by Ann Purser
First things first, Lois. She went over to the door, where she squinted into the keyhole. Fine, wonderful. Thanks very much, Mr Betts. He had, naturally, taken the key with him. Well, that was only to be expected. If she shouted loud enough, someone might come and release her. She could hear nothing from outside. The play must have started again, but it was silent as the grave in the props room. Without much hope, she shouted as loud as she could, but nobody came. Oh God…Derek… “Help! Help! HELP!”
Then the light went out.
Lois froze. She could hear a far off sound of approaching footsteps, gradually getting louder. Then they stopped, and she knew those marching feet were right outside the door. The key was inserted, and turned in the lock. Then the door opened, and a torch beam flicked around the room.
“Ah, still here,” said Mr Betts. “That’s good. Now, I must find the fuse box, and then I’ll attend to you.” He shut and locked the door, and Lois could hear the key being withdrawn again. She sat absolutely still, perching on the edge of a broken old chair. If he approached, she reckoned her chances were reasonable. Derek had taught her the rudiments of a judo course he’d attended one winter, and she flexed her muscles. One thing about cleaning, it kept you in good physical shape.
Then suddenly the light came on, and she was facing him. He had a torch in one hand and a small pistol in the other. It flashed across Lois’s mind that it could be a prop, just as the knight’s armour and the tomb cover had been props, but there was no way of telling without putting it to the test. No, stay quiet and don’t cross him. Bloody hell, had he flipped? But his face was calm, his eyes almost twinkling. She realized with sudden anger that he was enjoying himself.
She had a struggle with herself to keep quiet. It was just possible that she might encourage him to talk. She was sure now that he was pivotal in the whole sorry saga of the slaughtered knight and the knifed peasant tied to a tree. She hoped the story ended in a lucky escape.
“We have about half an hour, Mrs Meade,” he said conversationally, “in which time you can tell me just how much you know, and how much of that you have conveyed to your friend Chief Inspector Cowgill. Young Gary has more or less refused to help me any further, and so I am relying on you to fill in these necessary details.” He had become the suave interrogator, lounging back against the door.
Off his trolley, thought Lois. But not enough, perhaps.
She shook her head. “Don’t understand you, Mr Betts,” she said. “I’m Mrs Meade, boss of New Brooms, client of your wife. Surely you remember that?”
His pleasant look vanished. Now he was the stern headmaster facing a recalcitrant pupil. “Don’t be stupid, woman,” he said. “And don’t waste my time. I know perfectly well that you are a police snout – is that the right term? – and I intend that you shall grass to me as well.” As if in answer to a spoken question, he gestured with the pistol. “And yes, this is real, and it’s loaded. I am not afraid to use it, and have no fear of discovery. I have laid my plans well.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Lois. “Give me a clue, and then I might help.” Humour him, she told herself. There was not much else to be done.
“A clue? A clue for the amateur sleuth? Do you fancy yourself as a modern Miss Marple?” She waited for him to go on. He might start making some sense, with any luck.
“Very well,” he said, and she could almost see the ruler tapping on the blackboard. “A knight in armour is found dead in Dalling church. A man is found knifed and tied to a tree in Alibone Woods. Nobody has been arrested, and as far as the general public knows, there are as yet no suspects. The police are keeping everything very closely under their collective hats. Now,” he continued, puffing out his chest a little, “it just so happens that I know quite a bit about it. Probably a great deal more than the boys in blue.”
Oh God, thought Lois, a power freak. Is that what schoolmastering does for you?
“But I do not know, unfortunately, how far they’ve got in their investigations, and my plans depend on that information. Which is why,” and now his smile was more of leer, “it was so incredibly lucky that you walked into my parlour, little fly.”
Lois looked surreptitiously at her watch. Five minutes gone. She felt calmer now, and concentrated on steering him round to giving away some of his proudly boasted secrets. What would happen at the end of the half hour, she had no idea. Perhaps his well-laid plans would take care of that. She hoped he hadn’t got a mocked-up coffin in the props room.
“So you think I know something about the murders?” she said, with as much innocence as she could manage. “Don’t play games,” he snapped. “You’re no actress, Mrs Meade. You’d never pass an audition in this establishment.” He sniggered. “As indeed, neither did I. Still, they find me useful backstage, and it is a good place for contacts. I understand you have met Mrs Murphy and her friend?” He made it sound like a cocktail party.
Any minute now he’ll produce a dry martini from the drinks tray, thought Lois wildly. She took a deep breath. “I know Joanne Murphy,” she said. “She applied to me for a job, the lazy cow. I know she has something to do with this place. And I know she pushes drugs to kids. She offered some to my Josie, who had the sense to refuse. I think your Prue knows her, too…”
The pistol came up sharply, and pointed directly at her head. “Leave Prue out of this!” he hissed.
She nodded obediently. “No offence, Mr Betts, just setting out the facts.”
“The facts are gruesome,” he barked at her, “gruesome and wicked and sordid! Drugs, pornography, paedophilia…you name it, as Prue says.”
“Pornography?” said Lois politely. Was he on a roll now? She stayed very still, waiting. He had ceased to look at her, and his eyes were turned upwards, as if to something very nasty in the far distance.
“Little girls are very, er, physical creatures, you know, Mrs Meade,” he said. “And if a man is that way inclined…” He frowned, and gave a sort of shudder, as if to rid himself of unacceptable thoughts. “I had an eight-year-old in school…her family moved away, thank goodness…and she had such a knowing look. The minute she came into my class I knew she was trouble. Always dressed like her favourite pop singer…and…”
“And you…?” said Lois, very quietly.
“Me?” he said, suddenly snapping to attention. “Good gracious me, no, woman! Always very happily married…no, no, not me.” He paused, and she said nothing, just nodded again, encouraging him to go on.
His eyes returned to the distant scene. “No, it was our very own knight in shining armour. Very partial to young damsels, that one. I found out from that silly child. She was talkative and precocious. I didn’t like her much, to tell the truth. But it is not our job to like or dislike. My job is to educate and protect. Protect every single child in my care, just as if it were my own.”
A shadow of pain crossed his face. He’s thinking of Prue, said Lois to herself, and made no comment. Mr Betts closed his eyes for a second or two, but not long enough for Lois to make a move. Then he continued, “I listened to her chatter – in the playground, in the classroom, everywhere – she never stopped. Most of it was nonsense, but one rainy day when they couldn’t go out to play, she confided to me that she’d had her picture taken lots of times, by the major.”
Lois glanced at her watch again. A quarter of an hour gone. “Told you everything, did she?” she prompted.
“That evil man had lured her in,” Mr Betts replied, his face contorted in disgust. “Told her she was very, very pretty, and took photographs. She was pleased, proud of it! I asked if she’d told her parents, and she said yes, well, there was only Mum, and she’d just laughed. And so nothing was done. Our knight errant was free to go galloping off after another damsel.”
“And you decided to stop him?” said Lois, and held her breath. At this vital moment, the sound of running feet broke the spell. Mr Betts looked round at the door, then walked over to Lois and put his hand across her mouth, and the gu
n at the side of her head. His round, rimless glasses glinted, and she could smell his unsavoury breath.
“Hello! Is anyone in there? Mr Betts, are you in there? You’re wanted urgently! The witness box has collapsed.” The door handle rattled, and then the footsteps retreated. Mr Betts removed his hand, and backed away slowly, still aiming the gun at her. “I must go now,” he said. “No doubt someone will find you, sooner or later. But there’s plenty of time for me to put my plans into action. Oh, yes,” he added, as he took the key from his pocket, “and if you set your policeman on to me, my contacts will know. Your husband’s accident was just a warning. Next time, retribution will be carried out.”
Lois flew across the room, but he was quicker. The door slammed in her face, and once more she heard the key turn in the lock. “Sod it!” she shouted as loud as she could, and carried on shouting until her voice was hoarse. No one came.
∨ Terror on Tuesday ∧
Forty-Four
“Can you see her, Olive?” said Gran, standing tall and looking over the heads of the milling crowds in the theatre foyer.
“No, dear,” said Olive. “Perhaps we’d better wait over by the door, and then we won’t miss her.”
They had loved the play, with Lady Loddon’s dramatic outburst, “No! He is not Mark Loddon!”, and then the old school chum coming into court and Sir Mark remembering his nickname, Loppy, proving that yes, he was the real Sir Mark, and everything turning out right in the end. Gran had been so involved in the play that she hadn’t looked around to see where Lois had found a seat, and now she began to feel a niggle of worry. Where was Lois? Surely she’d have been looking out for them? She couldn’t see that schoolmaster anywhere, either, and watched anxiously as the crowd slowly thinned out and disappeared into the dark street outside.
Olive was looking at her watch, and said, “I really think I’ll have to go now. Don’t like being out on my own too late at night.”
“No, that’s all right,” said Gran. “You get along home. I’ve got your phone number, and we’ll meet up and have a coffee. Lovely to see you, Olive,” she added, but was already looking back at the open doors of the auditorium. Left alone, she decided to ask for help.
The part-time volunteer manager was in his office, and came out to see her. At first he was dismissive. “Oh, yes, madam? I’m sure she’ll be with you any minute. Probably gone to the Ladies.”
Gran said she had checked the toilets, and Lois was not there. “I’ve not seen her since that man brought me the message,” she said.
“What message?” said the manager, curious now.
“About her meeting one of her cleaners and having to have an urgent chat. Then he said they’d give her another seat and Olive could sit next to me. I never saw her after that, and now I’m worried. What can have happened to her? She’d never leave me stranded like this.”
The manager looked at her, and saw a nicely dressed, elderly woman, clearly in her right mind, and with reason to be worried. He took up a bunch of keys and said, “Right, Mrs er…We’ll do the rounds straight away. I always check on everything after a performance, but usually a bit later on. Won’t do any harm to do it now. Come along, this way.”
Under any other circumstances, Gran would have been fascinated by being backstage at the theatre. They went through what the manager called the Green Room, where a few actors were still lingering. “Anyone seen a lady called Lois Meade?” said the manager, but they all shook their heads. Gran saw Gary, and waved to him. He did not wave back, and his face was unsmiling. Funny, thought Gran, but dismissed him straight away.
Then the manager opened a door and looked down a stone-floored, echoing passage. “Mmm, we needn’t go down there,” he said. “It’s only the props room, and that’ll be locked until we put on a new production, or need a replacement.” He began to shut the door again, but Gary Needham walked swiftly across the room.
“Excuse me,” he said.
“Yes?” said the manager sharply. Now was not the time for a complaint from a discontented actor.
“Um, I think we should have a look down there,” he said.
Gran was on to him in a minute. “Why?” she said. “What d’you know about it, Gary?”
“Nothing,” he mumbled, “but I thought I heard some noises coming from down there a while ago. Perhaps it’d be worth a check.”
The manager shrugged. “Oh, very well,” he said, and all three walked rapidly down the passage.
Lois heard them coming, and redoubled her shouting. It was seconds before the door was unlocked and she saw the three of them. “What the bloody hell’s going on?” said Gran, not mincing her words. She rounded on the manager. “Are you supposed to be in charge of this place?” she said. Then added, “Come on, Lois, let’s get out of here. I’m gettin’ claustrophic. We can sort it out upstairs.”
The manager, with Gary and Lois, followed Gran upstairs and into the foyer. Now Lois took charge, and hissed at Gary that she wanted to see him first thing in the morning. Then she calmed down her mother and placated the affronted manager, who wanted to know what she was doing down there in the first place. She convinced him that it had all been an accident and there was nothing more to be said.
She drove home fast, saying little. Gran kept up a monologue, describing the plot of the second half of the play, and then going over her anxiety and the strange behaviour of Gary Needham, until they reached Long Farnden.
“You have a cup of tea, Mum,” Lois said, as they walked into the kitchen. “I just have to make a call. Something for the cleaners tomorrow. Shan’t be long.”
Derek settled down with Gran to listen to an embroidered account of the evening’s events, and Lois shut herself in her office. She dialled Cowgill’s number, and waited impatiently for him to answer.
“Hello? Yes, it’s Lois. Just listen until I’ve finished and don’t interrupt. I think it’s urgent.” She gave him the whole story, and followed it up with a guess as to where Betts might be going. “No, I don’t know why,” she said, “I think he was going to tell me when they yelled for him to repair something on stage…and no, I don’t know when he was planning to go. That’s why I think it’s urgent. He knows it all, I reckon, the whole rotten mess.”
Cowgill was calm and decisive. He took everything she said very seriously, and when she had finally finished speaking, he told her to be within call for the next twenty-four hours. He might need her. And then he added, “Not hurt in any way, are you, Lois?”
There was real concern in his voice, and she was reassured.
“Nope,” she said. “I’m fine. Cheerio.” She squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, and went to join Gran and Derek in the kitchen.
♦
Gary Needham walked slowly out of the theatre and along the shadowy street towards his car. He was in trouble, deep trouble, and had no idea how to get out of it. If only he’d never met that Joanne Murphy with her hideous henchman. He had gone along to the theatre one idle evening, and met a friend who was a member of the company. Persuaded to join them, he’d discovered he had a natural talent for performing on stage, particularly in comedy parts. Even with a mass of faces watching him, somehow he found a freedom to open up in a way he could never manage in his family life or even with close friends. Acting was wearing a mask. It wasn’t Gary Needham who had to account for himself. It was someone else, a character he could bring to life and then dispose of until he chose to resurrect him.
Oh my God. Thoughts of life and resurrection brought him rapidly back to the present. Old Betts and Hazel’s dad had recruited him for their rotten little plan at a time when, for once, he’d found a job he liked to do, with a boss – Lois – he respected and who inspired him to do his best. And now, back there in the theatre, he’d been so scared of Betts that he’d nearly left her to rot in the props room! Why had he found it so difficult to tell them where she was? Because he was a weak no-good, and he’d certainly blown it with Lois now. He thought back. He’d never have agreed to
help those two vengeful old buggers if he’d been in his right mind. If only he hadn’t been half-stoned on one of Joanne’s little handouts. And then it had gone so wrong. That had been the beginning; and then Dick Reading’s death had plunged him into a worse nightmare.
Just as he’d got into his car, a familiar voice broke his reverie. “Out of it again?” said Joanne Murphy as she slid into the passenger seat beside him.
“Get out!” he yelled at her, suddenly frantic.
“Now, now,” she said. “Calm down, sonny boy. I’ll go when I’m ready. But first you have some talking to do. I need to know exactly what happened tonight, and where old Betts has gone. If he’s done a runner, then we have to stop him, don’t we? So fire away. Plenty of time,” she added, and Gary saw her glance at the big shape of her minder leaning nonchalantly against the lamp post a few yards ahead.
“After all,” continued Joanne, “this car’s not going anywhere, is it? Let’s have a nice little talk, and then we can see what’s to be done.”
∨ Terror on Tuesday ∧
Forty-Five
Hazel Reading was now almost certain she knew who had killed her father, but had told no one. She was waiting, knowing that the culprit would be caught very soon. She wanted it to be a well-planned discovery, causing as much terror to the killer as possible. Quite often lately she had thought about her violent, tyrannical father, and instead of remembering the frequent family rows, the terrified Bridie cowering in the corner of the kitchen, with herself standing defiantly between the two of them, she recalled scenes of family accord. She saw again the long-awaited visit to the London Zoo, with her father taking photographs of her and her mum talking to the chimps, and the picnic lunch afterwards on the grass in Regent’s Park. She felt a stab of pain as she had a quick picture of him, laughing with his head thrown back, as a passing dog stole their ball and disappeared.