“Eli Patrick?” Brock asked. “Hasn’t he already had his break? He’s on the show.”
“Oh, he deserves more than just being a side character on a TV show. He’s going to the top, and I’m going to go with him.”
“So, you thought getting Jonny out of the way would make Eli next in line for the role?”
Jane’s eyes flashed angrily as she turned to Gina. “That was before I realised they were going to give the part to Gina here. So, Gina?” she said, leaning in toward her. “Do you deserve your big break? Have you thought of it every waking moment, dreamt of it? Tried everything you can do to be better, to be perfect?”
Gina said nothing, but stared back at Jane with a mixture of fear and repulsion.
Jane cocked her head to one side and then slapped Gina hard across the face. “Answer me, Gina!”
“I don’t know!” Gina cried, her cheek glowing red where the hand had struck. “I don’t know what you want me to say?!”
“I guess it doesn’t matter,” Jane said lightly. “When you’re gone, Eli will be in the lead role and he’ll make sure I get my chance.”
“I think you’re looking for reasons why it hasn’t worked out for you, Jane,” Brock said, desperate to divert her attention. “But maybe you need to look at yourself.”
“What would you know about it?!” Jane hissed, turning to look at him.
“Well only what I’ve seen of you. I just don’t think you’ve got it, that star quality.”
“Shut up! Shut up!” screamed Jane, her eyes bulging wildly as she waved the knife in front of her.
“Eli knows it,” Brock continued, moving slowly toward her. “He knows you are never going to make it; he told me.”
“Lies!” she screamed at him.
“It’s not, Jane. He and I were having a good laugh about it earlier in the bar. The idea that you could actually be on TV!”
Jane screamed, a guttural, primal noise of anger, frustration and fury. She launched herself at Brock with a violent scream, the knife raised above her head.
Poole ran forward, his heart pounding in his chest. He watched as Brock set his feet, ready for Jane to reach him. The whole scene seemed to play as in slow motion.
Jane Marx’s arm swung down, the blade shining in the morning sun like a bolt of lightning.
Brock’s thick arm swung sideways, hitting Jane Marx’s at the wrist and sending it wide of its mark. She swung it back toward him and it sunk into his forearm as he moved to block it. He let out a grunt of pain as Poole arrived and hit Jane’s waist with his shoulder. She flew backward and landed heavily with Poole on top of her.
He looked into her eyes as her face turned into a wide smile. He frowned as he looked down and saw the knife vanishing into his gut in the middle of a growing circle of blood.
As his vision blurred, he saw a fist fly past his face and smash into Jane Marx’s nose before the world swam sideways and he fell into the encroaching blackness.
Chapter Thirty-One
Poole opened his eyes to see Sanita leaning over him.
“You’re awake!” She clasped his face in her hands and kissed him on the lips, then pulled away suddenly.
“I’m sorry,” she said, looking embarrassed.
“No, it’s OK,” Poole said. His voice sounded croaky and alien to his own ear. “Is the inspector OK?”
“He’s fine,” Sanita said, laughing. “He’s been moaning about you diving in to save him though. He says you never listen to orders.”
Poole grinned, imagining Brock’s annoyed grumbling and knowing what it really meant, that he’d been worried about Poole.
He looked up at Sanita and suddenly the enormity of what had just happened passed through him like a shockwave.
“Did you just kiss me?” he said, wondering if he was dreaming.
“Yes,” she said, smiling.
He smiled back at her. “If I’d known the rewards I’d have got myself stabbed before.”
She laughed and punched him playfully in the arm when the door opened.
“So, you’ve decided to join us, have you?” Brock said, moving into the room and taking up at least a quarter of its space instantly.
“Hello, sir.”
“Well, just don’t think you’ve escaped any of the paperwork. I’ve saved it all for you.”
“Oh, thanks,” Poole said sarcastically. “That’s what I get for saving your life, is it?”
“Saving my life?!” Brock said, his eyebrows rising so high they almost touched the ceiling. He turned to Sanita. “Is that what he’s been trying to sweet talk you with? Making out like he’s some kind of hero? You were there; you saw what happened.”
“And what did happen exactly?” Poole said, trying to sit more upright and wincing in pain as he did so.
“I was just about to get the knife from her and take her into custody when some idiot decided to jump on the sharp end of her knife. Luckily Constable Sanders here has a mean right hook and knocked Jane Marx out before you could skewer yourself any more.”
Poole laughed and then moaned in pain.
“I think it’s best he doesn’t laugh, sir; he has got a hole in his stomach, after all.” Sanita smiled at Poole. “Did you think you were still a constable and wearing a stab vest?”
Brock chuckled as the door opened again and Laura Brock came in with a tray of coffees.
“You’re awake!” she said with a large smile on her face. “Good job I got you a coffee as well!”
“It’s not going to leak out of his belly, is it?” Brock said, taking the tray from her.
Laura rolled her eyes at him as she moved to Poole’s side.
‘Thank you,” she said, kissing him on the cheek. “It was very brave of you to save Sam like that.”
“Save me?!” Brock roared. “He’s brainwashed the lot of you!”
Laura gave a conspiratorial grin to Poole. “I think we can have a lot of fun with this.”
She pulled away and handed out the coffees from the tray while Brock held it.
“So where is Jane Marx now?” Poole asked once he’d managed to sit more upright and take a sip.
“She’s at the station. I’m going to go and take a formal statement from her in a bit,” Brock answered. Poole noticed he was drinking with his left hand and for the first time noticed the bandage on the inspector’s left forearm.
“Stitches?” he asked, nodding to it.
“Twelve,” Brock answered. “But I think you beat me by ten or so,” he said, smiling.
It occurred to Poole that he hadn’t yet inspected his own wound. Suddenly the memory of the bullet wound he had sustained in the attack on his house all those years ago burned in his mind. The blood, the pain. Watching his friend die.
He tried to focus back on the case.
“I want to be there when you take her statement,” he said firmly to Brock.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Laura said, frowning at him.
Poole’s eyes remained fixed on Brock’s, who was staring at him, as though trying to make his mind up.
“I need to be there,” Poole said.
Brock nodded. “If the doctor clears you to go, then it’s fine with me.”
“Oh, Sam!” Laura said, shaking her head.
“Are you sure?” Sanita said next to him. She had pulled away since the inspector had come into the room, but her hand now came to rest on Poole’s arm.
“I’m fine,” Poole said with a smile.
“Well the doctors said no important squishy bits were hit,” Brock said. “So, I’m guessing you’re all right to move about.”
At the sound of his voice, Sanita pulled her hand away quickly.
“Well, all of this can at least wait until tomorrow, can’t it?” Laura said. “You can take her statement tomorrow, can’t you?”
Brock looked at his watch. “I guess so; it’s gone midday already.” He looked up at Poole. “That way you can stay in overnight, just to be sure.”
; Poole nodded. “Thanks.”
“Come on, Sam,” Laura said, tugging at Brock’s sleeve. “Let’s leave these two alone for a minute, shall we?”
One eyebrow rose on the inspector’s face as he looked between Poole and Sanita.
“Oh, right. Fine,” he said in an embarrassed tone. “See you tomorrow, Poole,” he said before they shuffled out.
Poole turned to Sanita, who moved next to him.
“Thanks for punching Jane Marx for me.” He smiled.
“My pleasure,” Sanita said. She smiled back, but the expression didn’t last long. Her eyes seemed to grow in size, their bright white shining against her light brown skin as they filled with tears. “You had me worried there, you know.”
“I know,” Poole said softly. “I’m sorry.”
The door burst open as his mother flew in and threw her hands up in the air dramatically.
“Oh, Guy!” she wailed as she rushed to the side of his bed. “Are you OK?!”
“I’m fine, Mum,” Poole said, knowing that this probably wasn’t going to be enough to placate her.
She put her hands on his cheeks and kissed his forehead before pulling back and stroking his hair.
“I don’t know what I would have done if…” She paused and looked up, seeing Sanita for the first time. “Oh, hello, love.”
“Mum, this is Sanita,” Poole said, flushed with embarrassment.
“Nice to meet you,” Sanita said, extending a hand across Poole’s chest.
Jenny Poole took it and shook it warmly. “Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Sanita. You know, Guy never tells me anything about his work. So, do you have a boyfriend?”
“Mum,” Poole groaned, lying back on his pillow with his eyes closed.
“Not yet,” Sanita said. “But I’m working on it.”
Poole smiled.
Laura Brock closed the door and watched Sam’s large figure trudge down the corridor and into the kitchen.
She knew he had had a long day and that his arm had hurt far more than he had let on. Still, there was something off about his manner when she had picked up from the station a few hours after their visit to Poole in the hospital. He had been quiet, withdrawn—distant.
Even when they had dropped by their friend's house to pick up Indy, he had waited in the car. She had made her excuses to their friends who had been looking after the pup and hurried back to the car, but Sam had taken the dog silently, stroking him morosely as she had driven them home.
She walked down the hall toward the kitchen where Sam had sat at the kitchen table, his back to her. She reached him and placed her hand on his shoulder as she moved round to look at him.
“Sam, is everything OK? It’s just…” She stopped as she saw his face—ashen, grey, with large fat tears rolling down his cheeks. His large shoulders shook as Indy slept in his lap, oblivious.
Laura hugged him tightly, saying nothing.
Minutes later he finally spoke.
“The Cursed Detective, Laura. The cursed bloody detective.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
“So, what about Jonny Turnbull?” Brock said. Jane sighed and leaned back.
They had already been talking for an hour, again, going over Jane Marx’s actions that had resulted in Jarvis Alvarado’s death.
Now Brock was trying to fill in the blanks.
Poole had managed to make it, his stomach still heavily bandaged and hurting, but OK enough that he could move.
“Jonny was just like the rest of them. All he cared about was whatever he could get out of people.”
“And you killed him so that Eli Patrick would be bumped up to the lead role in the film.”
Jane smiled. “That was a bonus, but Jonny was a bigger problem than that.” She leaned forward. “Jonny had seen Ella somehow, God knows where. At the hotel I guess. But he’d been threatening Jarvis with it to give him a part. I knew that it would only be a matter of time before he blurted something out. So, I decided to kill two birds with one stone.” She shrugged and leaned backward. “He was like an overgrown boy. All I had to do was show him that fancy bottle of whiskey and I got him interested. Then I just asked him if he’d ever had sex on the stage of a theatre before.” She laughed at the memory. “He followed me like a puppy after that.”
“And how did you kill him? He looked a strong young man to me.”
She looked at Brock with an amused smile. “Inspector, don’t tell me you think that a woman can’t outmuscle a man?”
Brock said nothing, but stared back at her, stony-faced.
“Well, he was no match for me, Inspector. I’ve studied Judo and there are holds you can put people in to that will snap a neck. He was drunk enough that he was laughing about it until he couldn’t breathe anymore.”
She looked past them, her eyes glazed. “If only they hadn’t lied to me and had given me a part. Then we could have all been together in the film like it should have been.”
Poole looked at her vacant eyes and felt a wave of sadness.
This young, athletic, beautiful woman was going to spend the rest of her life in prison. And for what? A dream of becoming an actress, of becoming famous. Of walking those boards she had watched others tread for so many years while she stayed in the shadows and longed for her chance.
A waste of a life.
“Are you sure you’re OK to be here?” Laura said, looking at Poole doubtfully.
“I’m fine,” Poole said, smiling.
The truth was, his stomach was in agony. But, he reasoned, this was probably to be expected after being stabbed only thirty-six hours ago.
He certainly wasn’t going to miss the ritual of visiting The Mop and Bucket once they’d closed a case, that was for sure. Even if it was going to give his mother another opportunity to grill Sanita about her marital status and who knew what else.
“And you?” Laura said to Brock in a quiet voice.
“Fine,” the inspector replied with a dismissive grunt.
Poole got the impression there was something more to this, but decided not to ask if everything was OK after seeing the look on Brock’s face.
They stepped into the pub and were immediately greeted by Sanita, Davies, Roland and, surprisingly, Ronald Smith.
“Who invited Ron?” Poole asked Sanita out of the side of his mouth once he was at the bar waiting to order.
“Apparently the inspector did,” she said, laughing as Poole’s eyes widened.
“I know!” she said. “Who would have thought it, eh? I guess he felt sorry for him.” Her expression changed and she looked at him strangely. “Are you sure you’re OK?”
“I’m fine!” Poole said, exasperated. “I’m more likely to pop my stitches answering that every five minutes than I am coming to the pub for a victory pint.”
“Fair enough,” she said, laughing.
“Sanita!” Jenny Poole cried as she came up between them. “I was hoping you’d be here. I want to hear everything about you!”
Sanita smiled, but her eyes lingered on Poole and were full of fear.
“Mum, why don’t you go and get us a table and we’ll bring the drinks over?”
“Perfect!” his mum said and disappeared with Laura Brock through the archway into the other room.
“Sorry about this,” Poole said, giving Sanita an apologetic smile.
“Your mum seems lovely; I’m just not sure I want to face an interrogation before we’ve even been on a date.”
“We’re going on a date?” Poole asked, smiling.
“Well supposedly, but I’ve not been told where or when yet,” she answered playfully.
Their drinks arrived as Poole’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out as he handed the money to the barman.
“Hello?”
“Guy? It’s your dad.”
He looked at Sanita, the smile fading from her face as she saw his expression.
“What do you want?” he said, turning away from Sanita.
“Remember what we talke
d about before? Well, I have someone I’d like you to talk to.”
“Who?”
“I’m outside with them now.”
Poole’s heart seemed to skip a beat in his chest. He spun around and stared at the small, grimy window to the right of the front door. He could see nothing through it.
The line went dead and he turned back to Sanita.
“Take the drinks over, would you? And can you tell Brock to come over here?”
She nodded, sensing that now wasn’t the time to ask questions.
Poole turned back to the front door of the pub and stared at it as though it would reveal whether his father was stood behind it.
“What’s wrong?” Brock said, his face full of concern.
“It’s my dad. He’s outside. Apparently, he has someone he wants me to meet.”
Brock exhaled slowly through his wide nose and looked at the door. “We better go and say hello then.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
As they stepped outside into the cool night air, Poole saw his father immediately. He stood across the street with two other men. Poole noticed that they were stood at the middle point between two streetlights, maximising the shadows.
As he and Brock approached, he recognised the larger of the two men as the goon from outside the wine bar when he had last met his father. The smaller man to Jack Poole’s right, he didn’t recognise.
“Guy,” his dad said with a sharp nod. The usual beaming smile he wore when they met was replaced by a hard, thoughtful look.
“Inspector,” he said, acknowledging Brock.
“What do you want?” Poole asked.
He watched as his father's eyes moved down to his stomach, which he realised he was holding protectively, his hand resting on the thick bandage below his shirt. He quickly moved his hand away and Jack’s eye moved back to his.
“This is Stuart. He used to work for the Riverside gang.”
Poole felt a jolt at the name—a name he hadn’t heard spoken in almost fifteen years.
Poole turned to look at the man. He wore a small, thin goatee and had patchy, thinning hair on top of a small and angular head. He was stood with his arms folded and looked as though he was trying very hard to act casual. There was fear in his eyes though, which darted between the gathered men, lingering slightly longer on Poole’s.
A Staged Death (A Brock & Poole Mystery Book 2) Page 15