by Frank Smith
She’d been to a few plays here, and enjoyed them. The theatre might be small, but it attracted some very good actors, and productions were always well attended. But this morning she had an appointment with a man by the name of Jamie Lester, stage manager, lighting director, scene shifter and general dogsbody, according to his own description of his position there.
He was a small, wiry man of about forty, and Molly found him in a tiny office behind the stage. ‘I couldn’t believe what I was reading in the paper this morning,’ he told her once they were seated. ‘I mean, Dennis of all people. Any idea why?’
‘That’s what we’re trying to find out,’ Molly told him. ‘Do you have any idea yourself?’
‘Me? God, no. Everybody around here liked him, and we appreciated all the time he put in. Pity, too, because he was really looking forward to being in HMS Pinafore.’
‘You’re saying he was an actor? I thought he just worked behind the scenes.’
Lester shook his head. ‘He wasn’t,’ he said, ‘but he had a good voice, so whenever we had a spot in the chorus where he could stay in the background, I’d pop him in, and he enjoyed that. And, like I said, he was really looking forward to Pinafore.’
‘When did you see him last?’
Lester thought. ‘Must have been last Wednesday,’ he said. ‘Yes, that’s right, it was, and he would have been coming in again tomorrow to work on the scenery.’
‘That would be the night before he disappeared,’ said Molly. ‘How was he then? Did he appear to be worried or preoccupied?’
‘Same as usual,’ Lester said. ‘Mind you, we were both busy, so I didn’t see that much of him, but he seemed all right.’
‘Do you remember what time he left here?’
‘Ten or thereabouts. He always tried to leave by then because he had to be up early in his job.’
‘Was there anyone in particular he was working with that night?’
‘Yes, Mary. Mary Baker. She’s another volunteer. They often work together. They make a good team.’
‘Where can I find her?’
‘I can give you her address. She lives in Cherwell Street, not five minutes from here.’ He took a card from his pocket and scribbled Mary Baker’s address and phone number on the back of it.
Molly thanked him and tucked it away in the side pocket of her handbag. ‘Just one more thing before I go,’ she said. ‘Do you know a Billy Travis?’
‘Billy?’ Lester looked startled. ‘Bloody hell,’ he breathed, ‘I never thought. He was killed a couple of weeks ago as well, wasn’t he? Yes, I knew Billy. He used to do our programmes and the stills for our shows. Yeah, and that reminds me,’ he continued softly, ‘I’ll have to look for someone else to do them, won’t I? I doubt if his dad’ll be prepared to take them on. Can’t move about the way he used to.’
‘Did you know Billy well?’
Lester shrugged. ‘Can’t say I knew him all that well,’ he said. ‘Came and went. Did his job, didn’t talk much.’
‘Did he and Dennis ever meet here, talk to each other, perhaps?’
‘I doubt it. Billy used to come round in the mornings like you’re doing now, and Dennis was only here in the evenings, and the odd Saturday, of course.’ He paused, frowning. ‘Although, come to think of it, Billy did come round a few times in the evening to get some shots of the show and the actors, so I suppose they could have met then. Not that I ever saw them together.’
‘When was the last time you saw Billy?’
Jamie Lester pursed his lips. ‘Must be about four or five weeks ago,’ he said. ‘We talked about some changes in the programme format, but that was about it. And before you ask, he was the same as he always was as far as I could tell. You think they were both killed by the same person?’
‘That’s still under investigation,’ Molly told him as she slipped the strap of her handbag over her shoulder and stood up. ‘Is there anyone else here who knew Dennis Moreland?’
He shook his head. ‘Not now, but there will be a few here tomorrow night. I don’t know if they’ll be much help, but you’re welcome to come by and talk to them if you like.’
‘I may do that,’ Molly told him, ‘and thank you very much for your time.’
Mary Baker came to the door wearing an apron over her ample body and a turban around her hair. Fifty or more, thought Molly, guessing at Mary’s age. Certainly not a contender as the ‘other woman’, if there was such a thing in Dennis Moreland’s life.
‘I’m in the middle of doing a wash,’ she told Molly as she led the way into the kitchen where a washing machine was thumping away in the corner. ‘Poor thing’s on its last legs, but it does not do a bad job if you keep your eye on it. Like a cuppa, would you?’ Without waiting for an answer, Mary filled the electric kettle and plugged it in. ‘So, how can I help you? Jamie phoned not five minutes ago to say you might be round. I couldn’t believe it when he told me about Dennis. I haven’t seen the papers this morning, so it came as a real shock, I can tell you. You are sure it’s him, I suppose?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ said Molly. ‘I believe you and he used to work together at the theatre?’
‘That’s right, love, we did. Lovely lad, he was. Do anything for you. Nice to work with someone like that. I shall miss him.’
‘You and he were working together last week,’ said Molly. ‘Last Wednesday, I believe? Did you notice anything different about him? Did he seem worried or bothered about anything?’
Mary shook her head. ‘Same as always, he was. In fact he was in good spirits. We were painting one of the sets. Worked from about seven till ten. He was a butcher you know, so he had to be up early and he always left about ten to get to bed. I used to tease him about having to get his beauty sleep.’
‘Did he ever talk to you about any trouble at work, at home, or anywhere for that matter?’
‘Used to go on about his boss. He didn’t like him much. He used to talk about Joan and the kids; real proud of his kids, he was, and Joan, of course.’
The kettle boiled and Mary made tea. She insisted that Molly try her shortbread, but it soon became clear that she could add nothing to what they already knew. And when Molly mentioned Billy Travis, Mary looked blank. ‘The photographer who does the theatre programmes and the glossy stills,’ Molly prompted.
‘I may have seen him about, but I don’t remember the name,’ she said. ‘Sorry, love. Here, hang on a minute and I’ll wrap up a bit of that shortbread. You can take it home and have it with your tea.’
‘Just received the results of the autopsy on Moreland,’ Ormside told Paget when he came into the incident room shortly after lunch. ‘The summary, anyway; the detailed report won’t be available until tomorrow, but it’s pretty much what we expected.’
‘Was he alive or dead when he went over the edge?’ asked Paget.
‘Starkie believes he was alive. Whether he was conscious or not, he doesn’t know, but it was the fall that killed him. A lot of broken bones and internal injuries from the fall. The side of his skull was crushed when he fell, but there was one injury to the back of the head that occurred twenty-four to forty-eight hours before he died. It was a single blow with a blunt instrument such as a pipe or truncheon or something along those lines. Not enough to kill, but it would have knocked him out, and there were scrapes and bruises on his elbows and shins that occurred about the same time. Starkie thinks they may have been caused when Moreland was dragged, either along the ground, or possibly when he was bundled into the boot of a car or the back of a van.’
‘Moreland was a fairly big man,’ said Paget thoughtfully, ‘so perhaps more than one person is involved in these killings. It wouldn’t be easy to manhandle a man his size to the top of the quarry.’
‘Starkie has a theory about that,’ Ormside said. ‘He said he noticed a chipped tooth and bruising around Moreland’s mouth, and he thinks that something like a bottle was forced into his mouth at some point. He went back to his notes on Billy Travis and found similar marks
around his mouth, so he thinks it’s possible they were forced to drink something laced with Rohypnol or GHB, the date-rape drugs of choice these days. He says it would make the victim drowsy and compliant and much easier to handle, and it disappears within twenty-four hours, so it would be gone by the time tox got around to it in both cases.’
Paget looked sceptical. ‘That suggests the killer has access to a prescription drug that’s tightly regulated,’ he said, ‘so . . .’ He stopped when he saw Ormside shaking his head.
‘Starkie tells me it’s not hard to get. He says there are bars in town where you can get a drink spiked for anywhere from thirty to fifty quid a pop.’ He made a face. ‘Sounds like the doc’s done his homework. Makes you wonder where he spends his time off, doesn’t it?’
‘It does,’ Paget agreed. ‘I’ve been wondering how the killer managed to get his victims from where they were first attacked to where they were killed, because even Travis, small as he was, would be hard to handle as a dead weight. Is there anything else?’
‘Not really. Moreland was in good health. The complete toxicology report won’t be along for a day or two, but Starkie says there were no obvious signs of alcohol or substance abuse. There were marks on his ankles, suggesting they’d been tied at one point, probably with the same sort of plastic ties that were used on his wrists. The ties and duct tape were the same as the ones used on Travis, but there was one difference. At some point, Moreland had been blindfolded, using duct tape. Bits of thread and glue were found sticking to the eyelids, and hair from the eyebrows had been pulled away when it was ripped off.’
Paget winced at the image it conjured up. ‘What about the capital A? Did he have anything to say about that?’
‘Sharp blade, same as Travis. Starkie’s best guess is a razor blade or box cutter. Box cutter would be easier to handle.’ Ormside set the report aside. ‘We’ve checked with Moreland’s bank,’ he said. ‘He and his wife have joint accounts. No large sums in or out. No overdrafts. The house is mortgaged, and they’ve still got a year and a half to go on payments on the car, but both payments are well within their means. Mrs Moreland has a small savings account of her own, and Moreland had life insurance, but the amount isn’t anything out of the ordinary. It’ll help the wife and kids out for a short while, but hardly enough to kill for.’
‘And that’s about it,’ he concluded as he rose from his chair to refill his mug with coffee. ‘Tregalles is out talking to the rest of the staff at SuperFair, and he and Forsythe will be talking to friends of the Morelands later on.’ He took a sip of coffee and grimaced when it burned his tongue. ‘I don’t understand it,’ he said, frowning. ‘There has to be something behind this ritual he goes through. The A’s the clue, but what the hell does it mean?’
‘If we knew that, Len,’ said Paget, ‘we wouldn’t be having this conversation. In the meantime, we’ll do what we always do. Keep digging until we find something.’
Tuesday, 18 October
PC Gavin Whitelaw opened his eyes and squinted against the light as he tried to focus on the clock. Twenty past ten, for God’s sake? He threw off the covers and raised himself on one elbow. His head ached and his mouth tasted foul. He should never have finished off that bottle of Portuguese plonk last night. Thank God it was his day off.
He reached for a cigarette, lit it and sucked in a lungful of smoke and immediately started to cough. He’d been trying to quit for months, ever since the divorce, but the best he’d managed so far was two days. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and hung his head while he continued to cough. It just wasn’t worth it; he had to quit smoking. Apart from anything else, he couldn’t afford it.
Whitelaw looked around the room. The place was a mess. Clothes were on the floor; the remains of his pizza were still in the box on the table, together with the empty wine bottle and assorted dirty knives, forks, and mugs and plates. He’d had every intention of cleaning up last night, but then he’d sat down and got to thinking . . . and drinking. At least he’d remembered to hang his uniform on the hook behind the door. It might need a bit of a press, but it looked clean enough. He got to his feet, stuck the cigarette in his mouth, and made his way to the tiny bathroom, then stood there, hands on the sink, staring at his reflection in the mirror. Red eyes, pasty face . . . and there was something stuck between his two front teeth. He stuck out his tongue and shuddered. ‘You look like the bloody wrath of God!’ he told his image.
He stood up and tossed the half-smoked cigarette into the toilet. He knew there was something he had to do, today, but what the hell was it . . .?
Tregalles and Molly had spent Monday evening talking to friends of the Morelands, but, as they told Ormside next morning, everyone agreed that the Morelands were nice, ordinary people, and no one could think of a reason why Dennis Moreland had been killed.
‘The same applies to Billy Travis,’ Ormside said dourly, ‘so we’re no further ahead, are we?’
‘I thought the killing of Billy Travis had to be a mistake,’ Tregalles said, ‘but now, with this second one, I don’t think so. I mean, no one would mistake Travis for Moreland, even in the dark, so we have to assume the killer got the right man each time. The question is: why were they killed?’
‘We know the question,’ Ormside said irritably. ‘What we need are answers, and I’m damned if I know where else to look. So, unless you have any other leads to follow, I could use some help around here. There was a free-for-all outside a pub last night that put three people in hospital – two with knife wounds, one with concussion. Several with minor injuries – and all of them are women. So I’ve got two people tied up on that one. Also, the copper thieves have struck again. They cut out fifty feet of phone cable last night, leaving two villages and God knows how many farmhouses without a landline, so I’ve got two more out there. Fowler’s on a course and Sorenson’s on stress leave, and I’ve got work piling up on my desk, so I could use some help here. All right?’
Dressed in faded jeans and a heavy jacket as protection against a sudden drop in temperature and a biting wind, Gavin Whitelaw paused to look in the window of Bridge Street Motors. Next year’s models were already on display, but despite the hype on TV, they looked much the same as last year’s to him. Not that he could afford any of them anyway after the lawyers were finished with him.
He pushed the glass door open and stepped inside. Waving off the salesman who came forward to greet him, he was making his way towards the back of the showroom, when a woman came out of one of the offices and almost ran into him.
‘Sorry,’ she said as she stepped back, then said, ‘Gavin . . .? Good heavens, I hardly recognized you. How are you? Sorry to hear about the divorce. Is Bronwyn and . . . Sorry, I don’t remember your daughter’s name . . .’
‘Megan. She and her mother have gone back to Cardiff,’ he said stiffly. ‘So, how are you, Anita?’
‘Fine,’ she said, smiling brightly as if to prove it. She certainly looked fine. In fact she looked better than fine to Gavin Whitelaw. A natural blonde, blue eyes, and a great figure. He toyed briefly with the images inside his head before he said, ‘How’s Graham?’ Graham was her husband.
‘All right as far as I know,’ she said with a shrug bordering on the dismissive. ‘He’s so busy these days I hardly ever see him. The last time I heard from him he was in Glasgow. We must get together sometime when he’s home.’
She turned on the smile again. Anita Chapman had beautiful teeth, but he only had to look at her eyes to know she didn’t mean it. It was just something you said when you met someone you hadn’t seen for a while, and Whitelaw never had had anything in common with Graham. Funny bloke. Small, very dark skin. Going bald on top. English father, Sri Lankan mother. He was a franchise specialist, at least that was the way he described himself. His job was to guide new licencees through the intricacies of setting up a franchise, teaching them how to deal with banks and lawyers and accountants, and he was hardly ever home. Which was probably just as well, because, as almo
st everybody knew, Anita and Mike Fulbright had been having it off for years.
‘Right,’ he said mechanically. ‘I’d like that. But right now I’d like to see Mike. Is he in?’ He nodded in the direction of the closed door with the word Manager on it.
She nodded. ‘Here to buy a new car, are you, now you’re single again? I’m sure he can give you a good deal. Come on, I’ll tell him you’re here.’
Anita walked ahead of him to the door, knocked perfunctorily, then walked in. ‘Someone here to see you, Mike,’ she said breezily. She stepped aside to let Whitelaw pass, then stepped out and closed the door behind her.
Even sitting behind the desk Mike Fulbright looked big. Heavy set, broad-shouldered, he seemed almost too big for his chair. Not quite as handsome as he’d once been, but he was still a youthful looking man with rugged features beneath a mass of curly black hair. He wore a white shirt, collar open, and sleeves rolled up to reveal thick, muscular arms.
A big man and star performer on the local rugby team, the Broadminster Grinders.
‘Gavin!’ he said heartily, as he got to his feet. ‘Good to see you.’ He extended his hand. Whitelaw’s own hand was a good size, but it was lost in Fulbright’s iron grip. ‘Here, take a look at these. Just had them printed up. Gold lettering. Present to myself for the best sales quarter in two years. Neat, eh? What do you think?’ He took a handful of business cards from his pocket and thrust them at Whitelaw.
‘Yeah, great, Mike,’ Whitelaw said with barely a glance at them. ‘But I didn’t come to look at your bloody cards. We have to talk.’
Fulbright stepped back, frowning. ‘You look upset,’ he said, ‘but if that’s what you want, we’ll talk. But take one of these anyway. Keep us in mind.’ He peeled off one of the cards and shoved it into Whitelaw’s coat pocket, then moved back behind his desk. ‘So, sit yourself down, Gavin, and get whatever it is off your chest.’