A Murder to Die For Page 16

‘I don’t need telling twice,’ said Shunter. ‘Just go easy on Savidge. He’s probably not the man you’re after. I can’t really call the guy a friend and he’s very difficult to get on with, but I’ve never known him to be violent and I really can’t see him murdering anyone.’

  ‘I’ll do what I can,’ said Jaine.

  At the Empire Hotel, Miss Clark returned the phone to the receptionist. ‘Well, he was very rude,’ she said.

  ‘He didn’t take you seriously?’ asked Mr Jaycocks.

  ‘Not at all. Perhaps I forgot to tell them something pertinent?’

  ‘I think it’s more that DI Blount is a complete arse,’ said Mr Horningtop.

  ‘Tell me again why you think Ms Greeley is being held captive?’ said Mr Jaycocks.

  Mr Horningtop tapped his smartphone. ‘It says here on this website that in My Brother’s Keeper there is a character called Honoria Gilderdale who discovers that she has a long-lost older brother whose reappearance threatens her inheritance. So she invites him to her house, drugs him and then locks him away in an attic room for years, denying to all and sundry that he even exists. It’s a storyline that Ms Greeley would be very familiar with because My Brother’s Keeper was dramatised in her last TV series. It’s the episode that won her a BAFTA.’

  ‘So you think that she’s being held against her will in her suite?’ said Miss Clark. ‘And that’s why she used the name Gilderdale . . . as a form of code?’

  ‘Yes. And may I remind you all that she used the words “when I’m free”, which suggests to me that she isn’t free now?’

  ‘Oh god,’ said Mr Jaycocks.

  ‘She was kidnapped before, by that security guard,’ said Mr Stendish. ‘It couldn’t be him again, could it?’

  ‘I thought he shot himself?’ said Mr Horningtop.

  ‘Oh god,’ said Mr Jaycocks again, imagining the tabloid headlines.

  ‘So what are we going to do about it?’ said Miss Clark. ‘If the police have made it clear that they’re not at all interested . . .’

  ‘Then we need to provide them with hard evidence,’ said Mr Stendish.

  ‘But how? We can’t force our way into her room,’ said Mr Jaycocks. ‘It would be a monstrous breach of privacy if we’re wrong.’

  ‘Plus, her captor might panic and hurt her,’ said Miss Clark. ‘I’ve heard that happens sometimes.’

  ‘We need the help of an expert in kidnapping,’ said Mr Horningtop.

  ‘Then you’re in luck,’ said Miss Clark. ‘The village is full of them.’

  ‘The Millies?’ said Mr Jaycocks.

  ‘Let’s face it, they’ve probably read more kidnap plots than any Scotland Yard detective ever has,’ said Miss Clark. ‘And, besides, they’re all we have.’

  Helen Greeley had poured herself another gin and tonic and was feeling strangely relaxed, considering her position. She perched on the edge of her bed, watching the man she only knew as ‘Stingray’ pace up and down. He reminded her, in a curious way, of a polar bear that she’d once seen in a distressing online video. The poor beast had been driven insane by captivity in some Eastern European zoo. And, just like the bear, all of the wild savagery and power you’d expect to see had somehow been stripped from this man and replaced by a kind of tragic acceptance of circumstances. Besides, he wasn’t a bad-looking chap, she thought, and, despite his earlier threats, he didn’t give off that aura of danger you got when face to face with truly evil people. It occurred to her that what she was currently feeling was more like sympathy for the man than fear for her own safety. She was intrigued.

  ‘I’ve had my share of experience with lunatic fans and you don’t strike me as the stalker type,’ she said. She tipped her drink down her throat in one. ‘These days I can spot a psycho a mile off, and the fact is that when you first came into my room I was half naked on the bed and you behaved yourself. I’d have woken up if you’d tried to cop a feel, so I know that you didn’t. That tells me that this isn’t sexual and you don’t want to harm me. I’m right, aren’t I? Oh, be a darling and get another bottle, will you? There’s one in my luggage. This one’s empty and my legs are tied together.’

  Savidge harrumphed and walked to the dressing room. His faculties had now fully returned and he was under no illusions as to just how much trouble he was in. He was then struck with a sudden idea. He returned to the bedroom with the fresh bottle and poured her a quadruple measure of gin and topped it up with tonic. Perhaps if he got her plastered enough she’d forget the whole incident. Or at least be hazy enough about the details to make his role in it less incriminating.

  ‘Ta. Bottoms up.’ She downed half of the glass in one slug, apparently oblivious to its potency. ‘Look, it’s not all doom and gloom. There’s no reason why we can’t sort this mess out and go our separate ways, is there? I mean to say, the worst thing that’s happened to me today is a little prick with a knife.’ She burst out laughing.

  Savidge raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Unfortunate choice of words,’ she said. ‘Blame the booze. The lovely, lovely booze. So tell me, Mr Codename Stingray, what do you want from me? Money? Some signed books or DVDs? A set visit when we film the next series? Most things are doable. Can we negotiate?’

  Savidge considered her words. As things stood, he was likely to be facing charges of criminal trespass, possibly aggravated burglary, GBH, unlawful imprisonment . . . the list was long and so would be his sentence. Even if he managed to persuade the court that he’d been suffering with a short-term psychological illness, he’d still be looking at an indefinite stay at some high-security clinic for tests and observation, which was no better than a prison sentence and would probably involve a lot more injections. Perhaps, if she was a woman of her word, she really might let him off in return for her release. After all, he’d done her no real physical harm except for that one small incident with the knife, which even she was now admitting was an accident. Trusting her was a big risk, he knew. But what choice did he have?

  ‘Yes,’ he said finally. ‘We can negotiate.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Greeley. ‘Let’s toast that with a little drinkie. And, as a show of goodwill, can you untie my legs now? I’m so pissed they barely work anyway.’

  Shunter left the library and strolled along the still busy High Street. Loud blasts of music and mutterings of ‘one-two, one-two’ were coming from the Masonic Hall as the people running the evening dance set up their equipment and tested the sound levels. Millies of all shapes and sizes were already flooding towards it. The hotel, meanwhile, also seemed to have a large crowd gathered in the foyer and a number of people were visible in the breakfast room. Some Agnes Crabbe-related fan event, no doubt. He then spotted Miss Wilderspin hobbling painfully along the street towards him.

  ‘Hello again,’ he said. ‘No room at the talk?’

  ‘I got in. But Helen Greeley didn’t show up.’

  ‘And with everything that’s happened today, I suppose people are already suggesting that she’s been abducted or kidnapped?’ said Shunter, with a knowing smile.

  Miss Wilderspin nodded.

  ‘She’s probably just being a diva,’ said Shunter. ‘There will be a logical reason for her not turning up, just wait and see. There’s no reason for people to get melodramatic.’

  ‘Such an upsetting day,’ said Miss Wilderspin. ‘I think I’ll go back to my hotel room and read. I doubt that I’ll sleep very much tonight.’

  ‘Good idea. I’m off home myself. See you in the morning if you feel up to it.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll wear some sensible shoes this time,’ said Miss Wilderspin. She smiled wanly and set off towards the Empire Hotel. Shunter watched her go and then yawned. It was only early evening but he’d had a long day, a lot of fresh air and way too much beer. He turned left at the pub and walked up the Coxeter Road towards his cottage.

  ‘. . . and that’s why we suspect that there may be someone keeping her hostage inside her room,’ said Mr Stendish above the murmur of voices in the breakf
ast room.

  The Festival Committee had sought out the heads of the various Agnes Crabbe fan clubs in the hope that their combined knowledge of criminal investigation might help them with their difficult situation. It was somewhat ominous to discover that, of them all, only Penny Berrycloth of the Cutter Crime Club, Claire Timmins of the Agnes Crabbe Society, Lindsay Packering of the Crabbe and Cutter Club, Elspeth Cranmer-Beamen of the Miss Cutter Mysteries Fan Club and Anthea Pollwery from the Agnes Crabbe Detective Club were available. All of the other fan-club presidents were either dead, murdered or had gone missing in the past twenty-four hours. Mrs Dallimore was AWOL too. Even those who didn’t normally put any credence in conspiracy theories were beginning to waver. Therefore, in the absence of any better ideas, the committee had widened the invitation to include anyone who might be interested in contributing ideas, a decision they were now regretting as the room was packed full of Millies all clamouring to put forward their theories and offer advice before heading off to the dance.

  ‘If there have been no demands, then surely it’s not a hostage situation,’ said Miss Penny Berrycloth. ‘Are you sure it’s not a stalker?’

  ‘But he’s dead,’ said Mrs Timmins. ‘He shot himself.’

  ‘It doesn’t have to be the same stalker,’ said Miss Berrycloth. ‘Helen Greeley has thousands of fans. There is bound to be a percentage of wrong ’uns among them.’

  ‘It could be a woman stalker insane with jealousy,’ lisped Mrs Pollwery, who’d been in such a rush to attend that she hadn’t put her dentures in.

  ‘If you’re saying that Ms Greeley is using the plot of My Brother’s Keeper to send us a coded message, perhaps we should think about the plot of the book?’ suggested Miss Berrycloth.

  ‘Good idea,’ said Miss Clark. ‘What did Miss Cutter do in the story? How did she solve the crime?’

  ‘The first thing she did was to make sure that it really was Cedric Gilderdale locked in the attic room before calling Inspector Raffo,’ said Mrs Timmins.

  ‘There’s a wonderful scene where she charms Honoria’s guard dogs before climbing the wisteria,’ added Mrs Pollwery. ‘She sings to them. Go to sleep, my ba-by . . .’

  ‘We need to know what’s happening in Ms Greeley’s room,’ said Miss Berrycloth.

  ‘My ba-by, my ba-by, my ba-hey-beee,’ crooned Mrs Pollwery.

  ‘Tell me . . . which side of the building is her suite?’ asked Miss Berrycloth. ‘Front or back? And what floor?’

  ‘The Victoria Suite enjoys wonderful second-floor balcony views of the gardens and canal,’ said Mr Jaycocks with consummate professionalism.

  ‘I see. And the garden . . . does it have any mature trees?’

  ‘Several. Why?’

  ‘And could you see into Ms Greeley’s suite from the top of one of them?’

  ‘I imagine so. That’s if anyone wanted to.’

  ‘I’d want to!’ shouted an undeniably male voice from somewhere among the Millies.

  ‘I imagine there’s no shortage of people who’d want to,’ said Mr Horningtop. ‘I’m amazed the trees aren’t full of paparazzi already.’

  ‘What are you thinking?’ asked Mrs Timmins.

  ‘I’m thinking of reconnaissance,’ said Miss Berrycloth. ‘Now, has anyone got a pair of binoculars I could borrow? And a long ladder?’

  ‘So what you’re saying is that you weren’t responsible for your actions?’ asked an increasingly squiffy Helen Greeley. ‘That you suffered a kind of temporary insanity?’

  ‘Insanity is a bit strong, but yes, I suppose I did,’ said Savidge. ‘It’s been happening to me since I was a kid. Something, usually a stressful situation, sets me off and suddenly it’s like I’m no longer in control of myself. I worried for years that I was schizophrenic. But, apparently, it’s just some sort of chemical imbalance in a part of my brain. And the fact that there’s never been any stability in my life just makes me more prone to attacks.’

  ‘Can’t they give you anything for it?’

  ‘They do, but the tablets make me so sleepy. You can’t afford to be half asleep all the time when you’re self-employed.’

  ‘I can relate to that,’ said Greeley. ‘Same with acting. My doctor prescribes me pills for my anxiety but you have to be a trouper in this job, no matter how crappy you feel. If I take the tablets, I get lethargic and I don’t give a damn. That’s no good to me. If I lose my edge, they’ll just go and give the part to some younger, prettier cow. It’s a bitch-eat-bitch world, trust me. Another drink?’

  ‘Not for me.’

  ‘This does the same job as the tablets and tastes a damned sight better,’ said Greeley as she poured herself another triple.

  ‘I know. I have a brother who controls his rages by staying too drunk to do any harm.’

  ‘He has the same condition as you?’

  ‘Yes. He’s a vicar. The booze works for him because being permanently pissed isn’t that much of a workplace issue in his job. But it is for me.’

  ‘So what do you do, Mr Self-employed Stingray? I mean, apart from holding TV stars hostage.’

  ‘I have a burger van. Or I had a burger van. It got destroyed today.’

  ‘Oh god, was that the fire on the green earlier?’

  ‘That was the start of everything going wrong,’ said Savidge. ‘Not that anyone will have any sympathy. They’ll just say “claim on the insurance”, like it’s that simple. But first there will be a big investigation involving the police and the fire brigade. And then the insurance company will want their pound of flesh. Then, if they do agree to pay out – and that’s a big if – I’ll have to get a new van, have it kitted out, apply for permits and pay for safety checks. Then I’ll have to restock. And all of this when I’m earning no money, of course. I now have to start from scratch and, on top of it all, I’ve done this to you.’

  ‘I think your day has been considerably crappier than mine,’ said Greeley. ‘Go on, have a drink.’

  ‘I’ve never harmed anyone. Except in self-defence, that is. I want you to know that,’ said Savidge. ‘That thing with the knife was an accident. You do know that you could just walk out of here now, right?’

  ‘I could. But I won’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it’s my fucking room.’

  ‘Maybe I will have a drink after all.’

  ‘Good boy,’ said Helen Greeley, lifting her glass in a toast. ‘Cin-cin! ’

  ‘Can you see anything at all?’ asked Mr Jaycocks. Above him, in the branches of a substantial horse chestnut, Miss Berrycloth peered through her binoculars.

  ‘I see some movement,’ she said. ‘There’s someone in the bedroom with her, but I can’t tell who. The net curtains are closed. The two of them seem to be having a drink together.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound like a hostage situation,’ said Miss Clark.

  The members of the Festival Committee stood at the base of the tree. They’d been joined by the fan-club presidents, all keen to find out what was happening in Helen Greeley’s suite.

  ‘That’s odd,’ said Miss Berrycloth. ‘There’s a rope or something tied to the balcony railings that goes down to the ground.’

  ‘Maybe that’s how the kidnapper got in?’ lisped Mrs Pollwery.

  ‘Maybe that’s how the kidnapper intends to get out,’ said Mrs Timmins.

  ‘We should stop him.’

  The two women sneaked away together.

  ‘Very nice,’ said Savidge.

  ‘No it isn’t, and you know it isn’t,’ said Greeley. She had stumbled from the walk-in wardrobe dressed in another of her Miss Cutter outfits. It was certainly less flattering than the previous one, and Savidge thought that it made her look older, but he didn’t dare say so. He swigged his gin and tonic. He was starting to feel the effects of the alcohol himself now; his extensive blood loss earlier in the day was undoubtedly helping to accelerate his intoxication.

  ‘We have a new costume designer and this is what she’s expecting me to w
ear for the next series,’ said Greeley. ‘And without wanting to sound self-pitying, you know as well as I do that it does nothing for my figure. Where are my curves? Where are my tits for god’s sake?’

  ‘You look okay to me,’ said Savidge.

  ‘It’s for authenticity, she says. The flatter chest was fashionable in the olden days, she says. But the costume is doing me no favours. I look like a tube of toothpaste. I hate it and I know that the fans will hate it and, before you know it, the tabloids will be saying I’m too old and they’ll replace me with someone younger.’

  ‘You’ll be fine.’

  ‘I wish I had your confidence. My topless scenes worry me more and more every year. Everything is sagging. All I see in my immediate future is obscurity or playing the mum of a younger starlet in some poxy soap.’

  ‘You look fine,’ repeated Savidge. ‘Honest.’

  ‘I look like a man in drag.’ Greeley took a deep swig from her glass. ‘You’d look more feminine in this dress than I do.’ She suddenly laughed.

  ‘What?’

  A cheeky grin spread across her face. ‘Do you realise that you’re probably one of the few men in Nasely who isn’t in drag today?’

  ‘Health and safety,’ said Savidge. ‘Can’t have loose wigs and hats falling on to the hot plate. Can’t have pearls dangling in the deep fat fryer.’

  ‘Go on, dress up for me,’ said Greeley. ‘You’d look great as Miss Cutter.’

  ‘Not my thing.’

  ‘Oh, go on, do it for me. There are several spare costumes in there and you’re just about slim enough to get into one of the looser summer frocks. The pleats allow for some expansion.’

  ‘No, I’m fine really.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what. You dress up for me and I promise that you’ll walk away from here and nothing will ever be said about what’s happened today. How’s that?’

  ‘That’s blackmail.’

  Helen Greeley fingered the small wound on her chest and exaggeratedly winced in pain. Savidge made a grumpy noise and stomped into the walk-in wardrobe. Greeley poured them both another drink.