The Festival Murders

by Mark McCrum

  ‘And Grace went over where?’ asked Priya.

  ‘Just along here. She didn’t get far.’ They followed Fleur along the flashing for ten yards or so, until they were right above Grace’s body shape, still clearly marked out with blue and white tape on the gravel. ‘You can see where she ended up.’

  ‘The police have presumably scoured this ledge?’

  ‘Yeah, the white suit brigade were up here for hours. And on the tower. Sunday evening and most of Monday. They weren’t talking to anyone except themselves, so I’ve no idea whether they found anything.’

  Francis looked round, then down again to the terrace. ‘But there’s no way she could have fallen from the tower, is there? It’s too far along.’

  ‘No,’ Fleur agreed. ‘It must have been from around here.’

  If her murderer had got Grace in the right position, Francis thought, between two merlons, her knees by a crenel, it wouldn’t have been too hard to push her over. If, that is, she’d been taken by surprise. One thing was clear. If she hadn’t been off her face on drugs, Grace must have known and trusted her killer.

  Safely downstairs again, Fleur agreed to show them the footage she had saved from Saturday night. She fast-forwarded through some wider shots of the landscape, then came to the party spread out below her on the lawn.

  ‘Here we are,’ she said, ‘this is the stuff I did from the battlements while it was still light. Quite fun, seeing people moving from group to group. Look, there’s a couple snogging behind the gazebo; they have no idea anyone’s watching. After that I went back downstairs again.’

  Now the camera was in the thick of it: heads turning, laughing; bare necks and backs; jewellery flashing; some people studiedly ignoring the lens, others making little self-conscious waves. The camera wobbled through a French window, past the table where the drinks were being served – garnering a quick thumbs-up from Ranjit – then swerved round to catch Bryce and Priya coming through from the hall.

  ‘Oh yes, sorry, this is you.’

  ‘I hadn’t realised we were being filmed,’ said Priya.

  ‘I’m quite discreet when I need to be. The thing is to keep the camera low and check the picture through the monitor. It’s only when you’ve got the viewfinder up by your eyes that people notice you.’

  They watched as Ranjit spotted Bryce, then turned to give Priya an effusive double kiss. In the background, Conal crossed the frame and grabbed a flute of sparkling wine from the table. As he stepped out of the French windows, his head spun round to reveal an unmistakable glower of jealousy. Then he was gone.

  ‘Gosh,’ said Priya. ‘It’s all there, isn’t it?’

  ‘The camera never lies,’ said Francis.

  From outside came the sound of cars braking sharply on gravel. Then the single whoop of a siren. The three of them got up and ran to the window to see four uniformed police officers and two plain clothes emerging from two regular cars and an unmarked silver BMW.

  ‘What do they want now?’ Fleur asked.

  ‘To talk to someone, by the looks of it,’ said Francis; he exchanged a smile with Priya.

  ‘D’you think we should go downstairs?’ said Fleur.

  ‘If they need you I’m sure they’ll find you.’

  They returned to the laptop. ‘Oh look,’ said Fleur, slowing from fast-forward, ‘here’s Grace, talking to that soldier guy.’

  ‘That’s a conversation that’s going well,’ said Francis. ‘Shame you weren’t in earshot.’ Whatever it was Grace had just said, Marv seemed hugely tickled.

  ‘That’s the problem with this kind of subject,’ said Fleur. ‘Too much ambient noise. That’s his girlfriend, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. Anna Copeland. Also his ghostwriter.’

  ‘Oh right. That’s probably why Grace’s doing such a number on them. It was one of her ambitions to be a ghostwriter. That or a famous columnist. She changed her mind about once a week. Now this is a good bit. When Rory suddenly pitches up and has a go at Bryce.’ Her face fell as she realised what she’d said. ‘Sorry, Priya.’

  ‘It’s fine … I’d like to see it.’

  They watched as the encounter developed. As Fleur got in close, a few snatches of sentences could even be heard against the general party chatter. ‘What gives you the right?’ Rory was shouting, eyes wild.

  ‘Already high as a kite,’ said Priya.

  ‘Off his face,’ said Fleur. ‘Most of the time.’

  ‘Bryce does look worn out, though, doesn’t he?’ said Francis.

  ‘He’d had a long day of it, one way and another,’ said Priya.

  They watched as Bryce said something final to Rory, then turned, yawned mightily and walked off down the bank. Then the camera was back on Grace.

  ‘Still chatting animatedly to Anna,’ said Priya. ‘Now here comes, oh my god, Family Man …’

  ‘Good friends with Anna and Marv, you notice,’ said Francis.

  ‘Now Grace gets introduced,’ said Fleur.

  ‘What a cheeseball,’ said Priya. ‘His face really does light up, doesn’t it?’

  ‘He can’t keep his eyes off her,’ said Francis.

  ‘There she is,’ said Fleur. ‘Going in for the kill with the notebook.’

  ‘He’s loving this,’ said Francis.

  ‘Classic Grace,’ said Fleur, and her eyes were suddenly bright with tears. ‘Look at that way she’s nodding. She’s pretending to listen while she thinks of her next question.’

  ‘Here comes the wife,’ said Francis.

  ‘Scary-looking character,’ said Fleur.

  ‘Lady Macbeth,’ said Priya.

  ‘That is a priceless expression,’ said Francis. ‘Proud of him being Family Man, allowing him his little moment of adulation, but not too long with pretty young Grace, no, there she goes, moving in. That doesn’t look like a woman who knowingly tolerates her husband’s bad behaviour, does it, Priya?’

  ‘Here’s you again,’ said Fleur to Priya. ‘Jonty and Eva were persuading you to stay at the party. Bryce looks mighty pissed off, doesn’t he …’

  ‘I should have gone back with him then,’ said Priya quietly.

  ‘Hey, check this bit,’ said Fleur.

  Now she was five steps behind Bryce, as he paced alone along the terrace and on through the house. As he reached the gravel circle he ran towards a white car with ACE TAXIS MOLD 5555 on the side, which was just pulling out. He waved at it. It stopped. Then he was leaning into the driver’s window. The camera zoomed in, so you could see a dark figure in the back bending forward.

  ‘Goodness,’ said Francis. ‘It’s Dickson.’

  ‘Wow …’ said Priya.

  ‘Who else have you shown this to?’ asked Francis.

  ‘Just the people who saw it on Saturday night. And Grace, of course. We were laughing about it on Sunday morning. Thinking how well it worked with the earlier footage from Dickson’s talk. That’s one of the reasons Grace wanted to take the camera with her into the festival. She realised I had the chance of making a decent little film.’

  ‘The police haven’t seen this?’

  ‘No. And they won’t either, till I get my camera and memory card back.’

  From outside, there was the crunch of feet on gravel. Then voices and the sound of car doors opening and slamming shut. The three of them were at the window in time to see Rory, handcuffed to DS Povey; Neville and Eva following on behind, escorted by uniforms.

  ‘Oh my god!’ said Fleur. ‘They’ve arrested Rory.’

  ‘Looks like it,’ said Francis.

  ‘Not for … the murders?’

  ‘The three of them lied on their statements,’ said Francis. ‘Which is never a good idea. If they’re lucky they’ll get off with wasting police time. “Attempting to pervert the course of justice” is the more serious charge. Either way, they’re probably in for a night in the cells, unless they’ve got a very good solicitor and there’s a court sitting in Dewkesbury this afternoon.’

  THIRTY

 
‘So what now?’ asked Priya, as she and Francis stood outside the front of the house ten minutes later. The police had departed at speed, leaving visible tyre scars across the mass of tiny, variously coloured stones.

  ‘Since we’re allowed,’ said Francis, ‘I wouldn’t mind a little stroll in the grounds to clear my head. Want to come along?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Priya.

  They crossed the lawn and came to the bridge over the ha-ha. The field beyond was empty.

  ‘Where have the cows gone?’

  ‘To another field, I imagine,’ said Francis. ‘Unless they ate some shrooms and went on a wild trip.’

  ‘Very funny, Francis. So, did you notice anything I didn’t in that room?’

  ‘Pretty useless, wasn’t it? I’d been hoping we might find something the police had missed. But we were way too late for that.’

  ‘Worth seeing the video material, though?’

  ‘Certainly was,’ said Francis. ‘Shame Fleur didn’t get a chance to download the Sunday morning footage too. I wonder what it was that our murderer didn’t want anyone seeing.’

  ‘Maybe something in an interview that gave him away. Or a sequence from Saturday night. Grace being on such friendly terms with Anna and Marv … then introduced to him …’

  ‘Yes,’ said Francis, thoughtfully. They walked on together down the field. ‘OK,’ he continued, ‘let’s go back to basics and establish where we are. Rory and his pals are now, or soon will be, with DCI Julie. She is obviously not allowed to use any leverage on him, for fear of risking any case she builds up being thrown out by the courts. But none the less I suspect she’ll get him to admit that a) the three of them were drinking “shroom tea” on Sunday afternoon, and b) that there was enough left in the pot to send Grace a bit doolally had she tried some.’

  ‘D’you think she did?’

  Francis shrugged. ‘I don’t.’

  ‘So how about the psilocybin in her autopsy?’

  ‘I stick by my original thought: that our murderer fed it to her. The question remains, why was Rory being so cagey?’

  ‘That was definitely his LSD in her bloodstream, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘I would,’ Francis agreed.

  ‘But you don’t think he’s … responsible?’

  ‘For?’

  ‘Pushing Grace off.’

  Francis shook his head. ‘No way. There’s no motive. Unless he was working for or with Jonty, and I can’t really see that. Anyway, if he’d been involved in her death, I don’t think he’d have looked so worried.’

  ‘Surely that’s exactly what he’d have looked?’

  ‘I don’t think so. If he’d pushed her off those battlements himself, he’d have been acting his socks off to play the innocent. However, if he’s been a bit stupid leaving hallucinogens around, or selling someone a tab he shouldn’t have, and then someone has died, of course he’s going to look shit scared.’

  They had reached the bottom of the field, where a fence marked off the woodland on the other side. Three strands of barbed wire ran along the horizontal wooden rails.

  ‘After you,’ said Francis.

  ‘Is it OK to climb over?’

  ‘Of course it is. Bit of barbed wire? Not a problem. I’ll hold it down for you.’

  ‘What if this land is private?’

  Francis laughed. ‘I suspect it all belongs to Wyveridge. Even if it doesn’t, it’s a little-known fact that there’s no law against trespass in this country. As long as we don’t damage anything – which we’re not going to, are we?’ With this, Francis hoisted Priya over onto a shady patch still covered with the brown, composting leaves of last autumn. He climbed over after her and they cut down through the shade of the trees towards the sunny open ground on the far side.

  ‘Right,’ said Francis, ‘so the bottom line is that we know nothing for certain. However. Thanks to you, Priya, we appreciate that there is a man at this festival with a very valuable asset that needs protecting – his reputation: as a decent, ecologically minded, sharing, caring, family guy. Now there’s no denying that, as a result of some things that have happened over this weekend, that reputation is still intact. One huge potential news story, very damaging to our man and his brand, has been replaced by another. Add to that the fact that if both these deaths really are murders, we’re not dealing with a run-of-the-mill operative here. Bryce’s death was made to look convincingly natural. So much so that Dr Webster and I – and possibly the police too – were almost fooled. When and if we’re allowed to see the post-mortem results, things will hopefully be a bit clearer, but whoever it was bumped off Bryce, they did a good job.’

  ‘Is one way of looking at it,’ said Priya.

  ‘Sorry, Priya. I didn’t mean …’

  ‘I understand what you’re saying. Go on.’

  ‘OK, so for the time being, the police have, quite publicly, pulled their resources off the Bryce case. Maybe our murderer – or murderers – are thinking they’ve got away with one crime, and may yet get away with another. So this, I think, is our way forward.’

  ‘I’m not sure I follow you.’

  ‘Our suspicions are centred on three people, none of whom have their eyes closed.’

  ‘Jonty … and … Anna and Marv?’

  ‘Exactly. They all know I’ve been snooping around, if only because I’ve spoken directly to all of them. Now what I think should happen is that someone, ideally not me, should let them know that my enquiries have drawn a blank; and that the police are coming round to the idea that Bryce died of a heart attack or an aneurysm, which may or may not be related to his fondness for ecstasy in the 1990s and his ongoing taste for cocaine. And that, unrelated to all that, Grace took some acid, had a bad trip and threw herself off the battlements. We can also let our suspects know that Rory has been arrested. And why.’

  ‘So … we’re suggesting that … Rory is potentially in the frame for … what?’

  ‘No need to spell it out. The news of the arrest will be enough. Then watch the smile on the face of the tiger – or tigers – as they start to think they’ve got away with it. That’s when people let things slip. Especially in the company of a young woman they find attractive.’

  Priya smiled. ‘You want me to talk to Jonty?’ she said.

  ‘It would certainly be interesting.’

  ‘And Anna and Marv?’

  ‘Let’s start with Jonty.’

  They were coming out of the woodland now, blinking in the bright sunshine. Beyond, the ground levelled and became grassy again, a wide strip running to the river. Down here, well below the little town, this was a much wider affair, a gleaming, eddying stretch of water perhaps forty feet across. On the far side were fields of corn, still damp and bent after the weeks of rain. On this side, the green meadow ended in a steep bank, below which was a band of reeds, their blond heads tossing in the light breeze. There were a few low bushes nestled into the bank, but no trees. Except one, that is, fifty yards or so downstream, at the point where the river made a sweeping bend before narrowing slightly. It was a magnificent oak, with a wide trunk spreading up to thick branches, eminently climbable.

  ‘Now that,’ said Francis, ‘unless I’m very much mistaken, is the tree that your ex-boyfriend decided to sit in while he contemplated his rejection. I’m surprised he didn’t know it was an oak, but there you are. Arboreal nomenclature isn’t everyone’s forte. The only remaining question is: how long did he spend up there, crying over spilt milk?’

  ‘Hours probably,’ Priya said. ‘Knowing him.’

  Francis looked over at her then, standing by the river in her neat little coat, her eyes bright, her long dark hair blowing to one side. For a moment, he paused. His younger, more impulsive self would have rushed over and taken her in his arms. But no, not now, not yet.

  ‘Come on,’ he said briskly. ‘We’d best be getting back.’

  THIRTY-ONE

  Ace Taxis of Mold was not a huge operation. There was no office as such, just a phone, an
answerphone and a ring-file of booking sheets in the kitchen of one of the smart new houses on the estate that had sprung up behind the public library and adjacent nursery, right off the main road which ran west out of town. Terry Jenkins drove the cab. His wife Sonia took the calls. Fortunately for Francis, Terry was at home having his lunch, before heading out to deal with the day’s festival pick-ups and drop-offs.

  Francis had been surprised to be let into the house at all, fully expecting a brush-off or a door slammed in his face. But no, when he’d explained why he was calling, Sonia was welcoming. She was a thin, rather nervy woman, dressed in black trousers and polo-neck, with heavy green eyeshadow above her dark eyes. Inviting Francis to step inside, she showed him along a parquet-floored corridor that smelt strongly of wood polish, past the kitchen, and into a lounge where shiny black leather sofas were grouped around a large flat-screen TV. In one corner of the room there was a trombone by a hefty sound system that looked as if it dated from the 1980s, complete with separate amplifier, tape and CD player, radio tuner and turntable for vinyl. A collection of such records was stacked on the big open shelves behind: plenty of obvious classics with a heavy preponderance of jazz. On narrower shelves above, there was an equally comprehensive stash of CDs.

  ‘Fine selection of listening material you’ve got here,’ said Francis, when Terry came through, still holding a mug of tea that read DADDIO in purple letters on the side. He was burly in his black T-shirt, his tight grey curls bouffant.

  ‘The old vinyl. Should get rid of it really. Just can’t bring myself to, somehow.’

  ‘You’re a practitioner too, by the looks of it?’

  Terry smiled. ‘I play in a little local band. We call ourselves the Four Musketeers. Weddings, bar mitzvahs, funerals, that kind of thing. But you can’t make a proper living doing that down here.’

  ‘Not enough bar mitzvahs?’

  ‘You can say that again.’

  ‘Hence the taxi business?’

  ‘Spot on, mate.’ Terry lowered his backside into a leather armchair. ‘So how can I help you?’