A general chorus of assent came from the occupants of the living room as Helen entered the control centre and studied the monitors.
“What’s the problem, Scott?” she asked.
“Dunno for sure, but the best odds are on a tummy bug.”
“Damn, no. Not this close to the end. Serious?”
“I told you it looks like a tummy bug,” Naughton grumbled as the Housies reported their symptoms to Master Spy. “You now know as much as I do.”
Helen pointed to camera 58 and Anne making her way along the upper landing. “What is she doing there?”
“Ursula is in the Romping Room. We sent Anne to get her.”
“But if she’s at it with…”
“She’s alone,” Naughton interrupted. “Switch to 58 and follow Anne for the moment.”
The main monitor came up with the view and Naughton concentrated his attention on the side monitors where the Housies were amplifying their complaints.
Anne knocked on the door. “Ursula. Are you in there, Ursula?”
“Idiot,” Katy griped. “Of course she’s in there. Nowhere else she can be.”
Anne knocked again.
“Master Spy, deal with it,” Katy ordered.
“Knock one more time, Anne,” Master Spy’s voice came over, “and if there’s no response, enter the room. Ursula may have fallen asleep.”
Anne did as she was told. After knocking again, she timidly opened the door and stepped into the Romping Room, saying, “Ursula. It’s me. Anne.”
There was a moment of silence, then an ear-splitting shriek filled the upper landing. Anne raced out of the room and stared into the camera, her face white, a mask of pure horror.
“Ursula. She’s dead.”
Chapter Six
“Kill that feed,” Helen barked.
“Kill fifty-seven and fifty-eight,” Naughton ordered. “Run stock feeds from 201 and 202.” His eye fell on the side monitors where the Housies had heard Anne’s scream and were making for the exit to the stairs. “Master Spy, get the Housies to stay put and order Anne back down the stairs.”
“Kill live transmission,” Helen barked.
“What? On the strength of Anne’s say so?” Katy demanded.
“Just do it. Run stock feeds. And get a tech up to the Romping Room service hatch,” Naughton ordered. “Tell them to check on Ursula and radio direct to us on channel 3.” He picked up a handheld radio, switched it on and tuned it to the appropriate channel.
Katy leapt to obey.
A near riot was breaking out in the living room, and Master Spy floundered in a futile attempt to hold it off.
“What the bloody hell is going on?” Ben shouted, his face unnervingly close to a camera.
“That scream sounded like Anne,” Greg said. “Has Ursula attacked her?”
As live transmission gave way to stock footage, Naughton overrode the flustered Master Spy. “This is Scott Naughton from the control room,” he barked through the communication channel. “There’s been an incident upstairs.” He glanced at the live feed from the landing where Anne was on her knees sobbing. Concentrating on the living room again, where the Housies had all paused to listen to him, he went on, “Tanya, you’re a nurse. Brenda, you’re possibly the calmest right now. Get yourselves upstairs to the landing and help Anne. Bring her downstairs. Guys, I’ll have to ask you to stay put until we work out what’s going on.”
The Housies watched the two women scurry to follow Naughton’s orders.
“Anne, Brenda and Tanya aren’t in any danger, are they?” Ben asked. “Only it sounded like someone has been attacked.”
“No. No danger. Anne is safe. You have my word on that.” Naughton killed the channel and opened his link to Master Spy. “Keep the guys occupied,” he said.
Almost immediately the hand radio beeped for attention. Helen picked it up. “Control.”
“Security here, ma’am, at the service hatch behind the Romping Room. Lady is telling it like it is. Ursula is hanging from one of the coat hooks. Just looking at her, I’d guess she’s been dead some time.”
“Thank you. Seal that hatch off. No one goes near it.” Helen put down the radio and addressed her crew. “Kill all transmission, get me a video line to the TV station and someone call the police.”
On screen 58, Naughton saw Tanya helping Anne to her feet while Brenda edged her way into the Romping Room. “Brenda, no,” he barked and, recalling he had shut down his communication channel, opened it again and repeated, “Brenda, don’t go in there.”
“Scott –” Brenda began but the director cut her off.
“Ursula is dead,” he blurted out. “No one can go into that room until the police have examined it. We don’t know what evidence you may disturb. Now please. Just shut the door and come back downstairs.”
Brenda looked into the room as if she were about to disobey, but then reached for the door, closed it, and turned back to help Tanya with the distraught Anne.
Helen was already speaking to the TV station headquarters in London.
“Has this been confirmed?” the suited executive at the other end of the link demanded.
“Visual confirmation only, sir,” Helen replied with due deference to his superior status. “We’ve called the police and we really cannot carry on with the broadcast until we have clearance from them.”
“We’ll need something to fill the screens,” the executive replied. “All right, Helen. We’ll handle the matter from our end, but you’d better speak to your head office, too.”
“I’ll be on the line to them in a few minutes, but I thought you should be first to know, sir, since your channel is carrying the programme.”
Naughton turned away, a scowl registering his disinterest in corporate politics. “Open me a line to the Housies,” he ordered Katy.
He watched Brenda and Tanya help the still-distressed Anne into the living room.
“All right, people,” he said, “Get yourselves sat down and you’d better prepare yourselves for a shock.” He watched as they provided Anne with a cup of tea, then announced, “We cannot positively confirm it right now, but we believe Ursula is dead.” He paused a moment to let the news sink into the stunned faces. “From the description security have given us, it looks as if she took her own life. For the time being, we are off air, and we have no choice but to restrict your movements until the police arrive and tell us what we can and cannot do, and where we can and can’t go. Stick to the living room. I know it’s awkward with you all being unwell and only the one toilet down there, but please stay there until the cops are through with their initial inquiries.”
Marc appeared worried. “Will the, er, the police want to, you know, speak to us? I mean, if she killed herself, what can we, sort of, tell them?”
Brenda, hugging Anne, spoke up before Naughton could say anything. “Doesn’t matter how she died. They’ll want statements from each of us.”
Her assuredness irritated the director. “You sound pretty certain of that, Brenda.”
“I am. I’ve been involved in this kind of thing before.” Brenda appeared instantly aware of the focus of attention on her, and hurried to clarify her meaning. “I don’t mean I’ve been accused or interrogated, you idiots.”
“Then what do you mean?” Naughton asked.
Brenda sighed. “I was telling Anne yesterday, I have this friend. He’s also my boss. Joe Murray. He may be a simple cook and small businessman, but don’t let that fool you. He’s the best detective this side of a bloodhound. He’s on his way to Chester, today. It was a prior arrangement. He and some of my friends are coming out to meet me for D-Day. When Joe gets to know about this, he’ll check it out, and believe me, if he suspects anything he’ll persuade the police to let him investigate. And when Joe Murray gets his teeth into it, the police will question us all seven ways from Sunday.”
“How will he get to know?” Tanya asked.
“The police will give a statement to the press.” Brenda checked
her watch. “It’s five to nine. Joe will have been on the coach from Sanford for the last fifty-five minutes, and they’ll get it on the bus’s radio. He’ll be knocking on the door here before lunch.”
***
Brenda’s analysis was almost right, but Joe would not learn about events at Gibraltar Hall via the radio.
Clipboard in hand, he saw the last of the club members onto the coach at 7:50, and then climbed aboard himself. Sheila and Brenda liked to sit together, and usually, Joe would take the jump seat by the door, but in Brenda’s absence, he sat with Sheila on the front, nearside seat.
Ahead of him, Keith Lowry, the driver always appointed to STAC outings, stood fiddling with a TV receiver fixed behind his seat and above the centre of the aisle where everyone but he would be able to see it.
“It’s a brand new bus, Joe,” he reported. “The boss bought it for long haul, continental tours so the passengers would have something to watch while they’re going through Europe.”
“And he hasn’t got any continental tours on right now?”
Keith grinned. “A three-day trip to Disneyland, Paris. But that’s not until after Christmas.”
“You’re telling me that this telly will pick up English channels while it’s in Europe?” Joe’s tones spelled out his disbelief.
“Do you still have to shovel coal into the boiler on your TV?” Keith demanded, aiming the remote that controlled the TV set. “We’re talking satellite, man. On the move. These buses have had it for years.”
In no mood for lectures on modern TV, mobile or otherwise, Joe asked, “So why has the old man given it to us? If he expects me to pay more, he can whistle for it.”
Keith laughed again as he found the channel he was seeking. He handed the remote to Joe who tucked it in the pocket of his gilet. “There you go, you miserable old bugger. You can be in charge of the telly between counting your coppers. And, no, he isn’t charging you more. He figured it would be a bit of goodwill. He said you’d want to watch Brenda while we were on the way to Chester.”
Keith took his seat, closed the door, shutting out the heat of another fine, summer’s day and, with the clock approaching five minutes to eight, they pulled off the car park of the Miner’s Arms into the morning traffic jam on Doncaster Road.
“How long?” Joe asked when they dropped onto the M62 ten minutes later.
“At this time of day a good two hours,” Keith reported. He waved at the traffic climbing the hill to the junction with M1 outside Leeds. “It’ll be like this all the way over the Pennines, and then we have to get round Manchester. That’s another half an hour. Once we get past Manchester Airport, it’ll be what? Forty minutes. We’ll be there for ten.”
“Time’s not a problem, Joe,” Sheila said, digging into her bag and coming out with a glossy visitor’s guide to Chester. “We’ve nothing formal planned for today, so it’s only a case of checking into the hotel and then everyone can do their own thing.”
“You know me,” Joe responded. “I like value for money and we’re booked into the hotel for ten a.m. Getting there on time means we get the most out of the weekend, and even if we’re ten minutes late, I feel like I’ve been cheated.” He nodded to the PA mike above Sheila’s head and she passed it to him. Switching it on, he tapped the head to ensure it was working before speaking into it. “All right, good morning everyone. Can I just spell out what’s ahead for the weekend? Keith tells me we should be in Chester on time, for about ten o’clock. Once you’ve checked into the Victoria Hotel, the day is yours to do as you wish. Tomorrow, we have the big coming out parade for Brenda and we’re going down to Gibraltar Hall to welcome her. Then there’s a party in the hotel tomorrow night. I’ll be running the disco, as usual. On Sunday you can do as you please, but the Victoria do a very nice, three course lunch. I’ll be running another disco from half past eight Sunday evening. For Monday, we’ve come to an arrangement with the hotel. You need to be out of your room by ten in the morning, but they’ll store your luggage until Keith comes for us at four in the afternoon. Remember, none of this is compulsory, but it’s all included in the amount you paid, so it’s up to you whether you take part or not. That’s all I have to say for now. I’ll leave you to watch Brenda in the I-Spy house.”
He switched the mike off, handed it to Sheila who hung it back up, and Joe dipped into his rucksack for a paperback copy of From Russia with Love.
“James Bond?” Sheila asked, her eyebrows rising.
Joe grinned. “Well, Brenda’s been ruled by Master Spy all week.”
While Joe lost himself in the machinations of SMERSH operatives Kronsteen and Klebb, his concentration only occasionally disturbed by laughter or comments from his fellow passengers, the coach stuttered its way through the heavy traffic between Leeds and Bradford and into the heavier stuff making for Manchester, when angry interjections from Keith also began to disturb his reading.
Forty-five minutes later, they were cruising down the hill towards Rochdale, Joe’s head filled with the potted biography of Donovan ‘Red’ Grant when a general chorus of complaints reached his ear and Sheila nudged him.
“What?” He demanded. “I’m trying to read.”
Sheila pointed up to the TV set. “It’s gone off.”
Joe fumed. “Hey, Keith, this telly’s on the blink.”
“So what do you want me to do, man? Wave a magic wand?” Keith grumbled. “Have you seen the traffic? Friday bloody morning and Manchester is its usual hell and I’ve more to think about than the bleeding TV reception.”
Joe fished the remote control from his pocket, and aimed it at the TV. As he was about to press the button, the face of a station announcer filled the screen.
“We’re sorry about this interruption to the transmission from the I-Spy house. We understand that there is some kind of problem at their end. We’re working to resolve the matter. In the meantime, here’s a cartoon.”
She disappeared and Tom and Jerry appeared on screen.
Joe put the remote back in his gilet and returned to his reading.
Keith continued to struggle with the traffic, which showed no inclination to thin out, even after he left the M62 at junction 18 and joined the M60 (East) following the signs for Manchester Airport. The drone of the engine, combined with the hum of conversation were enough to send Joe into a stupor where the words of Ian Fleming began to make no sense, and as the coach passed the Junction for Oldham and Central Manchester, he gave up and put the book away.
“I’ll get some shuteye instead,” he said to Sheila, and leaned back in his seat.
A further twenty minutes went by and they were passing the airport when she nudged him again. “Joe. Quick. The news.”
Startled into full awareness, he looked up at the TV screen. The cartoons had gone, and now they were looking on the grim face of a reporter standing outside the I-Spy house where they had said goodbye to Brenda the previous Saturday.
“I-Spy ceased transmission just before nine a.m.,” the reporter declared. “A few minutes ago, we were given a statement by on site producer, Helen Catterick to the effect that Housey, Ursula Kenney was found dead in the Private Room at eight fifty-five. All the signs are that she took her own life.”
***
Detective Chief Inspector Frank Hoad grimaced at the sight of Ursula’s body being carefully let down from the clothing hook from which she had been hanging. The mortuary attendants lowered her into a body bag and sealed it up, then looked at him for approval.
“All right,” Hoad said. “Take her away.”
At the age of 43, Hoad had been in the police force over 20 years, and had seen death violent and otherwise, too many times for it to have an effect upon him. “This is different, Azi,” he said.
Detective Sergeant Azizur Rahman adjusted his thick glasses. “Different, sir?”
“We’ve been watching her all week,” Hoad pointed out. “She’s been there on the TV, alive, causing ructions in this bloody place, and now…” He sucked in his bre
ath. “All right, lad. Let’s talk to these people.”
With Rahman leading, they followed the mortuary attendants from the Romping Room and along the landing, past the men’s dorm to the access door at the far end, which had now been unlocked, so the police could get to the Romping Room without meeting the Housies.
In contrast to Rahman’s younger, leaner, more athletic frame, Hoad was a stocky, powerfully built man. Not made for pursuing villains, he was nevertheless quite at home confronting them. He had made his way slowly, methodically through the ranks, and if his approach had changed with promotion, it had more to do with age than any lack of willingness to physically tackle criminals.
Rahman, on the other hand, had only recently been promoted to CID. Aged only 28, he held the Queen’s Police Medal after taking action to resolve a hostage situation during an armed robbery. His action had almost cost him his sight, and there had been many debates about the role he could fulfil after he returned to duty. Eventually, the Police Federation had secured a posting to Chester CID on his behalf and, Hoad had to admit, the younger man was an asset, even if he did miss certain things thanks to his defective sight.
At the top of the back staircase, they waited, allowing the mortuary attendants to manhandle Ursula’s body down the stairs.
“You been following this drivel, Azi?” Hoad asked.
Rahman chuckled. “Only by compulsion, sir. My wife and daughters have, but it’s not really my thing.”
“Me neither but I have a couple of teenagers at home, and they’ve been glued to the TV all week.” The chief inspector frowned. “Rum do, this. She’s been acting like a complete bitch all week, and now she’s decided to top herself. Why?”
“Maybe that’s why she’s been behaving like a complete bitch all week, sir.”
“Yes. Maybe. All right, lad, we need to talk to the backroom crew here, and then the other lags.” He held up an evidence bag containing the long, white cord with which Ursula had been hanged. “And I wanna know who this belongs to.”
“You don’t think it was hers, sir?”
The I-Spy Murders Page 8