Murder at the Murder Mystery Weekend

by David W Robinson

  He killed the connection and handed the phone back to Joe.

  “They say we have to keep everyone in the dining room until they get here.”

  “Standard procedure,” Joe grunted as he led the way along the corridor to the lift. “There’s a lot about this that doesn’t make sense.”

  “There’s a lot about it that’s scary,” Denshaw muttered as they entered the lift.

  “You know a woman called Yvonne Naylor?” Joe asked pressing the button for the ground floor.

  “I know of her, certainly. She was a section manager in reservations for some years.”

  “She was general manager at the Palmer when we were there at Halloween. She was a lot tougher than you when we found a dead MP and his wife there.”

  “I’m responsible for how I behave, Mr Murray, not other people, and I find it difficult to believe that…” he trailed off and for a moment Joe thought he would burst into tears.

  “Yeah, yeah. All right.”

  They stepped out of the lift, Denshaw heading for reception, Joe moving back into the dining room where he found the place a sea of murmured conversation.

  “Listen up everyone. Can I have your attention please?” he called out.

  The noise shrank and silence fell.

  “We have a dead man in room 104. The police have been called and they’re on their way here as I speak. They’ve asked that we all stay here until they arrive.”

  The room became a sea of conversation again, and Joe had to raise his voice to be heard. “I would suggest that you all make a note of our movements between ten thirty last night and now. It’s the kind of thing that the police will want and it may just help them piece together what happened.”

  “At least you and I don’t have any trouble accounting for ourselves,” Melanie whispered to him.

  “Depends how long he’s been dead,” Joe said, and then grinned at her. “It’s all right. He looks like he was killed late last night.” He chewed his lip. “There’s some stuff that doesn’t make sense.”

  “The famous Joe Murray mind at work,” Melanie commented. “Do I get to see you solve the crime?”

  Joe shrugged. “The cops may or may not ask me to help. I’ll carry on shoving my oar in, whether they like it or not, and that starts right now.” He looked at the forlorn figure of Wendy Grimshaw. “But she’s in no state to talk. Not yet.” His eyes travelled beyond Sheila, Brenda and Wendy, settling on Robbie Kendrew. “And there’s a boy who has some explaining to do.”

  Billy Norman left the cast’s table and confronted Joe. “Can we not even step outside for a smoke?”

  “Not up to me to stop you, Billy, and I could do with a fix, myself. It just complicates matters when the cops get here.” Joe pondered the matter. “I suppose if we go outside together, we can vouch for each other. Come on.”

  After informing Sheila and Brenda, he accompanied Billy from the dining room, through the lobby and out into the murky morning, where Billy offered a cigarette. Joe shook his head and took a little time rolling one.

  “Bit of a bummer, this,” Billy commented as he lit up.

  Joe noticed that the actor’s hands shook as he fumbled with the lighter. He was relieved to find that his own nerves were quite steady.

  “I don’t suppose Reggie Grimshaw is having much of a ball, either.”

  “What? Oh. Sorry. Yes, I see what you mean.” Billy blew out a large cloud of smoke. “I suppose it’s the end of the Murder Mystery Weekend.”

  “Not necessarily. We have a large number of people here in the hotel, and the police are likely to restrict our movements. Best way to do that is to keep them entertained.” Joe nodded at the road and the flash of blue lights making their way through the early Saturday traffic. “Cops are here now. Listen, Billy, let me ask you where you were last night, and whether anyone can vouch for you.”

  “Well, I was here, with you, smoking until I went back to the bar. I had a last drink. That takes me to maybe a quarter past midnight, and then I went back to our room. Gerry and his girlfriend were both still at it when I got there, so I spent the night in the prop room next door.” He smiled thinly. “I went back to our room first thing, and they were still sleeping it off. He’s a randy old sod, that Gerry.”

  Joe filed the information in his mind. “Reggie was still alive when I joined Melanie,” Joe said. “I heard him playing hell with someone. Robbie Kendrew, I think. That was about midnight-ish.”

  Two patrol cars and an unmarked saloon swept into the drive and came to a crunching halt on the gravel. Uniformed officers climbed out and began to put on forensic overalls. A young, blonde-haired woman got out of the saloon, and drew her winter coat closer about herself as she hurried to the entrance.

  “You the detective in charge?” Joe asked as she made to pass him.

  “I’m Detective Sergeant Idleman,” she announced. “Who are you?”

  “Joe Murray. I called you.”

  Puzzlement struck across her young features. “You work here?”

  “No. I’m a guest. The manager wasn’t feeling too well when we checked the body.”

  There was no mistaking the contempt in the detective’s pretty face. “Whereas you’re made of sterner stuff?”

  “I’ve been through this before,” Joe assured her.

  “You’re a police officer?”

  Her attitude got to him. “No, I’m not and I never have been, but I will tell you this, lady. I’ll get to the answer before you.” Joe took a deep drag on his cigarette. “The dead man is called Reggie Grimshaw, and he’s in room 104. Cliff Denshaw, the manager, will give you the key. You’ll find him on reception. That’s the large flat thing on your left as you go in. Looks like a shop counter.”

  With a final curl of her lip, Detective Sergeant Idleman carried on into the hotel, while Joe and Billy watched the uniformed officers gathering their equipment alongside the vehicles.

  “You’re taking a risk aren’t you, Joe?” Billy asked. “Chewing her out like that?”

  “She was the one taking the risk… with my temper on a chilly Saturday morning.” Joe sucked on his cigarette, realised it had gone out, and relit it. Dropping his Zippo lighter back into the pockets of his gilet, he went on, “Listen, Billy, you can give Gerry and his girlfriend an alibi, but can they give you one?”

  “Shouldn’t think so. I didn’t go into our room last night. They were, er, at it. You know. And they were both spark out when I went in this morning.”

  “Why did you go in?”

  Billy ran a hand under his chin. “Shower and shave. I had to wake Gerry up. He can sleep for England when he’s had a few snifters and his legover, can our Gerry. We were down for an early breakfast. But you know that, don’t you? You saw us.”

  “And the girlfriend?” Joe asked.

  “What about her?”

  “Who was she?”

  When Billy did not answer, Joe pressed him.

  “Come on. The cops will ask you the same question.”

  “Sorry, Joe, no can do.”

  “She wasn’t a regular girlfriend, or you’d have no problem telling me.”

  “No,” Billy admitted. “I’m practically sure Gerry doesn’t have a regular girlfriend.”

  “So who was she?”

  Billy checked his shoes, pulled out another cigarette and lit it, then checked his shoes again, before looking out into the mist as if he were seeking the spires of Lincoln cathedral.

  “Come on, Billy. The police will want to know.”

  “It’s not really my place to say, Joe. It’s up to Gerry to volunteer the information.”

  “It’s up to you to help the cops as much as you can,” Joe insisted. “Now who was she?”

  Billy took another drag on his cigarette, blew out the smoke, then filled his lungs with damp air. When he finally spoke, it was with an air of enforced resignation.

  “Wendy Grimshaw.”

  ***

  Arriving back in the dining room where Gerry Carlin
kept the audience entertained with a stand up routine of monologues and one-liners, Joe found Wendy sat between Sheila and Brenda, her eyes unfocussed, staring into space.

  “No joy?” he asked.

  Sheila shook her head. “She’s in shock. Was it bad?”

  “Murder is never pleasant, is it?” Joe clucked irritably. “I need to speak to her, too.” He glanced at Gerry raising thin laughter amongst the crowd. “Either her or him.”

  Something about his words or the way he spoke them seemed to telegraph the situation to Brenda. “They were together last night?”

  Joe nodded. “That’s one of the things I found odd. I heard Grimshaw tearing a strip off young Kendrew – I think – at midnight. It didn’t occur to me at the time, but would he have permitted such an argument if his wife was there? Well, maybe, given that he had a big mouth. But, if he was shot during the night, how come she didn’t wake up and raise the alarm then? It’s not the kind of thing you’d sleep through, is it? Just now, Billy told me she spent the night with Carlin, in the room he shared with Billy.”

  Brenda tutted. “Bit brazen with another man in the room.”

  “Billy was next door in the prop room.” Joe replied and went on to explain the arrangement as Billy had described it to him.

  “According to Billy, they were still out for the count this morning.”

  Sheila clutched Wendy’s hand tightly. “Poor woman. And then to go back to the room this morning and find…” she trailed off, not wanting to put it into words. “What’s the situation now, Joe?”

  “Police have just arrived. Officious looking woman. A detective sergeant. I thought they always put an inspector on a job like this.”

  “She’ll be the advanced guard,” Sheila said. “Get the job going. The inspector will probably be along shortly.”

  “What are our chances of getting out today?” Brenda asked.

  “They’ll need statements, I should imagine,” Sheila replied. “It depends how long that takes.”

  Melanie crept across the floor and crouched at Joe’s side. “May I ask, will the police let us carry on?”

  “Billy asked me that,” Joe told her, “and I see no reason why not. But these people are going to be held in this room for a few hours. It may be an idea to bring your schedule forward.”

  Her brow creased. “To do that, I need to make some, er, exterior arrangements. Do you think they’ll let us out into the grounds?”

  He shook his head. “I doubt it. At least, not yet. Not until they’ve searched the area.”

  The door opened and a large, square-shouldered man stepped in.

  He had a brief word with Gerry, who stopped his impromptu floor show and backed off, then the big man faced the room.

  Somewhere in his forties, his straw hair combed neatly into place, his suit bagged on him as if he had recently lost weight. His fierce eyes stared under near-invisible brows and when he spoke, his voice carried the stentorian bellow of the parade ground.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please.” He waited for quiet. “I am Detective Chief Inspector Philip Grant. As you are aware, we have a suspicious death on our hands, and anyone of you may be a material witness. For that reason, I need statements from you all. I have a team of officers to do the job, and they’ll get through it as quickly as they can. For the moment, however, I need you all to stay on the ground floor, in this vicinity. If you need to smoke or you need to visit the toilets, check with my officers first but please, do not return to your rooms.”

  Towards the back of the room, Les Tanner stood. “Excuse me, Chief Inspector, but my good lady, here, is diabetic. What do we do if she needs her medication?”

  “Under those circumstances, sir, obviously you would be permitted to go to the room, but you would have to be accompanied by one of my officers.”

  “Chief Inspector,” Melanie called out. When she had his attention, she went on, “I’m Melanie Markham, the director of this weekend’s entertainment, and I need to speak with you fairly urgently on where we go from here.” She waved regally at the room. “These people have paid a lot of money…”

  “If you’ll forgive me, madam, I have more important matters to attend to right now, but once I have things organised, I’ll speak to you. Give me, say, half an hour.”

  Melanie nodded.

  “I’d like to speak to Mr Joe Murray, please,” Grant said.

  Joe stood up. “I’m Joe Murray.”

  “Would you come with me, sir?”

  For all the civility of his tone, there was no doubt that the request was an instruction, and Grant’s use of the word ‘sir’ in no way indicated any subservience to Joe.

  Grant led Joe next door to the Scampton Room, where uniformed officers were already arranging seating for interviews and stacking statement forms on the tables. Detective Sergeant Idleman was seated to the right, just inside the door. Grant took a seat next to her, and invited Joe to take the chair opposite them.

  “It’s not often we get a lucky break on this kind of crime,” Grant said, “but when I heard your name, I almost called in at my local church to offer a prayer of thanksgiving.”

  Perplexed, wondering whether he was being complimented or accused, Joe shrugged.

  “You reputation precedes you, Mr Murray, or may I call you Joe?”

  “Please do,” Joe invited.

  “My name’s Phil. You’ve already met Detective Sergeant Idleman, I believe.”

  Joe scowled. “We exchanged pleasantries at the main entrance.”

  “Good,” said Grant, but the look on Idleman’s face indicated that she thought it was anything but good. “You’re well known to the police in Yorkshire and Lincolnshire, Joe, and Frank Hoad, in Chester, spoke very highly of you. I’m aware that not much gets by you. I have to say, I welcome your thoughts, your observations, but please bear in mind this is a police matter.”

  “Obviously,” Joe agreed.

  “Sergeant Idleman has already spoken to Mr Denshaw, the duty manager, and he tells us that you and he were first on the scene. Can you give us your account of how that came about?”

  Over a cup of tea, Joe gave them a detailed résumé of what had happened, pausing occasionally to answer Sergeant Idleman’s questions as she sought to clarify one matter or another. When he had finished, Grant studied his sergeant’s notes.

  “So it was Mrs Grimshaw who found the body and raised the alarm.”

  “Yes,” Joe agreed, “but you won’t get much out of her. She’s with my friends in the dining room and she’s totally out of it.” He toyed with his teacup. “Look, Phil, I don’t wanna lead your investigation, but there are some things you really need to know.”

  “Go on?” the chief inspector invited.

  “First, I know that Reggie was alive at midnight. I passed his room about then, and I heard him arguing with someone.”

  “Someone? You don’t know who?”

  As he answered, Joe noted that Sergeant Idleman was consulting a list printed on several sheets, all stapled together.

  “No. The door was open. I only heard Reggie’s voice”

  “And you’re sure it was him?” Grant asked.

  The sergeant now ran her finger along one line of the list, then flipped back several pages.

  “I’d recognise that voice anywhere,” Joe replied. “I only met the guy yesterday, but there was no mistaking him. Brash, noisy. You know.”

  “Mr Murray,” Sergeant Idleman interjected, holding up her stapled documents. “This is a list of the guests and their room numbers. You are in room 404. May I ask what you were doing wandering past room 104 at midnight?”

  “I had a business meeting with Ms Markham, the lady who runs Markham Murder Mysteries.”

  “A business meeting? With a woman? At midnight? On a Friday?” Idleman’s staccato series of questions spelled out her increasing disbelief.

  “That’s correct. As far as I’m aware, it’s not illegal and we are both over twenty-one.” Having made his po
sition clear, Joe turned his attention back to Grant. “So I know Grimshaw was still alive just after midnight. But just before I joined Ms Markham, I was having a smoke at the main entrance with Billy Norman, one of the actors. He told me his roommate, Gerry Carlin, the clown who was putting on the improvised show when you came in the dining room, had scored and was with the woman in their room. That woman was Wendy Grimshaw.”

  Idleman’s lip curled. “Scored?”

  Joe shrugged. “Scored, trapped off, got his legover, fixed up an assignation. I don’t care how you write it down, as long as you know what I mean.”

  Again he concentrated on the senior officer who appeared to find the exchanges between Joe and Idleman amusing.

  “Billy also told me, just before you people arrived, that Gerry and Wendy were still snoring their heads off when he went back to their room at seven this morning for a shower and shave.”

  “So Mrs Grimshaw spent the whole night there,” Grant murmured. “That explains why she didn’t raise the alarm until this morning. You seem pretty sure of the times, Joe.”

  “To within five minutes, yes,” Joe said, and went on to explain how Sheila had been taken ill the night before and how he had emerged from Melanie’s room and met Gerry and Billy as they left theirs earlier in the morning. “So, you see, I can be reasonably confident of the times.”

  Grant considered the information for several moments, during which the first of the guests were brought in to give statements. Amongst the first dozen, Joe noticed Alec and Julia Staines, Les Tanner and Sylvia Goodson, and he would bet a week’s takings that Tanner had badgered the police into bringing them in early. He could imagine the captain playing on Sylvia’s diabetes and lactose intolerance. To Joe’s way of thinking, both Sylvia’s problems were more psychosomatic than physical, but even he had made use of them in the past.

  “The doctor hasn’t given us a time of death, yet,” Grant said, “but we can assume, then, that it was sometime between, let’s say, half past midnight and nine this morning, which was several minutes before Mrs Grimshaw arrived in the dining room. It also explains why the right side of the bed was undisturbed. Grimshaw had slept alone all night.”