The Festival Murders

by Mark McCrum

  Francis repeated the explanation he’d given Sonia.

  ‘We don’t really expect this kind of thing down here,’ Terry said, ‘even during festival time. I think a feller got drunk and punched another feller a couple of years ago. But that’s about it. These literary types are pretty well behaved – that’s why we like ’em. Now as to these two that you’re talking about – I do remember them, as it happens. I picked ’em up from the Hall at around nine thirty on Saturday. I remember the time because I was kept waiting for about twenty minutes. I was about to give the guy up as a bad job. But I reckoned that if I stuck around I’d get another fare anyway. Big party going on. Sooner or later someone was going to want to go into town.’

  ‘It was Bryce Peabody who called you out?’

  ‘If that was his name. Sonia puts the calls through to my mobile, so I just pick ’em up as I’m driving round.’

  ‘But then someone else came out?’

  ‘Yes. Tallish chap. Not your typical arty-farty type. Cropped hair, muscly. Looked more like a bouncer than anything else.’

  That was Dan all right. ‘So he saw you there and helped himself …’

  ‘He came over, yes, and I gave him the name and he confirmed that was him. But as I was turning round the circle to leave, this other shortarsed fellow comes running out in front of me, waving his arms in my headlights and shouting. He claimed it was his taxi. Then it turned out he knew the guy in the back, so after a bit of argy-bargy they agreed to go into town together.’

  ‘Just describe how the other guy looked.’

  ‘Bit older, I’d say. Short dark curls and quite a lived-in face, if you follow me. If you told me he used the old Grecian 2000 I wouldn’t be surprised. So in he gets. They don’t say a thing until we’re halfway back to Mold. Then they start talking and suddenly it all kicks off. Screaming at each other, they were. I was supposed to be taking them up to the White Hart but I let them off at the bridge. I can’t be dealing with fights.’

  ‘But you got your fare?’

  ‘More than, as it happened. It was like something out of Monty Python.’ Terry grinned. ‘I stopped the cab and told them to get out and they shut up immediately like a couple of naughty schoolboys. Then they had a right barney about who was paying, shoving tenners at me and telling me to keep the change. As I drove off, they got back to it.’

  ‘Arguing?’

  ‘Fighting, pretty much. The bouncer guy had the older one up against the wall of the bridge. I think he might have thrown a punch.’

  ‘You didn’t think of calling the police?’

  ‘During the festival? You’ve got to be joking. Anyway, they were both grown men – I thought they could look after themselves.’

  ‘You can’t remember what they said – what started it?’

  ‘To be honest, I can’t. Bear in mind I’m working ten-hour shifts over the festival period.’

  ‘Not even the odd line?’

  ‘Come to think of it, there was one thing that did stick in my head. Something about “They’re not yours”.’

  ‘“They’re not yours”,’ Francis repeated slowly. ‘Said by who? The bouncer?’

  ‘It was him, you’re right. The only reason I remember it is that it silenced them both for about half a minute, then they went back to it.’

  ‘And you can’t recall anything else?’

  ‘Went in one ear and out the other. Most of it was to do with books, writers, who was good, who wasn’t’ – Terry grinned – ‘not that I was bothering to listen …’

  Francis’s eyes scanned the row of publications above the CDs. There was Nelson Mandela’s autobiography and Bravo Two Zero and a couple of books about jazz, then a long row of alphabetically arranged chick-lit novels, which he assumed were Sonia’s. No, he decided, a fight about contemporary literature was hardly going to interest Terry.

  ‘Just for the record,’ he asked, ‘how late do you normally carry on after midnight?’

  ‘One o’clock’s about the latest. There’s not much call for taxis after that.’

  ‘Even during festival time?’

  ‘The pubs shut at eleven. You get the rush and then it quietens down.’

  ‘What about last Saturday? How late did you stay out?’

  ‘Not that late. I did a few more runs after that Wyveridge one, then I called it a night.’

  ‘Finishing when?’

  ‘Half twelve, oneish. Come to think of it, it was one when I got in, because I watched a bit of that Jazz Greats series they’ve got on BBC Four. Terrific stuff, have you seen it?’

  ‘I’m afraid I haven’t. But you’d have switched your phone off by then?’

  ‘Once I’m in front of the TV, that’s it. Sometimes I hear them come through on the main answerphone and I ignore them. I’m not greedy.’

  As he drove off, ten minutes later, Francis wondered how much Terry Jenkins might have recalled of Dan and Bryce’s conversation under torture. But a lurking suspicion of his had been resurrected and now he urgently needed to talk to someone else in the case. First he stopped to pick up two essential items: a sandwich and a pair of pliers. Fortunately Mold was one of those rare English towns that still had a basic collection of real shops: Simpson’s Bakery, selling long filled rolls worthy of Subway; then, three doors down, two hardware merchants side by side – one of which, the father and son team of A & P Ness, had, unbeknownst to Francis, kept the local schoolboys in giggles for years.

  THIRTY-TWO

  It was 2.30 p.m. Andrew Motion was ‘In Poetic Conversation’ with Vikram Seth in the Big Tent; Will Self and Janet Street-Porter were discussing country walks in the Middle Tent; and Dan Dickson was chairing a panel of science fiction writers in the School Room. There was nobody in the Green Room except an old man who looked rather like Richard Ingrams, snoring quietly over a copy of the Independent. But of course! This was a literary festival, so it was Ingrams. Francis gave the snoozing satirist a respectful nod, then headed over to the shelves beyond the coffee machine to get what he needed. Without pausing, he picked out two of Laetitia’s festival albums, 1998 and 1999, cut through their restraining brass cords with his new pair of pliers, then tiptoed off at speed towards the exit, looking neither to left nor right.

  He found the Saab in the car park and sat in the passenger seat for five minutes, marking up various pages with yellow Post-It notes. Then he purred gently out of town, enjoying the latent power of the big engine as he kept strictly to the speed limit. Beyond the 30 mph sign, he put his foot down along the narrow green lanes. As he came out onto the wider open stretch of road before Tittlewell he heard the familiar trill of his mobile. He reached down to slide it out of his jacket pocket. DCI JULIE, read the screen. He guessed he’d better pull in before speaking to a police officer.

  ‘Francis Meadowes.’

  ‘No hands-free, Francis? It’s Julie Morgan.’

  ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘Years of experience. Plus of course the delay. I hope you’ve stopped that car.’

  ‘I have now. Fully legal. How can I help you?’

  ‘As long as the key’s in the ignition you’re committing an offence, but we’ll pass over that. I’m sorry to bother you, Francis. I just wanted to check something out.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘We’ve had a statement from Bryce’s long-term partner, Scarlett Paton-Jones, saying that on Sunday afternoon, between four thirty and six, you were interviewing her in her cottage outside Tittlewell.’

  ‘I can confirm that, Julie. Though I’d put my arrival time a little later than four thirty. Sometime after five, I’d say. But if you’re checking her alibi, she was there alone with her twin daughters when I turned up and her Turkish au pair didn’t appear with her car till just before I left an hour later.’

  ‘Thank you. That’s very helpful.’

  ‘So how are you getting on with Rory and the gang?’

  ‘We’re working through them as we speak.’

  ‘Nothing you want to tell
me?’

  ‘In return for us agreeing not to prosecute, Rory’s confessed to possession of LSD. The reason he was so freaked out is that he had three tabs in his wallet – and one of them had gone missing.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Sometime on Sunday, he thinks. Before he went into the festival.’

  ‘After Grace returned?’

  ‘That’s what he’s not sure about.’

  ‘So he says.’

  ‘So he says. Funnily enough, I’m inclined to believe him. He’s so desperate not to get a record, he’s singing like the proverbial canary. Anyway, his story is that he left his wallet in his room, in a jacket on the back of a chair, but didn’t notice what had gone missing till he got into Mold at teatime on Sunday.’

  ‘He didn’t take it himself and then forget about it?’

  Julie laughed, but not for long. ‘Apparently not. But he clearly thinks he’s indirectly responsible for her death. Which would mean, if I decided to be uncharitable, that in addition to perverting the course of justice, and possession of two Class A substances, and a strong suspicion of supplying others with same, he might be looking at manslaughter. Not ideal for someone who wants to be taken on by a reputable chambers next year.’

  ‘No wonder he was so nervy. Well, there’s your second drug. The question is: how did it get from his wallet into her bloodstream?’

  ‘Quite. While you’re on, I thought you might be interested in something else that’s come in: the preliminary result of the Bryce Peabody autopsy.’

  Of course he would! Even down the line, Francis could tell that Julie was enjoying this.

  ‘Fill me in.’

  ‘Carbon dioxide levels in Bryce’s blood confirm our suspicion that he was suffocated.’

  ‘No . . .’

  ‘More to the point,’ Julie continued, ‘some time on the Saturday evening he took – or was given – a powerful sedative, Zimovane. As I understand it from our police doctor, a good dose can render you insensible for several hours. There was a blister pack of this drug in his washbag, so it’s not unduly suspicious – but I was rather hoping you might have Priya with you, see whether she could shed any light on his recent nocturnal habits. Because Scarlett told us he was a sound sleeper and never took pills.’

  ‘Sorry, Julie, I’m on my own.’ Francis contemplated telling her that he was on his way to Scarlett’s right now, then decided against it.

  ‘If you speak to Priya, tell her to give me a call, would you?’

  ‘Will do. So how are the IT guys getting on with those laptops?’

  ‘It’s a painstaking business, dredging up files that have been deleted. I’ll let you know as soon as we have anything.’

  She clicked off. Francis sensed two things: she wasn’t telling him everything; and she knew that he too was holding something back. Well, he thought, he was lucky she was being as open with him as she was; unless she had some other motive, she clearly valued his help. As for him, he would decide on whether to fill her in on what he’d seen in Fleur’s film once he’d understood its full import.

  He pulled out and gathered speed, on past the Black Bull and the gnarled tree. Outside the cottage the gate of the car boot was up. The front door was open. Scarlett was kneeling on the floor just inside, boxes and suitcases all around her.

  ‘Are you leaving us?’ Francis asked, walking in.

  Scarlett turned. ‘Hello. You again? No sooner do I get rid of the police than my private detective friend turns up.’

  ‘Crime writer friend. So they’ve taken your statement?’

  ‘Certainly have. And then stuck around. My Family Liaison Officer’s been here since Sunday evening. Willing little bird called Patricia. A little too willing, if you ask me. Claimed to be offering me support, but was actually a big fat snoop. Until I had the brilliant idea of telling her I’d been talking to you on Sunday afternoon, I think they even had me in the frame for this other poor girl I’ve been reading about in the papers.’

  ‘You haven’t been into Mold then?’

  ‘No. Couldn’t face all that “I’m sorry for your loss” stuff when I don’t even know what I feel myself. Luckily, Patricia was so desperate to be my friend I didn’t even need to send Nurjan in to do the shopping.’

  Francis looked around at the half-finished packing. ‘Have you got time for a chat?’

  ‘Are you any closer to an answer?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘You’re not going to tell me more than that?’

  ‘Not unless you sit down with me.’

  She looked at her watch. ‘You’ll need to keep it brief.’

  They sat with a cafetière just inside the French doors to the garden. The sunshine had gone and the sky was now filled with dark grey cloud. A cool breeze was picking up. Down on the lawn Nurjan was still playing with the twins. Loud shrieks drifted up intermittently.

  ‘You’ve told them?’

  ‘When PC Patricia turned up it was hard not to.’

  ‘How have they taken it?’

  ‘I told them their daddy is in heaven, and that seems to be some consolation. But I don’t think it’s sunk in properly just yet. With me neither. I’ve surprised myself by not shedding a single tear. Is that awful?’ She pressed her lips together in a tight smile. ‘So, anyway, how can I help you?’

  ‘I was going to ask,’ Francis said, ‘if you could tell me about your relationship with Dan Dickson.’

  ‘I thought we’d covered this last time. I’ve known Dan for years. I always thought his success had more to do with self-belief and self-promotion than any profound talent. Bryce had an ongoing problem with him. What more is there to say?’ She paused. ‘Don’t tell me you still suspect him of having anything to do with … all this? He may be a pretentious arse, but I hardly think he’s a murderer.’

  Francis shrugged. ‘You haven’t answered my question, have you?’

  ‘I’m not sure I understand …’

  ‘I’m afraid you understand all too well. Perhaps you’re wondering how I found out. That you and Dan were an item. Off and on, but mostly on, for the best part of a year, before your kids were born, long before you and Bryce came up with the idea of an open marriage.’

  You had to hand it to her, he thought, she was a splendid bluffer. ‘I can’t imagine who told you that,’ she replied, and those pale blue eyes flashed. ‘Mischievous misinformation, whoever it was. As I told you, I’ve known Dan for years. He was part of the same loose scene that I was, up in London in the 1990s. If you must know, he shacked up for a bit with a friend of mine, Tilly Bardwell. But no, never with me. He’s not my type.’

  Francis met her gaze levelly. ‘Are you sure about that?’

  Now Scarlett was on her feet. ‘How dare you come to my house and accuse me of things that are not just hurtful, but completely untrue. I was trying to offer you some help. When I’m extremely busy trying to get off to London. But if this is going to be your tack, I shall have to ask you to finish your coffee and leave.’

  Francis got up slowly. As he did so, he pulled from his bag one of the two albums he’d pinched from the Green Room – MOLD FESTIVAL YEARBOOK 1998. ‘Laetitia was kind enough to show me this,’ he said. ‘A great idea, I must say. You get a real feel of how it must have been. Back in the day.’ Francis opened it at one of the pages that he had marked with Post-It notes. ‘How young you look. Bryce with barely a bag under his eyes, Dan with all his hair, you and Tilly as fresh as daisies. What great pals you clearly were. Staying out for the new lit fest at the same run-down cottage in Tittlewell, just the four of you. No kids, of course, to complicate things. It’s an amazing machine, the camera, isn’t it? Catches those telling little looks and gestures that even the best portrait painter would struggle with. Look at those lips of yours on Dan’s hard stubble. The way your hand cradles round his neck. Tilly’s face is a picture. Of brilliantly controlled jealousy. Did she know? What had happened – or was about to happen?’

  Francis flipped to the nex
t album. ‘Here you all are again, the following year, lined up in the garden of the White Hart, having a great laugh by the looks of it. So what happened to change all that? Was it just that Dan’s Dispatches from the E Zone rocketed him into the talent stratosphere while Bryce’s debut never got off the ground? That must have been terribly galling for Bryce. To see Dan so lauded. Interviewed everywhere. Described as an enfant terrible, a description he had aspired to since college days.’

  Francis turned to look at Scarlett; she was listening now, that was for sure. ‘But was that all?’ he continued. ‘Or was Bryce’s turning away from Dan something that you encouraged? Because you and he had fallen apart by then and you could no longer bear the sight of him? Or perhaps you could bear the sight of him too much. A sight which, unfortunately, met your eyes every day of your life.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’ve completely lost you,’ Scarlett said, with a brittle laugh. ‘Where is this absurd sequence of allegations going now?’

  ‘I’m talking about the twins, of course.’

  Now she looked scared.

  Francis pressed on. ‘They weren’t Bryce’s, were they? When you unexpectedly got pregnant, you panicked. You begged Dan to do the decent thing, make your relationship public, take them, and you, on. But he wouldn’t, would he? He didn’t want to be tied down. And he had his brand to think about, though you mightn’t have called it that then. Dangerous, attractive, single, traveller, writer. He wasn’t about to chuck that away to become knee-deep in nappies, was he?’ Francis couldn’t help a chuckle. ‘Though perhaps if he’d known how lucrative the whole Family Man franchise would turn out to be, he might have gone for it.’

  Scarlett was shaking her head. ‘This is a ludicrous idea. If … if . . . I had been involved with Dan and he was the father of my children … why … why didn’t I just tell everybody?’

  ‘Because you realised that if you did, you’d have nothing. Here you were, this beautiful young woman who had entranced two literary lion cubs, and now the cub who was roaring like a proper king of the jungle suddenly wanted nothing to do with you. If you’d exposed him, and his rejection of you, you’d have lost not just face but Bryce. And you didn’t want that, did you? Bryce had his Bloomsbury flat, money, a wide circle of friends that he shared with you. If you couldn’t hold on to Dan, you’d sure as heck better hold on to Bryce. Where would you have been if he’d gone too? Most of your so-called joint friends would have taken his side. And then you’d have been a single mother of two struggling on child benefit and looking for a part-time job to keep you going. For all your nicely spoken manner, your family has no money; your father, the rural dean, was always above such things. Your career as a freelance journalist hadn’t taken off; now the babies were going to make pursuing that a whole lot more difficult. So you told Bryce the twins were his and prayed that he would embrace fatherhood. Dan agreed to keep the secret and everything was tickety-boo. The girls were born. The Hampstead house was bought. Bryce proved to be, as you’d hoped, a doting dad. He was soon pushing them around the Heath in a double buggy while you were safe and comfortable. You met up regularly with his influential contacts. Before you knew it you had your column in the Sentinel about the day-to-day difficulties of being a mother. You had pin money and respect.’