A Murder to Die For

  ‘So how did you get involved in Agnes Crabbe fandom?’ he asked.

  ‘It was all rather serendipitous really,’ said Miss Wilderspin. ‘I was a big fan of the Miss Cutter Mysteries TV series and that made me start reading the books. And, just because it sounded like something fun to do, I looked into joining a fan club and discovered that the Agnes Crabbe Fellowship is based in a house in Oxford just half a mile away from where I live.’

  ‘Mrs Handibode’s house?’

  ‘Hers and her husband’s,’ said Molly. ‘Although he has nothing to do with the Fellowship. He doesn’t really care for Agnes Crabbe or her books. Anyway, I went to a meeting there and I thoroughly enjoyed it, although I’ll admit that I didn’t take to Esme at first.’

  ‘She’s not the warmest of individuals.’

  ‘I know that she can come across as joyless and even a bit rude, but that’s just her way. She feels very close to Agnes Crabbe and she is passionate about her studies. A bit obsessive, maybe, but she’s not a bad person.’

  ‘So, in summary, what you’re saying is that we have several possible suspects for the murder but none of them are in custody,’ said Chief Superintendent Nuton-Atkinson.

  ‘Yes, sir. I know how that sounds but—’ said Blount.

  ‘And you have no idea which one is most likely?’

  ‘We have Tradescant’s fingerprints on the murder weapon and Savidge was seen driving a van away from the murder scene just after it happened. He was also spotted covered in blood earlier in the day. So both are possible suspects.’

  ‘Do they have any previous convictions?’

  ‘Both have minor convictions for public order offences. And Savidge’s father is a proper villain. He’s been inside for robbery, assault, burglary . . . and he’s still active in fencing stolen goods around Hoddenford way, even though he’s a pensioner now.’

  ‘How is that relevant?’

  ‘Like father like son?’ said Blount unconvincingly.

  ‘Hmm. And this Handibode woman? What about her?’

  ‘She might have made the poisoned jam.’

  ‘Poisoned jam?’

  ‘It’s implicated in the fatal car crash the night before the murder. But that might be unconnected,’ said Blount, painfully aware of how ridiculous his story sounded and, more importantly, how incompetent he appeared to be. ‘She is missing, though. Which is a bit suspicious.’

  ‘Yes. Well, returning to the village hall murder,’ said Nuton-Atkinson. ‘What do we know about the victim?’

  ‘Fingerprints were taken from the body yesterday; they had to be done the old-fashioned way with ink and paper. They came back as no trace on the database.’

  ‘So we still don’t know who she is?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘And the solicitor, Tremens, he’s still missing?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘But he’s not the victim.’

  ‘No, sir, it’s definitely a woman.’

  ‘And Helen Greeley, the TV star, is missing too?’

  ‘Possibly,’ said Blount.

  ‘That woman who was up in the tree spying on her room . . . she says that someone was keeping Greeley hostage.’

  ‘So I understand.’

  ‘And they found this chap Savidge’s clothes and wallet in Greeley’s hotel room.’

  ‘Yes, sir. It’s possible that he’s involved in her disappearance too.’

  ‘But I thought the person seen in the room was another woman.’

  ‘Probably Savidge dressed as a woman. He was dressed as a woman when he was seen driving the van too.’

  ‘But we don’t know where he is either?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Brian. That’s an awful lot of don’t know,’ said Nuton-Atkinson, rubbing his bald pate.

  ‘I’m doing the best I can with the resources I have,’ said Blount. ‘We’ve made some progress and if you look at my report you’ll see that everything has been done by the book. It’s just been—’

  ‘People are saying that I should assign a more senior investigating officer,’ interrupted Nuton-Atkinson. ‘Are they right?’

  Blount felt his stomach drop to the floor. ‘No, sir. Please. Not yet. Just give me a few more hours,’ he pleaded. ‘We’re so close to a breakthrough. I know we are. Don’t let all our good work go to waste.’

  ‘I’m meeting the Chief Constable at two o’clock,’ said Nuton-Atkinson. ‘That gives you three hours to pull your case together. We’ve known each other a long time, Brian, ever since we were woodentops on the beat together, and that’s why I’m giving you this chance. But three hours is the best I can do. Don’t let me down.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’

  ‘I can’t have us looking like a bunch of provincial thickos. Those Scotland Yard yobbos already think that they’re better than we are and they’ll take over at the drop of a hat. So, if you still have nothing in three hours’ time, I will have no choice but to suggest assigning a more senior officer to head up the case. And you know who the Chief will choose, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Blount miserably.

  ‘Three hours, Brian.’

  ‘I suppose I should just go back to the hotel and tell everyone we’re all right,’ said Greeley. ‘I didn’t like the sound of that explosion last night. I hope no one got hurt.’

  ‘You must go. They check to make sure all guests are accounted for after a fire,’ said Savidge. ‘They’ll think you’re dead or missing.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right,’ said Greeley.

  ‘Or abducted,’ said Savidge. ‘And I bet you they try to pin the blame on me.’

  ‘Surely not?’

  ‘They’ll have found my wallet in your room by now and they’ll have put two and two together and made five. You wait and see. Especially after what happened to you with that stalker last year.’

  ‘No, but . . . oh shit.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I just remembered. Last night, when the hotel manager knocked on the door, before I knew you better, I tried to send him a coded message.’

  ‘Coded message?’

  ‘I mentioned a character from an Agnes Crabbe story who was kept prisoner against his will. I thought that they might realise that I was in the same situation.’

  ‘Do you think that’s why someone set fire to the rope?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe,’ said Greeley. ‘I’m so sorry. I was scared at the time and—’

  ‘It’s okay,’ said Savidge, shrugging resignedly. ‘There’s no point me acting all outraged. I deserve everything that happens to me. I should just go and hand myself in. Straighten things out.’

  ‘No. You weren’t in your right mind yesterday,’ said Greeley. ‘I’ll go back to the hotel and explain what happened. Well, a version that will keep everyone happy anyway.’

  ‘You don’t have to do that.’

  ‘Yes I do. You wait here until I’ve cleared things up. It’s going to be madness there after the explosions and I don’t want to trigger another of your episodes. Just chill out and try not to worry. Do your relaxation exercises or something. Everything will be fine. I’ll bring lunch back with me.’

  *

  Mrs Dallimore pushed against the rotten wood of a plank at knee level and was almost in tears of joy as her walking boot passed through it as easily as if it were made of polystyrene. She withdrew her foot and pushed again at the wood all round the hole she’d made and, very soon, she had made a space big enough to cautiously push her head through. There was no one in sight. She pulled her head back inside and began working on making the hole bigger. It wouldn’t take long and she’d then be able to climb out. What she did then would be dictated by events. The only thing she knew for sure was that she needed to get away and find help.

  Helen Greeley’s unexpected arrival at the Empire Hotel had quickly become a much bigger event than she’d anticipated. She was shocked by the extent of damage that the hotel had suffered. From the
front it looked no different, except for the surfeit of police vehicles parked outside, but the rear was a very different story. Half of the building had collapsed into the gardens and two fire engines were still on site, wetting down the smouldering fires. The building was completely cordoned off, which meant that returning to her suite – which was miraculously intact – was out of the question. She had also been surprised by the level of media attention; her supposed disappearance had become a major story on the morning news with intense speculation of kidnap or her death among the rubble. But before she could say a word to a reporter, a police officer had chaperoned her swiftly through the TV crews and their torrents of questions, towards the Incident Room at the library. Her subsequent cross-examination by the commander of Bowcester Fire Station and an exhausted DI Blount was yet another thing that she hadn’t anticipated and she found herself having to think on her feet.

  ‘So, what you’re saying is that you met this man, Savidge, and you invited him to your room,’ said Blount. ‘What for?’

  ‘Do I have to spell it out for you?’ said Greeley. ‘Because I’m under no obligation to do so. We’re all adults here and, unless we’ve suddenly regressed to the Victorian era overnight, I am allowed to have male guests in my room, surely?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. We’re a very modern, accommodating and discreet hotel,’ said Mr Jaycocks who had also attended the Incident Room to make a statement regarding the overnight drama.

  ‘So why was there a rope hanging from the balcony?’ asked Blount.

  ‘Because I’m an actor, darling. A child of the theatre,’ said Greeley. ‘Have you no romance in your soul, Inspector? “With love’s light wings did I o’erperch these walls, for stony limits cannot hold love out.”’

  ‘So it was some kind of Romeo and Juliet role-play thing?’ said the fire chief.

  ‘Very good!’

  The fire chief blushed.

  ‘He climbed up to my balcony. It was just a bit of silly fun,’ said Greeley. ‘And there was no damage done, I assure you.’

  ‘No damage done!’ said Mr Jaycocks. ‘There’s talk of condemning the place.’

  ‘I’ll happily admit that we ruined a few sheets and I’m more than happy to compensate the hotel for those,’ said Greeley. ‘But if you’re saying that I’m responsible for the explosion, that’s quite an accusation and I will—’

  ‘I’m sure he’s not alleging anything like that,’ said the fire chief.

  ‘Yes, but . . .’ stuttered the hotel manager.

  ‘Mr Jaycocks, if I may continue,’ said Blount. ‘Now then, Ms Greeley, tell me about the coded message.’

  ‘Coded message?’ said Greeley, innocently. ‘What coded message?’

  ‘Mr Jaycocks here tells us that you referred to him as Mr Gilderdale.’

  ‘I did? I’m sorry. I stay in so many hotels and I’m afraid that they all tend to blur and merge into each other in my head. I do apologise if I got the name wrong.’

  ‘So you’re saying that you weren’t giving a coded message?’ asked Blount.

  ‘What on earth for?’

  ‘We thought you were referencing a character called Gilderdale in an Agnes Crabbe novel who’s being kept prisoner—’

  ‘Oh, you mean My Brother’s Keeper,’ said Greeley. ‘That was a wonderful story to film.’

  ‘Yes. That one,’ said Mr Jaycocks, still stinging from the news that Ms Greeley apparently hadn’t bothered to remember his name.

  ‘Oh dear me, no,’ said Greeley. ‘The name must have been stuck in my head. It is a favourite episode of mine. I got a BAFTA for it, you know.’

  ‘So I understand,’ said Mr Jaycocks, snippily.

  ‘Sometimes I think that you murder-mystery fans see secret messages and clues in everything,’ said Greeley, smiling. ‘I hope that I didn’t cause you any worry.’

  ‘We thought you were being held hostage,’ said Mr Jaycocks.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘You didn’t turn up for your talk and people were concerned for your safety.’

  ‘And I faked a tummy bug, didn’t I? That was awful of me. But I was feeling jetlagged and a bit sad and lonely and I met a nice man and that doesn’t happen to me very often and, well, you know how it is.’ She stood up and prepared to leave. ‘It looks as if this has all been a ghastly misunderstanding.’

  ‘Just one last thing,’ said Blount. ‘Perhaps you’d tell us where Mr Savidge is now? I assume you left the hotel together last night.’

  ‘We did, during the fire alarm,’ said Greeley. ‘But I have no idea where he is this morning.’

  ‘You’re quite sure about that?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And you do realise that you would be obstructing a police investigation if you did know where he was but refused to tell me? You could even be accused of harbouring a wanted criminal.’

  ‘Wanted? What on earth for? I told you, I invited him into my room. There wasn’t a kidnap or a—’

  Blount held up the photograph of the van driver that Shunter had obtained from the CCTV footage. ‘Do you recognise this man?’

  ‘It’s a bit blurry.’

  ‘Is it Mr Savidge?’

  ‘I suppose it could be him if he didn’t shave for a day or two,’ said Greeley. ‘But then he has one of those faces. Really quite good-looking in a nondescript sort of way.’

  ‘That was taken a short while before the murder took place at the village hall,’ said Blount. ‘And he was seen making his escape from there shortly afterwards. Still feel like keeping his whereabouts from us?’

  ‘Oh god,’ said Greeley, sitting down hard.

  Mrs Dallimore slowly eased herself feet first through the hole she’d made in the hull and dropped the remaining six inches to the ground. Her heart pounding, she hugged the side of the vessel and looked around for signs that anyone had seen her. The nearest door was on the far side of the shed and no more than fifty yards away but it seemed like a million miles. Her legs and body were trembling. It was possible, she calculated, to get to the door and stay mostly hidden if she made a series of quick dashes between the machinery and the other boats. The only risk of being seen would come in the short sprints between places of concealment. Steeling herself, she took a couple of deep breaths and then dashed to the adjacent narrowboat. She caught her breath and listened. There were no sounds of pursuit, no raised voices. ‘Brave heart, Pamela,’ she said quietly to herself. ‘You can do this.’

  Suddenly, from the other side of the hull she was leaning on, came a sound; a muffled, mumbling and altogether human sound. Mrs Dallimore peered through a porthole into the gloomy interior. And there, looking back at her, were two faces that she knew all too well.

  Those of Esme Handibode and Brenda Tradescant.

  At Bowcester Divisional HQ, the news that a possible murderer was hiding on a houseboat was greeted with excitement by Sergeant Jack Stough, ex-Paratroop Regiment and now head of the South Herewardshire Constabulary Tactical Response Unit. Despite it being Sunday, he came rushing into work, thankful for the chance to drive his beloved TRV. The tactical response vehicle had been purchased some years ago when atrocities on both sides of the Atlantic had led to increased spending on anti-terrorism resources. But, barring the obligatory six-monthly training exercises he set for his team, the bullet-proof Range Rover had never seen active service. He whistled happily as he loaded it up with weapons from the armoury, contacted his small team and instructed them to meet him at St Probyn’s churchyard in Nasely at 11.45 a.m.

  Neither Jaine nor Banton had managed more than a few hours of sleep overnight. They looked exhausted, haggard and sleepy-eyed, but positively chipper compared to Blount. He was unshaven, dishevelled and the deep black hollows under his eyes made him look even more skeletal than usual. He had been chain-drinking cups of strong black coffee since his return from HQ and he tapped his fingers impatiently on the librarian’s desk. Why did everything take so long?

  ‘Some news, guv,’ said Banton.

/>   ‘At last,’ said Blount, yawning. ‘Please tell me something good.’

  ‘We have an email from Thames Valley Police. They’ve searched Miss Nithercott’s home in Amersham and they’ve found several pots of yew-berry jam in her fridge.’

  ‘Which means she made it herself.’

  ‘Or someone else made it for her. I’ll ask the local scenes-of-crime guys to fingerprint the jars as a matter of urgency, just to be sure. If Handibode made it, her prints might be on the jars. We may get lucky.’

  ‘Chance would be a fine thing. What about the houseboat? Any movement?’

  ‘We have spotters on it. If Savidge tries to leave, we’ll know.’

  ‘Good.’ Blount was perking up. ‘I’m briefing the tactical response unit in half an hour. We’ll soon have some answers once we have the sod in custody. Get some more coffee in, will you?’

  Helen Greeley listened to the police officers talking about ‘tactical response units’ and was overwhelmed with guilt. She’d stayed at the library in the absence of anywhere else to go.

  ‘Do you want a tea or a coffee?’ asked Banton.

  ‘You don’t have anything stronger, I suppose?’ said Greeley.

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘You will be gentle with him, won’t you?’

  ‘We’ll do things by the book,’ said Banton.

  ‘Kid gloves,’ added Blount, with an unconvincing smile.

  Frank Shunter and Miss Wilderspin had been walking for more than half an hour and were now over a mile from the village. They had stopped occasionally to give her sore feet a rest; despite her change of footwear, her blisters from the day before were still very painful. Shunter was endeavouring to lift her spirits.

  ‘There are so many common plot devices that are simply nonsense,’ he explained. ‘Take the whole “good cop, bad cop” business. No one does that. It breaks the rules of evidence. You lean on a prisoner, that’s called duress and that will see your case slung out of court.’