Murder Backstage: Detectives Ruskin & Ashley Gripping Murder Mystery

by Michael Sivyer

  It turned out to be Fenton arguing with Monica, his face was as crumpled as a prune and as red as a tomato as he yelled furiously.

  “You know how much that purse is worth? £50,000! £50,000 Monica!”

  “I know, I know,” she sobbed, “I thought that one night wouldn't hurt.”

  “You were supposed to keep the bloody thing in the wardrobe room!”

  “I know.”

  “If you don't somehow magically make the damn thing re-appear by 5PM tomorrow, you're going to be paying it from your own wages!”

  “But... but sir, that's a year and a half's wage!”

  “Do I look like I care?” He snarled ferociously, “Stop wasting your damn time and go and find the thing!”

  Monica scurried off into the distance, the sound of her sobs reverberating off the polished flooring.

  “What a bastard!” Whispered Mike, clenching his fist as if he was about to jump around the corner and dislocate Jonathan's jaw. He probably would have too, if it wasn't for Andy forming a barrier with his arm to prevent Mike from moving. The two of them proceeded around the junction of the hallway, making their presence known to Jonathan.

  “You're turning into quite the liar, aren't you Mr. Fenton?” Spoke Andy in a somehow calm and cool tone.

  “What do you mean?” Spoke Jonathan.

  “Well, first off, you can explain why you lied about not knowing the woman who was with Sandy and secondly you could begin to explain why you're lying about the hand-bag to Monica. It's not a rental, is it? So, is it a genuine or a fake?”

  Jonathan paced the hallway, sighing in disappointment.

  “You got me, gentlemen, you got me. Okay, this puts me in a bit of a predicament. I promise you it may seem bad, but it's not as it seems. Let me explain from the beginning. The girl, Adrianna, is set to appear in a new drama series that I hope to direct later this year. The purse... the purse was supposed to be a gift to her. Her and her father had just flown over to discuss her contract. I mean, do you know how bad it makes me look if she comes all this way and I don't even offer a little sweetener?”

  “So, Sandy and Adrianna were going to be co-stars, that's why they were meeting at the opera,” asked Andy.

  “No, no, quite the opposite actually. Well, to be honest, I don't know why they were meeting. I had nothing to do with it. That's the truth. See, when Sandy signed her contract, she was already an established star you see, and she negotiated terms that meant she would have to be considered for the key roles in any of my future ventures... which obviously puts me in a bit of a... legal dilemma... when I want to cast Adrianna as the show's main star.”

  Mike looked at Andy. Suddenly, this case was beginning to become interesting.

  “Well, here’s the thing,” began Andy, “Now Jonathan, this gives us a bit of a dilemma too because as of now you’re our prime suspect, so stick around, as I’m sure I’ll need to speak to you again in the very near future.” Jonathan, for once, broke away from his arrogant, cocky character. “I know, I’m sorry detectives, I would have told you sooner but I knew that it would look a bit bad.”

  “A bit!” Piped up Mike, uncontrollably, “Well, it looks like you’re up shit creek without a paddle to me!”

  The detectives turned, they heard Monica sob from within her room and whisper harshly as if she was telling herself off. They approached the door, their feet gliding as silently as ghosts across the flooring. “It’s all my fault, Why!?” “What’s your fault, Monica?” asked Mike softly. She gasped sharply as she turned to face the detectives, having not realised that they were there. There was no way that she could possibly hide her secret anymore, so she began to let it flow from the tip of her tongue.

  “I knew… I knew about Fenton’s new show. I spied on him, I took photos… took sound clips. I put it all onto a USB stick. I slipped it into Sandy’s handbag. I hoped that she would find it at the end of the night and can give it to her lawyers. Oh god, what have I done? That’s why…” Monica seemed as if she was beginning to hyperventilate, and her skin turned to a flushed tone, “That’s why I was desperate to find the bag. I knew that if Jonathan knew about the memory stick, he’d probably kill me!”

  Mike and Andy exchanged glances. “Kill you? You mean, in quite literal terms?” “Well… no, not quite but you heard him in the corridor just now. He gets so angry. I’d lose my job, my house…” Monica began to shed a few tears as she imagined the dire consequences of her attempts to help Sandy. “Who the fuck would do this,” she began to wail uncontrollably in front of the detectives for the second time. With neither of their abilities to comfort sobbing females having advanced much since the previous occurrence, they took their leave. Slipping into the corridor, they nursed the door to a soft close, each breathing their own sigh as they escaped the clutches of their own personal demons; a crying female.

  They compared their mindsets as they travelled down the elevator; now, it all seemed a bit too convenient for Jonathan; the fact that he had possibly been saved millions of pounds since Sandy had died. But was it all a little too perfect? Or was it perfect because, like most of the time, Mike's refusal to let go of his mark had lead to the capture of the perpetrator? Time would tell, but first, they still needed to find any definitive evidence that would place Jonathan at the crime scene. The only other thing that would land him in jail would be a statement of admittance, but it seemed as if Jonathan was far from doing the detectives any favours on that front.

  Chapter Five

  There would undoubtedly be many more puzzling twists and turns to this case yet, but for now, it seemed as if Mike and Andy were closing in like a pack of wolves, circling the murderer with a tighter circumference with each clue that they found. After their most recent conversations with Monica and Fenton, it was time to call it a day, and Andy and Mike returned to their trendy west London pad and their slob den respectively.

  The next step; finding anything within a five-mile radius of the crime scene that Jonathan had so much as looked at. After a good night's sleep, a pop tart for Mike, and a hearty cooked breakfast for Andy, the two were on their way. The harsh winter lighting, however, did not make for a promising start to their search, the stormy clouds looming over the capital like a shadow of frustration, making it a near impossible task to search alleyways without the help of a torch. This was where the dumpster-like floor of Mike's Volvo came in handy – amongst a cluster of fast food wrappers was a plastic torch that he had won as a happy meal toy on a drunken night out, and although not brilliantly bright, it still did what it said on the tin.

  One thing was for certain; it was going to be a long, tedious day. Neither Mike nor Andy liked giving credit to anyone apart from themselves when it came to making the arrest, so whilst they could have called upon a team of eager-eyed interns, they decided not to outsource this particular job. They started at the crime's origin. The tape that had marked the perimeter of the crime scene was now long gone, meaning that the public were now free to contaminate the crime scene, making the search no easy task. Anything which they might see as a vital piece of evidence could well turn out to be just another hobo's daily scourge of trash, but equally, something which they might think to be a minuscule detail could well be the thing that could solve the crime.

  After a quick catch-up, they began. Mike shone the torch at the ground as he strolled, his footsteps echoing through the dark corners of the alley as he covered each crack of the asphalt with great attention.

  . Andy, meanwhile, began to throw open the lids of garbage trolleys hoping to find anything, even a T-shirt with blood on it, in the bins. After all, judging by how much blood was on the victim's head, surely some would have gotten on the attacker’s clothes, and unless they were extremely stupid, they wouldn't take a tour of London with a blood decorated shirt.

  Mike passed by a parked Mercedes sedan. Even though he was inseparable from his own Volvo, which he had owned for close to twenty years, he had to admire beauty when he saw it. He even did a menta
l calculation to see if buying one would be a viable option, but once he had worked out that a full valet for his Volvo would cost £50 and then it would be good to go for another five years, he wolfs whistled and began to scurry away. A break in the storm allowed the sunlight to pass under the car, though an odd shadow loomed on the ground. Was that... a wheel clamp? What kind of silly bastard would have a lovely car like this and let it get clamped. Mike shrugged – probably the same kind of silly bastard that would be able to pay the £70 parking fine as if it was pocket change, he reasoned. But then he narrowed his eyes as a thought crossed his mind.

  He approached the windscreen, glancing at the colourful selection of parking tickets that had been amassed. His eyes scrolled across the dates. Conveniently, there were three days’ worth of tickets. In other words, the car had been left abandoned since the day of the murder. He was just about to call his colleague, when Andy beat him to it and called him instead.

  “Hey Mike! Come and have a look at this!?”

  Mike half-hurried towards the source of his colleague's voice, his feet sloshing in the water that flowed in through the cuffed sole of his shoe.

  In Andy's hand was an old-school magnum revolver in almost exquisite condition, its polished brass handle reflecting the light, Mike's face forming a silhouette on the metal as he blocked the sun's rays in moving towards it.

  “A gun!?” Mike took it in his hands. It weighed as much as a brick. It was almost definitely the real thing and not just a replica, “But she wasn't killed with a gun!”

  “Yes,” responded Andy, “But maybe she was held at gunpoint. We'll get it processed. I'll bag it up and we can run it by Jason later. How about you? Got anything?”

  Mike led Andy towards the car. It was either somewhat of a coincidence that it had been there since the day of the murder, or perhaps it belonged to either Sandra or the attacker. Strangely though, it was apparently Sandra's first trip to the country, and she was only here for a nominal amount of time, so it would have been futile to buy a car, and there appeared to be no sign of rental stickers either inside or out. Mike pulled out his mobile phone and took several photos of the car. They had found two very intriguing pieces of possible evidence, though neither could yet give them a positive lead to any thing.

  As much as the two partners loved to waste away their shifts by roaming free around the city, they both knew when it was time to return to the office and investigate their findings. As always, Andy led the way, while Mike struggled to follow in his Volvo, and they pulled into the parking lot of the precinct, Mike a few minutes after Andy. They left their cars behind and their footsteps echoed up a flight of concrete steps as they spiralled towards the upper levels of the building.

  They hurried straight to Jason; first they would have him process the gun. Andy allowed Mike to carry it through the building, winding through the never-ending rows of corridors before they eventually reached his room. Andy released a harsh whistle from his lips as he announced their arrival, much to Jason's dismay, signalling the end of his lunch break. He wrapped up the remainder of his sandwich and sighed as he scooted across the floor on his wheeled office chair.

  “Two things; One, a gun for you to process,” Spoke Andy confidently and proudly, “Two, can we borrow a laptop? We need to run a number plate through the system.”

  Jason nodded, handing the detectives a laptop from the charging dock next to his desk before he accepted the firearm from Andy's grip.

  Mike tucked the laptop under his arm as they made their way to the officers' quarters. If there was one good thing about being at the office, it was the free coffee, so both detectives made the most of the opportunity, necking a warm brew before they began to get to work. The warm liquid stroked their stomachs, taking them away from the harsh reality that it was winter outside, only a few degrees above freezing.

  Mike's fingers tapped at the keyboard as he loaded up a database and typed in the car's registration. A blue bar swiped across the screen, slowly filling from right to left as the computer completed the search. Ping! The staff-room fell to silence as the computer released the sound at an almost impossible volume, and immediately, Andy and Mike turned into the centre of attention as all eyes turned upon them.

  “Are you seeing what I'm seeing?” Asked Andy.

  “Well, this means that we're going to be paying our favourite director another visit, I assume,” spoke Mike with a tone of sarcasm breaking through in his voice. The car was registered to Jonathan, and it only began to look all the direr for the soap star the more the case progressed.

  Andy rose to his feet, and Mike followed in quick succession. The backdrop of the Tower Hotel was quick becoming a drab, repetitive surrounding, but at least it was better than being trapped in the office. They made their way towards the elevator's stainless steel doors. They could almost smell the freedom of the outside world before the hurrying sound of footsteps abruptly halted them.

  “Guys! Guys!” Came a drab, monotone voice. The two of them sighed and turned in harmony. No doubt, this would be just the time for someone to call in a favour. After all, they did owe several. They were somewhat relieved when a nerdy looking intern met their eyes.

  “So, I ran the gun through the database, it's not in any English system but registered in Canada to a certain Jonathan Fenton.”

  It seemed almost as if the detectives were on the thin, straight road to the end of the case. It was certainly time to stick the iron wristbands on Fenton.

  They certainly did not hang about, speeding through town with the sirens of the squad car blaring as they wove through traffic like a needle through patchwork. Neither detective expected Jonathan to be hanging around – they suspected that he would know that he would be nearing the time of his inevitable capture and would have been long gone by now. Somewhat surprised they were, then, when they saw him strolling leisurely through the hotel's lobby, his leather loafers tapping the marble floor as he appeared to be in no hurry whatsoever.

  He did, however, seem annoyed rather than scared to see the detectives. Mike and Andy approached efficiently and effectively.

  “Are we going to do this the easy way, or hard way Jonathan? Step outside and come to our car.”

  “Right you are, gentlemen, I'll do as you say.” Fenton responded with a growing look of confusion spreading across his facial features.

  It wasn't until they were sat behind the safety of the car's tinted glass windows that Mike was finally awarded the satisfaction of clicking the cold, steely grip of the handcuffs around the director's wrists. He had wanted this moment since he had first met Jonathan, and his sharp eye and cunning partnership had as always rewarded him.

  Jonathan, on the other hand, seemed more confused than ever.

  “Arrested? What for? Wanting to create a new drama series? Isn't that a bit extreme?”

  Andy and Mike remained silent, aside from reading him is rights, as the car cruised along the uncharacteristically cool winter's evening, the thermometer registering as much as a lofty ten degrees Celsius.

  A warm reception awaited Mike and Andy as they returned to the precinct. It was the general reaction when the two of them brought in a suspect – the rest of the force knew by now that they were right 99% of the time, and that likely meant that the case was ending. They marched Jonathan, who now looked somewhat intimidated by the jeers through the building until he sat down in a rather lumpy, uncomfortable looking plastic chair in a small room surrounded by three brick walls and one glass wall, which had a smoky one-way pane of glass. There were now only a few steps until the arrest could be made 'official'; they had to take his finger prints, and then begin the initial questioning.

  After completing the former, Mike seemed rather eager to complete the latter task. He waltzed into the interview room, and set down a cylindrical glass half-filled with water as he gazed coldly into Jonathan's eyes.

  “I assume you know why you're here, Jonathan?”

  “Well, that's rather obvious isn't it – I'm und
er arrest. That's how people usually wind up in a police station.”

  “Jonathan, I assure you, this is no time to be cocky. Now, are you going to admit to it?”

  Jonathan paused, stroking his newly formed stubble as he seemed to stare at a spot on the wall behind Mike, almost as if he was drifting away in thought. He eventually snapped back to his senses.

  “Sure. I admit it. I planned a new show with every intention of finding a way to break my contract with my main actress. Is that all?”

  Mike sighed. He hated three types of people; people who played dumb, people who were cocky, and people who were both of those categories merged into one.

  “No, Jonathan, I was referring to the other thing.”

  “Oh. Wait. Shit, really? Monica went to the police officers over the thing with the handbag? Isn't that a little bit of a temper tantrum now?”

  Mike rose to his feet and began to prowl the perimeter of the room, his nerves beginning to pop from his head like train tracks as he tried desperately to keep his cool.

  “Cut the shit, Jonathan,” He spoke in an unusually fierce tone, “How do you explain that both your car and your gun were found abandoned within a one-hundred-meter radius of a dead body?”

  “My car, I have twelve cars and that's just the ones that are in Britain. Which car was it, may I ask? I hadn't had much of a chance to notice that any of them were missing. I shall have to report it.”

  “And how exactly do you explain the gun?”

  “I only have one firearm officer, and I think you'll find that it is quite safely locked up in a glass case above my fireplace in Canada. You'll be able to check; I've never brought it into this country. I'd have to declare it if I did and it's barely like you can sneak one of those through Gatwick's border control in a hurry, besides, even if I did want to fire it, it's an antique. The firing pin has been removed.”