by Faith Martin
‘Oh, but I’m sure that can be circumvented,’ she purred. ‘These things always can be, can’t they? If, say, you noticed a fire regulation not being met – or a problem in the wiring that would need to be fixed before a performance could go on. You must know ways and means of wangling out of a contract when it suits you, Dennis,’ she purred.
Her companion, halted mid-flight, shifted uneasily on his feet, and regarded her doubtfully. What on earth was the awful woman getting at? ‘And why would I want to do that? Even if such a thing were possible,’ he added hastily, ‘it would be professional suicide. After all, once a theatre gets a reputation for not honouring its commitments, it’s just asking for trouble.’
Caroline smiled grimly. ‘Oh, I’m not suggesting that you would do it, Dennis,’ she said with a wide smile that was so full of malice it almost made him wince. ‘Only that you could. And that Robert should be made aware of that fact.’
Dennis took a long, slow breath. Playing at being catty with the likes of a fellow cat was one thing. But as he was becoming alarmingly aware, Caroline Tomworthy was a different species altogether – far more cobra than cat, in fact. Getting a dose of her toxin was not something that was high on his agenda.
‘And why would I want to get Robert over a barrel exactly?’ he asked, affecting amusement, but feeling only very real trepidation.
‘Oh, relax, Dennis! It’s nothing major.’ Caroline sensed his growing panic, and reeled him in carefully. Now that she had him thoroughly rattled, it was just the right psychological moment to offer him hope. ‘It’s just so that he would then have to do you a little favour in return, that’s all. A bit of quid pro quo, and all that.’
‘Oh? And just what favour would I want him to do me?’ Dennis asked archly.
Caroline smiled gently. ‘What do you think, dearie?’ she mocked him gently. ‘I want him to have a word with all his fellow judges and make sure that it’s understood that they can vote for their favourites once or twice – just so long as it’s understood that, overall, I’m to be the winner. Of course.’
Dennis began to laugh. ‘Oh, of course.’
Caroline let him laugh for a few moments, and then reached into her shoulder bag and withdrew a large, buff-coloured envelope.
‘And what makes you think exactly that Robert Dunbar could influence his fellow judges in that way?’ Dennis demanded.
‘Oh grow up, Dennis,’ Caroline snapped, all sense of playfulness leeched from her voice now. ‘They’re all men of the world. They know Dunbar has done them a huge favour letting them in on his little PR scheme, and they’ll probably be expecting to have to ante up somehow. Everyone knows these things are all a fix anyway.’
‘Are they?’ Dennis asked, genuinely curious.
Caroline shot him a simmering glance. ‘Of course they are. And in this particular instance,’ she said, opening the envelope carefully, ‘it’s going to be fixed in my favour.’
‘Oh, is it?’ Dennis said, beginning to feel riled by her attitude. ‘What makes you so sure? And just why the hell do you think I’m going to do you any favours?’
‘Because of these, Dennis, dearie,’ Caroline said, pulling out a sheaf of photographs and handing them over with a theatrical flair that, in other circumstances, the other man might have appreciated. ‘After all, what you get up to with your… friends… is very illegal, dearie. Isn’t it? I can’t think prison garb would suit you, Dennis.’
* * *
Candace was worried about her tummy. Did it look too obvious in her swimsuit? It wasn’t much of a bump, but her tummy definitely wasn’t as flat as Caroline’s was.
Was that another ‘flaw’? Did that mean that whoever it was that was being so mean, would target her next?
And had Vicky’s death really been an accident as everyone was saying?
* * *
Rodney Broadstairs was having a whale of a time chatting to pretty girls in swimming costumes. So much of a good time, in fact, that he’d totally forgotten that he was supposed to be watching out for Trudy Loveday. Who had now been missing from the stage for some considerable time.
Trudy, in fact, was staring at her friend Grace, open-mouthed and in a state of shock.
When she’d pushed open the door to the office, the first thing she’d seen was Grace rooting through a large black-leather handbag – a handbag that Trudy recognised instantly as belonging to Mrs Christine Dunbar.
‘Grace!’ she breathed.
Her friend gave a little shriek, her hand going up to her heart, and spun around. Seeing only her friend standing in the doorway, she slumped back against the desk.
‘Oh, Trudy! You gave me such a scare. I thought you might be…’ Her voice trailed away guiltily.
‘Your employer’s wife?’ Trudy asked sharply, coming in and shutting the door firmly behind her. ‘What are you doing searching through her things?’ she demanded.
Grace paled. ‘She’s just nipped into the ladies’ loo.’
‘I don’t care where she is,’ Trudy hissed. ‘What are you doing going through her stuff? And don’t lie to me,’ she almost shouted. She was beginning to feel hurt and betrayed, as the sudden realisation hit her that her friend had been playing her for a fool. For although part of her wanted to believe that her friend was just so convinced that Christine Dunbar was dangerous that she’d stooped to searching her handbag for evidence, common sense and instinct told her that something else was going on here.
Grace, seeing her friend’s open suspicion, suddenly caved in. Months of sleeplessness and stress overtook her in a mighty wave, and she felt all her strength go. She slumped back against the desk, like a puppet with its strings suddenly cut, and began to cry. Not only a few pretty tears either, but gut-wrenching, ugly, hopeless sobs that seemed to come from the pit of her stomach and carry on and on.
Trudy was beside her in a flash. Aware that Mrs Dunbar could return for her violated handbag at any moment, she quickly steered her distraught friend out into the deserted corridor and into what seemed to be a rumble room, where scenery and cast-off props from previous shows were stored. She gently steered Grace to a loveseat that had probably last been used in an old restoration romance and sat her down, rooting about in her robe pocket for some tissues, and luckily finding them.
Eventually Grace, looking exhausted and beaten, stopped crying. She was pale, her nose and eyes red from tears, and looked curiously blank-faced, as if incapable of forming a single thought. Trudy was no psychiatrist, but she could easily guess that her friend had been bottling things up inside her for far too long, and now it had all come gushing out, leaving her feeling empty and blank.
When Trudy thought that her friend might finally be able to speak, she knelt down in front of her, and took Grace’s cold limp hands in her own, and said, ‘What’s going on, Gracie? What’s the real story behind you and Mrs Dunbar? Do you really think she killed Abigail and Vicky?’
Listlessly, her friend shook her head. Then she shrugged and nodded, but finally admitted dully, ‘I just don’t know. She might have. But probably not.’
‘So why did you tell me you thought she did?’ Trudy asked gently. ‘Why did you come to me in the first place? What did you expect to achieve by bringing me into all this?’
Grace sighed heavily. ‘I was hoping you could get something on her. Or just frighten her. Give her something to worry about, for a change.’
Trudy frowned. ‘Grace, that doesn’t make sense. Why would you want any of that?’
‘To get her off my back,’ Grace said, too spent to sound even resentful or afraid, let alone angry.
Trudy shook her head. ‘I still don’t understand, Gracie,’ she said gently. ‘Just tell me what it’s all about, from the beginning. It’ll be easier once you’ve got it all off your chest, I promise. Whatever it is, I’ll do my best to help you. You’ve done something wrong, haven’t you?’ she proffered tentatively.
Wordlessly, Grace nodded.
‘And Mrs Dunbar knows about it?’
Again, Grace nodded.
‘All right. What was it? What did you do wrong?’
‘I’ve b-b-borrowed money from the petty cash,’ Grace said, beginning to sob again. ‘Oh, Trudy, don’t look at me like that. I had to! For Mum! I’m not a thief. I intended to pay it all back. Really I did.’
‘All right. All right, Gracie,’ Trudy tried to soothe her. ‘But why did you need the money so badly?’
‘It was for Mum’s new medicine. Everyone thinks the pills came from the NHS doctors, but they didn’t. I had to pay for them privately, and I just couldn’t afford them on my wages. I intended to pay the money back later, after Mum… When I could save more money from my wages again… But Mrs Dunbar got suspicious and audited the petty cash.’
‘Oh, Gracie,’ Trudy said helplessly. But she could hardly blame her friend for being tempted. Wouldn’t she have done the same if her own mother had been so ill?
‘Why didn’t she report you to the police?’ Trudy asked, puzzled.
‘Oh, she probably would have done,’ Grace said dully. ‘But then she got a better idea.’
‘What idea?’ Trudy said, but she thought she already knew the answer to that.
‘She wanted me to spy on her husband,’ Grace confirmed.
‘And was Mr Dunbar having an affair with any of the girls in the competition? With Abigail or Vicky?’ she asked quickly.
But Grace was already shaking her head. ‘No, I don’t think so. He’s a bit of a flirt, but I think he’s too clever to do anything so obvious.’
Trudy nodded.
‘I thought, once she was convinced that her husband wasn’t straying, she’d have no further use for me, and would go to the police about my… borrowing the money from the petty cash.’ Grace gulped. ‘Then, when Abby died, and odd things began to happen at the theatre, I saw a possible way out of things. I thought that if I could get the police to suspect her of crimes of her own, it might make her think twice about everything.’
Trudy smiled wryly. ‘In other words, that she might have too much to worry about to bother with you?’
‘Exactly. After all, if you know you might be a suspect in a murder case, you wouldn’t want to draw any attention to yourself in any way, would you? Not even by accusing someone else of something.’
‘Plus, admit the fact that you’ve been a blackmailer,’ Trudy said cynically.
At this, Grace brightened a bit. ‘Yes, she is, isn’t she? And blackmail’s a crime, isn’t it?’ she asked wonderingly.
‘It certainly is,’ Trudy said, getting to her feet. ‘If I were you, Grace, I’d point that out clearly to Mrs Dunbar and come to some sort of arrangement. Tell her if she doesn’t get off your back, you’ll accuse her of blackmail. She might guess you’re bluffing, but she’ll have as much to lose as you do. People of her class, in my experience, will do anything to avoid a social scandal, as well as prison! If both of you can keep your… arrangements from the attention of the police, the better it will be for both of you.’
Even as Trudy spoke, she could imagine DI Jennings’ face if he could hear her now. She was supposed to arrest petty thieves and bring in blackmailers – not advise them to sort themselves out!
But there was no way she could arrest Grace for doing what she had had to do in order to try and prolong her mother’s life. She might be an officer of the law. But surely she had to be a human being first? Or was she just trying to justify herself?
Suddenly Trudy felt on very uneven ground indeed.
But what else could she do?
Chapter 26
Trudy wasn’t that surprised, on walking out of the side door and emerging through the small alley onto Walton Street, to see the coroner’s ‘Aunty’ Rover car parked at the kerb and waiting for her.
Taking a quick look around to check that nobody she knew was watching, she quickly slid into the passenger seat. Smoothly, Clement slipped the car into gear and pulled away.
‘Boy, have I got a lot to tell you,’ Trudy said excitedly, and commenced to tell him everything – from Grace’s circumstances to her own theories. By the time she was finished, they were just pulling into her street, so the coroner parked by her front gate and turned off the ignition.
‘You know, I’m beginning to think I hate beauty contests,’ Trudy said with a tired sigh.
‘Oh? Why?’ Clement asked curiously.
Trudy, reluctant to admit to her feelings of humiliation at having to parade in her swimming costume in front of Rodney, simply shrugged. ‘It just seems so silly. I mean, how would you men feel if we women asked you to parade up and down in your shorts, so that we could judge how handsome you were?’ she demanded.
Clement Ryder gave a great bark of laughter. ‘If I paraded about in my shorts, I’d be had up for public indecency. Nobody would want to look at my knobbly knees!’
Trudy had to giggle. ‘That’s not the point!’ But by now she was too busy laughing to hold on to her angst. Eventually the mirth subsided, leaving her feeling just a little flat.
‘So,’ Clement said, shifting slightly in his seat to a more comfortable position, ‘what have we learned? Grace has been pilfering, Mrs Dunbar has been blackmailing, Mr Dunbar is probably innocent of being involved with either of our two dead girls, and the prankster didn’t intend to kill anyone with the chocolates. What does it all add up to?’
Trudy sighed. ‘You haven’t said anything about my idea that the killer might just be using the beauty pageant as a means of sending us on a wild goose chase,’ she pointed out, feeling just a little miffed.
‘Oh, no doubt it’s a good thought – and one I’ve had too,’ he admitted, perking her up instantly. ‘The trouble with this case has always been the uncertainties. Did Abigail accidentally poison herself – or was it murder? Was Vicky’s death a tragic accident and a large coincidence – or again, was it murder? If we are dealing with murder, is the prankster at the theatre the same person, or are the two things unconnected? I think it’s high time we started making some firm decisions about these things, based on what we’ve learned, common sense and instinct.’
‘All right,’ Trudy said eagerly, always glad to take action. ‘First, I’m sure we’re dealing with murder – in both cases.’
‘Agreed.’
‘Secondly, I think the prankster and the killer are one and the same.’
‘I do too.’
‘Third – I still think that we haven’t even begun to discover the real motive behind this case. Taking it as read that the prankster is the killer, why do you suppose he or she started up with the pranks in the first place?’ Trudy asked.
Clement gazed out at the dark street ahead of him, eyes narrowed in thought. ‘Well, on the face of it, either the killer has a twisted mentality and enjoys tormenting people, in which case, we’re dealing with a case of madness, or the killer is targeting the contest, as you suggest, as a means of obscuring their true – and totally sane – motive.’
‘Which do you think it is?’
Clement smiled somewhat ruefully. ‘I’m not exactly a mental health expert, Trudy,’ he pointed out genially. ‘I was a surgeon – I dealt with blood and bone. Diseases of the mind, I’ve always left to my colleagues in the psychiatry department.’
‘But you must have seen a lot of things since you became a coroner,’ Trudy insisted stubbornly. ‘Besides, you’re a man of the world, and you’ve dealt with people all your life. Now that you’ve got to know the people at the theatre, what does your instinct say?’
Again, Clement smiled ruefully. ‘You’re asking for my best guess?’
‘I suppose I am,’ Trudy admitted meekly. ‘Oh, I know you’re a man who prefers science and facts and all that. But this case isn’t going to be solved by that, is it? We have no hard, forensic evidence at all! So we need to think like the killer, don’t we, if we’re to get anywhere?’ Trudy pressed.
Clement sighed. ‘All right – let’s drop down the rabbit hole and theorise a bit. I don’t think that anyo
ne I’ve met in this case is truly insane.’
‘So the killer’s just playing the part of being unhinged? The threatening letters, the dead moth, the doctored chocolates… that’s all so much window dressing to make us think we’re dealing with a certain type? And that all this is not the result of a diseased mind at all? Oh, I know anyone who can commit murder is sort of mad in a way, but… Oh, you know what I mean!’ Trudy enthused. ‘Basically, they’re just bad people, and as sane as you or I. Yes, I think that’s what we’re dealing with too. So, if we rule out some madman or woman with a grudge against beautiful girls, what are we left with?’
‘A plain and simple killer,’ Clement obliged her.
‘Right. And why do people kill people?’
‘The usual suspects are love, money, revenge and self-defence,’ he obliged.
‘All right. Well, we can surely rule out self-defence, can’t we? And none of the girls were from what you’d call really well-off families. Oh, they lived in a nice area, and all that. But… I don’t see how money or gain can come into all this. So that leaves us with love and revenge.’
‘With love being the most obvious?’ Clement mused. ‘After all, we are talking about beautiful young women. And I know from experience and memories of my own turbulent youth just how much havoc they can cause! What’s more, we know that a lot of the girls have been flirting with the judges. Somewhere in that mix could lie a few broken hearts or feelings of betrayal. Especially since, from what I can tell, one or two of them are determined to find themselves a rich husband.’
Trudy grinned. ‘Like Rupert Cowper you mean? Yes, I know Sylvia is very keen on him. He is rather good-looking.’
‘And unwilling,’ Clement said thoughtfully. He gave Trudy a brief summary of his talks with the other man, and when he’d finished, Trudy was silent for a moment.
‘So… what? You think he’s afraid of women?’ she asked cautiously.
‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ Clement said judiciously. ‘But I definitely sense that he’s ambivalent. I think he’s the kind of man who shouldn’t have been born so attractive to the opposite sex. Who knows, perhaps he was raised by a mother who had issues of her own, and that affected him. Apart from that, I’m not willing to venture,’ Clement said soberly.
