4 Camera ... Action ... Murder!

by Faith Mortimer

  She felt terror grip her and without another thought, screamed. A flock of crows rose from a neighbouring wood, cawing and squawking rowdily before flying off into the distance. Diana leapt in fright, only this time at the birds’ noisy outrage at being disturbed. In panic, she let rip again and could have died in relief on hearing Steve’s faint but unmistakable answering shout. Falling on her knees, Diana sobbed into her hands before completely throwing up the remains of her breakfast.

  ***

  Hearing someone enter the library, Diana looked up and saw Steve accompanied by Adam. “Sorry to leave you, darling,” Steve said and sitting down beside her, drew her into his arms. “I’ve just rung Robert and Libby. I had to let them know what was happening and to check if it was okay for them to have Poppy for another day.” He shot an accusing look at Adam. “At least, I hope it will be only for one more day.”

  Adam looked weary. “Yes, I’m sorry, but Mrs Macpherson’s murder throws up a whole new scenario.”

  “Do you think we have a serial killer here? There doesn’t appear to be an obvious signature to both deaths,” Steve asked.

  Adam flung a look Diana’s way before replying. “I’m not sure. I don’t think so, and that’s not because the method of killing is different in both cases. In fact, despite all those TV series and films, serial killers don’t often leave a signature. They don’t carve an SK for serial killer on a girl’s head after raping and killing her, because they’re not really all that smart. Their MO is usually the same though. If they find a ruse which works in maybe abducting a girl, then they’ll use it again. But leaving signatures? No, they don’t usually waste their time with that. But there again, he’s not always going to use the same method. He might try something else on another day, so you have to be careful. What happens is, sometimes you’ll have two or three crimes that look the same, but you can’t tell them apart. If I was convinced this was a serial, I’d get a profiler in.”

  “I did wonder when you used them. It must make everything more complicated.”

  Adam nodded. “A profiler takes all the police files and analyses the information we give them. We let them have the crime-scene and autopsy photos and determine what happened at the crime scene and how it occurred. The profiler then looks to see what the motive could be and who might do this type of thing. They then ask themselves if this is a serial killer. Then, they look into what type of person could have committed the crime. Working alongside them, we examine all investigations and interviews we’ve carried out, and the profiler tries to determine if someone matches the analyses they come up with. Sometimes it works, sometimes we get nothing.”

  “I see.”

  “We can’t even be sure the murders are connected, except by the screwdriver, and that’s circumstantial. I have to assume at this stage it’s the one you and Di first saw in the boathouse. If so, it was stolen sometime between when you first saw it and then just after Caroline’s drowning. That’s about twenty-four hours. How are you feeling, Diana? Are you sure you wouldn’t like that sedative the doctor left for you and go and have a lie-down?” Adam turned his attention to Diana and gave her a warm smile. “It might do you good.”

  Diana sat up straight, placed her mug on the table by her side, and thrust the blanket aside. “I’m fine now, and no, thank you. I’d rather be with you all. I don’t want to be on my own just yet.”

  “But Di, I’ll stay with you,” Steve said.

  “Maybe later,” she said more firmly. “I want to know what’s going on. One thing I dread asking and I have to know…was Isabelle raped first?”

  “Di…” Steve looked worried as he raised his eyebrows at Adam, who gave a tiny almost imperceptible shake of his head.

  “It’s okay, Steve, it’s understandable. Di wants to know after finding the poor woman like that. Mrs Macpherson had recently had sex, but no, so far as we can tell from preliminary examinations, she wasn’t sexually interfered with in any other way. And because of the lack of any great quantities of blood, the screwdriver was placed there after she was killed. We’re assuming it was some kind of black rage attack thrown at her. For instance, when the victim dies more quickly than the killer intended, or he’s in danger of being discovered or has to stop his fun too soon. So, at this stage, we believe it was an anger thing at having his control taken from him.”

  Diana shuddered. “Poor Isabelle. I’m glad he left her alone—that would have been the final degradation. But why strip her, and where are her clothes?”

  “That, we believe, was all part of the degradation, as you say. Perhaps she’d slighted him in some way. He might have made a pass and was then ignored, or something else infuriated him. Whatever it was he wanted, and I’m saying ‘he’ even though it could be a female killer, he made damn sure she was humiliated. As for where her clothes are, your guess is as good as mine. We do think her killer was a man, though, because he had to be strong to throttle her. The initial report—and this is just an initial report, by the way—indicates she was killed this morning. The heat complicates things, you understand. The cause of death was two-handed strangulation. There’s bruising to her stomach, which was probably caused by a violent blow and possibly aimed at pre-empting struggle or noise. There were no signs of forced sexual interference.”

  “Duncan said her bed was a muddle. You know they didn’t sleep in the same room?” Steve muttered.

  “So I gather. Maybe she had a lover that night. We’ve taken her bed clothes, and they’ll be thoroughly examined for blood, semen, etc. We could get lucky, although any forensic findings might not be the murderer’s, of course.”

  Diana looked at Adam. “Maybe she did. Have a lover, I mean. Clare Thompson told me she thought Isabelle and Andrew, the Lodestone man, might be more than just friends. It’s all just hearsay though.”

  Adam nodded slowly. “Good. It gives us something to put on the chart. It’s a beginning at least. One thing though. If, and I strongly suspect they are, the deaths are connected, then Isabelle most probably played no part in Caroline’s death. Despite Isabelle’s fingerprints all over the boat, she did live here, and there’s no reason why she shouldn’t have handled it. We’re looking for one killer, and I believe he was one of those present during the last couple of days. I’m sure you know the majority of murders are committed by assailants known to the victim. I believe we’re building a very strong case against Macpherson. Looking at one scenario, he caused Caroline to drown because she was going to have a baby by him and he didn’t want the embarrassment and unwelcome publicity before filming began. He could easily have replaced her with another pretty starlet, so he didn’t feel too guilty about her death. Also, he needed more money for the production, and maybe Isabelle wouldn’t part with any more of hers. You told me they’d rowed over money on more than one occasion. Going one step further, perhaps he’d arranged earlier with his wife for her and Andrew to have an affair so she might wheedle the extra funds out of Lodestone. If she failed, Duncan might have been so angry, he killed her in a fit of rage. You said they didn’t get on. I know this is all conjecture at this point and you may think it far-fetched, but stranger things happen. I’m sure you both know that. Another scenario may point to this Andrew Downs having strangled her. Was it a lover’s tiff, perhaps? Who knows, but we’ve lots to work on.”

  “What’s going to happen to everyone?” asked Steve. “Have we all got to stay put?”

  “Good question. I appreciate Duncan must want rid of you all, especially now his wife’s been murdered, but it’s also so damn convenient having everyone here in one place. Legally, we can’t detain anyone unless we arrest someone on suspicion of murder. I’ve already set in motion the application for a search warrant because Duncan more or less told me to go to hell when I suggested searching the premises. His reasoning didn’t add up either, and I’m going to advise him to have his solicitor accompany him when we have our next little chat.”

  There was a knock on the library door, and they all looked round when i
t opened to reveal an anxious-looking Russell. “Sorry to intrude. I didn’t realise you were in here, Superintendent. I really wanted to know how Diana was and how you’re getting on. In fact, the others do too.”

  Diana looked from Russell to Adam. “I’m feeling much better, thank you. I’ll come out and see you all in a minute.”

  Russell looked like he was going to say more, and then changed his mind. He apologised once again and left, closing the door behind him.

  “I’ve just remembered. I’m sorry. I must have been so shocked, I completely forgot all about it. I found this when I was in the maze.” Whereupon, she pulled the glove she found out of her pocket.

  Adam stared at Diana’s hand and then moved towards her. He searched in his own pocket for a moment before producing a polythene bag. “Clever girl.” Using a couple of pencils, he hooked the glove from her outstretched palm and slid it into the open bag. “Just where in the maze did you find this?”

  “It wasn’t far from where I found Isabelle. I remember stopping because I was so hot and wiping my face with my arm. If I hadn’t stopped, I doubt I’d have seen it because it was tucked right inside the hedge where it narrows. The glove was snagged on a twig. It’s a driving glove, isn’t it? And it’s got to be a man’s, since it’s a lot bigger than my own hand. It could have lain there for some time because no one would wear gloves this time of year, but it might be important.”

  Adam studied the glove before answering. “It looks very much like it. I think it’s about my size and yes, definitely a man’s glove. It’s had a lot of use, judging by the stains, and you don’t often see gloves like this nowadays. We’ll bag it and send it off to the lab. Hopefully, it’s our killer’s. There again, it could be anyone’s. If it was well concealed, then it could have been there for some time.”

  “I’m going to go and see everyone now before they all go. Unless you want me for anything else, Adam?” she asked.

  “No, that’s fine, as long as you’re up to it. You’ve had quite a shock and delayed reaction—well, I don’t need to tell you about that.”

  Her eyes darkened as she remembered back. It wasn’t that long after she and Adam had split up. There had been a series of minor to middling sexual offences in Cheltenham, ranging from simple ‘flashers’ to girls being approached in quiet, poorly lit places. That was until the crime escalated in severity and a couple of women were brutally attacked. Diana had been sensible and made sure she never walked alone at night, especially to and from the theatre. One weekend, she volunteered to help paint a series of flats. There had been a flu epidemic, and most of the scene painters had all come down with it at the same time. Duncan was offering extra money, and Di and a couple of others thought it a good idea for earning some extra well-needed cash. She and her two friends worked all that Sunday afternoon, until the other two—who were a couple—decided they were feeling amorous and slipped off to one of the dressing rooms backstage for some privacy. Perched on the ladder, Diana carried on painting the scenery. She was enjoying the peace and quiet and found the work therapeutic. She wasn’t worried being on her own; the theatre doors were all locked, and her friends were not that far away. While lost in thought and working steadily on the flat, she suddenly became aware of a strange feeling. She paused. It felt like she was being watched. She felt a prickle of fear run down her back as she turned from the coloured flat she was painting to look behind her. There was nothing there but black shadows. She was conscious of standing out: a lone figure in the light against the coloured flat in front of her. Thinking her friends were playing a trick upon her, she laughed and called out. There was no answering laughter, only a deep silence. When she heard a footstep and the theatre suddenly plummeted into darkness, she felt her heart miss a beat. Hardly daring to breathe, she took a step off the ladder, slipped and screamed…

  She jerked back to the present when she realised Steve was calling her name. “What? I’m sorry, I was miles away.”

  “Diana, I was telling Adam we’re going to stay one more night in town before leaving for Hampshire.”

  “Yes. Did you make that reservation?”

  “No, not yet, but I’m sure there’ll be a room for us.”

  Adam was about to intervene when he was met by a fearful racket coming from outside in the corridor. As their door suddenly crashed open, everyone gaped at the figure standing and breathing heavily in the doorway. He was a great bear of a man. He was at least six foot five in open-toed leather sandals and boasted an amazing red beard and moustache.

  “Is anyone ever going to listen to me? I’ve been sat here for bloody ages and been palmed off first by that fool, Patrick, and now Duncan. They’re both guilty as far as I’m concerned, and because I’ve just been ignored, I’m holding you responsible. You’re the local police. Are you going to arrest them or not?”

  Chapter 15

  Sydney Graham MA. Ph.D. was not a happy man. Ever since he was informed by a delighted and thoroughly obnoxious colleague about the forthcoming filming of The Holbein Legacy, he had been incensed. It wasn’t because he disliked popular historical drama films: far from it. No, it was because someone had first of all taken his twelve years’ research and translations and written them up as a second-rate, cheap stage play, without even as much as a mention of the origin of the story and ideas. Twelve long years he had spent, painstakingly going over and over at times almost translucent papers written in thin spidery writing and often on sheets covered by streaks of rust marks. His masterpiece, bound in handsome tooled Moroccan leather, was titled The Holbein Diaries, and as soon as that fool of a so-called friend and colleague, Crispin Belcher, told him two days ago with unconcealed glee that someone had copied his work and was now going to make oodles of money from a film, he literally saw red. How dare they? Someone would swing for this.

  It hadn’t taken him too long to do a bit of internet research, and within a day he had found evidence of what he really didn’t want to know. Looking at the printout and reading the old reviews for the original play, he soon knew who the culprit was despite the person credited as the scriptwriter. Patrick Mulligan had been having an on-going on-off relationship with Sydney’s cousin by marriage, Joanna Bullen, for years. He disliked the scruffy, unkempt long-haired actor, whom he considered definitely a second-, if not third-rate thespian and instantly knew he was responsible. Sydney and his cousin, Joanna, saw each other about twice a year when she visited him. Once, Patrick had tagged along for the weekend, and it was very probable he chanced upon Sydney’s notes lying around in his untidy study that very weekend.

  Sydney never followed his cousin’s acting career and was unaware of the original play. Patrick had included material which Sydney hadn’t been able to factually prove and remained in his research notes, undisclosed to an interested public. Patrick obviously thought there was a lot of mileage in some of the smuttier anecdotes (he obviously fancied himself as a latter-day Chaucer) and had written it all down. The fact that the name of the dramatist on the play was Duncan Macpherson’s (rich and successful landowner and theatre company director) bothered Sydney not one iota. He knew a couple of rogues when he saw them. They were in it hand in hand, and he wanted justice. Plagiarism was one thing, but making a tacky film out of a book of his, albeit with a slight change in name, was definitely not on!

  While Sydney Graham enlightened Adam as to whom he was and told his story, an astounded Diana and Steve looked on. Over time, he became more and more irate until Diana thought he was going to have a heart attack.

  “So, what are you going to do about it?” he asked, once he stopped to take a breath, his face mottled and deep red. “It’s academic dishonesty and surely a punishable crime?”

  Adam cleared his throat. “Sir, Mr Graham, I believe you said. We’re in the middle of a murder investigation here. Whilst I know you consider your problem to be of the utmost importance, I’m sure you’ll agree that murder must take precedence. I’m sorry, but I’m unable to help you, but perhaps you’d like to
leave your details with my sergeant outside.”

  “But it’s plagiarism, man! They’ve stolen my work. My twelve years of research and for what? To gratify themselves with a sordid little film? It’s monstrous, unthinkable, and I demand satisfaction.”

  “I don’t think you heard what I just said, sir. This is a murder scene. Barbara!” Adam shouted and stood up.

  A breathless and embarrassed sergeant appeared in the doorway. “I was in the middle of talking to Mr Graham when he—yes, sir!” She saw the look on her boss’s face and knew her failure in keeping Mr Graham out of the library was inexcusable. “Would you please come with me, sir?”

  Mr Graham looked at the policewoman and suddenly seemed to grasp what he had just been told. “Who’s been murdered?” he said, gawking from one to another. “Don’t tell me, Isabelle Macpherson.”

  It was the detective superintendent’s turn to look surprised.

  “And how do you deduce that, may I ask?” Adam said, at the same time indicating to Barbara she should copy down what he was saying.