by Adam Croft
Although the numbers were larger than for most sermons, Reverend Michael noted that the murmurings from the congregation were far more muted than on quieter weeks. Word of a tragedy moves far more quickly than that of God’s good news, he observed, without much surprise. This service, however, was to be a very different one. It had a more funereal feel than those to which the parishioners were usually accustomed, with the traditional format being abandoned.
‘“Whoever sheds the blood of man, by man shall his blood be shed, for God made man in his own image.” The words of God to Noah. Genesis 9:6,’ Reverend Michael opened.
‘This is not an easy sermon for me to have to deliver. I deal with the circle of life on a daily basis as part of my work for our Lord God, but I have that same good Lord to thank for the rarity of having to experience the blood of man shed by man himself. Murder,’ he emphasised, ‘is thankfully rare. To have such a crime committed on our own doorstep — a doorstep which I myself had crossed that very evening — is unspeakable. But speak about it we must, as an evil force is amongst us today in Tollinghill.
‘Thou shalt not murder is one of the cornerstones of the Ten Commandments. The one commandment, perhaps, which no amount of social modernity and liberalisation will change. Someone amongst us certainly did not observe the commandment to love thy neighbour. The Ten Commandments also tell us that we must not bear false witness. Proverbs 6:16-19 tells us “There are six things that the Lord strongly dislikes, seven that are an abomination to him: haughty eyes, a lying tongue, hands that shed innocent blood, a heart that devises wicked plans, feet that make haste to run to evil, a false witness who breathes out lies, and one who sows discord among brothers.”’
Reverend Michael continued with his sermon for a further fifteen minutes, reeling off a selection of carefully chosen Bible verses and implored a level of soul searching amongst the residents of Tollinghill. Having stated that no hymns would be sung at that particular service, he led the congregation in prayer for the safe passage of the soul of Oscar Whitehouse, strength and courage for his family and peace and integrity for the person responsible.
Kempston Hardwick, not being one who made a habit of attending church services, had relied on Ellis Flint to survey the scene. Quite how he was supposed to gauge the reactions of certain parishioners and the effect of the words of the Reverend Michael Winton when he had sat himself down at the very back of the church was anyone’s guess, but Ellis took on his new role of detectivial independence with great fervour. Having satisfied himself that, unsurprisingly, there were no signs of suspicion, he rose during the last prayer and headed for the sanctity and solitude of the Freemason’s Arms.
16
The usual Sunday-lunchtime clientele were assembled in the Freemason’s Arms as Ellis Flint pushed open the large door and sat himself down on the nearest barstool. Four gentlemen of advancing years were spaced out neatly along the length of the bar, so Ellis chose to complete the pattern by propping against at the adjacent stretch of the L-shaped bar.
‘Ol’ Terrence here tells me you were in church today, Ellis. I ’ope you’re not goin’ soft on us,’ Doug Lilley, the long-standing landlord said, as he poured his fifth customer a pint.
Bearing in mind that he had snuck out early and was a good thirty years younger than Terrence (he never knew his surname and didn’t care to find out), Ellis was stunned that the man had managed to get to the pub before him.
‘Nah, probably feeling guilty, ain’t he?’ Terrence replied before Ellis could think of what to say. ‘Probably bumped off that Whitehouse bloke!’
Ellis was again stunned into silence, but thankfully saved by Doug. ‘Not bloody likely, Terrence. It’s ’im wot’s been tryin’ to find out who done it!’
‘I know,’ Terrence said, in the manner of a child having been reprimanded by its parent. ‘Only messing, like. No offence, Ellis.’
‘None taken.’
‘Just meant that everyone’s a suspect, ain’t they? Never know who done it. Could be any one, really. Ain’t that right, Doug?’
‘Right,’ Doug replied, ‘but that don’t mean you need to go around shootin’ your mouth off accusin’ people of murder. We got to all rally round, aven’t we? I tell you what, Ellis: when you find out who done that to ol’ Oscar, I’ve got a right mind to go round there ’n wring ’is bloody neck!’
Ellis tried to diffuse the situation, but not before a long, cool draught of his beer to counteract the effects of the warm summer’s walk from the church.
‘Not much point in that, is there? Letting him get away scot-free then. Better to let him rot in jail, surely?’ Ellis said — very diplomatically, he thought.
The landlord cocked his head to his side and curled his bottom lip forward. ‘True. Fair point, I s’pose.’ Before he could say any more, the front door to the pub swung open and the familiar figure of Kempston Hardwick entered and made a beeline for Ellis.
‘Well?’
‘Well what?’ Ellis asked.
‘What happened at the church service? Did you spot anything unusual?’
‘Only the fact that I was sat in a church on a Sunday morning. Do you want a drink?’
‘No, Ellis, I want to know all about the church service.’
‘Well you should’ve come along then, shouldn’t you? Lovely, it was. Really strong moral message. I’m having a beer if you want one.’
‘Oh, for… All right, I’ll have a Campari. But then I want to hear every last detail.’
‘All out, I’m afraid,’ Doug said from behind the bar, having not-so-subtly listened in on their conversation. ‘You drank the last drop.’
‘A half of whatever Ellis is having, then,’ Hardwick said, before turning back to Flint. ‘Let’s get a table over there in the corner.’
‘I thought you preferred sitting at the bar?’ Ellis said, his eyes narrowing.
‘I do,’ he said, glancing at the landlord, ‘but I think this particular conversation needs a little more privacy.’
With the drinks poured and paid for, the pair made their way over to the corner table and sat down, Hardwick opting for the large green cloth armchair, which sat regally under a glowing lampshade in the far corner of the pub. Ellis was right — Hardwick did tend to prefer sitting at the bar, but he couldn’t help but secure that particular chair whenever it was available.
‘Now, run me through what happened,’ Hardwick said, taking a sip of his beer and licking the line of white foam from his upper lip.
‘Not a whole lot, if I’m honest. I mean, I don’t go to church often, but weddings and funerals tend to be a lot more eventful than that.’
‘Yes, that’s why they’re called “events”, Ellis. The clue’s in the name. Did you get a good look at our main suspects? Did anyone seem a little… suspicious? Keen, perhaps. Or unduly nervous?’
‘Difficult to say, really. I couldn’t see everyone’s faces the whole time. I wasn’t in what you might call a prime viewing position.’
‘Why? Where did you sit?’
‘At the back.’
‘At the back? Jesus Christ, man. How did you expect to see anything at the back?’
‘I could see the vicar perfectly well. He’s a suspect. Besides, he’d not be keen on you taking the good Lord’s name in vain.’
‘Ellis,’ Hardwick said, with a long sigh. ‘I’m investigating a murder case. I think even the good Lord would permit me the occasional oral misdemeanour.’
The elderly woman who happened to be walking past their table at that moment picked the remains of her sherry glass out of the carpet and made her way back to the bar, casting the occasional revolted glance at Hardwick. ‘I thought that lot kept themselves away down in Brighton,’ she said, as she ordered a replacement drink.
‘What was the service like?’ Hardwick asked Flint.
‘Odd.’
‘Odd?’
‘Yeah, odd. No hymns, for a start. Quite a solemn affair, really. Bit like a funeral but without the songs or the h
ysterical relatives. He seemed quite stern. As if he knew that the murderer was there, in the pews.’
‘You mean he knew they were there somewhere, or you think he actually knew who it was?’ Hardwick asked, his interest piqued.
‘Difficult to say, really,’ Ellis said, taking a sip of his drink. ‘But I think we can safely say he knows more than he’s letting on.’
17
Having spent the previous afternoon and evening clearing his mind from distractions, Hardwick had been pleasantly surprised to discover that Oscar Whitehouse’s agent and PR representative, Sandy Baker, was in the office bright and early the next morning.
‘I know it’s early for a Monday, but Sandy and the directors wanted to meet as early as possible to discuss what to do after Friday night,’ the young receptionist had explained. ‘Not the sort of thing we get very often. I mean, clients die, but we’ve never had one murdered,’ she added with protruding eyeballs. ‘I’ll call her for you.’
‘Thank you. Much obliged,’ Hardwick said as he and Flint sat down on a plush purple sofa in the reception area. A selection of upmarket interior design magazines adorned the low solid-glass coffee table.
The layout and design of contemporary offices was yet another aspect of the modern world that Hardwick couldn’t quite get his head around. There seemed to be no walls; just panes of frosted glass jutting out left, right and centre. Frosted, Hardwick presumed, to avoid major injury.
‘Sorry to bother you, Sandy,’ the young girl said into her headset, ‘but the police are here to talk about Friday night.’
‘Oh! No, we’re not–’ Flint started.
‘Not in any rush,’ Hardwick interrupted, glaring at Flint. ‘She’s more than welcome to take her time.’
Barely moments later, the slim, blonde figure of Sandy Baker body-swerved a pane of frosted glass and flounced through into the reception area, introducing herself.
‘Follow me; we’ll chat in my office,’ she added.
Sandy Baker’s office was of a contemporary design, with a number of completely irrelevant decorations and ornaments. Her desk backed onto a window with a view over the town and faced an open lounge-like area, which consisted of two brightly-coloured egg-pod-style chairs and a beanbag.
Guiding the pair to this side of the office, Sandy sat herself down in one of the egg pods and motioned for Ellis to take the other. Unsure as to how exactly to sit in it, Ellis tried both leg-first and head-first before opting for the spiralling cat manoeuvre. Finally he found a position that left him comfortable enough, but looking rather like a coy geisha. Hardwick, on the other hand, was left with the beanbag and chose to stand.
‘Please, sit down,’ Sandy offered.
‘I’m quite all right standing, Ms Baker,’ Hardwick said.
‘Nonsense. We go for the relaxed feeling in this office. Please sit down,’ she implored.
Hardwick stood for a moment and looked askance at Ellis Flint. Seeing the blatant awkwardness of the seating arrangements, but not considering for one second that he could look half as daft as Flint, he slowly lowered himself towards the beanbag, his right arm out behind to support him.
After he had righted himself, rubbed his bruised elbow and extracted his pen from his earhole, Hardwick asked Sandy about her visit to Westerlea House on Friday night.
‘Yes, I went over at about… let’s see. I left the office at eight-thirty, so probably about nine o’clock? I wanted to see how he was and take him some paperwork to sign. It needed to be filed by Saturday morning so unfortunately I had no choice.’
‘How long did you stay for?’ Ellis asked.
‘Oh, not long. Five minutes at the most.’
‘And what was this paperwork, exactly?’ Hardwick enquired.
‘Just various bits and bobs, really.’
‘It can’t have been that important then, surely?’ Hardwick said, cocking his head to one side.
‘Well, one piece was a contract for a new show on one of the paranormal channels. They wanted him to go round to other people’s houses and speak to the ghosts that haunted them.’
‘And that contract was the piece that needed to be signed by Saturday morning?’
‘Yes, otherwise the show wouldn’t have gone ahead and we would have lost the money.’
‘I see. May I take a copy of the contract with me?’
‘Yes, of course,’ Sandy said, standing from her egg pod and rifling through a stack of papers on her desk. ‘Ah, here it is. I’ll get the receptionist to photocopy it for you.’
‘Thank you. Now tell me, what was your relationship with Oscar Whitehouse like?’
‘Oh, very positive,’ Sandy said, sitting at her desk chair. Hardwick noted that she no longer felt the need for a casual egg-based approach. ‘He always put on a good performance and was sought after by lots of different television shows. He was always professional in his work and was one of our stars.’
‘I mean your personal relationship,’ Hardwick explained.
‘Ah. Well that was fine, too.’
‘Fine?’
Sandy thought for a few moments and sighed. ‘He was a good client but not a particularly pleasant man.’
Hardwick raised an eyebrow, signalling that she should continue.
‘He was very demanding. None of this came across on camera, of course, which is why he was so popular with audiences and producers. He always pulled in the viewers and his books sold by the bucket load, which suited us down to the ground. On a personal level, though, he was very rude and arrogant. He had a bit of a reputation with women, if you want to know the truth.’
‘In what sense?’ Hardwick asked.
‘Well he was very flirtatious. He was part of the old-school; he thought he could have any woman he wanted just because he was on television. He liked to try it on and wouldn’t take no for an answer. But then again, like I say, he came from that sort of background. It was rife in the seventies and eighties — I think everyone knows that by now.’
‘Perhaps so,’ Hardwick said, ‘but that doesn’t make it right.’
‘No, of course it doesn’t, but it does explain it.’
Hardwick was silent for a few moments, allowing Sandy Baker to judge her own remarks without any comment of his own.
‘Did he ever “try it on” with you, Ms Baker?’
Sandy glanced down at her desk, as if the answer lay there. ‘There may have been one or two situations, but I don’t let things like that get in the way of a good business relationship,’ Sandy said, her cracking voice belying her words.
‘I apologise, but I really do need to ask,’ Hardwick explained. ‘Did he ever assault you?’
‘Right,’ Sandy said, removing herself from her chair. ‘Is that the time? Sorry, I have another meeting to get to. If you need anything else, please do call or email me.’
Hardwick held the photocopied contract in his hand and was silent for almost a full minute.
‘You’ve got an idea, haven’t you, Kempston?’ Ellis said.
‘Perhaps. This contract bound Oscar Whitehouse to a new television series, yes?’
‘Apparently so, yes,’ Ellis replied.
‘A television series that he could never actually work on, seeing as he died the same night as he signed the contract.’
‘Well, it would have been pretty tricky if you ask me, yes.’
‘I wonder… Ellis, come with me. We’re going to see an old friend.’
18
The office that Hardwick led Flint into was far more traditional and less ostentatious than the one Sandy Baker operated from. The wood panelling on the walls in the waiting area (sans receptionist) looked as though it could tell a thousand stories from a million overheard conversations. A few minutes after their arrival, the door to the office opened and a tall, gaunt-looking man greeted Hardwick.
‘Kempston! Well, what a wonderful surprise. Do come in, the two of you.’
As the man closed the door behind them, Hardwick saw fit to introduce Ellis.<
br />
‘Solly, this is Ellis Flint, a friend and colleague of mine. Ellis, this is Solly Abrahams — he’s a solicitor.’
The two men exchanged handshakes and pleasantries and sat down at the desk.
‘I presume this isn’t a social visit, Kempston?’ Solly asked.
‘Indeed not. I need you to take a look at a contract for me. It’s to do with a case I’m working on. It’s a contract for a new television show, which Oscar Whitehouse was meant to present and star in.’
‘Ah. And now he’s dead. Yes, I saw it in the newspaper this morning. Terrible business.’
‘Indeed. Interestingly, the contract was signed by Oscar Whitehouse on the same night as he died. What does that mean in legal terms?’
‘Well, I think it’s safe to say that one can only presume he signed it before he died. In which case, the document became legally binding straight away. It depends on who had a stake in Oscar Whitehouse’s career, really. I presume that, like most television personalities, he must have had an agent or management company of some sort. They usually cream a large percentage from any earnings. Seeing as they had a stake in the value of this contract, and old Oscar then went and died before it could be fulfilled, it’s likely the insurance would pay out. That’s if his death was no fault of his own, of course, by which I mean, as long as he didn’t commit suicide.’
‘He didn’t. Pay out to whom?’ Hardwick asked.
‘Whoever held the policy; I should imagine it would be his agent or management company. They fulfilled their side of the contract and were due to earn a decent amount of money. Circumstances robbed them of that, so any insurance policy would cover them for loss of earnings.’
Hardwick thought for a few moments, rubbing his chin. ‘So let’s get this straight. Oscar Whitehouse’s agent — or management company — would be due a big insurance pay-out if he died before the programme was completed?’
