Wychwood

by George Mann

  As he approached the door he glanced over his shoulder to ensure she was behind him, and then rapped three times before trying the handle. It was unlocked, and the door swung open easily on creaking hinges. She hurried in behind him, keen to get out of the cold.

  Vanessa was in the kitchenette with her back to them, pondering over an empty mug. The kettle was noisily reaching its climax and she clearly hadn’t heard them enter. Peter motioned for Elspeth to stay back, and cleared his throat. Vanessa, startled, looked up, stared at them both for a moment as if trying to register who they were, and then the kettle clicked and seemed to break her reverie, and she smiled. “Just in time,” she said. “Tea?”

  Peter shook his head. “No, thank you.”

  Elspeth was about to ask for a coffee, then thought better of it.

  Vanessa nodded, and splashed some water into her own mug. She was wearing black leggings and a loose-fitting shirt, and Elspeth couldn’t help thinking how slight the woman looked. Tired, too – which wasn’t surprising, given how hard she’d been working in the run up to opening night. The others all appeared to be part time or volunteers, working around their day jobs. Vanessa had the unenviable task of holding it all together. Particularly now Lucy was gone, too.

  Vanessa took up her mug and walked through into the communal room where, the other night, Elspeth had met the gathered cast and crew. “So, what can I do for you?”

  “I have a couple of follow-up questions,” said Peter. “A few things from your statement that don’t seem to agree with the run of events set out by one or two others.”

  Vanessa sipped her tea. She looked over at Elspeth, her manner accusing. “And you’re working with the police now?”

  “I’m just trying to help,” said Elspeth.

  Vanessa turned back to Peter. “Go on, then. What’s everyone been saying?”

  “You were seen having a stand-up row with Lucy Adams on the day she died. A row you failed to mention.”

  Vanessa sighed. “I didn’t think it was relevant. We were always rowing. As I said, the relationship between us had become strained. She wouldn’t let me do my job. She wanted to pick over every little detail.”

  “Did that annoy you enough to want her dead?” said Peter. The sheer brutality of the words was shocking.

  Vanessa looked appalled. “No. Of course not. Look, we might have had our disagreements, but I would never have wished that on her. On anyone.”

  “But you lied to us about your whereabouts that night, didn’t you?” pressed Peter.

  “I…” She seemed to falter. The flash of defiance she’d shown just moments before had gone. Now, she just looked tired and vulnerable. “I was here, working just like I said.”

  “All night?” said Peter.

  Vanessa looked like a deer caught in headlights.

  “You realise how this looks?” said Peter. “We have a witness who returned to the theatre later that evening. We know you weren’t here. So I think you’d better start explaining where you were at that time.”

  Very deliberately, Vanessa set her mug down on the table. Elspeth could see that her hand was shaking. “I didn’t kill her.”

  “Then help me out,” said Peter, his tone level, reasonable. “Tell me what you were really doing.”

  Vanessa took a deep breath. “I was with my brother,” she said.

  “Your brother?” said Elspeth, unable to prevent herself from chiming in at this unexpected revelation. “Why would you want to keep that from the police?”

  “Because he’s a heroin addict,” said Vanessa, “and I’m trying to help him. I didn’t want him anywhere near the police. I was trying to keep him out of all this. If he gets spooked, he might run again. It took me six months to find him last time, living rough in Manchester, stealing to get enough money to buy drugs…” she trailed off, unable to look either of them in the eye. “It’s been going on for so long, I can hardly remember a time when I didn’t worry that I’d go home each night to find him dead on the sofa from an overdose.”

  “Do any of the others know about this?” said Peter.

  “No. Lucy found out, but…” She hung her head.

  “Is that what you argued about on the day she died?”

  Vanessa nodded. “She’d been going through the accounts. She found a few discrepancies in the petty cash.”

  “Money you’d stolen for your brother to buy drugs,” said Peter.

  Elspeth couldn’t stand it anymore. She went to Vanessa’s side, slipped her arm around her shoulders.

  “I didn’t steal it,” said Vanessa. “I borrowed it. I was going to put it back. Once we got paid, after opening night, I’d have the money to replace it. It was nothing. No money at all to a woman like her. I’d never have stolen from her. I tried to tell her.”

  “But she didn’t understand,” said Peter. “She wouldn’t listen. She threatened to expose you.”

  Vanessa raised her head, and there was another flash of that innate defiance. This was the real Vanessa, Elspeth knew. She’d fought to protect her brother for so long that it had begun to erode her, to define her – but beneath it all, there was an edge of steel. “I didn’t kill her,” she said. “How would I be able to help Robbie then? If I were in prison? It would be the end of him.”

  “We’ll have to speak to him,” said Peter. “To corroborate your story.”

  Vanessa nodded. “Alright. But please – can you do it? I couldn’t bear it if he did another runner. Don’t just send another faceless policeman around who won’t understand.”

  “Of course,” said Peter. “I’ll see to it. But you’re going to have to come back to the station to give another formal statement. And if John Adams wants to press charges about the missing money, he’s quite within his rights. He’ll have to be informed. You should have told us, Ms Eglington. The chief inspector could have you up on charges of withholding evidence.”

  “Yes. I understand,” said Vanessa. “Can we go now? I’d rather get it over and done with.”

  Peter nodded. “We’ll wait outside while you lock everything up.” He gestured to Elspeth, and she followed him out.

  “So we’re no closer to finding your killer,” she said. She had to admit – she’d been relieved to hear Vanessa’s story. She hadn’t wanted to believe that the woman had been capable of the horrors she’d seen in the woods behind her mum’s house. “And we’re quickly running out of leads.”

  “Not just yet,” said Peter. “There are two sides to every story. If Vanessa wasn’t here when Oscar Waring came back for his lighter…”

  “Then he had the opportunity to take the costume too,” finished Elspeth. “I hadn’t considered that. I mean… he seems too…”

  “Stoned?” said Peter.

  Elspeth grinned. “Yeah. I guess. I was going to say impulsive. Too spontaneous to plan anything so well orchestrated. But Rose did say he’d developed a bit of an obsession with the whole Carrion King thing. She thought he might be taking his role a little too seriously.”

  “We’ll head there next. His home address will be logged in the system. I’ll drop Ms Eglington at the station and Patel can see to her statement.”

  The door opened and Vanessa stepped out, wearing a short denim jacket over her shirt. She pulled the door shut behind her. “Don’t you need to lock up?” said Elspeth.

  “No. It’s all done on a key code.” Vanessa indicated a small panel of push buttons on the door. “As I told DC Patel the other day, only me, Lucy and Rose know the pass code. Oh, and Oscar, I suppose, because he’s always locking himself out when he goes for a smoke.”

  Elspeth and Peter exchanged glances.

  “Right then,” said Peter. “Let’s get you to the station, Ms Eglington. This way.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Oscar Waring, it seemed, was living up to every cliché of the struggling actor’s journey.

  His flat was on the ground floor of a large mid-terrace Victorian house, and the buzzer plate by the front door suggest
ed there were three further apartments in the same building – two on the floors above and one in the basement. Elspeth peered down into the murky depths at the bottom of the steps, where empty crisp packets, dry leaves and cigarette butts had gathered, swirled around by the wind. The pillar-box red paint on the front door was peeling, and net curtains – yellowed with age and tobacco – had been pulled across the front bay windows.

  Peter pressed the buzzer for a second time.

  There was a shuffling sound from the other side of the door. “Alright, alright,” came the response. Elspeth recognised the voice immediately. She was glad she hadn’t succumbed to the man’s charms the previous evening, if this was what had awaited her.

  The door opened and Oscar’s face appeared in the gap. His eyes were red-rimmed, and he was unshaven, his long hair lank. He was wearing a black T-shirt and skinny black jeans, and for the first time, Elspeth noticed he had a run of tattoos up the inside of both arms, of unfamiliar symbols and whorls.

  “Oh, hello,” he said, catching sight of Peter and opening the door a little wider. He peered over Peter’s shoulder at Elspeth. “Couldn’t keep away, eh?”

  Peter turned to catch her eye with a flash of wry amusement, and she looked away, her cheeks burning.

  “I have some follow-up questions for you,” said Peter. “May we come in?”

  “Of course.” Oscar stood aside and ushered them in, and they followed him to a flat which opened directly into the living room, from which another door led off, presumably towards the kitchen, bedroom and bathroom. The flat seemed better maintained inside than out, although Oscar was obviously a slob: a greasy pizza box had been dumped on the floor by the fireplace, ashtrays overflowed on the coffee table, and mugs and wine glasses, stained from abandoned dregs, littered almost every available surface.

  There was a large gilt-framed mirror propped against the wall behind the door, which looked as if it should have been mounted somewhere. An electric guitar with a missing string was resting on one of two sofas, and there were posters plastered over the walls, one depicting Baphomet, another a skeleton rising from its grave, its bony fingers protruding through the soil. The rest appeared to be garish artwork from album covers or pictures of bands she wasn’t familiar with. The whole place had the air of a student’s bedroom about it – as if Oscar was resolutely attempting to staunch the oncoming tide of adulthood, and winning.

  The one exception to this was a sextet of framed watercolours, which held pride of place in the alcove to the left of the fireplace – a depiction of the five apostles, mirroring the poses from the mediaeval woodcuts. Above them, the Carrion King stood in a wooded grove, his arms held aloft, five crows circling above his head. He was wearing a cape of downy black feathers, and a crown of thorns upon his head.

  Beneath the framed prints was a small bookcase, along with a shelf holding what appeared to be fragments of animal bones, a decidedly creepy-looking wax doll, and a hazel branch.

  Peter crossed the room to take a closer look, while Elspeth took a seat beside the guitar, trying to ignore the stink of ingrained smoke.

  “Interesting pictures,” said Peter.

  “Yeah, I love all that ‘five sacrifices’ stuff. I picked them up at a local craft fair,” said Oscar, wandering around to stand beside him. “Good, aren’t they?” He pointed to the uppermost picture. “The Carrion King, you see. Thought it was appropriate.”

  “And all of this,” asked Peter, indicting the paraphernalia on the shelf.

  Oscar laughed. “Well, it’s all a bit silly really, isn’t it? It doesn’t mean anything, but I thought it would help get me in the mood. You know, a bit of method acting.”

  “And how far do you take those methods?” said Peter. His tone was level, but firm. “How involved in this particular role have you become?”

  Oscar looked a little taken aback. “Now hold on a minute. What’s going on here?” He glanced at Elspeth, as if willing her to explain.

  “I see you have copies of books about the Carrion King here, too,” said Peter, studying the bookcase.

  “Of course. As I said – I like to do my research.” Oscar’s tone had altered. The carefully studied, laissez-faire attitude had all but disappeared. “Now if you’d kindly tell me what you’re doing here…”

  “Very well,” said Peter. “I have cause to believe you haven’t been entirely truthful with us, Mr Waring. That you weren’t, in fact, in the pub all night with your colleagues last Thursday, but left early to return to the theatre.”

  Oscar fumbled in his shirt pocket for his tobacco pouch. He took it out and started rolling a cigarette, but his fingers were shaking. “That’s right, yeah. I went out for a smoke and realised I’d left my lighter in the dressing room. It was nothing. I’d forgotten all about it until last night, when they were talking about Vanessa being at the theatre all night.”

  “So you can confirm that when you went back, you found the theatre had been closed up for the night and there was no one else around.”

  “That’s right. Vanessa was supposed to be there, but she wasn’t. That’s what I told Ellie last night in the pub.” He licked the edge of his cigarette paper and carefully rolled the tobacco into a thin tube, which he placed between his lips. “I was only there for five minutes. I took my lighter and went home.”

  “How did you get into the theatre if it was locked?” said Peter.

  “Vanessa told me the pass code a while back. I’m the only one who smokes, see, and I kept getting locked out.”

  Peter nodded. “And what about the costume? Why did you take that?”

  Elspeth studied Oscar’s face. He was chewing his bottom lip, and nervously picking at the pocket of his jeans. He was still holding something back. Peter had seen it, and was pressing him. “Look, I’ve got nothing to do with what happened to Lucy. I don’t even know what happened, really. The first I heard about it was on Friday afternoon, when Vanessa called.”

  “That wasn’t what I asked, Oscar,” said Peter.

  “It was nothing. A silly game. A bit of kinky role play, that’s all. I promise, it’s got nothing to do with any murder.”

  “I think you’d better start from the beginning,” said Peter. “And make sure you tell us everything this time.”

  Oscar lit his cigarette and took a long, desperate draw. He was still shaking. “It’s Sasha,” he said. “She’s missing.”

  “Sasha?” said Elspeth. This was the first she’d heard of anyone called Sasha.

  “My girlfriend, I suppose,” said Oscar. He shrugged. “Or perhaps not anymore.”

  “Start with the pub,” said Peter. “What happened when you left?”

  Oscar nodded. He crossed to the window and stood with his back to them, as if peering out through the filthy net curtains. “It’s just like I said. I went out for a smoke and realised I’d left my lighter. It’s precious, see?” He turned, holding out a battered old bronze Zippo. “It used to belong to my granddad.”

  “So you decided to go back and fetch it,” said Peter.

  “Yeah. I took a walk down to the theatre. I expected to find Vanessa there, but everything was quiet. So I let myself in and found the lighter where I’d left it.”

  “And…”

  “And that’s when I saw the costumes on the rail. Like I said, it was just a bit of silly fun. Me and Sasha, dressing up as the Carrion King and his Consort. We’d messed around like that before, having a laugh. It was a way of celebrating me getting the gig, really. I didn’t think it would do any harm. You know…” he trailed off, embarrassed. He wouldn’t make eye contact with Elspeth.

  “So you took both costumes home?” said Peter.

  Oscar nodded. “Yeah. I was going to put them back the next day. No harm done. I brought them back here. Sasha was waiting for me. She was really into it, couldn’t wait to try it on.”

  “And?”

  “And what do you think? We had a few drinks, and whiled away a few hours.”

  “So why didn’t
you put the costume back the next morning with the other one? Where is it now?”

  Oscar shook his head. “I don’t know. We had a blazing row. It was the most stupid thing. Something about some bloody party she wanted me to go to, but I had rehearsals and said I couldn’t go. She stormed out, and she took the costume with her. She was still wearing it.”

  Peter sighed. “So you put your costume back the next morning before anyone noticed, and feigned ignorance when we realised that Alice’s was missing. Is that it?”

  Oscar nodded. “I tried to get it back, but Sasha won’t answer her phone. She’s not at her flat. I think she’s trying to punish me or something.” He sucked at his cigarette again, causing ash to spill over his T-shirt. He brushed it onto the floor. “But then you lot came to the theatre and started asking questions, and I panicked. I didn’t want to lose the gig. It’s the best role I’ve had in years, a real platform. So I couldn’t let on that I’d taken the costume. Vanessa would have fired me there and then.”

  “So you lied to the police,” said Peter, his tone brimming with disapproval.

  “It was only a bloody costume. It’s hardly the end of the world.” Oscar blew smoke out of the corner of his mouth. “What is it that you haven’t told us? What’s the costume got to do with Lucy?”

  “We’ll save that for down at the station,” said Peter. “I’m going to need Sasha’s details, phone numbers, addresses. And you’re going to have to hope we can find her to corroborate your story.”

  Oscar crossed the room and shakily stubbed his cigarette out in the nearest ashtray, spilling a load of spent butts upon the tabletop and dusting his fingers with ash. He wiped them on his jeans. “I’d never do anything to hurt Lucy. I kinda liked her, the way she stood up for herself and took no bull from Vanessa.”

  “And just to clarify – you didn’t see Lucy again that night?”

  “No. Not after she left with that writer bloke she’s always hanging around with.”

  Peter glanced at Elspeth, who shrugged. “David Keel?”