by Chris Dolley
He stopped by the door, gave Marcus and Davy their instructions, then, placing both hands upon the door, threw it open.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
The room was buzzing. Wiggins and two other men were seated on the stage, but Jimmy Scott was still fussing with microphones and cables with a sound technician. Only one head turned to see who’d come in. Kevin Tresco.
Shand waved to him. A small boy somewhere in Shand’s head shouted, ‘Bring it on, big nose.’
Shand trotted up the steps, turned at the curtains and strode on stage. Wiggins turned in horror. There was a scrape of chair legs on floorboards as he tried to get to his feet, tried to move quickly to block his subordinate’s approach…
Only to have Shand reach out, grasp his hand, shake it firmly and pull him into what could only be described as a hug.
“Don’t worry, sir,” Shand whispered in the DCS’s ear. “I gave Satan the slip.”
There was a rapid exhalation of air from the DCS and a slow and plaintive, “Oh, Shand.” But Shand was no longer listening. He was concentrating on what came next.
He deftly swung his body, interposing himself between the DCS and the press, then turned to face the microphones. Wiggins made an attempt to grab him from behind, but the presence of the cameras restrained him. Shand took the nearest microphone and lifted it to his lips.
“Can I have your attention, please,” he started. “I have an important announcement to make.”
The hubbub subsided … until Kevin Tresco cupped his hands to his mouth and called out. “He’s arrested another chicken!”
Laughter from the floor. A groan from Wiggins and a renewed effort to wrest Shand from the stage.
Shand sat down, suddenly exposing the DCS to the glare of the cameras and forcing him to break his grip. Shand grinned for the press and waited for the laughter to abate.
“Sorry, Kevin,” he said. “No chickens this time. But I can confirm that at two o’clock this afternoon the murderer of Annabel Marchant and George Benson was apprehended by Wessex CID and has since made a full confession.”
The room erupted. Later, journalists would comment upon the wide-eyed look of surprise shared by all three of DCI Shand’s colleagues on stage. But, at that moment, no one had eyes for anyone other than Shand.
“Who?” someone shouted. A call echoed by others. “Can you give us their name?”
Shand teetered. Part of him was crying out for a proper denouement. He had a captive audience. Everyone wanted to know who did it, why and how? He could give it to them. A bit at a time, tantalising, teasing. There was no trial to ruin.
Only a career.
He decided to play it down. Slightly.
“I can say that she’s a fifty year-old local woman whose apprehension came after an exhaustive and, at times, difficult investigation conducted by members of Wessex Constabulary.”
Magnanimity, thought Shand, share the glory and let Wiggins see what a valuable team player he had in his midst.
“From the beginning,” continued Shand. “This case has been complicated by a web of misinformation spun by the murderer. False evidence, false information and even planted fingerprints. At every stage, the planning behind this crime was remarkable.”
More magnanimity. Not that it ever hurt a detective to build up his adversary. He wondered if he should give her a nickname. Something eye-catching for the headlines. Perhaps the Magnolia Moriarty?
“And then, of course,” he continued. “There’s been the wild speculation. The talk of witchcraft, druids and satanic cults. Who else would bury a person alive in the middle of an ancient stone circle and mark their grave with a corpse?”
He let the question hang. He was enjoying himself, the old confidence returning. He was ‘the safe pair of hands’ again. Everyone listening in respectful silence.
“Well,” he said. “I can now give you the answer. Three of them, in fact. One, a person who needs publicity. Two, a person who wants an alibi and, three, a person who desperately needs that buried woman to be found.”
He paused again, then raised a finger.
“And guess what? All those people turned out to be the same person. The murderer. The woman who had herself buried beneath her victim.”
Uproar. Shand was blinded by a series of camera flashes. Calls came from the floor – How? Mrs. Benson? No!
Shand raised his hands and the room instantly hushed.
“And before anyone asks, no, Mrs. Benson was not a witch or a member of any cult. There is no supernatural or demonic aspect to this case in any way. Although,” he paused and let his eyes wander along the front row of the press. Rapt attention everywhere. Even Kevin Tresco had put away his smirk.
“I can confirm that we did receive invaluable assistance from Satan.”
A long heartfelt groan of ‘Oh, Shand!’ came from behind as DCS Wiggins’ hands once more attached themselves to Shand’s shoulders.
Shand patted the hand digging into his left shoulder and surveyed the stunned expressions of the journalists.
“Who,” continued Shand, milking the moment for all its worth. “Before you all question my sanity, I am relieved to say is a police dog.”
Shand was not sure which was the louder, the laughter from the floor or the relieved sigh from behind.
“So, nothing paranormal there, I’m afraid, Kevin,” said Shand, picking out the Echo reporter. Time to start winding him up.
“Why did she do it then?” shouted someone from the back.
This was not a question Shand wanted to answer. He didn’t want to get bogged down in endless discussions of the minutia of the case. He wanted his performance to be short and spectacular.
“I have her confession here,” he said, holding up Helena’s letter and then handing it to Wiggins. “It explains everything in detail, but I’m sure the detective chief superintendent would agree this is not the forum to discuss such matters.”
Thankfully, he did. Nodding enthusiastically as his eyes devoured the first piece of hard evidence he’d received since Shand had started speaking. His relief was obvious.
“Where is she now?” asked one of the television reporters.
Shand’s smile froze. This was not a question to be answered honestly. How do you explain that the suspect tried to commit suicide whilst in police custody, and was now in hospital being guarded by a psychic?
“She’s being held at a location close by.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere we’re not prepared to divulge at this juncture.”
“What about the psychic?” asked Tresco.
Shand swung round, staring at the Echo reporter and hoping he’d been quick enough to mask his initial shock. Did Tresco know Saffron was at the hospital?
“What psychic?” he asked, feigning amused interest.
“The psychic working for the Echo.”
Shand’s career once more appeared on the horizon, braced for a flypast. She was working for the Echo? Had she been feeding stories to Tresco all this time?
“Do you deny you used a psychic to crack the case?” asked Tresco, his sneer growing in confidence.
Shand faltered. Which was worse? To be caught in a lie, or to become a laughing stock? There was no good way to explain his use of Saffron in an undercover operation. He could hear the obvious question – why didn’t you use a trained policewoman? And how could he answer? Because people at the station thought I was having a nervous breakdown?
“I can assure you,” he said, deciding to answer a slightly different question and hope no one noticed. “That no psychic powers were needed in this investigation. Good police work closed this case. Nothing else.”
“Then why did you use our psychic?”
“Really, Kevin, you’re becoming obsessed. Next you’ll be asking me about that missing boy of yours.”
Kevin’s sneer widened to a breadth that few crocodiles would have attempted willingly.
“All right then,” he sneered. “What about the missing
boy? Have you found his body yet?”
“No.”
“Has Helena Benson owned up to killing him?”
“No.”
“So how can you stand there and say the case is closed?”
Shand nodded to Marcus and made sure Tresco didn’t look over his shoulder by immediately distracting him with another question.
“Do you really want me to answer that question?”
“My readers demand you answer that question.”
Shand shook his head. “I don’t think they do,” he said, drawing Tresco farther into the trap and taking his attention away from the activity on the steps.
Tresco was on his feet by now, stabbing an accusatory finger at Shand. “You’ve never had a clue about this case! You’ve frightened some old woman into confessing and let the real murderer get away!”
“The murderer of Davy Perkins?” suggested Shand “The missing boy?”
“Exactly!”
Shand waited until Davy Perkins was in the wings, then beckoned him on stage.
“Now, Kevin,” said Shand. “Either I’ve just coughed up a whole stomach full of ectoplasm, or your boy’s been in Ibiza all year. I’ll leave you to decide which to print.”
~
Shand decided that that was the moment to close the conference – while the blood was still draining from the Echo reporter’s face. And before anyone asked any more questions about psychics or where Helena was. He thanked the media graciously, and left.
Wiggins caught up with him by the coffee machine.
“Excellent work, Shand, but … you could have called.”
“Couldn’t risk it, sir?” said Shand, wondering if hot chocolate had been the right choice.
“You couldn’t?”
“The press were scanning our mobiles. Have you seen all the aerials they’ve got in the car park?”
“They were?”
Shand conspicuously looked up and down the corridor before taking the DCS aside. “We have a slight problem, sir. Which I couldn’t risk the press finding out.”
“What?”
“Mrs. Benson took an overdose before we got to her. We had to rush her to hospital. She’s stable, but critical.”
“But she is guilty, isn’t she, Shand? This note. It’s the real thing, right?”
There was more than a hint of desperation in the DCS’s voice as he waved Helena’s confession at Shand.
“Every word of it. We’ve got it on videotape as well.”
Wiggins exhaled deeply. “Thank God for that.”
“But we need to get some uniforms to the hospital quick before the press find out. And do it quietly.”
“I’ll see to it, Shand,” he said, clapping the DCI on the shoulder. “And as for that other matter … best forgotten, don’t you think?”
Shand agreed, and then saw an aftershock of doubt sweep over the DCS’s face. “Satan really is a police dog, isn’t he, Shand?”
“I’ll get DC Ashenden to show you a picture.”
~
Shand pulled himself away from the impromptu celebration that had broken out in the CID office and walked the short distance to his office. He had a call to make – something he wasn’t sure he could do if he waited for his confidence to come down from the ceiling.
Her mobile was switched off so he rang her office number and waited, mapping out what he was going to say in his head, thankful that at last he had something intelligible to say, some good news to share.
The phone kept ringing.
He reorganised his opening lines, changed the emphasis on certain words, practised being bright and breezy.
“Anne Cromwell’s phone, may I take a message?”
A man’s voice. One he didn’t recognise.
All of Shand’s preparation left through his open mouth. Was this Gabriel? He sounded like a Gabriel. Educated, posh, confident. Shand swallowed, started to say ‘who?’ then quickly changed it to: “Is Anne going to be long?”
“She’s in a meeting until five. May I take a message?”
He hesitated. “No. I’ll … I’ll ring again later.”
He couldn’t get off the phone quick enough.
~
When he’d recovered his composure he rang Saffron.
“How’s Helena?”
“Still critical, but the doctors are more hopeful now. She’s expected to pull through.”
Shand wasn’t sure if he should be pleased or not. He wanted her to live. He wanted everyone to live. But he didn’t want her to suffer.
“There’s a celebration later,” he said. “Taylor suggested it. A few drinks. Probably more than a few drinks. Maybe–”
“Shandy! Are you asking me out?”
“No! No, of course not. It’s … it’s a small celebration for the team.”
“You consider me one of your team?” Her voice quivered. Shand could imagine her standing there, one hand clutched to her chest, the other poised waiting to punch an unsuspecting passer-by.
“For this case, yes,” he said. “We couldn’t have closed the case without you. Marcus will give you instructions on how to get there. He’s on the way over with your car now.”
“Yay! I’ll see you later then. Oh, and by the way, do I get to keep the cheque?”
~
Shand was still smiling from the news that not only was ‘Sharon Sprott’ Saffron’s real name, but she’d actually had the nerve to use it in an undercover sting – did she really think she could walk away with a cheque for ten thousand pounds? – when he remembered Helena’s second letter. The one addressed to him. He dug it out of his pocket and opened it.
Dear Chief Inspector,
Check the fingerprints on the bottle of Valium on my bedside table. As you know it was not there earlier or your forensic team would have discovered it.
A similar analysis of the bottle of artificial sweetener in my pocket would be very much recommended.
I am sure you have already remarked upon the puzzling use of a typewriter to address my ‘confession’ to the Coroner.
Consider this a gift from beyond the grave.
Yours conspiratorially,
Helena Benson
P.S. In case you failed to guess. I had a visit from that horrid Echo reporter this morning. It was very easy to get his fingerprints. I had just filled the sweetener bottle with crushed Valium tablets when he arrived. I wiped both bottles with a tea towel while I was making him a hot drink, then ‘accidentally’ dropped them both on the floor in front of him. He picked them up.
I am sure you will use this information wisely.
Shand shook his head in disbelief. She was incorrigible.
And then he read the letter again and wondered. Could he?
He rested his chin on his fist and stared into space. Images came and went.
He was still laughing when Taylor looked in from the corridor.
“You all right, sir?”
“Me? Never better.”
Other Books by Chris Dolley
What Ho, Automaton!
Finalist for the 2012 WSFA Small Press Award for short fiction and the first of the Reeves and Worcester Steampunk Mysteries.
Wodehouse Steampunk! Reggie Worcester and Reeves, his automaton valet, are consulting detectives in an alternative 1903 where an augmented Queen Victoria is still on the throne and automata are a common sight below stairs. Humour, Mystery, Aunts and Zeppelins!
“A fun blend of P.G. Wodehouse, steampunk and a touch of Sherlock Holmes. Dolley is a master at capturing and blending all these elements. More than fascinating, this work is also rip-roaring fun! But where Dolley really excels is in capturing the atmosphere and humor of the Bertie and Jeeves stories. Any Wodehouse fan will want to grab a copy of this work, but even if you have never explored that world, What Ho, Automaton! is a fun and fascinating read. Highly recommended, take a spin in this steampunk hybrid and enjoy the ride!” — SFRevu
“I found myself laughing out loud at Reggie and the fabulous Ree
ves as they romped their way through various adventures. A homage to Wodehouse without being sycophantic, this is fantastic.” — Sueo23
“I enjoyed every page of this book. A steampunk novel that combines classic British Humor, tongue-in-cheek references to Sherlock Holmes and a cast of great characters. I don’t think I’ve actually laughed out loud this much while reading a book in a very long time.” — ErisAerie
“Dolley has managed to capture Wodehouse’s style, rhythm, and sense of humor almost perfectly … it is just so much fun, and the author’s exploration of this alternative England, full of robots and polite Frankenstineian constructs, adds an absurd depth not found in its inspiration.” — Magus Manders
“Absolutely enjoyable book to read. The author creates this fantastical old England with a nut of a main character and a mechanical sidekick that leave you grinning after each page. It’s the next best thing to Sherlock Holmes, and I hope there are sequels.” — Ashschreck
“A rollicking good read! Not having read the original Wodehouse (although feeling a sudden desire to) but being a huge fan of the TV series I adored these stories - I could hear Hugh Laurie and Stephen Fry in my head. True to character and quick of wit, I couldn’t stop laughing.” — Larry Auld
Reggiecide
This novella is the second of the Reeves and Worcester Steampunk Mysteries.
Guy Fawkes is back and this time it’s a toss up who’s going to be blown up first — Parliament or Reginald Worcester, gentleman consulting detective.
But Guy might not be the only regicide to have been dug up and reanimated. He might be a mere pawn in a plan of diabolical twistiness.
Only a detective with a rare brain — and Reggie’s is amongst the rarest — could possibly solve this ‘five-cocktail problem.’ With the aid of Reeves, his automaton valet, Emmeline, his suffragette fiancée, and Farquharson, a reconstituted dog with Anglican issues, Reggie sets out to save both Queen Victoria and the Empire.