer trying to tell us?

  Clayton took out his notebook and wrote a series of headings. What did they have in common? The killer, or killers, seemed to be working their way around sections of the orchestra — first cellists, now violinists. And, possibly, the brass. Had all the victims voted in support of Proctor, and is the killer now exacting revenge? Somehow all these killings seemed to come back to Lauren. But where the hell is she?

  He turned back to his computer. After a short google search he found Steve Carter’s website. It exploded with colour. His profile picture, showing the designer’s tanned and chiselled face, bore no resemblance to the body that Clayton had seen in the bedroom. The home page promised a professional printing service and prompt delivery, offering flyers, restaurant menus, posters and the like.

  Clayton shut down his computer with a sigh. Enough for one night. He sensed that this case was closing in on him. They were losing control. The killer was playing with them. Apparently, he — or she, or they — could decide on their next victim and kill them at a time and place of their choosing.

  With that familiar sinking feeling, he picked up the phone to ring Bligh.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The gym was quiet, and to warm up, Clayton went to a mat in the corner and began to do press-ups.

  His trainer came in and counted him through his drill. “One, two, one, two . . .” By the time Clayton had finished, his heart was pumping.

  He pulled on his boxing gloves and stood in front of a punch bag, sweating. Much as he preferred to be outside in the fresh air, the kickboxing seemed to be doing him good. Under the watchful eye of the trainer he shadow-boxed, pivoting from one foot to the other.

  “Dip your shoulder,” the trainer said. “Give me ten right hooks.”

  Clayton tried to visualise Steve Carter’s killer, to hold the image in his mind. I’ll give him what for. He jabbed with his left arm, then the right, then raising each leg, panting from the effort.

  The trainer’s biceps bulged under his short-sleeved T-shirt, and his neck was thick. Probably he lifted weights. “Good. Now give me a one-two!”

  Clayton approached the punch bag and gave it a punishing double jab.

  “Right knee jab,” instructed the trainer. His name was Guy. It was the only thing Clayton knew about him. He guessed that he was in his twenties and possibly a rugby player, judging from the physique. But he was usually too puffed to engage in small talk, so he never picked up any gossip about his neighbours, like Melissa would have done.

  After half an hour, Clayton had had enough. He thanked Guy, who gave him a thumbs up, and headed for the shower.

  “Watch your breathing!” Guy called out after him. It was eight a.m. and he was exhausted.

  * * *

  Clayton hurried to Bligh’s briefing on the latest developments in the investigation. He found a seat next to Bullard and Julie, and looked around the incident room, surprised to see so many people.

  The press officer was sitting at the front. Everyone knew what that signified. Carter’s death meant that they were going to have to go public.

  Bligh made her way to the desk by the whiteboard.

  “Yesterday, a second member of the Norwich Festival Orchestra was murdered. He’s been identified as Steve Carter, a violinist and a graphic designer by profession, with a wife and young child. As with the case of Kristina Manning, the murderer or murderers seemed to want us to conclude that he was killed by his own instrument.”

  Clayton heard a low murmur behind him. Bligh held up her hand for silence and glanced at the press officer.

  “I’m not going to beat about the bush here,” Bligh said. “We’re going to have to inform the public that the NFO is being targeted by a serial killer. There’s a risk, of course, that once this information is out there, the investigation could be disrupted. Those people of Norwich with connections to the orchestra are going to feel nervous, and rightly so. We’ll have to discuss how best to keep them safe without causing a major panic. But there we are. Two, possibly three members of this orchestra have been killed. Another was possibly the target of an attempted murder. Any questions?”

  Nobody spoke.

  She continued. “Right. However, we’re not yet going to put details about the staging of the murders into the public domain. At first glance, the victims appear to have been killed by their own instruments. As I said, the killer obviously wants us to notice this, but we don’t want to give them the satisfaction. And if there’s more than one killer out there, we don’t want to tip them off as to how the other is operating — they can’t know what we know. Is that clear, everyone?”

  Looking at Clayton, she said, “DI Clayton, I want the search for Lauren Garner stepped up. Having considered your reports, I believe there are grounds for bringing in her boyfriend and conducting a thorough house search. I understand we’re still waiting for an analysis of his phone records. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I’ll see where we are with that now.”

  The murmuring began again and some of the officers began to pick up their things.

  Bligh held up her hand. “Just a moment. There’s more.”

  She took out a sheet of paper from a file and adjusted her glasses.

  “This is the post-mortem report on Alex Parker, the NFO trumpeter who died in September,” she said, holding it up. “It says that Parker died from shock caused by non-specific pulmonary congestion and oedema. Also, forensics have now analysed the trumpet we got from Mrs Parker. There was a partial fingerprint on it which didn’t belong to Parker. We can’t match it on the database, but it’s a start.”

  Clayton exchanged a glance with Julie. That was something, at least.

  “They found traces of crushed aspirin around the mouthpiece and in the spit valve of the instrument,” Bligh said. “Now what that means remains to be determined. But according to Doctor Blackhurst, the swelling could have been caused by an acute allergic reaction.”

  Aspirin? Something triggered in Clayton’s mind. “Excuse me, ma’am, but does the report menti
on anaphylaxis?”

  “It doesn’t in fact. I asked Doctor Blackhurst about that, and if I understood her properly, she said that it’s something to do with mast cells that degranulate after sudden death. In other words, there can be a lack of specific findings. In Parker’s case, an allergic reaction to aspirin would have caused the throat to swell up and impeded his breathing, making it look like a choking fit. Anyway, I suggest that, in light of the latest discovery, our present working assumption is that this was an anaphylactic reaction and that if he was murdered, the killer knew of his allergy.”

  She paused. “So the presumption is that the victim knew his killer, as did Kristina Manning. Now, the big question is whether all these incidents are related. DI Clayton, are we certain that Kristina Manning’s boyfriend is in the clear?”

  “Yes, ma’am. His alibi checked out.”

  “Right. I believe we should continue to focus on the connections between the orchestra members. What we need to do is join up the dots. OK, everyone?”

  Clayton nodded automatically and watched Bligh walk out. Bullard stood up, and after a quick word with a colleague, walked towards the door.

  “Wow. What about Parker, eh? That’s a bit of a surprise,” Julie said to Clayton. “I didn’t know that aspirin could be fatal, particularly not in such small quantities.”

  “Haven’t they ever asked you at the doctor’s if you’ve any allergies? They always mention penicillin and ibuprofen and aspirin. I only know because my ex told me that they’d had patients die from anaphylactic shock in hospital. It happens amazingly fast too.”

  “From aspirin?” asked Julie. “I’ve heard about prawns or strawberries. Peanuts, even, but not medicine.”

  “Some people are allergic to bee stings or spiders. It’s a scary world out there, Julie,” he said, lowering his voice like an actor in a horror movie. “But you’d have to be pretty close to someone to know that they had that kind of an allergy.”

  “Yes. So, do you think it could be someone in the family?”

  “Can you go back and talk to them? It’s possible that there’s an innocent explanation for it. He might have been sick and taken something containing aspirin by mistake. Although I doubt it.”