A Staged Death (A Brock & Poole Mystery Book 2)

by A. G. Barnett

  “What do you fancy for dinner tonight?” he said, opening the fridge again. It was full of beer, plastic pouches of various gooey substances his mum applied to her face and kale. Guy had questioned why anyone on earth would need so much kale at once, but his mother had explained that Ricardo had told her that it was a superfood and would transform her, both in spirit and body.

  After the violent incident which had eventually sent her husband to prison, Jenny had thrown herself into the spiritual world—which included throwing herself onto a man called Ricardo, who as far as Poole could tell was part salsa dancer, part yoga teacher, part guru and all conman. His mother seemed happy though, and so he had bitten his tongue other than to make sure she was careful with her money.

  “I’ve already eaten,” her voice came from the sofa. “I tried that sushi place in town. Not bad, as it goes.”

  “Right,” Poole said, closing the fridge slightly harder than necessary. He had noticed that his mum hadn’t managed to contribute to either the food, shopping or the cleaning yet. Bearing in mind that generally the only things on her calendar were yoga and the occasional aura cleansing (whatever that was), he felt she might have chipped in more.

  He moved to the kitchen drawer he reserved for random odds and ends and most importantly takeaway menus when the sound of the letterbox opening made him pause. It was late for anyone to be dropping something through his letterbox, and only the postman had the key to enter the main door downstairs. Anything else was dumped in the communal box in the lobby and was picked up whenever people could remember to check it.

  He turned and walked to the door where a small white envelope lay in front of it. He picked it up and turned it over. Just his first name, written there by hand.

  Something sent a shiver down the back of his spine and he froze for a moment before his brain kicked in again and he wrenched open the door and burst into the corridor.

  There was no one there, just the cold flat tiles and the cream-coloured walls. He listened, seeing if he could hear footsteps echoing from below, but there was nothing.

  He ran down anyway, reaching the door and running out into the small carpark which sat at the front of the building.

  There was no one in sight, no sound, no movement.

  His heart pounding, he headed back up the stairs, where he found his mum in the corridor, cucumber slice in each hand, her ghostly face looming in the dimly lit hallway.

  “What on earth’s got into you?!’ she said, annoyed. “I thought something had happened to you!”

  “We got a letter,” he said, moving past her and back into the flat.

  “A letter? There was nothing in the post this morning.”

  “This was just delivered. Look.” He turned the envelope around and watched as his mother’s face paled. He knew already what she was going to say, had known it from the moment he had seen the letter.

  “That’s your father’s handwriting,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.

  He moved across to the small table which sat against the left-hand wall of the kitchen area and sat down. He waited until his mother had joined him and then opened the envelope carefully.

  Guy,

  I know how you feel about me but I’m not going away until we talk properly. Meet me on Friday night at the market wine bar, 10 pm.

  I know what’s done is done and that you might never want to look at me as your dad again but there are things you need to know.

  Dad.

  Poole looked up at his mother.

  “Well, you can’t go,” she said, her voice shaking. She stared at him, her brow furrowing as he didn’t respond. “Guy, you know you can’t?”

  “I need to,” he answered, the dark tone of his voice surprising himself as well as her. “This is going to hang over me for the rest of my life unless I talk to him. I need to face this. I need to face him.”

  “It won’t do any good!” she said, throwing her hands in the air. “Your dad lied to us. He ruined everything! That poor boy died!”

  “I know that,” Poole said quietly. “And that’s why I need to talk to him. It’s time.”

  His mother slumped back in her chair, shaking her head as though it was on fire.

  “What does he mean, there are things I need to know?” Poole said quietly.

  Her gaze snapped back to his. “He’s a liar, Guy. You know that.”

  “And what lie do you think he’s going to tell me?”

  She stood up and walked across to the small wine rack and pulled a bottle of red out.

  As he watched her pour a glass, he thought of how few conversations they had had about his dad, about what he had done. Despite the incident that had changed his life, making him determined to become a police officer, Guy had never read any newspaper articles on the case, he had never asked to look at the case files.

  The only information he had really had about what had happened was from other kids at school—the ones who taunted him that his dad was a gangster, that his dad was a murderer.

  He had fought back, become immune to it all, and gradually they had moved on to another hot topic. He had tried to forget it all rather than face it. He had buried it as deeply as he could while he threw himself into his career, becoming the youngest Detective Sergeant in the country.

  Then his father had been released, and now it felt as if his past was always right behind him.

  “What is it, Mum? What does he think I need to know?” he said again as she sat down.

  “To tell you he’s innocent, I’d imagine,” his mum laughed, without a hint of humour.

  “Innocent?” Guy said, staring at her.

  “Oh, come on, Guy. The man is a born liar. All those late nights he worked, all the times he was away on business trips, what was he really doing?”

  Guy studied her face. It was contorted with pain and anger—an anger she had hidden behind herbal remedies, yoga and crystals, and a pain that none of those things had healed.

  “Did he tell you he was innocent?” Guy repeated.

  “Yes! Despite the fact they found goodness knows how many kilos of drugs in the garage! Said he didn’t know what was in them. Can you believe that?!”

  “And you didn’t believe him?” Guy’s voice was quiet, small. He realised the letter which was still in his right hand was shaking like the last leaf of autumn. He dropped it onto the table top and placed his hands flat either side of it.

  “Oh, I wanted to. At first anyway. But the police had all this evidence. There was no getting away from it. Your father was in it up to his neck, all the others turned on him, gave him up.” She took another large gulp of wine. She was calmer now, the anger giving way to sadness.

  “I have to go and see him, Mum.”

  She stared at him for the moment, her eyes burning, before turning away and refilling her glass.

  “Now don’t freak out,” Laura said as soon as Brock stepped through the door of their house.

  “Well that’s never something someone wants to hear as they arrive home, is it?” he said as he hung his coat on the rack on the wall.

  “I just know what you’re like,” she said, standing on tiptoes to kiss him lightly on the cheek. “Any sort of change and you act like the world’s ended.”

  “And how exactly do you know how I’d react to the world ending?” he said as he followed her along the hall to the kitchen.

  She stopped and turned to him, her head tilting to one side as she frowned.

  “Actually, you’re right. I think you’d enjoy the world ending. It would give you something new to moan about, and it would give you the chance to say you were right about all the things you already moan about.”

  He tried to form a hurt expression but instead burst out laughing.

  “Right, now you’re in a good mood,” she said, pushing open the kitchen door.

  There was a scrabbling of claws on the laminate wood floor and a small, scruffy bundle of brown slid straight into Brock’s legs, where it proceeded to tug at his
shoelaces.

  He stared downward for a moment as the small puppy growled and pulled at his shoes. He looked up to see Laura, a worried and apologetic smile on her face.

  “Look, I know we should have talked about this first,” she said, her hands spread in front of her apologetically. “But I thought it would be difficult to deal with a puppy and a baby at the same time, so if we got the puppy now, then it would be all house trained and things by the time the baby arrived.”

  Brock felt his chest heave. “You mean…?” he said, his voice breaking.

  “Oh.” Laura’s eyes widened in horror as she realised how what she had said had sounded. “Oh no, I’m not.”

  Brock breathed out slowly and watched her eyes fill with sudden tears. He moved forward and hugged her closely.

  “I think it’s a fantastic idea. What’s her name?”

  “It’s a boy, you idiot.” She pushed him away and bent down to pick up the pup. “We can call him whatever we want, but the people at the rescue place were calling him Indy.”

  “Indy?” Brock said, taking the small bundle from her and holding it up to his face. The dog had spaniel ears, but long rangy legs that seemed too large for its body. It was clearly a cross-breed of some sort.

  “Did they say what the breed was?” he asked as the puppy sniffed at his hands.

  “A working cocker spaniel and a border collie mix apparently, which means it will be intelligent and need lots of walking.”

  Brock glanced past the puppy and raised his eyebrow at Laura.

  “Oh, we’ll work it out,” she said dismissively, moving closer and putting her arm around him. “Just look at his little face!” She stroked under the puppy’s chin with one finger and its tail wagged enthusiastically.

  “Indy," said Brock thoughtfully. “It’s a good name I think.”

  “Me too.”

  They stood, her arm around him, and stared at their new charge. Brock felt a warm glow take over him as he wondered if by some miracle they would be stood like this with a child one day.

  A small noise made him look down to the see the puppy spraying him with urine.

  “Oh, bloody hell!” he cried, putting the dog back onto the floor.

  “I think that means he likes you,” Laura said, laughing.

  Chapter Six

  Poole paused while putting his trousers on as he caught sight of himself in the full-length mirror which leaned against the wall of his bedroom. His hand reached down and traced along the rough line of the scar that ran around the outside edge of his left thigh.

  There was a time, before his fifteenth birthday, when he would have considered a scar from a bullet wound to be the absolute height of coolness. Now he avoided looking at it. Every time he did, the pain of that day came flooding back. He snapped his eyes from it and pulled his trousers on.

  Half an hour later he was arriving at the carpark at Bexford Station to find the place alive with activity.

  News vans, TV cameras and people with recording devices were gathered around the entrance to the building like lions around a zebra.

  He readied himself for the onslaught of questions as he approached the front door. Keeping his eyes fixed firmly ahead, he used his long stride to eat up the ground quickly.

  Roughly halfway through the throng, he slowed and looked about. No one had thrust a microphone in his face and asked him for a comment, no one had stuck a camera in his way. In fact, no one was even looking at him.

  He continued, feeling slightly hurt at this response.

  “You made it through all right then, I see?” Roland Hunt said, his large belly half resting on the reception desk in front of him.

  “Yes thanks, Roland,” Poole answered, hoping he hadn’t been watching the indifference of the press toward him through the window.

  “Inspector Brock barely made it through a few minutes ago,” Roland continued, a gleam in his eye. “They wouldn’t leave him alone! Shouting questions at him, they were.”

  “Right,” Poole said, teeth gritted.

  Why on earth did this bother him so much? They hadn’t pestered him as he’d come in, so what? It didn’t mean anything.

  It did mean something though. It meant they didn’t see him as anyone of importance, or as someone who would know anything. He knew he was young for his position, but it got under his skin that people would judge him by it.

  He walked straight to the canteen and grabbed a coffee before joining Brock at his usual table in the corner of the small room.

  “Morning, sir,” he said as the inspector slid his empty plate to one side and picked up his own coffee.

  “Morning, Poole.”

  Poole’s eyes landed on the plate where the telltale signs of egg yolk and grease showed a fried breakfast had recently been devoured.

  Laura, the inspector's wife, had given Poole strict instructions to make sure that her husband stuck to the diet he was on to increase his fertility and their chances of conceiving. Poole had, of course, said that he wasn’t going to be an informant, and the three of them had all had a good laugh.

  Despite Poole’s refusal, Brock was now acutely aware that he knew about the diet he was supposed to be on and was forever looking guilty and furtive whenever Poole and food were around.

  “Nice breakfast, sir?” Poole said innocently, his face blank.

  “Yes thanks, Poole,” the inspector said stiffly. “I suppose you came through that bloody scrum out there?”

  “I did.” Poole nodded. “Not surprising I guess. This is going to be headline news for a while yet.”

  “Which means we need to solve this as soon as possible before Bexford becomes a bloody circus,” Brock grunted. “Bloody Ron Smith,” he said, shaking his head. “He’s got a lot to answer for here, even if he didn’t kill anyone.”

  Poole frowned. “You don’t really think he could have done it, do you?”

  “Oh, I’m sure he didn’t; he’s too much of a weasel to actually hurt anyone. But I’ll never rule anyone out unless it was impossible for them to have done it.”

  “So, what are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking that almost every one of those buggers last night gave us nothing, so I say it’s time to do a little bit of digging, and I know just the person to help us.” He nodded toward the door where Constable Davies was entering, his helmet lopsided as always.

  “Morning, sirs,” he said, grinning. “Isn’t it exciting? All the press here and that.”

  “Oh, I can barely contain my excitement,” Brock answered bitterly. “So, I hear you're a big fan of Foul Murder?”

  “Yes, sir,” Davies answered, looking embarrassed. “I know it’s a bit silly and all that, but it’s good fun.”

  “The real question is, what do you know about the actors?”

  “Oh, well,” Davies said, sitting down. “You’ve got Jarvis Alvarado, of course.” He paused, frowning. “Well, did have I guess. Anyway, he’s the big star. My mum fancies him something rotten. She phoned me in a right state this morning when she found out.”

  Poole glanced at the inspector, waiting for an eye roll, but it didn’t come.

  “And what about gossip?” Brock said between sips of coffee. “What did this lot have going on in their private life?”

  “Oh well, there’s Jonny Turnbull’s thing with the photographer, and then there’s—” Davies stopped as Brock raised his hand.

  “What photographer thing?”

  “He punched a photographer a few weeks ago outside his house and someone got it on film. It was all over the internet.” He looked at Brock’s blank expression and turned to Poole for help.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said, palms raised.

  This was true. While he watched the show, he had no idea about anything to do with the cast beyond their names.

  He had never been into the world of celebrity, and from the expression on the inspector’s face, he wasn’t either.

  “OK,” Davies continued slowly, “so Jon
ny Turnbull is your typical bad boy. He’s been in rehab a couple of times; likes to party a bit too much apparently.”

  “And he’s obviously got a temper?” Poole said.

  Davies laughed. “Famous for it. He’s always kicking off in some club or other.”

  “And what about Isabella Lennon?” Brock asked.

  “She’s was one of those ‘it’ girls.” Again he looked at their blank expressions. “It’s someone who’s famous for being famous.” Again, nothing from his audience.

  “Let’s just pretend that someone being famous for being famous makes sense and move on, shall we?” Brock said.

  “Well, I don’t know a lot about her other than she came from some rich family and was always in the papers, having her photo taken at parties. Then she got the job on Foul Murder and it was big news because it was her first acting job.”

  “Well, that explains her hamming it up in her interview with us, sir,” Poole said. “She was still practising.”

  The inspector chuckled and then drained the last of his coffee. “OK, what about Eli Patrick?”

  “I don’t know much about him,” Davies said, frowning. “He’s not in the papers much.”

  “And Gina Glover?”

  Davies’ face turned a light crimson as he grinned like a school kid. “Yeah, she’s amazing.” He seemed to suddenly realise who he was talking to and turned an even darker shade. “I mean, she’s a very good actress,” he said hurriedly.

  “And is she one of these…” Brock paused. “‘It’ girls you talked about?”

  “Gina? Oh blimey, no! She’s classy, you can just tell. There’s talk of her going into films, you know,” he said with a knowing nod.

  “OK, well thanks, Davies. You can go and get on now.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said, standing. They watched him walk away, waiting for him to realise. He’d got halfway to the door before he turned back. Poole lifted his helmet from the table and held it up for him.

  “Thanks, sir,” he said with an embarrassed grin, before turning away again.