Play Dead

by Anne Penketh

  “Hi, boss,” she said, looking up. Did he detect a slight smirk? “You heard about Braithwaite being caught?”

  “Yes, yes. We need to talk tactics. But did you get anything else on the trustafarian?”

  She looked puzzled.

  “Fiske-Mercer?” Clayton asked.

  “Oh. Yes. What’ve you got against poshos, by the way? Is it something personal?” She paused. “If you don’t mind me asking, that is.”

  “Oh, that’s OK,” he said. “It’s a class thing, I suppose, from my upbringing.” Julie was nodding sympathetically. She must have her own ideas about me.

  He ploughed on. “I guess what gets me is the sense of entitlement. When I was a kid, everyone in my family always called people who didn’t have a local accent ‘poshos.’ It’s the north-south thing too, I guess. I mean, we always used to think all southerners were snobs. It’s stupid, I know . . .” He tailed off, smiling sheepishly.

  “I guess we’ve all got skeletons from our childhood in the cupboard,” said Julie. She hesitated, and Clayton wondered whether she was going to say more.

  “Anyway,” Julie said, “I eventually got through to Mercer’s father, who told me he wasn’t the slightest bit interested in what he called his son’s ‘antics.’ Turns out they’ve been estranged for years. I’m still trying to get hold of his uncle, the one who owns the cottage in Cley.”

  “OK. Good.” Clayton noticed her staring at his arm, which was hanging limply by his side.

  “Are you OK?” she asked.

  “Why?”

  “Your arm.”

  “Oh, I must have pulled a muscle.”

  “Yes, I heard you got a bit wet,” she said. So they did all know. He waved with his good arm and went back to his desk.

  * * *

  “Softly, softly,” Clayton muttered. He and Julie were on their way downstairs to interview Braithwaite. They’d agreed that the best tactic would be to start the interview by focusing on Lauren. There was no point rushing — forensics needed time to sift through the stuff at the barn where Braithwaite had been hiding. Plus they’d be examining the discarded jacket, which had been found near the duck pond.

  Braithwaite was brought into an interview room accompanied by a female duty solicitor. Clayton switched on the tape before cautioning him. He asked Braithwaite if he understood that he was under arrest on suspicion of murder.

  “Yes,” said Braithwaite. He wore a pair of jeans with a pullover whose odour could be detected from across the table, and a sullen expression on his face. He had dark circles under his eyes.

  “As you’re aware, the body of Lauren Garner was found in the deep freeze in your basement,” said Clayton, trying to control a file in front of him with one hand. “We estimate that she died at the time when you said she disappeared from the house.”

  He put down his pen and fixed Braithwaite with a stare. “How do you explain the amount of drugs that she’d taken before her death?”

  “She got them from Chris Mercer!” Braithwaite blurted out.

  Clayton blinked. He hadn’t expected such a swift response. “OK, Mark. Why don’t you start at the beginning? We’ve been told by a number of people, that Lauren was into drugs. There’s no point in stringing us along like you did last time.”

  Braithwaite sighed. A strand of dark hair flopped over his forehead. He picked at some fluff on his pullover sleeve. Was he playing for time?

  “It happened over a period,” he said at long last. “Chris first gave her something for her stage fright, but then, when she got wrist pain after a rehearsal, I noticed that she went back to him. She told me it was tendonitis. Anyway, he gave her tramadol and I think she got hooked on it.”

  He looked at Clayton. “And like I told you, it got worse after what happened with Proctor.”

  “You mean, after he told her to leave the orchestra?”

  Braithwaite nodded.

  “For the tape, Mark, that’s a ‘yes,’ right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know where Chris Mercer got the drugs?”

  “The internet of course,” Braithwaite said.

  “OK,” said Clayton. “Did Lauren mix the tramadol with anything else?”

  “I think she must have that night. We were taking Molly. A couple of students were at the house, and we all started dancing to Solarcube. Chris got out his flute.” Braithwaite gave a bark of a laugh. “He was playing like a crazed Pied Piper.”

  “And then what happened?” Clayton asked.

  “Time passed. I don’t remember how long. I noticed that the two other guys had crashed out on the mattresses in the other room. The three of us — me, Chris and Lauren — kept jumping around, bumping into one another. Lauren was waving her arms in the air. Then I felt tired and fell onto the sofa, and that’s all I remember.”

  “That’s all you remember?” Clayton asked. “So, what time did you wake up?”

  “I didn’t notice the time. But the first thing I saw was Lauren collapsed on the floor.” His voice began to tremble. “I had to shake Chris to wake him up.”

  “Why didn’t you call an ambulance? Didn’t you realise she’d OD’d?” said Julie.

  Braithwaite ran a hand through his hair. “Yes, of course I did. I wanted to call an ambulance, but Chris said we didn’t want the cops round because of the drugs. And in any case, it was too late by then.”

  He brushed a tear from his cheek. Clayton wondered whether it was the first time he’d talked about Lauren’s death.

  “So, then what did you do?”

  “Chris had the idea of taking her downstairs. We weren’t thinking straight, I agree,” said Braithwaite, looking across the table towards Julie.

  “What about the other two guys? They didn’t wake up?” Clayton asked.

  “They were in the back room, completely wasted.”

  “But why didn’t you tell us all this before?” Clayton asked, dropping his pen onto the table. He was afraid Braithwaite might pick up on his anger and clam up.

  “I don’t know!” Braithwaite shouted. “Nothing like this has ever happened to me before. How would you feel if your girlfriend just suddenly dropped dead in front of you?”

  “We’ll pick this up tomorrow morning,” Clayton said, reaching for the tape recorder.

  He watched Braithwaite leave the room with the solicitor and turned to Julie.

  “How could he do that?” she said. She sounded upset. “Not call an ambulance! They wouldn’t necessarily have called the police.”

  “They’re looking at manslaughter charges just for that, I reckon,” said Clayton. “Not to mention Mercer supplying Class A drugs. Did you get anything else on him yet, Julie?”

  “I didn’t have time before they called us in for Braithwaite,” she said. “Did you notice how Braithwaite is trying to put the blame on him for everything?”

  “I did, yes,” said Clayton, with a grin. “Bligh is going to love this. But let’s see how cooperative he is when we ask him about Carter and Kristina Manning.” He reached across and lifted his left arm so he could check his watch. It was after seven p.m.

  “You should get home to Ollie,” he said. “See you tomorrow.”

  He went back upstairs to his desk. He knew what he needed, or more to the point, who. He picked up the office phone and began to dial. He could still remember Claire’s number by heart.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Clayton was sitting, bare chested, on a kitchen stool.

  If Claire noticed that the sparse hairs on his chest were now a different colour, she said nothing. She worked her way along his arm with gentle fingertips. They’d first met at the Manchester Royal Infirmary when she was treating him for a head injury, which he’d sustained in a scrape with a bunch of yobs. This soft, sure touch was the first thing he’d noticed about her.

  “So, what happened?” she asked.

  “I fell into a duck pond near Cley.”

  She burst out laughing. “A duck pond?”

 
Maybe it was funny after all. He laughed with her.

  “Does this hurt?” she asked, raising the injured arm.

  He shook his head. Great. He was fine, apparently.

  He was about to stand up when she said, “And this?”

  He almost levitated from the pain. “Bloody hell, Claire! Be careful.”

  “I am being careful,” she said. “You should go straight to the hospital for an X-ray. I think you may have broken your arm.”

  She started opening drawers and took out a tea towel. Apparently, it wouldn’t do. Wrong colour? Those stains on the cloth?

  “Have you got a scarf?” she asked.

  “Sure. In the hall,” he said, nodding in the general direction.

  A few minutes later, shirt back on, he was trussed up like an oven-ready turkey. His left arm was bandaged neatly in a sling made from his woolly scarf.

  “There,” she said, stepping back to admire her handiwork. “That should do.”

  “I don’t know how to thank you . . .” he began. She gave a nervous laugh.

  He got up from the stool and leaned against the kitchen counter. “So, how are things?”

  “Oh, not so bad,” she said.

  “You seeing anyone?”

  Her smile broadened. “I am at the moment, yes,” she replied.

  “Not another doctor,” he said. He couldn’t help it. But she ignored the jealous undertone.

  “No,” she said. “I found Malcolm on a dating app.”

  Malcolm? What kind of a name is that?

  “So, you’re swiping right these days, are you?” he said, trying to sound casual.

  “You should try it,” she said. “Oh. You’re with someone at the moment, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” he said, noting the ‘at the moment.’ Woman’s intuition? Or was she implying something about his character?

  He looked up. Claire was looking straight at him.

  “Does she make you happy?” she asked. This deserved a serious reply.

  “Yes. She does, actually,” he said.

  “That’s good,” said Claire. For a moment, she seemed about to ask a follow-up question. Then he could see her thinking better of it. He wouldn’t have been ready to answer.

  * * *

  The next morning, Clayton took a cab to work. Claire’s diagnosis had been confirmed by the hospital, where the consultant had wanted to sign him off work for ten days. When Clayton explained he was investigating the NFO murders, the consultant let him off.

  “I heard about the woman in the freezer,” he’d said. “Terrible.”

  They drew up in the car park. Left arm in a sling, Clayton struggled out of the taxi. This was going to be tricky. Just so long as Bligh didn’t insist on sending him home.

  Julie looked up with concern when he passed her desk.

  “So, what was it?” she said.

  He grinned. “Turns out I broke my arm. I broke a piece off the top of my humerus.”

  “Can you manage?” she asked, getting up.

  “Well, you’ll have to get the coffees from now on,” he said.

  “I’ve found some stuff on Mercer, by the way,” she said. “Or should I say Fiske-Mercer.”

  “Great. Just let me check something with forensics and I’ll be right with you.”

  * * *

  Clayton and Julie returned to the interview room and called in Braithwaite, who entered, accompanied by the same petite solicitor as the previous evening. Clayton stood up to switch on the tape, noticing Braithwaite’s eyes on the sling.

  He sat down, using his right arm to open the file, and repeated the caution, glancing up towards the camera. He was very conscious of Bligh watching the interview from upstairs.

  “Now, Mark, let’s go back to the time when Lauren was fired from the orchestra and lost her job. You told us she went off the rails. What did you cook up after that? I mean, you got rid of Mike Proctor, the conductor, but you didn’t stop there, did you?”

  Braithwaite twisted his hands together. He must have been waiting for this moment.

  “I’m talking about your friend, Alex Parker,” said Clayton.

  Braithwaite’s features tautened, giving away his surprise.

  “Because you were one of the few people outside his family who knew about his allergy, weren’t you, Mark?” Clayton said. His tone was menacing.

  “No comment.” Braithwaite jutted out his chin and looked defiantly at Clayton.

  “Just think about this, Mark,” said Clayton. “Based on what you told us yesterday, you’re facing a jail sentence for failing to rescue Lauren. You need to think about saving yourself by telling us the truth about what happened. We need to know who tampered with his trumpet.”

  The solicitor said something in a low voice to Braithwaite, who shifted in his seat.

  “It wasn’t me!” said Braithwaite. “It was Lauren.”

  “Yesterday you were telling us it was all Chris Mercer’s fault. And now it’s Lauren’s.” Clayton shook his head. “Come on, Mark. What really happened?”

  “It was Lauren who crushed the aspirin and put the powder on his mouthpiece,” he said. “It was her idea.”

  “But it was you who told Chris Mercer about the allergy, wasn’t it?”

  Braithwaite nodded.

  “Is that a ‘yes,’ Mark?” Clayton said, gesturing in the direction of the tape recorder.

  “Yes.”

  “Right. But why Alex Parker? He was one of Proctor’s supporters, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes. But he hadn’t always been. He only told me that he’d vote for him when we were contacting the players.”

  “OK.” Clayton sat back in his chair and put down his pen. “So, are we talking about a hit list of those who voted to support Proctor?”

  Braithwaite was twisting his hands again. “That’s what Lauren wanted. She said we should ‘get’ everyone. Alex was so easy that Lauren said we should ‘do’ Kristina as well.”

  “And so that’s where Chris Mercer comes in again, is it?”

  Braithwaite ignored the question. “We went round to her place on a Sunday morning. He had some drugs for her.” Was Mercer supplying everyone in the orchestra?

  “Wait a moment,” Julie said. “Lauren died before the attack on Kristina Manning, correct?”

  “Yes,” said Braithwaite, sounding matter-of-fact. “But we carried out her plan. It’s what she would have wanted.”

  “And did the plan involve shoving her cello spike through her body?” Julie’s voice was harsh, barely concealing her disgust.

  “No!” said Braithwaite. “We only thought of that when we saw the cello in the dining room. That’s how we got the idea of the players being killed by their own instruments. First Alex, then Kristina. In fact, we were talking about that on the night Lauren died. She was on a high because it had been so easy slipping the pills to Alex.”

  “And Mike Proctor, with his head under the piano lid?” asked Clayton.

  “We just wanted to scare him,” said Braithwaite.

  “We? Who are you talking about here?” demanded Clayton.

  “Me and Chris.”

  “Right,” Clayton said. “But I still need to know why. What was the point? Proctor had already left the orchestra by then.”

  Braithwaite lapsed into silence. “Why not? He was responsible,” he said after a while. He paused, adding in a low voice, “I loved her.”

  “Well, you may not be aware of this, but if Mrs Proctor hadn’t found him in time, the tramadol you gave him would have killed him, because of an antidepressant he was taking. That would be another murder charge you’d be facing.”

  Clayton waited for his words to sink in. When was Braithwaite going to realise just how much trouble he was in?

  “OK. And what about Steve Carter? Another one apparently killed by his own instrument — except that he was actually smothered with a pillow, according to our pathologists.”

  “Oh. That was completely different. That was for raping Lauren. S
he asked us to get him after it happened. We just had to find the right moment, that’s all.”

  “‘We’ being you and Chris Mercer, I presume.”

  “Yes.”

  Clayton had heard enough. “I suggest we take a break,” he said, switching off the tape.

  He picked up his file and left the room with Julie, leaving Braithwaite deep in conversation with the solicitor.

  “Jesus Christ, Julie, I can’t believe what I’m hearing,” he said.

  “I know. And he’s so matter-of-fact about it.”

  “I’m going to have to talk to Bligh about the charges here. And of course, we haven’t heard Mercer’s version of events yet. Do you think Braithwaite’s telling the truth?”

  “Hard to tell,” she said. “But it seems like he wants to get it off his chest.”

  “Well, I’m not having him wriggling off the hook. He’s blaming everyone except himself.”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  They reconvened in the interview room.

  Clayton noticed that Braithwaite’s forehead was moist. He’d pushed up the sleeves of his pullover, revealing his tattoos, as though he was suffering from the heat. Maybe the solicitor had given him a reality check.

  “Mark, this is your best chance to tell us everything that happened,” Clayton began. “Our forensics department recovered a substantial quantity of tramadol from the barn where you were hiding. What can you tell us about that?”

  “Those pills, they’re not mine,” Braithwaite said. “Chris asked me to keep them there in case the cottage was searched.”

  “Very well,” said Clayton. “Now, we were talking about Steve Carter. Whose idea was it to go after him?”

  “I told you. It was Lauren’s,” he said.

  “So how did Chris Mercer come to be involved then?”

  “We talked about it after Lauren died. Steve had hurt her, and we decided to hurt him too. He deserved it.” Braithwaite didn’t question the reference to Mercer’s involvement.

  “Hurt him — or kill him?” Clayton said.

  Braithwaite shook his head.

  “For the tape please, Mark.”

  “We didn’t intend to kill him, but he struggled. He wouldn’t shut up, so Chris got a pillow from the bed and we pushed it onto his face. He stopped moving.”