“Gladly. When is your mother due home?”
“Tonight, thankfully.” Trey filled a kettle at the farmhouse sink. “Abby is being a right little brat, as you can see.”
“She’s at that age, I suppose.”
“No consideration for anyone but herself.”
While Trey busied himself with the tea, Rex walked over to a large bay window and stood for a moment contemplating the walled vegetable garden, where spring cabbage and radishes sprouted in the tilled earth, and raspberry canes grew in orderly rows. It was hard not to make comparisons between this comfortable property and the modest bungalow where Mrs. Brewster lived with her son.
He leaned back against the window sill. “You must think I keep turning up like a bad penny, but I spoke to Cassie’s aunt this afternoon and she was able to confirm a suspicion I had regarding a certain Darrell Brewster, and I hoped you could enlighten me further.”
Trey, a glazed pottery teapot in one hand and two matching mugs in the other, halted in his tracks on the way to the knotted pine table by a second window. “Did she tell you he’d been stalking Cassie?”
“Aye. It’s relevant information, don’t you think?”
Trey continued to the table and set down the items. “If he were still in England,” he agreed, “but he’s not.” He looked directly at Rex, his chiselled face evenly lit by the natural lighting from the window. “Although it did cross my mind that the call you received might have been him calling from the States. That would be just like him, to impersonate me.”
“The call came from a petrol station not far from here, on Sunday. And the caller did sound a bit like you.”
“You’re saying he’s here? In Derby?” The young man’s Adam’s apple moved as he swallowed. “He can’t be.”
“I don’t know for certain. Penny showed me a photo she received from him on Friday morning, taken of him in Hollywood with the iconic sign in the background. But the picture might have been photoshopped. When was the last time you saw him?”
“Wednesday, at the dress rehearsal. He was filming it.”
“Excuse me?” Rex asked in surprise. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. He was standing towards the back of the hall with a tripod-mounted camcorder.”
That at least made sense since the play had been recorded in a wide shot. Rex tried to picture Darrell videoing the rehearsal as it unfolded onstage; the would-be murderer behind the lens, perhaps.
Trey stared out of the window, as though not really seeing the view. “It was his parting gift, he said. And a memento for him to remember us all by. And now you’re saying he never left?” He turned around to face Rex.
“I didn’t know he was still around on Wednesday,” Rex mused aloud, his mind busy with time sequences.
“He hadn’t been by in a while, and he didn’t come to the pub with us afterwards. He said he had to pack for his flight in the morning.”
“I thought Ben had shot the dress rehearsal, since he was the one who gave Penny the DVD.”
“Ben had to work backstage with Bill. There’s a lot goes on behind the scenes.”
“Apparently,” Rex said with irony, recalling the events of opening night.
Trey flopped into the chair at the head of the table. “It was him. Darrell. He shot Cassie,” he said in a stunned voice.
“First we need to prove he was still in Derby on Friday.” Rex took a seat on the cushioned pine bench running the length of the table beneath the window. “Tell me exactly what happened between him and Cassie.”
Trey straightened in the chair. “She’d dumped him, but he was not ready to give up. Darrell Brewster has a massive chip on his shoulder. He acted like everything was cool, but I always felt it was just that—an act. There was an incident early on in our relationship where a figure dressed from head to foot in black jumped onto the bonnet of my car as we were leaving a restaurant. I swerved, almost hitting a wall. As it was, he left a dent in the bodywork, which I had to get fixed. Cassie was terrified. At the time, I thought it was a mugger and I called the police.”
“Was he arrested?”
“No, he ran off, and although Cassie said she knew who it was, we couldn’t prove it. That’s when it all came out about the stalking. It was apparent he was trying to scare me off, but she said she wasn’t going to let him get between us and she assured me she could deal with it. I suggested she apply for a restraining order, but she said it wouldn’t be fair to him because then he’d essentially be banned from local theatre, as it might look like he was harassing her.”
“Was it not a wee bit awkward with the three of you in the same play?” Rex enquired. Darrell must have felt the sting of losing the role of Henry Chalmers to Trey, her new boyfriend. On the other hand, taking a lesser part had kept him close to Cassie, and perhaps he had hoped to win her back.
“We played down our relationship so as not to provoke him, even though it had been over between them for months. But then he seemed to take an interest in Susan, which was a bit odd, considering the age difference and the fact she’s married, but, whatever. It was a relief to us both.”
“Especially as Susan had been sweet on you?”
A blush spread over Trey’s well-defined cheek bones. “I never encouraged her. And, anyway, she got over it. It’s not uncommon to take a fancy to someone you’re supposed to have an emotional connection with in a play, especially since you’re working so closely together. That’s why so many big-name actors end up in relationships with their co-stars.”
“Which often fail,” Rex remarked, “no doubt because the illusion doesn’t live up to reality. Another thing: could Darrell have stolen Cassie’s mobile?” Perhaps her stalker had left texts on it that he would have preferred the police not find in the event of her death.
Trey’s gaze drifted across the room to the white-washed wall. “It went missing Thursday night,” he said wonderingly. “Cassie rang me at around eight and said she was going to watch TV with her mum. When I phoned her the next morning, her mobile went straight to voicemail. She finally rang me on Joanna’s phone to say she had misplaced hers, although she was sure she had left it in her room after we had spoken the night before.”
“Her aunt told me she thought Darrell had been in her room before and had ripped up some of her clothes. Could she have left her bedroom window open?”
“It’s possible. They don’t have air conditioning in the house, and she made do with a floor fan.” Trey’s chin dropped to his chest. “She never mentioned about the clothes. I suppose she didn’t want me going after him. There’s probably loads more she didn’t tell me. I can’t tell you how happy I was when I found out he was going to LA and could be gone for months.” He wrung his hands in his lap, a pained expression on his face. “It’s hard to admit I wasn’t able to protect her. If it was him, I’ll never be able to forgive myself.”
At that point in the conversation, Trey’s sister burst into the kitchen from the utility room, accompanied by Bobbi, both in their socks and bringing in with them a whiff of the stables.
“Where’s tea?” Abby scolded. “Oh, my God, I have to do everything myself.”
She disappeared into the pantry while Bobbi stood by gawkily, fluffing up her short auburn hair which had been flattened by the riding hat.
“Bobbi,” Rex said, breaking the strained silence. “We were discussing Darrell Brewster. How well did you know him?”
Her eyes slid first to Trey, who remained unresponsive at the table. “Pretty well, I suppose,” she said in her husky voice. “He had the role of Father Brown originally but had to relinquish it when he got the chance to be in a hospital drama on a major American cable network. He wasn’t at the community centre much these past weeks, but he came by last Wednesday to say goodbye to everyone. We were all sorry to see him go.”
Trey lightly raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. Abby breezed
back to the table and plonked down a round tin containing walnut cake and a cutting board holding a loaf of bread. She then strode to a refrigerator disguised behind a distressed wood door panel and extracted a butter dish and a pot of homemade jam covered with a brown paper lid, which she likewise deposited on the table, directing an exasperated look at her brother.
“Mr. Graves, shall I get you a plate?” she asked politely, suddenly remembering her manners.
“Thank you, but I should probably get going. I have another stop to make.”
Trey stirred from his chair. “I’ll see you out.”
He led Rex through the house, past a billiard room, and into a harlequin pattern marble-floored hallway in black and white, where a heavily carved oak staircase wrapped the walls and rose to what originally could have been a small minstrels’ gallery.
“How can I reach you?” Rex asked at the front door. “Have the police returned your phone?”
“Not yet. I’m making do with a pre-pay.” Trey read out the number, which Rex entered into his phone. “Are you going after Darrell?”
“I need to confirm where he is first.”
“He has an agent in Manchester. I don’t have a name, though.”
“Thanks. I’ll be in touch.” Rex gave Trey a paternal clap on the shoulder.
As he approached his car, a call came in from Mike Fiske. Rex stopped on the gravel to better hear what the inspector was saying. Christopher Ells had been released on police bail. No snuff films had been found on his hard drive, and Timothy Holden, unwilling or unable to provide further information, had been allowed to leave the station the previous night.
“I had hoped to be able to make an announcement to the press today, but we don’t have a solid enough case,” the inspector said ruefully.
“I may have something.”
“Well, don’t keep me in suspense.”
“I have a few more enquiries to make yet.” Rex felt he had already stuck his neck out with his theory. He did not want to be caught with egg on his face if Darrell Brewster proved to have been in LA since Thursday. Before leaving the Old Rectory, he rang Helen to enlist her help.
As he drove back to Derby, Billy Joel’s “Only the Good Die Young” floated over the airwaves, reminding him of the sentiment Helen had expressed on the opening night of the play after news of Cassie’s death had come out. What a waste, Rex lamented. What a tragedy.
twenty-four
By the time Rex arrived back at the house, Julie’s red Spitfire was in the driveway, and he had no option but to park on the road.
“We’re in the kitchen,” Helen called out when he closed the front door behind him.
Circumventing the pile of cardboard boxes and holdalls, he went to join the women, who were seated at the table in front of their laptops and phones. “Hello, Julie,” he said. “Did the school let you out early?”
“My last class ended at three and I came straight here. Sorry about the clobber in the hall. Helen put me straight to work on your case.”
He looked enquiringly at his wife, who poured him a cup of tea from the pot. “I can see you’ve been busy,” he said, surveying the evidence of their activity more closely. “Did you get anywhere?”
“We did.” Helen took up a loose sheet of paper with her notes scrawled on it. “Darrell Brewster’s casting agency is Mega Media Talent in Manchester. It didn’t take long to find since there aren’t many such agencies there. I said I was trying to locate Darrell and that I’d heard he might be in LA. The owner of the agency informed me, in his cheesy accent, that his client had not gone to LA, but had received some sad personal news and would not be available for a week or so for casting calls and bookings. I said it was to notify Darrell of his ex-girlfriend’s death that I was trying to reach him, and I asked what had happened about LA. Cecil, I think he said his name was, told me he had emailed a taped audition to the studio and there had been some initial interest, but that Darrell had not been asked to fly out, or words to that effect.”
“Nice work.” Rex nodded with approval and lifted his cup of tea from the table. “I think we may actually be on to something.”
“Julie has something for you too,” Helen said, smiling at her friend.
Julie was today minimally made-up and wore a short-sleeved cashmere top and a light tweed skirt, in keeping with the teacher she was. “According to court records,” she relayed, “Deborah Bradley, a previous ex-girlfriend of Darrell’s, obtained a civil restraining order against him. This was two years ago, after she tried to end the relationship, and it’s still in effect. I had to go through the process myself when I was being threatened by an abusive boyfriend.”
Helen squeezed her friend’s wrist in a consoling gesture.
“Thank you, Julie,” Rex said. “That shows a pattern of behaviour. It seems Darrell Brewster doesn’t handle rejection very well.”
“I have his solicitor’s name, if you want to speak to him,” Julie said.
“Go on, then.” Rex took out his notepad. Julie had done her homework.
“It’s a Paul Reddit,” she told him.
“Paul Reddit? He was in the play.”
“Small world,” said Helen.
“So it would seem.” Often a coincidence spelt a clue. Rex drank down the rest of his tea and placed the empty cup in the sink. “I’ll go and see if Mrs. Brewster is home yet. Perhaps she knows where her son is. First, though, Julie, do you need help bringing in the rest of your belongings?”
“I can manage, thanks. But before I forget, Jez Wyatt in my A-level class had rugby practice at the school on Sunday morning, and so couldn’t have made that anonymous call on the other side of town. The coach told me. I’m meeting him for a drink later,” she added nonchalantly, curling a strand of bleached hair around her forefinger.
Rex glanced over at Helen, who smiled back at him in amusement. “Right, I won’t be long.” He bent to kiss his wife and left the house.
Getting back in the car he had got out of just twenty minutes before, Rex drove to St. Swithins Close in Littleover for the second time that day.
Upon arriving, he immediately took note of the silver Vauxhall Hatchback parked on the paved apron outside the rectangular redbrick bungalow, and pulled up beside it. Tingling with anticipation, he pressed on the doorbell and knocked on the door for good measure.
A buxom woman with greying blonde hair drawn up in a poufy bun answered half a minute later.
“I’d like to speak with Darrell, if I may. Are you Mrs. Doreen Brewster?”
“He’s not here. He went to California.”
“If I could just have a minute of your time, in that case. It concerns Miss Cassie Chase.”
He produced his card, which the woman took but did not read, instead casting a quick, wary glance over the area of off-street parking before standing back to let him inside the house.
“Please come through,” she said, shuffling in her slippers into a living room which opened onto a dated fitted kitchen. An aroma of tinned tomato soup had strayed into the seating area.
Through a series of bi-folding doors, Rex could see a concrete patio and a square of patchy grass beyond, enclosed by a chain-link fence. Inside the sitting room, the magnolia-painted walls were covered with framed headshots of Darrell, running the gamut from preppy, in a white V-necked cricket jumper, to scruffy, his square-ish jaw sprouting four-day-old stubble. Rex detected a close resemblance between him and his mother in the regular features, although Mrs. Brewster’s face was puffy, her eyes a washed-out blue.
She invited him to sit down on a sofa sheathed in a slip-on cover in a sheeny brown fabric. On a side table, next to a porcelain ashtray with scalloped edges, stood a black-and-white portrait photograph of a young officer in the greyish blue RAF uniform of World War Two, with similar facial characteristics to her own and—more remotely—Darrell’s.
“Your father?” Rex asked, indicating the photo.
Doreen Brewster gave a slight nod and installed herself in an upholstered chair opposite him, the hem of her shapeless navy blue dress rising midway up swollen knees clad in opaque nylons.
“And what is your maiden name?”
“Hayes,” she answered after a surprised pause. “What is it you’ve come to ask about Cassie?” She fidgeted with a stray thread from a front button, her hands riddled with varicose veins. Beside her wedding ring, Rex noticed a small dark sapphire surrounded by what he guessed to be paste diamonds, mounted on a slender gold band.
“I’m assuming you heard …?” he began.
“Yes. It’s been all over the news.”
“And your son is aware?”
“I sent him a text. Being in America, he hadn’t heard.”
“Did you know Cassie well?”
“I only met her a few times. Mostly Darrell went over to hers because her mother is unwell. Cassie didn’t like leaving her on her own.”
“It seems your son took the breakup with Cassie rather badly.”
Doreen blinked a few times. “Well, he was upset. And he’d recently lost his father to a heart attack.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I apologize for having to ask, but I understand Darrell has a restraining order against him from a Miss Deborah Bradley?”
“That girl was unbalanced,” Doreen stated, stiffening in her chair.
Rex rather thought it was her son who might be unbalanced.
“Are the police going to be coming round asking questions?” she asked.
“I can’t speak for them. I’m following a private line of inquiry. Is Darrell your only son?”
“I have an older boy, Victor, who’s an accountant.” Mrs. Brewster pointed proudly to a colour photo on a table at the other end of the sofa, showing a young man with blonder hair than Darrell’s and a more prominent nose.
Rex inched forward on the sofa and looked Doreen straight in the eye. “You’re certain Darrell is in the States?”
Upstaged by Murder Page 16
