Scene of Crime

by Jill McGown

  Praise for Jill McGown’s Detective Chief Inspector Lloyd and Judy Hill mysteries

  SCENE OF CRIME

  “As sound an example of pure classical detection, including Agatha Christie-style whodunit misdirection, as you’ll find in the current market.”

  —Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine

  PLOTS AND ERRORS

  “A dazzlingly devious tangle of clues and coincidences … Rich flavor.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  PICTURE OF INNOCENCE

  “[A] fantastically intricate murder plot … It’s a pleasure watching McGown’s wheels of justice grind.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  VERDICT UNSAFE

  “A cleverly constructed, realistic courtroom drama that keeps you totally involved.”

  —ANNE PERRY

  A SHRED OF EVIDENCE

  “Compelling … The characters are devious, cunning, charming—and truly, truly wicked.… Lloyd and Hill at the top of their form.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  THE MURDERS OF MRS. AUSTIN AND MRS. BEALE

  “Sophisticated and satisfying.”

  —The Philadelphia Inquirer

  MURDER AT THE OLD VICARAGE

  “A first-rate mystery … A spider’s-web of a tale … Fiendishly clever.”

  —The Washington Post

  A Fawcett Crest Book

  Published by The Ballantine Publishing Group

  Copyright © 2001 by Jill McGown

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by The Ballantine Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  First published in Great Britain by Macmillan Publishers Ltd. in 2001

  Fawcett is a registered trademark and Fawcett Crest and the Fawcett colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  www.ballantinebooks.com

  eISBN: 978-0-307-55953-1

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Other Books by This Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  “I felt like a prat,” said Lloyd as he and Judy made their way downstairs from the room in the Christmas-decorated Riverside Family Center in which the so-called relaxation classes were held. It had been his first visit to such a thing. And, if he could possibly work out how to get out of it, his last, because the one thing it had not been was relaxing.

  Judy snorted. “And I didn’t?”

  “Well, at least you’re pregnant. Why do I have to do the breathing?”

  “They explained why. Anyway, you’re supposed to be relaxing, too.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, relaxing is a malt whiskey and a crossword. Or maybe a video. Or both. Not squatting on the floor making stupid noises.”

  “I don’t think the malt whiskey and crossword method of childbirth has proved all that successful,” said Judy.

  “I’ll bet no one’s tried it.” Lloyd looked at the people going down ahead of them and lowered his voice. “Apart from anything else, all the others look about sixteen,” he said. “And there am I, fifty and bald.”

  Judy arrived on a landing and turned to face him. “I’m forty-one,” she said. “How do you suppose that makes me feel?”

  He smiled and took her hands in his, looking at her dark, shining hair, and today’s choice of color coordinated pregnancy outfit. She had scoured the county to find clothes she regarded as fit to be seen in when you felt like a whale. Even in her eighth month, she didn’t look like a whale, pleasant though these creatures were, in Lloyd’s opinion. She looked wonderful. There really was a glow. He’d told her that once, and she thought he was kidding, but he wasn’t.

  “I don’t know how you feel,” he said. “But you look great.”

  “Rubbish.”

  “It isn’t rubbish,” he protested. “You do look great. I think I’ll be a little sorry when you’re not pregnant anymore.”

  “Well, I won’t.” She frowned. “Didn’t you go to classes when Barbara was pregnant?”

  Lloyd shrugged. “I don’t think they’d invented them in those days,” he said. He didn’t have the faintest idea whether they were fashionable then, but he was fairly safe in assuming that neither did Judy.

  Life had been easier back then, he reflected. His marriage had been uncomplicated, basically, until Judy’s arrival in his life made it complicated. By and large, Barbara had done the female stuff and he’d done the male stuff. He wasn’t the archetypal Welshman; he enjoyed cooking, and he didn’t mind housework. He had never expected women to be at his beck and call. But having babies had always seemed to him to be beyond his remit, as the Assistant Chief Constable would say, and he really didn’t know if Barbara had done all this relaxation business. He became aware that he was being subjected to dark brown scrutiny, and felt uncomfortable. “It was different then!” he said.

  “Different how?”

  “I was in uniform. I worked shifts.”

  It was different because Barbara hadn’t been a police officer. Judy was, and she knew what was what; he couldn’t plead a heavy caseload or the sudden necessity to work overtime; she would want chapter and verse. And it had been almost twenty years since he’d had anything to do with a pregnant woman; times had changed. Men weren’t just encouraged to be involved, they were expected to be.

  “Were you present when the children were born?” she demanded.

  “Well …”

  “Lloyd!”

  “It wasn’t—”

  “Don’t try telling me they didn’t do that in those days, because they most certainly did. Where were you? Pacing up and down outside? Waiting to hand out cigars?”

  “No.”

  “You mean you weren’t there at all?”

  “I meant to be there, but it wasn’t possible. Things came up at work.…”

  “Both times? Oh, sure they did.”

  “Look, if Barbara didn’t give me a hard time about it, why are you?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Good evening, Chief Inspector Lloyd,” said a voice. “What are you doing here?”

  Lloyd turned to see the long, thin frame of Freddie, their friendly neighborhood pathologist, loping down the steps from the rooftop car park. Lloyd had parked in the street—he wasn’t a fan of rooftop lots, or rooftop anything elses, come to that.

  “I’m here because I’m going to be a father,” he replied. “Apparently I have to learn how to bear down. What’s your excuse?”

  “When it comes to being a father, I think you’d be better off learning how to bear up, but I expect you know that better than I do. I’m here to play squash.” Freddie beamed at Judy. “Hello, Judy—positively blooming, I see. And I believe it’s Detective Chief Inspector Hill now, isn’t it? You’ve caught up to this one.” He jerked his head in Lloyd’s direction. “And not before time. How’s the new job?”

  “It’s fine, I suppose. I can’t honestly say I know what I’m doing yet, but Joe Miller does.”

  “Ah, yes. He’s the computer buff, isn’t he? My only regret about your promotion is that I won’t see you anymore.”

  Judy smiled. “Don’t take this personally, Freddie, but as far as I’m concerned, the absence of mortuary visits is a major plus about this job.”

  “Dead bodies are more interesting than most live ones—present company excepted. Besides, you should be used to them by now.”

  “I’ll n
ever get used to them.”

  “Still—there’s always the housewarming. I presume you’ll invite me, if I promise not to bring any dead bodies. Have you found somewhere to live yet?”

  “No,” said Lloyd.

  “You mean you’re still living in separate flats?”

  Not exactly, Lloyd thought. He wasn’t sure if Judy had noticed yet, but he’d more or less moved in with her.

  “We keep looking at houses, but we can’t agree on what we want,” said Judy. “It’s all going to have to wait until after Christmas now.”

  “Well, there’s one for the books,” said Freddie, glancing at his watch. “You two failing to agree. Sorry—must dash. I’m on court at quarter past. If I don’t see you before, have a happy Christmas.”

  “Same to you,” said Judy. She caught Lloyd’s wrist and looked at his watch as Freddie disappeared down the next flight of steps two at a time. “Is that the time? I’m ten minutes late for the rehearsal. She wanted us all there at eight prompt.”

  Lloyd followed as she made her way down. “I thought you just did their books for them,” he said. “How does that involve rehearsals?”

  “I’m doing the sound effects tonight because someone’s away sick.”

  Lloyd grinned. “Do you have to moo and things like that?”

  “There isn’t any mooing in Cinderella.”

  It had been the mildest of jokes. When she was in this sort of mood, he thought, she was hard work. “Can I come?” he asked. “Or would you rather I went home and came back for you?”

  “Suit yourself. But if you come, make yourself useful.”

  Lloyd walked with her through a maze of corridors that would apparently take them under cover to the Riverside Theatre, rather than having to go back out into the rain. The complex had been built with help from the lottery, and as far as he could see, it was still being built. “Watch your step,” he said as Judy briskly walked past wooden panels and pots of mysterious smelly stuff.

  She didn’t slow down.

  “What should I do to make myself useful?”

  She didn’t answer.

  Lloyd sighed. “I can make tea,” he said. “And you said you would need to eat—I can nip down to the snack bar for sandwiches or something. Will that be useful?”

  “Fine. Just don’t get in the way.”

  The theater, which they entered by a rear door that took them along another corridor into the wings, was just about finished. Not too much builders’ debris to catch the unwary mother-to-be. They walked out onto the stage, where a spare, tall woman of uncertain years and flaming hair, dressed in what seemed to Lloyd to be a remarkable number of scarves and very little else, was dramatically glad to see Judy.

  “Thank God you’re here, darling!” she said. “I was beginning to think no one was going to turn up.”

  “Sorry, Marianne, we got held up. This is Lloyd, my partner. Lloyd—Marianne.”

  “How lovely to see you here, Lloyd.” She extended her hand, palm down, and Lloyd felt certain he was supposed to bow and kiss it, but he settled for giving it a necessarily ineffectual shake. “It was my fault that we were late,” he said. “I ran into an old friend.”

  Marianne tilted her head to one side and regarded Lloyd. “I don’t suppose you could possibly read Buttons for us, could you, darling?”

  Lloyd blinked. “Yes,” he said. “If you’re serious.”

  “Oh, I’m desperately serious.” She turned to Judy. “Dexter rang and said he’s come down with something. So I haven’t got Buttons or Cinderella now. And I don’t know where Carl Bignall is. He’s supposed to be bringing the chimes, apart from anything else.”

  “Chimes?” said Lloyd.

  “Midnight,” said Judy. “The clock has to strike midnight. Carl does the sound effects, and understudies Buttons, amongst other things.”

  Lloyd frowned. “I thought you said you did the sound effects.”

  Judy didn’t see fit to explain; instead she very obviously ignored his puzzlement. Lloyd blew out his cheeks, shrugged, and threw an it’s-her-hormones look at Marianne, which Judy fortunately didn’t notice.

  “I specifically said I needed everyone here tonight on time, and what happens? Half of them come down with the flu and the other half are late—well, if no one knows where they’re supposed to be on the stage, it won’t be my fault.” Marianne turned to Lloyd. “You might have to double up if Carl’s got the flu as well, darling. And if the principals and the understudies all get it, we’ll just have to cancel.”

  “I don’t suppose it’ll come to that.” Lloyd smiled. “When do you open?”

  “Not until the end of January, thank God. We were going to open on New Year’s Day, but fortunately the Health and Safety people vetoed that because the decorating work isn’t finished. There’s scaffolding and things blocking the exits. We’ve got a month, but what with Christmas and the flu, it’s beginning to look desperate.” She turned as a small group of people arrived. “Oh, darlings, you’ve made it!” She frowned. “Well, some of you have.”

  “The traffic’s impossible,” said one. “The lights have all failed in the town center. We managed to escape down Baxendale Avenue, but I expect some of the others are stuck. Ray’s here—he’s gone to the café to get sandwiches for everyone. I said you’d settle up with him later—is that all right?”

  “Good, good,” said Marianne. “Can’t leave the house for five minutes without eating,” she muttered to Lloyd.

  No need for him to go after all. Which was a shame; it might have helped get him back into favor with Judy. He wasn’t at all sure how he’d fallen out of favor, but he clearly had.

  “Jenny said to tell you that she’ll be here,” someone said. “She’s just going to be a bit late.”

  “But that means I don’t even have Cinderella’s understudy!” Marianne threw her arms up in the air. “We might as well go home.”

  “She has to pick her parents up from the station, that’s all. She’ll be here as soon as she’s dropped them off.”

  “Amateurs,” muttered Marianne. “What am I supposed to do in the meantime?”

  Lloyd looked at the stage, which was bisected by a backdrop of Cinderella’s kitchen. From where he stood, he could see the almost-finished coach and horses behind it; just flat pieces of hardboard cut to shape and painted. And behind them was the exterior of the baron’s house, and up in the flies, the prince’s palace. With lighting and dry ice or whatever they used these days, he could see that the transforming of the mice and pumpkin into Cinderella’s coach and horses would be quite effective, even if it was all done on a shoestring. Providing they managed to fit in enough rehearsals with the actual actors before the curtain went up.

  “Judy, darling …”

  “Oh, no,” said Judy, literally backing away as she spoke. “No, Marianne, I can’t—”

  “Just until Jenny gets here?” Marianne’s hands were clasped together in prayer. “Just read the words and stand in the right places, darling, that’s all. It’s only to give the others their cues.”

  “But I can’t …”

  “Please, darling. Otherwise we can’t even begin until Jenny gets here. She’s in every scene. And I can’t do Cinderella, not with everything else—I’ll have to sort out the songs with the pianist when he gets here, and a million other things. Be an angel.”

  Very reluctantly, Judy agreed, on the condition that she would not have to sing, and Lloyd smiled quietly to himself, until he caught Judy watching him and thought it politic to change the subject. “I’ve never even been to a pantomime,” he said, and suddenly everyone was staring at him. It had been an innocent enough remark. “What?” he said. “What’s wrong?”

  “You’ve never been to a pantomime?” Judy repeated.

  “No. Well, they didn’t go in much for pantomime where I come from, much less singing, dancing, and clowning.”

  Marianne’s eyes widened. “Where do you come from, darling? Mars?”

  “Wales.” />
  “Ah,” she said, nodding sympathetically as the awful truth about his heritage was revealed to her. “Wales.”

  “They have panto in Wales,” said Judy.

  “Well, maybe they do, but not in my village, they didn’t.”

  “But you had two children,” said Judy. “And you lived in London. Didn’t you ever take them to a pantomime?”

  No, indeed he had not. Amateurs throwing a few songs and dances into Cinderella was one thing; showbiz panto was quite another. The very idea of sitting through two and a half hours of B-list celebrities and over-the-hill sportsmen assassinating a perfectly good fairy tale with bad jokes, pop songs, and innuendo, in the company of hundreds of screaming children, was enough to make Lloyd go pale.

  “No—Barbara did all that sort of—” He was being scrutinized again. “—thing,” he finished.

  “Did she?” Judy said, picking up a script and moving away.

  Lloyd sighed. He wasn’t a new man. Far from it. Tonight, he had felt like an old man. A very old man indeed. But he was going to get to play Buttons, despite his advancing years. Well, read Buttons at any rate. It might be fun.

  Ryan Chester, nineteen years old and a useful welterweight at school, was even better at stealing cars than he had been at boxing. He hadn’t wanted to box professionally; as a way of making a living, stealing cars was less painful. The one he was driving had been parked outside on the street, a front garden’s length from the house it probably belonged to, and inside that house there would almost certainly be kids, a television, people talking; he had taken the chance that no one would hear it start up, and within seconds he was out of sight of anyone in the house who may have heard it.

  Now he was on the short stretch of divided highway that would take him toward the Malworth town center, but that wasn’t what he had been intending to do at all; this evening was not working out as planned. Still, he thought philosophically, there was no one following him, nothing else on the road, so he could relax a little. He reached into his back pocket, drawing out his cellular phone, and awkwardly pressed the handset buttons with his thumb. Today had been a bitch so far, and the only good that could come of it would be if the stuff was worth something. He swung the car violently around a cyclist he hadn’t seen, mainly because the bike had no lights, and slowed down; he didn’t want to draw attention to himself like that, for God’s sake. He approached the roundabout, signaling as he went into the outside lane for the right turn, frowning as he saw the traffic on the road into the town.