A Murder to Die For Read online

  ‘So we don’t know who it is?’

  ‘No, guv,’ said Nicola Banton. ‘It’s definitely a woman but it’s not Brenda Tradescant.’

  Blount had returned to his agitated pacing and his face looked pale and drawn.

  ‘And there’s no possibility of error?’

  ‘None,’ said Banton. ‘Tradescant’s prints are on file. The victim’s aren’t, whoever she is.’

  ‘Ah! So, if Tradescant isn’t dead then she must be the murderer, as we suspected earlier,’ said Blount. ‘The handbag belonged to her, not the victim. She must have dropped it in her haste to escape.’

  ‘That’s possible,’ said Jaine.

  ‘So do we now have enough evidence to circulate her as wanted?’ asked Blount.

  ‘As a possible suspect, yes,’ said Banton. ‘But you’ve just announced to the world that she’s dead.’

  ‘And we just informed her partner,’ said Jaine.

  ‘What?’ said Blount.

  ‘You told me to send someone around to tell her fiancé that she’d been murdered, so I contacted a bereavement counselling officer and—’

  ‘Then send someone around to tell him the good news that she’s alive!’ snapped Blount.

  ‘It’s not strictly good news if we then have to tell him that she’s a murder suspect, is it?’ said Banton.

  ‘Can’t either of you come up with any positive ideas instead of just attacking mine?’ barked Blount. He mopped at his brow. ‘Just let me think for a minute. We still have an unidentified victim, don’t we? And two missing persons and/or possible suspects in the form of Andrew Tremens and the Handibode woman, yes?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jaine.

  ‘So, could the victim be Handibode?’

  ‘It’s possible,’ said Banton. ‘All we know is that, whoever it is, they don’t have a police record or we’d have got a hit on the fingerprints—’

  ‘Then do DNA or dental records!’ said Blount in exasperation. He ran his hand through his thinning hair. ‘Talk to a psychic. Hold a séance. Just do something!’

  ‘And do I circulate Tradescant as the murderer now?’ asked Jaine.

  ‘Yes! And—’

  The front door of the library swung open and Frank Shunter and Molly Wilderspin entered.

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake! What now?’ hissed Blount.

  ‘We thought this might be of interest,’ said Shunter. He tipped the paperback out of the carrier bag and on to a table. ‘We found this on the towpath. It belongs to Esme Handibode.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Banton. ‘Where exactly was it?’

  ‘I’ll show you,’ said Shunter, walking towards the map of the village on the display board.

  ‘No no no!’ said Blount, interposing himself between Shunter and the board. ‘This is an official police Incident Room and only authorised personnel are allowed inside. Are you authorised personnel? No, you’re not.’

  ‘I’m just pointing at a map,’ said Shunter.

  ‘Not in here you’re not! You are not part of this investigation and this area contains confidential information for police eyes only. You’re not a policeman any more, Mr Shunter, and I thought I’d made it perfectly clear that you can best help us by staying out of our way.’

  ‘Yes you did. But if I can’t point at your map, how can I show you where I found the book?’

  For a moment, Blount looked lost for an answer. ‘You are investigating my homicide,’ he said accusingly.

  ‘No, I’m being public-spirited,’ said Shunter. ‘I was helping this lady, Miss Wilderspin, to find her friend Mrs Handibode, who seems to have gone missing.’

  ‘And I’ve said that we want to speak to Mrs Handibode as a matter of some urgency,’ said Blount. ‘I made a public appeal and—’

  ‘Exactly. So by trying to find her, I’m actually doing just what you asked the public to do with your appeal, aren’t I? None of which affect your resources or your investigation, and, as it happens, led to us discovering something that may turn out to be evidence. Evidence, incidentally, that your people apparently missed.’

  ‘Oh, so now my people are incompetent.’

  ‘That’s not what I said and you know it.’

  ‘The flatfoot bumpkins unable to solve their own cases so the big London detective has to help them out, I suppose,’ Blount said with a sneer.

  ‘Your words, not mine. So tell me, as a matter of interest, what should I have done, eh? Kept the book to myself and not told you? Is that what you want?’

  ‘What I want is for you to go and enjoy the festival and leave us alone to get on with our job!’

  ‘Fine with me.’

  ‘Good.’

  Blount glowered as Shunter and Miss Wilderspin walked out of the front door.

  Banton filled the awkward silence. ‘So do you want the book tested for fingerpr—’

  ‘Yes!’ snapped Blount. ‘And find out where he found it!’ He stormed off to fume privately in the toilets.

  Banton smiled.

  ‘He does seem to have a chip on his shoulder,’ said Molly Wilderspin.

  ‘A chip? That’s a full hundredweight sack of sodding King Edwards he’s carrying there,’ said Shunter. ‘I’ve never met anyone so uptight. He looks like he might explode any minute.’

  Back once again in the Happy Onion, Shunter was spitting vitriol into what he had decided would definitely be his last To Die For of the day.

  ‘Okay, so some city cops might look down their noses at the constabularies. I accept that. There are snobs in every profession,’ he explained. ‘But equally there are plenty of rural officers who believe that all city cops are dodgy wide-boys with an inflated sense of their own importance. And it’s all nonsense. Cops are cops wherever they work, and different environments mean different kinds of policing are needed. None are any more or any less valid than any other. Blount is accusing me of exactly the kind of bigotry that he exhibits.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Miss Wilderspin.

  ‘I’m sorry. Rant over,’ said Shunter. ‘And I suppose I ought to be heading home.’

  ‘Are you not coming to the Helen Greeley talk?’

  ‘Not really my thing. Besides, I don’t have a ticket.’

  ‘I do, but I’m not sure if I’ll get in now. They’ve had to change to a smaller venue and it’s oversubscribed.’

  ‘Then I’ll wish you good luck and a good evening. And, if you want to pick up the search again tomorrow, I’ll meet you here at ten.’

  ‘Really? You’re very kind,’ said Miss Wilderspin.

  ‘To be honest, this isn’t about you now. Or your friend,’ said Shunter. ‘This is about pissing off Blount. Enjoy the Greeley talk.’

  ‘I will. Goodnight, Mr Shunter.’

  ‘Call me Frank. Goodnight, Molly.’

  ‘New girlfriend?’ said Vic, once she’d gone.

  ‘Hardly,’ said Shunter. ‘I’m just being the Good Samaritan. I think she might play for the other side anyway. She seems besotted with Helen Greeley.’

  ‘I’m a bit besotted myself,’ said Vic, looking at one of the posters on his pub wall. ‘Fine-looking woman.’

  ‘Bloody hell, what a day,’ said Shunter. ‘I moved to the country to get away from this kind of madness. Tell me it’s not always like this?’

  ‘It really isn’t,’ said Vic, laughing. ‘Festival weekend is always as busy as hell but there’s never any trouble. I expect it’s just a blip.’

  ‘Hmm. It’s been my experience that trouble has a tendency to snowball.’ Shunter stood up and stretched his back. ‘And, after all, there’s still a killer out there somewhere.’

  ‘Thanks for that comforting thought,’ said Vic.

  ‘Sleep well,’ said Shunter, grinning.

  Stepping outside, he watched as a police officer patrolled the crime-scene perimeter, occasionally asking a tipsy Miss Cutter look-alike to move back whenever he found them pushing too enthusiastically against the tape. He glanced back over his shoulder and saw Banton and Jai
ne moving around inside the library and felt a small pang of envy. There was no denying that he missed the buzz of an incident room. But he quickly shrugged it off. He was too old for all that now. And if being a detective these days meant working for people like Blount, he was glad to be out of it.

  He walked up the High Street whistling the theme tune from The Sweeney.

  Helen Greeley rolled on to her side and resumed her dainty snoring. The earplugs and soft quilted sleep mask had made it easy to block out the world and, to ensure that she woke in time for her talk, she’d set the alarm on her phone and tucked it under her pillow. She was something of a heavy sleeper, but the angry vibration would be more than adequate to wake her. Or would have been if Savidge hadn’t spotted it poking out from under her pillow and carefully removed it. Not knowing her pass code to turn it off, he’d thrown it out of the French windows and into the garden two floors below. He’d also unplugged the hotel phone, just in case.

  At the hotel’s reception desk things were getting fractious. The Festival Committee had turned up at 5.30 p.m. to see if Ms Greeley needed anything from them before her evening event. However, the hotel manager, acceding to the note on the actor’s door saying ‘Do not disturb’, had insisted that he would not allow anyone to knock on her door. As the minutes ticked by and the clock reached 6 p.m., relationships between the two parties had become ever more strained.

  ‘But she’s onstage in half an hour,’ explained Mr Stendish.

  ‘I appreciate that but she has indicated that she doesn’t want to be disturbed,’ said the hotel manager. ‘And, as our first duty is to the welfare and needs of our guests, we are obliged to respect her wishes. I wouldn’t want to suggest that we favour some guests more than others, but Ms Greeley is a major star and the most famous guest we’ve ever had staying here. A poor review from her could be catastrophic.’

  ‘But she might be ill.’

  ‘That seems most unlikely.’

  ‘Or had a fall,’ said Miss Clark.

  ‘With all due respect, she is not some frail pensioner,’ said the manager.

  ‘Maybe she’s taken an overdose?’ said Mr Horningtop.

  Miss Clark frowned. ‘She’s not a drug addict, Geoff.’

  ‘She does like a drink though.’

  ‘A “Do not disturb” sign generally means that someone wishes to sleep or is . . . how shall we say . . . otherwise occupied?’ said the manager. ‘Nothing sinister about that, surely?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure the way things have been happening around here this past twenty-four hours,’ muttered Mr Horningtop.

  ‘I think that you might have read too many Agnes Crabbe books,’ said the manager with a cynical smile. ‘I’m sorry but I’m not going to go against her wishes.’

  ‘But she’ll miss her appearance,’ said Mr Stendish. ‘People have paid to see her talk.’

  ‘I can’t help that. Ms Greeley’s wishes come first.’ The manager mopped his brow. ‘Dear oh dear, what an upsetting day this has been for everyone. The late Miss Tradescant was a guest here as well you know. Such a tragedy. I don’t suppose anyone will settle her bill.’

  ‘Miss Tradescant? But she’s not dead,’ said Mr Stendish.

  ‘But they said at the police press conference . . .’

  ‘Yes, I know, but the body isn’t hers after all. They just announced it. They’re now saying that she may actually be the murderer.’

  ‘A murderer? Staying in my hotel?’ said the manager, looking startled. ‘That would be most unfortunate.’

  ‘For your reputation or for your other guests?’ said Mr Horningtop snidely.

  ‘Oh god. You don’t think she’d harm anyone here, do you?’

  ‘I would have thought that harming people is what murderers do best,’ said Mr Horningtop. ‘And when was the last time anyone saw Helen Greeley?’ He arched his substantial eyebrows meaningfully.

  The manager paled and dialled the number of Helen Greeley’s room on his phone. ‘Well, in light of this new information, perhaps I ought to just check on her,’ he said. He waited patiently, biting his lower lip. ‘It’s engaged.’

  ‘Or off the hook,’ said Miss Clark.

  ‘Perhaps we could just go and knock on her door,’ said the manager, nervously. ‘As a courtesy. In case she’s feeling poorly or something.’

  Shunter smiled as he watched a group of very drunk Millies fall flat on their backsides after attempting a high-kicking cancan chorus line to the music provided by a street busker. As they got to their feet, dusting themselves down and roaring with laughter, they reminded him of a happy Beryl Cook painting, all chubby legs and big grins. Their antics would give the lads in the CCTV control room a giggle, he thought. And, all of a sudden, he was struck with an idea. Had Blount and his team considered CCTV? After all, they weren’t from the village and maybe didn’t realise that a couple of cameras had been recently installed. The system wasn’t linked to any police control room and the fact that the cameras were unobtrusively incorporated into the vintage design of the street lamps made it even less likely that Blount’s people would have noticed them. Shunter turned around and walked towards the control room, located in a flat above the Moore Tea, Vicar? café.

  Helen Greeley woke to the alarming sensation of a hand being clamped over her mouth. She scrabbled to take the sleep mask off and found herself looking at a man with a bandaged head who was mouthing silent words at her. In his other hand he held a knife. Not a very big knife, it had to be said, but a blade nonetheless and it was inches from her face. She began to hyperventilate. It was happening again. Her worst nightmare was happening all over again. The man folded and pocketed the knife with one hand while keeping the other over her mouth. He put his finger to his lips to tell her to be quiet and reached out towards her. Greeley closed her eyes in terror but then felt the earplug being pulled gently from out of her left ear.

  ‘Can you hear me now?’ said the man. His clothes were stained rusty brown with dried blood.

  Greeley nodded.

  ‘Good. I’m going to take my hand away from your mouth. If you scream or shout, I will be forced to take drastic action. So please be quiet.’

  The man slowly removed his hand and she bit her lower lip, desperately trying to subdue her instinct to scream. Memories of the previous year came flooding back . . . of the crazed fan who’d got a job as a security guard and then used his access to get close to her, to break into her house and keep her prisoner at gunpoint. He’d made her act out some of the most dramatic scenes from the TV series with him, and had told her that they were meant to be together for ever. She’d used her charm and the man’s obvious obsession with her to trick him into selecting a dress for her to wear from her walk-in wardrobe and had then managed to lock him inside while she ran for help and called 999. In her nightmares, she could still hear his frenzied screams and the sound of the bullets splintering the sturdy oak door as he tried fruitlessly to escape. He had used the last bullet on himself. The story had generated acres of newsprint and had done her career no harm at all, but it had given her a year of terrifying flashbacks and a dependence on the bottle that was sailing worryingly close to alcoholism. And now the nightmare had returned and become all too real.

  ‘That’s good,’ said the man. ‘Very good. Keep quiet like that and we’ll get on just fine. And you might want to put some clothes on.’

  Greeley suddenly realised that she was wearing nothing but some expensive and quite revealing underwear and grabbed a pillow to cover herself with. She saw, to her dismay, that her mobile phone was not underneath it.

  ‘Wait . . . I know you,’ she said shakily. ‘I saw you earlier. You were in the street. Oh god, you were covered in blood . . . what . . . what do you want?’

  ‘What do I want . . .?’ said the man and, just for a second, he didn’t look as if he knew the answer either.

  ‘Yes. What do you want?’

  ‘I ask the questions. You’ll get nothing from me except my name, rank and ser
ial number. Get dressed. We need to get moving.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Greeley. After the initial shock of finding what appeared to be some kind of middle-aged commando in her hotel suite, she had started to calm herself a little. This strangely befuddled and bloody man wasn’t anything like the cold, calculating monster who had stalked her before; he had been armed with a pistol and was quite obviously organised and dangerous, while this man seemed to be just as nervous as she was, maybe more so, and only seemed to possess a Swiss Army knife. From his breath, she could tell that he wasn’t drunk and she was pretty sure he wasn’t high on drugs either. He seemed more confused than anything else and, what’s more, he’d apparently been in her room before she’d woken up and had done her no harm, even though she was practically naked. With no false modesty, she knew that she was an attractive woman – an attractive, famous and wealthy woman – and men wanted her. But this one hadn’t taken advantage of her. This wasn’t some rabid fan who intended her harm. He was more like an escapee from a psychiatric hospital living out some odd soldier fantasy. The realisation of this gave her an unexpected boost of courage. Or perhaps it was the gin.