“No potential code?” Joe asked.
“Anything is a potential code, Joe, but where do you start to find it, never mind crack it? We’re in a bizarre situation, Joe, where there is so much we can’t explain. The Zimovane, for example. We know that Ursula was taking paracetemol and claiming it was Dihydrocodeine Tartrate. So do we assume that one of the other Housies had the sleeping stuff with them, pretending it was something else? If so, how did he or she get it to Ursula and the other Housies and how did the security man, Bexley, end up taking it … he did take it, by the way. The urine sample confirmed it. None of the Housies had any contact with him. The Housey in question would have to be working with someone from the outside, but as I’ve just pointed out, that’s impossible. They needed to communicate and they couldn’t.”
“What you mean is, you haven’t worked out how they did it, yet,” Joe said. “What have you done about Marlene Caldbeck?”
“Nothing. She’s still under caution, but she’ll get away with a warning.” Hoad shook his head sadly. “We’re working a different angle now, Joe. We’re thinking suicide again, only this time, we believe it may have been accidental.”
“How can you accidentally commit suicide?” Joe demanded.
“Hear me out,” the chief inspector insisted. “I told you about Victor Prentiss yesterday, yeah? We know that Ursula was one of his female associates. Suppose she got into scarfing while she was, er, you know, with him?”
Joe put his cigarette out. “I thought most victims of autoerotic asphyxiation were men.”
“They are,” Hoad agreed, “but it’s not unknown for women to try it out. It might account for the older ligature mark on her throat and it would explain so many of the inconsistencies we’ve come across.”
“Except that it wouldn’t explain why the security man was doped up,” Joe pointed out.
“It could be that it’s not related.” Hoad did not sound convinced and he was not convincing Joe.
“You know, Frank, I bumped into my brother’s ex-wife yesterday. She lives in Leeds, yet here she was in Chester. I thought, ‘what a coincidence’ but of course it wasn’t. She’s originally from Sanford and she came to watch Brenda coming out of the I-Spy house.”
“Your point being?”
“I don’t like coincidences when they’re too coincidental,” Joe replied. “Someone chooses to dope up the security officer on the very same night that Ursula, the biggest tart to hit British TV since they dramatised Lady Chatterley, kills herself while getting her jollies? I don’t buy it.”
“It could be that Bexley has been on these pills all along and decided not to say anything to anyone for fear that he’d lose his job,” Hoad pointed out. “His pal, Driscoll told us he was a tired old bugger. We’ll be checking with his GP tomorrow.”
“And Ursula was on exactly the same pills?” Joe asked. “Another coincidental coincidence. I’m sorry, Frank, but this is all too pat, too simplistic. I stick to my guns. She was murdered and if you say there was a Housey involved then it means you have him or her working with someone on the outside, most likely one of the crew. They worked out a way to communicate. That’s all. Find that and you’ll find the killer. Find him… or her… and you’ll find the one on the outside, too.”
Hoad hedged his words with caution. “I don’t know… Common sense tells me you’re right, but how? Who?”
“I don’t know.” Joe concentrated on rolling a fresh cigarette for a moment. “I’ve hired a car and we’re going out to Cheshire Oaks this morning… Well the women are. I have an appointment with a man who claims he can throw some light on Victor Prentiss’ death.”
Hoad was surprised. “Who?”
“Man named Dan Wellesley,” Joe replied. “I found him on the internet yesterday afternoon, emailed him, he got back to me, I rang him and he’s happy to talk to me. In his seventies now, but according to his website, he worked closely with Prentiss up until the guy’s death. He lives at Mollington, somewhere north of the city.”
“Follow the Liverpool signs and branch off just out of the city centre. You’re following the university and Hoylake signs. The A540. It’s a bit out in the wilds, mind.”
“I’ll drop the girls at Cheshire Oaks then go and have a chat with him.” Joe lit his second cigarette. “He wouldn’t tell me anything over the phone. Said he needed to check his facts, first, but the way he was talking, Prentiss’ death wasn’t quite the accident you hinted at.”
“So he’s saying it was murder?”
Joe shook his head. “No. He’s not saying anything right now, but I’m seeing him at eleven. I’ll bell you the minute I’m through with him.”
“And what do you think he’s gonna tell you? Aside from Prentiss’ death, that is. He may just be yanking your chain.”
“He didn’t sound like it on the phone,” Joe grinned. “And I’ve not only seen Wellesley’s website but I’ve seen videos of Prentiss. Maybe Wellesley can tell us just how close Ursula was to Prentiss and whether that had any bearing on her death.”
***
Joe found himself driving out of the suburban areas into quieter, more rural roads. The houses were gone and he was surrounded by open fields, occasionally blurred by bushes and trees or the odd small copse.
He had driven for about a mile and began to worry that the rented car’s satnav had failed him, when houses began to appear intermittently, all hidden behind tall laburnum or larch. As the satnav informed him he was nearing his destination, he slowed down.
He need not have bothered. The house was instantly recognisable from the number of police vehicles parked outside; two patrol cars, a white, Scientific Support van and Hoad’s car.
Joe pulled into the road side, and put his hazard flashers on. Climbing out of the unfamiliar Fiat, he hurried along the bumpy grass verge until a uniformed constable stopped him at the gate. He explained who he was and while the constable got on the radio to Hoad, Joe strained to see what lay beyond the high fence. All he could make out were the redbrick chimney stacks of a bungalow, but even from this disadvantaged viewpoint, the place had an air of affluence about it.
“Chief Inspector Hoad says you can go through, Mr Murray. He’ll meet you at the door.”
“Thanks.”
Joe hurried in, barely taking in the pristine lawns either side of the neat gravel drive. The football pitch smooth grass was bordered by tall trees and several dwarf conifers, which hid an enormous and fine, white fronted bungalow, with red brick interspersed in the pebbledash front to lend a contrast. Double bay windows sat either side of the teak front door, where Hoad waited on the terracotta tiles.
“Did you say you were meeting Dan Wellesley, Joe?” the chief inspector greeted him.
Sweat breaking on his forehead, Joe nodded. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”
Hoad nodded grimly. “I got the call about half an hour ago. I tried to ring you, but you must have been driving or something.”
“I was taking Sheila and Brenda to Cheshire Oaks, like I said,” Joe replied. “What happened?”
“The next door neighbour noticed that the patio windows were open at the rear, and the glass was smashed out of them. Came over to see if the old boy was all right, found him dead. Head caved in with a small bronze statue. It’s laid alongside him covered in blood.” Hoad chewed spit. “I can’t let you in there, Joe. Not while Forensic are doing their bit.”
“So what else can you tell me?”
With a nod, Hoad led him around the side of the house and to the rear, where another vast expanse of lawn and trees greeted him. Beyond the far boundary of the property lay miles of open Cheshire countryside, and in the distance, the hills of North Wales, while away to the southwest, standing stark in the morning sunlight, were the more rugged mountains of Snowdonia.
Alongside the open patio doors lay a shower of glass, and a piece of the brilliant white frame on the paved area beneath it.
“Made to look like a break-in,” Hoad said, “but all the glass is on t
he outside.”
“Meaning it was smashed from inside, which in turns means Wellesley let him in, which probably means the killer was known to him. Anything stolen? Anything obvious, I mean.”
Again Hoad confirmed Joe’s question with a slow, grim-faced nod. “Yes. The tower hard drive from his computer.”
“That figures,” Joe said.
“Now you’re going to insist that it’s all linked, aren’t you?”
“You don’t think so?” Joe demanded. “I found Wellesley through his website yesterday afternoon. He hinted that he could tell me a lot about Victor Prentiss’ death and maybe something about Ursula Kenney, although he wouldn’t commit to that. Judging by the look of the website, it was home made. He was probably a hobbyist. Now where would he keep all his information if not on his computer?”
“All right,” Hoad conceded. “Who knew you were coming to see him?”
“The girls, Sheila and Brenda, obviously, but I was talking about it while we were in the wings at the D-Day ceremony yesterday, and half the production team were there. If they mentioned it to anyone, it means the whole of Gibraltar Hall would know.” Joe gazed again at the hills across the Dee estuary as if seeking inspiration from them. “Any idea of the time of death?”
Hoad shrugged. “Some time in the early hours is all the doc will say. Post mortem will be tomorrow, so we won’t know anything properly until then. Do you think it matters?”
“Not really,” Joe confessed. “It’s the logical time to carry out an attack like this. I noticed there was a gravel drive at the front. No sign of tyre tracks or footprints.”
“No tyre tracks,” Hoad admitted, “and as for footprints, there’s nothing obvious. We’ll have to wait until forensic have finished their work. Even then, I’m not hopeful. The next door neighbour walked over the drive, and our people have been tramping all over it all morning.”
“I don’t think there’s much I can do here,” Joe said. “This is a job for your people. I’d better get back to Cheshire Oaks.”
“Joe…” Hoad fell silent.
“What? What is it?”
“Look, I don’t like having to ask this but…”
“Where was I during the night?” Joe grinned. “It’s no sweat, Frank. I was at the hotel and there’s absolutely no one who can confirm it after about one this morning. At that time, Sheila, Brenda and I were packing away my disco gear.”
Hoad nodded. “It’s all right. I believe you. It wouldn’t make sense for you to kill him, anyway, but there’s something more worrying.”
“What?”
“If you’re right and this is tied to the murder of Ursula Kenney, when you get too close, you may be next.”
Joe laughed. But it was hollow, without humour.
***
“We’ll protect you, Joe,” Brenda said. “Won’t we, Sheila?”
“Of course we will. We can sit in your room playing poker while you sleep.”
“We’ll need guns, though,” Brenda laughed.
“I’m glad you two find it funny, but Hoad has a point. Whoever it is has demonstrated he doesn’t give that for a human life.” Joe snapped his fingers. “It also means I’m getting too close for comfort and that could just make me a target.” He gave them his sternest stare. “And it’s not just me. It’s you two as well.
They were seated outside the Cheshire Oaks branch of Costa, enjoying the noon sunshine and a cup of coffee. As usual, Sheila and Brenda were laden with purchases, while Joe was burdened with perplexities.
Unlike most shopping precincts, Cheshire Oaks was more of a village than an enclosed mall. The streets sang to the sound of summer Sunday and the shops were crowded with visitors. Most places offered famous brands at advantageous prices; something the two women found hard to resist.
Joe had no such problem. “I never see the logic in paying hundreds of pounds for a pair of trainers. I get two years out of my cheapos from Sanford market, so I’d want thirty or forty years out of the brand names.”
“And I’ve told you before, Joe, it’s not about wear and tear,” Brenda scolded him. “It’s about looking the part. It’s about how others perceive you.”
“In the same way that our killer perceived this poor man, Dan Wellesley, as a threat, whether he was or not,” Sheila added.
A light came on in Joe’s brain. “No. You’re wrong, Sheila. The killer didn’t perceive Wellesley as a threat. He really was one. Our killer is not stupid. He knows the risks, and he was smart enough to get rid of Ursula. Now, just when that’s calming down, he goes after Dan Wellesley. Why? Why take that risk if Wellesley didn’t know anything. He went out to see Wellesley, realised the old man knew something and decided to shut him up for good.”
“Even if you’re right, Joe, what can you do about it?” Brenda asked.
“Plenty,” Joe replied. He drank off his coffee. “Come on. I need to get back to the hotel because what I have to do I can’t do here.”
“Not so fast,” Brenda said, and handed him a carrier bag. “This is for you.”
Suspecting some kind of practical joke, he peered first at her and then into the bag. He reached in and pulled out a brand new, quilt-lined gilet. Again his eyes fell on Brenda, silently questioning her.
“It’s a thank you, Joe,” she said. “For everything you’ve done over the past few days.”
He tutted. “You don’t have to do this, you know. I have enough money of my own without you spending yours on me.”
“Good old Joe,” Sheila said with a fond smile. “He can’t even accept a gift with good grace.”
“It’s not that,” he protested. “I am grateful, believe me. It’s just that…” He trailed off not sure what to say.
“You’ve been a rock this weekend, Joe,” Brenda said. “No matter what doubts anyone else may have had about me – that Chief Inspector Hoad, for instance – you fought my corner. You’re worth it.” She grinned naughtily. “Course, if you need a bigger thank you, I can come to your room after lights out.”
“Thanks, but I’ll stick to the gilet.” Joe stood up and tried the cream and navy gilet on. “Good fit,” he said. “And plentya pockets.” He took it off again. “Too warm for summer, though. I’ll save it for the colder weather.” A glazed expression came over his eyes as he removed the garment. “How could I be so stupid?”
“I should think you find it very easy, Joe,” Sheila said, taking the new gilet from him and folding it correctly.
He scowled. “Marc Ulrich,” he said. “It’s been hot as hell for the last month or two.”
“One of the best summers we’ve ever had,” Brenda agreed.
“So what kind of nerd hangs around in a dressing gown in that kinda heat? And it was his cord used to hang Ursula.”
“He said it was lost,” Brenda argued.
“What would you expect him to say?” Joe demanded. “Hey, gang, here’s my dressing gown cord. I’m just off to throttle Ursula with it.”
“He’d probably have got a round of applause if he did,” Sheila observed.
For once, Brenda sounded cautious. “Joe, you’re running off on a tangent, here, and Marc is not the kind I would describe as a killer.”
“Besides,” Sheila told him, “You’ve been saying all along that this murder was planned.”
“Oh, it was planned all right,” Joe agreed, “but I also told you not to lose sight of the killer’s ability to hide himself. That nerdy front could be just that. A front. And,” he stressed “Marc was there, with us yesterday afternoon, when I told you I needed to research Victor Prentiss.”
“You didn’t actually name the man,” Sheila said. “You just said a producer.”
“And that makes a difference? I think I said, ‘something iffy with a producer twenty years ago’. Let’s work this out. Ursula had problems with Prentiss. Maybe Marc and someone else, someone on I-Spy was in the frame, too. This someone else and Marc killed Prentiss then shifted his body to hide it. That would fit in with the hints Da
n Wellesley gave me. Ursula wangles her way onto the show because she knows this someone else, who then drafts Marc in to shut Ursula up. He comes in, playing the gormless sod, but when he’s alone with Ursula, he comes on heavy. She tells him to get stuffed, so Marc and the someone else go back to plan A, put you lot to sleep for a few hours, then murder her. As you’re all coming out on D-Day, he overhears me telling you about Ursula and a producer and he puts two and two together, so last night, he and this someone else went out to see Dan Wellesley to shut him up. It all fits.”
He looked at the two women, his eyes burning brightly, willing them to accept his idea.
“It holds together, certainly,” Sheila admitted. “Superficially, at least. But you’ll have an awful job proving it.”
“Leave that to me,” he promised. “They always make mistakes. All I have to do is spot it. Now are we going back to the hotel for lunch, or what?”
“Oh. Food.” Brenda smiled gleefully. “Let’s go.”
Chapter Sixteen
At three o’clock, Joe left the Victoria Hotel, this time alone, and using the satnav to guide him, found the Ferry Path Inn on the eastern outskirts of Chester, close to the M53, and soon found himself sat in the beer garden with Marc Ulrich and his mother.
For Joe, the location was perfect. They were surrounded by open countryside at that time of year when the landscape became a patchwork of greens and beige as the fields yielded their crops and the trees their fruit. To the south lay the astonishing stark and steep hill of Beeston Castle, and to the north, the fields and mudflats of the Mersey estuary, the weather was pleasantly hot, the lemonade (Joe had to remind himself that he was driving) ice cold.
“It’s closer to Gibraltar Hall here,” Marc explained. “In case that policeman needs us back.”
As Brenda had promised and as Joe had seen for himself on TV, Marc portrayed an air of uncertainty, as if he expected a comeback on every word. It did not take long to work out why.
His mother, Sonya, whom Joe judged to be about 65, was one of those forceful old matriarchs on which the empire had been founded. The kind of women it would be worth joining the army to avoid. The kind who would suffer no rebuttal to her forceful opinions.
The I-Spy Murders Page 20
