The Festival Murders

by Mark McCrum

  As Steve left the room with one laptop, Brian came in with another. This one was far smarter, a slim, brushed-aluminium machine. ‘Grace Pritchard’s Macbook, ma’am,’ said Brian. ‘I’ve had a quick shufti through her email, but there was nothing sent to anyone after nine forty-three a.m. on the Sunday. That was also the last time the Inbox was checked.’

  ‘Sounds like she didn’t even get to switch it on,’ said Julie.

  ‘And yet,’ said Priya, ‘Rory and co. told us she went straight upstairs from seeing them.’

  ‘Rory and co.?’ asked Julie.

  Francis met Priya’s eye. What was she playing at? But her shrug was only a little apologetic. ‘She’s going to have to know sooner or later,’ she said.

  ‘These are the young people who left Wyveridge mid-afternoon but told us otherwise?’ said Julie.

  ‘Yes,’ said Priya.

  ‘What do we have on that, Brian?’

  The DS consulted his notebook. ‘I was coming to that. The last people who claimed to be there, apart from Mrs Macpherson the housekeeper and Gunther Bachmeier the gardener, were three of the resident house party: Rory McCarthy, Neville Tanner and Eva Edelstein. Who all concurred on leaving for town at one thirty p.m. after a late breakfast.’

  ‘Which you’re now saying wasn’t true?’ Julie asked Priya.

  ‘They left later. They saw Grace, basically.’

  ‘You’re sure about that?’

  ‘Yes. Not that they wanted us to know that.’

  ‘That would tie in with the housekeeper’s evidence, ma’am,’ said Brian. ‘She told us there were people in the house when she knocked off at two.’

  ‘You hadn’t followed up this anomaly?’

  ‘I’d only just got to it, ma’am.’

  Julie gave him an impatient glance. ‘OK, I think we’d better get onto those three, please, Brian. Right away.You can bring them in if you like.’

  ‘Ma’am.’ He turned on his heel.

  ‘You’re going to arrest them?’ said Priya, when he’d gone.

  ‘Lying on a police statement is perverting the course of justice. We don’t necessarily have to charge them. Just make them aware we don’t like timewasters and see how helpful they want to be, obviously without leaning on them in any way that might be prejudicial to their evidence.’ She sat forward with a smile.

  ‘Rory McCarthy in particular will take that threat very seriously indeed,’ said Francis. ‘As he’s doing his pupillage in a barrister’s chambers at present.’

  ‘Is he now?’ said Julie. ‘So he knew exactly what he was up to – lying on a statement. You’re making me wonder why he didn’t want us to know that they’d seen Grace.’

  ‘I don’t think he was involved, if that’s what you’re thinking,’ said Francis. ‘Not directly, anyhow. Can we talk in total confidence?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I think he had other worries. Relating to his future as a barrister.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘The recreational use of certain Class A substances, perhaps?’

  This brought a bark of laughter from Julie. ‘We know the place was awash with drugs. They flushed the whole lot down the toilet a few minutes before we got there. Little realising that the drainage system for Wyveridge runs into a big cesspit in the field below the house. But busting a few poshies for possession isn’t really what I’m interested in just now. The question is, was that concern by itself enough to make Rory lie about the time he left for town? And presumably persuade his two buddies to lie also. Or was there more he didn’t want us to know? You don’t have any useful theories about that?’

  ‘Not at the moment, no,’ said Francis, not meeting Julie’s eye, though he was aware of her looking slowly from him to Priya and back again. After a moment Julie said: ‘Hopefully he may be able to tell us more when we talk to him.’ She rubbed her hands briskly, then leant back in her chair. ‘In the spirit of ongoing cooperation, I might as well tell you that we also had a call from Grace on Sunday afternoon.’

  ‘Did you,’ said Francis, leaning forward. ‘Saying what?’

  ‘That she had something important she wanted to share with us.’

  ‘And you didn’t take that seriously?’

  ‘We were going to see her at six p.m. on Sunday. At the White Hart.’ DCI Julie leant down and pulled up a large handbag from the floor, rummaged around and produced a pair of business cards. ‘If there’s anything else you happen to remember,’ she said, ‘my mobile number’s on there.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Francis, pulling out his wallet and producing a card of his own. ‘Before we go,’ he added. ‘Is there any chance you could tell your uniformed guard dog out at Wyveridge to let us through? There’s a few things inside the house I’d like to check out.’

  ‘Which uniformed guard dog is that?’

  ‘Shaven-headed gentleman. Looks as if he enjoys his food.’

  The DCI laughed. ‘Stan’s nickname in the force is Pieman.’ She considered them both for a few moments. ‘OK,’ she said, ‘I’ll make an exception for you. On the strict condition that anything you find, you share. Agreed?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Francis. ‘May I also ask: was the memory card still in the video camera when you found it? And if so did it survive the fall?’

  For a moment Julie looked taken aback. Then her face relaxed. ‘What do you think?’ she asked.

  ‘On balance, not. But sometimes that kind of data can be quite resilient.’

  ‘The card was there. We took it out hoping for the best and discovered the worst. It was irretrievably damaged. But not, the SOCO guys seemed to think, in the fall.’

  ‘How d’you mean?’ asked Priya.

  ‘Somebody had tampered with it, either before or after it was chucked over. It had been stamped on, they thought, by some kind of hard shoe.’

  ‘Oh my god!’ said Priya. ‘He wanted that footage destroyed.’

  DCI Julie nodded at her. ‘That’s rather what we thought.’

  ‘May I chance one final question,’ Francis asked, as he rose to his feet.

  DCI Julie was shaking her head in mock-wonder. ‘Now I see where Braithwaite gets it from,’ she said. ‘OK then – try me.’

  ‘Was the hallucinogenic drug in Grace’s bloodstream psilocybin or lysergic acid diethylamide?’

  Julie returned his gaze for several long seconds. ‘Both drugs were present,’ she said eventually. ‘But the pathologist found that at the point of death the ingestion of neither of them was very well advanced.’

  ‘I see,’ said Francis.

  Julie smiled and put her hands flat on the table. ‘Since I’m being so helpful I might as well share this with you too. In strictest confidence, of course. When the SOCO guys examined Grace’s body they found a splash of liquid on her dress which turned out to contain psilocybin. Which would tie in rather well with your theory about post-mortem ingestion, wouldn’t it, Francis?’

  ‘Certainly would,’ Francis replied. He looked over at Priya, who was shaking her head in disbelief. ‘Before we go,’ he added, ‘I think both of us would appreciate it if you didn’t mention your sources to Rory and his friends.’

  ‘Fine by me,’ said Julie. ‘Chatham House Rules all round. And do please let me know what else you find. However inconsequential it may seem.’

  TWENTY-NINE

  ‘Why didn’t you tell her about Eva and the shroom tea?’ asked Priya, as she and Francis sped back together towards Mold. The rain clouds had cleared away and it was another warm, sunny day, the clear blue sky dotted with occasional little fluffs of white.

  ‘The three of them are in enough shit already, don’t you think?’ Francis raised an eyebrow at his companion. ‘Anyway, we don’t want to share everything with her just yet, do we? Hold on to a few bargaining chips. So what do you make of the post-mortem result? Sounds as if your hunch about Rory might have been right.’

  ‘He’s definitely hiding something.’

  ‘You game to drop in at
Wyveridge for a few minutes? Now we’re allowed, I’d quite like to have a quick look at Grace’s room, not to mention the battlements.’

  ‘Will there be anything left to see?’

  ‘Probably not. I’m assuming that’s why Julie’s letting us in. But you never know.’

  This time there was no obstruction. Pieman had gone, to be replaced by chirpy Wendy. The radiophones had clearly been crackling, because Francis and Priya were let straight through, round past the diminished pile of coats and boots to the echoing empty hall. The sound of voices filtered along the corridor from the kitchen.

  ‘Another late breakfast?’ said Francis, leading on towards a powerful smell of toast and bacon. Rory, Neville, Eva, Ranjit, Carly and Adam were all sitting round the big oblong wooden table, open newspapers in front of them.

  ‘Here comes the great detective,’ said Rory snidely.

  There was no point rising to this sort of thing; thanks to Priya, the guy would be getting his comeuppance all too soon. ‘Morning everyone,’ Francis said.

  ‘We’re digesting the latest newspaper stories,’ said Ranjit, waving The Times, which was open at a headline that read ONGOING MYSTERY OF THE MOLD DEATHS. ‘Nobody seems to have a clue what’s going on – even the Sentinel. The Guardian has misspelt my name and Wyveridge. And have you seen the Mail?’ He pushed over a double-page spread featuring a large picture of himself dressed as a maharajah. AT THE COURT OF THE INDIAN SVENGALI, read the headline. ‘Teach me to leave silly photos on Facebook.’

  ‘They neglect to mention that the Indian Svengali was born in Streatham,’ said Carly.

  ‘They’re so phoney,’ said Eva. ‘All this crap about herbal cigarettes and natural highs. If they mean drugs, why don’t they say so?’

  ‘Yeah,’ agreed Adam.

  ‘Libel, obviously,’ said Rory. ‘Until one of us has been done for possession they’re stuffed. And that’s not going to happen any time soon.’ He turned to Francis. ‘So what have you come for now, Clouseau?’

  ‘Just to have a look around. If it’s OK with you guys, I’d quite like to see the room that Grace was sleeping in.’

  ‘Nothing left, mate,’ said Rory. ‘The cozzers have cleaned it out. Laptop, clothes, the lot.’

  Francis ignored this. ‘Are you six the full quota?’ he asked.

  ‘Conal and Fleur are still in bed,’ said Ranjit, casting an embarrassed glance in Priya’s direction.

  At which the door pushed open, and a tousled Fleur appeared, in a cream silk nightie, pink pyjama trousers and bare feet. ‘Morning,’ she said with a yawn; then, seeing Francis and Priya, ‘Oh hi.’ She shuffled towards the sideboard and took two mugs from a wooden mug-tree.

  ‘Fleur,’ said Ranjit, ‘this is Francis Meadowes.’

  ‘Yeah, we met … last night … in the pub … hiya.’

  ‘And Priya Kaur.’

  Fleur looked sheepish, but Priya had clearly decided to give the encounter maximum charm. ‘Lovely to see you again,’ she said, holding out a hand. In front of six pairs of eyes, Fleur returned the offensive with interest. ‘And you,’ she replied. Greeting complete, she turned to hover over the cafetière in the middle of the table. ‘Any of this coffee going begging?’

  ‘Help yourself,’ said Ranjit.

  ‘You were sharing a bedroom with Grace, I believe?’ said Francis, as Fleur filled two cups and splashed in milk from a nearby bottle.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Would you mind showing us?’

  ‘Oh for god’s sake!’ muttered Rory.

  But Fleur flashed Francis her wide smile. ‘No problem. What – right away?’

  ‘If that’s OK with you.’

  ‘Come up with me now, if you like.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Francis. He followed her down the corridor and Priya tucked in behind. ‘We don’t need to be more than a couple of minutes,’ he added, as they turned up onto the staircase. ‘Just be really helpful to get a feel of the layout.’

  ‘There’s not much left, I’m afraid. The police took pretty much everything. Hang on,’ she said, as they reached the landing, ‘I’ll just give Coney his coffee.’

  She dived into a room off the main landing. ‘“Coney”,’ Priya mouthed, raising her eyebrows. From beyond the open door came the sotto mutterings of lovers. Then Fleur was back, a blue cashmere V-neck pulled down over her nightie.

  ‘We were just along here,’ she said.

  At the end of the corridor was a room with tall windows that looked out over the gravel circle of the driveway. There were two single beds, stripped back to stained underblankets; two mattresses were stacked up against the wall. ‘I was in here with Grace and two others.’

  ‘And you slept where?’ Francis asked.

  ‘On a mattress under the window. Grace was in the bed by the wall.’

  ‘So,’ said Francis, looking around, ‘were you aware exactly what bits and pieces of Grace’s the police took away?’

  ‘Her bag and laptop. And her handbag, of course. That was it, I think.’ Fleur paused and looked down at the floor. ‘Sorry, it’s all been very hard to take.’ She sat down with a thump on the bed nearer the window. ‘To understand, really.’ Now she was sobbing. Priya went over and put a supporting hand round her shoulder.

  ‘It’s OK,’ she said.

  ‘But it’s not OK,’ said Fleur, in a voice that was halfway between a squeal and a shout. ‘How could those bastards do this to Grace. She was only twenty-four.’

  Francis waited as she recovered herself. Priya was soothing her, gently stroking her neck. She had tears brimming in her eyes too, bless her.

  ‘Do you think it was “those bastards” who did something to her?’ Francis asked softly. ‘Or do you think she did something to herself?’

  ‘Like what? Freak out on some drugs trip, as people keep trying to suggest? Of course it was those bastards. I’m sorry. I know Grace really well. She doesn’t do drugs any more. She’s far too focused. She barely drinks.’

  ‘Any more, you say? Implying …?’

  ‘That she experimented at uni. Who didn’t? But even in her wildest phase there were two things she never touched, never wanted to touch.’

  ‘And they were?’

  ‘She always said that she didn’t want to risk trying heroin because you can get addicted with one hit. And LSD, because she was frightened she might have a bad trip. She used to say, “I’m mental enough as it is.” Through her tears, Fleur was smiling. ‘That was the whole point. She wouldn’t have touched Rory’s acid in a million years – or any magic mushrooms either.’

  ‘Rory’s acid?’

  ‘He was the one who had it. Sorry, didn’t you know that?’

  ‘Did you tell the police this?’ Francis asked.

  ‘They weren’t really listening. That fat guy taking the statements was full of, like, “You never know the odd things even your close friends can do.” But I do know. Even if someone had spiked Grace’s cup of tea or something, she’s just not the type to go jumping off roofs. If she’d realised what was happening to her, she’d have gone and sat it out in a safe place.’

  ‘So you reckon she was pushed?’

  ‘Without a doubt. What I don’t understand is why she was up on the roof in the first place. She knew I’d already filmed that view.’

  ‘And when did you do that?’

  ‘On Saturday evening. With Carly. We were just looking around the house and we found the window by accident. Then early on Sunday morning I took Conal up there too. In the dawn.’

  ‘Conal,’ said Francis. ‘Why?’

  ‘He wanted to see it for himself. I’d shown him some of the film I’d shot. On playback. Of the party and stuff.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Just before. We’d all been chilling in the main room by the fire.’

  ‘Who else was there?’

  ‘A few of the others who were still up. Ranjit and Carly. Eva and Neville for a bit.’

  ‘So were they the only people who saw it?’r />
  ‘Yeah. Apart from that wounded soldier guy and his girlfriend.’

  ‘Anna and Marvin were still there at sunrise?’

  ‘No, that was much earlier. Anna came over to me while I was first reviewing the footage and asked me what I’d been filming. So I showed them. They both seemed really interested.’

  ‘I’ll bet they did,’ muttered Francis. ‘When was that?’

  ‘I don’t know. Around midnight, probably.’

  ‘So was everything you shot lost in the accident?’

  ‘I don’t know. The police took away my camera and obviously the memory card. But I’d already backed up the stuff from Saturday night onto my laptop.’

  ‘And you’ve still got that?’ said Francis, as levelly as he could.

  ‘Yeah. Everything up until Sunday breakfast. What I don’t have was what Grace filmed after that. So I’ve no idea who she spoke to in town. Or what they might have said. It’s a shame, but obviously not so much of a shame as …’

  For a moment it looked as if Fleur might be about to break down again; but after a few breaths she had got herself under control.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’d be able to show us the roof now,’ Francis asked. ‘Where you were filming from?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It would be really useful for us to get a feel …’

  Fleur shrugged. ‘If you want. Just let me get some proper shoes.’

  At the end of the narrow top floor corridor, Francis and Priya scrambled out after her through the little side window onto the battlements. It wasn’t large, perhaps two and a half foot by three, and not designed for easy access, perched as it was three feet above the staircase; so you had, as Mrs Mac had told him, to pull yourself up to get through.

  The battlements weren’t intended for recreation either. The slate roof came down to a thin strip of lead flashing – and that was it. Not that it was unduly dangerous; as Carly had said, it would have been hard to slip over by accident. The uprights – the merlons – were almost up to shoulder height, while the crenels in between were a good eighteen inches high. But it was still dizzying looking down, a good thirty feet to the terrace far below.

  ‘Goodness!’ said Francis, feeling a familiar rush of vertigo. ‘Quite a view.’