Poole grinned. A well-fed Brock was a very different beast indeed.
The inspector paused next to him, turned and looked back up the stairs they had just descended.
“This is where we found Jonny Turnbull,” he said quietly. ‘How did they get him here?”
“Sir?”
“Jonny Turnbull was a young, fairly fit man. Someone got him here to kill him and I doubt they forced him physically or there’d be more evidence. They must have enticed him here somehow.”
“Jonny was supposed to be a bit of a ladies’ man, wasn’t he? Maybe he snuck off with a woman?” Poole asked.
“Maybe. The man was a party animal by all accounts, so a good bottle of whiskey and the promise of more might have been all that was needed.” He turned and looked back down to the stage.
Terry Johnson had been right: the stage was largely a mess. The entire far side was a mass of props and furniture, piled in an unorganised manner.
“Why were they both killed here, do you think?” Brock said as they continued downward.
“Empty space, easy to get to from the hotel I guess,” Poole answered.
The inspector paused as they stepped out onto the flat, carpeted area which sat before the stage which rose before them at chest height. “The door from the courtyard to in here was locked this morning. Why wasn’t it locked on the night Jonny Turnbull was killed? He must have come in that way because the cameras at the entrance to the carpark and on the front door didn’t pick him up.”
“Someone from the theatre must have left it open,” Poole said, jogging up the small flight of steps to the right which led onto the stage. Brock followed him and moved to the spot where Jarvis Alvarado had been killed.
Poole picked up an umbrella that was leaning against a sideboard and began tapping at the floor in various places.
“What are you doing?” Brock asked, staring at him.
“I was just wondering if there’s a secret trapdoor or something we missed. You know, other than the one we saw when we were in the prop room with Jane Marx,” Poole answered. He continued to tap until a cry from the inspector made him look up.
“Oh, bloody hell! You idiot, Sam!” the inspector roared.
He was staring upward, his face contorted into a red rage.
“Sir?” Poole said, alarmed. He followed the inspector’s gaze but could see nothing.
Brock ran toward the far side of the stage, his heavy tread thundering on the wooden boards as he did so. Poole took off after him and arrived as Brock stopped and pointed to the wall, his grey eyes ablaze.
“Get up that ladder, Poole,” he said, in a tone that had Poole moving before he’d even asked what on earth this was about.
The ladder was a thin, metal affair which hung to the wall on tired-looking brackets. Poole put his foot on the bottom rung, pushed down on it in a vain attempt to test whether it would hold his weight and began to climb.
He stared straight ahead at the crumbling brick which was now passing in front of him. He wasn’t afraid of heights, but he wasn’t a fan of them either. They tended to make him light-headed and wobbly, which was pretty much the last thing you wanted when you were at the top of a ladder.
After a few moments, a metal shelf appeared to his left as the ladder ran out. The shelf was roughly three feet wide with a foot-high barrier on either side made from thin metal poles.
Poole stepped up onto the last rung and leaned over onto the shelf, looking down its length.
“Well?” Brock shouted from below.
The sound made Poole look down and his vision instantly spun away from him. He clung tightly to the platform and closed his eyes until the motion in his head had stopped.
“It looks like an access gangway to the lighting rig,” he called down. He heard a series of expletives from below before Brock replied.
“You can come down now, Poole, unless you fancy a trip along the gangway?”
“No!” Poole shouted. “I mean, no thank you, sir,” he said, trying to calm his voice.
He slowly moved back to the ladder and descended with his eyes closed until his foot hit the floor suddenly, making him jump.
“Does it extend right out across the stage?” Brock asked. He was staring up into the black void above them and Poole looked too.
“Yes, it does,” he answered. “Bloody hell, you can hardly see it at all from down here.” The gangway sat in the gloom above the lights which shone down toward the stage brightly. There was no way it was visible unless you knew it was there and squinted sufficiently.
“I wouldn’t have known it was there until you started banging on about there being another trapdoor,” Brock said, moving back out into the middle of the stage.
“Sir?”
“It got me thinking about someone coming up to kill Jarvis; then I realised what we hadn’t thought of was something coming down to kill him.” The inspector smiled. “Jane said we had to look at this from another angle.”
Poole looked up. “You mean someone was up there when Jarvis was murdered? And they killed him somehow?”
“What was it that new coroner said? That Jarvis was killed with a blow right on the top of his head? We first thought was that it had been someone tall, but then we thought of the sack, and sure enough, we found the weights in a sack in the prop room.”
“Yes,” Poole said, trying to follow what the inspector was getting at.
“It’s all been about bloody acting, Poole,” Brock said through gritted teeth. “Stupid bloody acting.”
They both turned as a noise rang out in the dark space beyond the stage. Poole saw the door which led to the corridors they had entered through previously bounce open slightly.
“Sir, I think someone was watching us!”
“Then come on!” Brock shouted, running for the steps which led down to the floor of the theatre. Poole ran straight for the edge instead, putting one hand on it to guide him as he jumped down. He landed and began running toward the door.
He reached it before Brock and burst through into the dim corridor beyond. He turned to his right and saw a figure in the distance running. He set off after them, his long legs eating up the distance.
He heard another door slam up ahead and powered on toward it.
He reached the door which was still standing slightly ajar and wrenched it open, stepping out into the bright light of the courtyard behind the hotel.
There was no one in sight, no sound other than the distant hum of traffic from the other side of the building.
He walked out into the middle of the space and turned slowly around, looking at the cars that surrounded him. No one.
Brock appeared through the door, his large face red—whether through exertion or anger, Poole wasn’t sure.
“They vanished, sir,” Poole said, shaking his head.
“We need to secure Gina Glover, Eli Patrick and Mike Hart right now,” Brock said, his chest heaving as he leaned on a silver Mercedes.
“Yes, sir,” Poole said, moving toward the hotel door. As he reached it, Eli Patrick stepped out.
“Oh, morning, Sergeant,” he said, a slightly confused smile on his face.
Poole grabbed him, spinning him around and putting his hands behind his back in one motion.
“Hey!” Eli shouted as Poole slipped cuffs over him.
“Eli Patrick, I am arresting you on suspicion of...”
“Oh, bloody hell, Poole, let him go!” Brock said, joining them. Poole looked at him in confusion.
“It’s not him!” Brock cried, snatching the key from Poole and releasing Eli’s cuffs.
“Did you see Jane Marx come through that door?” Brock asked Eli urgently.
“No,” Eli said, frowning. “I was just looking for her. What’s going on?”
“Poole,” Brock said, ignoring Eli. “For goodness sake, get some backup here, will you?”
“Yes, sir,” Poole said, pulling his mobile from his pocket.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“
Gina Glover’s not in her room, sir. No one seems to have seen her,” Constable Sanders said as she approached from the staircase.
Brock swore under his breath. “Right, you stay with these two in the bar area.” He pointed to Mike Hart and Eli Patrick. “No one leaves, OK?”
“Inspector, I insist you tell me what is going on!” Eli said, his plummy accent becoming even stronger in his anger.
“Sanders,” Brock said, his eyes ablaze. “Take Mr Hart and I’ll send Mr Patrick along shortly.”
“Yes, sir,” Sanita answered before ushering the producer away to the bar area.
“Mr Patrick, what is happening here is that I believe Jane Marx to have murdered three people and may well have abducted a fourth.”
Eli reeled backward, the colour draining from his face as he desperately glanced at Poole, hoping this was some kind of joke.
“What?! Jane?! But…”
“Did Miss Marx ever tell you of a place she had here or near here? A safe haven?”
“I… well, no, she didn’t. She always talked about the theatre as her home, and this place of course.”
“This place?”
‘The hotel I mean. She’s been working at the theatre years and has helped out here quite a bit I think.”
Brock spun to Poole. “Where’s the manager of the hotel?”
“Michael Johnson? I don’t know, I’ll find him,” Poole said, heading off toward the reception.
They had already rounded up his brother Terry Johnson and asked him if there were any places within the theatre that Jane Marx might hide away. He had said that there weren’t other than the obvious ones. But they had already checked the prop room and the dressing rooms.
Now Gina Glover couldn’t be found, they had to move quickly.
“I need to speak to the manager. Where is he?” Poole said to the mousy receptionist.
“He’s in his office. Who shall I say is asking?”
Poole ignored her and stepped behind the counter, marching behind it until he reached the door on the far side which he opened without knocking.
Michael Johnson was slumped over his desk, a dark pool of blood billowing from a wound on the front of his head.
‘I need medical attention in here!” Poole shouted through the office door, thankful that they had called an ambulance at the same time they had called for backup. He moved across to the prone figure and took his pulse. He was still alive.
He swayed backward as his head swam at the sight of the blood. He turned away and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. His bloody father was bringing back things he wanted buried.
Two ambulance workers rushed in with the receptionist behind them, who screamed as she saw her boss on the table.
“Did Jane Marx come in here?” Poole asked her urgently, moving away from the body.
She stared at him, breathing heavily, and nodded.
He turned around, his eyes scanning everything in the small room apart from the body. The place was as tidy as an office ever was, and there was no sign of a struggle.
His eye landed on a wooden board which sat on the wall behind the desk. It was covered in rows of small, labelled hooks, each with a key hanging from it.
All except one.
He turned and ran out of the door and back along the rear of the reception desk as Brock approached.
“What is it?” the inspector said.
“It’s Michael Johnson. Jane Marx has whacked him over the head, but I know where she’s heading.”
Chapter Thirty
“It’s locked,” Poole said, trying the handle of the door which led out onto the roof.
They had anticipated this and taken a second key from the maintenance man. Poole placed it in the lock and turned it slowly.
“Everyone, get out onto the roof, but stay by the door and let me take lead, OK?” Brock said, looking back at Constables Sanders and Davies, who were stood lower down on the stairs. He looked up at Poole.
“That means you too, you know.”
“Yes, sir,” Poole said, grinning.
Brock opened the door and stepped out into the bright sunlight.
The roof was constructed in the same golden stone that the rest of the hotel was made of and had a smooth, undulating nature to the large flagstones which covered it. Around the edge was a low wall of no more than three feet, and it was here that Gina Glover sat, mascara streaming down her pale cheeks, her hands bound with thick, plastic zip ties.
Jane Marx stood in front of her, a long knife in her hand. The bright sunlight glinted from the blade as she turned at the noise of the door being opened behind her.
“Sshh!” she said angrily at them before turning back to Gina.
“Now, where were we?” she said before shaking her hands out and taking a deep breath.
“We recovered the DNA from the boot of your car,” Jane said loudly. “There’s no escaping it this time. You’re going down.” She bowed to her captive audience.
“So, what did you think?” she squealed, running over to Gina and bending down in front of her.
Brock paused, aware that she could send Gina over the edge at any moment.
“It was… very good,” Gina said in a quiet, teary voice.
“That was from series four, but I could do something more recent if you like?” Jane said.
“No, no,” Gina said, trying to smile. “That was perfect.”
“So, can I have the part?”
“Yes, yes, you can have the part. Shall we go downstairs and sort it out?”
Jane’s eyes narrowed. She turned back to the inspector who had been slowly approaching and was now only ten feet or so from her.
“You’re lying, aren’t you?” she said to Gina, her eyes darting between her and the inspector. “You’re just like the others—you say the right things but you never mean them!”
“I do mean them!” Gina said, her eyes darting to Brock’s pleadingly. Jane’s eyes followed hers. “You can be in the film, I’ll make sure of it!”
Jane turned to her. “Do you think you deserve to be an actress, Gina?”
Gina stared back at her.
“Do you think you deserved your big break?” Jane walked to the other side of her and sat next to her, lifting a lock of her bright red hair with the blade of the knife and studying it.
“I’ve been waiting for my big break all my life, you know,” Jane said quietly. “I was just a girl when I started working at the theatre. I thought if I could just be near it, just be part of it all, then I could learn. I could learn from real actors. Then eventually I would get a part. A small part at first, but I’d perform so well I’d be noticed. And then the world would really see.” She smiled and stared up at the bright blue sky. “They’d all know my name then.”
“Is that what Jarvis told you, Jane?” Brock said. “That he’d help make you a star?”
She looked at him with a blank stare.
“Jarvis? He wouldn’t help me,” she said bitterly. “He was only interested in one thing.”
“Is that why you called your old school friend? To satisfy Jarvis’ urges and maybe get in his good books so he could put in a good word for you somewhere?”
“Everyone knew he had been given the role in the film,” she said bitterly. “I just thought that if I could become friends with him, maybe he’d see my potential.”
“And then what happened? Did Jarvis hurt Ella Louise and you helped him cover it up?”
Jane’s lip curled in amusement. “Is that what you think? That Jarvis killed her?” She laughed, a high and unsettling noise.
“Jarvis was done with her in a few minutes. That’s when I realised he was just like the rest of them. When I asked him if he would put in a good word for me, maybe get me an audition…” Her face turned dark. “He laughed at me. So, I decided to do something to make him listen.”
“You killed Ella Louise,” Brock said.
“Do you know she used to pick on me in school? When I saw her again recently,
she didn’t even remember me at first. I had to tell her who I was, and then do you know what she did? She spoke to me like we were old friends. I couldn’t stand her,” Jane finished bitterly.
“And so you tried to blackmail Jarvis to get you a part?”
“He said he would get me onto the film, that he’d sort everything out. But he lied again. Why do you all lie?” she said, turning to Gina and placing her head on one side.
Gina said nothing, but recoiled from her.
“Do you know what that idiot told me next? He told me that he’d get me some work backstage. That I could be a runner on set. I said no!” Jane screamed suddenly. “I told him that I was an actress!” She looked down at the ground, and when she next spoke her voice was quiet with rage. “He laughed at me.”
“So, you decided to get even. You dropped weights on him from the lighting gantry.”
She frowned at Brock, a smile on her lips. “How did you know that? I didn’t think anyone knew that,” she said dreamily, as though remembering her actions.
“It was really rather clever,” she said with a faint smile on her lips. I used a rope that I ran along the lighting access gangway that had the weights all set up. It’s funny, I didn’t think it would actually kill him. I mean, I knew where he would be standing, we’d gone over it enough, but I still thought maybe I’d just hurt him. I knew no one would ever think to look up. Not with all those people who wouldn’t have minded bumping him off sat a few feet away.”
“And afterward?” Brock asked.
“Afterward?” Jane asked him with a puzzled expression. “I just pulled the sack back up and tied it to a hook on the wall. I moved it into the prop chute the next day after your lot had left and then showed you,” she said, smiling. “You believed me, didn’t you?” She turned back to Gina. “You see, Gina? I fooled the clever Inspector Brock here! That’s how good I am!”
“And why did Jonny Turnbull have to die?” Brock said, trying to keep the focus on him.
Jane laughed as she turned back to him. “Because he was in the way! I’d finally found someone who knew how I felt. Someone who deserved a break just like me.”
A Staged Death (A Brock & Poole Mystery Book 2) Page 14