A Staged Death
A Brock & Poole Mystery
A.G. Barnett
Copyright © 2018 by A.G. Barnett
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
A.G. Barnett’s newsletter
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
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Chapter One
Ronald Smith hopped from one foot to the other nervously, his small frame a bundle of excited energy. Today was the day he was going to hit the big time.
As he stood in the wings he could almost feel the excitement in the air, as though an electric current was zigzagging its way around the theatre and giving every person inside it a jolt of adrenaline.
He’d been working on the hit TV show Foul Murder for three years now, but his role as the pathologist consultant hadn’t brought him the notoriety he craved. In fact, his involvement was openly mocked by his colleagues. This was what had spurred him on to request a walk-on part at least six times, all of which had been declined.
Then he had had his big idea.
There would be no more scoffing once they realised he was behind the greatest publicity the show had ever had.
His beady eyes scoured the audience that filled the small theatre. Various representatives from the national press’s entertainment sections filled the first row. They quaffed their free champagne and laughed loudly as they swapped stories about whoever the latest celebrity to have an affair was. Part of the deal for tonight was that it was strictly a no-camera, no-recording deal. This was a live spectacle and wasn’t going to turn into some YouTube video. The entire audience had been searched and their devices removed upon entry. If anything, it had added to the buzz and excitement in the place.
The crowd hushed as a low bass tone rose from the huge speakers which hung discreetly from the walls. Ronald Smith basked in the glow of it all. This was it. This was his moment.
Poole walked behind Brock in a state of confusion. He knew that the inspector despised Ronald Smith. Though, to be fair to the big man, he hadn’t yet met anyone who didn’t despise Ronald Smith. The coroner was a weasel, and that was giving a bad name to weasels. So why, then, had the inspector accepted this invitation to come to a launch event for the new series of Foul Murder? Whatever the reason, Poole was glad. He secretly enjoyed Foul Murder but would never pass this fact on to Brock, who would no doubt see this as a betrayal, and especially not to Ronald Smith, who would gloat like the toad he was.
He had been surprised when he had heard that the series six opener was being filmed in his new home county of Addervale, and even more surprised when he had heard that they were going to stage a press event announcing the return of the show in his new home town of Bexford.
Ronald Smith, of course, had been bragging relentlessly ever since the announcement had been made, casually mentioning where he planned to take the stars to dinner when they arrived, saying it had been his influence that had persuaded the producer to film the opening of the new series in Addervale.
Of everyone in the station, it had been Inspector Brock that Ronald had decided to invite. Poole could only guess that the intention was to rub his nose in Ronald’s proximity to fame. Brock had insisted on his wife Laura having a ticket as well, but when Ronald had obliged, Laura had been caught up with work and so Poole had been invited in her place.
The truth was, Poole was in a bad mood. He had had a run in with Detective Sergeant Anderson earlier that day, and as always, he had gotten under his skin.
Anderson had been boasting about being assigned to a murder case, apparently over Brock and Poole. He had also bragged about how close the relationship between his superior, Inspector Sharp, and Chief Inspector Tannock was.
“Sir?” Poole asked as they passed through Bedford’s main town square, the lights shining off the cobbles which covered its centre. “What’s the deal with Chief Inspector Tannock?”
Brock looked curiously sideways at him. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, I’ve barely ever even seen the man. He doesn’t ever seem to be in the office.”
Brock sighed and pulled a battered bag of boiled sweets from his jacket pocket and offered the bag to Poole, who shook his head.
“Have you ever seen those old war films where the generals sit on top of the hill drinking tea while the men are down at the bottom, running into the gunfire and generally having a terrible time of it?” Brock said, popping a sweet into his mouth before returning the packet.
“Yes?” Poole answered, confused.
“Chief Inspector Tannock is one of those generals on the hill, and we’re all down at the bottom getting shot at.”
“Oh, right, sir.”
“But not for long,” Brock added. “He’s retiring soon. It’s going to be a shock to old Sharp, I can tell you.”
“Why’s that, sir?”
“Well, him and Tannock go way back—old army buddies. I think they’re what people refer to as ‘part of the old boys’ club’, and when someone new comes in I think Sharp is in for a rude awakening.”
“Right. Thanks, sir,” Poole said, smiling. He was suddenly feeling much better about things.
They entered a side street, and after a few hundred metres, the New Theatre loomed. Its golden-coloured stone shone in the spotlights that surrounded it.
“Here we are then, Poole,” Brock said, pushing at the large door and stepping inside.
The foyer was empty. They quickly crossed it, heading toward a bored-looking teenage girl who stood behind a podium.
“You’re late,” she said, sighing as Brock handed her the tickets. “But they haven’t started yet.”
The inspector grunted and marched on through the double doors which opened with a soft swoosh.
The lights were darkening as they stepped through into the theatre and music was beginning to pulse around the now hushed space. They took two seats in the last row, the only area where seats were still available, and settled down to watch the show.
The screen at the back of the stage lit up with the intro sequence to the show. The theme music kicked in, causing the crowd to whoop and cheer.
“Bloody hell,” Brock muttered.
Poole turned to him, expecting to see the usual gruff expression, but instead, something else played across his expressive face. Poole was sure he was mistaken, but it looked as though there was a flicker of enjoyment there
.
A man bounced onto the stage followed by a group of four people who all waved as the crowd applauded and whooped at an even greater volume. The man leading the group wore a bright blue suit with a crisp white shirt, its oversized collar jutting up, framing his stubble jaw.
Poole recognised him instantly as Jarvis Alvarado, star of the show and heartthrob of the nation. The rest of the number he recognised as fellow cast members. They took up positions on metal stools which had been whisked onto the stage by scurrying black-clothed figures.
Alvarado stood in front of them, a microphone in his hand.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” he said, arms wide, his voice reverberating through the large speakers which hung from the walls.
“It is so good to see you all here tonight,” he continued, “for what I’m sure is going to be the beginning of something very special!”
The crowd applauded as he flashed a set of bright white and perfect teeth which seemed to glow against his olive skin. The theme tune was still blaring from the speakers, its deep bass and heavy guitars sounding more appropriate for Wembley Stadium than the New Theatre at Bexford.
“And for you lovely people here tonight,” he continued, “we have something very special indeed!”
He moved to the side of the stage and gestured to the heavens, both arms stretched out before him. There was a movement from above the stage and the crowd gasped as an exact replica of the office the Foul Murder team used on the show was lowered toward the stage floor behind the arranged cast.
Jarvis waved his arms to indicate he wanted more cheers from the crowd, and they responded with enthusiasm.
“Tonight, we will perform the opening scene from the first episode live just for you!”
The crowd cheered again, but the sound changed to a shocked intake of breath as the lights blinked out across the entire theatre.
“Sir?” Poole said, turning to his left and not seeing Brock, who he knew must only be inches from him.
Brock’s familiar gruff voice came back from the black. “Don’t worry, Poole, I’ve got a feeling this is all part of the act.”
Poole listened to the excited chatter of the crowd and tried to get his eyes to adjust, but it was no use. The place was built to not let natural light in.
“It could just be a power cut, sir,” Poole continued. “Maybe an electrical problem?”
“Just wait, Poole,” Brock’s voice came back. “Never believe anything with these showbiz types.”
Poole smiled in the dark. There didn’t seem to be many people that Brock trusted. He had an in-built instinct that everyone was trying to pull the wool over his eyes.
The lights burst on with a brightness which made everyone in the audience blink furiously.
A piercing scream cut through the murmuring from the stage. A woman from the cast had risen from her stool and was pointing at the prone figure of Jarvis Alvarado, who lay sprawled at the front of the stage with a pool of blood spreading in a halo around his head.
Poole jumped to his feet. There were more screams now, they broke out all around as people pointed as people rushed onto the stage.
“Sit down, Poole,” Brock said, folding his arms. “This is all part of it.”
“Are you sure, sir?” Poole said, his eyes locked on the pool of blood.
“Of course it is! I mean, come on. The lights go out and then a murder occurs in those few minutes? It’s like something for some terrible murder mystery rubbish on TV, which is exactly what this is!”
Poole sat down again uncertainly as panicked figures shouted for help on stage.
“And here he comes,” Brock said. Poole followed his finger to the right of the stage, where the small ferrety figure of Ronald Smith was scurrying toward the small gathering of people. “No wonder he invited us here,” Brock said with a derisive snort. “The little git’s got his own walk-on part.”
They watched as Ronald Smith bent over Jarvis Alvarado. Poole noticed for the first time that the crowd that had gathered on stage were stood in a perfect semi-circle, allowing the audience to see exactly what was going on. He smiled to himself again. The inspector was right: this was all part of the show. They hadn’t even dropped the curtain to hide the scene for the audience or made an announcement. This was all part of the drama. He leaned back, deciding to enjoy it all.
They watched as Ronald Smith fussed over the prone figure, theatrically taking his pulse and then looking into his eyes with a small torch. Then he paused and stood up, staggering slightly. He turned wildly around at the people on stage, who were now all staring at him. He looked out into the audience and shielded his eyes from the lights and he shouted in his squeak of a voice.
“Brock!”
The inspector jumped up next to Poole and began pulling him up and pushing him into the aisle.
“You’re not going down there, are you?!” Poole said, surprised at the sudden change of heart.
“Yes, I bloody am,” Brock answered, bustling them both down the aisle. “Because I know Ronald Smith, and I know there’s no way on earth he’s that good an actor.”
Chapter Two
Poole entered the lobby and pulled his ID from his pocket.
“I want you to close the doors. Nobody goes in or out until uniform arrive, OK?” he said to the bored teenager who was leaning on her desk, looking at her phone.
“I can’t do that! You’ll have to ask Mr Johnson.” She pointed a ringed finger at a man who was now striding across the bright blue carpet toward them. He was a short, squat and sweaty man with a bald head which shone under the fluorescent lights.
“Can I help you?” he said, stopping as Poole stepped across his path with an apologetic hand raised.
“I’m sorry, sir, but there’s been a serious incident and I need all the entrances and exits closed. No one in and no one out.” Poole repeated, flashing his badge again.
The man blinked at him for a moment.
“But I can’t do that,” the man said, his brow creasing and causing a drop of sweat to gather and fall.
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to or I’ll have to arrest you for obstruction,” Poole said. He watched the man’s face twist as he took this information in before he turned and began ordering staff to close the entrances.
Poole turned away feeling a strange mixture of being pleased and slightly disgusted with himself at the same time. He was happy he had forced the man to agree, but he hadn’t done it in his usual manner. Poole considered himself a polite and gentle person in general, preferring to take the approach of working things out with another person rather than bullying them into submission. He realised with a slight jolt that his manner had been a lot like Brock’s.
Poole moved back into the theatre and saw the imposing figure of the inspector on stage talking to an animated man in a black polo shirt.
Inspector Sam Brock was huge. Not fat, but tall and thick-limbed. If someone had set out to create the perfect rugby player Frankenstein-style, then it would have looked a lot like him. Poole could tell by his body language that he was angry, even before he’d reached the stage. He stood, looking down at the man that was waving his arms theatrically about him, arms folded. That kind of stillness from Brock was generally a sign that the other person should stop talking. This man didn’t seem to be getting the message.
“It’s just totally unacceptable!” the man was saying as Poole climbed up the steps to the right of the stage. He looked to his left, intensely aware that there were now roughly five hundred pairs of eyes fixed on him from the audience.
They were quiet now, as though there had been a brief intermission, but now the show had started properly. The only sound or movement came from the front press row who were frantically scribbling on notepads and cursing the lack of their phones.
“Poole,” Brock said, turning to him. “When uniform get here, start them double-checking everyone in the audience for a recording device. They’ve been searched on the way in apparently, but someone must have
got something in.”
“Yes, sir,” Poole answered.
“Right, Mr Hart,” Brock said, turning back to the man who was staring back at him with nostrils flared. “Are you going to stop wailing and listen to me? Or do I need my sergeant here to arrest you and take you to the station?”
The man opened his mouth to retort, then paused and closed it again.
“Good,” Brock said, taking a step forward. “Then get someone to drop the bloody curtain right now,” he growled.
The man turned and strode off to the wings, his beaky nose held high defiantly.
“Mike Hart,” Brock said to Poole, staring after the departing figure. He turned around, his eyes sweeping the stage. ‘I’ve already made an announcement that nobody leaves. Uniform should be here any minute. I want them to go through the audience row by row. Get their name, address, contact details and statement, then let them go.”
“Yes, sir,” Poole replied, looking out at the audience. “It’s going to take a while.”
“It is, but right now I’m more concerned with what I’m seeing up here,” the inspector said, his grey eyes still surveying the area in front of them. “Ron!” he barked suddenly.
Poole realised that Ronald Smith was stood at the back of the stage, his small head pale and downcast. He looked up sharply and trudged over as though walking to the gallows.
“And what about the actors, sir?” Poole asked, staring at the four people who were gathered on the far side of the stage, drinking coffee from paper cups. Poole stared at the group, amazed by their calm attitude. Their demeaners seemed more in line with receiving a parking ticket than a colleague being murdered.
A Staged Death (A Brock & Poole Mystery Book 2) Page 1
