A Murder to Die For Read online

  ‘I’ve never met a burger van man before,’ she said, slurring her words. ‘But I reckon we have similar lives in some ways. We constantly have to look for work because there’s no steady wage. We have no regular colleagues to share a drink with. And we don’t get invited to any office parties. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I do get invited to parties – a lot of parties – but not with anyone I have any kind of meaningful relationship with. Showbiz parties are all about posing and pouting and hiding behind a facade. What I miss are the sorts of office parties where you can let your hair down and snog some bloke from accounts in the stationery cupboard and regret it in the morning; a party where we all get shit-faced and photocopy our arses. A real party with real people. Everyone thinks that the showbiz life is glamour and glitz but it’s all very shallow. And we have pressures that lots of other professions don’t have. The fans. The paparazzi. And worst of all is getting older. How old would you say I am, Stingray? Be honest.’

  ‘That’s unfair,’ said Savidge from within the wardrobe. ‘Anything I say will be wrong.’

  ‘I promise you I won’t be cross.’

  ‘Thirty-six?’

  ‘Not bad. I’m forty.’

  ‘Well, you don’t look it.’

  ‘I shouldn’t do with the amount I’ve bloody spent. But that’s the point I’m making. You can’t beat the clock. All those thousands of pounds on lifts and tweaks and tucks and plumps and all I look is four years younger than I actually am? Fuck you, Father Time. There are thousands of twenty-something wannabes out there with perfect hair and straight white teeth and perky breasts all waiting for the day that some casting director says “too dowdy” to me. And it’s going to happen, Stingray. It’s going to happen soon. And it’s so bloody frustrating as I’m a better actor now than I’ve ever been. I just won a fucking BAFTA.’

  ‘Age doesn’t matter,’ said Savidge.

  ‘Maybe not to a doctor, or a pilot, or a chef, but it matters to actresses. Age is our biggest enemy.’

  ‘Helen Mirren, Judi Dench . . . they do all right.’

  ‘Yes, but they are wise and magnificent and glamorous,’ said Greeley. ‘There are loads of roles for mature women like that. But you try to find decent roles for the slightly-over-the-hill-pushing-forty actress like me. As soon as you leave your thirties, your parts dry up. Oh! Ha ha! I could have phrased that better, couldn’t I? Ha! The point is that decent roles are as rare as hens’ teeth. Too old to get the sexy roles; too young to play the matriarch. I’m sliding towards that pit of despair, my wilderness years, playing mine host in some godforsaken gastropub in the Cotswolds. Or fucking commercials! Oh god, I could end up as the mum in some perfect nuclear family advertising cook-in-the-fucking-bag chicken.’

  ‘We all have to do whatever pays the bills,’ said Savidge, walking into the bedroom. Helen Greeley took one look at him and collapsed with laughter on the bed.

  ‘You look fantastic, darling!’ she said.

  ‘I look ridiculous,’ said Savidge. He was wearing a red cocktail dress that bulged and creaked. He hadn’t been able to get the zipper done up at the back. The outfit was set off by a double string of pearls, a hat like a velveteen bucket and Savidge’s own Dr Marten’s boots. Seeing his hostage collapsed and insensible with laughter, he began pacing again. He stopped suddenly and sniffed the air.

  ‘Can you smell something burning?’ he asked.

  Having decided that the best way to ensure that Ms Greeley’s kidnapper couldn’t escape via the balcony was to remove the means, Mrs Pollwery and Mrs Timmins had set to work on the makeshift rope. However, five minutes of pulling, swinging and hanging on it had been fruitless; Savidge’s knots were good and the wrought-iron railings to which the rope was tied were solid. They had therefore hit upon a very different idea. Finding a can of paraffin next to the heating-oil tank, they’d soaked the end of the rope, set it alight and run away.

  ‘I can definitely smell something burning,’ said Savidge as he moved around the room, sniffing.

  ‘Must be you. You’re smoking hot in that dress,’ said Greeley in paroxysms of giggles.

  ‘I’m serious. Maybe it’s just a bonfire or something.’

  He stepped out on to the balcony. Thick black smoke was rising in a column from somewhere in the gardens below. He peered over the railings and a wave of hot air hit him in the face.

  ‘They’ve set fire to the rope!’ he yelled.

  ‘What? Who has?’

  ‘I don’t know but the rope is on fire!’

  Savidge wrestled with the knot that anchored the bed sheets to the railings but he’d tied it too well and the exertions of the ladies below had tightened it still further. He rushed back into the bedroom, retrieved his penknife and then began sawing through the material. In just a few seconds, he had severed it and the burning rope fell away to his left and draped itself over the top of the heating-oil tank, which immediately bloomed with flame. He swore and rushed back inside, locking the French windows. He stared wild-eyed at Helen Greeley.

  ‘Come on,’ he said.

  Miss Berrycloth had found herself a comfortable place to sit by straddling the crotch of two fat branches. She focused on the French windows of Greeley’s bedroom. There was definitely an-other person in the room with the actress and, up until now, she’d naturally assumed it to be a man. But now the person had come out on to the balcony and, to her surprise, she saw that it was a tall woman in a red dress. It was then that she noticed the fire.

  Fed by the paraffin, the flames had quickly begun to climb the knotted sheets and, within seconds, had engulfed half of the length of the rope. Pleased with their handiwork and unnoticed by Miss Berrycloth, the two amateur arsonists had rejoined the group under the horse chestnut to watch the results of their actions.

  As flames suddenly appeared on the top of the heating-oil tank, the Millies ran away in panic. Many of them had been present during the burger van fire earlier in the day and that had been frightening enough. The idea that an entire tank of paraffin was now in danger of going up was even more terrifying. Around where pieces of the burning rope had fallen, small bushes had caught fire. It had been an unusually warm month and, despite the rain of the previous evening, everything was once again bone dry.

  ‘Someone hold the ladder. I’m coming down!’ shouted Miss Berrycloth but, just as she was placing her foot on the top rung, the ladder was knocked to the ground, leaving her stranded in the tree. She clutched at a branch for dear life and shouted for assistance.

  ‘But where are we going?’ said Greeley, suddenly a lot more sober and pulling on her shoes.

  ‘Away from here,’ said Savidge. ‘I think it’s probably just spillage around the filler cap that’s caught fire but I don’t want to be in this room if that tank blows. Come on.’

  He grabbed her hand, flipped the lock on the suite’s outer door and led her along the hotel corridor towards the lifts.

  ‘Will someone please put the ladder back!’ yelled Miss Penny Berrycloth, sitting high in the boughs of the old tree. Below her, all was chaos and panic. The carefully shaped screen of bushes hiding the unsightly heating-oil tank was now ablaze, creating an even more effective barrier than usual. Certainly, Mr Jaycocks and Mr Horningtop, who had had the sense to grab the fire extinguishers from the lobby, couldn’t get close enough to use them on the tank. Somewhere in the distance, sirens could be heard. Mr Jaycocks hoped that someone had been organised enough to call the fire brigade.

  Suddenly, a small explosion erupted near the oil tank.

  Helen Greeley heard the explosion and took decisive action. She pulled off a shoe and used the heel to smash the glass on the red fire-alarm box on the wall by the lift. A loud electronic siren began to wail with ear-shattering volume.

  ‘What did you do that for?’ shouted Savidge as they both jumped through the opening doors of the lift.

  ‘It’s an . . . emergency, isn’t . . . it?’ said Greeley. She had developed hiccups. ‘Wait . . . aren’t we supposed .
. . to not use the lifts during a . . . fire?’

  ‘To hell with that,’ said Savidge. ‘We need to get out of here fast.’

  Up and down the hotel corridors, people shuffled about in confusion. Thankfully, the majority of the Empire’s guests were Crabbe fans who were at the dance but, even so, there were still a few in their rooms, and in other people’s rooms where perhaps they shouldn’t be, and now all of them crowded into the halls and stairwells in an effort to get out as quickly as possible. Among the evacuees were reporters and camera crews who immediately spotted the potential of the situation and jumped straight into professional mode, despite being in their bathrobes and pyjamas. And, unnoticed and anonymous among the crowds, Savidge and Greeley ran too.

  ‘I think it was only a jerry can that exploded,’ said Mr Horningtop. ‘But it’s made things a lot worse. The fire is spreading.’ He pointed at what was left of the can that the two arsonist Millies had used to set fire to the rope. At the sound of the explosion, he and Mr Jaycocks had instinctively thrown themselves to the ground. That they’d chosen a flower bed that had been horse-manured only that morning was unfortunate.

  ‘There may be more explosions,’ said Mr Jaycocks. ‘We store all the old paraffin and cooking-oil cans under the tank.’

  ‘That doesn’t seem like a very safe way to do th—’

  As if on cue, another loud report signalled the destruction of a second can.

  ‘We’re too close and the fire is too big. We need to leave this to the professionals,’ said Mr Horningtop. But Mr Jaycocks didn’t hear him. He was already on his feet and running.

  From high above their heads, in the branches of a tall tree, came a tremulous cry for help that went unheard.

  ‘Where are we going?’ huffed Greeley. The screams and secondary explosions behind them had lent an extra boost of energy to their feet and they had got as far away from the hotel as they could.

  Savidge stopped to catch his breath. ‘I don’t know. But we can’t just keep running. They’ll have dogs and helicopters out looking for us shortly,’ he gasped.

  ‘Why would they be looking for us?’ asked Greeley.

  ‘That rope didn’t catch fire by accident. They’re after me.’

  ‘I don’t understand. Who is after you?’

  ‘Someone who knew that I was up in your room. They deliberately cut off my escape route.’ Savidge’s eyes had suddenly become fierce, the pupils dilated. Even through her alcoholic fug, Greeley could see that he was slipping back into another manic episode. She grabbed his face between her hands and stared into his eyes.

  ‘We’re going to be all right, Stingray,’ she said soothingly. ‘Come on. I have an idea.’

  *

  The Masonic Hall dance was in full swing. As Greeley and Savidge entered the main room, they were treated to the once-seen-never-forgotten sight of several hundred older ladies dressed as Miss Cutter and dancing the Charleston frenetically to the sounds of a five-piece jazz band. The music was so loud that no one had heard the explosions.

  ‘We just need to hang out in here for a while and then leave with everyone else,’ said Greeley. ‘It’s the perfect hideout.’

  ‘I don’t like it,’ said Savidge. ‘Someone is bound to spot you. You’re famous.’

  ‘You’d be surprised. In costume and in semi-darkness I look no different from all the other Millies in here.’

  Savidge looked around. Greeley was right; she blended in perfectly with the crowds as, indeed, did he. There was a fancy-dress competition at 11 p.m. and a few of the craftier party-goers had turned up dressed as subsidiary characters, such as Colonel Trayhorn Borwick or Miss Cutter’s beloved Aunt Pie or her good friend from the Knollshire Constabulary, Inspector Raffo. They were banking upon the fact that the fewer entrants there were in those categories, the better the chances of winning. But most had simply not bothered to change and were wearing the same outfits they’d been wearing all day. The room was full of Miss Cutters.

  ‘Besides, I’m even more disguised than usual in the new outfit,’ shouted Greeley above the music. ‘It hides two of my most distinguishing features. Come on, dance with me.’

  ‘I don’t really . . .’

  ‘Half an hour ago you didn’t do drag but look at you now. Come on, move your feet. Do you want to attract attention?’

  Begrudgingly, Savidge began to dance.

  ‘Shit,’ he said suddenly. ‘I left my wallet and all of my money in your room.’

  ‘Ah. Me too,’ said Greeley. ‘I don’t have a penny on me. And you threw away my phone.’

  ‘Mine went up with the van.’

  ‘So where do we go when we leave here? We can’t go back to the hotel.’

  ‘You can.’

  ‘Not if there’s been a fire. Where do you live?’ asked Greeley.

  ‘Over Bowcester way. But I don’t know how I’ll get there with no money. Anyway, you’re famous. People will be queuing up to offer you a bed for the night.’

  ‘Yes, and they’ll be mostly rabid fans and obsessives,’ said Greeley. ‘We could go to the police, I suppose.’ She saw the panic in his face. ‘Or not.’

  ‘Look, don’t take this the wrong way but I do know of somewhere we can go,’ said Savidge. ‘It’s a houseboat. It’s not really mine and I don’t exactly have permission to use it, but it would do for the night. It has a couple of bedrooms.’

  ‘That sounds perfect,’ said Greeley.

  ‘Least I could do.’

  ‘No, the least you could do is tell me your real name. I can’t keep calling you Stingray.’

  ‘It is my name.’

  ‘Fuck off!’

  ‘No, really. It’s Stingray Troy Phones Marina Savidge.’

  ‘Jesus. How on earth did you get a name like that?’

  ‘An arsehole of an adoptive father who was a Gerry Anderson fan,’ said Savidge. ‘All of us boys got stupid bloody names.’

  ‘No wonder you’re so pissed off all the time.’

  The song changed and suddenly everyone was doing the Lindy Hop. The music was loud but not quite loud enough to mask the sound of the hotel’s oil tank exploding.

  Frank Shunter dozed in his favourite armchair. In the distance there was a loud, deep, resonant boom. Mrs Shunter felt it through her feet.

  ‘Sounds like they’re setting off some mighty big fireworks,’ she said.

  Her husband grunted once, shifted position and began to snore.

  Mrs Shunter tutted.

  In the Incident Room, just a few buildings away from the hotel, the sound of the first exploding paraffin can made everyone jump.

  ‘What the hell was that?’ said Banton.

  ‘It sounded like a gunshot,’ said Jaine. ‘It came from the hotel.’

  There was a second loud bang and then the sound of a howling fire alarm. All of a sudden, there were people running past the front doors of the library.

  ‘Wait . . . you don’t think this is anything to do with that hostage phone call you took, do you?’ said Banton.

  ‘No,’ said Blount firmly. ‘That was just some Milly with an overactive imagination.’

  ‘Those did sound like gunshots, guv,’ said Jaine.

  ‘But there’s a fire alarm going off,’ said Blount.

  ‘Yeah, but there’s no such thing as a gun alarm, is there?’ said Jaine. ‘It could be someone hitting the alarm in panic.’

  ‘It might be worth checking out, guv,’ said Banton.

  ‘I am absolutely certain that there’s no—’

  A much louder explosion shook the whole building. Books toppled from the library shelves and Miss Tradescant’s photograph slid from the whiteboard.

  Blount’s face drained of all colour.

  In the months to come, the health-and-safety inquiry team would have much to say about the improper storage of flammables at the Empire Hotel in Nasely. Firstly, there was the fact that underneath the concrete base upon which the oil tank once stood was an area that had been used to store empty coo
king-oil drums and containers used for other noxious liquids such as paraffin, methylated spirits, cleaning fluids and diesel for the emergency generator. Secondly, the flat top of the tank had been used as a storage area for things like old carpet tiles and bits of timber. The explosion had been caused by a combination of burning material both above and below the tank, which had very quickly raised temperatures to dangerous levels. By the time the fire brigade had arrived, it had been too late to do anything other than help evacuate the hotel. Had they pumped water into the fire, the superheated steam would have speeded up the reaction. Thankfully, the tank had only been half full when it had reached ignition point, but the large amount of vapour in the void above the oil level had been sufficiently explosive to launch the entire tank thirty feet into the air and to send fragments of shrapnel even higher and further. The searing shock wave had blown off most of the upper branches of the ancient horse chestnut and all of the hair and clothes off Miss Penny Berrycloth, who had been caught in the blast and thrown over the gardens to a mercifully soft landing in the canal, suffering a number of serious but thankfully not life-threatening injuries. The blast also took down approximately 60 per cent of the rear wall of the hotel, seriously injuring five guests and causing extensive burns to a reporter from the Daily Mail who’d been masturbating in the shower and hadn’t heard the fire alarm. The authors of the inquiry report expressed the opinion that they were amazed that no one had been killed.

  Three fire engines had forced their way through the garden hedges at the rear of the hotel and had set up on the moleravaged lawns where they played water over the smouldering and exposed rooms. Their work was hampered by small explosions every few minutes as the remaining cans burst under internal pressure. A cherry picker was busy rescuing people from the flat roof where they had fled upon finding the stairwells full of other panicking guests. A police helicopter chuntered noisily overhead.