“What’s wrong with the manager? Denshaw?”
“No bottle,” Joe reported as Melanie arrived at his side. “You and I are made of sterner stuff, and Brenda is still suffering from last night’s booze, but I need a witness to confirm I don’t touch anything I shouldn’t.”
“I’ll come with you if you wish,” Melanie said.
Joe eyed her. “Are you sure you can cope with it?”
“I won’t throw up or faint at the sight of a body if that’s what you mean.”
Joe agreed and led the way back out where Denshaw was waiting by the lifts.
Once on the first floor, the manager opened the door for them and stood back while Joe and Melanie entered the room.
It was much worse than Reggie. The room had that foul odour of death, offset by the damp of the day coming through the open window. Naomi lay on the carpeted floor, the signs of a struggle all around her; a table lamp knocked over, chair laid flat on its back, the telephone receiver dislodged from its hook and hanging down, a glass and a bottle of water spilled at the bedside, which had showered onto her Barbara Taylor Bradford novel, which in turn was strewn on the carpet.
Her empty eyes stared up, her face was pulled into a rictus grin of torture. Her face was livid, her body paler, and a long, narrow gash showed under her chin. She wore only a pair of thin, cotton pyjamas, the top torn open leaving her breasts bared.
“We should cover her.” Melanie made as if she was going to remove the duvet.
“No,” Joe barked. “You mustn’t disturb anything. Grant will want to see her and the room exactly as it is.”
He crouched and pressed a tentative finger to her wrist. Cold, no pulse. He did not know why he had bothered. One look at her was enough to confirm that she was not breathing, and if it were not, the livid weal about her neck, red and coated with dried blood, would.
“Someone cut her throat,” Melanie gasped.
Joe shook his head. “No. She’s been strangled.” He indicated the colour of her face and then her body. “Cyanosis,” he said. “No oxygen to the body; turns it pale, almost blue. And whoever did it, used fine wire. Look at the way it’s bitten through her skin. Come on, Melanie. There’s nothing we can do here.” He led her from the room, took out his mobile, and dialled the chief inspector. While waiting for the connection, he ordered Denshaw to lock the room. “Phil? Joe Murray at the Twin Spires. You’d better get your people out here. We have another killing.”
***
Joe stepped out at the front entrance, rolled a cigarette with trembling hands, and lit it. Melanie, now wrapped in a warm coat, joined him.
“You’ll catch cold,” she said.
“I needed the fresh air.”
“Me too. Joe, I’m worried.”
He snorted. “About me catching a cold? I’m a tough old boot, Melanie.”
“Not about you catching cold. It’s the method of these murders that worries me.”
Joe took a long drag on his cigarette. “Go on.”
“First, tell me why the window is open in Naomi’s room. Was she simply a fresh air fiend?”
He shrugged. “I know nothing about the woman, but coincidentally, the window was open in Grimshaw’s room yesterday, and I thought the killer might have dropped the murder weapon out. Grant had his people check and he said not. If it’s the murderer leaving it open, then it might be designed to screw up the pathologist’s estimates of the time of death.”
Melanie’s face screwed up into a puzzled mask. “Again?”
“It’s forensic science, and I don’t understand much about it,” Joe admitted. “It’s December… pardon me, January, darkest, coldest time of the year. Most of us have the heating on. The police doctor will take the body’s temperature, and they have a formula for working out the time of death. But if the room temperature has been screwed up, by someone opening the window and turning off the heat, it affects the post mortem processes, and that can mean the estimate of the time of death is little more than intelligent guesswork. That’s when the investigating officer needs the testimony of reliable witnesses. On Friday night, I confirmed that Reggie was still alive at midnight. This time, I’m not reliable. I was well oiled last night and I can’t say what time I last saw Naomi. Probably midnight.”
“And I wasn’t taking any notice,” Melanie admitted.
“Someone will have seen her after that.” Joe was less certain than he sounded. “Anyway, what is it that’s worrying you?”
“These murders mirror Haliwell’s Heroes.” Her tones changed, carrying an air of resignation. “I didn’t want to say any of this, but you’ve already guessed ninety-five percent of the solution anyway, so here goes. Kerry Dolman was shot in the head with a small calibre pistol. In real life, Reggie Grimshaw was shot in the head with a small calibre pistol. You don’t know it yet, but in the next scene, Valerie Wilson will pronounce Zara Lucescu’s death, declaring it be strangulation, using the electricity cord from the bedside lamp. And we’ve just found Naomi Barton strangled.”
“Yes, but not using the electricity cord from a bedside lamp.”
Melanie smiled wanly. “Our play is set in 1950, Joe. Electricity cables back in those days were more flexible, more like rope. Besides, as you’ll learn, Valerie has it wrong. Zara was strangled with …well, do you know what a cheese wire is?”
Joe stubbed out his cigarette in a nearby planter. “Of course I do. Every good kitchen has one. It’s a long length of fine wire used for cutting cheese.”
“Yes, but in World War Two, commandos carried one as a weapon for silent killing. Once round the victim’s neck, it bites into the skin and there is no way the victim can get his fingers underneath it to pry it free.” Melanie’s eyes burned into him, willing him to understand her concern. “I thought of it right away when you said Naomi had been strangled with fine wire. Joe, someone is copying our play.”
Joe’s lightning mind had got there ahead of her. “But they’re carrying out these murders before they’ve seen the drama, and that means it’s someone who has seen Haliwell’s Heroes before.”
Melanie nodded. “That’s one possibility. There is another.”
It was obvious that Melanie did not want to say it. Joe looked beyond the hotel, along the main road. In the distance, he could see the headlights and flashing blue emergency lights of police vehicles hurtling towards them. He felt relieved. At least Grant could take over now.
Joe looked Melanie in the eye. “That it’s one of your crew.”
As Idleman’s saloon, quickly followed by Grant’s, shot into the car park, Joe pressed Melanie. “Tell me who.”
“That’s the problem. I don’t know. Gerry knew Wendy years ago, and that meant he knew Reggie.”
Joe shook his head. “We know where they were on Friday night, and they weren’t killing Reggie. No one else?”
“No one that I can think of. You have to understand, Joe, I know my people well, but I don’t know anything of their past histories. I only know about Gerry and Wendy because… well, because I’ve known him for so long.”
“Keep thinking about it,” he instructed her, and rose to meet the two police officers.
He gave Grant and Idleman a quick round down of events. With the scientific support team following them, they disappeared into the hotel, ordering Joe and Melanie to return to the dining room and wait with the others.
While Melanie rejoined her cast and crew, Joe made the announcement to the room, and then strode to where his two companions sat with the Kendrews. He gazed down on the sad, broken man, and then switched attention to his wife. “A word, Mrs Kendrew.”
“I’ve nothing to say to you, Mr Murray.”
The muted hum of concerned conversation dried up as Joe deliberately raised his voice.
“You may want to think again, lady, before Phil Grant comes back down here and carts him off to the nick.” He pointed at Robbie Kendrew.
Reluctantly, Fliss followed Joe to the empty table ahead, the one vacated by She
ila, Brenda and Joe himself. Around the room, conversation picked up once more.
Joe leaned on the table, his head low, his voice not much above a whisper. “Where was your husband last night?”
“With me,” she insisted. “All night. The same as he was on Friday night.”
“Why was he not at breakfast this morning?”
“I told you…”
“Not good enough, young lady. He was missing, a woman is dead. Now where the hell was he?”
“In our room. He was unwell. He’s been vomiting all night. Like your friend was on Friday night. And I notice you haven’t accused her of murdering Reggie Grimshaw.”
“Because I know where she was,” Joe snapped sotto voce. “What was wrong with your old man? Bad beer, bad food? What?”
“I don’t know. All I know is we left the bar just after midnight, and he began projectile vomiting about fifteen minutes after we got back to our room. Personally, I think it’s the stress of this last two days.” Her bright blue eyes bored into him. “You think he’s done it, don’t you? You think my Robbie is a murderer.”
“It doesn’t matter what I think. It’s what the police think that will count. I will say this, though; I’m not half as convinced of his innocence as you are.” He paused a moment to let his forthright opinion sink in. “Take a bit of advice, Mrs Kendrew. When the cops talk to you, tell it like it is. Don’t try to flannel them in an effort to clear your husband’s name. Grant is no fool. Lie for your Robbie and you could both end up in court.”
Grant appeared in the doorway, announced that everyone would, for the time being, be kept in the room, and then escorted Kendrew away.
Leaving Fliss Kendrew to contemplate her situation, Sheila and Brenda rejoined Joe, and he gave them a rundown of Melanie’s worries.
When he was through, Brenda, keeping her usually stentorian voice as low as she could, said, “There’s something not right about all this.”
“Two people are dead,” Joe pointed out. “That’s what’s not right.”
“Not that, you dork,” Brenda grumbled. “I’m talking about Robbie Kendrew. Look, Joe, you never get emotional except when someone tries to part you from your money. Sheila and I are not like that. We recognise when someone is genuinely upset, and that young fella was definitely feeling the strain.”
“Yes. The strain of guilt.”
“I disagree,” Sheila said. “I think you’ve got a downer on him, Joe, because he attacked you yesterday. Like Brenda, I think he’s genuinely hurt by this killing. Good lord, have you not noticed how he’s been going steadily to pieces all weekend?”
“Yes, because his plans are going astray. And why? Because he’s up against me, is why.”
“I think that’s what we love about you, Joe,” Brenda commented. “Your modesty.”
Chapter Twelve
“Strangled,” Grant said, “A long thin wire by the looks of it, but the doc will confirm it once he’s made his initial examination.”
“Exactly as I said when I first saw her.” Joe stroked his chin. “Like a cheese-cutter?”
Puffing on a cigarette outside the hotel entrance, the chief inspector’s eyebrows rose, and he exchanged serious glances with his sergeant.
“What makes you say that, Mr Murray?” Idleman asked.
Joe explained how the murder mystery drama had developed over breakfast, and the things Melanie had said to him. He concluded by saying, “The last two killings in the murder play have been a shooting to the head, and strangulation by a cheese wire. Now we have two real murders carried out in exactly the same manner but…” he paused to add emphasis. “The real murders were carried out before we saw the fictitious ones. We got to know about Kerry Dolman’s murder at breakfast yesterday, but Reggie Grimshaw was killed in exactly the same way, in the early hours of the morning. In other words, several hours before we were told of the fictitious murder. We learned of Zara Lucescu’s murder at breakfast today, and Naomi Barton was murdered overnight, and Melanie has told me that we’ll learn at lunchtime how she was really killed... with cheese wire. In other words, several hours before we’re due to learn of the fictitious murder. Someone is following the plot of the play, but in advance of the play and the only thing we’re missing is the murder of an old army officer with poison.”
“Because poison, the real McCoy, is hard to get hold of,” Grant muttered. “This points at one of the actors.”
Joe shook his head. “Melanie said that, but not necessarily. Y’see, I’m only speculating on this but I spoke to her when we first got here on Friday, and she told me it’s possible that others have seen this play before. She has ways and means of rooting them out when it comes to awarding the prizes.”
“And that could be someone in the Grimshaw party,” Idleman said, “which still leaves Kendrew firmly in the frame.”
Joe nodded urgently. “I agree. He did find the movie pistol yesterday, and to me that indicates he’s seen this play before and he knew they’d hide it in the bushes under the victim’s window.”
“I think it’s time we spoke to Kendrew again, sir,” Idleman suggested.
“No. Not yet.” A deep frown etched Grant’s brow. “The Kendrews found the movie gun?”
“Yes,” Joe replied. “It’s all part of the plot. Only in this case, it’s like the real life do, too. Kerry Dolman is shot through the head, just like Reggie Grimshaw, and the gun can’t be found. That Inspector O’Keefe, Gerry Carlin, offers a reward for the person finding the gun. Then, when they take a break, Carlin goes out into the grounds and hides it. Kendrew found it pretty quickly, too, according to my information.”
“What have they done with the gun?” Idleman asked.
“It’s on the display table in the dining room.”
“Let’s take a look at it.” Grant crushed out his cigarette and strode back into the hotel.
“I thought you’d already seen it?” Joe demanded as he hurried to keep pace with the two police officers.
Grant stopped and turned on him. “Where do you hide a tree, Joe?”
“In a wood. But… Oh, my god you don’t think…” as the lift doors opened, Joe doffed his cap. “That’s the first time I’ve ever had a cop one step ahead of me.”
They hurried into the dining room where everyone was still in mufti, talking amongst themselves, the cast of Haliwell’s Heroes gathered at their table.
Grant studied the objects on the table, and picked up the gun, still in its polythene bag. Much to the consternation of the Markham Murder Mysteries cast, he held it up to the dull light coming through the windows, and peered into the barrel. With a satisfied nod, he handed it to Idleman.
“Get it bagged up properly and off to Scientific Support. I want it dusted for prints, and I want a ballistics report on it twenty minutes ago.”
Idleman dug into her pockets for forensic gloves. “Yes, sir.”
Joe raised his eyebrows.
“I saw the prop gun yesterday,” Grant reported. “That barrel isn’t drilled out. This one is. It’s not the same weapon as I saw yesterday.” He concentrated on the players.
“Is there some problem, Chief Inspector?” Melanie asked.
“Yes, madam, there is. I asked you yesterday, how many prop guns are in your possession here?”
“Just the one. Why?”
“In a moment, madam. “ Grant turned his attention to Carlin. “Mr Murray tells me that you hid the prop pistol in the grounds yesterday, sir.”
“That’s right,” the actor admitted. He, too, had the worried look of someone who was afraid he had done wrong but could not work out what his offence was.
“Would you mind showing me where you hid it, sir?”
“But it’s been found. You’ve just sent it away with your sergeant.”
“That, Mr Carlin, was not the prop pistol you showed me yesterday morning,” Grant admitted. “That is a live weapon, and if I’m right, it was used to murder Grimshaw.”
The actors gaped as one.
Pulling himself together, putting on his overcoat and adjusting his battered trilby, Carlin led the way from the bar, through reception, Grant and Joe tagging along. Outside, the actor turned left along the front of the building and then left again, up the side, towards the redbrick extension.
“Hold on a minute,” Joe said as Carlin stopped by a planter. “Kendrew’s wife said they found the pistol on the other side of the hotel.”
Carlin shook his head, lit a cigarette and gestured down into the planter at his feet. “This is where I hid it, and if you look, it’s still there.”
Putting on a pair of forensic gloves, Grant crouched down, reached in through the barren thorns, and retrieved the pistol. Taking a seal-easy bag from his pocket, he dropped it in. “I don’t think there’s a problem, Mr Carlin, but I need to get it checked.” He passed the bag to Joe. “Look down the barrel.”
Joe did so, and he could see that half an inch in, the barrel was almost totally blocked off by studs protruding from either side. He handed it back.
“So this is the movie gun, and the other is the real thing? Kendrew couldn’t possibly hope to get away with it.”
“You never know,” Grant said. “The Markham Murder Mysteries players would have gone home tomorrow and probably never checked that gun until God knows when. Alternatively, this gun may have come to light when the gardeners turned up next spring. Aside from the barrel, the two pistols are practically identical.”
Carlin drew heavily on his cigarette. “Listen, old lad,” he said to Grant, “I know I’m not supposed to know what’s going on here, but I can tell you that when I came out here to hide the pistol yesterday, young Kendrew was at the front door griping about everything, and he saw me wandering off to the other side of the hotel.”
“I wondered about that,” Joe said, “because when we got off the bus from Lincoln, yesterday, I saw you coming back from this side.”
Murder at the Murder Mystery Weekend Page 17