Written To Death (Alex Warren Murder Mysteries Book 3)

by Zach Abrams

  “What have you got for me?” Alex's voice resounded through the large empty hall and all but one head turned.

  Sanjay bounded from the stage while the others returned to their duties.

  “Nothing new, Boss. Just going through the formalities.”

  “Where's everyone else?” Alex asked.

  “I sent the kids and most of the teachers home. Anyone who'd been on or around the stage at the time and anyone else thought to be even remotely connected are still here. We've taken over some of the classrooms to get them out from under our feet. Also, many of them were rather upset. It's hardly surprising, really. I thought it best to keep them out of sight of the body.”

  “Good, where are they?”

  “First, we moved them to the music room next door. We have a couple of uniforms sitting in with them and we're taking them out one at a time for interview. Donny and Mary are in one room and Phil and Steve in another.”

  “Any feedback?”

  “Nothing much yet, but it's early days. The man holding the knife when she was stabbed is suffering from shock and had to be sedated, so I doubt we'll make much progress there. His name's Bert Singer. He's aged about seventy and looks pretty frail. We're lucky he's not had a coronary. One body's enough to cope with.”

  “He can't be too frail,” Alex mused, “if he's been able to carry out a lethal stabbing. What can you tell me about the knife?”

  “It's been thoroughly examined, bagged and tagged. There's nothing particularly unusual about its appearance. It has a solid steel, double-edged blade, about five inches in length. The hilt's made of heavy plastic and is another six inches long. However, there is something special about it. It's been designed especially for theatre and is one of a pair. The second one looks identical, but the blade retracts on contact. If you stab it against anything, it does no harm. They're used in performances like magic acts or stage murders as substitutes for each other. The real knife is shown first to prove how dangerous it is. Then the knives are switched and the dummy one is used for the act. It appears to cut into someone, but no harm is done.”

  “Except it didn't work this time. What went wrong? Did the blade stick or did something go wrong when they did the swap?”

  “Neither. The switch happened as planned, but there was a third knife, identical to the first and someone swapped it for the dummy one.”

  “Give me that again.”

  “Okay,” Sanjay replied. “There's meant to be two knives, a real one and a dummy. The actors watch the real one being demonstrated and see it's solid so, by default, the other must be the dummy. Then they can feel confident using it when they're exchanged. As a further security, the dummy has a little notch in the handle so the actor can tell the difference. It should be idiot proof, except in this case the dummy was replaced by a second real knife which also had the notch in the handle.”

  Alex exhaled slowly in a quiet whistle. “Could it still be an accident? Could the supplier have sent the wrong thing?”

  “Not a chance. The two knives were tested before they went onstage. They were even larking about with it, from what I've been told. Besides, we've found the dummy. It had been dropped in a litter bin in the side room offstage, the one they used for storing their costumes and props.”

  “It's definitely premeditated then,” Alex surmised.

  “It sure looks that way, Boss.”

  “Okay, give me a full rundown. How many of the group have we got here? And what can you tell me about them?”

  “Right, I've already told you about Bert. We have another twelve of the actors, or writers actually. First, there's the victim's husband, Graeme Armstrong. He's not one of the writers, but he helps with the sound and lighting. Apparently, he's in a drama group and knows about all things technical. He's an engineer in his real life.”

  “Now that is interesting,” Alex's attention fully focused. “Family are always the first suspects needing to be eliminated, and if he was at the scene and he has technical skills, then we need to closely examine his story.”

  “Yes, Boss, we have it covered. Phil and Steve are talking to him as we speak.”

  “Good, we can follow up later if necessary. What are Donny and Mary doing?”

  “You mean 'The Osmonds' or our very own pairing?” Sanjay jested.

  “That was Donny and Marie, not Donny and Mary. Anyway, I thought you're the one who slags off Phil for his schoolboy humour and bad jokes. Now here you are trying to compete. I'm tired, I can't take much more. Just fill me in,” Alex continued, labouring over his words to add emphasis.

  “Sorry, Boss. I sent them to interview Patricia Bannister. She's the group's secretary. She was standing next to Sheila when the stabbing took place.”

  “Who does that leave?”

  “The next in line are Scott Burton, Lionel and Aaron Goldstein, Fiona Wark and Debbie Quinn. Here's a list of all the Club's members noting which ones were here at the time.”

  As they were talking, they continued walking in the direction of the music room. Their progress was halted by the sound of a door slamming followed by a peal of laughter. Then they caught sight of Phil and Steve moving in their direction.

  “You would hardly credit it,” Phil's voice boomed out then stopped after spotting Alex and Sanjay.

  “Keep your voice down,” Alex barked. “It's hardly appropriate under the circumstances. Now what do you find so funny?”

  Phil looked down at his feet, embarrassed, realising his insensitivity.

  “Well, out with it,” Alex pursued.

  “We interviewed Graeme Armstrong, the husband of the victim. He told us about the play they were performing. Apparently, it was written by his wife and the story's about a group of actors performing a play when an accident takes place and one of them gets stabbed.”

  “Yes, Phil, I was aware of that already and the parallels are clear to what's actually happened. But I still don't know what you were laughing at,” Alex confronted.

  “No, it's something else I found funny. Armstrong said to us that although it was his wife's play, he'd come up with the idea for the title and his wife agreed. He called it, Abridged Too Far,” Phil replied.

  “Clever, yes, but not funny,” Alex stated. “Hardly a justification to laugh out loud.”

  “Okay, Sir, I suppose not. It appealed to me, though,” Phil answered.

  “I was quite taken with it too, Boss,” Steve added, supportively.

  “Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to put you two together,” Sanjay sighed. “More importantly, what have you found out that's relevant to the enquiry?”

  “Yes, of course, sorry. To start with, he was unusually calm. It was quite bizarre. His wife has been murdered, stabbed through the heart. Now here he is, all matter of fact, talking to us as if he was describing a television programme,” Phil replied.

  “It really was quite surreal,” Steve added. “He gave us a graphic description of what happened and showed no emotion whatsoever.”

  “He could be in shock,” Alex suggested. “Perhaps it hasn't sunk in yet, what's really happened, and he's working on autopilot. Has he been seen by a doctor?”

  “The medical crew offered to examine him, but he'd have none of it,” Steve said.

  “Well, what did you get from him?” Alex asked.

  “He seemed to be completely open. He answered everything we asked. His wife wrote the play as entries for a national competition. A number of the Association's members submitted an entry, but Sheila's was the one picked by the writing group to represent them.”

  “Interesting,” Alex replied. “Might any of the others have been aggrieved not to have been picked?”

  “I asked the same question,” Phil said. “He thought it was unlikely. He said all the submissions were examined by a sub-committee then read out at one of their meetings and Sheila's won overwhelmingly. There was no serious competition.”

  “It doesn't mean someone wasn't upset by the decision,” Sanjay posed.

 
“True,” Phil replied, “but there wasn't any suggestion of anyone taking umbrage.”

  “Early days, wait 'til we've noted everyone's version before drawing any conclusions,” Alex admonished.

  “Yes, Sir,” Phil said. “How was your holiday? I thought you weren't going to be back until tomorrow.”

  “I'm not,” Alex stated. “Or rather I shouldn't be. This is my boys' school and Sanjay rightly thought I should be told what was going on. While I had a good break, the holiday's most definitely over.”

  “And how's the lovely Sandra?” Phil persisted.

  “She's fine, at home doing the unpacking, I hope. But you should be aware that it's Inspector McKinnon to you, now she's had her promotion,” Alex chided.

  “Yes, Sir, of course, Sir, right away, Sir, three bags full, Sir,” Phil responded, while mocking a boy-scout style salute.

  Alex could only smile and shake his head as he walked away with Sanjay.

  Steve turned to Phil, “How do you get away with talking to the Chief like that?”

  “Like what? That's how I talk to everyone. But seriously, the boss is a really good guy. I've worked with him for years. Most of the time he's one of the lads, but he knows how to crack the whip when he has to. Sandra, his partner, worked in this unit too, until she got her promotion. The Boss is a lucky man. She's really smart and quite a doll, not at all bad to look at. But I'd better not let her or the Boss hear me saying it. You're new here. You just need to learn the ropes. You'll soon settle in. I'll help you.”

  “I'd appreciate it,” Steve replied. “I worked CID in Edinburgh for two years before transferring here. There was no eye candy there and my chief was a real tyrant. You were frightened to open your mouth in his presence if he didn't ask you to first. It may take me a while to adjust.”

  Chapter 3

  “Good afternoon, Ms Bannister, please take a seat,” Mary ushered while depositing a portable recorder on the table and then switching it on. “I am DC Mary McKenzie and this is DC Donald McAvoy. We're here to take your statement, to find out everything you know about what's happened, and we'll be recording all that's said. Afterwards, we'll prepare a transcript of what you've stated and we'll ask you to check to make sure it's correct and then sign it. Do you understand?” The lady had been standing staring out of the classroom window as the two police officers entered the room.

  “Of course I understand, I'm not stupid. But aren't you meant to read me my rights or something like that?”

  Patricia Bannister's voice was sharp and nippy matching her small-featured, narrow, angular face. She was tall and her slender frame slouched forward with her shoulders turned in protectively. Her movements were hesitant and belied her aggressive words.

  With thirty years of experience as an investigator, Donny immediately recognised this as her defence mechanism when facing unfamiliar circumstances.

  “A caution isn't required unless we're charging you with something,” Mary explained.

  “Should we be charging you with something?” Donny added, capitalising on her discomfort and seeking to test her.

  “Of course not,” she spat back. “I want you to tell me exactly what's going on. I'm not used to being treated like this. I was told to come into this room and wait to give my statement. That was more than an hour ago. I want you to tell me what's happened to Mr Singer. He was looking most unwell when I last saw him. I'm used to being taken seriously and treated with respect. I worked as an English teacher up until I took my retirement. So don't play me for a fool.”

  “No-one would dream of it. We're sorry you've been kept waiting, but as I'm sure you can imagine, there are a lot of very important matters to deal with besides yourself. Now, so we can get started, will you please state your name, address and occupation for our records?” Mary requested and Patricia duly obliged.

  “You've not told me yet about Bert Singer,” Patricia persisted.

  “Mr Singer had a nasty shock. He was sedated and I understand he was taken to hospital to be checked over. We won't find out any more until later. If you'll forgive me mentioning it, shouldn't you be more concerned about Sheila Armstrong?” Donny challenged.

  Patricia's face paled. “Oh, yes, of course.” She paused. “I was assuming there was nothing could be done to save her.”

  “No, I'm afraid not,” Donny confirmed. “Now, can you please tell us what you saw?” Ordinarily, Donny would take more time to settle a witness before trying to draw out their recollection of an incident. In this instance, he could tell there was nothing to be gained by delaying the inevitable.

  “Well, we were working through the script. Have you read it?”

  “No, not yet,” Mary replied. “Please explain?”

  “It's a scene round about the middle of the play. Mrs Rathbone, that's the character played by Sheila, well, she gets stabbed by her husband, and he was played by Bert. It all seemed to go as expected. Bert lifted the knife and drove it into Sheila's chest then Sheila collapsed onto the floor. I thought she was acting and doing it quite realistically. But Debbie called out saying she should have acted the fall much better and played it to the audience with more flourish. More fool her, I suppose. Then Lionel started complaining that she was wasting all the stage props and shouldn't be using the fake blood for the rehearsal. It was only then Bert realised his hands were covered and so was Sheila's chest.

  “Bert sank to his knees and let out a whine. Then everyone rushed forward. We didn't know who to look after first.

  “Someone, I'm not sure who, yelled, 'phone for an ambulance,' and then everything became chaotic. It was all a blur after that and I can't remember who said, or did, anything. Some of the school staff rushed in. I came away from the stage and sat down and can't be certain what happened. Someone said, 'I think she's dead,' and then I heard someone else say, 'It's not the first time she's died on stage but probably the most effective.' I remember laughing at the thought, because it was true, she wasn't a good actress. Then I realised how awful it was and thought that we shouldn't be making jokes about such a terrible accident. I assumed she was dead, but I wasn't certain at the time.”

  Although the classroom was warm, Patricia pulled her cardigan tightly around her shoulders as if to ward off a chill. “I suppose it was an insensitive remark under the circumstances, but people say strange things when they're nervous or shocked.” These words were spoken in little more than a whisper, expressed more as a comfort and a justification for herself than a statement to the officers.

  “Can we get you a cup of tea or coffee?” Mary offered.

  “No, I never touch caffeine. A good stiff brandy is called for, but I'd better not, I need to drive home to get back for Sammy, to make his supper.”

  “Is Sammy your partner?” Mary asked innocently.

  “In a manner of speaking, he is. He's my cat and the closest living creature to me.”

  “Do you have any family?” Mary enquired.

  “I'm a widow, my husband died eight years ago. My son lives near Motherwell, but I haven't seen him or his family for years. He's married with two children, but I've never met them. His wife's a strange one and won't let him or the children visit. The last contact I had was two years ago when he sent me a letter advising of his new address. I thought he was trying to resume contact and sent a 'welcome to your new home' card and flowers. Then she phoned me to ask why I'd sent it and told me she didn't want any contact. I asked her, if that was the case, then why had my son sent me the letter? Do you know what she said? She told me, it was for me to update my papers in case anything happened. The callous bitch only wanted me to correct the contact details in my will.” Tears were welling up in Patricia's eyes.

  Donny was unmoved, but Mary looked on sympathetically. “You've had a bad shock. Is there a friend or neighbour who you can go back to? It would be best if you weren't alone.”

  “It's all right, I'll be fine.”

  “There are a few more questions we'd like to ask you if you're up to it?” Donny
continued.

  “Okay, yes,” she conceded. “Go on.”

  “Were you aware of the trick knives and how they worked?”

  “Yes, we all were. It was Graeme who purchased them. I'm sure he said he'd bought them over the internet. He brought them to the meeting we had last week and showed us all how they worked. In one of the early scenes a knife is used and the audience sees Bert with it. He then places it in a box on the sideboard. Hidden inside is the fake knife and when it comes to the murder scene he lifts the fake one out of the box. What went wrong? Did Bert lift the wrong knife? Was it his fault?”

  “We're still investigating so we can't tell you anything at the moment, but, as far as you were aware, were there only two knives?” Donny asked.

  “Yes, that's how they came. They were kept in the container they were delivered in. It has inserts for the two knives. Why? Do you think there were more?”

  “We're still checking, but we need to look at every option,” Donny replied. “To move on, can you tell me if Sheila had been fighting with anyone? Had she upset anyone who may have had a reason to want to hurt her?”

  “I really couldn't say,” Patricia turned her head away, to avoid meeting their gaze.

  “Couldn't or would prefer not to?” Donny challenged.

  “I don't know anything.”

  “You must tell us anything you have knowledge of,” Mary probed. “We're treating this as a murder enquiry and we need to identify anyone with a motive, however tenuous.”

  “Murder? Surely not?”

  “We need to consider every possibility,” Mary explained.

  “Yes, I understand,” Patricia's tone was unconvincing.