The waiter stood glaring as he closed the door while the three of them burst into laughter.
“What happened?!” Jenny Poole said, leaping to her feet as soon as Guy had stepped through the door.
“It’s fine, Mum,” Poole said, alarmed at her panic. He hung his coat on the line of pegs to the left of the door and moved across to her.
She squeezed him in a tight embrace, as though to make sure he was really there. The faint scent of cannabis reached his nostrils, but he decided to ignore it for today.
“So, what did the bastard have to say?” his mum said, pulling away from him, her face suddenly full of anger.
“He said that it wasn’t his fault,” Poole said. He watched her face move from anger to a shocked incredulity and then back again.
‘He’s got some nerve coming here and arranging these secret meetings with you just to say it’s not his fault!” she shouted. Poole could see her trembling and moved to the kitchen to fetch them both a glass of wine. “The least he could do is own his mistakes and apologise.”
“He did apologise,” Poole said without thinking.
“Oh, so that makes it all all right, does it?!” she shrieked, her anger turning on him.
“No, Mum,” Poole said softly, walking back to her and handing her the wine. “Nothing can make it all right.”
She nodded, and physically sagged, as though a furious wind had suddenly been knocked out of her. A single, fat tear rolled down her cheek and Guy put one long arm around her and pulled her to his chest.
“Come on then,” Laura said as they stepped into the hallway of their semi-detached house. “What’s bothering you?”
“What do you mean?” Brock said, kicking off his shoes as Indy excitedly scrabbled along the wooden floor of the hallway toward the kitchen.
“You’ve barely said a word since we left Guy, and I know that look,” she said, turning to him. “It’s the look you get when something’s worrying you but you’re too stubborn to talk about it. Then you gradually get grumpier and grumpier until I want to smack you one, so shall we skip all that and just get to the problem?”
He was still scowling, but the way she had so clearly laid out this particular personality flaw had him trying not to smile.
“All right,” he said, sighing as he moved past her into the kitchen. “If you really want to know, it’s this situation with Poole’s father.”
“Well obviously,” Laura said in a sarcastic tone. “But what is it? Do you think he’s dangerous?”
“I think that the last time he was in Poole’s life, Guy ended up taking a bullet to the leg and seeing his friend die, so yes, I think he’s dangerous.”
“But didn’t you say you encouraged him to go and meet him?” Laura said, leaning on the kitchen island worktop and looking across at him as he leaned back on the counter opposite her.
“Yes, because I could see he needed to. The man is still his father. He needs to put this to bed so he can move on from it, but it doesn’t mean I like it.”
Laura turned and scooped up Indy, who had been pawing at her leg. They stood in silence for a moment. Brock studied her face, feeling awkward. For some reason, just the mention of parenthood seemed to have this effect on them these days, paralysing them into silence, neither of them wanting to vocalise the topic that constantly hovered in their home, the lack of children making the silence of the empty house louder and louder by the day.
“I’m sorry,” Brock said, breaking the silence. “I’m probably just worrying over nothing. It’s just…” He paused and looked down at his feet.
“You still think you’re the cursed detective?” Laura said softly.
He looked up at her and nodded with a weak smile. She moved to the counter and leaned into him as his thick arm encircled her.
Indy nuzzled in happily between them as they stood in silence.
Chapter Twenty
“So, how’s it going in the world of celebrity?” Anderson sneered as Poole stood at the coffee machine in Bexford Station canteen.
“Fine, thank you,” Poole said, wishing the machine was faster. Its low gurgling and grinding seemed to take forever before a small stream of dark brown liquid began hitting the mug below.
“Oh, really?” Anderson said. “That’s not what I’ve heard. I heard you’ve got some maniac piling bodies up while you’re sat around chatting to the stars.”
“And have you caught whoever killed that woman?” Poole said, looking back at him. “Or are you too busy wasting time gossiping about other cases?”
“We’ll get them,” Anderson said. He seemed rattled by Poole bringing up the case. Poole guessed it wasn’t going well.
“Still no leads then, eh?” Poole said as he pulled one finished mug from under the coffee machine and placed the second one under it.
“Why don’t you just worry about your celebrities,” Anderson muttered darkly.
Poole took the second cup and headed back to the table where Brock was waiting, having just finished his breakfast.
When they had arrived, the inspector had begun to order a large fried breakfast when he had hesitated, looked at Poole, and then ordered a single slice of toast and marmalade. He had been in a mood ever since.
“And what did the boy wonder over there want?” Block said, staring at the back of Anderson’s head so fiercely that even from across the room Poole was surprised to see it not smoking.
“He wanted to congratulate us on the progress of our case,” Poole said, sitting down and sliding one mug of coffee across to Brock.
“Ha, I bet he did. How are he and Sharp getting on with their case?”
‘Not well, by the sounds of it,” Poole answered, taking a sip of the steaming drink in front of him and looking back at the file laid out before him. “Strange there being two murders within a few days of each other.”
“Yes,” Brock said slowly.
Poole looked up at him. The inspector’s grey eyes were glazed over as he stared sightlessly toward the ceiling.
“Sir?” he said questioningly, causing Brock to snap back to him.
“Might be worth me having a chat with Sharp later, just to make sure there’s nothing related between the cases.”
“Yes, sir,” Poole replied dutifully, despite not being able to see any connection between the cases from what he’d heard.
“So,” Brock said, turning back to the file in front of them. “There isn’t much here for us?”
He gestured to the reports on Jonny Turnbull’s death from both the coroner and the crime scene team.
“Not really,” Poole answered, flicking through the sheets. “It looks like the coroner agrees with Sheila. It seems as though it would be pretty unlikely for Turnbull to have broken his neck like that on those stairs.”
Brock grunted but said nothing, which Poole took as a sign to continue.
“Sheila got nothing from the bottle that Jonny Turnbull had, only his prints on it.”
“Hold on a minute—only his prints?” Brock said, frowning.
“Yes, sir.”
“Well if he had bought it in the hotel you’d expect the barman’s fingers to be on it, wouldn’t you?”
“Good point,” Poole said, thinking.
“Hold on though. The killer can’t have cleaned it afterward because Turnbull’s prints were still on it, which means either Turnbull bought it and wiped it clean of prints before adding his own, which doesn’t make sense, or the killer got the whiskey for him and wiped their prints off first.”
A smile flickered through Brock’s stormy expression like lightning and was gone just as quickly
“Exactly,” he said. “So, we need to find where bottle was bought. Someone might even remember a person buying that brand and wearing gloves.”
“That’ll be tricky, sir,” Poole said doubtfully. He was thinking of every shop, pub and bar in Addervale where the bottle could have been bought and concluding that it was pretty much impossible.
“Maybe, but my guess
is it would have been bought nearby, so we’ll start there and work out.” Brock looked down at the sheet in front of him. “And the time of death for Jonny Turnbull looks to have been around ten o’clock. Let’s check the footage again form the cameras at the hotel.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe they only have cameras at the entrance to the place and then the entrance to the carpark. How could they not have one in the carpark itself with all those fancy cars in there?”
“They do actually, sir,” Poole said distractedly as he continued to read.
“What do you mean?”
Poole looked up. “Well there is a camera in there, but it’s been broken for a week or so. Apparently, they haven’t got around to fixing it with all the preparations for the Foul Murder cast coming to stay.”
Poole watched Brock’s face, trying to read it, but it was as expressionless as stone until he drained the last of his coffee and stood up.
“Come on, let’s get back down there and try and get to the bottom of this mess.”
Poole dropped their cup back on the counter as he moved toward the door where Constable Davies, appeared holding a newspaper.
“Sir!” His face was lit up with a nervous excitement. “You’ve got to see this!”
He turned it around and showed them the headline in bright red letters.
PATRICK PROFITS FROM CAST CARNAGE
In the top left-hand corner of the page was a picture of Eli Patrick, deliberately taken and manipulated to make him look sinister.
Chapter Twenty-One
“So, Mr Patrick,” Brock said, his elbows resting on his knees and his hands together. “It seems as though you have got your big break?”
They were sat in Eli’s room in the Sinton Hotel across from the young actor who was wearing a bright blue jumper and cream chinos.
“Oh, it’s just paper talk,” Eli said, shifting awkwardly in his chair.
Brock picked up the newspaper he had thrown onto the coffee table that sat between them. He lifted it and began to read from page four, which it was already turned to.
“‘With the tragic events which have unfolded in the small, picturesque city of Bexford over the last few days, it appears there is an unlikely winner. Young newbie to the Foul Murder cast, Eli Patrick, is said to now be in discussion with Paramour Pictures about taking the lead in the upcoming big-screen version of the hit TV crime drama.’”
Brock threw the paperback own on the table and looked back at Eli, who was biting his top lip.
“So, as the paper says, this has all worked out pretty well for you, hasn’t it, Mr Patrick?”
“Look,” Eli said, one hand flopping back his golden hair. “I want to be honest with you chaps. Foul Murder, the TV show, is my big break. Pretty sure it’s the only one I’m ever going to get.”
“Why do you say that?” Poole asked.
“Because I can’t bloody act!” the young man said, laughing. “I can’t remember my lines, I’m always accidentally looking at something behind the camera halfway through a scene—I’m bloody useless at it!”
“Excuse my ignorance, Mr Patrick, but if you’re so bad, how did you get on one of the most popular shows in the country?” Brock asked.
“My mum is a failed actress and all my life has been trying to get me to fulfil her dreams. My uncle works at the TV station and she forced him to get me a part.” He gave them a sheepish smile. “Truth be told, I’m not very good at anything. I’m one of those born loafer types.”
“And yet here you are,” Brock said, “about to profit from the death of two men who you had the means and motive to murder.”
“Now come on,” Eli said pleadingly. “You can’t really think I had anything to do with all this?!”
“Where were you at ten o’clock last night?”
“Is that when Jonny died?”
“Yes. Can you answer the question please?”
“Oh,” Eli said, jumping upright in his seat. “I’ve got an alibi!”
“Let’s hear it then,” Brock barked.
“I was with Jane last night in this very room!” Eli said triumphantly.
“Jane?”
“Yes, Jane Marx. You know, the girl who works in the theatre.”
“And how long has this relationship been going on?” Brock asked, the tone of his voice indicating to Poole that he saw this as another suspect to tick off the list.
“Oh, not really a relationship, just a casual thing really. Likes actors.” He grinned at them, relaxed now that he was sure he was off the hook.
“And did she stay the night with you?”
“Yes, she left first thing. I’d had a bit too much whiskey I’m afraid and so slept in.”
Brock nodded and stood as Poole finished up the last of his notes and joined him as he headed toward the door.
“We still don’t want you going anywhere, Mr Patrick,” Brock said over his shoulder.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Eli replied. “Sitting around and passing the time with food and drink is pretty much my aim in life.”
As they descended the large staircase from Eli Patrick’s room, they saw the sashaying figure of Gina Glover heading toward them, a pleading Mike Hart in tow.
“But Gina, be reasonable. Think of all I’ve done for you here!” he said, trying to keep up with her determined pace.
She stopped and turned to him, the red hem of her wide dress swooping out around her.
“All you’ve done for me?!” she said, venom dripping from every word. “Do you mean when you were sucking up to Isabella because you thought she might be given a role as Jarvis’ little plaything? Or when you told me that I wasn’t right for the part?”
“That was a different part!” Mike Hart cried, throwing his hands up in the air. “That was when I thought we were talking about a bit part! I think you’re perfect for this! You’ll own this film, I know you will.”
Gina turned away from him with a loud huff and started back up the stairs when she caught sight of Brock and Poole.
“Miss Glover, can I ask what all this is about?” Brock said, taking the last few steps toward her.
“Well, Inspector, here’s a little insight into how this industry operates,” Gina said, putting her hands on her hips and half turning to Mike Hart. “Little worms like Mike here won’t do a thing for you—won’t put in a good word anywhere, won’t make sure your role on the show has decent storylines other than just wearing a tight dress, nothing. Then when you finally get a break from somewhere else, they come crawling to you, telling you how much they’ve done for you. Isn’t that right, Mike?”
Hart shook his head with a smile. “Gina, just take some time and think it over. You’re going to need someone you can trust alongside you in this.”
“Ha!” Gina said, her eyes rolling. “Now he thinks he’s someone I can trust!” She spun her attention back to Brock and Poole. “I think you should ask Mike here why I saw him taking a load of sheets from Jarvis’ room a couple of nights before he died.”
Hart’s head snapped to her and then back to the inspector.
“Sheets?” Brock said slowly, staring at him.
“I know!” Gina said. “I mean, I dread to think what Jarvis might have been up to; he always was a filthy sod.”
Mike Hart shifted nervously. “Can we talk somewhere else?”
“Please do,” Gina said. “I don’t want to hear the sordid details.” She marched past them and headed up the stairs.
“Come on,” Brock said, as he headed downward.
“Actually,” Mike Hart said, his face paling. “I don’t think I should say anything further until I speak to my lawyer.”
Brock stopped and turned back to him before glancing at Poole.
“Are you getting a sense of déjà vu as well?”
“Not unless Mr Hart’s lawyer wants to sleep with him, sir.” Poole grinned.
Mike Hart looked at them both as though they were mad.
“Well, you heard the man, Poole,” Brock said. “
I think we should carry on this chat back at the station. At least Mr Hart here won’t be bringing press attention on us.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Poole stepped back into the interview room and placed two glasses of water in front of Mike Hart and his lawyer before taking his seat next to Brock.
Hart had stuck to his word and not spoken since they had left the hotel. Thankfully his lawyer had arrived with surprising speed, and after a private consultation with him, the producer was now ready to talk.
“Jarvis was a sex addict, OK?” Hart said.
Poole glanced at the lawyer and saw his face was as expressionless as stone.
“He was a nightmare—always at the extras, disappearing from the set all the bloody time with one of them. We were always making excuses for him, saying that we needed to run some set repairs or something.”
“OK, so what does this have to do with what happened with the sheets?” Brock said.
Hart hung his head and shook it at the floor. “Look, I didn’t know at the time what it was about, and it might be nothing now, but…”
“Just tell us what happened, Mr Hart,” Brock said.
“The morning before the launch event, Jarvis called me and asked me to go to his room. It was maybe eleven o’clock? So, I went, and when he opens the door he looks up and down the corridor and shoves a load of bed sheets in my hands and tells me to get rid of them and get the hotel to give him some new ones.”
“And you didn’t think there was anything suspicious in this?” Poole said, slightly incredulous at the idea.
“You don’t know show business, do you?” Hart said with a chuckle. “Everyone’s half mad, and believe me, there are weirder things than that happening every day.”
“And did he give you a reason for wanting to get rid of these sheets?” Brock said.
“No. I asked him if everything was all right, but he said it was fine and shut the door on me.”
A Staged Death (A Brock & Poole Mystery Book 2) Page 10