“And did you notice anything odd about his behaviour?”
She gave another high laugh, like a bark from a Pekinese. “Everything was odd about Jarvis’ behaviour. The man was a spoiled brat.”
Poole wondered for a moment if she could see the irony of saying this.
“Jarvis got a lucky break and then he just took whatever he wanted and screwed everyone else, but that’s the game isn’t it?”
“The game?” Poole asked.
“Showbiz,” she said with a shrug. “That’s what it’s all about. You reach up and grab whatever you can from above and at the same time you stamp bloody hard on whoever’s below you.”
Poole noticed Brock frowning at this surprisingly eloquent, if distasteful, point.
“And is that what you do, Miss Lennon?” Brock said, his voice hard and low. “You kick down the people below you and drag down the people above? Like Jarvis Alvarado maybe?”
“You know about the job?” she said, her cool suddenly evaporating.
Poole glanced at Brock, but his large over-sized features were looked in a rigid, blank expression.
“I mean, everyone was all over him as soon as we knew about the movie deal.” She looked up at them sharply. “But that’s not why I slept with him. Jarvis was a good-looking bloke and I decided I needed a bit of fun. The fact that he might have been able to get me a role in the film was just an added bonus.”
“And did he offer to put in a good word for you?”
“He said all the right things.” She shrugged. “But who knew with Jarvis. He’d say anything if he thought he could get something out of you.”
“And are you sure there isn’t anything else you’d like to share with us?” Brock said, leaning forward and placing his large elbows on his even larger thighs.
“Like?” she said, a mocking look in her eyes.
“Like maybe Jarvis promised you a role in the film, slept with you and then told you to sod off and that you had no chance of the role?”
Isabella’s nostrils flared in anger as a knock came at the door of her hotel room.
Constable Davies came in, tripping over the door frame as he did so.
“What is it, Davies?” snapped Brock, annoyed at the interruption.
“It’s Jonny Turnbull, sir. We’ve found him.”
From the frantic way his Adam’s apple bobbed and the wide-eyed urgency in his eyes, Poole knew what he was going to say before the words had even left his lips.
“He’s dead, sir,” Davies finished with a squawk.
Chapter Fifteen
They found Gina Glover in the bar area, sat at the bar itself, with Mike Hart. Gina was swigging a large gin and tonic as Mike seemed to be pleading with her about something.
“Come on, Gina, be reasonable,” he said as they approached.
“And what would you like Gina to be reasonable about, Mr Hart?” Brock said, his barking voice making the producer almost jump out of his black polo shirt. Poole had noticed that it was all the man ever seemed to wear, and for some reason, it irritated him.
Hart looked back at Gina, who gave a low laugh.
“He’s trying to get me to change my mind.”
“Change your mind about what?”
“I’ve quit the show. This series will be the last Foul Murder I appear in. And good bloody riddance to it.”
“Let’s just not do anything rash,” Mike Hart said. “We’ve all had a stressful couple of days. Let’s just let the dust settle a bit.”
“The dust settle?!” Gina shouted back at him, her face full of rage. “Jarvis is dead, and Jonny…” Her face turned to one of shock and she turned to Brock, who stood to her left.
“Yes, Miss Glover? What about Jonny Turnbull?”
“Well, he’s missing, isn’t he?” she said, turning back to her drink and attacking it with gusto.
“No, Miss Glover, he’s not missing,” Brock said slowly.
Mike Hart’s head jerked toward Brock, whereas Gina’s remained staring at her glass.
“You’ve found him?” Hart said. “Where was he?”
“He was in the theatre,” Brock said, his eyes not leaving Gina. “Isn’t that right, Miss Glover?”
She turned to him slowly, her rich auburn hair falling across her left eyes slightly.
“I didn’t kill him,” she said in a flat, cold voice.
“What?!” Hart said, slipping from his stool to his feet, his eyes wide. “Jonny’s dead as well?!”
“I’m afraid so, Mr Hart. But you knew that already didn’t you, Miss Glover?” Brock said, turning to her.
She drained the rest of her glass before speaking. “I’m not going to say another word without talking to my lawyer. But don’t worry, Inspector; I’ve already called him, and he should be here at any moment.”
“And at what point did you call him? Was it just after you’d killed Jonny Turnbull?”
“Inspector!” she said, her eyes wild. She looked as though she had more to say but stopped, instead taking a deep breath before she spoke more calmly.
“I’m not saying anything else until my lawyer is here. You can drag me down to the station if you want, but the same will apply and then you’ll just have half the nation’s press on your doorstep.”
Brock eyed her for a moment before speaking, his eyes not leaving hers.
“Poole, go and find a constable to wait with Miss Glover until her lawyer gets here, will you? Then they can escort her to her room where we’ll be along shortly.”
Poole headed off to the lobby and returned a few minutes later with Constable Morgan, a sour-faced Welshman who always seemed to be chewing gum.
Gina smiled at him and turned back to the bar to order another gin and tonic.
“Can we have another word with you, Mr Hart?” Brock said when Poole and his notebook had returned.
“Um, yes,” Hart said, looking nervously at Gina.
They stepped toward the corner of the bar they had sat in on the first night, Brock’s eyes constantly roving back to the bar where Gina sat with her back to them.
“Why is Gina Glover quitting the show?” Brock asked.
“Oh, I’m sure she won’t quit; it’s just all this business has put everyone on edge.”
“It’s also got two people killed,” Brock said flatly.
“Yes,” Hart said, his gaze dropping to the floor. “Jonny as well—I can’t believe it.”
“So what reason did Gina actually give you for quitting?” Brock said, not letting go of the thread.
Hart looked decidedly shifty. He half turned back to the bar, glancing at the back of Gina and then turned back to them, apparently satisfied she was far enough away.
“She seems to have got it into her head that she is being kept in the cold about this film deal,” he said, his voice low and conspiratorial.
“This bloody film,” Brock said shaking his head. “What exactly is it?”
“Well, it’s a full-length motion picture adaptation of the TV show. We have high hopes that it could become a long-running franchise, like James Bond or something.”
“If it’s based on the TV show, doesn’t it make sense to just use all of the cast from the TV version?” Poole asked.
Hart looked at him as though he was a child asking a ridiculous question.
“There’s a certain amount of concern from the company putting the film together that the current cast isn’t quite… how shall I put this?”
“Not quite Hollywood enough?” Brock said, making Poole glance at him in surprise. This wasn’t the first time in this case that the inspector had surprised him with his grasp of show business.
“Well, exactly,” Hart said giving a slightly embarrassed smile. “Jarvis was fine, of course; he had that star quality that everyone’s looking for. In fact, the company were so keen for Jarvis to reprise the role he has on the TV show they had asked him to consult on the rest of the casting. Somehow the rest of the cast here had got wind of it and it had caused some tension.
”
“What sort of tension?”
“Well there’s something you’ve got to know about Jarvis,” Hart said, his voice suddenly bitter and angry. “It wasn’t about the job for him, or even the fame—it was about power. And having this sway with the movie deal put him over the edge. He was a bloody nightmare to everyone.”
“So, you seem to be a man in the know. Who exactly was likely to be part of this film?” Brock said.
Hart’s right hand began turning the wedding ring on his left absentmindedly. “To be honest, I don’t really know.” He looked slightly sheepish. The portrayal of being in control suddenly seemed slightly silly. He was scared now, his mind clearly revolving around the two deaths of his colleagues and deciding he didn’t want to be any part of it all.
“I was playing them off against each other, trying to get some kind of idea of what was going on, so I could get in there myself somehow.”
“And what did you find out?” Brock asked impatiently.
“Well, Isabella was boasting about how Jarvis was going to get her a part in the film, so I tried to butter her up. But she told me to bugger off, and then Gina got wind of it and started having a go at me for helping to get Isabella a role instead of her.” He put his head in his hands and rubbed his face hard.
“And what was Jonny’s position in all of this?”
“Well, he…” Hart paused and looked up at them, something passing across his face as though a realisation had dawned. “Oh, bloody hell.”
“What is it, Mr Hart?”
“Well, when the news of Jarvis got out I got a phone call from the film company. Suddenly they actually did want me to get involved.”
Poole noted the slight note of bitterness in his voice.
“Well, I sort of suggested that maybe they could replace Jarvis with Jonny. His name is already linked to Foul Murder and I think given a break like this he could have gone on to big things.”
“So, first Jarvis Alvarado is destined for the lead role and he’s killed, then you suggest Jonny Turnbull and within a day he’s dead too?” Brock said.
Mike Hart’s face turned pale as he slumped back in his seat. “Oh God.”
“And did you tell anyone else about this change of plan?”
“No. I wouldn’t want to jeopardise the whole thing by blabbing my mouth off.”
“So Jonny Turnbull must have told someone,” Poole said, turning to Brock. “And whoever that person is, they’re likely to be our killer.”
“Um,” Hart said, frowning in confusion. “I doubt Jonny would have told anyone either for the same reasons, but that wouldn’t matter anyway.”
“How do you mean?” Brock said.
“Well everyone in the industry knows anyway—secrets don’t stay secret for more than a few minutes in this job. Anyway, the main reason the film company were keen on appointing another member of the cast was precisely because Jarvis had been murdered. It’s all good publicity, you see?”
“Bloody show business,” Brock muttered darkly.
Chapter Sixteen
Brock and Poole had moved back toward the lobby area, deciding to catch up on whatever the early findings of Jonny Turnbull’s death were.
As soon as they had passed through the swing door from the bar, they were confronted by the small and worried-looking figure of Ronald Smith.
“What the bloody hell are you doing here, Ron?” Brock said, his voice full of exasperation and annoyance. “Can you not understand what I said to you earlier?! You’re really not doing yourself any favours.”
“I know, Sam, but I need to talk to you.” He looked around furtively. “In private.”
“We’re pretty busy right now, Ron. Can this wait until later?” Brock answered, looking past the small figure and scanning the room for someone who could give him an update.
“It’s just that I’ve remembered something that happened the night before the launch.”
Brock’s eyes swung down and fixed on Ronald’s.
“I’m not sure it’s relevant to the case though,” Ronald said hesitantly.
“Well that’s not for you to decide now, is it?” Brock grumbled, his grey eyes intense. “Just tell us what you’ve remembered.”
Ronald’s small and almost hairless head turned left and right, his beady eyes searching the busy lobby. “Can we go somewhere else?”
Brock sighed impatiently but jerked a thumb toward the back of the hotel and headed off.
A few moments later, the three of them stood in the courtyard at the back of the hotel as Ronald ran a hand across the top of his head. “The other night I saw Gina Glover and Jarvis going at it.”
There was an uncomfortable silence.
“No!’ Ronald shouted, his short arms waving above his head “I don’t mean like that. I mean they were arguing.”
“Arguing? What about?”
“I don’t know, but I caught a bit of what they were saying.”
“Which was?” Brock asked impatiently.
“Look, Sam,” Ronald continued in his whiny, nasal voice. “What the hell’s going on here? I heard Jonny’s dead as well?!”
“Ron, we don’t know what’s going on yet because every silly bugger involved in this bloody TV program isn’t telling us everything they know, and now you’re at it!”
“I just want to know I’m not going to be the next one to end up dead!”
“Then tell me what the hell you know and maybe it will help catch who’s done this!”
Ronald kicked at a stone on the floor which rolled away and hit the wheel of a Jaguar. “Gina was saying something about Jarvis being ruled from his pants and that he was being used by Isabella.”
“And what did he say to that?” Poole asked.
“Well, he was angry. He told her she should stay out of it unless she was willing to change teams.”
“Change teams?” Poole continued.
“Look, I don’t know! That’s all I heard!” Ronald said, his arms waving again. “Sam, you’ve got to do something about the press. They won’t leave me alone—the phone at home hasn’t stopped ringing and they keep coming around. They think I’ve been thrown off the case because I’m something to do with Jarvis’ murder!”
“You've been thrown off the case because you are something to do with his murder, Ron,” Brock muttered as he moved past him and across the courtyard to the back door to the theatre. “You were there, it was your idea,” he shouted over his shoulder. He stopped as he reached the doorway and turned back. “You’ve made this mess, Ron; now you’re going to have to live with it until we can find whoever this bloody murderer is. Now go home.” He turned and stepped through the door, slamming it behind him.
“Don’t worry,” Poole called to Ronald as he followed the inspector to the door. “We’re going to find out who’s behind all this and you can get back to your life.”
Ronald nodded miserably as he watched him go.
“Aren’t we going to talk to Gina Glover, sir?” Poole asked, catching up with Brock in the corridor at the back of the theatre.
“I want to see if Sheila’s got anything from Jonny Turnbull’s body first,” Brock answered, his pace not slowing. “And anyway, she was the one who was insisting on waiting for her lawyer. So, she can wait for us for a little bit. Let her stew.”
Although Poole’s long stride was a match for the inspector’s, his thin legs lacked the power of Brock’s tree-trunk-like limbs. The large shape of Brock in front of him seemed to almost fill the small corridor, and for a moment he was reminded of the scene in Indiana Jones when the boulder rolled toward the hero down the tunnel. Poole suddenly felt glad to be behind the advancing inspector and not in front of him.
When they emerged into the theatre, it was to see the body of Jonny Turnbull being wheeled out through the double doors at the top of the long flight of steps which ran down the middle of the seats. Sheila was still there with two crime scene colleagues. She stood near where the body was found and was scribbling on a cl
ipboard as they climbed up toward her.
“What have we got, Sheila?” Brock asked as they reached her.
She turned to them, her face serious. “Well, I don’t think this guy got drunk and fell.”
“Go on,” Brock said.
“Well, for starters look at these steps.” She pointed down at their feet. “They’re shallow and carpeted, not exactly the right combination for someone to fall a great distance and break their neck. The other thing is, if he was drunk enough to have a bad fall, he’s also unlikely to have an injury like that.”
“How do you mean?” Poole asked.
“Well when you’re drunk you don’t react as well when you fall, so you don’t tense up. It’s why people who are drunk or asleep tend to fare better in car crashes than those who were fully alert at the time of impact.”
“I’ll remember to try and be asleep if I’m ever in a car crash,” Poole said.
Sheila grinned at him and carried on. “The coroner’s just left but he seems to think there’s very little in the way of injury other than the broken neck, which is a bit suspicious for a fall down a flight of stairs. The only thing we’ve really got to go on forensics-wise is the bottle of booze. I’ve had a quick dust for prints, but it looks like there are only the victim’s on there. I’ll get it back to the lab and see if I can pull any DNA off it.”
“OK, thanks, Sheila.” Brock’s voice was deflated. He had been expecting more. “Come on then, let’s go and see Miss Glover,” he said to Poole, looking at his watch. “It’s getting late and we’ll need to set up uniform to cover the night shift before we go back to the station and interview her. I want people stationed at the door of every room that’s involved in this thing. No one else is going to die here.”
“Yes, sir,” Poole said promptly. He had now seen enough of these moods from the inspector to recognise what to do in the situation, and that was to be efficient and comply. When Brock was frustrated, he was liable to bite your head off with one single wrong word uttered. That type of incident always meant that a few minutes later the inspector was feeling guilty and embarrassed and Poole was feeling slightly annoyed and hurt.
A Staged Death (A Brock & Poole Mystery Book 2) Page 8