Bang! You're Dead

by Mona Marple

  “What’s happened, Dorie?”

  “I can’t think without a mug of tea, be a dear and make me one?” Dorie asked. She sat at the table in the middle of the seating area, no doubt positioning herself for a full morning of breaking news to the other customers.

  “Of course.” Sandy said. She was so pleased to be home in Waterfell Tweed that Dorie’s antics were a source of fond affection for her, nothing more. Her mention of murders concerned Sandy, as there was nothing she wanted to tackle less than another killing, but Dorie was often more dramatic than she needed to be. There was every chance the news would turn out to be the library changing their opening hours or something similarly mundane.

  Sandy allowed her mind to wander to the days she had spent with Tom Nelson in the Isle of Mull, and how much she had enjoyed his company. She should text him, as soon as she got chance, to thank him again for his company and driving.

  “Here you go.” Sandy said. She placed the large mug of weak tea in front of Dorie, who inspected the colour of the drink and nodded her approval.

  “You never forget how I like my tea.” She complimented Sandy. “I thought now you’re loved up and a big-wig, you’d forget the little details.”

  “Never.” Sandy assured her. “And I’m hardly a big-wig. Now, what’s this news?”

  “We need to wait for Bernice.” Dorie said.

  “You really don’t.” Bernice said. She appeared at the table and placed Dorie’s food in front of her. Three thick rashers of bacon sat on a sandwich of white, doorstep bread smothered in salted butter. The sight was enough to make Sandy salivate. She had nearly forgotten how good her cafe’s food was.

  “No public spirit, you, that’s your trouble.” Dorie scolded. “You do make a nice breakfast, though.”

  “Come on, Dorie, put us out of our misery. What’s happened?”

  Dorie rolled her eyes as she took a bite of her sandwich, which she chewed with theatrical slowness.

  “I already told you.” She said finally. “There’s been another murder!”

  Sandy felt her stomach flip and wasn’t sure whether it was with dread or adrenaline. She had wanted a peaceful return to Waterfell Tweed, but if there had been a murder, she was curious to learn more.

  “How do you know this?” Bernice asked. “I watched the news this morning and there was nothing mentioned on there.”

  “I have a man on the inside.” Dorie said with a shrug.

  “A man on the inside? Seriously?”

  “Oh yes. And it’s not my Jim, before you ask. I wouldn’t compromise him by sharing the secrets he tells me.”

  Sandy stifled a laugh. She was sure that Jim Slaughter, Dorie’s son, told her nothing at all about his work as a police constable.

  “Okay, what do you know?” Sandy asked.

  “Well, it’s Hugo Tate.”

  “Who?” Sandy and Bernice asked in unison.

  “Hugo Tate, the lawyer’s husband.”

  “Ingrid Tate’s husband?” Sandy asked. She thought back to her earlier brush with the law, and how the immaculate but cold and distant lawyer had assisted her.

  “Precisely.” Dorie confirmed.

  “What happened to him? How much do you know?” Sandy asked. She felt her curiosity grow. She had never even heard the man’s name before, but she knew immediately that she would do all she could to find his killer.

  “He was shot, apparently. Happened last night. They’re keeping it quiet for some reason.”

  “Why would they keep a murder quiet?” Bernice asked.

  “I don’t know.” Sandy admitted.

  “Well?” Dorie asked. “Are you going to investigate?”

  “I don’t know, Dorie, they might already have the killer. That could be why they’re not rushing to make it public news.”

  Dorie pulled a face. “Rubbish. We’ve seen what a pig’s ear DC Sullivan has made of the murders, he’s not man enough for the job. And my Jim, well, they’re threatened by him, aren’t they? Won’t let him work his magic, so we’re stuck with you, Sandy. You’re the best hope we’ve got.”

  Sandy swallowed. “Let’s see what news comes out, yeah? I don’t know enough to do anything yet.”

  “Don’t be so silly!” Dorie exclaimed, as she chewed a bite of her sandwich. A splodge of red sauce fell on her chin. “You have to get started now while the evidence is fresh.”

  “I wouldn’t know where to start.” Sandy admitted.

  “I think she’s right.” Bernice said. “If you’re going to crack the case, you should start now. Go out and see what you can find out about this man.”

  Suddenly, Sandy’s phone rang. An unfamiliar number.

  “Answer it!” Dorie encouraged. “It could be DC Sullivan asking for your help.”

  Sandy laughed. “I doubt it, Dorie. It’ll be a sales call. Double glazing or life insurance!”

  The call ended and Sandy looked around the cafe. It was almost opening time and she knew that Dorie would be present most of the day, drinking mugs of tea and sharing her theory about the latest murder.

  “I might go upstairs and see if there’s any information about Hugo Tate online.” Sandy said.

  Dorie nodded frantically.

  Upstairs, Sandy loaded up the computer and typed the dead man’s name into an internet search.

  The first result was his profile on a professional networking site. Most of his profile information was blank.

  The next result appeared to be for a different gentleman with the same name.

  And all of the other results appeared to be for that other person as well.

  Sandy sighed and took out a notebook from the top drawer of the counter desk. She turned to a new page and scrawled in the middle of the page, HUGO TATE.

  She pictured Ingrid Tate’s cool composure and wondered how she had reacted to the news that her husband had been killed.

  Her phone pinged then to notify her that a voicemail had been left.

  She dialled the voicemail option and listened to the four voicemails already left on the device, which were, as she had expected, all unwanted sales calls of one type or another.

  The last message, though, the one left just moments before, made a shiver run down her spine.

  “Sandy?” Came the urgent tone. “This is Ingrid Tate. I’m calling you from HMP Leyton Scrubs, the bastards have charged me with murder! I need to speak to you. I’ll add you to my visitor list. Come as soon as you can.”

  3

  HMP Leyton Scrubs sat four miles outside Waterfell Tweed, in a location only accessible by car and with nothing else around it. Anyone passing the barbed wired circumference of the prison grounds was there to attend the prison and nothing else.

  Sandy had decided to take a lunch break from Books and Bakes, but she hadn’t planned to drive to the prison. She had planned to drive aimlessly, with her thoughts for company, but had found herself sitting in a small public car park directly outside the prison grounds.

  All of the empty cars parked there were old and weather-battered, much like her own trusty Land Rover. All of the cars except the one parked furthest from the entrance, a latest model, high-end Mercedes with a personal plate.

  Sandy looked from car to car and wondered about their owners.

  What would it be like to be a regular visitor there? Arriving each week, or fortnight, to visit someone special enough to keep you returning.

  She shook her head and gazed out at the sprawling stone building that lay behind the wire, where she knew that around 600 male and female prisoners slept, ate, showered and tried their best to get through the endless hours that stretched before them.

  The building of the prison had been opposed, but that wasn’t unusual. The villagers in Waterfell Tweed and the other nearby villages and small towns opposed most new development plans. However strongly they had protested that the beautiful, rural Peak District was not appropriate for a prison, the government had disagreed and fast-tracked plans for the prison to be built and opened
. Less than a year after the development proposals were first mentioned, HMP Leyton Scrubs opened its doors, welcoming security van after security van of prisoners from over-populated prisons around the country. Only the second prison in the country to house men and women, it had made the kind of national news that Waterfell Tweed didn’t want to be associated with.

  It hadn’t all been bad news for the local villages. The prison had created a mouth-watering number of jobs and plenty of farmers in particular had, over the years, decided to give up their family businesses and retrain as prison officers. That was how new, first-generation farmers and shepherds like Gurdip had been able to make Waterfell Tweed their home.

  As Sandy watched, she saw activity. A security van drove past the car park, towards the formal entrance for the prison, where entry was via a manned barrier.

  More prisoners, perhaps, she thought as she watched the barrier lift and the van disappear from view into the prison grounds.

  She tried to picture herself walking towards that barrier, asking whoever was sat in the booth passing dead time whether she was in the right place as a visitor.

  She couldn’t picture what would happen after that.

  What it would be like to walk into a prison.

  She shuddered as she tried to imagine it.

  She wasn’t going to think her way to an answer this time, she realised, and picked up her phone.

  “Cass?” She said when her best friend answered on the second ring.

  “Are you okay? I’ve got Mrs Tillerman in for nails but I thought it might be an emergency.”

  “Oh, no, not really. Sorry. Listen, can you come over tonight? I need your help.”

  “Sure thing. I’ll bring wine.”

  “You’re the best.”

  “I know.” Cass said. “Gotta go.”

  Sandy smiled as she punched in the next number.

  “I really shouldn’t be taking this call, if my boss found out she’d kill me.” Coral said. The hustle and bustle of Books and Bakes was audible in the background.

  “Very funny. Your boss wonders if you fancy some overtime tonight at her house.”

  “Erm…”

  “I’m inviting you over. I need to talk.”

  “Dum, dum, dum.” Coral sang out. “Sounds ominous, my favourite. I’ll be there.”

  Sandy ended the call and then typed out a message to Tom, asking him to also join in the gathering. The three people whose opinions she valued most in the world could surely help her decide whether to get involved.

  In the meantime, she wanted to get away from HMP Leyton Scrubs.

  As quick as possible.

  **

  Tom arrived early, as always, bearing a bunch of roses and a bottle of white wine. He kissed her on both cheeks as she let him in.

  “Very continental.” She joked.

  “Well, you know, I am an international traveller now I’ve been to Scotland…” He said. She tried not to stare as he pulled off his coat and scarf and hung them over her coat stand. He was so charming, so handsome. When she wasn’t with him, she forgot just how special he was.

  Coral arrived next, wrapped up in an enormous scarf.

  “Bloomin ‘eck, it’s frigid out there tonight.”

  “They say a storm’s coming, it’s meant to snow.” Tom called from the living room.

  “Snow? It’s March!” Coral exclaimed. “Hello, by the way. Nice to see you, Tom.”

  “And you.” He said. They both appeared to be considering whether to hug, but neither of them moved towards the other and then the awkward moment passed.

  “Can I get -” Sandy began, but a knock at the door interrupted her. She padded down the hallway and opened the door.

  “Ooh, I’m so pleased to see you!” Cass said as she waltzed in; the same brand of wine that Tom had brought tucked under her arm. “We’ve not had a girls’ night in too long!”

  “Erm…” Sandy began, but Cass walked past her towards the living room.

  “Oh, Tom, how nice that you could join. Are you staying?” Cass asked, then turned to look at Sandy. “Is he staying?”

  “Yes, I need you all here. Let me get drinks and then I’ll explain everything.”

  “Are you pregnant?” Cass asked.

  “No!” Tom exclaimed. “At least, not that I…”

  “No, I’m definitely not pregnant.” Sandy said.

  “Engaged?” Cass asked.

  “Oh my gosh, Cass, could you embarrass them any more?” Coral asked. “I think it’s something serious, something worrying.”

  “Why didn’t you say?” Cass asked. She held the wine out to Sandy. “Here, get us all a glass of this.”

  “I’ve already brought some wine over.” Tom said. Sandy saw Cass take a moment to clear her facial expression before she smiled at him, and silently pleaded that her best friend and boyfriend would get along.

  “We might need them both tonight.” Sandy said. “Give me two secs.”

  She escaped into the solitude of the kitchen to find The Cat staring up at her. “Come on in if you want, everyone will want to see you.”

  The Cat stalked past her and she was about to fist-punch the air for her masterful tone and his obedience, when instead of turning right into the living room, he turned left and climbed the staircase.

  “Come on, I’ll help you carry the glasses.” Coral said as she appeared in the living room doorway.

  Sandy passed her two glasses and followed her back in the living room, carrying the other two glasses herself.

  All three of her guests watched her closely, curious to hear what was so important for her to summon the meeting.

  “Okay, so how many of you have heard about Hugo Tate’s murder?” Sandy asked.

  Three blank faces looked back at her.

  “I know the name.” Coral said. “He’s been killed?”

  “Yesterday.” Sandy said. “He was shot.”

  “Not again.” Cass said. She took a long sip of wine. “I thought we’d gone back to being a quiet little village.”

  “Are you thinking of investigating?” Tom asked.

  Sandy shrugged. “I wasn’t going to. I’d never even heard the man’s name before, and it’s being kept hush-hush by the media, so I don’t know where I’d start.”

  “Coral, who is he?”

  “I can’t quite remember.” Coral said. She looked up and to the right as she searched her memory. “I could look into it, ask a few people. I think I’ve wrote articles about him before but that doesn’t narrow it down much.”

  “He’s Ingrid Tate’s husband.” Sandy said.

  “The lawyer?”

  She nodded.

  “So, he was probably a professional.” Cass guessed. “It was probably a business deal gone wrong.”

  “Professionals don’t tend to shoot each other, Cass.” Coral said.

  Cass shrugged. “I read the papers, you’d be surprised what people do when money’s at stake.”

  “It’s awful news, Sand, but why are we all gathered here about it?” Tom asked.

  “Well, I wasn’t going to get involved. And then I had a phone call, from Ingrid Tate, asking for my help. It turns out, she’s been charged with killing him. She’s in prison. She wants me to go and see her.”

  “That’s insane.” Cass said. “You can’t visit someone in prison!”

  “She can, Cass, anyone can if the prisoner accepts your visit.” Coral explained.

  “But…” Cass started.

  “Do you want to do it?” Coral asked.

  Sandy took a sip of her own wine, enjoying the light-headed feeling it gave her. Her concerns seemed less serious. Her confidence increased. “I think I do.”

  “Well that was easy.” Coral said. “Just be careful.”

  “I think I’ll need your help.” Sandy said. “You three. Are you in?”

  Cass, Coral and Tom glanced at each other before returning their gazes to Sandy and each nodding their head with some reluctance.

 
“Coral, can you find that information about Hugo Tate?”

  “I’ll try.” Coral said. “Who knows what state my files are in at the newspaper now. I’ll give it a go.”

  “Okay. It’s time to find a murderer.”

  4

  Sandy’s second drive to HMP Leyton Scrubs seemed to take an eternity. Her stomach spasmed with nerves each time her car turned a corner, expecting the prison would be revealed to her. Bend after bend she navigated through the snow that had fallen in the twilight hours, but the journey was slower than it had been the week before.

  Bad weather made the narrow roads treacherous, and most motorists had taken alternate routes or stayed at home. For Sandy, there were no alternate routes. She was on the prison road, nervous about what she was about to experience.

  Text me when you get there safe, Coral had instructed.

  Tom had offered to drive her.

  Cass had said nothing, her silence deafening. Her best friend either didn’t approve of her new relationship, or her visit to Ingrid, and Sandy didn't want to find out which.

  Finally, four bends later than she had expected, she manoeuvred around a tight bend where the road had drystone walls on both sides, to find the prison stood in the distance ahead of her. She swallowed her nerves and glanced at the clock on the car’s dashboard. She’d set off early to allow for extra time given the weather, and was pleased to see she was a few minutes early.

  When she’d booked the visit, the staff had been insistent that she arrive on time.

  “If you’re not here at that exact time, you won’t go through.” She had been told.

  She drove down to the prison grounds and into the car park where she’d sat the week before. As before, there were a collection of cars of varying age and condition, and the new Mercedes sat furthest away from the entrance again.

  She took a deep breath and climbed out of the car, locked the door and began the walk towards the barrier.

  “Visitin’?” A gruff voice called out to her as she reached the barrier. She looked across at the booth, where a man in uniform sat on a swivel chair behind a glass pane, his attention momentarily diverted from the crossword puzzle in his lap to attend to her.