by Anne Penketh
Burridge was still on his feet. He gripped the edge of the table and stared out of the window, obviously reviewing his options. Clayton glanced towards the door, concerned that he might make a run for it. Well, if he did, Julie would have to chase after him.
“Mr Burridge, in the light of your relationship with your nephew, who is currently facing murder charges, we have reason to suspect that you may have been an accessory to murder,” said Clayton, watching Burridge closely.
“What on earth . . .? What are you suggesting?” Burridge glared at them, his stare an exact replica of that of the ancestor on the wall above him.
“I’m suggesting that following his release from the orchestra, you made use of Mr Mercer in order to exact revenge against Mr Proctor and the orchestra in general.”
Clayton stood up and cautioned Burridge.
But instead of resisting arrest as he’d expected, Burridge took a deep breath. Releasing his hold on the table, he said in a calm voice, “Very well.”
Clayton gave Julie a quick glance of surprise. She widened her eyes.
“Just give me a moment,” Burridge said. “I need to get my jacket from upstairs. Bandit, sit.”
The Lab sat obediently at Julie’s feet and gazed up at her while she ruffled its neck.
“Good doggy,” she said. The sunlight caught her hair, highlighting the blonde strands in it.
“Do you like dogs?” she asked Clayton.
“Not particularly,” he said. “They’re a dangerous nuisance when I go out running.” He pointed towards the painting. “Do you see any family resemblance?”
Julie squinted up at the portrait.
“Maybe the nose,” she said. “Slightly drooping. Mercer has the same one too.”
The sound of the gunshot made them both gasp. Clayton was the first to hit the stairs. He heard Bandit lolloping behind him, followed by Julie. Even before he reached the bedroom, he knew exactly what they were going to find.
Chapter Forty-four
The few remaining journalists were packing their cameras into their vans when Clayton arrived back at the nick.
He smiled. Maybe things would get back to normal at last. In a couple of days he’d be free of his sling, and the expense of taking a cab into work every day.
Julie and Bullard came over to his desk.
“Bligh wants to see us,” said Julie. He frowned. Now what?
The three of them trooped upstairs, where Bligh was waiting for them in her office. They stood in a ring around her, so that she was forced to get up from her seat. Clayton knew she didn’t like people towering over her.
“You all deserve a break,” she said. “Not all at the same time, of course, but make sure you take some time off. It’s been a tough case. Well done.” This was what, with Bligh, passed for a herogram.
“How’s Mercer?” Clayton asked.
“He’s still pretty upset about his uncle,” said Bligh. “But at least he realises that he no longer needs to protect him, and of course the harassment charges regarding Romano have been dropped. But he’ll still go away for a long time.”
“No comment,” said Clayton with a grin.
“We may have saved him from himself, in fact,” said Bligh. “Fiona says that, given the levels of opioids in Mercer’s blood, he was probably taking more than thirty pills a day.”
Julie’s eyes widened. “So you think all those pills in the barn might have been just for him?” she asked.
“Could be. He was probably well on the way to having an overdose himself,” said Bligh. “But we know he was handing round drugs, don’t we? And how easy it was for him to order them in bulk.” Clayton remembered how worked up Fifi had been about tramadol.
“Anyway, this obviously raises questions regarding his mental health, as he’s clearly an addict,” Bligh said.
They all knew what she meant. Clayton visualised Mercer’s expensive defence team, all dressed exactly like April Cox. What if they argued for diminished responsibility? He might get off with manslaughter and could even serve his sentence in a mental hospital.
“Anyway, they could try that defence, but from my experience I’d be surprised if they got anywhere,” said Bligh, as though reading his thoughts.
They filed out. “Anyone fancy a coffee?” asked Clayton.
The cafeteria was buzzing with officers getting coffees to take back to their desks. Clayton resisted the temptation of a bacon sandwich, and the three of them took their drinks to the corner table, where the ficus was looking increasingly distressed.
Clayton pulled up a chair and blurted out, “I want that sick bastard to rot in jail. If it wasn’t for him, Kristina Manning and Lauren Garner would still be alive. He was their dealer, after all.”
“Well, it’s out of our hands now,” Julie said. “And I guess we do all need a break.” This was her way of telling him to move on. She was right.
“So, are you going to take a holiday?” he asked Bullard.
“I missed half-term, so I’ll have to wait till Christmas now,” said Bullard. “What about you, Julie?”
She grimaced. “Same here. Though I might try to get away for a weekend or two when Ollie’s with his dad.”
“So that leaves me, then,” said Clayton. He could hardly remember the last time he’d taken time off. He hadn’t even missed work after his injury.
“You’re not still blaming yourself for what happened to Burridge, are you?” Julie asked.
“It’s hard not to, isn’t it?” said Clayton. “Looking back, it was pretty obvious he’d do a thing like that. He obviously saw himself as more of a victim than a crook.”
“If only we had the benefit of hindsight in our investigations,” said Bullard. Clayton nodded. He remembered the body in the freezer, buried under bags of frozen veg.
“And while we’re talking about hindsight,” Bullard went on, “I wish I hadn’t given Mercer the benefit of the doubt when I first met him. We could have saved a lot of time.”
“Don’t worry, Dave,” Clayton said. “I can think of plenty of cases when I’ve done the same. I’ve kicked myself afterwards — sometimes literally.”
Julie laughed. They were silent for a while, and then she said, “You know, I wondered why Mercer reacted so oddly when we mentioned the printer thing.”
“Reacted oddly? I can’t say I noticed anything,” said Clayton.
“Yes, he said something like, ‘why are you asking me about that?’ He seemed genuinely puzzled. He obviously didn’t know anything about the poison pen letters.”
“Why didn’t you mention that at the time?” Clayton asked.
“It only struck me after Burridge died.”
“Hindsight again,” said Bullard. He finished his coffee and got up. “I’d better go back and clear my desk.”
* * *
It was dark when the cab dropped Clayton outside Romano’s building. He pressed the buzzer and the conductor let him in.
Romano opened the door holding a glass of whisky in one hand. “What happened to you?” he asked.
“I tripped over while arresting a dangerous criminal,” said Clayton with a grin.
“Ah. Your work is vai-ry dangerous, Inspector. Come inside. There’s a clear view tonight. Would you like a drink?”
Clayton hesitated. “Sure. Would you have a beer?”
“Only wine, or this,” said Romano, holding up his glass.
“OK then. Thanks. Whisky would be fine,” Clayton said. They stood at the penthouse windows, admiring the illuminated spire of the cathedral, and then gazing out across the city towards the castle. A crescent moon hung in the sky.
“This must be one of the finest views in the city,” said Clayton, raising his glass to Romano’s. “That’s the Plough over there,” he said, pointing to the stars. “And there’s the Great Belt.”
“Ah, so that’s what you call it,” said Romano. “La cintura di Orione.”
“I’ve come round because I heard that you might be going back to Rome,”
said Clayton. “I hope you’re not serious about leaving, particularly now that your tormentor is dead.”
“Put it this way, I’m still thinking about it,” said Romano, waving a hand. “If I live in a place, I want to feel welcome there.”
“But you are welcome here! It will be a disaster for the city’s cultural life if you go. Please don’t go, maestro. I know that the letters were horrible but believe me, they weren’t personal. The letter writer was an embittered and unstable guy with a grudge against the entire orchestra, and that was why he directed his hatred against you.”
Clayton noticed the lines on Romano’s face. “Do you see what I mean?” he added. “In his mind, you represented the orchestra.”
Romano turned towards the window, then back to Clayton.
“I feel like I am building an entirely new orchestra,” he said. “The players are distracted. There have been murders. I have had to audition new players, while preparing a full season. I must now find a new double bass because the player has been arrested. I have been called a paedophile and the people in my building are afraid of me. It is vai-ry stressful, you understand?”
Clayton nodded. It’s stressful for us too, you know.
“Do you like Norwich, Inspector?”
“Please call me Sam. Well, that’s a good question. I’m not from here, you see. I’m from up north. It’s very different up there. But I’ve got used to Norwich. I have a girlfriend here.” Why am I confiding in a complete stranger? “Anyway, you’ll get used to it too.”
“Up north? Where is that?”
“I’m from Preston. But you probably won’t have heard of it. It’s near Manchester.”
“Ah, Manchester, yes,” Romano said. “The Halle Orchestra. Barbirolli. I used to think he was Italian, you know, before I discovered that he was born in London.” He laughed. “You are a musician, I believe, Sam?”
“Classical guitar,” said Clayton.
“That is my instrument too!” said Romano.
“Oh. I presumed you were a pianist,” said Clayton, indicating the grand piano stretched out in the living room.
“Wait, I’ll show you,” said Romano, disappearing into another room. He returned with a guitar case and took out the instrument.
Clayton looked down at his sling and pulled a face. “I’d love to try it, but it’s a bit difficult at the moment.”
“So, I shall play for you,” Romano said, sitting down to tune the guitar. “Your choice.”
Clayton took a sip of his whisky, inhaling the aroma, and sat back on the sofa. “Let’s see. How about something Italian?”
“Of course!” Romano began to strum.
Both of them looked out at the view. Then Romano paused. “Berio,” he announced. But Clayton had known even before he began to play that he would choose the Sequenza XI for guitar. He nodded in appreciation.
He placed his glass on a side table to listen. Sounds of flamenco filled the room before they were chased away by discordant melodies. Clayton surveyed the city at their feet before turning to watch the musician engrossed in his art.
For the first time in months, he relaxed, feeling warm and comfortable. Stretching out his legs, he wondered what Melissa was doing. Maybe she might fancy taking a holiday.
This feels like home.
THE END
Acknowledgements
I’m indebted once again to former police officer Robert Erett for sharing his expertise, and hugely grateful to Dr Mike Hayward. I’d also like to thank my critical readers Mike Beach, Claire David, Veronica Forwood, Mary Friel and Mike Gray for their insights, and my editors at Joffe Books. Any mistakes, of course, are mine alone.
THE END
OTHER BOOKS BY ANNE PENKETH
DI SAM CLAYTON
Book 1: MURDER ON THE MARSH
Book 2: THE BAD SISTER
Book 3: PLAY DEAD
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ALSO BY ANNE PENKETH
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DI Sam Clayton has never dealt with such an extreme crime in the quiet Norfolk villages that are part of his patch. When a waitress, Emma Dawson, disappears, it looks like the police might have a serial killer on their hands. Emma seems to have been part of cultish group obsessed with contacting the dead via a medieval mystic. But a mysterious Frenchman and one of the local nature wardens are also suspects. The mystery is further complicated by the locals’ reluctance to share their secrets with the police. DI Clayton’s team also harbour some tragic secrets and it looks like only one of his detectives will be kept on, even if they do catch the vicious killer.
When another child disappears, DI Clayton faces a race against time to prevent any further crimes. Not only that, but he must confront local superstitions and keep his team under control as violence threatens to spiral out of control.
BOOK 2: THE BAD SISTER
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The two crimes stretch the team and both come dangerously close to home. And can Clayton forgive his sister for what happened over twenty years ago?
In a thrilling conclusion, they race against time to prevent more attacks and get justice for their loved and not so loved ones.
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