Murder Backstage: Detectives Ruskin & Ashley Gripping Murder Mystery

by Michael Sivyer

  “Sure, here's the footage from the break.”

  Christina sighed, taking a step backwards from the room, a look of frustration growing across her face at the exchange of words that were much to her disapproval.

  He responded by raising the back of his palm to his mouth before leaning in towards the detectives. “Ignore 'er she's got a stick up her arse. She takes this show-biz stuff way too seriously.”

  Andy and Mike chuckled softly before returning their focus to the screen. It appeared that by now, Sandy had found herself an acquaintance – a woman of similar age, with curled blonde hair that coiled onto her shoulders. Even more interestingly, the woman appeared to reach into her own purse before handing something to Sandy. Quite what she handed over though remained a mystery, thanks to another opera-goer shuffling past her at the most inconvenient of times.

  “There!” shouted Mike, prodding the screen with his index finger. “That usher! He was looking straight at them! He must have seen what they were exchanging. Can we speak to him?”

  “Yeah, that's Ray – His shift finished an hour ago, but I'll give 'im a bell and see if he's close and get him to come in.”

  Upon receiving a nod from Andy, the guard left the room to make the call, and in his absence Mike sat down on the spare chair that was nestled in one cosy corner of the room. He pulled his phone out and tapped the screen clumsily with his thumb before pausing.

  Andy, always quick to make a joke at Mike's expense, caught the brief glimpse of a girl's photo on the screen of Mike's phone. “What's that Mike, a dating site? Have you already got to the age that a girl will run away if she meets you in person?”

  Mike blushed visibly, but denied Andy's accusation. “I’m Integrating myself into modern culture and reading up on the profile of our golden girl, here.”

  “Oh yes,” responded Andy “Anything interesting?”

  “She's straight edge, loves her pet chameleon Billy and her favourite pass-time appears to be taking photos of her legs in the bath. Heck, I don't know why they still hire profilers when you can find all this stuff at the click of a button. Oh, and she's currently in London to shoot the movie adaptation of her soap.”

  Andy nodded and grinned, “That would have taken the guys at the office about two days to find, not bad Mike, not bad. Maybe it wouldn't be such a bad idea to go and check out the film set.”

  After a short while, the guard returned. He turned to Christine whom was still lingering awkwardly outside the office and dismissed her.

  “You don't have to stand here like a lemon all day you know. I'm perfectly capable of showing these officers the way out once they're done here.”

  “Very well Jason. Oh, and how many times do I must tell you not to smoke in here? It's a grade one listed building for Christ-sakes we can't have it smelling like an ash tray in here.”

  Christine was rather abrupt in her exit as was her quite apparent hatred towards Jason, and she took rather large strides as she stormed out of the top end of the corridor and for a few moments after she disappeared the taps of her stilettos heels still reverberated around the hallway's walls.

  “Ray will be on his way, I apologize about her - social interaction isn’t 'er strongest skill.”

  When Ray, an older, less muscular, but more experienced member of the security team arrived, the detectives didn't waste any time – they had already been at the Royal Opera House for most of the morning and beginning of the afternoon, so had no more time to lose. The key to capturing any fugitive, something which both men prided themselves in more than anything, was to act quickly – after-all, if anyone had anything more than a pea for a brain, they would try and erase any evidence of their crime, or flee the country within the first few days after a murder, leaving a very small window of opportunity to gather as much evidence as possible.

  “Look at this footage,” prompted Andy, “You see this? What is the possibility that you remember what was being passed over there?”

  “I see a lot of things every night, officers,” responded Ray, gazing at the computer screen with narrowed eyes. “I don't remember everything that I see with much detail unfortunately... that's just the way things are. That girl though... I gotta admit that I had my eye on her a little, even considered buying her a drink on my break, but by the time I got around to it she was nowhere to be seen. Anyway, I think it was something small – I can't remember what. Perhaps it was a lighter; yes, I think it was a lighter actually.”

  “You're sure about that?” Asked Andy,

  “Not certain but I’m fairly confident, yeah, I'm sorry I can't be of much help, officers.”

  “That's fine,” said Mike, patting ray on the back softly, “You coming over here when you'd just left your shift was more than enough for us and we really appreciate it.” Mike nodded towards the door. “I think it's time we took our leave, thank you both for you help.”

  “I'll show you fellas out,” came Jason's cockney voice once more as he led them out into the corridor.

  The two detectives walked hurriedly back through the narrow alleyways as they approached their vehicles, the heavens above beginning to open once more, taking the last of the daylight out of the air as the city's skyline became polluted with the haze of lights that illuminated the streets below. Just as Andy was about to clamber into the leather seat of his car, he paused deep in thought. Upon hearing the ill-sounding rumble of Mike's Volvo, he heavy handily thumped his horn to catch his colleague's attention before he could drive off into the night.

  Mike paused, winding down his window as Andy approached holding a newspaper above his head to protect himself from the torrential downpour.

  “Did you say that Ms. Jennings was straight-edge?”

  “Per her profile, yep.”

  “Think about it for a second – what would she be doing with a lighter if that was the case? That means that she wouldn't want a cigarette anywhere near her.”

  “Andy, get in the god damn car you're getting drenched,” Mike commanded, “But yes... you're right.”

  Andy did as his colleague instructed, sinking into the aged suede interior of the car. Mike killed the engine, reached over into the passenger foot-well - which resembled a bomb-site - and from amongst the rubble, pulled his rucksack out. He dipped his hand into it and pulled out a small metallic object with a flip-lid.

  “Do you think this could be mistaken for a lighter?” He asked, tossing the memory stick into the back seat with a light thud.

  “Yes, I'd see that as a lighter from a distance I reckon.”

  “Then there we have it, maybe our mystery item could be a memory stick but... why would someone take a memory stick to an opera show?”

  “I'm not sure,” said Andy, “But let's not get ahead of ourselves here Mike, it could still end up being a mugging gone wrong.” Not everything needs to turn into conspiracy. We should go see people that knew her – perhaps she was supposed to meet someone last night, and if she did, they might have seen something that could help us – cons usually pick their mark well in advance.”

  Once they were both in their own cars Mike revved his engine proudly before the roar of Andy's luxury car drowned the sound of his own. Hurrying to hit the roads before rush hour traffic they navigated the labyrinth of back-alleys before they finally reached the main road. Andy, preferring to lead the way, swooped in front of his colleague as his polished leather shoe wrapped around the accelerator pedal; even after all these years of working together Andy still didn't trust Mike to take the quickest route to their destinations and still felt the need to 'baby-sit' his younger colleague.

  Despite its size his SUV was surprisingly nimble and handled every tight turn that he threw towards it as he cut through the lesser known streets of London, taking a detour away from the slowly filling streets before finally scaling the magnificent incline that lead to the famous archways of Tower Bridge. Once the other side he pulled to his left and into the grand hotel that was built adjacent to the bridge's entrance, and slowed
his pace to a crawl as he entered the underground car-park. Several minutes later, after Andy had already parked, his colleague's Volvo pulled into the parking lot next to him looking somewhat out of place next to the array of luxury vehicles that belonged to the patrons of the hotel.

  They entered the lobby with Marble features stretching as far as the eye could see.

  “So, this is how the other half live,” whispered Mike in awe as he peered around. Overall, it was a very appropriate on-scene location in which to shoot a drama that focussed on the lives of millionaires. As they approached the front-desk, and not for the first time that day, Mike was overlooked by the receptionist who once again chose to ignore him for his better dressed partner.

  “May I help you?” Asked the younger woman dressed in a golden waist-coat and a fine buttoned blouse.

  “Please,” responded Andy, “We're looking for the cast and crew of 'Envy City', do you know where they're located?”

  “Certainly sir. Why, they've rented half of the executive suites on the seventh floor! Would you like me to let them know that you're on your way up?”

  “That would be great, thanks!”

  They strolled towards the elevator, stepping inside it before it whizzed them towards the top floor of the building. Mike had never seen an elevator so spacious – it was almost the size of his bedroom at home. It juddered slightly at the top of the lift shaft before stopping slowly, the large stainless steel doors opening to reveal a luxurious hallway. They were greeted by an exquisitely dressed man who spoke in a crisp Canadian accent.

  “Hello, my name's Jonathan Fenton. I'm the director of 'Envy City'. How may I help you?

  “Hello Jonathan, we're detectives with the Metropolitan Police Force, I assume you've already heard the news?”

  “About Sandy, yes dreadful news really. As you can see business as usual here though – we have a very tight deadline to meet. We're already taking rehearsals to fill her replacement. We have some vital scenes to shoot here and these rooms aren't cheap so we'd be running over budget if we had to come back later.”

  A girl, with a rather distraught expression on her face wondered into the hallway wearing a pair of silky stockings and a cardigan. Her make-up had been done impeccably, though it was obvious that she was trying to hold back a flurry of tears which would undoubtedly ruin her make-up.

  “Is this 'sexy' enough for you, Jonathan?” She sighed rolling her eyes into the back of her head as if she had already asked the same question several times.

  Jonathan turned smugly in his steps to inspect her attire. “Maybe lose the cardigan. Yes, I think a corset would look smashing.”

  Jonathan turned back to the inspectors and grinned, “Sorry about that, gents,” he smirked, “Got to look bang on for a sex scene, don't you think?”

  Mike, trying to hold his shaking fist still to avoid launching a ballistic punch at the smug face of the director, managed to divert his anger into a politely worded question.

  “I hope you don't mind me noticing, but you seem rather laid-back about the fact that one of your actresses just got murdered. How are you not worried about the morale of your acting team?”

  “It's a drama – a drama that involves affairs, frauds and deaths. Do you not see? It would be a work of art now that the emotions are so raw, so real.”

  “Right...” Said Mike bluntly, trying not to let his apparent rage get the best of him.

  “Anyway, I'm sure you're here to ask me questions about this... dreadful ordeal so shoot away detectives.”

  Andy was the first to ask a direct question about the crime – he could sense that Mike was already trying to nail Fenton for the murder, though Andy himself needed more facts before he could jump to any conclusions based on one's character alone. “I'm just looking to confirm something – Sandra never smoked, right? The word going around is that she's never touched alcohol, either.”

  “Oh no, Sandy never indulged in life's finer things. It was annoying really – we had to have specially made prop wines just so that she would film any drinking scenes.”

  “Great, thanks – which brings me to my second question – did Sandra ever carry a lighter?”

  “A lighter, no, she saw them as the devil.”

  “You're certain about that?”

  “Certain.” responded Jonathan.

  “That's strange it seemed as if another young lady had passed her a lighter last evening. You don't think she's been different to her usual self lately?”

  “To be honest with you, these are colleagues, not friends. I don't know them inside out. But no, she didn't seem any different to usual.”

  The detectives paused as Mike reached into his man-bag – probably his only reasonably fashionable item despite being worn around the edges – and pulled out a photograph captured from the CCTV footage. Unfortunately, it was a little blurred due to the age of the camera, though it still showed the hair of the lady who had been seen with Sandy the previous night.

  “Take a look at this, do you recognise this woman? She was with Sandra last night and we would really appreciate talking to her.”

  “No, I'm sorry officers, I can't help you there – I don't recognise her.”

  “And Sandra didn't say that she was going with anyone to the opera?”

  “As I just said, colleagues not friends, a very strict rule that I follow even though I signed Sandy up three years ago, her personal life is just that; personal.”

  “That will do for now, Jonathan but stick around – we may need to talk again soon,” Muttered Mike, sounding hopeful that he would have reasonable cause to bring Jonathan in to the station.

  The two partners turned slowly before they made their way back through the hall to the elevator after the director had dashed off to round up his cast. As they approached, a woman appeared from one of the rooms that had been hired by the production team and she ushered the two of them into the room. It had a view that overlooked the Tower Bridge, and the dazzling display of lights from the tourist attraction shone through the clear pane of glass that formed the window, with the curtain still drawn open. The room had obviously been used as a dressing room, with several rails of clothing packed into the centre of the room, the oak bed frame having been pushed to the far end of the generously sized suite.

  The woman looked somewhat panicked and a wild look filled her eyes. “Officers, I hate to seem inconsiderate, but I must ask; did you find a purse at the crime scene? It is of utmost importance.”

  “Sorry, you are?” asked Mike rather directly.

  “I'm Monica – the costume designer.”

  “Sorry, ma'am,” spoke Andy, responding to her question, “We didn't recover a purse, no.”

  The woman released a panicked shudder from her body, much akin to the one that a teenager would emit upon the realisation that their pornography stash had been unearthed by their mother.

  “Is there something important about this bag madam?” asked Andy, upon noticing her nervous body language.

  “It's... it's a loan purse,” stuttered the woman, “I need to get it back. Can you please make sure you have a look for it? I need it right away, it was supposed to be returned this morning.”

  “I'm sorry Monica, even if we did have it – it's a piece of evidence right now, we couldn't hand it over even if we did have it.”

  Monica strolled through the rows of clothe racks, her body sinking to the floor as she broke out into a sob. Andy looked awkwardly towards Mike, hoping that his colleague would know how to deal with a sobbing woman. Mike though was just as dumbstruck, and stood grinding his teeth as he wished by some miracle that the situation would pass. He glanced back to his colleague and nodded towards the door, hinting that they should just leave. Andy though, began to narrow his eyelids – he sensed something fishy about the fact that the woman cared so much about the purse which so happened to be a vital piece of missing evidence.

  Cunningly, Andy dropped her into a trap. “Don't worry we'll get it back to you as soon as
we can. You'll need to report the theft right away to the couturier. By the way, what company is it on loan from?”

  The woman hesitated for a few seconds as her mind appeared to freeze. Her sobbing stopped, and she knelt in silence as Andy watchfully approached her.

  “Coco Chanel,” she said eventually, “It's worth £50,000 – so please get it back or that's money out of my pocket. I'm not an actor or director plus I don't get paid that much, you know.”

  Andy nodded thoughtfully and led the way out of the room, leaving Monica to sob quietly on the floor.

  Chapter Three

  Andy was never one to be able to switch off from a challenging case, even when relaxing in the comfort of his own home, a luxurious apartment in west London.

  His mind was split into two possibilities; either there was discriminatory evidence in the purse which the woman was panicking about, or she was telling the truth and the purse was worth £50,000 – making it a very sought after purse – meaning that a crook would more than likely target it if he saw it. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more the mugging theory seemed like the most realistic. But then again, there was also the angle that Mike had been chasing – after-all, Jonathan had seemed rather up-beat despite her death – though this, in Andy's mind, seemed the least reasonable of the theories since there was very little evidence against him.

  Eventually, Andy managed to drift to sleep despite the case gnawing at his mind. It seemed as if he had barely gotten any sleep once his alarm-clock was buzzing beside him, though as always, his mind was alert and ready within seconds. He showered, groomed himself, and as always, slipped on a fine suit as he prepared himself for another day at work. He snatched his car keys from the polished surface of his desk, and made his way to his car.

  In Mike's world meanwhile, Mike thumped the snooze button on his alarm clock several times before slipping into the same clothes that he had worn yesterday, taking a glance in the mirror only to decide that his stubble was not yet long enough to warrant a whole ten minutes of exhausting effort in shaving it, and rather than combing his hair, he dropped a lump of wax into his hair so that he could make it appear even more messy – that way, he was ready to go with minimal effort, and it looked like he had meant to style his hair in that manner – and sprayed his remaining half a can of deodorant over his body before dropping it onto his pile of accumulating bottles, of which he made a daily routine of convincing himself that he would discard of them the next day. His mind was basically that of a teenager, though somewhat more sharp.