The I-Spy Murders

by David W Robinson

  “This is nuts,” Dylan protested.

  “Absolutely crazy,” Helen agreed. “How do you propose a woman of my age could get over that rear wall?”

  “One of my members did it,” Joe pointed out, “and he’s ten years older than you. And you, yourself, told me you keep yourself fit.”

  Helen fell silent again, her arms folded across her chest.

  “The rest is simple,” Joe said. “Dylan hands her the mobile through the Romping Room hatch, then goes back to bed. She goes to the control room, restarts the live feeds, then leaves the way she came. You’re presented with a suicide and a crowd of Housies who all appear to be ill, but who are in fact suffering the after effects of the Zimovane.”

  Joe stared pointedly at the two accused. “But it doesn’t end there. They think they’re in the clear when Dylan overhears me talking about Victor Prentiss and one of his contacts. Helen knows who he is and she’s not surprised when she gets a call from him later that day. Check the call log for the production office, Frank. My guess is you’ll find an incoming call from his number. If not, check with Helen’s agent. He may have called her and asked Helen to bell him back. She goes out there Saturday night, meekly following Wellesley’s orders, but when she gets there instead of giving him what he wants, she gives him a clout on the head with that bronze statuette.”

  Closing down his netbook, Joe stared expectantly at Helen.

  There was a long silence. Eventually, Helen drew in a deep breath and glared naked malevolence at Joe.

  “You want me to tell you how much I regret what happened?” she asked. “You’ll wait until hell freezes over. Ursula Kenney was a blackmailer, plain and simple. She was prepared to ruin my reputation in order to project her slutty image. Dan Wellesley was no better. He wanted what he wanted at any price. And you know the annoying thing, Murray? You’re wrong about Victor Prentiss’ death; it really was his own doing. Him and his silly games.”

  “In that case you should have gone to the police and told them what happened.” Hoad said.

  “And ruined my own career before it even started?” Helen shook her head. “I think not.”

  “And I won’t have mother’s name dragged through the mud,” Dylan growled. “Not by you, not by Wellesley, not by anyone.”

  Joe shook his head sadly, “You don’t get it, do you? You’re both as bad as Prentiss, Ursula and Wellesley.”

  Helen glared pure hatred at him. “I don’t regret a single action this week. Not one.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  With the bus cruising along the M62, down the hill past the junction with the M1, the first signs of Sanford could be seen, five miles distant.

  Perched on the jump seat on the opposite side of the aisle from Keith, his mobile phone pressed to his ear, Joe concluded the call with a yawn. “Thanks, Frank. I’ll keep an eye on the papers for the trial.” He closed the phone, yawned again and, half turning to face his two companions, said, “I’ll be glad to get home. I need some serious shuteye.”

  Ignoring his fatigue, Brenda asked, “What did Hoad have to say?”

  “Helen and Dylan have given statements and admitted it all. Helen insists that Prentiss’ death was accidental and his own fault.”

  Sheila looked up from her paperback. “I’m not sure who I feel most sorry for: Ursula, or Helen and Dylan.”

  “Helen and Dylan,” Brenda said, echoing Joe’s yawn.

  The man himself shook his head. “None of them. Helen and Dylan took the law into their own hands and they had no right to do that, no matter what the provocation. And do you know what the real shame about it is?” he asked as Sheila opened her mouth to challenge him.

  Sheila bit back her original words. “What?” she asked.

  “Victor Prentiss was a grade one user and abuser of women. You know me; I’ve never been politically correct, and I don’t hold with those feminists who try to make everything political, but Victor Prentiss was an out and out disgrace. He abused his position for the favours of young women who were desperate to get ahead in the movies, and that, for me, is appalling. If he really did go too far and throttle himself, then it’s exactly what he deserved, and if Helen and Dylan’s mother had come forward at the time, I’m sure no blame would have attached itself to them.”

  “And Ursula would never have had a hold over Helen,” Sheila concluded.

  There was a brief silence and they looked through the windows as Keith pulled into the nearside lane at the mile marker for the Sanford exit.

  “What do you think they’ll get, Joe?” Brenda asked.

  “Life,” Sheila declared. “It’s mandatory for murder, and in both instances, it was murder.”

  “Helen may be able to plead spur of the moment in Dan Wellesley’s case, but I doubt that it’ll work. She knew what he wanted when he rang, and she knew she had only two options. Give in or kill him off.” Joe shook his head sadly. “Premeditation on both counts. They’ll both get life.”

  “I can’t understand Dylan’s motivation,” Brenda said. “He may have been angry at Ursula’s threat to drag his mother’s name through the mud, but many people get angry without resorting to murder. Perhaps it wasn’t planned after all.”

  Joe grunted. “Nice to have you back, Brenda. Living in your usual dream world. Helen and Dylan cooked this thing up between them before I-Spy ever got under way. Frank is looking into Dylan’s background to see what’s known about him. We don’t know how thickly Helen laid it on when she first contacted Dylan, but assuming he doesn’t have a predisposition for murder, the idea of his mother being exposed as a harlot, a woman willing to use her body to get where she wanted, must have driven him insane with anger.”

  The drone of the engine changed, slowing down as Keith braked for the exit. The evening sun picked out the sharp angles of the buildings on the Sanford Retail Park.

  Joe yawned again. “Good to be home, but I feel like I’ve had no rest at all.”

  “It’s been a busy weekend for all of us, Joe,” Sheila agreed, “but especially you. Flitting between Chester and Gibraltar Hall, and Mollington, you’ve hardly stopped.”

  “And I’ve been on the go since just turned four this morning,” he complained. He stretched and reached up for the PA mike above Sheila’s head. Checking it was working, he switched it off again. “You know,” he said to his two companions, “I think I may just take tomorrow off.”

  Sheila and Brenda gaped.

  “You?”

  “Taking a day off?”

  Joe grinned. “Only joking.”

  THE END

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