“What were you expecting?” Antonescu demanded.
“I don’t know. Just … something.” Darrell’s light blue eyes held a glassy sheen as he gazed into the space between the detectives, presenting a three-quarter profile to Rex that underscored his straight nose and square jaw.
How far the lad would have gone in his acting career, Rex could only conjecture. Perhaps he would have remained a bit-part actor, as Cassie’s aunt had categorized him. In any case, all his aspirations had come to this, and fifteen minutes of infamy would be as much celebrity as he would ever achieve. Rex pitied his browbeaten mother, who would finally hear the truth from Darrell’s own lips after all the lies he had told her.
Inspector Fiske tilted himself back in his chair. “Did Cassie plead for her life?”
“No, she just screamed.” Darrell frowned at the table. “It was ear-piercing. I couldn’t hear myself think. I had to stop it.” He started sobbing. “I’m so sorry, Cass! I didn’t mean to. I loved you so much!” His free arm slid onto the table, and his head fell into the crook of the leather sleeve, a shade dramatically, Rex thought.
The detectives exchanged almost imperceptible nods of triumph. When Darrell did not cease his whimpering, the inspector terminated the interrogation and switched off the black voice recorder.
He joined Rex in the adjacent room. “Looks like we’ve got our man. We’ll let him talk to his mother and then take his full statement.”
“Did you find the evidence you were looking for?”
Fiske smiled with satisfaction. “Like I said, he had Cassie’s mobile on him when he was taken into custody at the airport, though he had ditched his own. Hundreds of text messages from him on Cassie’s over the past weeks, not counting the thousands she must have deleted. They get increasingly desperate and threatening when she doesn’t respond. He says he’ll send for her in LA when he’s settled, and they can seek their fame and fortune together. Next, he’s suicidal and can’t live without her, and lists various ways he’s going to end it. Then he says he can’t bear the thought of her with another man and won’t let that happen. He loves her too much, and can’t she see what she’s doing to him, and so on. The last one was sent early on Thursday, saying he was about to board his plane for LA.”
“Discovering she got engaged to Trey may well have been the impetus for murder.”
“He would have discovered that when he stole her phone and read the texts between her and Trey. Even better: unspent bullets matching the one used in the shooting were found at his mum’s house. If he had a second cartridge in the cylinder for himself, he had the presence of mind to take it out before leaving the gun beside his victim and making his escape. Mrs. Brewster said her father had left him the Webley in his will. Thanks for the tip regarding the photo, by the way. Flying Officer Bill Hayes was stationed at the RAF Radar Plotting Station on Lizard Point in Cornwall during World War Two.”
“Indeed? And were you able to find the replica gun and Father Brown costume?”
“Not yet, nor the other glove, if that was his we found on the playing fields. And no sign of the bike.”
“It may have been dumped in the environs of Morton’s Petrol Station, where the anonymous call came from.”
“We still have another place to search. He’s been lying low these past few days at a mate’s from the gym, known to us for selling steroids. May not turn up anything, but with any luck, we’ll get DNA off the inner bridge of the glasses left in the dressing room cubical, which will further help put Darrell at the scene. It’s unlikely he wiped them clean if he meant to take them with him, as I’m sure he did, since he was so meticulous in the rest of his planning.”
Rex nodded in agreement. “It’s often the case that the most cleverly planned murders are the easiest to solve, to paraphrase Raymond Chandler. It’s hard not to slip up at least once. It’s the random ones that usually elude us.”
“Though it seems you have not been eluded yet,” Mike Fiske said with his crooked smile. “Well, I owe you. Not sure we could have got there on our own, or at least as quickly.”
“And I owe Paul Reddit an apology for suspecting him of harbouring Darrell.” Rex realized he was going to miss some of the people from the theatre.
“Sticking around for the rest of the interview?”
“I think I know how it ends, and I need to get back to my wife. We’re leaving for Edinburgh in the morning.” Rex checked his watch. “Later this morning,” he corrected himself.
“Well, if you’re sure you don’t want to share in the limelight,” Fiske joked.
“I’m sure, but do me a favour, please? When you’re ready to issue a press release, give Cindy Freeman at the Derby Gazette a heads-up, as my son in the States likes to say. She’s the young reporter who approached us on opening night.”
“A heads-up to give her a leg up?” Fiske asked with another smile. “Will do. She alibied Ron Wade, the producer. Saw him exit the community centre before the shot was fired. Your wife said you’re off on your honeymoon at the end of the week. Cornwall, isn’t it?”
“Aye, by some strange coincidence, since that’s where our murder weapon saw military service. A colleague of mine is lending us his cottage for a fortnight. Helen will be glad of the break.”
“They have murders down in Cornwall, you know. In fact, there have been some really grisly ones.”
“Thanks, Mike,” Rex said with an ironic smile of his own, adding, “I won’t tell Helen you said that.” He shook the inspector’s hand warmly and promised to keep in touch.
about the author
Born in Bloomington, Indiana, and now living in Southwest Florida, C. S. Challinor was raised and educated in Scotland and England, and holds a joint honors degree from the University of Kent, Canterbury, England, as well as a diploma in Russian from the Pushkin Institute in Moscow. She is a member of the Authors Guild, New York. Her author website is www.rexgraves.com.
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