He ignored Sheila.”I promised her on Friday if I got the solution early, I’d stand her dinner tonight. Then I forgot to book the restaurant.”
“Please, Joe,” Sheila begged. “Our solutions have to be in tonight.”
Brenda was more interested in the growing bond between Joe and Melanie. “You’re not going Dutch are you?”
“Of course not. I’m paying.”
“Joe.” Sheila began to sound frustrated, but still Brenda would not let go.
“Well don’t pull the old stunt of forgetting your wallet. There’s nothing worse for killing the mood.”
“I bow to your superior experience, Brenda.”
“For God’s sake, Joe, will you look at this bloody picture?”
Sheila’s raised voice caused several heads to turn.
In deference to her irritation, Joe followed her pointing finger.
The image was of Zara Lucescu’s room and the toppled bedside lamp.
“So what’s wrong with it?” Joe asked.
The lamp was on the floor, but the flex ran up behind the bedside cabinet. Tracing its line with her finger, Sheila explained, “Look at the way the cord rises behind the cabinet. We think it’s still plugged into the wall.”
“Yes. And?”
Sheila kept her voice low so that no one could overhear. “How could she have been strangled with the bedside lamp if it’s still plugged into a wall socket?”
“And you need to speculate to work that out?” Joe demanded. He moved across and indicated the photograph of the strangled countess.
At once, he wished he had not. Expertly applied makeup gave Zara the appearance of having been strangled right down to the narrow weal around her slender neck, and it reminded him instantly of Naomi Barton the way he had seen her after breakfast. The disarray, the smell of cold, damp and death assaulted his memory.
He reminded himself that Zara, or rather actress Emma Pemberley, was playing a part. Naomi Barton was for real; a woman who, less than twenty-four hours previously had been living and breathing and now lay naked on a mortuary slab, and so far he had made zero progress in finding her killer.
He pulled himself together and pointed to the weal around Zara’s neck. “Look at it, study it, then look at the electrical flex, and when you’ve done that, look on the table.”
With that, he turned on his heels and marched out of the dining room.
Chapter Sixteen
Returning to his room, Joe flopped on the bed, intent on catching an hour’s sleep.
With the clock reading almost 4 p.m. the sky had darkened, night was approaching and without the lights on, the room was comfortably warm enough to induce sleep, but it would not come. Instead, as he stared into the gathering darkness, images flashed through his mind like a video movie on fast-forward. Meeting Reggie, sneaking to Melanie’s room, Reggie arguing with his unseen visitor, Reggie dead, Naomi dead, Naomi turning her venom on him, Kendrew grabbing him, Wendy staring at the stained glass windows of the Angel Choir, the blood spattered over Reggie’s bedside cabinet, Naomi’s bedside cabinet in a state of disarray.
Somewhere in amongst it all, he was missing something. As usual it was tiny, it was trivial, insignificant, but it was the lack of significance that paradoxically made it of such importance.
The events of the whole weekend eventually conspired to send him into a disturbed sleep, but he was wide awake again just after five, the problem still nagging at him.
I need to ask God why I created the monster that Reggie had become. If I slept with Reggie, and I stress, ‘if’, it was because I saw it as expedient, and not because he brought any undue pressure to bear. Wendy has never had any serious interest in the business, and she’ll probably sell up, and Naomi and I will probably both get the boot.
Reggie’s face swam up through the darkness and laughed at him. “The answer’s obvious, me ducks.”
But it wasn’t obvious. Not to Joe. From every angle he arrived at the same conclusion and it was the wrong one; the one that he had proved to be wrong.
He took out his netbook, set it up on the escritoire, and stared gloomily out at the illuminated towers of Lincoln Cathedral while he waited for it to boot up. When it was running, he opened a spreadsheet and filled its cells with every name he could think of that was connected to the case. Then he began to shuffle them around, mixing and matching known pairs, unlikely pairs, desperately seeking that elusive connection, and still it would not come to him. At five thirty, angry, frustrated, he took a hot shower and shaved.
In dressing for dinner, he opted not to wear a tie. “Don’t see why I should change the habits of a lifetime,” he muttered to the mirror. Instead he put on a pair of dark grey, casual trousers, a fresh, short-sleeved shirt, and his ubiquitous gilet, then, locking the door behind him, made his way along the landing to wait for the lift.
He met Sheila and Brenda in the lobby, where they were studying leaflets on the attractions of Lincoln and the surrounding countryside. Brenda complimented him on his attire, Sheila added her approval, criticising him only for not putting on a tie, and they moved to the dining room for the final act of Haliwell’s Heroes.
Taking their seats, they found summary sheets in front of them. When Joe studied the single sheet of A4 paper, he found it laid out quite simply. There were slots for his name and room number at the top, the heading Haliwell’s Heroes beneath them, and under that, three widely spaced headings; Murderer(s); Motive; Clues.
“Ignoring the play, have you made any progress with the murders of Reggie Grimshaw and Naomi Barton?” Sheila asked.
“I’ve cleared young Kendrew,” he said, “and I notice their table is empty.” He jerked his head backwards at the vacant table behind them. “I’ve no doubt they’re having a good old heart to heart.”
“It should be knife to heart,” Brenda grumbled. “When I think of his contempt for that poor girl, it makes my blood boil.”
“I agree,” Joe said, “but at least they’re not murderers. Neither of them.”
Sheila fussed, setting out her notebook and pen. “That’s looking on the bright side. I’m afraid that whatever marriage they have left will crumble. As for the murders, I think we’ll find they really were crimes passionnel.”
Her opinion set Joe’s mind thinking once more, and it continued to grind on the various possibilities until Melanie appeared at the front of the room.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. It’s time for the penultimate act of Haliwell’s Heroes, the final scene before Inspector O’Keefe makes his arrest tomorrow morning. You all have summary sheets in front of you. If you want to take part in our competition, all you have to do is complete the summary sheet, and hand it to me or one of my cast before midnight tonight. The lucky winner will be announced after Inspector O’Keefe makes his arrest tomorrow morning. And now, without further ado, let me hand you over to Inspector O’Keefe for his summary of the events.”
Melanie backed off and the lights at the front of the dining room came up.
***
Standing to one side of the remaining dinner guests, O’Keefe held up a polythene bag containing the cheese wire.
“Captain Wilson, may I ask about your role on D-Day?”
Wilson fingered his bowtie. “I told you, I was with the 50th Infantry Division at Bayeux.”
“Indeed, sir, but you were not a member of the 50th, were you? And you didn’t come ashore on either Gold or Sword, did you? In fact you were with the Royal Marine Commandos, and you actually parachuted into Normandy on the night of June 5th, didn’t you, in order to make contact with the French Resistance.”
Wilson made visible effort to control himself. “I’m sorry, Inspector, but our work is still classified under the Official Secret Act.”
“I’m investigating three nasty murders, sir, and nothing is secret from me. Not even your war record. May I ask, do you know what this is?”
O’Keefe passed the bag to Wilson who studied it.
“It’s a cheese-cutter.�
�
“Precisely, sir,” the inspector agreed. “A cheese-cutter. And the cheese-cutter was one of the commando’s preferred weapons during World War Two, was it not? A silent killer.”
Wilson looked uncomfortable again. “We used them, yes. They were efficient and silent. Now, look here, O’Keefe, are you insinuating that I had something to do with these murders? Because if you are, may I remind you that my wife examined the countess and reported that she was strangled with the electricity flex of the bedside lamp.”
“I’m aware of that, sir.” O’Keefe held up the cheese-cutter again. “But this weapon was found in the grounds by one of my officers earlier today.”
Putting down the weapon, O’Keefe made a show of checking his pocketbook before concentrating on Wilson again.
“At Chateau Armand it’s reported that a British officer, Lieutenant Creasey, was killed in a friendly fire incident. Can you tell me anything about that, Captain?”
“Simple case of mistaken identity, Inspector. Colonel Haliwell lost most of his officers during the assault. With the chateau secured, there was always the threat of a German counterattack, so we had the place heavily guarded. Creasey was challenged by sentries, but didn’t give the correct response and he was shot. I doubt that it was the only such incident during the D-Day offensive.”
“Of course not, but this officer had already been in touch with the division HQ expressing his concern over certain, er, matters, let’s say, at Chateau Armand. The War Office had no details of the substance of his complaints. Could you throw any light on that?”
Wilson shrugged. “I have no knowledge of it whatsoever. I can speculate, I suppose. The colonel was known to be a hard taskmaster. Perhaps some of the enlisted men had complained about his treatment of them and perhaps Creasey felt it his duty to make the complaints known to HQ.”
“Thank you, sir,” O’Keefe said. “Now, Captain, may I ask about your business activities since the war?”
“I became a venture capitalist,” Wilson replied. “The country needed investment, and like my friend, the colonel, I saw it as my patriotic duty to invest the little savings that I had in projects which would help get the country moving again.”
“And how much did you invest in the country, sir?”
Wilson was deliberately vague. “Well, not as much as Colonel Haliwell, of course, but I’d says, roughly twenty thousand pounds.”
O’Keefe had another surprise for them. “My inquiries lead me to believe it was much more than that, sir. In fact it was thirty thousand pounds. Not all the money was yours. About one fifth of it was your lady wife’s.”
The accusing tone sparked Valerie Wilson to protest. “This is the 1950s, you know, Inspector. We women are not simply expected to sit at home cooking dinner and looking after the children. I have my own money and I was entitled to invest it as I saw fit.”
“Of course, madam.” Apparently put out by her complaint, O’Keefe shifted his attention to Crenshaw. “Let’s look at your activities since the war, shall we, sir?”
The younger man did not appear concerned. “I have nothing to hide, Inspector.”
“Of course not. In that case, sir, may I ask how you managed to persuade Colonel Haliwell to insist upon his daughter’s engagement to you?”
Crenshaw opened his mouth to protest, but O’Keefe pressed on before he could say anything.
“You see, sir, we know quite a bit about your war record, as I indicated before, and although no charges were ever laid against you, I have to wonder just how much the influence of your father, Jeremy Crenshaw, 13th Earl of Eppingham, might have to do with that.”
“I resent that,” Crenshaw bit back. “My record, as you will know if you checked with the War Office, was exemplary.”
“The official record, yes,” O’Keefe agreed, “but we checked with battalion HQ and off the record, they tell us a different tale. I just wonder, sir, whether those two missing trucks were, in fact, diverted to Chateau Armand, in order to assist with the removal of £150,000 worth of gold bullion.”
“I knew nothing about the whereabouts of those trucks,” Crenshaw argued.
“No, sir. But many months later, after the advance into Germany, two similar lorries were found in Marseilles. Quite convenient for offloading illicit cargo onto a ship for onward transportation to, say, North Africa. I wonder, Mr Crenshaw, how much you really knew about them, and whether that influenced the colonel in a choice of suitor for his only daughter.” O’Keefe’s pinpoint stare rested on McLintock. “Much more persuasive than the arguments of a stockbroker questioning the source of a post war fortune.”
His accusations were greeted with howls of protest, not least from Theresa.
“I resent that, Inspector,” she cried “Michael and I are very much in love.”
“That’s what you said to me before Crenshaw showed up,” McLintock complained.
“You mean before I pointed out what a crooked coward you are,” Crenshaw growled.
McLintock got to his feet, stripping off his dinner jacket. “I’ll show you who’s a coward.”
Crenshaw, too, rose. Wilson began to bark orders at them, Theresa flapped.
“All right, gentlemen. That will do.” O’Keefe’s voice boomed around the room, drowning out everyone else.
Order was restored, the two combatants returned to their seats, glowering at each other, and O’Keefe took control again.
“Your efforts, gentlemen, during World War Two do not interest me. Whatever crimes you may or may not have committed during the Normandy offensive are no concern of mine. The murders of Colonel Gregory Haliwell, Miss Kerry Dolman and Miss Sarah Lumley are. I shall return tomorrow morning, and at that time, I expect to be making an arrest.”
***
The lights dimmed and applause broke out around the dining room.
“Crenshaw,” Brenda said.
“I think McLintock,” Sheila declared.”I think he’s very angry with Haliwell for handing his daughter over to Crenshaw.”
“Why did he kill Kerry and Zara?” Brenda wanted to know.
“Kerry because she probably rejected his advances, and Zara because he knew she was a Treasury Agent and she was investigating some of his iffy transactions as a stockbroker.”
“Ooh, I never thought of that.” Brenda scribbled out her ideas and penned in fresh ones. “What about you, Joe?”
“I knew on Friday night, and I’ve seen nothing to make me change my mind.” Joe folded away his notebook and dropped it in his pocket as Melanie appeared up front.
“There you have it, ladies and gentlemen. The identity of the killer should be apparent to you by now, but you will need to use some logical deduction to arrive at a motive. Don’t forget, summary sheets in by midnight tonight to be included in our competition, and the arrest will be made at breakfast tomorrow morning.”
Julia Staines was called out and awarded a bottle of champagne for finding the cheese-cutter, after which Melanie bowed out to a round of applause and the room settled down to wait for dinner.
Joe got to his feet. “Right, girls. I’ll catch you later, at the disco. I have a lady to woo.”
“Be gentle with her, Joe,” Brenda advised.
***
The 617 catered for the Twin Spires’ non-resident patrons. Set aside from the main hotel, on the ground floor of the redbrick annexe, the subdued lighting, smaller windows, and candlelit tables set into booths, was less cramped and more intimate than the hotel dining room.
At least that was the impression Joe had when the maître d showed them to their table overlooking the car park.
Joe had booked the table after explaining to Melanie that he had forgotten to book her original choice. They arrived to find the place three-quarters full, but in contrast to the hotel, the low-level chatter of other diners did not impinge upon the cosiness of their booth.
Joe ordered drinks, a glass of lager for himself, a Bacardi and coke for Melanie, while they studied the menu. Eventually, Joe
decided on lamb cutlets for himself while Melanie chose veal medallions in a white wine butter sauce, and he added a bottle of house red to the order.
“Did the Lazy Luncheonette never aspire to such grandeur, Joe?” Melanie asked with a gesture at the room.
He gave a grunting little laugh of real pleasure. “Hell, no. The Lazy Luncheonette started out as Alf’s Caff on Doncaster Road, just after the war. Alf was my old dad. He knew what he was doing. Post war rebuilding, the pits and the foundries were going hell for leather and there were lorries trundling up and down that road day and night.” He toyed with his glass, and nodded at the convivial comfort around them. “A place like this, believe it or not, won’t make as much as the Lazy Luncheonette on a meal by meal basis. They employ high-class chefs, waiters, bar people, a manager. It all creams off the top, you know. My joint… well, we have eighty covers, and there are only four of us running it. Me, Sheila, Brenda, and my nephew Lee. Don’t make no mistake. The meals these people turn out, Lee and I can do. We both went to catering college. But we don’t get much call for veal in white wine and butter sauce.”
A waiter arrived and laid out their cutlery.
“It’s been a bizarre weekend,” Melanie commented, when the young man left them.
“Par for the course for a Sanford 3rd Age Club outing, I’m afraid,” Joe replied. “It’s like every nutter in the country waits for us to arrive before carrying out his killings.”
Melanie reached across the table and played with his gnarled fingers. “I haven’t yet seen the great Joe Murray crack the case, either.”
He frowned and smiled at the same time, twisting his face into a crooked mask of cheerful defeat. “You’re not likely to, either. It has me beat.” He sighed. “Too many people with too many motives.”
“You saved that young man from a false arrest,” Melanie reminded him.
“The only trouble being, he deserved it.”
She laughed. “You’re quite strait-laced about such matters, aren’t you, Joe?”
He took back his hand and swallowed some lager. “I’m no prude… as you’ve guessed. But I believe in monogamous relationships. You shouldn’t be fooling around with someone else when you’re, er, with a person. My marriage broke down, true enough, but there was no third party involved. That young fella has treated his wife disgracefully and he should be made to pay for it.” He sighed again. “But he isn’t a killer.”
Murder at the Murder Mystery Weekend Page 23