by Sally Rigby
‘Crap. The media won’t give us a moment’s peace once they find out. We need to get onto this pronto. Text me the club’s address and I’ll head out to the scene. Meet me there.’
Ryan Armstrong was more than just a famous snooker player. He was Lenchester’s biggest celebrity and most people in the area were aware of who he was. Whitney knew nothing about snooker, but she knew of him. His face was always on the telly, as so many companies used him to advertise and endorse their products. He was also known for the charity work he did locally.
She turned to Tiffany. ‘I’m really sorry, love, but something’s come up and I’ve got to go out.’
‘I realised that from listening to your side of the conversation. Don’t worry about me, I’m going to sit here and relax. And probably eat my body weight in Mars Bars as that’s all I seem to be doing recently. I don’t know how I’m going to get rid of the extra pounds afterwards.’ She grabbed hold of her tummy and wobbled it.
‘It will soon drop off because you’ll be running around after the baby. I’ll try not to be too long, but you know what these things are like.’
‘Another murder?’
‘It looks like it. Ryan Armstrong, the snooker player.’
‘Oh, no,’ Tiffany said, raising her hand to her mouth. ‘That’s awful. He was at the uni a couple of years ago doing a show. He did some awesome trick shots. What happened?’
‘This is between us, obviously, he was shot in a car park next to the snooker club he owned. I’m going to call George to see if she’s around and can meet me there. Contact me if anything urgent happens. I’ve no idea when I’ll be back. I’ll try not to wake you if it’s late.’
As Whitney left the house to get into her car, her phone pinged with the address.
She hit speed dial for George.
‘We’ve got a murder,’ she said once her friend had answered. ‘Can you meet me at the scene? It’s’ – she paused while opening the message – ‘the Palace Snooker Club in Fletcher Street. The body was found in the car park next door. The victim’s a professional snooker player and local celebrity, so this will be high profile. I’ll need you on it from the start.’
‘You’re lucky to catch me. If I hadn’t come home to collect a book I’d forgotten, I’d have been at Ross’s and it would have taken me a while to get to you. I’ll be with you in twenty minutes at the most.’
‘Great. By the way, what do you know about snooker?’
‘Nothing.’
‘That makes two of us.’
Chapter 3
George drove down Fletcher Street, stopping when she reached the police cars and a cordon across the entrance to a car park. She parked on the other side of the road and got out of her car, scanning the area to see if Whitney had arrived, but there was no sign of her. Claire Dexter, the pathologist, was there, as evidenced by her car, an immaculate MGC which George coveted each time she set eyes on it. She was about to go over to take a look when Whitney pulled up behind, so instead she went to meet the officer.
‘I see Claire’s here,’ Whitney said, nodding at the car.
‘Yes, but I haven’t spoken to her.’
They crossed the road and went over to Whitney’s sergeant, Brian, who was standing close to the two uniformed officers stationed by the entrance to the cordoned off area.
‘Is SOCO here yet?’ she asked him.
‘They’re on their way. Dr Dexter arrived about ten minutes ago and headed straight for the body, which is in the silver Lexus parked down there in the corner.’ He pointed down the short drive which ran along the side of the building housing the snooker club.
‘Who found the victim?’
‘Molly Arthur, who works at the club, when she arrived for work about forty-five minutes ago. She’s in a state of shock and is in a police car with one of the PCs.’ He nodded in the direction of a police car stationed close by. George could see the shadow of two people on the back seat.
‘We’ll check out the body before we speak to her.’ Whitney took the log from the officer by the cordon and signed herself, Brian and George in.
They headed down the entrance of the disused piece of land that was used for parking and turned left as it went behind the red-brick building. Claire was on the far side, standing next to the car which was facing the back wall, its door open, pointing her camera inside.
‘Hello,’ Whitney called out as they approached.
‘Don’t come any further I haven’t finished,’ Claire shouted, not even bothering to look up and acknowledge them. Typical Claire behaviour, and what they’d all become used to.
George strained to see inside the car. The man was against the door, his head slightly to one side. There were some blood splatters on the windscreen, but not enough to bother her. She’d mainly got over her blood aversion, thanks to hours of hypnotherapy, but occasionally when faced with large amounts it still affected her.
‘Was he shot?’ Whitney asked.
‘Yes, but I won’t know whether that was the cause of death until he’s on the table at the morgue,’ Claire said.
‘Time of death?’
‘Sometime between 11 p.m. and 4 a.m.’
‘We’ll come and see you for the post-mortem. Do you recognise him?’ Whitney asked.
‘Of course, I do. I don’t live on the ark. He’s Ryan Armstrong the snooker player.’
Claire knew about snooker? George wasn’t one to prejudge, but she certainly hadn’t expected that.
‘You’re a snooker fan?’ Whitney said, shaking her head, most likely thinking the same as George.
‘In last year’s world championship, our man here’ – Claire waved her hand in the direction of the victim – ‘played one of the best shots I’ve ever seen at a time when the pressure and stakes couldn’t be higher. The white ball headed towards the corner pocket and it hit the edge at a tight angle and then came back and hit the red, which was halfway up the table on the opposite side. It was the turning point of the match and he went on to make a 147, maximum break. Extraordinary play. The man was a genius.’
Fascinating. Perhaps she should look more into the intricacies of the sport.
‘I’ll take your word for it. I know nothing about snooker,’ Whitney said. ‘Nor does George. But irrespective of that, this investigation will be under public scrutiny as he’s one of the country’s top sportsmen and a local celebrity. It’s an extremely high-profile case, and once the media hears what’s happened they’ll be on our backs the entire time. You might want to be on your guard because, no doubt, you’ll be scrutinised, too.’
‘They can try,’ Claire said, giving a frustrated sigh. ‘Despite who the victim is, I really didn’t want to be here on a Sunday. Ralph and I had plans.’
Whitney glanced at George. No doubt she’d have something to say about Claire sharing her private life with them once they were alone.
‘Weren’t you on duty?’ George asked, surprised Claire was complaining as she should have expected the possibility of being called out to deal with a suspicious death.
‘I wasn’t meant to be, but it turned out the person on duty was ill, so I was called in at the last minute. Typical. They assume that I’ll stand in however little notice they give.’
‘You know you enjoy it,’ Whitney said, raising an eyebrow. ‘And at least it wasn’t first thing this morning. I know how you love early call outs.’
If the pathologist had her way, all deaths would happen in the afternoon. She was even more cantankerous than usual when called out to a crime scene before noon, as George and Whitney had witnessed on many occasions.
‘True. But I still had plans that had to be cancelled, which was irritating, to say the least. Now, if you could all leave, I’d like to get on.’
Having been dismissed, they headed back the way they’d come.
‘Brian, I want you to go into the snooker club and interview the staff. After George and I have spoken to the member of staff who found him, we’re going to the victim’s house, as
his family needs to be informed. We’ll meet you back at the station later.’
‘Yes, guv,’ he said, striding on ahead of them.
‘What’s with Claire and all the personal details?’ Whitney said, after they were out of earshot of both the pathologist and Brian. ‘And she’s a snooker fan, as well. In a million years, I’d never have guessed that. It’s like we’ve been dropped onto another planet.’
Whitney’s propensity for hyperbole was often a source of amusement to George.
‘I suspected you would mention her disclosures—’
‘Sorry if I’m so predictable, but you have to agree that it’s weird when half the time she acts as if she hardly knows us, even though she does, and then suddenly we get some insight into life with her new husband, plus learn about her snooker addiction.’
‘Discovering that she enjoyed snooker was most unexpected. Although I’d hardly categorise her enjoyment of the game as an addiction.’
‘You would say that. Come on, let’s have a word with Molly Arthur. Hopefully, she’s calmed down enough to help.’
They headed up to the officers standing by the cordon. ‘Jade, which officer is with the woman who found the body?’
‘PC Brigstock, guv. They’re over there.’ She pointed to one of the police cars.
They headed over and the officer got out.
‘Guv,’ he said. ‘I’m with Molly Arthur.’
‘Is she calm enough to talk to us?’
‘Yes, I think so. Do you want to sit in the car with her?’
‘Yes, that’s easiest. You stay out here, we don’t want to overcrowd her.’
Whitney got into the back seat next to the woman, and George sat in the front. ‘Hello, Molly, I’m DCI Walker and this is Dr Cavendish. How are you doing?’
‘Okay, I think,’ she said sniffing. ‘I keep seeing his face, and the blood and … It was … just …’
‘Are you up to explaining exactly what happened when you arrived for work this morning?’ Whitney asked gently.
The woman tensed and gave a sharp nod.
‘I-I start at ten-thirty on a Sunday and drove into the car park, as usual, noticing that Ryan’s car was there. I was surprised because I knew he was having his monthly boys’ night at his house last night and that he hadn’t intended coming in to the club today.’
‘Would he often tell you his social plans?’
‘No, but we all knew about the monthly get-together with his friends.’
‘What happened after you noticed his car.’
‘I could see a shadow in there, so I went to take a look, thinking it might be him. I got up close and saw his body leant against the door, and his head tipped back, with his eyes open, staring into space. There was blood on his clothes. I screamed.’ Her hands were in tight balls in her lap.
‘Did you open the car door?’
‘No. I phoned 999. The operator told me not to do anything and wait for the police, which I did. But I saw him more clearly when they opened the passenger door. His face … it was …’ She leant forward, her face in her hands, and began sobbing.
Whitney rested her arm around the woman’s shoulder. ‘We’ll leave it for now. Thank you for your help. We do require a statement from you at the station, but that can wait until you’re feeling a bit better.’
George and Whitney left the car.
‘Arrange for someone to take Ms Arthur home, please,’ Whitney said to PC Brigstock who was standing close by.
‘Yes, guv.’
‘Come on George, we’ll go to see the family.’
Chapter 4
‘Marsden House, Pennington Grove,’ Whitney said, as George drove them to the victim’s house. ‘Snooker must be extremely lucrative to live in a mansion like this.’
‘Technically, a house is only classed a mansion if it’s over eight thousand square feet. Which I’m unsure whether this is. Regarding his income, he most likely makes his money from advertising and promotional events, like other sportspeople,’ George said, driving through the open wrought-iron gates and up to the front of the house where an old Toyota Corolla was parked.
‘Stop nitpicking. He’s clearly loaded.’
Whitney sucked in a breath as they headed to the front door. However many times she went through the process of informing a family of their loved one’s death, it never got any easier. If anything, she found it harder now because she could anticipate their response.
She used the brass knocker and tapped it against the door several times.
After a few minutes a woman in her fifties, wearing an apron, answered.
‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Whitney Walker and this is Dr Cavendish.’ She held out her warrant card for the woman to check. ‘Is Mrs Armstrong home?’
‘No, she isn’t. She and Sienna, that’s her daughter, stayed the night with her mum and dad to keep out of the way because Mr Armstrong had his friends round. She hasn’t arrived back yet. I don’t know where Mr Armstrong is. I was expecting him to be here when I arrived.’
‘And you are?’
‘Chelsea Caswell. I’m their cleaner. Well, more than a cleaner. I do lots of jobs for them when they need me to.’ A proud expression crossed her face.
‘You work Sundays?’ Whitney asked.
‘Not usually, but when Naomi, Mrs Armstrong, asked me I said yes because we need the money. My husband lost his job recently, so we only have one wage coming in. She told me to come in at eleven-thirty to clear up because Mr Armstrong’s friends usually made a mess, and she didn’t want to deal with it herself.’
‘What did you do when you found Mr Armstrong wasn’t here?’
‘I went into the kitchen to start washing the glasses, which had been put by the sink on the draining board. Mrs Armstrong doesn’t like them going into the dishwasher because she says that it ruins them.’
‘Were you surprised at seeing the glasses there? You mentioned Mr Armstrong and his friends always left the place in a mess.’ George said.
‘That was Mrs Armstrong’s view but I don’t agree. Mr Armstrong and his friends are nothing like my husband and his mates. They’d have left bottles and glasses all over the place. Mr Armstrong always brings the glasses and plates up from the games room in the basement after his friends have been here.’
‘Were there no plates this time?’ George asked.
‘No. They must still be in the basement. To be honest, I haven’t been downstairs yet.’
Had Armstrong been interrupted by someone, or something, and he’d gone out to meet someone in the car park?
‘May we come inside to see the games room?’ Whitney asked.
‘Has something happened?’
‘We’re not at liberty to discuss this with you, but if you could show us the games room, it would be a great help.’
‘Um … Okay.’ She opened the white door, and they entered, going through the porch and into a large, square entrance hall. ‘I hope Mrs Armstrong won’t mind.’
‘We’ll explain it all to her. I’m sure it will be fine,’ Whitney said, wanting to reassure the woman.
‘It’s in the basement,’ Chelsea said, taking them across the hall to an open door with stairs going down.
‘You stay here, we’ll go on our own,’ Whitney said.
‘I’ll wait here for you.’ Chelsea stepped to one side so they could pass.
‘Wow,’ Whitney said as they reached the bottom. ‘This is some games room.’
It was huge and had two full-sized snooker tables, two fruit machines and a table tennis table. Along the walls were dark red sofas with low tables in front of them.
‘He must have begun clearing up and was interrupted,’ George said, nodding at the plates stacked up on one of the tables.
‘If that’s the case, why? And by whom? We need his phone so we can trace any calls. Claire might have it at the morgue.’
After having a quick look around, they returned upstairs to where the cleaner was waiting.
‘Thank you, C
helsea. Do you have the address for Mrs Armstrong’s parents?’
‘Yeah. I helped at a party they had last year. They live at 160 Windsor Close.’
‘I know the area. Please, can you let me have your contact details, as we may wish to speak to you again.’ Whitney pulled out her notepad and pen from her pocket and handed it to her. ‘I’d also like you to go home now and stop cleaning.’
‘B-but Mrs Armstrong won’t want it to be messy.’
‘I’ll let her know we sent you home. We’ll see ourselves out.’
Once they’d returned to the car, George keyed the address into the satnav. ‘Do you think Chelsea will contact Mrs Armstrong and let her know we’ve been?’
‘She doesn’t know about Ryan’s death so, it won’t be a problem.’
The parents’ house, in Windsor Close, was only a ten-minute drive and when they arrived Whitney knocked on the door. An older man answered.
‘We’re looking for Naomi Armstrong. I’m Detective Chief Inspector Walker and this is Dr Cavendish.’ She held out her warrant card. ‘Is she here?’
‘Yes. I’m Bruce Dixon, her dad.’
‘We’d like to come in and speak to Naomi.’
His body tensed, and his grip tightened around the edge of the door. ‘Has something happened?’
‘We’ll explain to Naomi when we come in.’
He opened the door and ushered them inside. ‘Cheryl,’ he called, urgency in his voice. A woman in her fifties scurried into the hall. ‘This is my wife. It’s the police, do you know where Naomi is?’
‘She’s in the day room playing with Sienna. What is it?’ Her panicked tone hung in the air.
‘Is there someone who could stay with Sienna?’ Whitney asked, her voice sounded calm, but the lines around her eyes were pulling tight.
‘I will.’ Mrs Dixon turned to her husband. ‘Take the officers into the front room and I’ll send Naomi in.’
They followed Mr Dixon and stood in the centre of the room beside a white marble fireplace. After a few seconds a young woman, who looked to be in her late twenties rushed in.
