Just Murdered

by Katherine Kovacic

  ‘Don’t interrupt!’ bellowed Sparrow. He stood, breathing heavily.

  In the sudden silence, Detective Steed opened his mouth to speak, but Sparrow silenced him with the jab of a finger.

  ‘I got a call telling me you’d brought Terence Blair in for questioning.’ Inspector Sparrow’s voice was quiet, his words uttered through clenched teeth. ‘Please tell me, Detective, that I have been misinformed.’

  Steed swallowed and moistened his lips, but remained silent.

  The inspector’s mouth twisted into a smile, but his eyes were like flint. ‘Well, Detective? Have I been misinformed?’

  ‘New evidence came to light based on a revised time of death for Barbie Jones,’ Steed said, with as much authority as he could muster.

  Inspector Sparrow frowned and looked away, catching sight of Constable Connor, who quickly put her head down and snatched up the nearest piece of paper.

  ‘I’m at a bit of a loss here, Detective. A revised time of death? Would you care to enlighten me on one or two points?’ Inspector Sparrow held both hands in front of his chest, tapping his fingertips together.

  Silence grew around the two men until Steed cleared his throat.

  ‘Sir,’ he rasped.

  ‘Who revised the time of death?’

  ‘An independent consultant who reviewed the pathologist’s report,’ Steed said confidently.

  ‘The report, yes, the report. And who authorised this independent consultant to look at a police file? Because—and correct me if I’m wrong—those things are, what’s the word … Constable!’ The Inspector barked the final word, making Steed jump.

  ‘Yes, sir?’ Constable Connor replied, without moving from her place near the far wall.

  ‘You do all the filing. Can you remind Detective Steed what we call police files? There’s a special word that means we don’t share them around.’

  ‘Classified, sir,’ said Connor.

  Inspector Sparrow snapped his fingers. ‘That’s it! They’re bloody classified! So why are we sharing them with every Tom, Dick and Harry, Detective?’

  Steed stared at his boss.

  ‘Request from the Coroner’s Office, sir.’ Constable Connor took a couple of steps towards the men. ‘Some problem with their system so they were conducting a review of all cases.’

  Steed looked at her and flashed a silent thank you, but the inspector scowled, his gaze flicking between detective and junior officer. Finally it settled on James Steed.

  ‘I suppose you should fill me in then, Steed.’ He folded his arms. ‘And it had better be good.’

  ‘The evidence shows Barbie Jones actually died much earlier that we’d first thought—probably about twelve hours earlier. Naturally that meant we needed to review alibis.’

  ‘Oh, naturally,’ said Sparrow. ‘Go on.’

  Steed stood ramrod straight as he told the inspector everything—or, rather, a version of events that included all the information uncovered to date, while avoiding any reference to Peregrine Fisher or the Adventuresses’ Club. Throughout Steed’s monologue, Inspector Sparrow nodded politely, his eyes never leaving the detective’s face. When Steed finally finished speaking, the inspector placed a thoughtful index finger on his chin, resting his elbow in the palm of his other hand.

  ‘That’s very impressive, Detective. But I notice you failed to mention why Mr Terence Blair has been brought into the station like a common hoodlum.’

  ‘Hardly like a—’ Steed began, then changed course when he saw the look on his boss’s face. ‘He was conducting an affair with Miss Jones. The night of her murder coincided with one of their weekly assignations.’

  ‘And yet you tell me he was dining with the mayor that night. The mayor.’

  ‘Which we’ve only just found out since—’

  ‘Do you know how important Terence Blair is?’

  ‘Now we have that information there are just a few loose ends to—’

  ‘Do you know the trouble you’ve caused?’

  ‘I was just on my way out to gather some remaining evidence, and then I’m sure—’

  ‘Listen, Detective,’ Inspector Sparrow began.

  He was interrupted by the sound of someone hammering on his office door.

  ‘Sparrow!’ Terence Blair roared and hammered again. ‘I want a word with you!’

  The inspector’s jaw dropped and he stared at Steed. ‘Don’t bloody tell me you’ve got Blair locked in there!’

  As Inspector Sparrow strode across the detectives’ room, Steed snatched up his hat and made for the door. He was halfway into the hall when Sparrow noticed his retreating figure.

  ‘Steed! Where do you think you’re going? Steed!’ Inspector Sparrow took a step towards him, but then Terence Blair pounded on the office door again. With a growl the inspector turned back to his office. Steed would have to wait.

  As Sparrow was fumbling with the lock, Constable Connor edged her way cautiously across the wall until she too was able to bolt down the hallway. Steed was just backing out of the car park when she charged through the door of the police station.

  ‘Sir!’ she called.

  Steed rolled down his window.

  ‘I thought perhaps you could use a female PC. You know, in case anyone needs their hand held.’

  Steed rolled his eyes. ‘Get in.’

  Constable Connor didn’t need a second invitation. She jumped into the passenger seat and just managed to get the door closed as Steed accelerated out into the street.

  Peregrine burst out of the stairwell on the ground level, then hesitated for a moment, unsure whether to head for the front of the store and hope to get out that way or try her chances escaping through the rear exit. The problem with the back door was, not only would Colin Blair expect her to go that way but if the security guard was there she’d really be sunk. Peregrine knew there was no way she could convince a Blair’s employee she was under threat from the boss’s son and, if Colin turned up, he’d easily be able to talk the guard into believing it was she who was the problem. Behind her, she heard the sound of footsteps pounding downwards at a rapid pace, the noise echoing through the stairwell. Peregrine closed the door then ran towards the shop floor.

  It was quite dark here. Displays and counters loomed, indistinct shapes in the faint glow spilling through the windows from the street. At least it was enough to show Peregrine which direction to take. Suddenly she found herself at the back of the huge 1964! display, right next to an array of camping equipment. A large torch had been placed close to a sleeping bag, the silver of its tube gleaming in the dim light. Peregrine scooped it up, surprised by the weight of it in her hand; someone must have actually put batteries in it, presumably so customers could see how powerful it was. She hefted it. It wasn’t very long, but if Colin Blair got too close, it would do a bit of damage. Peregrine hurried further into the display, through a mock lounge room, past a selection of record players and into a crowd of mannequins dressed in the latest fashions. Some were in business suits, some attired demurely to appeal to older customers wanting something for a garden party or day at the races, but most were dressed in styles designed for young men and women, from higher hemlines and bright colours to Italian knits, bold patterns and Beatles-inspired collars.

  Peregrine pulled up short with a gasp. Audrey was directly in front of her, now with a new arm, but still wearing the lime green mini—exactly the same dress as the one she’d last seen in the storage room. Exactly the same as the one Barbie Jones’s landlady had described. A blonde wig styled in a bubble flip covered the mannequin’s head but Peregrine, with a quick glance behind her, ripped it away, swapping it for the orange pixie-cut version she’d carried from the office. Yes. From a distance the mannequin could definitely pass as Barbie Jones.

  ‘Miss Foster?’ Colin Blair called from the darkness. ‘Where are you?’ His tone rose and fell, an eerie singsong that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. Peregrine suddenly remembered something: her aunt’s gun. Thank God she’d
kept her promise to Birdie! But as she pulled it out the gun caught on the edge of her pocket, dropping from her hand and skittering away, the sound echoing through the vast, empty store. There was a faint squeak in the darkness behind her and to the left—the leather soles of Colin’s handmade shoes on the polished floor as he turned towards her. Peregrine had to move. Now.

  Cursing silently, she abandoned the gun and crept in the opposite direction, ending up in a sportswear display. On one side of her stood a dummy on waterskis, her arms outstretched to grip a thick wooden handle connected to nothing, and on the other a male figure in tennis whites, looking for all the world like Randy the squash pro. At the sight of it, Peregrine had to stifle a giggle as nerves almost got the better of her. She gave herself a mental shake and kept moving. Another footstep, much closer this time, sent Peregrine ducking behind a surfboard, held upright by a male dummy in Bermuda shorts and a Hawaiian shirt.

  ‘Is that you, Miss Foster?’

  There was a sudden pounding of feet, followed by a loud crash. Peregrine, her back pressed to the board, eased her head around the edge. In the dim light she could see Colin struggling to his feet, a mannequin clad in a black-and-white dress lying on the floor. He’d crash-tackled a dummy.

  Peregrine didn’t know how long she could keep playing this cat and mouse game, so she decided to go on the offensive. Colin was still in her sight line and she watched as he ran a hand across his temple, smoothing down his hair, then stooped and reached into the shadows. When he straightened up, Peregrine could see he was holding a cricket bat. Colin began to turn a slow circle, the bat swinging in his hand.

  ‘I know you’re in here, Miss Foster!’ Colin yelled, his voice raw with sudden fury. ‘I will find you! The longer this takes, the worse it’s going to be!’

  Peregrine pulled Penny Foster’s spectacles from her pocket as she watched Colin Blair, gripping them tightly as he continued to turn, waiting until he was looking the other way.

  ‘You’re very devoted to your mother, Colin,’ she called softly, instantly pulling her head back behind the surfboard. At the same time, she threw the glasses away to her right as hard as she could. They clattered loudly as they hit the terrazzo.

  Peregrine heard Colin rush towards the sound and she went in the opposite direction, moving as quickly and quietly as she could. Among a group of mannequins dressed for an after-five soiree, she found a free-standing cocktail bar, complete with an ice bucket, cocktail shaker and an array of different glasses. Peregrine took refuge behind its padded green front.

  Straining her ears, she tried to pinpoint Colin’s location. It sounded like he was still heading away from her. After listening for a few moments, Peregrine decided he was far enough away that she could call out again without revealing her exact position.

  ‘Do you think your father was neglecting his wife?’ she asked, trying to project her voice without raising the volume.

  For a second the vast room seemed to hold its breath.

  ‘Neglecting? Neglecting?’ Colin’s voice was shrill. ‘He was cheating on her! Cheating on my mother! He was humiliating her.’

  It didn’t sound as though he was moving as he talked, so Peregrine took another chance.

  ‘You had to act.’

  ‘I followed him. Watched him swap with Knox—his Rolls for the van—and followed him to that tawdry little apartment. And then I saw him with that—that gold-digging slut Barbie Jones.’

  Peregrine stayed crouched behind the bar.

  ‘I kept an eye on her—on both of them—here and outside her apartment.’

  Colin’s voice seemed to be getting closer, which meant Peregrine needed to move again. Still crouching, she reached for the top of the bar and grabbed the first thing that came to hand. It was the cocktail shaker.

  ‘Then I found out Barbie was pregnant.’ Colin sounded calmer now, but it was an eerie calm, filled with menace. ‘She was pregnant and she expected my father to abandon his wife. For her! A harlot and her bastard! I couldn’t take that chance. It would have broken Mother.’

  ‘How did you lure Barbie to the store that night?’ Peregrine asked, then lobbed the cocktail shaker high and to her right. She was careful not to throw it too far: now that Colin had a vague idea of the direction she had taken, the noise had to come from somewhere fairly close by.

  It must have landed in one of the display vignettes—perhaps the mock lounge room?—because instead of glass shattering on a hard floor, the cocktail shaker hit with a dull thud.

  ‘Barbie Jones was easy in every sense of the word.’ Colin sounded as though he was still nearby, but his voice was slightly indistinct. Peregrine hoped that meant he was looking towards the cocktail shaker’s resting place as she crawled swiftly away, the torch clamped awkwardly between her teeth.

  ‘I told her that Father wanted to see her backstage where all the wedding dresses were being kept; I said he had something to ask her. The stupid slut got all excited. She was sure he was going to propose. I just sat back and waited for her to turn up.’ His voice had become a little fainter as he talked.

  Peregrine found herself among an arrangement of suitcases and mannequins dressed to embark on a world tour. There wasn’t much cover, so she made herself as small as possible behind an artistically stacked set of matching luggage.

  ‘Did you like the wedding cake?’ Colin called out suddenly. ‘I had to make sure Father got the message about his dear intended. I’d always planned to dress the bitch in white, so that everyone could enjoy the irony, but putting her on the cake was a last-minute stroke of inspiration. I thought it made quite the impact.’

  There was a crash, followed by a second or two of silence.

  ‘I thought that was you, Miss Foster! Never mind. There’s nowhere for you to go. Just like poor Miss Jones. I should have known when Harvey White threw her out that she’d be trouble. But she tricked me with her crocodile tears. Still, I tricked her! And that old landlady turned out to be very useful. Their signal gave me a brilliant idea, a way to make it look as though Barbie was alive hours after I killed her. I knew Father was dining with the mayor, so I sent a note to that simpleton, Knox, telling him to leave the van and make his own way home. Offered him a bonus. Then all I had to do was put Barbie’s dress on the dummy, pose it in the window, flick the lights and bingo! Barbie’s home! I did have to give mother an extra pill—I was sure she wouldn’t mind, given the situation—and then I spent the morning of the fashion parade surrounded by police officers. I was rather proud of how I created the perfect alibi.’

  ‘No kidding,’ Peregrine muttered, then clamped a hand over her mouth. She risked a peek around the edge of the luggage pile. In the dull light emanating from outside the store she could see Colin only as a shadowy outline, although the pallor of the cricket bat, still in his grasp, was easier to see. He was moving slowly in her direction, pausing every few steps to peer at the displays, look behind objects and, once, prod one of the dummies.

  Peregrine had to end this. Her hidden circuit of the 1964! exhibit had brought her back in the direction of the mannequin in the green dress and Barbie Jones wig, but she needed to get closer. She needed to find her aunt’s gun. Colin had fallen for the noise distraction twice; he was unlikely to be so stupid a third time.

  Double bluff, she thought.

  The topmost piece on the luggage pile was a vanity case, which Peregrine carefully lifted from its place. Holding it about a foot above the floor, she chanced another look in Colin’s direction. He was currently poking the cricket bat at something, but definitely getting nearer.

  ‘Why did you kill Florence?’ Peregrine spoke without turning, then let go of the vanity case. It hit the astroturf base of the display with a soft but clearly audible whump.

  She heard Colin take several rapid steps in her direction then stop. Silence. Peregrine held her breath.

  ‘Miss Astor …’ Colin’s voice was so loud it sounded like he was standing directly in front of the luggage display. ‘Unfortu
nately, she saw me returning the mannequin to the storeroom. I’d left the dress and wig on it. I made some light remark to try to pass it off, but Miss Astor said’—he switched into a whiny falsetto—‘That dress is a one-off I made for Barbie! What are you doing with it?’ Colin continued in his normal tone, ‘And then her face changed. She clearly realised there was only one way I’d have Barbie’s precious dress, so …’

  There was a strange slapping sound. It took Peregrine a moment to realise Colin must be smacking the cricket bat into the palm of his opposite hand.

  ‘Oh, Miss Foster, do you really think … ?’ Colin’s voice began to recede and Peregrine slowly exhaled. It had worked. Colin thought she’d thrown something from another location.

  ‘Obviously I couldn’t have her ruining my plans. I pulled an arm from the mannequin and …’ The slapping sound started up again and Peregrine had to bite her lip as she thought of Florence’s last minutes.

  Cautiously she eased herself into a crouch and peered over the top of the suitcases. Colin was still moving away, making a thorough search as he went. She had to get in position now. There was no chance she could fool him again. Peregrine watched as he took a wary step into one of the display areas. Bent almost double, she crept closer to the Barbie Jones mannequin, keeping to the deepest shadows. Colin was still talking, his voice smug and satisfied, clearly delighted with the way he had managed everything. His callousness filled Peregrine with anger, but at least his torrent of words covered any sound of her movement.

  ‘I knew the police already suspected her—Father had told me as much, and he presumably heard it from one of his well-connected cronies—so I thought a tragic guilt-ridden suicide would fit the bill nicely. The elevators are parked in the basement level every night. All I had to do was roll her onto some packing plastic to keep things tidy, drag it into the elevator and up we went to the third floor, where I wedged the door open, pulled her out and sent the car back down. I’m sure you know the rest.’

  Peregrine had made it to within a few feet of the mannequin, but there was no sign of the gun. She tucked herself into a small gathering of store dummies staged in a garden tableau; it didn’t give her much cover, but hopefully her plan would work. It had to work. She took a deep breath and lined up the torch, pointing it towards the plastic-and-plaster version of Barbie Jones, thumb ready on the switch.