“I don’t think anyone could have had the time to either use this or the trapdoor and the stairs to dump the sack,” Poole said, moving closer to the inspector.
“Me neither,” Brock answered in a low voice. “Which means whoever killed him dumped it down that chute. When Sheila gets here, I think we should have one more experiment with your running skills, Poole.”
Chapter Ten
Poole sat on one of the five metal stools which had been arranged on the stage for the cast of Foul Murder.
“Are you ready?” Brock asked him, looking at his watch again.
“Yes, sir.”
“Then go!” Brock said suddenly.
Poole leapt from the stool and headed for the wings. Diving backstage, he ran around the rear of the stage until he reached the chute. Again, he felt silly as he made the motions of pulling a sack from his pocket and throwing it down the chute, before turning and running back. He reached the stage again and jumped back onto the stool.
“Well, sir?” he said breathlessly.
“Fifty-five seconds,” Brock answered grimly.
“So, they could have smuggled some sort of sack and weight in, in their pockets, run backstage and dumped it down the cute before getting back before the lights came on,” Poole said. “They must eat plenty of carrots.”
“Carrots?” Brock looked at him, frowning.
“You know, to see in the dark, like you said before.”
“Oh, right,” Brock grumbled, clearly not in the mood for jokes. “Yes, the dark is a problem. I think we’ve had enough of looking at the physical side of things now. Let's see if we can dig deeper into the fact that everyone seems to have hated this Jarvis chap, shall we?”
They headed back out of the theatre and into the Sinton Hotel next door.
The cast were arranged at the same table they had been the night before. Mike Hart leapt up from his seat and hurried across to them.
“Just what the hell is going on here, Inspector?!” he shouted as he crossed the carpet toward them. “I was told that we could be let go today and yet here we still are, kept in this blasted place like criminals! These oafs of yours are running about the place like prison guards!”
“I have asked the uniformed officers to keep you here. They’re just doing their job. I’m sure you and your group all want us to catch who murdered Jarvis Alvarado as soon as possible?”
“Well, of course,” Mike said, a practised look of sad concern coming across his face. “But we are losing money being sat here, a lot of money.”
“Better to lose money than your life,” Brock said gravely.
“Well, yes. Quite,” Mike Hart said.
Brock looked over his shoulder at the group behind. “Where’s Jonny Turnbull?”
Hart looked nervous. “No one’s seen him this morning. Apparently he’s pretty angry at being stuck here.”
“Oh, is he now? Poole,” Brock said, turning to him. “Go and get a uniform to check on him, will you?”
“Yes, sir.”
Poole turned and made his way back out into the foyer of the hotel, where he saw Constable Sanders arriving through the large double doors.
“Hello, sir,” she said. The smile on her face sent something fluttering in his chest.
“Hello, Constable. Are you just arriving?”
“Yes, taking over from Morgan.”
“Well, before you do that, can you do me a favour?”
She placed her hands on her hips which shifted to one side and caused Poole’s throat to tighten.
“You’re always asking favours, aren’t you? Like when I had to help you clean toilet roll off your car.”
“Ah, now technically I didn’t actually ask you to help with that,” he said, grinning.
“True. Maybe I just have a weakness for saying yes to things.”
Poole wasn’t sure, but he could have sworn that the temperature in the hotel had just risen by roughly one thousand degrees.
“Constable, I need you to see if Jonny Turnbull is still in his room.”
He watched her face crack from the flirtatious smile into work mode. Crap. What the hell had he said that for?! Why on earth hadn’t he come back with some witty and flirty response that would have had her melting at the very sight of him?
Instead, he had talked to her like an inferior officer and brought them both thudding back to the reality of work.
“I’ll find out what room he’s in and go there now,” she said, moving off to the reception desk, a small bundle of efficiency.
Poole trudged back to the bar area, feeling slightly subdued.
He arrived back to find Brock sat at the table they had occupied last night, this time with Mike Hart sat opposite him.
“Inspector, you can’t expect me to sit here and gossip about these people,” he was saying as Poole joined them. “I have to maintain a level of trust with these people. Besides, they’re my friends.”
Brock gave a snort. “Friends? Come on, Mr Hart, let’s not all become actors saying lines, eh? These people aren’t your friends, they’re your meal ticket and you want to stay onside with them. I can understand that. But there’s something you need to understand as well.” The inspector leaned forward, his elbows on the table. Poole watched as Hart’s eyes widened and began to dart around, trying to take all of Brock in. It wasn’t an easy task.
“One of these people could well have murdered your star performer in cold blood, right there in front of hundreds of people. Do you think someone like that would hesitate to make you next on their list?”
Mike Hart swallowed.
“Especially if they maybe thought you knew something—maybe something that could lead to their arrest?”
“But I don’t!” Hart protested.
“Maybe, maybe not, but one thing’s for sure: I could give the impression you had and see where it leads me.” Brock’s face broke into a grin. “I could use you as bait.”
Mike Hart paled. “You—you can’t do that!”
“Of course, you were also close enough to have run on stage and hit Jarvis while still having time to dispose of the murder weapon.”
Hart’s mouth hung open like a fish. He looked over his shoulder quickly at the table of actors, assured that none of them were paying any attention, then spoke in a low voice.
“Look, if you want the truth, I wouldn’t put it past any of this lot to have killed Jarvis. Actors are all bloody insane.” He waved one hand as if to emphasise the point. “But if you want someone who really had a motive to kill him then talk to Jonny Turnbull.”
“Oh, and why’s that?” Brock said, eyebrows rising.
“Well, Jarvis has just got the lead in a big budget British gangster film. It’s all very hush-hush, of course.” He looked at them both as though he had just revealed the location of the Holy Grail.
“And?” Brock said, unimpressed.
“Well, Jonny Turnbull was also given a role; he was going to be Jarvis’ right-hand man in the film, but Jarvis scuppered it.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, Jonny confronted him last week at rehearsals and was going crazy at him, saying he’d had a call from his agent and he was off the picture because Jarvis had had a word with the director. Called him all sorts of names and then launched himself at him. Luckily security was nearby, and they pulled him off before either of them did any damage, otherwise the whole opening could have been ruined.”
“Yes, imagine that?” Poole said flatly. “Last night’s big success could have all been for nothing.”
Mike Hart’s lips tightened in anger as he stared back at him. ‘Yes, well. I didn't know this would happen. “
The three of them looked to their left as one. Constable Sanita Sanders had entered the bar and was moving purposefully toward them.
“He’s not there, sir,” she said, her voice tight and hard.
“Jonny Turnbull?” Poole said, looking between her and the inspector.
“Yes, sir. The door was locked
and there was no answer, so I got the maid to let me in, but he’s not in there. There are no signs of a struggle or anything, but…” She hesitated, biting her bottom lip as she did so. “Well, you better come and have a look.”
She turned and headed back the way she’d come.
“Wait here with the others please, Mr Hart,” Brock said as he hitched his trousers up and headed after her. It struck Poole as he followed him that for a man who was so large it was incredible he had loose trousers at all.
They headed up the sweeping staircase which doubled back on itself as they went up another floor. Then they moved along a wide corridor, its plush carpet making the place eerily quiet as they reached the door of number forty-two, which was still slightly ajar.
“I hope you didn’t leave a crime scene unattended, Constable,” Brock said, pushing the door open and stepping inside.
“Not a crime scene exactly, sir,” Sanita answered in a voice which barely disguised her annoyance at this slight.
The room itself was tastefully decorated and furnished as you would expect from a high-class establishment such as the Sinton Hotel. A small sofa stood on the far side of the room next to the bay window and opposite a flat screen TV which hung on the wall. The large bed ended in a dark, carved wooden roll. A door to its right led to the bathroom.
“Well, what are we looking at, Constable?” Brock said as she followed them in.
“In the bathroom, sir,” she said, pointing through the door.
Brock pushed it open and they stepped inside. Across the large mirror which sat flat against the tiles on their left was a short sentence written in shaving foam.
It read:
I’M SORRY FOR WHAT I DID
“Poole,” Brock said quietly.
“Yes, sir?”
“Get crime scene up here, will you? I’m suddenly quite concerned for the safety of Jonny Turnbull.”
Chapter Eleven
Brock and Poole watched as Sheila and her two assistants began to crawl across the apartment in their white suits, various sprays and utensils in their hands.
“Why do you think something might have happened to Turnbull?”
“You’ve met him,” Brock said, turning to him. “Why do you think?”
Poole thought for a moment. “He wouldn’t have left that message.”
Brock smiled. “And why not?”
Poole began to talk, forming the words in his mind as he went.
“Jonny Turnbull is a hot-head with a short temper, and he’s arrogant. Could he have flown off the handle in a fit of rage and killed Jarvis? I think so, yes. But could he have pulled it off in the cool, calculated way the killer must have used? It seems unlikely. I can’t see him taking the time to stand and write that message before he ran for it either. He would have just acted on impulse and ran, unless he was so full of remorse he felt he just had to, and that doesn’t seem like him. In any case, running is a stupid move. He had no reason to think we were on to him for the murder, and he’s got to be one of the most recognisable people in the country. Keeping a low profile isn’t going to be easy with half the press looking for him as well as the police.” Poole paused, realising he had gone on for longer than he had intended, but when he turned to the inspector it was to see him still smiling.
“Good, Poole, good,” he said, nodding. “And I agree with you. I think something happened to Turnbull and I don’t think it’s good.”
Sanita arrived back at their side from her trip back down to reception. “The hotel staff say they didn’t see him leave through the front entrance, sir, but then there are quite a few people going in and out so they could have missed him.”
Brock grunted, “Any other exits?”
“Yes, sir, there’s a fire escape at the end of this corridor, leads down into the courtyard behind the hotel.”
Brock turned to where she pointed a slender finger and headed toward the door that stood at the end, a fire exit sign above it. Poole followed, nodding at Sanita and giving her a sympathetic smile as he passed.
He could see from the strained expression in her eyes that she was kicking herself for having left the room unattended. It may not have looked like a crime scene at the time, but the inspector had been clear that he thought it was. And at the end of the day, that was all that mattered.
In the short time he had known Sanita, he had found her warm, funny and, on the odd occasion, spiky. There was something else there though, underlying how she appeared on the surface. A lack of self-belief maybe? A way of being too hard on herself?
He followed the inspector out through the door and into a stairwell of crisp white walls and matching shining floors only broken by the grips on each step heading down.
As they descended, his mind strayed to Saturday's potential meeting with his father. How would Sanita react if she knew what his father had done? Would she then question Poole as he sometimes did, wondering if the apple really doesn’t fall far from the tree?
They emerged through another door into a courtyard that was lined with the back of buildings from the street on the other side. Several cars were parked around the edge.
“Some nice cars here,” Poole said, looking around at the assorted Jaguars and Bentleys.
“What do you expect?” Brock replied. “This is the hotel of the stars these days,” he said in a sarcastic voice. “Find out how Jonny Turnbull got here and, if he came by car, if it’s still here.”
He walked to the right where an archway led under part of the hotel and back out into the road. “Check any cameras we have in the area, see if we can find an image of him leaving.”
“Yes, sir,” Poole said, making a note of all this in his small black notebook.
“Let’s go and put a bit of pressure on the rest of the cast, shall we?” Brock said with a steely glint in his eye.
Chapter Twelve
Poole watched as Brock surveyed his audience. The cast, along with their producer Mike Hart, sat in a semi-circle facing him.
“It appears that Jonny Turnbull has left this hotel. Do any of you know where he might have gone?”
There was a moment of silence before Eli Patrick spoke. “Oh, you know Jonny!” he said in a joking tone. “He’s probably gone off with a female fan if you know what I mean?!” He looked around at his fellow actors, but no one else seemed to want to latch on to his rather obvious innuendo.
“And when was the last time you saw him, Mr Patrick?”
The smile flickered on the broad, healthy face of Eli. “Oh, um. I think I saw him last night at the bar.”
“You think?” Gina Glover said, turning to him. “You were sat at the same table.”
“Oh, yes. Of course,” Eli stammered, the smile now replaced by a look of anger toward Gina, who gave him a quick ‘you’re welcome’ smile.
“And when did you last see Mr Turnbull, Miss Glover?”
“When I saw him with Eli in the bar,” she replied coolly. “He was moaning about being stuck in the hotel and saying how he was going to get out of here. I’m guessing he did.”
“And was anyone else in the bar at that time?”
“Just me and Isabella,” she said, gesturing to the thin, sallow-faced woman next to her.
“Is this true, Miss Lennon?”
“Of course it’s true!” Isabella said, waving a hand in annoyance. “Bloody hell! How long are you going to keep us here answering these ridiculous questions?! No wonder Jonny legged it.”
“And what about you, Mr Hart?”
Mike Hart looked around at the cast and then back to the inspector. “I saw Jonny last night as well, in his room.”
Brock raised an eyebrow. “What time was this?”
“Oh, around eight, I’d say?”
“And what did you talk about?”
Again, Hart’s eyes flicked across to the others.
“I don’t really think this is the time,” he said, his cheeks flushing.
“Oh, come on, Mike. We’re all friends here, aren’t we?”
Gina said with a malevolent smile on her lips.
Mike looked back at Brock and Poole with his chin raised defiantly. “I was talking to him about an upcoming movie deal.” His eyes darted to his right and the rest of the crew.
“You absolute worm,” Gina said, all signs of amusement gone from her deep brown eyes. “So, you were quite happy to jump straight to Jonny and set him up with some sweet deal that you’d take a cut from, but not me?”
“I’ve told you, Gina, you were not right for the role.”
“Not right for the role? I’m right for any bloody role, Mike,” she said, her voice full of venom.
“Rather than questioning us,” Isabella said, “why aren’t you talking to that funny little man who was always hanging around? He was here earlier today.”
Poole glanced at Brock and saw his face cloud.
“Do you mean Ronald Smith, the medical consultant for the show?”
“Yes, that’s the little twerp,” Isabella confirmed. She reached out for her glass which Poole noticed was filled with a white wine despite the hour.
“Actually, I did see Ronald this morning in the foyer,” Mike Hart said. “He was talking to the reception desk about something as I was going down to breakfast.”
Brock reached into his pocket. It may have been the expression etched onto the inspector’s face, or just that Poole had watched too many episodes of Foul Murder, but for a split second he was convinced he was going to pull a gun and start blasting at them all. Instead, he pulled a small stack of business cards and handed one to each of the actors and finally to Mike Hart.
“Right now, all of you are suspects in a murder investigation. There is not a chance of any of you getting on with your lives until this is resolved. The best way we can all move on is if we find the killer, so I suggest you call me as soon as anything becomes clear.” He paused and looked at them, waiting until all eyes were definitely on him. “For instance, if you suddenly had a flash of insight as to why one of your colleagues may have had reason to kill Jarvis Alvarado.” He turned and left so suddenly that for a moment Poole was left gaping like the rest of them at this undisguised attempt to get them to turn on each other.
A Staged Death (A Brock & Poole Mystery Book 2) Page 6