“I was waiting for Kendrew to clear off,” Carlin said through another cloud of cigarette smoke. “It was obvious I was up to something and he would have figured out what, so I went the other way just to trick him.”
“You never said anything yesterday when his wife told you where they’d found it,” Joe objected.
“Didn’t twig, old son,” Carlin replied. “Besides, she didn’t actually say where they’d found it. She just pointed out of the dining room. It was only as we got here just now that I twigged. So what’s going on? Kendrew shot his boss and tried to hide it behind the play?”
Grant and Joe both lit cigarettes.
“It’s possible,” the chief inspector said. “You don’t say a word about this, Carlin, but the killings seem to be following your play. Now in the play, the Romanian countess has been strangled by a cord from the bedside lamp… at least that’s what Joe tells me the fictitious doctor said. But Joe also says the guests are due to learn that she was actually murdered by a weapon more consistent with cheese wire. Do you have a cheese-cutter that you hide like you hid the gun?”
Carlin puffed agitatedly on his cigarette, and shifted his weight from one foot to the other and back again. “Look, I can’t really say, Chief Inspector. Joe, here, is one of the punters.”
“Stop being a berk,” Joe grumbled. “Melanie’s already told me most of it and I have an agreement with her that I won’t reveal anything. Just answer Grant’s question.”
Carlin took a deep drag on his smoke again, and tossed it to the gravel, crushing it underfoot. He gazed across the hotel car park and out towards the city, his eyes distant and unseeing. Eventually, he focussed on the two men. “Yes. Yes, we do.” Taking out another cigarette, lighting it with shaking hands, he said, “Apparently a cheese-cutter was a makeshift commando weapon in World War Two. Silent killer. Obviously, because of health and safety, ours isn’t a real one. It’s fine, metallic-finish thread. Snaps like that.” He yanked his hands far apart and clicked his fingers.
“And where is it now, Mr Carlin?”
“In the prop room. I’m supposed to place it during lunch before Inspector O’Keefe gives his next summary.” He beseeched Joe. “For God’s sake, don’t say anything. If Melanie finds out I’ve told you, she’ll use real cheese wire to cut me off at the crown jewels.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Joe assured him. “Where would you hide it?”
“Directly under Zara’s window, which is…” Carlin looked up at the four-storey building. “Round the other side.”
Joe followed his gaze. “Grant, where was Naomi’s room in respect to us?”
The chief inspector also looked up. “Grimshaw’s room was on other side, too, where they found the pistol, and she was opposite them, but one floor higher, so she’d be on this side, right about… there!”
He marched further along the hotel wall to the next trough of plants, where he crouched and, with his hands still encased in forensic gloves, began to part the twigs and thin foliage. Suddenly, he dug into his pocket, pulled out a second seal-easy bag, and reached down to retrieved the cheese-cutter.
It was a length of fine wire, with wooden handles at either end. When Grant stretched it out, there was a clear line of blood in the centre area.
“That’s where it cut into Naomi Barton’s throat,” he said, dropping it into his second bag.
Carlin’s face twisted in disgust. “Yuk.”
“Is this your prop, Carlin?”
The actor shook his head. “No way. And if you don’t believe me, I’ll go to the prop room and get ours.”
“We’ll come with you,” Grant agreed. “Joe, Carlin, not a word about this to anyone until I’ve spoken to Kendrew.”
***
The three men walked purposefully back into the hotel. Grant paused at reception to speak with Cliff Denshaw. They then took the lift to the first floor, and the prop room, where Carlin let them in.
Tossing the various costumes to one side, Carlin lifted a trunk onto the bed, unfastened the padlock, and threw the lid open. He began to remove items. A fake knife, magnifying glass, a metal tea tray, items of fake jewellery, until he finally found the cheese wire and passed it to Grant.
While Carlin replaced the other props in the trunk, Joe and Grant compared the fake one to the real thing. They were practically identical. The chief inspector ran his fingers along the thread of the fake, and invited Joe to do the same.
“Cotton,” Joe said. “It wouldn’t cut through cheese, never mind human skin.”
“As I told you,” Carlin said, locking up the trunk and dropping it back on the floor. “Any danger we can have that back, Chief Inspector? I don’t know what Melanie’s plans are, but I need to place it for the punters.”
“I’ll need to get it photographed first, but I’ll make sure you get it back pronto.”
“Listen, Phil, will you need to take statements from everyone? Again?” Joe asked.
“I don’t think so. I won’t know for sure until I’ve spoken to Kendrew... again.”
***
They returned to the ground floor and the Gibson Room where Carlin took his seat with the rest of the Markham Murder Mysteries cast, and Joe joined his companions. After a brief, whispered word with Idleman, Grant escorted Kendrew to the manager’s office.
Following the chief inspector, with Idleman behind him, Kendrew kept up a constant stream of protest. Neither officer responded until they were in the privacy of Denshaw’s office, but even then it was only to order Kendrew to sit.
It was a small room, hardly befitting the manager of a large hotel like the Twin Spires. Filing cabinets, against which Idleman leaned, took up one side; the desk filled the centre of the small floor area. Even to Grant, it felt claustrophobic, and Kendrew was obviously already feeling the pressure. That suited Grant.
Taking a seat opposite, the chief inspector took the prop gun and genuine cheese wire from his pockets and placed them on the desk.
“Now, Mr Kendrew, I’m going to ask you to explain certain inconsistencies.”
“Am I under arrest?” Kendrew demanded. His knee bounced regularly as his feet worked on the floor.
“Not yet, sir, but pending the outcome of this interview, you may well be.” The chief inspector looked up at his partner. “Sergeant Idleman, have you had the fingerprint report on the pistol I gave you earlier?”
“Preliminary report only, sir. There is one set of fingerprints on it. They’re currently unidentified.”
Grant’s attention swung back to Kendrew. “I suspect, Mr Kendrew, those prints will be yours. You did, after all, pick the pistol up.”
“And I suspect you’re not telling me what this is about.”
The chief inspector had been a policeman long enough to know that Kendrew’s challenge was nothing more than bravado.
“Very well, sir. The pistol you found yesterday, was not the drama group’s prop gun. It was a real revolver, capable of firing a live round, and although I haven’t yet had it confirmed, I suspect it was the weapon used in the murder of Reginald Grimshaw.” He picked up the evidence bag. “This is the drama group’s gun. It cannot be fired. What interests me is why you went to the Western wall of the hotel when Gerald Carlin, the gentleman playing the part of Inspector O’Keefe in the drama, planted his theatrical revolver on the other side of the hotel, by the eastern wall.”
Kendrew’s colour drained. “No. No, wait a minute, that’s not right. I saw him walk to the area where I found that pistol.”
“Mr Carlin admits that he did walk in that direction, but only to dupe you. He did not want you working out where he had planted the fake pistol. He retraced his steps after you had gone back into the hotel. But it’s fascinating that although you went in the opposite direction, you still found a weapon, and not just any weapon, but the real thing.”
“I, er, I’m telling you, listen to me, I’m telling you, that is exactly how it happened. My wife was with me. She’ll verify it. In fact… in fact, it was Fliss who s
potted it.”
“I’m sure she will, Mr Kendrew. Just as I’m sure that you planted the gun there after you shot Grimshaw.”
Sweat broke on Kendrew’s forehead. “That’s so much twaddle. How? When? I went to bed on Friday night. Fliss was with me all night.”
“Your wife was not with you when you went out of the hotel at one in the morning, Mr Kendrew,” Idleman pointed out. “Both you and she told us you were absent for about three-quarters of an hour.
“I told you about that. I had a smoke. That’s all.”
“And we have only your word for that, sir, and right now your word is not good enough,” Grant warned him. “You were known to be concerned for your position within the company, you had an antipathy for Ms Barton because you were convinced your boss was sleeping with her and it would work in her favour. We know you have some financial difficulties. You have the motive, Mr Kendrew, you have had the opportunity, and we have the means here.” Grant spread his large hands above the evidence bags, then held up the bag containing the cheese wire. “And I’ll tell you something else; it doesn’t matter how much you’ve cleaned the revolver and this bloody ligature, when our scientific people get to work on it, we’ll find traces of you on it.”
Kendrew stared frantically around, and for a moment, Grant thought he was going to run for it. Sergeant Idleman must have had similar thoughts because she positioned herself between Kendrew and the door.
The young man turned his head back to face Grant. “This is ridiculous.”
“You’re the one who’s ridiculous,” the chief inspector countered. “Thinking you could get away with it.”
“Listen to me, Chief Inspector. It… was… not… me.” Kendrew punctuated each word by jabbing his fingers into the desk top.
More bravado, Grant diagnosed. He felt pleased with the way the interview was going. Robbie Kendrew may be a tough nut when it came to negotiating a signature on the bottom line of a kitchen contract, but Grant, and particularly Idleman, would make mincemeat of him.
“Let me ask you another question. When did you last see a production of Haliwell’s Heroes?”
Kendrew frowned. “I’ve never seen it.”
“No? When we interviewed Naomi Barton yesterday, she told us that you and she took it in turns to organise these company outings, and you organised this one. So if you’ve never seen it before, how did you come across it?”
“Wendy told me about it,” Kendrew replied. “Wendy Grimshaw. She knew that Carlin guy years ago. When she was an actress.”
“And did she tell you about the play? About the Markham Murder Mysteries method of hiding props around the venue so that guests could find them?”
Kendrew had the look of a man whose every word took him one step nearer the gallows. “Well, yes. She told me a little.”
Sensing the time was right, Grant launched a direct attack. “And you used that knowledge, didn’t you? Used it to murder your boss and your competitor in order to further your own career.”
“No.”
Kendrew was practically in tears. Grant nodded meaningfully to his sergeant.
“Robert Kendrew,” she intoned, “I am arresting you on suspicion of the murders of Reginald Grimshaw and Naomi Barton. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you fail to mention when questioned something which you intend to rely on in court. Anything you say may be given in evidence.”
“This is ridiculous.”
***
Joe, Sheila and Brenda joined a crowd of people gathered at the windows of the Scampton Room and watched as Robbie Kendrew was helped into a patrol car, while his wife, screamed and pleaded with the uniformed officers. A policewoman held her back. Fliss ducked and weaved in an effort to get past her, get to her husband. The car doors closed and it drove off.
Fliss turned back and, seeing the chief inspector and his sergeant making for their vehicles, ran for them pleading with them.
Sergeant Idleman took her off to one side and spoke to her. The words were inaudible, but there was sufficient pointing and shaking of a warning finger from Idleman for the onlookers to guess. In the meantime, Grant drove off.
Finished with Fliss, Sergeant Idleman followed, the distraught woman hurried back towards the hotel and the crowd around the window broke up.
“That poor girl,” Sheila commented as they took a vacant nearby table.
“Shocking start to the New Year for her,” Brenda agreed.
“Whereas Reggie Grimshaw and his wife and Naomi Barton are having a beano,” Joe grumbled.
“We don’t know that Kendrew is guilty,” Brenda reminded him, “but even if he is, it’s not just his own life he’s ruined, but the poor child’s too. She’s his wife, Joe. How would it feel to learn that your husband is a killer?”
Joe said nothing. There was little point arguing with either woman when they were in their sympathetic mode.
The door burst open and Fliss rushed. She was wet, and looked bedraggled. Her dark hair hung in straggles, her makeup had run, partly through the rain, mostly, Joe guessed, from tears.
“Help me, someone,” she cried. “Please help me. They’ve taken Robbie away.”
No one moved. People would not look at her. They did not speak, but they did not pay her any heed. They looked at each other, at the display behind the bar, at the pictures of World War Two fighters and bombers on the walls; anywhere but at Fliss Kendrew.
Joe noticed a glance pass between Sheila and Brenda. Before he could say anything, they stood and crossed the room. Sheila took Fliss’ hand and spoke softly to her. Brenda made for the bar and could be heard arguing with the barman for a glass of brandy.
“I don’t care about opening hours. The girl needs something to steady her.”
The barman, Joe judged, was learning a lesson many a man and woman had learned over the years: never argue with Brenda Jump when she was on a mission.
Sheila gently encouraged Fliss towards their table and Joe steeled himself. There would be harsh words before they could talk civilly.
The room remained silent. Crossing from the bar with the brandy, Brenda’s angry stare took in everyone.
“What the hell is wrong with you lot?” she shouted. “You had plenty to talk about before they carted her husband off.”
Joe almost laughed. When she was on this kind of form, Brenda could be cringeworthily embarrassing. Her shaft struck home, and many of the Sanford crowd were shamed into studying the room or their feet once more.
As she drew close to the table and her eyes fell upon him, Fliss let rip with unbridled malevolence.
“You. You horrible, vicious little man. This is all your fault. Are you satisfied now they’ve taken Robbie away? Happy now that he’s locked up in a police cell?”
Like Brenda, Joe was not about to become spectator sport for the rest of the room. “I had to warn your husband –”
“Someone should have strangled you,” Fliss cut him off. “You should be in that cell, you spiteful, odious little creep. You poisoned them against Robbie.”
“If you say one more word, I won’t be responsible,” Joe warned her.
“What are you going to do?” she hissed. “Have me locked up? Get someone to press a gun against my head and blow my brains out?”
Joe felt his temper rising. Sheila could see it too, but she made faces urging him to ride out the storm. She gently eased Fliss into a chair, and Brenda dropped a glass of brandy in front of her.
“Calm down, chicken,” Brenda advised, “and get that down you.”
“Is there cyanide in it?” Fliss demanded. “If there is, I’ll force it down his throat.”
Sheila sat next to her and continued to pat her hand. “Try to calm down, Felicity. We know how upset you are. Just take a few, deep breaths, and drink the brandy. It will do you the power of good.”
Joe took out his tobacco. “I’m going for a smoke.”
“I hope it kills you.”
His temper reached snapping poin
t. “I didn’t murder anyone, lady, and I didn’t put the cops onto your husband. He did that himself by opening his big, bloody mouth.”
He stormed out of the bar, through the lobby and out into the rainy morning. Pulling in a deep breath to calm his irritation, he quickly rolled a cigarette and as he lit it, Gerry Carlin joined him.
“Have to say, you took that well, old lad.”
“I felt like ripping her head off,” Joe confessed and drew in a lungful of smoke. Letting it out with a hiss, savouring the bite in his chest, he went on, “She’s just letting it out. She’ll be all right when Sheila and Brenda have calmed her down.”
Carlin lit a cigarette and blew out a cloud of smoke. Joe watched it blend with the rainy air until it was impossible to say where the smoke began and the damp morning took over.
“Must be a bit of a bugger, though, realising your husband is a murderer. And on New Year’s Day.”
“She should look on the bright side. The year can only get better.”
Carlin laughed until he realised Joe was not joking. Coughing to hide his amusement, he ventured, “Cops must have pinned him down fairly quickly, eh?”
“Unless he was being obstructive.” Noticing the puzzlement on the other’s face, Joe explained, “If a suspect can’t adequately explain A, B or C, the cops will arrest them on suspicion, and take them to the station, where they’re formally interviewed. They take prints and DNA swabs, take the clothing and have it examined by their scientific support team. That’s probably what Grant is doing with Kendrew. It doesn’t mean they have him banged to rights, just that they suspect him.”
Carlin puffed on his cigarette. “Well, if you ask me, the law have it dead right. I was talking to Wendy… did I tell you I knew her years ago? Anyway, I was talking to her and she was telling me how much lip Kendrew was giving her about the direction the company should go and how he should be the one to run it when old Reggie retired. Seems to me that he chose to retire Reggie sooner than the old lad wanted to. Pity we don’t still have the rope for buggers like that.”
“Hmm. The only trouble is, when they get it wrong, it’s difficult to compensate someone who’s been hanged.” Joe stubbed out his cigarette. “I’ll go see if she’s calmed down yet.”
Murder at the Murder Mystery Weekend Page 18