Detectives Merry & Neal Books 1-3

by JANICE FROST

  “I think your husband has been fortunate that none of his victims pressed charges against him. Otherwise he would almost certainly have had a criminal record by now,” Neal said.

  Maxine stared miserably at the uneaten scone on her plate. “Laurie has . . . issues, but he’s not bad. Gray Mitchell was bipolar too, you know. I think that’s why they became such good friends. They understood each other.” She glared at Neal. “And they also understood prejudice, Inspector Neal.”

  Neal nodded soberly. He knew what she meant. The media was to blame for the general association of mental illness with violence. The truth was that people with these conditions were much more likely to harm themselves than the public.

  “I am sympathetic, Mrs Brand. I know that people with mental health conditions are often unfairly treated.”

  “I suppose you think you’re an expert because you’ve done a half day course on mental illness,” Maxine said. From behind the counter, Helen Alder glowered.

  “I don’t consider myself an expert at all,” Neal said. “I have had some training, yes, and yes, it was inadequate, but I also approach my work logically. I look at the facts. And the fact is that your husband has shown himself capable of violent behaviour.”

  Maxine Brand opened her mouth to protest, but Neal raised his hand. “That’s why he is of interest to us. Whether or not he committed a more serious crime . . .”

  “You mean did he kill poor Gray and Caitlin Forest?”

  There was a pause, and then Neal continued. “Do you think your husband suspects Leon Warrior might have murdered Gray Mitchell? Do you think that’s what this episode was all about? Not simply about Warrior having betrayed Gray by taking a lover?”

  “I . . . I don’t know. Maybe . . .” Maxine answered. “Yes, probably. Laurie’s been getting more and more uptight about it ever since Monday morning. He’d probably convinced himself of Leon’s guilt and let Caius take over.”

  “Caius?”

  Maxine sighed. “Caius Antonius. Laurie adopts the persona of a retired Roman centurion for his tours. Sometimes, especially if he’s stressed about something, Caius kind of . . . asserts himself.”

  “You mean your husband suffers delusions? He thinks he’s a Roman centurion?” Neal asked, exasperated. Why was he only learning this now?

  “Um . . . I suppose it could be interpreted that way. I prefer to think of Caius as an aspect of Laurie’s personality. And it’s not what you think.”

  “Tell me more about Caius,” said Neal.

  Maxine was clearly uncomfortable. “Well, Caius is sort of everything that Laurence isn’t. My husband is not a very confident person and Caius is brash and a bit arrogant. Where Laurie is placid and perhaps inclined to be self-deprecating, Caius has the heart of a warrior.”

  Neal thought it was becoming a little clearer why Maxine found her husband attractive. He satisfied her need to nurture and, as Caius Antonius, it was likely that he satisfied her other, more physical, needs.

  “Does your husband take his medication, Mrs Brand?”

  “Yes. Only sometimes — again when he’s unduly stressed — it needs to be reviewed to keep him . . . balanced. Please, Inspector, Caius can be naughty, but I know Laurie can keep him under control. He’d never let him kill anyone.”

  Naughty. Neal almost laughed out loud. Laurence Brand wasn’t the only one who was deluded.

  “Mrs Brand, were you aware that on the night she was killed, Marcus Collins asked your husband for advice about his break-up with Caitlin Forest?”

  Maxine’s hand covered her mouth. “No. Laurie didn’t tell me anything about that. I knew something was wrong because Marcus left before his lesson was over. Normally he stays and chats to Laurie for a while afterwards. They kept that quiet, didn’t they — Marcus and Caitlin, I mean. I had no idea.”

  “What was Marcus’s emotional state when he left?”

  “I didn’t see him. Surely you don’t suspect Marcus . . .”

  “Just gathering information, Mrs Brand. You’re part of a pretty tight-knit circle of friends, you and your husband. I understand that it’s hard for you to imagine that any one of them might be capable of murder. However, it would be unwise to withhold information that might help identify the killer, out of a sense of loyalty. Unwise — and dangerous.”

  He paused to allow Maxine time to digest what he had said. “You were at Leon and Gray’s soiree a couple of weeks ago weren’t you, Mrs Brand? Did you notice Caitlin Forest and Angie Dent engage in a heated argument in the course of that evening?”

  “No. I can’t say I did. You think they were quarrelling over Marcus, don’t you? You’ve really got it in for that boy!”

  Neal ignored the comment. “Thank you, Mrs Brand,” he said. “I hope your husband’s condition improves soon.” He tidied their plates onto the tray, gathering up the crumbs and brushing them onto a napkin. Then he followed Maxine to the counter where he handed the tray over to a hostile-looking Helen Alder. She snatched it from him with a curt, ‘thanks.’

  “Best scone I’ve had in ages.” He was rewarded by a tight-lipped nod.

  Outside the café, the weather was crisp and clear. There had been a slight thaw since the middle of the week but not enough to melt much of the snow. At least the Christmas market should go ahead as planned. Weather reports for the weekend predicted freezing temperatures but only a slight chance of more snow. Thankfully the ridiculous rumour about a serial killer on the loose had failed to gather momentum.

  The setting for the seasonal market, in Stromford’s historic Uphill district, was spectacular. Stalls selling crafts and food spilled out from the castle gates across the wide, cobbled esplanade and into the cathedral precinct.

  Neal tended to give the market a wide berth. He disliked crowds as well as the ugly commercialism that seemed to have crept in in recent years. Thieves and pickpockets kept the Stromford police working overtime over the three and a half days the market lasted.

  Thankfully the more commercialised area was confined to an area of parkland at the rear of the castle. It housed a children’s play area, a pretty walled public garden and a conservatory with exotic plants and fish, which Archie still enjoyed visiting. During the Christmas market, the park was also the site of a sprawling funfair. Neal remembered that he had promised to take Archie this year. Maggie had told him that she’d be going with some friends.

  When he reached the west side of the cathedral, Neal looked across at the spot where Gray Mitchell’s body had been found under the snow. The only private residences overlooking the area were a row of five Georgian townhouses. The residents had all been questioned. No one had seen or heard a thing on the night Mitchell died.

  What sort of noise did a body make hitting the ground at speed, cushioned only by freshly fallen snow? Would Gray Mitchell have had time to scream? Would he have been conscious as he made his terrifying descent? If so, how long had those final moments seemed to Mitchell?

  Neal tried to imagine his whole life encapsulated in a few fleeting seconds and thought of Archie, his sister, his parents. And Ava. Abruptly, Neal brought his mind back into focus. There had been people who mattered to Gray Mitchell too. Had one of them killed him?

  * * *

  Ava had had a busy morning. She had visited Brand and Warrior at the county hospital to show them the artist’s impression of the young man Mitchell had been seen with. She’d also followed up on her research into the circumstances surrounding Tara Smythe’s death.

  “No luck with the picture,” she told Neal. “Brand and Warrior couldn’t identify him — or they claimed they couldn’t. If they were lying, they were pretty convincing. Neither of them showed any sign of surprise or recognition.”

  “Pity,” Neal remarked. He rubbed his hands together. “Is there something wrong with the bloody heating in this place?”

  “Er, it’s just your room, sir. Cleaner noticed your radiator was leaking when she came in to empty the waste bin earlier, so it’s been turned off. S
omeone was supposed to be bringing one of those portable heaters in.”

  “Aye, that’ll be right.” Neal remembered the promised electric fan that never arrived back in the summer.

  “I hope your morning was fruitful, sir?”

  “It was okay.”

  Ava whistled softly when he told her about Brand’s alter ego, Caius.

  “Angie didn’t shed much light on anything. She was upset and jumped around a bit. She said she was scared she might be on the killer’s hit list. I did get the impression she had some kind of feelings about Caitlin’s relationship with Marcus, even though she denied it.”

  “I can’t get my head around why they had to make a secret of it,” Ava said. “I mean, two young people — why would they care if anyone knew?”

  “Because they worked together?”

  “Can’t see that being much of a problem — in their line of work, anyway. I mean neither of them was the other’s boss, were they?”

  There was a short, awkward silence.

  “Something to do with Angie, then? She said she and Caitlin were close, maybe Marcus — or Caitlin — thought she’d be jealous,” Neal suggested.

  “About Caitlin spending time with someone else, or because she had the hots for Marcus herself?” Ava mused.

  “Maybe you could look into that?”

  Ava nodded. “I’ve got a bit more info on Tara Smythe. D’you want to hear it now?”

  Neal nodded.

  “She was Ray Irons’ half-sister. She went to the same school as Irons and Leon Warrior. She and Warrior started seeing each other about six months before she died. He got her the part in Spacedrifters. Before that, she’d done a few low-key modelling jobs — catalogues mostly.”

  “Wonder what Ray Irons made of all that?”

  “Not hard to guess,” said Ava. “Anyway, Warrior and Tara went out for a celebratory drink after winding up the episode Tara appeared in. Both of them were completely wasted when they left the bar. Leon declared himself to be ‘rat-arsed’ according to the barman, who reported seeing Warrior tossing the keys to Smythe. The barman suggested they leave the keys with him, but Smythe insisted she was good to drive. She wasn’t even wearing a seatbelt, sir.”

  “Was Warrior?”

  “Yeah, that’s what saved him.”

  “What year was that?”

  “1982.”

  “Wearing a seatbelt wasn’t compulsory until 1983. Plenty of people didn’t even bother strapping their kids in, back then,” Neal said. “I expect Ray Irons blamed Warrior for his sister’s death.”

  “Well, duh! Sorry, sir, but it’s a bit of a no-brainer, don’t you think?”

  “He didn’t need a further reason to hate Warrior, did he? The fact that he suspected Warrior of being gay was reason enough.”

  “D’you think Warrior dated Tara to get back at Irons for the bullying?”

  “Possibly, or he may still have been questioning his sexuality.”

  “He would have been twenty-one by then. Is that likely?”

  “In those days? More so than now, probably.”

  “It might be worth speaking with Irons again. Wonder why he didn’t mention his sister before? I suppose he didn’t want to give us any more reason to believe he would kill Mitchell to get at Warrior. He must have known it would all come out, though.”

  “Warrior wasn’t in the next series of Spacedrifters, didn’t you say? Did you have time to follow up on the reason he was dropped from the series?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did,” Ava said, smugly. “I managed to track down one of the producers on the show and phoned him. He was very forthcoming, considering he couldn’t know if I was really from the police. Anyway, according to him Warrior was an alcoholic. He was becoming a liability. He showed up late on set, fluffed his lines and made a nuisance of himself with other members of the cast. The crash was the last straw. Warrior was very lucky that the whole thing wasn’t all over the press. It would be now. He was a minor celebrity and Tara Smythe was a nonentity, so he managed to stay out of the papers. He headed for the US within weeks of the hearing into the crash.”

  “He must have cleaned up his act in the States, given that he managed to work out there for so long.”

  “Should we bring Irons in for questioning, sir? He’s got motive and opportunity. He was at home alone the night Mitchell died.”

  Neal thought for a moment. “He’s kept his nose out of trouble for the past twenty years. He looked after his sick wife until she died. And, don’t forget it was Gray Mitchell who assaulted Irons, not the other way around.”

  “I suppose he’s got more going for him than not as far as the defence would be concerned.”

  Neal rubbed his hands together again. “See if you or PJ can locate someone who knew Tara Smythe well. A former school friend, whatever. Preferably someone who also knew Warrior and Irons. And good work this morning, Sergeant.”

  “It wasn’t all me,” Ava said generously. “PJ helped.”

  “Then tell her thanks,” Neal said, and picked up his phone. “Now, who do I contact about that bloody heater?”

  Chapter 16

  Marcus Collins stood outside the Brands’ house, hand poised to knock, when the door opened inwards. Maxine ushered him in.

  “I saw you from the upstairs window.”

  “How’s Laurence?” Marcus asked. He shook off his jacket and handed it to Maxine. He followed her down the hallway, past the study where he had his Latin lessons with Laurence. Past the familiar framed pictures of classical sites. Marcus had stood in front of each one of them while Laurence told him stories about the site. It made Marcus long to visit them one day. In fact, Laurence had suggested that he come along with them next summer.

  “He’s a bit woozy,” Maxine explained. “They’re adjusting his medication and it takes time to get it right. I’m just glad to have him home. Oh, Marcus, he could have landed himself in prison!”

  Marcus held her while she cried. “It’s okay, Maxine, everything’s going to be alright.” Marcus knew all the right words to use — he had seen plenty of movies. But the words were sincere. He was as fond of Laurence and Maxine as they were of him. They had no children of their own and seemed to regard him as a surrogate son. They had even suggested that he rent one of their spare rooms for a nominal amount. Marcus had turned the offer down because he was seeing Caitlin, and she had insisted on keeping their relationship secret. Marcus thought of Caitlin and wept too. He clung to Maxine, needing her just as much as she needed him.

  “I’m so sorry, Marcus,” said Maxine. “Here I am hogging all the comfort when you’ve lost your girlfriend.”

  “S’okay,” Marcus said. “We’d just split up. I sent Caitlin a horrible text message the night she was . . . the night she died and now the police think I . . . they think I . . .”

  “Shush,” Maxine said. “No one in their right mind would believe a thing like that. You wouldn’t hurt anyone.” She led Marcus into the kitchen and made him sit down while she poured them both a glass of brandy.

  “I don’t usually drink spirits,” Marcus said, uncertainly.

  “All the more reason to drink it now,” Maxine said. “It’ll calm your nerves.” She downed hers in a single swallow, indicating that Marcus should follow suit.

  “You know the police suspect Laurie too, don’t you? I know they’re just doing their job, but it’s ridiculous. They should listen to people who know their loved ones and stop wasting their time running around trying to invent stories about innocent people.”

  “I don’t understand how they could suspect Laurence. He’s the gentlest person I know.”

  Maxine reached across the table and took Marcus’s hand.

  “Bless you,” she said. Then she told him about Laurence’s past ‘episodes,’ including some that the police didn’t know about.

  “Wow,” Marcus said when she had finished. “I can’t imagine Laurence doing anything like that. And the whole Caius thing? I thought it was all
a bit of a laugh, not part of an illness.”

  “Well, I like to think of my husband as a bit eccentric rather than delusional. Reducing a person’s personality to a syndrome is demeaning, don’t you think? I’m also convinced that Laurie is actually stronger than Caius. He’d stop him going too far.”

  Marcus was feeling a bit overwhelmed, but he understood that Maxine needed someone to sound off to. Who better than another suspect?

  “I’m sorry for going on, Marcus. I’ve already had a heart to heart with Helen and she’s coming around this evening. She’s a good friend. I don’t know what I’d do without her.”

  As if on cue, the doorbell rang and Helen Alder’s voice boomed down the hallway. “Alright if I come in?”

  Before Maxine could answer, Helen burst into the kitchen. She stopped and raised a questioning eyebrow. Marcus and Maxine were still holding hands. The bottle of brandy sat on the table next to their empty glasses.

  “Come and join us,” Maxine said. “I’m starting a new society — friends of the unjustly accused.”

  “Maybe I should go and see Laurence now?” Marcus stood up.

  “Of course,” Maxine said, also getting to her feet — a little unsteadily. Evidently she had needed more than one glass of brandy to calm her nerves.

  “It’s okay,” Marcus said. “I can find my way.”

  “Second door on the left,” Maxine said. “Take a look at the one on the right as well. It’s the one we were offering to rent to you.”

  Marcus nodded and made his way upstairs. He tapped softly on the door to the Brands’ bedroom. There was no response. He pushed the door open a crack to peer inside.

  Marcus was expecting darkness, but the bedside lamp on Laurence’s side of the bed was on and tilted towards Laurence. It lit up his face, as well as the book that had slipped from his hand. “Laurence?” Marcus whispered. He wasn’t sure whether to wake his friend. He stood, taking in the high ceiling and wide bay and the mirrored wardrobes running along one whole wall. There were more pictures of classical scenes on the walls and a replica Greek vase overflowing with flowers on a dresser by the window. Perhaps it would be worth having a peek at the spare room, Marcus thought.