A Trio of Murders: A Perfect Match, Redemption, Death of a Dancer

by Jill McGown

Detective Chief Inspector Lloyd poured himself a beer, picked up his plate of sandwiches, and went through to the living-room, kicking the door shut behind him.

  He put the sandwiches on the table, the beer on the floor, and eased off his shoes, sitting down in the reclining chair that had been his first major purchase after his divorce. He picked up the television remote control, and the television flashed into silent life as he muted the sound. He’d waited years for this film to be shown again. He’d had hair the last time it had been on. Well, rather more than he’d got now, anyway.

  There was something to be said for living alone, he thought, as he reached for the video remote. You could watch films that went on until one fifteen in the morning, and record them, without being nagged to death.

  Judy would think he was quite mad, of course.

  ‘Why watch it in the middle of the night when you’re recording it anyway? Why record it when you’ve seen it three times already? Why even watch it twice?’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, I just want to watch the film. Go to bed if you don’t like it.’

  ‘I’ll hear it through the wall – how can I sleep?’

  ‘Then, watch it with me.’

  ‘I don’t want to watch it.’

  He smiled. It would be better, he conceded, if she was actually there, saying all that, instead of just in his head. As it was, she had never stayed all night with him, and all their rows were about their situation, not about normal domestic differences.

  ‘As for people fantasising rows . . .’

  Judy would have him certified if she knew everything that went on in his head.

  He wondered what she was doing now, then wished he hadn’t. Her assurances that the marriage was all over bar the shouting didn’t help, though he knew it was the truth. She still spent her nights with Michael instead of with him, and what was or wasn’t happening was of secondary importance.

  She had promised to tell Michael, and she would. But she hadn’t promised when, and Judy had a positive phobia about commitment.

  But perhaps, he thought, with a total lack of conviction, perhaps she was telling him even now. Perhaps she would turn up at his door in half an hour, saying that she had finally left him. He smiled to himself. If she did, she would spoil the film, and wouldn’t that be just like her?

  The credits rolled on the news programme, to which he had not been listening, and he turned up the sound. He checked the video. Right channel. As a slide of tomorrow’s early programmes went up, he started the tape, and paused it, ready to roll on cue.

  ‘And now,’ said the announcer smoothly, ‘in a change to our advertised programme . . .’

  Lloyd stared at the screen, at the ‘tribute’ to the actor whose death had presumably been reported in the previous programme. One of his old films. How dragging a few reels of film out could possibly be regarded as a tribute was beyond him. Anyone who wanted to see the damn thing wouldn’t know it was on.

  He was still watching, still recording, as though it would somehow transform itself into his old film, but it wouldn’t. With a deep sigh, he switched off the television, and stopped the tape.

  He bit disconsolately into a sandwich. No chance of her turning up now.

  Chapter Two

  The Sesquicentennial Ball had finally arrived; Caroline had other plans, which included Sam. ‘Are we still on for tonight?’ he asked, sitting opposite her.

  She barely looked up from her newspaper. ‘Yes,’ she said.

  It was hardly enthusiastic, but it was in the affirmative. Sam picked up his knife and fork, as she turned her attention once more to what seemed to be the racing pages. He prodded the potatoes. ‘What did you have?’ he asked.

  ‘The quiche.’

  ‘I think so should I have done.’ But despite his misgivings he began to eat; he was ravenous. He glanced up now and then at Caroline’s absorbed face. ‘Are you fond of a flutter?’ he asked.

  ‘No.’

  God. Was she going to be like this tonight? Sam didn’t care for hard work, and that’s just what Caroline was. He was beginning to see Matron’s attractions. She presumably had the appropriate anatomy, which was the only qualification required.

  But Caroline had got hold of tickets for a midnight showing of some foreign film of which he’d never heard, but which, it appeared, anyone worth his artistic salt would kill to see. And since it was at midnight she obviously didn’t want to go alone. So, call for Sam, who she knew would welcome any excuse to leave the festivities. He was under no illusion about why he had been thus honoured, but he had no pride.

  He was to leave the ball at eleven, and pick Caroline up from the junior dorm. The film, he understood, concerned itself high-mindedly with erotica; perhaps she had picked him because she imagined that artists, like doctors, viewed these things with a detached professionalism.

  They didn’t. At any rate, he didn’t. He couldn’t wait any longer for Caroline.

  ‘I trust Diana’s suitably grateful for your offer to babysit,’ he said. ‘Imagine – the Great Hall full of men, and she might have been stuck with a load of eleven-year-olds.’

  ‘Diana isn’t obliged to look after them,’ she said, not lifting her head from the paper.

  ‘Then, I trust the school is suitably grateful,’ he persisted. At least he’d got a whole sentence out of her.

  ‘Look – I didn’t mind organising it, but I certainly didn’t want to go to this thing. Both Robert and Diana have to be there at least until the speeches are over. Someone has to supervise the kids, so I volunteered – is that all right with you?’

  Sam decided that saying nothing was the wisest course.

  ‘And she is leaving early so that you and I can go to this film,’ Caroline added.

  ‘She’s probably, got some man lined up,’ said Sam.

  ‘My God – they say women are bitchy.’

  ‘You’re a woman,’ said Sam. ‘You don’t know what she’s like. Ask Newby, if you don’t believe me. She’s been trying to seduce him for weeks.’ He sat back a little. ‘But he’s only got eyes for you,’ he said.

  ‘Have you got your dinner-jacket?’ she asked, transparently changing the subject.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Oh, Sam!’ She got up.

  Sam shrugged. ‘I’m picking it up this afternoon,’ he said. ‘Don’t you worry.’

  ‘I’m not worried,’ she said. ‘But you can only get away with being just so eccentric, you know. Even famous artists have to conform sometimes – or they might lose their cushy jobs.’

  She walked off, and Sam watched her go out of the corner of his eye. Cushy job, he thought sourly, returning to his stew and potatoes. Trying to teach the rudiments of art to a lot of talentless youths who wouldn’t know a Picasso from a pikestaff. That wasn’t cushy; it was soul-destroying.

  And now they wanted him to sing for his supper; stand up and make speeches to blue-rinsed women and paunchy men about how they should keep the school going for another hundred and fifty years by sponsoring scholarships which would be named after them; sales-talking local yuppies into sending their sons there. And, come to that, their daughters – next year, they were accepting girls – how positively modern could you get? And who better than ‘one of our foremost modern artists’ to give them the sales pitch?

  He supposed, to be fair, that anyone would be better than Barry Treadwell, who thought women were of no practical use whatsoever – and who could blame him, with Marcia for a wife? And who was to say that he was wrong, come to that?

  He couldn’t think why he was so hungry; he persuaded the girl to give him a second helping, and sat down. He hadn’t felt as hungry as this since he was doing stuff for the exhibition. In the golden days, when inspiration never seemed to dry up; when the desire to work was so strong that it sharpened his senses and his appetites, and he would eat and drink and . . .

  It had been so long that he had failed to recognise the symptoms. He looked round. Yes. Yes, there were things here, even here, that
could inspire. Look at that, he thought, as the girl splashed tea into a mug from a push-button urn. Machines. He loved machines. He didn’t know what he would paint yet. That still had to come. But he would paint something, soon. And in the meantime the hunger would burn, and would have to be staved off in other ways. Food. Women. Only when he started painting, could it truly be satisfied. It was difficult, this period of increased awareness; difficult to live through, difficult to control. But it meant that he was working again. He might look as though he was sitting here eating stew, but he was working. And this school could stuff its contract. And its dinner dance. He smiled. But no, it would be a shame to waste the opportunity.

  He pushed his plate away. He’d go, complete with dinner-jacket. And he’d make them sit up.

  As the speeches droned on, Matthew glanced round the Hall at the talent, as his father called females. Earlier in the day, they had been the subject of brisk trade-offs.

  ‘And your pen-knife.’

  ‘It’s a Swiss army knife! She’s not worth that.’

  ‘Then, you can’t have her.’

  ‘You hang on to your knife, Simmons – women aren’t worth it.’

  ‘You’d know, and I don’t think.’

  The reason for the black-marketeering was the First Dance, which was how it had been described in the handout from the office, and the only way in which Matthew could think of it, with capital letters.

  The senior boys had each been allocated a partner for the First Dance; they were to politely request (sic) the First Dance, dance with the lady, and return her to her table. This was in honour of St Valentine, apparently, in view of the ‘happy coincidence’ of the dates.

  The ladies were a mixture of staff, governors, various wives, and sundry local schoolgirls, and it was this last which had brought out the entrepreneurial skills of those who had drawn them.

  After the First Dance, the boys could dance or not, as they wished. The desirability of getting the right partner first time round was obvious. They were in school uniform, which hadn’t pleased anyone, and therefore the chance to impress was more necessary than ever. Not necessary enough, however, to part with a Swiss army knife. In the end, the lady went, for a give-away solar-powered calculator, to another bidder altogether.

  Matthew had drawn the headmaster’s wife, but he hadn’t joined in the bidding for a more suitable partner, because she would give him access to the top table, and that had given Matthew an idea.

  He was working on something very special for tonight, and Marcia Treadwell was going to help him, albeit unwittingly, to achieve it. Trust Treadwell, he thought, to have married someone like that. A woman for whom the word vacant might have been coined; a downtrodden doormat of a woman who was about as exciting as a piece of boiled cod, and who went pink if she thought she had done or said anything of which others might disapprove.

  Matthew’s eyes were fixed firmly on the top table, as he waited for his moment to arrive. Anything would do; he didn’t mind what it was, just as long as it was on the top table.

  Sam Waters finished his speech; what little Matthew had noticed of it had seemed very ordinary. People were clapping with some enthusiasm, which was a disappointment. Matthew had rather hoped that Sam at least could be relied upon to say something deeply offensive. He had imagined that their illustrious and foulmouthed art teacher might sit down to boos, but no such luck. His jacket took a bit of getting used to, though, he had to give him that.

  The applause had barely died away when Waters just walked out. Matthew smiled, as Treadwell, already on his feet, watched him leave. Good old Sam, he thought, frowning a little as he tried to make out the object on the table where Sam had been sitting.

  When he realised what it was, he smiled broadly, and clapped vigorously as Treadwell cleared his throat to indicate the start of his speech.

  It was his chance.

  The knock at the door made Caroline jump; she wasn’t expecting anyone. Please God, don’t let it be one of the boys, she thought. No temperatures, no spots, no sore throats, not tonight. She opened the door to Sam, and stared at him without speaking, not sure whether it was his presence or his attire that had actually struck her dumb.

  ‘What on earth are you doing here?’ she said at last.

  ‘The speeches are over.’ He smiled. ‘Mine is, at any rate, and who wants to hear any other bugger’s? I thought I’d come and keep you company.’ He looked at her expectantly. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Do I get to come in?’

  ‘Did you really wear that to the dinner?’ she asked, as he walked in past her.

  ‘I did. And very splendid everyone agreed it was.’

  ‘Where in God’s name did you get it?’

  He grinned. ‘Theatrical costumier,’ he said. ‘A friend of mine. I asked him for something which would be worn by an MC at a strip show, and this is what he came up with.’ He strolled up and down, modelling it. ‘Good, isn’t it?’

  Caroline didn’t smile. ‘You enjoyed showing Barry up, did you?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, I think I did.’

  ‘We can’t go yet,’ she said. ‘Diana isn’t due for at least an hour.’

  ‘I know,’ he replied conspiratorially. ‘How about a cup of coffee, then?’

  And she found herself in the kitchen, making coffee, wishing Sam was anywhere but there, wishing that the Hamlyns had a more plebeian taste in coffee. It seemed to be taking for ever.

  ‘What kind of music do the Hamlyns run to?’ Sam called through.

  ‘I don’t know. Don’t put it on too loud.’

  ‘Boys that age can sleep through anything,’ Sam said. ‘Besides, they’re downstairs. Oh – Hits of the Fifties – that sounds like my scene. Who’d have thought Hamlyn was a rock fan? You’re a bit young, I suppose. Still – we’ll give your ears a treat, shall we?’

  When she took the coffee through, the record was being played at what even she had to agree was a modest level. He had removed the jacket to reveal an even more hideous shirt; he sat in one armchair, and the jacket lay over the other. She handed him his coffee, and sat on the sofa.

  ‘I’m not going anywhere with you dressed like that,’ she said.

  ‘I thought it was a dressing-up do,’ he said.

  ‘It is. It isn’t a fancy-dress do.’

  He grinned. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll change into a respectable suit before we go.’ He got up, and joined her on the sofa. ‘But I had to let you see it, didn’t I?’

  His arm was round her shoulders, and his lips planted a chaste kiss on her cheek. ‘Fifties music, fifties ploy,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sit in one chair, throw jacket over the other. The girl feels obliged to sit on the sofa, where, in due course, you join her.’

  His lips were on hers, and she turned her head away. ‘Don’t, Sam, please.’

  He sat back with a sigh. ‘Christ, you’re hard work,’ he said. ‘It’s St Valentine’s night – relax, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Sam,’ she said, pushing him off. ‘I think you should go and get changed.’

  ‘I’m willing to get out of these clothes any time you say.’ His lips were at her temple.

  ‘Stop it, Sam,’ she said. ‘Please. We’ve been through all this.’

  ‘Don’t I know it? You’re not ready. Great. Well, I am, and we’re not kids any more.’

  Go away, she thought. Just go away.

  ‘We’ve been going out for months – it’s time to get grown-up, Caroline. We’re much too old for goodnight kisses on the doorstep.’

  ‘We haven’t been anywhere,’ she reminded him.

  ‘I could have waited until I brought you home,’ he said, the wheedling tone back since masterful dominance wasn’t working. ‘But you’d have thought it was the film that had given me ideas.’

  ‘So what has given you ideas?’

  ‘You,’ he said. ‘I don’t need erotic movies. I find you sexy even when I’ve been listening to Robert Hamlyn make a sp
eech.’

  She laughed at the little joke, and instantly his mouth was on hers in a prolonged, passionless, tongue-thrusting kiss. Her lack of response didn’t put him off; it was probable, indeed, that he hadn’t even noticed.

  He began to unbutton her shirt, his hands everywhere; grappling with her bra, groping her with bruising thoroughness. She passively endured the invasion, because maybe he was right; maybe it was all she needed to put her grief behind her.

  Forcing her bra up, out of his way, he grasped her exposed breast, squeezing it hard, muttering some form of encouragement before his mouth turned its attention to it, and his hands were free to continue undressing her. And still she didn’t stop him, because he might be right.

  He was already fumbling under the navy satin cummerbund for his zip, and she didn’t even like him. It wasn’t necessary to like him, she told herself. Sex never used to be that important to her, in her single days. It had always just been a bit of fun, no big deal, before she met Andrew. Perhaps it should be again. Sam might be right. It might be all she needed.

  It might be. But it wasn’t going to be here, and it wasn’t going to be now, and it wasn’t going to be Sam.

  The speeches were no more or less boring than speeches usually were; Robert’s, indeed, had really been quite amusing, which had surprised Philip. Sam Waters’s had been entirely conventional, unlike his dinner-jacket. Philip smiled again as he thought of it.

  It was a quite wonderful dinner-jacket; midnight-blue velvet with pale-blue shot-silk lapels and pocket flaps, it set off the ice-blue dress-shirt with navy ruffle and solitaire-studded bow-tie to perfection.

  Sam had left as soon as he’d finished speaking, and just as Treadwell had stood up to speak, in what seemed to have been a calculated insult. He’d get away with it, of course, thought Philip. He always did.

  Philip’s eyes had searched the Hall in vain for Caroline, and it was with a mixture of relief and disappointment that he had learned of her babysitting activities. He had tried to talk to her, even rehearsed asking her out for a drink, but he couldn’t. All he could do was so pathetically sick that it destroyed him, but he couldn’t stop it. St Valentine’s Day, he thought sourly. Once, it would have been easy.