A Murder to Die For

by Stevyn Colgan

  Miss Berrycloth had been fished out of the canal and lay, wretched, depilated and naked, under a rough blanket on a stretcher, her left leg shattered in two places, her right arm in three, and covered in second-degree burns. She had been lucky to survive, but her indomitable spirit refused to be subdued and, as she was being lifted into the ambulance, she was still shouting about Helen Greeley being held prisoner in her room.

  Most of the festival-goers had now drifted out of the dance and into the street to see what was going on. A monstrous pall of dirty black smoke hung over the hotel, illuminated by flashing blue lights. Emergency vehicles were parked ten deep by the building’s incongruous fake portico and dozens of police officers roamed about looking busy and purposeful. And everywhere there were reporters and camera crews in their onesies, or in jackets thrown over their nightwear, getting in everyone’s way, asking for opinions and thanking their lucky stars that they’d been right there, on scene, when whatever had happened had happened. They did pieces to camera describing, not always accurately, the events of the weekend so far: the horrific murder of a so-far unidentified woman at the village hall; the possibly sinister deaths of two other women in a car crash; the disappearance of a prominent solicitor and several leading lights in the world of Agnes Crabbe fandom; the possible abduction of TV star Helen Greeley; and now, what appeared to be a terrorist attack on the hotel that had seriously injured a handful of festival-goers, including Miss Penny Berrycloth, yet another important fan-club figure. Conspiracy theories abounded. Chief Superintendent Edwin Nuton-Atkinson, commander of Bowcester Division, had turned out to try to explain to the reporters why his officers had failed to prevent any of these events from happening. As he spoke, he jumped whenever another oil can exploded. For many of the Millies, the lure of the strobing blue lights and cameras was too much and they were drawn towards them like sharks to a wounded seal.

  In the confusion, no one noticed as two of the Miss Cutter look-alikes headed out of the village towards the small group of houseboats moored on the canal near the Dunksbury Road bridge.

  For Mrs Dallimore, sitting all alone in the pitch black of the old boat’s hull, the night brought different terrors. Some distance from the village and shielded within the boat, she had barely heard the explosions. All she could hear was the scuttling of rodents, accompanied by the spooky noises of other night creatures, the sounds magnified by the eerie silence. Her wrists were chafing painfully and one hand had pins and needles, but it hadn’t deterred her from making every effort to slip free of the cable tie. It had definitely jumped a couple of ratchet marks since she’d begun to force it and it felt looser. It was scant reward for several hours of excruciatingly painful effort but it was a start. Too scared to sleep but too tired not to, she had dozed spasmodically, waking to the sound of a screaming fox here or a creaking timber there. And between shallow naps, she’d continued the torturous work of defeating the cable tie that bound her wrists, rubbing it against the wooden bulkhead, pulling, tugging and twisting. Fear, and the realisation that she would soon need the toilet again, had loaned her a strength and a determination she hadn’t realised she possessed.

  Shunter ate a hearty breakfast while watching the TV with ever-increasing disbelief. All of the news channels were leading with the overnight events in Nasely.

  ‘You’re not seriously going back into the village today, are you?’ asked Mrs Shunter.

  ‘Of course,’ said Shunter, matter-of-factly. He stood up and placed his breakfast dishes in the dishwasher.

  ‘And you’re just going to ignore the fact that there’s been a murder, are you? And god knows how many explosions,’ said Mrs Shunter.

  ‘Of course. That’s the British way. Can’t let the buggers ruin our daily routine, can we? They’ll think they’ve won.’

  ‘But what about the danger?’

  ‘I’ll be fine, dear.’ Shunter pecked his wife on the cheek. ‘Half of the South Herewardshire Constabulary is on scene. Plus, lord knows how many Scotland Yard specialists they’ve pulled in, everything from Anti-Terrorist Branch to kidnapping experts, I’d have thought. Today the village is likely to be the safest place in Britain. You are, as always, welcome to join me of course.’

  ‘Not likely,’ said Mrs Shunter.

  ‘Then I will see you at teatime.’

  ‘I hate to think what this business will do to the house prices.’

  ‘Ah, but think about all those friends we left behind with their posh houses and their boring corporate lives,’ said Shunter. ‘They don’t get to see excitement like this on their doorstep, do they? I bet they’ll be on the phone later, asking to visit. Do tell them what they can do.’

  He popped a panama hat on his head as the forecast was sunny. Plus, he felt, it added a slight air of jaunty theatricality to his appearance that might help him to blend in better with the murder-mystery fans. He set off on the ten-minute walk into the village.

  Savidge was woken by a bright shaft of sunlight that broke through a crack in the curtains and crept across his eyelids. He squinted and fumbled with closing the curtain before rolling over and trying to get comfortable again. He became aware of a warm body pressed against his leg and with it came remembrance of the evening before.

  He and Greeley had arrived at the houseboat, scared, hungry and thirsty. The first thing he’d done, after forcing the lock on the cabin doors, was rummage in the galley cupboards for something to eat and drink. All he’d found were some packet soups and some teabags but the kettle worked and so they did, at least, enjoy a hot meal of sorts. However, thoughts of the delicious goodies on offer from room service back at the hotel had made the meal seem even more frugal. After the meal, Savidge removed the last of his hospital dressings and took a shower to clear the dried blood from around his injuries.

  ‘So who does this boat belong to?’ she’d asked him when he’d finished.

  ‘A mate of mine,’ he’d explained. ‘He’s away travelling at the moment. I’m pretty sure he won’t mind me using it, as long as I fix the lock. Is it okay?’

  ‘It’s great,’ said Greeley. ‘I’ve never slept on the river before.’

  ‘But not as comfortable as your hotel suite,’ said Savidge.

  ‘After that explosion, I’d be surprised if I still have a hotel suite. Or a hotel for that matter. Besides, this is much better.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Listen, I had a really nasty experience last year when a man, a very disturbed man who I trusted to protect me, broke into my home and threatened me with a gun.’

  ‘Shit. I had no idea.’

  ‘When it happened, I was already going through a bad patch as I’d just got divorced and Terry was being a complete bastard, selling private photos and stories of our sex life to the tabloids,’ said Greeley. ‘Two people I really trusted screwed me over. It’s made me suspicious of everyone. So I don’t like being alone any more, especially in strange places, and it’s really hard for me to find people I can be alone with and truly feel safe. But I feel safe here with you. Does that make any sense?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Savidge, miserably. ‘I must have terrified you.’

  ‘To begin with, yes, you did. But then, and I don’t really understand why, I realised that I was safe with you. You seemed to be just as scared as I was and, despite plenty of opportunities, you didn’t try to harm or molest me. I knew that you weren’t a threat and, in some weird way, I also knew that I could trust you. I’ll warn you now, the feeling may wear off and I may end up running screaming to the police. But, right now, at this moment, I feel safer and more comfortable here, on this boat with you, than at the hotel.’

  ‘But anywhere must feel safer after the fire and those explosions.’

  ‘That’s not really what I meant. I don’t suppose there’s any booze on board?’

  ‘None that I’ve found. We did better than I expected with the packet soups.’

  ‘Probably best we get some sleep then,’ said Greeley. ‘Just one more thing . .
.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Can we sleep in the same room?’

  ‘But there’s only the one bed.’

  ‘It’s big enough for two. But listen, no funny business, okay? I just don’t want to be alone.’

  ‘I wouldn’t do anything. Especially as you’ve had so much to drink.’

  ‘I know,’ said Greeley, smiling.

  And so they’d slept together, deeply and chastely, back to back in the warm bed, exhausted by the events of the day.

  Savidge rolled gently out of bed so as not to wake her and tiptoed to the toilet.

  The atmosphere in the High Street was, understandably, very different from when Shunter had last seen it. Crime-scene tape surrounded the Empire Hotel, closing off Bowler’s Lane, and there seemed to be police officers everywhere, strolling about in pairs or sitting in marked cars drinking tea and keeping a suspicious eye on the many groups of Millies nosing around. The events of the night had refreshed the Crabbe fans’ levels of excitement and intrigue, and now, to add to the murder, they had the explosions and the apparent kidnapping of Helen Greeley to discuss, to build theories about and to argue over. There had already been several fan-club tussles. One was still in full swing as Shunter arrived in the High Street. A reporter from Sky News had asked Mrs Lindsay Packering for her theory about what had happened. Unfortunately, he’d asked her within earshot of several other fan-club leaders.

  ‘It’s quite clear to us in the Crabbe and Cutter Club that what we have here is a conspiracy to stop Andrew Tremens revealing whatever he was going to reveal,’ she explained to the camera. ‘Firstly, he is kidnapped, and then there is an attempt to assassinate Helen Greeley who is, presumably, some part of it and—’

  ‘What utter drivel!’ lisped Mrs Anthea Pollwery, pushing herself into the foreground and adjusting her hair. ‘The Agnes Crabbe Detective Club boasts two private detectives and an ex-military policewoman among our ranks and it is our considered opinion that some relative or close friend of the man who stalked Ms Greeley last year is exacting revenge for his death and—’

  ‘That’s just ridiculous,’ snapped Mrs Packering.

  ‘It makes more sense than your stupid assassination theory,’ said Mrs Pollwery.

  ‘‘You’re both wrong,’ exclaimed Miss Joscha Ambrose-Leigh from ACDC magazine. ‘We have heard that a gas leak was deliberately created to incapacitate Ms Greeley so that she could be kidnapped and held for ransom. It’s just unfortunate that a spark ignited the gas.’

  ‘Nonsense! There’s been no ransom demand!’ said Miss Gloria Febland of the Trayhorn Borwick Appreciation Society.

  ‘That’s the silliest thing I’ve heard all day!’

  ‘You’re all wrong! It’s—’

  Shunter strolled past the arguing Millies and glanced at his watch. It was nearly 10 a.m. so he walked to the Happy Onion to see if Molly Wilderspin had turned up. She was waiting by the door and was dressed in an unflattering grey fleece, matching trousers and white trainers; her leisurewear made her look even more spherical than her Miss Cutter costume had done. Her face, despite its usual ruddy complexion, was drawn, and dark hollows sat under her eyes. She looked as if she hadn’t slept a wink.

  ‘I was already anticipating a rough night because I was so worried about Esme,’ she explained. ‘Yesterday they were suggesting she might be the victim but today, it seems, they’re saying that she’s a possible murder suspect along with Brenda Tradescant. Isn’t it awful? Esme wouldn’t harm a fly.’

  ‘Really?’ said Shunter, raising an eyebrow. ‘She strikes me as someone who could dish out a damned good thrashing if she was cross enough and felt that the person deserved it.’

  ‘That may be true,’ conceded Miss Wilderspin with a sad smile. ‘But she could never kill anyone in cold blood. And definitely not in any premeditated way. Anyway, I tried to sleep, but then there were all those bangs and then a fire alarm went off and I came out of my room to see what was going on. Then there was a huge explosion and the whole building shook and everyone panicked and I got swept along with the crowd. We all ended up standing around outside in our night clothes for hours and the police wouldn’t let us back in. Thankfully, it wasn’t a cold night and there was no rain, but by the time they found a place for me in some kind person’s spare bedroom it was gone four a.m. and I was wide awake. I think that I finally dropped off around six.’

  ‘You needn’t have come out this morning.’

  ‘I’d like to keep busy today, if I can. It stops me worrying too much.’

  ‘Then let’s get some sandwiches and hit the road,’ said Shunter, looking at the greasy cloud hanging over the hotel. ‘It will be good to get out of the village. It’s bedlam here.’

  ‘Morning, Brian. Though I can’t say it’s a good morning, if I’m being honest,’ said Chief Superintendent Nuton-Atkinson, a tall, big-bellied man with a shaved head and a moustache like a yardbrush. He yawned, showing off a tongue stained the colour of sandstone by strong coffee.

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ said Blount, stifling a yawn in response and wishing that he hadn’t been summoned to appear at Bowcester Police Station quite so early. He hadn’t slept for more than an hour himself.

  ‘This is a bad business, Brian,’ said Nuton-Atkinson. ‘This is a good borough. A quiet borough. People come to live here because it’s supposed to be one of the safest places in the UK. And now this. The Chief isn’t at all happy. And now we have all of these Scotland Yard types running about all over the place showing us up.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Let’s be honest, Brian, we look like chumps. Incompetent chumps. And it’s not like the old days when you could obfuscate and keep a story under wraps. You know the Chief. She’s the modern type. University educated. Believes in transparency, accountability, all that sort of thing. She wants us to tell the news outlets what happened. No bullshit. No waffle. So I have to make sure that we have a story that keeps her and the public happy. Not lies, you understand. Lies get rumbled. But a version of events where we don’t look like complete oafs.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Blount.

  ‘Good,’ said Nuton-Atkinson. ‘We need to show that the South Herewardshire Constabulary isn’t staffed with halfwits and dunderheads. There isn’t much we can do about that business at the hotel because the anti-terrorist lot have already taken over. But we can still nail this murder and earn some Brownie Points. So, I want you to tell me everything about the inquiry so far. Start at the beginning. Leave nothing out. But let’s get some more coffee first. I need something strong to keep me awake. I was up for most of the night.’

  Mrs Dallimore had woken in the faint light of dawn, and the little sleep she’d had, and her urgent bladder, had given her renewed strength and energy. She’d immediately begun working on the cable tie once more, pulling and stretching and ignoring the pain in her wrists. It slipped another ratchet mark and, all of a sudden, her hands were free.

  After removing her gag and freeing her legs, she’d spent the next half hour quietly exploring the limits of her prison. She had no idea what time it was – she wore no watch and her captor had taken her mobile phone – nor whether her gaoler was still on the upper deck. There had been no recurrence of the sound of boots above, however, and this gave her the courage to start testing the strength of the walls. The boat’s hull was firm despite its apparent age but, here and there, she found areas of rotten wood that crumbled under her probing fingers. None of the holes she’d so far managed to make were big enough for her to get through but they did allow her to see exactly where she was.

  As she’d assumed, her vessel was inside one of the large tin-roofed sheds she’d seen from the towpath. Her boat was one of three that, presumably, had been brought in for repair but, for whatever reason, had sat here gathering dust, rust and woodworm ever since. There was an old red tractor that looked to be in good condition and lots of machines scattered about: winches, lathes and others the function of which she could barely guess. Th
e only exit from her cell was the hatch that she’d seen her gaoler climb through the evening before, but that was locked. Or stuck maybe; a gentle, silent push was all she’d risked for fear that it would fly open or creak noisily and alert whoever it was that had taken her prisoner. But it hadn’t budged. And so she’d returned to her exploration of the barge’s interior, testing the wood with her hands and feet and hoping to find a way to break out.

  The canal looked serene. Swans glided across the surface of the sluggish brown waters and looked snobbishly down their bills at other less-impressive waterfowl. Beyond the far bank, the fields of freshly cut grass, recently harvested for winter silage, were salt and peppered with the white and grey of lesser black-backed gulls dibbing for worms.

  This stretch of canal, known as the Oxbow Deviation, had been built during the Victorian era to provide affluent boating enthusiasts with a scenic route through the flat landscape. The county boasted no large rivers and the nearest canals, like the Grand Union and the Oxford, were busy commercial routes, wholly unsuited to pleasure boating. And so the rich farmers and landowners of South Herewardshire had created their own, cutting a meandering waterway through the beautiful countryside that began near Scroobys Lift Bridge on the Oxford Canal and then wound its way past some of the county’s prettiest villages. It ended at Dunksbury Locks just a few miles east of Bowcester, where it joined a spur of the Gloucester and Sharpness Canal.

  Shunter breathed in deeply. The smells of the countryside, carried on the warm morning breeze, were intoxicating and he reflected upon his good decision to move to this part of the country. It was hard to believe that only yesterday, and just a few minutes’ walk from where he stood, a woman had been brutally murdered.

  He was, he realised, almost certainly wasting his time; Blount would undoubtedly have sent some officers along the towpaths to look for clues. But then he reminded himself that they hadn’t found Mrs Handibode’s book, so there was a possibility that they might have missed other clues too. With his experienced eye, he might yet spot something that the average street cop would miss. But, whatever happened, at least he was doing a good deed by keeping Miss Wilderspin busy and distracted from her worries. And, besides, it was a nice day for a walk.