A Staged Death (A Brock & Poole Mystery Book 2)

by A. G. Barnett

  Chapter Seventeen

  Poole knocked on the door of the room and stepped back slightly so he was alongside Brock, who was tossing another boiled sweet into his mouth.

  “How’s the no smoking going, sir?” Poole asked.

  “Let’s just say I’m getting through the boiled sweets,” Brock answered with a growl.

  After a few moments, the door opened to reveal Gina Glover wearing a hotel bathrobe that, despite being tied around her waist, was open at the front down to her navel. Poole stared at a spot a few inches above her head with a fierce determination.

  “Miss Glover,” Brock asked, unfazed by the state of her dress. “We need to ask you a few more questions.”

  She sighed as she wound a towel around her long red hair until it sat in a turban shape and stepped aside.

  “It seems that that is all you’re good for, Inspector: talking and talking while we’re all dropping like flies around you,” she said as they stepped inside, and she closed the door behind them.

  A woman reclined at one end of one of the two matching sofas and nodded at them as they came in.

  “This is my lawyer,” Gina said, gesturing to the woman as she sat next to her.

  Poole noticed there was a bottle of white wine in an ice bucket on the coffee table, a half-full glass in front of each woman.

  Brock and Poole seated themselves on the opposite sofa on the left, Poole pulling his notebook from his jacket and opening it, pen poised.

  “Can I get you gentlemen a drink?” Gina said, sitting on the sofa opposite them and crossing her toned legs in a sweeping motion.

  “No,” Brock said bluntly. “Instead, you can tell us why you were arguing with Jarvis Alvarado the night before the launch.”

  She frowned, her smooth skin wrinkling in a slightly unnatural way that suggested botox. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Inspector?” she said coolly. She leaned forward and took her wine glass.

  “We have a witness that places you there,” Brock continued.

  “Look,” she said, smiling. “Jarvis was an arrogant arsehole who thought he could own everybody and everything. I think you’d be harder pressed to find someone who hadn’t been arguing with him before he died.”

  “But in this instance, you were arguing about Isabella Lennon, isn’t that right?”

  A wave of something like shock passed across her face, but it was so fleeting it was almost indiscernible.

  “And now Mr Turnbull has died as well, and you were placed near the scene of his death,” Brock continued. “It seems to us as though you are right in the middle of all this, Miss Glover, and I think, for your own good, it’s time you started to give us some explanation that doesn’t end with you in jail for murder.”

  She sat up straighter and stared back at the inspector. For a moment Poole thought she might throw the remaining contents of wine at him, but instead, she drained the glass and reached for the bottle to refill it.

  “If you’re expecting me to confess, Inspector, you’re going to be disappointed,” she said, leaning back with her glass now full. “I didn’t do it, you see? And if you’re waiting for some big revelation or clue to finding out what the hell is going on here then I don’t think you’re going to get that from me either.”

  “So, what were you arguing about?” Brock repeated.

  She sighed, rolling her eyes. “As soon as we all got wind of the fact that Jarvis was influential in choosing the cast for the film version of Foul Murder, we all turned on each other like snakes in a sack. We all wanted to be part of it, but of course Jarvis was lording his power over us all and being a complete idiot about it all.”

  “And what does this have to do with Isabella Lennon?”

  “Well it doesn’t take a great detective such as yourself to know they were screwing each other, does it?” Gina said, smiling.

  “So, you were jealous?” Brock asked, causing Gina and her lawyer to erupt in laughter.

  “Jarvis really wasn’t my type, Inspector,” she said with a smirk.

  Poole thought back to what Ronald had told them Jarvis said—something about swapping to the other team. Then he glanced down at the two wine glasses and the relaxed nature of Gina’s lawyer in her company, even in an official capacity. He glanced at Brock, but could tell by his expression he had already made the same connection.

  “There was something going on between Isabella and Jarvis,” Gina continued, “but I have no idea if it was serious. Knowing Jarvis, it wasn’t to him,” she said, pausing to have another sip of wine. “I was hunting down Jarvis to try and sweet talk him into giving me a part when I heard him talking to Isabella in the courtyard. She was telling him how she would be perfect for the role and that they could become the next darling couple of the nation. I don’t think she was offering this as a real relationship, mind you. It sounded more like a business deal to me.”

  She stared at her glass, seemingly lost in the recollection for a moment before looking back up at them with a shrug. “When Isabella went inside I gave Jarvis what for, told him he was being an idiot who needed to start thinking with his head rather than his pants.” She shrugged as though this was the end of her offering.

  Brock took a deep breath next to Poole and leaned back slightly.

  “So, do you think Jarvis was going to give Isabella Lennon a part?”

  “Who knows? Like I said, Jarvis would say anything to anybody to get what he wanted.”

  There was a silence as Gina sipped her wine thoughtfully. It was broken by Brock suddenly rising and heading for the door.

  “That will be all, for now, Miss Glover. Please don’t leave your room until morning.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” she said, turning to her lawyer and smiling.

  Poole closed the door behind them. “Blimey, sir, do you think she charges overtime for that?”

  “I hope not, Poole,” Brock said, grinning. “Lawyers are bloody expensive as it is.”

  A noise of clattering metal came from down the corridor as Jane Marx appeared around the corner with a stepladder over her shoulder and a toolbox.

  Brock frowned and made his way over to her as she set the ladder down in the middle of the corridor.

  “What’s going on, Miss Marx?” Brock asked.

  “I’m just looking at the air conditioning for Michael,” she answered as she climbed the steps with a screwdriver. “Apparently this vent’s not working properly.”

  “And you can do that, can you?” Brock asked, looking impressed.

  “You learn to do all sorts in the theatre.” She grinned. She began to unscrew the white metal plate which covered the air vent.

  “So, is this a side job then, is it? Doing odd jobs at the hotel?”

  “Ha! I wish. Then I might actually get paid extra for it. No, Terry lets his brother use me for jobs here and there when Dave’s not around—he’s the hotel’s caretaker. He’s getting on a bit now, so he’s cut down his hours. Terry sort of loans me to his brother.”

  “How long have you worked here?” Poole asked.

  “Oh, years now. I started at the theatre before I’d left school, dreaming of becoming an actress…” She pulled the last of the screws out and grabbed the metal sheet as it fell. “Do me a favour and lean that against the wall, will you?” she said, handing the piece to Poole. He leaned it against the corridor and looked at his watch.

  “Sir, I’m going to have to go.”

  Brock nodded at him. “Good luck, and you know you can call me if you need me, right?”

  “Yes, sir,” Poole answered and turned down the corridor, trying not to panic. This was it—he was going to meet his dad.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Poole ordered another large glass of red wine and stared at the door nervously. At any moment his father would walk through it and sit at his table, and the thought was making him want to leap up and run down the street as fast as he could go.

  The wine bar was new but had been designed to look old and rustic. Th
e furniture was all large, solid and made from rough, unfinished wood. Metallic, factory-style lamps hung from the ceiling and it almost had the feel of a wine cellar. Not that Poole had ever been in a wine cellar, but he imagined it would be very much like this.

  Something caught his eye across the street and he saw Inspector Brock standing with his wife, Laura. Both of them stared down at a small brown puppy that was cocking its leg against the lamp post.

  What on earth is he doing here? Poole thought, but he knew the answer before he’d even finished the thought.

  The inspector was here to look out for him. He watched Brock pick up the puppy and head into the fish restaurant opposite, glancing across the street before he ducked through the door.

  For a split second, Poole felt as though their eyes met across the street and through the glass. Then it was over, and the door of the wine bar was opening, framing his father against the streetlight behind.

  Poole felt his stomach lurch as his right hand gripped the wine glass ever harder.

  His dad’s deep brown eyes scanned the room until they landed on him, his face changing into a broad smile. As he made his way through the tables and benches toward him, Poole noticed he had a slight limp. He wondered if this was something he had gained in prison, or just through the fact he was now getting older.

  “You came,” he said when he reached Poole’s table. His voice was deep and thick with emotion, his eyes shining in the dim lighting of the wine bar.

  Poole found himself already unsure of what to say. “Drink?” he managed, lifting his wine glass slightly by way of explanation.

  His father nodded and then caught a waiter’s attention. As he sat, he ordered something Poole had never heard of and sat back in his seat at ease.

  “You didn’t bring company this time, then?” Poole said, remembering that at his last meeting with his dad he had been flanked by heavies.

  “I noticed you did,” his dad said, the smile becoming harder somehow.

  Poole frowned, confused, and then suddenly realised that he must mean Brock. He turned and looked out of the window and saw the back of a broad-shouldered man stood facing the restaurant opposite.

  His dad hadn’t come alone.

  “You know,” his father said, “I’m surprised they’ve let a puppy into a restaurant. I guess being a police inspector gives you some privileges.”

  Poole said nothing but took another large gulp of wine. Hearing his father talk about Brock was setting his teeth on edge.

  The waiter arrived with the bottle his father had ordered. Poole watched as his father tasted it and then nodded his approval to the waiter, who filled his glass.

  When he’d left, Poole spoke first.

  “What do you want?” he said, trying to keep his voice even.

  “I want us to have a relationship again,” his dad said, his eyes fixed on him.

  “You lost that right when I saw my friend die in front of me,” Poole said, anger and emotion coursing through him so suddenly that he was struggling to not throw the table over and launch himself at his father.

  His father nodded sadly. “I can’t ever change what happened,” he said, turning the wine glass slowly between his fingers. “And I know that me saying sorry won’t make any difference, although I am. I just want a chance to explain what happened.”

  “I don’t need it explained to me!” Poole said, his voice rising enough to make the others in the bar look toward their table. “I know what bloody happened. People came to our house and shot at us.”

  As Poole spoke, the images of that day seemed to flash in his mind like scenes from a horror film.

  He had been playing with his friends on his fifteenth birthday when the first shots had fired. He had seen his friend killed and had taken a bullet in his own leg.

  “It wasn’t my fault, Guy,” his father said. “The men who came to our house were nothing to do with my business.”

  Poole gave a humourless laugh and shook his head in disbelief.

  “You are unbelievable.”

  “I don’t expect you to just believe me,” his dad said, leaning back and taking another draught of wine. “But I’m working on that.”

  Poole eyed him suspiciously. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that I’m going to prove to you that what happened wasn’t my fault. It won’t excuse the fact that I wasn’t there for you. I was sent away for decisions I had made, whether I knew I was making them or not.” Poole noticed a change in his father’s expression. There was not just sadness there, but a bitter anger too.

  “Maybe in time you’ll see me differently,” Jack said, looking up at him, “and then maybe we can start over.”

  “Start over?” Poole said incredulously. “You’re bloody deluded.” He stood up, his chair scraping noisily across the slate-tiled floor. “You stay away from me and Mum. We don’t want anything to do with you.” He turned and moved toward the door.

  “How is your mum?” Jack called over his shoulder.

  Poole paused, his hand on the handle of the door. “She’s better off without you,” he said and stepped out into the night.

  He looked at the large man who still stood by the window. The man nodded at him in a professional manner that made Poole feel sick—as though he had just been addressed as the boss’s son.

  As though he was part of all this.

  He marched off across the street, just wanting to put some distance between himself and his dad when the door if the restaurant opposite opened and Laura Brock’s face appeared.

  “You better come in here before you go home or he’s never going to be able to sleep,” she said, smiling.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Poole finished the fresh wine that had been put in front of him in record time. Despite him now being seated at a window table of the fish restaurant across the road, the wine seemed better than in the wine bar.

  “He’s very…” He paused trying to think of the words. “Cute,” he settled on.

  The Brocks’ new puppy was currently curled in a ball on Poole’s lap, fast asleep.

  “What type is he?”

  “He’s a cross-breed,” Laura answered. “His dad was a Border Collie and his mum was a working Cocker Spaniel.”

  “When she says ‘cross-breed’,” Brock joined in from across the table, “she means he’s a mongrel.”

  “Sam!” Laura said, her tone sharp. “He has feelings, you know.”

  “Yes, but luckily he can’t understand a word I say. At least he never bloody listens to commands,” Brock grumbled.

  “Oh, come on, Sam,” Laura said, rolling her eyes. “He’s just a pup.”

  “Anyway,” Brock continued. “There’s nothing wrong with being a mongrel; they’re tougher than other dogs. They get far fewer health problems than pedigrees.”

  Laura looked at him with surprise, then accepted this information. “Right,” she said with a firm nod.

  “So, come on,” Brock said. He leaned forward, placing his large elbows on the table, and stared at Poole. “What happened?”

  Poole looked down at the little dog and gave it a gentle stroke. “He said it wasn’t his fault.”

  “Not very original, is it?” Brock said.

  Poole looked up at him and laughed. Somehow the tension poured out at him as Brock smiled back at him, clearly pleased to have made him laugh.

  “Oh, Sam,” Laura said, slapping him on his arm.

  “No, you’re right,” Poole said. “It’s not very original. He didn’t even give me an explanation, he just said he was going to bring me proof that would convince me.”

  “Proof?” Brock said, frowning.

  “That’s what he said,” Poole said with a shrug. “I don’t see what it could be. We all know he was helping to move drugs around; that’s what brought those people to our house.” His voice had become thick with emotion as he reached the end of the sentence, and his arm moved away from the puppy on his lap and back to his wine glass.

>   Brock said nothing but watched him carefully, his large eyebrows knotted in thought.

  “Well, at least it sounds like he doesn’t mean you or your mum any harm,” Laura said, her hand reaching out and giving Poole’s arm a squeeze.

  “He’s going to put us in harm's way just by being here,” Poole said in a hollow voice. “He’s still part of that world, which means at some point somewhere he’s going to annoy the wrong people and it will come back on us. He even had some goon stood outside the café tonight while we talked.”

  “Well, you had me, to be fair,” Brock said, smiling. “I might qualify as a goon.” He smiled. “Seriously though, do you think your dad has started up his old business here?”

  “Who knows, but I for one would be happy if he was back inside.”

  Indy raised his head from Poole’s lap and let out a long, high-pitched yawn.

  Almost immediately a waiter arrived at their table with a concerned smile.

  “Sir, we did agree that when the animal woke up?” The waiter hovered nervously.

  “Blimey,” Brock said gruffly. “You didn’t waste much time, did you? The little bugger’s only just opened his eyes!”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but we do have people eating here.” The waiter gave another smile.

  “All right, all right,” Brock said, standing. “Come on then.” The three of them stood up and Poole passed Indy to Laura. She clipped the small puppy lead on the dog and placed him on the tiled floor.

  “Well, I’m taking this,” Brock said, scooping the wine bottle from the table as they headed toward the door.

  Poole’s eyes strayed toward the wine bar across the street, but he knew his father had long gone. He had watched him and the large companion leave through the window a while ago. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that his father would appear at any moment. He wondered if he would always feel like this now that Jack Poole was out and living in the area.

  “No!” cried Laura suddenly from behind him. He turned to see Indy squatting on the internal doormat. Laura reached down, grabbed the dog and lifted him forward onto the street, but there was already a small dark puddle on the doormat.