by JANICE FROST
Neal smiled. “I know what you mean. Perhaps we should stick to the things we know and the things we know we don’t know and hope like hell there aren’t too many unknown unknowns lying in wait.”
“So, what else do we know for sure?”
Neal suddenly thought of a snowy day in Edinburgh. He was gallantly lifting Archie’s mother, Myrna, over the deep slushy puddles on Princes Street. He was wearing suede desert boots and the freezing water soaked his socks and made his feet numb and painful, but he didn’t care. Myrna was all he cared about in those days.
“Sir?” Ava’s voice jolted him back to the present.
“What did you say?”
“I said we know that Gray Mitchell and Leon Warrior disagreed over how to deal with Warrior’s school bully. We know that Mitchell and Warrior upset Laurence Brand when they started up a business rivalling his . . . Actually, I didn’t say that last bit. I was about to, only you didn’t seem to be listening.”
Neal smiled, suddenly no longer angry with his sergeant. He replied, “You’re right, Ava. Sorry . . . I was distracted by something I saw.”
Calling her by her first name seemed to thaw the ice between them, if not on the road outside. The car veered suddenly to the right and began spinning into a skid. Instinctively, Neal moved to grab the wheel, but Ava barked, “I’ve got it,” steering expertly into the skid.
“I was in control of the vehicle,” Ava said, but without rancour.
“I know. It was just an automatic reaction. I’m sorry. I never doubted your ability.”
“Thank you.”
Laurence Brand’s home was just north of the popular Long Hill area around the cathedral and castle. The house had a long entrance hall with plenty of pictures on the walls. These were mostly photographs of classical sites from around the world, some featuring a smiling Laurence or Maxine. Neal recognised the Parthenon, and made a mental note to take Archie there one day.
Predictably, they were offered coffee. Neal asked for tea. Ava smiled with pleasure at the state-of-the-art coffee maker.
Brand said, “I’m not sure how I can help you, officers.” These were the words most often heard at the beginning of an interview with a potential suspect. Brand was edgy. Most people were. Neal wondered whether it would make a difference if his interviewees had any inkling that he was often just as nervous. He looked at Ava. Did she feel it too? He thought not. Her eyes were darting around the room, taking everything in. No doubt she was hoping he’d let her take the lead.
“Please try not to worry about this interview, Mr Brand. It’s customary for us to speak with people who have a connection to the victim. It doesn’t mean you’re a suspect, just that you might have information that could be useful to us. You and your wife were guests at a social gathering Mitchell and Warrior held at their home last Wednesday, weren’t you?”
Laurence Brand nodded.
“We are eager to speak with all the guests who were at the gathering that evening. It was the last time your group of friends was all together before Mr Mitchell’s murder.”
Brand sputtered over his tea. Ava handed him a tissue from a box on the coffee table.
“Sorry . . . that word just brings home how horribly real all this is,” Laurence said. “What do you want to know, Inspector? The usual crowd was there, plus a few others. Maxine and I, Helen Alder, Vincent Bone, Marcus Collins, Caitlin Forest and Angie Dent.”
“And the others?”
“Colin and Eloise Sergeant. A couple Leon had kept in touch with since his acting days. They’d been out to visit him in LA a few times over the years. They don’t live in Stromford. Travelled down from York, I think.
“How late did everyone stay?”
“Most of us left around midnight. The Sergeants were staying the night at a Premier Inn, I think. Caitlin and Angie left earlier — around eleven, I would say. Angie felt unwell and Caitlin took her home.”
“What did you talk about?” Neal asked. Laurence Brand shrugged. Ava looked up from her notebook.
“All sorts of things. It was a social evening, Inspector. People chatting, a bit of music and entertainment.
“Does anything stand out?”
“Not particularly. Leon and Gray did some comedy sketches. Had everyone in stitches. Maxine sang — she’s got a great voice. We all played charades.”
“What was wrong with Angie?” Ava asked.
“Oh, she fainted. I saw it happen. She’d just been speaking with Caitlin — don’t quote me on this but I think they were having a bit of a disagreement. Caitlin stomped off and Angie went over to stand by the window. Gray was the perfect, considerate host, always making sure everyone was included. He went over to Angie when he saw her standing alone and began speaking with her. I was watching them and at first everything seemed fine. Then, suddenly, Angie just passed out. Fell into Gray’s arms, actually.”
“Did you hear what Angie and Caitlin were quarrelling about?” Ava asked.
Brand shook his head. “I was too far away. There was music in the background and several different conversations going on around me. I probably wouldn’t even have heard Angie raising her voice if I hadn’t been concentrating on the pair of them at the time.”
“Concentrating?” Ava said.
Neal nodded to himself. It was an odd choice of word and he’d expected his sergeant to pick up on it.
Brand seemed flustered. “I just meant I was people watching. I was standing with Maxine and Helen and they were chatting about some cupcake recipe or other. I was bored, so my eyes strayed around the room and I suppose they just came to rest on the two of them.”
Laurence Brand began to ramble on. “Leon and Gray were great hosts. Very down to earth people considering they’ve mixed with some of the greatest actors of their generation. They were both in Gladiator. Did you know?”
Neal nodded, suppressing a smile, remembering Geraldine Skerritt’s comments about Warrior and Mitchell’s demise in that particular movie. It amused him that Laurence Brand was impressed by Mitchell and Warrior’s minor celebrity. Perhaps he just couldn’t resist a bit of namedropping.
“I imagine Angie caused a bit of a stir, passing out like that?” Neal asked.
“Oh yes, everyone was concerned,” Brand replied. “Everyone’s fond of Angie — and Caitlin.”
“Did Caitlin take Angie home immediately?” Neal asked.
“More or less. After Angie had had a glass of water she said she felt better, but Caitlin insisted on taking her home. She can be quite bossy, Caitlin can. To tell the truth, Angie did look like death warmed up, so to speak.”
“And apart from that one incident, nothing memorable happened at Leon and Gray’s party?” Neal said.
Brand shook his head. “It was a delightful evening, as I said.”
“One more thing, Mr Brand. Did anyone else see Angie and Caitlin having a quarrel?”
“I don’t think so. Everyone was chatting or dancing. I just happened to look their way.” A pause. “There was one thing, though. I saw Caitlin grab Angie by the arm. Quite firmly too, I think. I expect they were just rowing over some lad or other.”
Brand knew of no reason why anyone would want to kill Mitchell, although he did mention the incident involving Ray Irons. He was not aware of any problems in Mitchell and Warrior’s relationship and he hadn’t noticed anything unusual about their behaviour in recent weeks, except that perhaps Gray had seemed a little subdued.
Neal brought the interview to a swift close shortly after that. He had asked Brand the day before where he had been when the murder took place. Brand had been in bed, alone. His wife Maxine had been spending the night with her friend, Helen Alder.
Brand saw them to the door. The inside of his house was very warm — clearly the Brands didn’t worry about heating bills. Then again, who did, in temperatures like these? Neal was grateful that his coat had been hanging over the radiator. As soon as they stepped outside, he felt the chill creeping back into his bones.
Safely out of earshot, Ava said, “So what do you reckon Caitlin and Angie had a falling out over? Or was that just a load of bull?”
“Why would he make it up?”
“Just putting it out there.”
“I’m inclined to believe, like Brand, that it was nothing important.” Neal glanced at his watch. “You take Angie Dent. I’ve a feeling she might relate better to you than me. I’ll take Warrior. Diana Lenton’s been assigned as Leon Warrior’s Family Liaison Officer and she’s been with him since last night. By now, Leon will be fully aware that Gray Mitchell’s death is being treated as a murder investigation.”
Ava nodded approvingly. She knew Diana quite well, though they weren’t friends. Having an FLO was an asset to an investigation. She would gather information from Warrior about his partner’s activities in the weeks leading up to his death. His lifestyle and interests, places he’d frequented, people he’d seen, changes to his daily routines or behaviour, any worries he’d had — anything that might help to build up a picture of why Gray Mitchell had become the victim of a violent crime. She would also support Leon emotionally and keep him informed of any progress being made.
It was all too easy to lose sight of the other victims of a crime — close family members or friends. In these days of funding constraints the need for efficiency often eroded the time for compassion. The FLO could step in to help fill the gap. It was an important role, but not one that attracted Ava. She needed to be more involved.
“She’ll be brilliant at it. She’s a real people person.”
Neal and Ava parted a few moments later. Neal headed along Shelton Road, the main arterial route to the north of the city, and Ava to the cathedral.
* * *
Diana Lenton answered the door to Leon Warrior’s sizeable house.
“Morning, Inspector Neal. Still cold out there, isn’t it?”
“Morning, Diana. Yes, it’s not getting any warmer.”
“S’pose you’re used to it, aren’t you? Being from Scotland.”
Neal wished he had a penny for every time someone had said that to him. He had grown up in a village near Edinburgh and could remember few occasions when the weather had been as bad as this. He smiled politely. It was easier just to agree.
“How is Mr Warrior?” he asked.
“Pretty good, considering. Not sure if it’s shock or denial, or just natural resilience kicking in.”
“Or acting, perhaps?”
“Never thought of that.”
Leon was sitting watching TV, glass of scotch in hand. It was not yet noon and Neal wondered at Diana Lenton’s definition of ‘coping well.’
“Inspector Neal’s here, Mr Warrior.”
Warrior looked round, nodded at Neal and reached for the remote.
“I spoke with your charming sergeant yesterday. You’re a lucky man having her on your team, Inspector.”
Neal glanced at Diana standing in the doorway. She was a plain woman, dowdily dressed.
“I’m not sure what I could possibly have to tell you that I haven’t told Sergeant Merry and Diana already, Inspector.” Warrior ushered Neal forward with a wide sweep of his arm.
“I won’t take up too much of your time, Mr Warrior. I understand that you must be tired of all these questions, but as you know, your partner’s death is being treated as murder. It’s important to gather as much information as possible right from the outset.”
“You can count on my cooperation, Inspector.”
Warrior poured himself another drink. He was already slurring his words. Not only that, but Neal noticed that his very Standard English of the day before had suddenly become Northern. Perhaps the real Leon Warrior emerged under the influence.
“I need to ask you about your whereabouts at the weekend.”
Warrior sighed. “I drove down to London on Friday afternoon. The weather was frightful. Gray insisted that I take a shovel and a blanket and a flask of hot coffee with me in case I got stranded somewhere on the way. He was always very thoughtful.”
Neal nodded. “What was the purpose of your trip? Couldn’t it have waited until the weather improved?”
“I was attending a sci-fi convention at a London hotel. The show I appeared in during the eighties still has a sort of cult following and I’d been invited as a star guest. You’d be surprised how much people will pay for a photograph with someone from the cast of Spacedrifters.”
Neal gave a polite smile. He had no idea what the going rate would be for such a thing. He asked Leon for the name of the hotel hosting the convention. It would be easy enough to check out his alibi.
“A few nights before you left for London, you and Mr Mitchell hosted a party here for a number of friends. How did that go?”
“It was a great night — good company, good wine. Only downside was Maxine Brand and her bloody awful singing. Whoever told that woman she’s got a good voice should be shot. Laurie, no doubt. The silly man’s besotted with her.”
“Did your partner enjoy the evening? Did he seem himself?”
“Yes. Gray always enjoyed our soirees. That night was no exception.”
“Were either of you aware of an argument — or a disagreement — between Angie Dent and Caitlin Forest?”
“No. You’ve heard about Angie fainting, haven’t you? Poor lass. She seemed really shaken. Caitlin took her home. She’s a talented girl, Caitlin. She did some work for us, the stained-glass window on the staircase, perhaps you noticed it? It casts a beautiful mosaic of coloured light across the hall on a summer’s day.”
“No. Not much sun to scatter the light at the moment, is there?”
“It’s a lovely feature. Have a look on your way out.”
Neal didn’t miss the hint, but he sat on. Warrior poured himself yet another scotch. Neal wondered if there was much point proceeding with the interview. Nevertheless, he asked a few more questions. Warrior’s answers threw up no surprises, no leads. His tone became increasingly maudlin.
“Do you drink a lot, Mr Warrior?”
“No. Hardly ever these days.”
“These days?”
“I was a bit too fond of the bottle once, Inspector, but this . . .” He held up his glass, miraculously full again, “This is just grief.”
Neal nodded. He had a brief memory of himself lying wasted on his bathroom floor after Myrna left him. Alcohol was always the first resort.
“What can you tell me about Mr Mitchell’s activities in the weeks leading up to his death?” Neal directed a sideways glance at Diana Lenton.
“I’ve been over all that with Mr Warrior, Inspector. I’ve got a list of places Mr Mitchell frequented, and his movements in the weeks before his death. I can email you my notes this afternoon,” she said.
Neal nodded. “We need to start building up a picture of who Mr Mitchell spent time with, and where, over the past few weeks. Every detail’s important. At this stage, practically anyone he’s been in contact with recently could be a suspect.” Another thought occurred to Neal, but he couldn’t think of any way to ask without causing offence.
“When you and Mr Mitchell decided to move to England, were you in any kind of trouble over there?”
“What the hell d’you mean by that? We’re the bloody victims here, lad. Nothing really changes, does it? Not so long ago you lot were throwing us in prison for expressing our love in public. Why the hell did I think Gray’s murder would be treated with any kind of seriousness by a bloody copper?”
Diana intervened. “Mr Warrior, I can assure you the inspector didn’t mean anything . . .”
“It’s alright,” Neal said. “Mr Warrior’s upset. He’s just lost a loved one. Mr Warrior, you’re right. Laws change but attitudes linger. I hope you’ll believe me when I say that I will attach no less importance to your partner’s murder than I would to any other murder investigation. That’s how it always should have been.”
* * *
Laurence Brand could not settle. The interview with the detectives had made him un
easy. He wasn’t sure why. For several minutes he wandered around the house, trying to decide whether to go out. He had been planning a trip to the county archives after the interview. Maxine had suggested he consider genealogy as a hobby for the winter months when business was slow. He found he was enjoying researching his family tree.
Assisted by a pile of self-help books with words like ‘Idiots’ or ‘Dummies’ in the title, Laurence was unravelling the mysteries of social media. He had ‘friended’ distant relatives on Facebook, who had faces that were sometimes astonishingly familiar. “Oh, my God!” Maxine had exclaimed on seeing a ruddy-faced woman with bushy eyebrows and a sneering countenance. “She’s the spitting image of your aunt Marge.”
Laurence had Norse blood, he was sure. The surname Brand was thought to have been introduced to England from Old Norse, but its origins were Germanic also. It had associations with words like ‘sword’ and ‘steel’ and ‘flash’ and ‘fire.’ Laurence pictured some hulking blond, bearded Viking ancestor, wielding a mighty sword as he burned and pillaged his way along the east coast of England. “Barbarians,” whispered Caius.
Laurence decided that he would never be able to concentrate with so much else on his mind. Perhaps he could wander along to the cathedral café and see if Maxine would take a break for a bit. More than anything, he wanted to see his wife. Just looking at Maxine had a calming influence on him. Laurence checked his watch. She might be able to spare him ten minutes.
Maxine was going to be interviewed today as well, Laurence knew. They had discussed their alibi the night before. It was unfortunate that Maxine had been at Helen’s. They spent most evenings at home together, reading, watching TV — a documentary or one of those baking shows that Maxine adored. Laurence found them depressing and stultifying. He watched them with her out of a sense of duty, and, he supposed, love. He couldn’t even think his own thoughts because Maxine was the kind of person who watched TV in an interactive way. Laurence had to concentrate so that he could respond to her comments. It pained him that Maxine was not as attentive whenever there was something on that he was watching. She always seemed to have something more pressing to do, or she simply informed him that the show didn’t interest her.