by Rob Falconer
“Right. I’ve only got one question, and that’s what’s our angle on this story, and who’s going to handle it?”
Seemingly oblivious of the fact that this was clearly two separate questions, Mike Worth leant forward with his palms on the table and looked around the room rather aggressively.
To those seated around the table it was self-evident to what he was referring.
As the Editor of ‘The Alefordshire Gazette’ and its predecessor ‘The Daily Wragg’ (named after Septimus Wragg, its founder), his only interests were the major news stories, and currently the biggest story involved the murders of Lizzie Benson and Betty Wright.
Lizzie Benson had been the first, on Friday, May the fifth. She had been murdered whilst visiting a popular street market in Aleford … strangled in a small back lane. Betty Wright had also been strangled whilst attending a very public place, at an open-air pop concert a fortnight later. She had been dragged into a vacant tent and strangled. It certainly looked as if the same attacker were involved in both cases.
A fairly elderly, but well-preserved and authoritative gentleman rose to reply, but he was forestalled by a young girl at the farthest end of the table, whose voice was, it has to be said, rather nasal and grating.
“It just has to be my story, doesn’t it?”
Mike Worth looked blank. He obviously did not like this young girl interrupting his second-in-command, and clearly had no idea who she was.
“And why?” he enquired contemptuously.
“Well, both girls were named Elizabeth, and so am I. My name’s Elizabeth Grant, by the way …” This last sentence was said in a slightly arrogant voice, as if to upbraid the Editor for his lack of recognition. “And so clearly it’s up to me to take on the story, with a headline along the lines of “Am I Going to be Elizabeth the Third?” Let’s see, “Along with thousands of other young girls in Aleford, each day I live in fear of my life, wondering whether I am to be the next victim of a certain someone, a someone with a hatred of girls named Elizabeth …””
She looked around the table, testing whether she had made sufficient impact, or whether she should continue.
Her decision was made for her by the Editor’s second-in-command, who had tried to talk earlier. “Firstly, the second girl was not christened Elizabeth, and, as far as we know, has never ever been called by that name. She was christened Betty, as her father was a fan of ‘The Flintstones.’ Secondly …”
Here he held up his hand to forestall an objection from Elizabeth, before continuing, “… I might remind young Miss Grant here that she has herself been using the name Lisa Grant since starting on this paper … er … was it three weeks ago, Miss Grant?”
This time it was Mike Worth who held up his hand to forestall Miss Grant’s objections. “OK, let’s not have any more of this. I like young Elizabeth’s attitude. She can take on the story. Give her any help she wants, Simon, but let’s get on with this quickly. Our coverage of the first murder was lacklustre to say the least …” He looked towards an older man sitting to this right, who immediately looked away. “… And the second murder was far too factual for our readers’ liking. I want our readers to be genuinely frightened over this story. OK?”
“Now get on with it!”
---
The article was quickly written (or rather committed to paper, as the whole story had been written out in Elizabeth’s mind for some time). Elizabeth (as she now styled herself) took almost complete responsibility for the story (although she did have a researcher, a much more senior employee, to help her, and had the Editor’s carte blanche to conscript anyone she felt necessary).
Her angle seemed to catch the interest of the public, especially the women, and especially those named Elizabeth, Betty, Lisa, Eliza, and a number of rather more exotic variations of the name from abroad.
Mike Worth was pleased. Her articles were greatly increasing the circulation of the paper.
But it was now the day before the killer was likely to attack again, as the following day was Friday, June the second, exactly four weeks since the first murder, and a fortnight since the second. Elizabeth started thinking about her next article.
She had just finished typing it when Mike Worth appeared at her desk. He had also realised the significance of the date the following day, and was wondering what Elizabeth’s angle would be.
She showed him her article.
“I can imagine just how worried, or even panic-stricken, those of my readers who are named Elizabeth (or a variation of it) must be feeling about the possibility of a third attack tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow is the day our savage and barbaric strangler may very well attack again. And it might again be at some public event … somewhere that seems oh-so-safe.”
“Well I for one will not be forced to stay at home by this vicious coward. Nobody knows where he will strike next, but I shall be walking around the Aleford Foodfest event by the River Iver all afternoon and evening tomorrow. And why?”
“Well, if you’re there - and even if you’re not an Elizabeth or a Betty or even a girl! – just come up to me and tell me how you feel about this threat to our freedom. Tell me if you’re worried or frightened, and what you would do to catch this maniac … or even what you‘d do to this maniac when he’s caught!”
“And how will you recognise me? Well, even if you haven’t seen my glorious mug plastered across the tops of my articles, you’ll know me because I shall be wearing the Alefordshire Gazette sweatshirt and bright orange shorts!”
“I suppose, wearing that little lot, I might get approached by a few persons who don’t know who I am ... and maybe for all the wrong reasons!”
“So, if you’re brave enough to come along to the Foodfest tomorrow, look out for me, and come and tell me how you feel about it all!”
“I’ll be there … will you?”
Mike finished reading and sucked his cheeks in.
“Taking a bit of a risk, aren’t you, girl?” he muttered. “It looks almost as if you’re setting yourself up as a target … or even bait.”
Elizabeth had anticipated his saying that.
“Isn’t that what this job is all about?” she replied.
She had always expected her work as a journalist to be much more than just a desk job. She wanted to find a more physical side to it, perhaps to compensate for her having failed the entrance examination for the Army.
Mike nodded, a little uncertainly. “OK, but I’m having you wired for sound, so we can hear everything you say, or even any calls for help … some of the men around here can be quite frisky, you know.” He gave a broad smile, and Elizabeth felt it was almost paternal.
He continued thoughtfully, “We’re lucky to have Terry working for us. He’s a bit of a whizz-kid when it comes to electronics and communications. I’m sure he can get you kitted out with something so that we can keep in touch with you at all times, but without intruding on you and your work. I wouldn’t want to bring the police into all this, but I know a few retired policemen I could hire as bodyguards …”
---
Elizabeth was quite enjoying herself as she wandered around the Aleford Foodfest, beginning to feel like a minor local celebrity.
Plenty of readers had come up to her and thanked her for her support, or commended her on her bravery, and luckily there had only been one lunatic who had approached her (one of the bodyguards made sure he left the vicinity quickly).
But she felt pretty safe. She was now wearing a sophisticated, but well-hidden, wireless communication system, and was carrying a compact voice-recorder in her hand. The electronics expert, Terry, had checked that everything was OK, and he was now waiting with Mike Worth some little distance away from Elizabeth.
Elizabeth had just finished talking to a nice couple from Rotham when Terry moved away from where he had been waiting and walked up to her.
“I think there may be a little problem with your equipment,” he told her. “I’ll need a few seconds with you to
straighten it out.”
He looked around.
“Maybe we’d better pop into that hall over there,” he said, pointing to a small building halfway in size between a church hall and a garden hut.
They both looked around to check they weren’t being watched or followed, but there were so many people around that it was impossible to be sure. One or two people looked a little suspicious, but that seemed normal these days. Elizabeth particularly noticed a short man wearing a denim suit who was strangely muscular, and a city gentleman, complete with pinstripe suit and a bowler hat, who was average in almost every way except that he had a spider web tattoo on his neck.
Inside the hall, Terry fiddled with the wireless equipment a little. He sent a message to the Editor.
“Receiving you loud and clean,” Mike said a little confusingly.
As they had decided to leave separately, Terry left the hall first, and returned to the park bench on which he had been sitting with Mike.
But Elizabeth didn’t leave the hall. She had still not emerged thirty seconds after Terry had left.
And then …
Her voice came over the radio.
“What’s this? What are you …?”
There followed a horrific choking noise.
Mike Worth immediately rushed across to the hall where Elizabeth was. Some of his bodyguards also joined him, whilst others stayed at a suitable distance in case anyone tried to run away from the hall.
It took less than thirty seconds to get to the hall.
But even then it was too late.
Elizabeth was lying at an unnatural angle on the floor of the one-room hall, looking calmer than she had done for the last two weeks.
A quick glance showed that her murderer had started to strangle her, but, perhaps surprised at her being able to make any sort of sound, had resorted to stabbing her, once, efficiently, with a kitchen knife, which lay alongside her body.
On the ground near her, her voice-recorder was still running.
Mike Worth switched it off.
---
Mike Worth had not been looking forward to his interview with the police. Although he had already talked to a number of officers, now he had been asked to attend Aleford Police Station the following day to make a formal statement.
He was pleased to find that his interview would be with an old friend, Detective Inspector John Pratt.
John Pratt looked a little embarrassed.
“Officially, I suppose we have to formally condemn your actions. The police should have been involved in this from the start. Your young reporter’s life was at stake, and she should never have been allowed to take as many risks as she did.”
John stretched out his legs and relaxed a little, having got the official statement out of the way.
“However, unofficially, I have to say that you seem to have handled the situation as well as we might have done. You left people in place to watch the area, even after Elizabeth had made that terrifying radio transmission. People often forget that sort of thing in a panic. Anyway, all the people you hired were professionals, mainly retired police officers. And you were watching the entrance to that hall all the time from when Elizabeth’s voice came over the radio to when you reached her body.”
“However, it is now imperative that we catch this lunatic as quickly as possible.”
“I must say it seems strange that our killer changed his methods, stabbing as well as trying to strangle Elizabeth, but he would have had to have hurried it up, I suppose, if he’d seen all the wireless stuff she was kitted out with.”
“So, how did the killer leave the hall?” John mused. “The other exits were watched, I suppose.”
Mike thought a little before continuing.
“Well, there was only one other door, at the back, but that was being watched by one of my men, and he’s pretty sure nobody left the hall that way, although there was a great deal of pandemonium after we received Elizabeth’s final message, with people running all over the place.”
“There were also two small windows, one high up on each side of the building, but using one of these as an exit might have needed a bit of preparation, and certainly a lot more time than was available. Anyway, don’t forget that the murderer couldn’t have known Elizabeth was going to go into the hall.”
John closed his eyes thoughtfully.
“The thing with cases like this is that you can have as many theories as you like, but you have to have proof.”
Mike looked impressed. “You have a number of theories?”
“No, only two. If one of the theories applies, the murderer could be just about anybody. However, if …”
He thought for a while.
“Can I hear the tape?” he asked.
Mike switched on the voice-recorder he’d brought with him.
A nasal, grating voice came out of the tape. “What’s this? What are you …?”
Mike stopped the tape.
“No, no,” insisted John, “Let it run.”
“That’s all there is,” explained Mike. He restarted the tape, and there was a click as the recording was stopped almost immediately afterwards.
“That’s the same as the original?” enquired John.
“As far as I know it is. But you’ve got the original recording.”
“OK, I’ll send for it straight away.”
---
“There, exactly the same.”
As the echoes of Elizabeth’s final protestations vanished into the air, Mike automatically went to switch off the tape.
“Let it run,” repeated John.
Mike frowned.
“Look,” John continued, “If you ran into the hall straight after you heard Elizabeth’s cries, you should hear yourself and the others as you pushed open the door and rushed to Elizabeth’s body around, what, thirty seconds later?”
Mike nodded.
The voice-recorder continued remorselessly.
But there were no sounds of footsteps or frantic shouting on the voice-recorder. There were no sounds at all after Elizabeth’s terrified cries. In fact, it sounded as if the voice-recorder had been switched off almost immediately after her last unfinished question.
“But that’s impossible …” stuttered Mike.
John shook his head.
“The only explanation is that Elizabeth made the call for help and was killed a little earlier than you heard. The autopsy wouldn’t pick up a matter of a minute or so.”
“So, somebody must have started to strangle her, making sure her cry for help was recorded, and then finished the job off as quickly as possible by stabbing her.”
“But we would have heard her immediately and rushed to her help,” spluttered Mike. “She had all those communications gadgets on her. They were all working properly.”
“And there is no way the killer could have got anywhere near her to switch her radio off,” Mike said adamantly. “She would have screamed blue murder if he’d tried that.”
“Maybe, but she was quite happy for Terry to check her radio, wasn’t she?” replied John.
“You see, Terry must have switched off all Elizabeth’s equipment whilst he was adjusting or pretending to adjust it. Then he would have restarted the voice-recorder and waited thirty seconds with the recording level set to zero, before turning up the recording level, killing Elizabeth, and recording her cries. He’d then stop the voice-recorder, restart the radio connection, and test it by calling you.”
“Then he’d start playing the voice-recorder from a point about thirty seconds earlier than the murder.”
“So, when you switched off her voice-recorder, it wasn’t recording, it was playing.”
“Oh God,” muttered Mike.
John continued, “And, before you ask, I don’t think Terry is a triple-murderer. I think he just used the other murders as an excuse to kill poor Miss Grant.”
Mike thought for a few seconds.
“I seem to remember
some story now about Terry being romantically-entwined with Elizabeth before she got her job with us. I think he ditched his girlfriend for her, and then the girlfriend hurt herself in some way. Then Elizabeth dumped him. I overheard comments between the two that everything was all in the past now, but maybe it wasn’t for Terry. Something like that, anyway.”
John nodded. “Anyway, I hope you have just enough time to make your formal statement for us before rushing off to meet your next deadline.”
Mike was clearly feeling impatient, but agreed.
“We may have solved the murder of poor Elizabeth, but there’s still another killer on the loose for the Alefordshire Gazette to catch.”
John wondered if Mike realised just how pompous he sounded.
Chapter 4
The Tragic Flute
