A Murder to Die For

  ‘Real life is rather dull and unglamorous compared to fiction, isn’t it?’ said Miss Wilderspin.

  ‘It’s a world away from murder-mystery novels to be sure,’ Shunter agreed. ‘Which is why I like to read them, I guess. They’re all set in a nicer, lovelier world; a world without domestic violence, carjacking or teenage prostitutes. It’s nonsense – pure escapism. That’s the appeal. And, besides, I like figuring out the whodunnits. It’s good mental exercise. How are the feet now?’

  ‘Sore. But I can go on for a little while yet,’ said Miss Wilderspin.

  Shunter scanned the path ahead. About a half a mile away, he could just make out some large structures. ‘Looks like a small industrial estate or something up ahead. We can stop for lunch there. Maybe there’ll be a phone signal and, if your feet are still bad, we can call a cab to take us back to the village if you like. This is starting to look like a dead end anyway.’

  At St Probyn’s churchyard, DI Blount laid out a map of the village on the bonnet of the TRV, much to the annoyance of Sergeant Stough, who had lovingly polished it at least once a fortnight for the past ten years.

  ‘The canal runs parallel to the High Street behind the hotel, the village hall and my Incident Room, which is at the library here,’ he explained, pointing out the various buildings. ‘If we follow it westwards, past the church here and out of the village, you come to the Dunksbury Road bridge. After that the canal widens and there are five houseboats moored there. The one we’re interested in is painted green and is called The Sweating Boatman.’

  ‘What do we know about the target?’ asked Stough.

  ‘I’m not sure I want him thought of as a target,’ said Blount.

  ‘All right, the suspect then.’

  ‘He has a few minor convictions. Nothing serious. He has some anger issues.’

  ‘Some anger issues?’ said Stough incredulously. ‘Didn’t he smash some old bird’s face into chutney and then attack her corpse with a carving knife? He sounds completely mental.’

  ‘But he is still only a suspect at this time,’ reiterated Blount. ‘And he has medication to keep his anger under control.’

  ‘Well, it doesn’t work, does it? Is he armed?’

  ‘Not as far as we know.’

  ‘Hmm. Just because there’s been no sighting of firearms so far doesn’t mean he isn’t tooled up,’ said Stough. ‘And being a nutter means that he’ll be unpredictable. Oh, just one more thing . . . Didn’t you circulate some woman as the murder suspect a short while back? What’s happened to her?’

  ‘Brenda Tradescant? We believe that she is involved somehow. And so, perhaps, is another woman called Esme Handibode. Between you and me, it’s a very confused picture, which is why, and I cannot stress this enough, we must take this man alive and preferably unhurt,’ said Blount. ‘He’ll know what’s what. There is also a possibility that he has hostages stashed somewhere nearby. Their safety is our other major concern.’

  ‘He doesn’t have any on the boat?’

  ‘Our informant didn’t mention any. Just be careful, please.’

  ‘Don’t worry. My lads have taken part in dozens of simulated exercises.’

  ‘Simulated?’

  ‘They scored very highly,’ Stough boasted.

  Back in the Incident Room, Helen Greeley drank her coffee and tried to suppress her feelings of self-reproach. She reminded herself that she had nothing to feel guilty about. She knew very little about the man who had, after all, broken into her hotel room and kept her captive for several hours. Who knew what else he might be capable of, especially when his condition flared up? He’d told her that he was at war and had used phrases like ‘command post’ and ‘armed assault’ and seemed to believe every word of his self-constructed fantasy. But then she’d remember how fragile he was, how confused and vulnerable he’d been once the mania had passed, and how they’d spent the night together and he’d done her no harm. The guilt came flooding back and she felt like the worst person on the planet.

  ‘I hope I haven’t done the wrong thing,’ she said.

  ‘Of course you haven’t,’ said Banton. ‘Look, if he’s done nothing wrong he has nothing to fear, does he?’

  ‘I suppose not,’ said Greeley. ‘But I feel awful. Like I’ve kicked a puppy.’

  A laptop pinged and Banton checked her emails. ‘Oh shit. This is really going to stir things up.’

  ‘What?’ said Greeley.

  ‘I just found out who the victim is,’ said Banton.

  Mrs Dallimore had spent five fruitless minutes trying to force open the porthole on the narrowboat but was now resigned to the fact that it wouldn’t open while locked from the inside. There was no way for the ladies inside to open it as they were gagged and bound, just like she had been. There was always the option of breaking the glass, but even if she could, the window was too small to allow her in or to let the two ladies out. Besides which, the noise might attract their captor or captors. The boat’s hull was much newer and firmer than the one she’d been incarcerated inside so she wouldn’t be able to break through the wood either. And even if she did find some way of climbing on to the upper deck to search for a hatch, she had no way of knowing whether she’d be spotted or whether she’d be able to access the area where Mrs Handibode and Miss Tradescant were being held. She therefore reluctantly decided that her best plan was to escape and to return with help. She performed an elaborate mime of running away and telephoning but couldn’t be sure that her small audience understood. So she resorted to breathing on the glass and writing WILL GET HELP in the condensation. Judging by Mrs Handibode’s agitation and red face, she guessed that maybe it wasn’t her preferred choice of plan, but there was nothing else for it. She mouthed ‘Sorry’ at the captives, looked cautiously around and then made a dash to her next island of concealment behind the red tractor. She was now very close to the door and freedom. Her spirits sank as she saw the sturdy padlock fitted to the latch.

  On board The Sweating Boatman, Savidge busied himself making up the bed and covering up all signs of overnight occupancy. He looked out of the window at the towpath and the trees and bushes beyond it and, once again, found himself wondering about Helen Greeley. She seemed to be genuine and she had said that she would clear things up. So why, then, had he just caught a glimpse of someone dressed in black ducking down among some gorse bushes? He stood back from the window, knowing that the darkness of the interior would hide him from view. But it didn’t stop him from being able to see the give-away black-and-white chequered hatband that the person was wearing. His heart sank. The police were on to him. Greeley must have told them where he was.

  He crept stealthily through the vessel, peering out of each window in turn, and spotted at least two other police officers taking up positions among the trees and bushes beyond the towpath. One looked like he was holding some sort of rifle. Savidge had no medication with him to help calm his nerves and panic began to overwhelm him. A trickle of blood escaped his left nostril and he wiped it away with his hand. He pulled on the only clothes he had – the Miss Cutter costume and his boots – and looked out of the windows on the canal side of the boat. The far bank led off on to flat fields and there was nowhere for a cop to hide. He therefore reasoned that they were only watching him from the mooring side of the canal. Putting his wig and hat on his head, and adjusting his string of pearls, he gingerly slid open one of the canal-side windows and climbed through.

  Shielded from the police officers’ view by the vessel’s superstructure, he gently lowered himself down the side but then choked as his string of pearls caught on the window latch. The string snapped and the pearls scattered noisily on to the floor of the cabin while the remainder plopped into the water. Terrified that the noise would alert the officers, Savidge clung motionless to the side of the boat for what seemed like an eternity before deciding to move again. He lowered himself down into the water. It was cold enough to momentarily take his breath away but he recovered his composure quickly and cont
inued inching his way down until his booted feet met the silty mud of the canal floor. He then slowly moved hand over hand down the length of the boat until he reached the prow. Ducking under the muddy water, he swam to the next boat and then surfaced quietly. There were four narrowboats moored nose to stern, and Savidge moved smoothly and silently between them, putting distance between himself and the police officers who were watching The Sweating Boatman.

  As he reached the last of the narrowboats, he let go of the hull and performed a lazy half-walk half-breaststroke across the canal to the opposite bank, staying low in the water with his nose just above the surface and expecting a shower of bullets to come zinging towards him at any moment. But they didn’t. His confidence began to grow as he reached the far side and, hidden from police eyes by the bridge, climbed quietly up on to the towpath. Taking a deep breath, he stood up, wrung out the hem of his dress to reduce any telltale dripping and emptied his boots of water. He walked slowly up the steps that led to the Dunksbury Road bridge. If anyone had spotted him, they gave no indication. But even if they had, presumably they would imagine him to be just another silly Milly out for a stroll; the other houseboats were being rented out to festival attendees, after all. He crossed the bridge and, from his elevated position, he could now see four armed police officers hidden among shrubbery, their guns trained on The Sweating Boatman. His heart skipped a beat as one of the marksmen suddenly looked in his direction. But then the officer placed his finger to his lips in a ‘be quiet’ gesture and, incredibly, winked at him before returning his concentration to the boat. Savidge walked back towards the village, shivering with cold but feeling reasonably safe from detection for the moment. Emboldened by his disguise, he was even able to walk confidently and anonymously past St Probyn’s Church and the Crabbe Cottage Museum, outside of which sat the TRV.

  Inside the vehicle Blount and Sergeant Stough were waiting for news of his capture.

  ‘I hope you know what you’re doing,’ said Blount.

  ‘This will be a cinch,’ said Stough. He lifted the radio to his lips. ‘All units prepare for mobilisation. On my mark . . .’

  The festival weekend hadn’t proven to be quite as much fun as Baxter Pole had hoped it would be. A keen Agnes Crabbe fan and murder-mystery reader, he’d entered into the spirit of the festival by turning up dressed as Miss Cutter, despite being six feet two and a regular prop forward for his local team in Bridport. But then there had been that incident on the village green and that bite. He still wasn’t able to wear underwear and his dress, although he had scrubbed it repeatedly in the sink at his guest house, still bore the stains that had resulted from Savidge’s nosebleed. But at least he hadn’t been one of the poor sods who’d been staying in the Empire Hotel. And there were still some great events scheduled for today, including a very special dramatisation of Agnes Crabbe’s play Evil Company Corrupts at the Masonic Hall later that evening. For one extraordinary performance only, the Bowcester and District Amateur Dramatics Society was going to be joined onstage by not one but two famous Miss Cutters: Maggie Woodbead, who played her in the radio dramas, was making an appearance as Lady Creckerton, and Helen Greeley had agreed to cameo as Miss Cutter’s beloved Aunt Pie, who speaks to her in a dream at the beginning of Act II. Greeley had also agreed to reschedule her cancelled talk from the previous evening to follow the performance. Tickets for the play had sold out instantly, leaving many disappointed, but there were plenty of other events going on to keep the fans happy. And so, Pole had decided to write Saturday off, to put everything behind him and to try to enjoy the remainder of the festival despite his tender scrotum.

  A secondary school orchestra was in the street outside the Crabbe Cottage Museum playing a short concert of TV detective-show music, and the air was filled with the harrowing tones of a child using a French horn to murder the theme from Van der Valk. Savidge stopped for a moment to watch them and to consider his next move. There were, he noted, police officers everywhere. That was a complication, especially if his description had been circulated. Perhaps Helen Greeley was, at this very moment, briefing the police? If he was being honest with himself, he couldn’t have blamed her if she was. Perhaps it might be better to surrender on his own terms rather than to run away and always be looking over his shoulder? Presumably they already considered him dangerous; certainly enough to warrant the use of armed police. He looked back at the armoured TRV and considered what to do. Just then, there was the loud report of a gun being fired.

  ‘TRU 1, go!’ barked Stough into his radio.

  PC Gurveer Singh Khalsa, call sign TRU 1, took aim and fired. There was a loud crash as the CS gas projectile broke through one of the houseboat’s windows. Smoke began to billow out from inside The Sweating Boatman.

  ‘TRU 2, hold position and cover. TRU 3 and TRU 4, take him out,’ ordered Stough.

  ‘Down! Take him down!’ snapped Blount. ‘I need him alive!’

  ‘TRU 3 and 4, take him down,’ said Stough, disappointed.

  PC Malcolm Purefound (TRU 3) and PC Abioye Oduwole (TRU 4) acknowledged their orders and ran towards the boat and jumped on board. Purefound wrenched open the cabin doors and, just as he had done during the many simulated exercises that Sergeant Stough had put him through, he lobbed a second gas grenade inside before pulling a gas mask down over his face. Shouting a muffled ‘This is the police! We are armed!’, he ducked inside the door and, almost immediately, his boots found the fat pearls that had spilled from Savidge’s broken necklace and he fell heavily on to his back, the mask jumping off his face. As the gas began to stab painfully into his eyeballs, Purefound staggered to his feet, drew his riot baton and flailed blindly around himself. Swearing profusely, he made his way towards the largest blurry light source in the hope that it was the door that led to outside and the fresh air. Suddenly, a figure emerged from the shadows and Purefound instinctively lashed out. As the sweeping baton caught PC Oduwole squarely on the side of the face, his gas mask was knocked aside and his eyes too began to burn.

  Baxter Pole nodded hello to his fellow Crabbe fans as he walked along the High Street taking in the sights and sounds. Sunday was even sunnier and warmer than the Saturday had been and, despite the overpowering smell of burnt oil and the police activity going on at the hotel, things had settled back to near normality. A few Millies were still hanging around the murder scene, hoping to catch a glimpse of what was going on inside the hall, but their interest was starting to wane. The only visitors to the place all morning had been a team of specialist cleaners; the police had finished with the building and it was being prepared for use by the public again.

  Arriving outside the Crabbe Cottage Museum, Pole stopped to watch some schoolchildren playing an erratic version of the theme from Midsomer Murders. And as he watched he became aware that the Milly standing next to him was dripping. He shuffled sideways to avoid contact between his shoes and what he assumed to be the result of some unfortunate bladder weakness but then noticed the woman’s dark hairy calves. And Dr Martens. He looked up into the face of the wet Milly and their eyes met.

  ‘You!’ he yelled.

  ‘Fuck!’ said Savidge. He turned and ran, but he was no match for the cross-dressing and extremely fit rugby player who soon caught up with him and grabbed his arm. In desperation, Savidge swung a fist in his direction but Pole ducked and tackled Savidge around the waist, lifting him into the air and throwing him on to the bonnet of a parked Range Rover. But not just any Range Rover.

  ‘Now will you apologise, you little shit?’ roared Baxter Pole, putting Savidge into a headlock.

  ‘Okay, okay, I apologise!’ said Savidge. ‘I fucking apologise, all right?’

  ‘There, was that so hard?’ said Pole, releasing him. ‘Jesus Christ, man! All you had to do was say sorry. It could have saved us both . . . what the fuck?’

  Pole and Savidge found themselves suddenly looking at two men, one very tall and thin and wearing a smile so wide that his head looked as if it might split in half, and o
ne in police uniform and trembling with barely controlled rage. In his hand, he held a taser gun. Sergeant Stough glared at the dented bonnet of his precious Tactical Response Vehicle in horror. The taser shook in his hands.

  ‘Put your hands on your heads, both of you, and kneel on the ground,’ he said through gritted teeth.

  *

  Things had become even more chaotic aboard the houseboat. The two officers, eyes streaming as if someone had rubbed chilli powder and raw onions into them, stumbled blindly about, lashing out with their batons to try to keep themselves safe from the murderer they knew to be on board. Suddenly two more dark shapes appeared in Purefound’s peripheral vision and he turned to face them, baton raised. ‘It’s us! Police!’ shouted one of the dark shapes. Thankful for their arrival, the blinded officer stepped backwards, skidded on the pearls once again and fell on to his back, knocking himself unconscious on the corner of a cupboard.

  ‘On the fucking ground!’ shouted Stough.

  ‘What? Why?’ said Pole.

  ‘Do as he says,’ said Savidge, dropping to his knees. He winced. They were still painful from his fall the day before.

  ‘I know my rights,’ said Pole. ‘What am I supposed to have d—’

  He jerked as the taser barbs dug into his chest and delivered 1,200 volts to his nervous system.

  ‘Take it easy, Sergeant,’ said an increasingly worried Blount. ‘Dents can be fixed.’

  Begrudgingly, Sergeant Stough switched off the current.

  ‘Hello, Mr Savidge,’ said Blount.

  Savidge looked up into the face of a tall cadaverous man holding out a police warrant card for him to see.