A Theatrical Murder

by David W Robinson

  It took a little tracking down. The movie database he used listed many productions of Oliver Twist, and it was only by guessing the production date and linking it to Malcolm Sedgwick that he finally found it. And when he did, he learned little, other than they were indeed all cast in the movie, and Michelle had been a wardrobe assistant.

  Switching off the computer, sitting back in the chair and staring out at the vile night, he wondered whether there was any significance to Oliver Twist, to the tragic accident so long ago in Newcastle. Reluctantly, he came to the same conclusion everyone else had. So unlikely there was no point considering it. Malcolm Sedgwick really had been murdered for his present day drug trafficking.

  Irritated at the conclusion, Joe was about to switch off when he recalled Sylvia’s video. Opening up the browser, he ran the recording, took it forward to the scene he wanted and watched it.

  Nothing… or at least, nothing he wasn’t expecting to see. Sedgwick and Nat went into their play-fight, Nat pulled the gun, pressed it to Sedgwick’s chest – an act that was unseen by the audience because Sedgwick was turned half way from them – and pulled the trigger. There was a crack as the percussion cap resounded around the auditorium, and Sedgwick, after jamming the knife in Laertes’ chest, fell. The look on Nat’s face turned slowly from anger to puzzlement to concern and then on some unseen signal, the curtain came down.

  The video player lacked any kind of enhancement capability. The recordings could be played or paused but nothing else. There was no slow-motion replay option. He was looking for an air gun pellet or dart travelling at several hundred feet per second, fired from the left, and no matter where it was fired from, it would take considerably less than a second to cross the screen.

  The best he could do was play and pause, play and pause, play and pause, and although he had a rough guide on when he should pause, it was still a hit and miss affair. He tried, tried, and tried again, and even moved to a different point of the recording, then came back to the big scene to ensure that the computer was indeed following his prompts, but still there was no sign of anything out of the ordinary.

  Zooming in served no purpose other than to blur the recording so much that it became a meaningless jumble of ill-defined coloured shapes.

  To Joe’s surprise a check on the computer clock told him he had been studying the video for almost an hour. Enough was enough. He shuffled the cursor to the power button, preparing to switch off, and as he did so, he saw it.

  No more than a tiny blob hitting the back of Sedgwick’s left leg. He zoomed in on it and confirmed that something appeared to be striking the actor. Zooming out again, he rewound, several seconds, paused the video, and slipped on the headphones from his mp3 player, and zoomed back in before letting the video play. As he suspected the blob appeared at precisely the moment Nat Billingham fired the stage pistol.

  Heart pounding, he knew this had to be the dart. He had no clue of the settings Sylvia had used on her phone. Knowing her, it was probably point and click. Joe, however, had an idea that his playback rate was 24 frames per second. The dart would travel at anything up to 600 feet per second, which meant 25 feet per frame. All up then, the dart might just appear on two frames, but if he lacked the software to trace it back to its point of origin, the police would have it.

  He dug into his laptop case, pulled out a memory stick, and transferred the video to it.

  With that, happy that at least Nichols and Hinch would be pleased to see him tomorrow, he packed away the netbook, slipped into bed, and was asleep in minutes.

  ***

  Dempster shivered and checked his watch again. Just after eleven o’clock. How much longer?

  Once you left the High Street and got over the steep ramp that led to the beach, Mablethorpe seafront was much like any other. A concrete path, decked with steps leading down to the beach, tracked off north and south. A large café and snack bar, closed for the winter and shrouded in darkness, stood at the top of the ramp, overlooking the sands, and following it to the south, was an intermittent line of shops and stalls and a long row of beach huts and chalets. Strong street lighting cast pools of illumination along the path, but thirty yards out, where the boiling sea lapped furiously at the sands, it was pitch dark.

  And no matter where he stood, looking back at the ramp, it was freezing cold.

  The telephone call during the interval had come as no surprise to him. Not after the visit of that private detective. If that Murray was half as smart as he considered himself, he would see through the lies, and if he didn’t, the filth soon would. Dempster was only thankful it was one of Sedgwick’s contacts who had rung.

  “I have a small package for you. Malcolm asked me last night to ensure you received it.”

  “The beach, before midnight. I’ll light a smoke so you’ll know it’s me.”

  At least, Dempster thought as he paced irritably along the sands, Sedgy had understood the code at the Jolly Fisherman on Friday. “I’d rent a dormitory on Ben Nevis before I’d publicise your farce.” Dormitory and Ben Nevis. Dorm and Ben. Ben and dorm, Benidorm. A hint from him that he needed to get out of the country fast, and he needed money. And Sedgy’s response on cash and coke ovens was a clever hint that he understood and the money would be sent.

  Naturally, Sedgwick wouldn’t come himself. Even if he were still alive, he couldn’t. A large part of their success was due to the very public, mutual dislike. Who would suspect them of being business partners? And it was important to maintain that fiction. They must never, never be seen together in public.

  A figure came over the ramp, paused a moment, looking in all directions. The wind gusted and blustered from the sea, carrying icy spray with it. Thoughts of the Mediterranean weather, the warm, inviting sands of Benidorm decided Dempster that he could not stand much more of England in general, Mablethorpe in particular. Was this stranger his contact, come to furnish him with the way back to the Costa Blanca? Or was it just another sad dog-walker? Only one way to find out.

  Dempster dug into the deep pockets of his quilted coat and dug out his lighter. He had no cigarette – it was too cold to roll one – but the flicker of the flame in his cupped hands would attract attention. And if it wasn’t Sedgy’s contact? If it really was another sad, stupid dog-walker? Well, life as a stand-up comic had taught Raif Dempster how to think on his feet.

  The ploy worked. The stranger fixed on the light, cast a glance around to ensure there was no one to see them, and began to make his way over, struggling against the deep, soft sand.

  As the stranger neared, puzzlement crossed Dempster’s features. He recognised the face, but it was not the one he had anticipated. “You? I was expecting—”

  “Does it matter as long as you get it?”

  “And you’ve got it have you? Or are you dragging the filth behind you?”

  A shrug was all that came back. “You see any cops? I don’t.” Now the fist bulged out one pocket of the quilted coat. It was accompanied by a downward nod of the head, directing Dempster’s attention to that pocket. “You don’t want this, fine, I’ll go back. Can’t put it back, though. The law have already found the merchandise and a lot more money, and they’ll want to know where this came from. So maybe I’ll just keep it myself. Sedgy won’t know the difference, will he?”

  Dempster coughed and spat at the sand. “All right, all right. I get the picture.” He held out a greedy hand. “Come on then? Give it to me.”

  It was almost like an invitation. Dull metal gleamed in the thin light from the street lamps. Dempster’s avarice turned first to alarm, and then to pure terror as the barrel came in his direction. There came a sibilant ‘phut’. Dempster almost smiled again, but the bite of a dart in his neck froze him. The night whirled around him, a darkness deeper than the waters of the nearby sea, overtook him and with the freezing spray spattering his surprised face, he fell to the sands.

  Chapter Eleven

  It was a brighter Joe who joined Sheila and Brenda for breakfast the follow
ing morning.

  He had thrown open the curtains on a seafront and beach still shrouded in darkness, reminding him that sunrise did not happen until almost half past eight. The weather had not abated, either. Rain, driven by fierce gales, lacerated the window panes and bathed the promenade in large pools, the water blown and rippled by the same winds which deposited it there.

  And yet, as he showered and shaved, a sense of good cheer ran through him. In a few hours, he would be on his way home to Sanford, where he would make ready to confront Denise Latham first thing in the morning – assuming she turned up first thing in the morning. And when he had seen her off and in the process, made certain the insurers would not trouble him again, he would find time to plan for the immediate future: his own as well as the café’s.

  After packing his single, small suitcase and ensuring he had the memory stick in the top pocket of his gilet, he made his way down to the dining room where he joined a sprightly looking Sheila enjoying a bowl of muesli, and a bedraggled Brenda who appeared worse for wear.

  Ordering a full English breakfast, he gazed unsympathetically on Brenda. “Hangover?”

  “No thanks. I’ve already got one.”

  Sheila giggled and Joe gave out a superior smile. “There’s always one who goes over the top on these dos,” he said.

  “You’re looking very chipper, Joe,” Sheila commented. “Have you solved the mystery of Hamlet’s murder?”

  “Nope. I’ve done as you suggested and put it out to grass. It’s not my problem. Having said that, mind, I have found a section of video the cops will be interested in, so I’m going over there after breakfast to hand it in. Don’t know that it will do any good, but they can work on it. I’m looking out for myself from now on.”

  “I don’t suppose that extends to helping us with our shopping,” Brenda sulked.

  Joe picked up his napkin and sat back while the waiter placed his breakfast before him. “Shopping?” he asked, picking up his knife and fork and tackling the bacon and egg with gusto. “I thought you’d be all shopped out by now.”

  “We’re professionals, Joe,” Sheila reminded him. “We shop until we drop and although Brenda’s a little worse for wear, she hasn’t actually collapsed yet.”

  “Well, you carry on. I’m gonna find me a warm seat in the bar here and read me book until the bus comes to take us home.”

  “As long as we know where to find you.” Sheila pushed her cereal bowl away. “Can I just confirm, Joe, you don’t mind if Brenda and I take a holiday together?”

  “Long as you give me enough notice so I can arrange cover,” he agreed, starting work on the Cumberland sausage. “Where are you thinking of going?”

  “We’re not sure, yet. Somewhere healthy.” Sheila looked pityingly on her best friend. “Somewhere alcohol free, I think.”

  Joe chuckled. “Well, don’t forget, I may need the time back if Maddy and me decide we need a week away.”

  “We never got a blow by blow account of her fiftieth in Majorca,” Brenda complained.

  “No, and I don’t think we’re going to get one now,” Sheila observed, nodding towards the entrance. “Sergeant Hinch is here, and I’m guessing she’s heading for you, Joe.”

  Joe glanced over his shoulder at the sergeant, wearing the same, pale grey outfit she had worn the previous day, which made her stand out from the diners as she weaved her way through the tables.

  Joe finished breakfast and pushed the plate away. “Morning, Sergeant. Want some tea?”

  “Not sure that I have time, Mr Murray.”

  “Always time for tea,” he said, signalling for a waiter and ordering a fresh cup and a pot for the policewoman. “I have something for you,” he reported eventually. “A video. I think it shows the pellet hitting Sedgwick in the leg.”

  “Good. Thanks. I’m sure the boss will find it helpful.”

  “And I think you should pull Dempster in. There was too much about his behaviour yesterday that needs accounting for. Other than that, we’re on our way—”

  “That’s why I’m here,” the sergeant said. “It’s going to be difficult to question Dempster.”

  Her tone alerted Joe. Pouring tea for her and himself, he raised his eyebrows inviting further explanation.

  “He was found dead on the beach at Mablethorpe late last night.”

  ***

  “Same method as Sedgwick,” Nichols said. “Dart from an airgun. In the neck, this time, not the leg, and it was obviously done from close up.”

  With the time just gone eight thirty, they were in the theatre manager’s office, which the inspector had once more commandeered as his HQ.

  “We got the dart, too and forensic have it. We figure whoever shot him, did so, and just legged it, probably because although they were totally alone, they were out in the open. If you remember, there were people everywhere when Sedgwick was killed.”

  “Making it easier to take the dart and hide the gun,” Joe nodded.

  “Whereas this time, the killer had no way of know who might be looking on.”

  “So where are you up to?” Joe asked. “You questioning the people at the Mablethorpe theatre, are you?”

  “We’re concentrating more on Skegness,” Nichols admitted. “But we do have a team working in Mablethorpe. Right now, I’m trying to round up the other Hamlet cast members so I can find out where they were last night.”

  “I can vouch for three of them,” Joe said. “Up until about half past nine, ten o’clock, anyway.”

  “Not late enough. We know that Dempster was still alive at ten. That’s roughly when he came off stage. If we give him, say, fifteen minutes to get the stage makeup off and get into his street duds, then, say, another ten minutes to make the beach, we’re talking half past ten to eleven o’clock at the earliest.”

  “And he was found when?”

  “Midnight,” Nichols said. “A woman walking her dog spotted him near the water line. Thought he was drunk and went over to tell him to move before the tide came in. Weather was rough last night. If he’d been left there, the sea would have had him. Anyway, this woman realised there was something wrong and put in an emergency call on her mobile. Paramedics were there in under a quarter of an hour and they realised he was dead and rang our boys five minutes later.” The inspector studied Joe more in hope than expectation. “I don’t suppose you learned anything?”

  “Very little,” Joe admitted, “And nothing that you guys probably didn’t know already.”

  “Yes, well, don’t take this the wrong way, but I never did think you’d get anywhere.”

  “You’re probably right, but I’m incapable of minding my own business, so I would have shoved my nose in whether or not. I will tell you, mind, that I think Sedgwick’s contact was Dempster.”

  “Yeah, we think so, too, but the NCA won’t have it. What makes you think it?”

  “His reaction yesterday after I spoke to him. He was like a scalded cat when he whipped round to that pub. Now suddenly he’s dead. I’m not saying he was the lynchpin you guys are looking for, but the odds are he was mixed up in it somewhere.”

  “And what about this alleged bad blood between ’em?” the inspector asked. “A mask?”

  Joe nodded. “I reckon so. All right, so they may not have been fond of each other, but to carry on a fight that seriously for forty years or more, and all over a woman who died in a car accident. It doesn’t sound likely.” He got to his feet. “Anyway, we’re on our way after lunch, so I’ll leave you to it. Get your Sergeant Hinch to bell me and let me know the outcome, will you?”

  “Sure. No prob…” Nichols trailed off as Sergeant Hinch came hurrying in. “Kirsty?”

  “Sorry, guv, but a coupla things. We had to break into the Andertons’ room at their digs. We found Edgar dead in bed. Coupla minutes later, we got a call from the sea front. Irma’s dead too. She’s sat up in one of the shelters, and what’s more she’s left us a note detailing everything. She’s our killer.”

  The two
men quickly overcame their surprise.

  “How did they die?” Joe asked before Nichols could ask.

  “Doc’s checking on it, but if Irma’s note is to be believed, she poisoned Edgar, and then swallowed the rest of it herself. Suicide.”

  Joe had his doubts. “I’d like to see that note.”

  Getting to his feet, Nichols assured Joe, “And you will. Soon as I’ve checked it all out.”

  ***

  A half hour later, at the rear of the auditorium, while the police questioned the cast again, and Sheila and Brenda watched over the proceedings, Joe took the printed pages, all safely secured in evidence bags, from Inspector Nichols and settled down to read them.

  There are those men who go through life corrupting everything which comes within their sphere of influence, and yet nothing seems to touch them. Malcolm Sedgwick was one such man. In the forty or more years since I first met him, he has contaminated everything from the works of our greatest playwright to the lives of young people all over Great Britain, and yet, he has enjoyed a long and affluent life and experienced nothing in the way of suffering other than that inflicted by his casual use of illegal drugs.

  He was not alone. Ralph Dempster, another man living the good life with no health issues other than self-inflicted alcohol dependency, played a significant part in the drug smuggling operation. Those summer months spent on the Costa Blanca provided adequate cover for arranging shipments to Great Britain.

  By contrast to this pair of greedy degenerates, there are those who seek to do only good in life, to nurture and care for others, to bring pleasure to others, and yet they are cursed; doomed to a slow and painful end, before their time. My darling Edgar is one such. His body deteriorates faster than it should, slowly being eaten away from the inside by this most terrible of diseases. He is sixty-seven by the calendar. He is long past his time by the state of his once-magnificent body.

  And so, at the outset of this tour, Edgar and I resolved to carry out one final act of charity before we shuffle off our mortal coil. We decided that if we could do little else with our last months, we would rid the world of this corruption which called itself Malcolm Sedgwick and Ralph Dempster.