A Theatrical Murder

by David W Robinson

  “Well—”

  “What do I get in return?” Joe interrupted.

  “I was just going to say, neither I nor any of my officers will get in your way while you’re sticking your nose into the Sedgwick murder… provided you keep us up to date with anything you turn up, naturally. I’ll also make sure that Hinch keeps you up to speed.”

  Joe knew there were times when silence was the best policy, so he said nothing.

  Nichols sighed. “What do you want?”

  “Nothing really. I just like making you sweat. But get this, Nichols. We go home tomorrow afternoon. If I’ve learned nothing by then, nothing is what you get.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “And right now, I get the feeling you’re not telling me everything. Instead of playing everything close to your chest like double-O three and half, why don’t you tell me what the real problem is?”

  Nichols tutted, and reached to his briefcase, from which he took a medium scale map of Eastern England stretching from Newcastle-upon-Tyne in the North to Thames Estuary. Even before he turned it around, Joe could see there was a jagged red line drawn upon it.

  “When it became known that Sedgwick was bringing his tour here, we were called to a briefing with the National Crime Agency and told what to watch for.” Nichols pointed to the red line on the map. “Look at those points on the line, Murray, and then tell me what you think.”

  Joe studied the line. It did not follow roads, but simply joined various places. Newcastle, Gateshead, Sunderland, Durham, then moved south to Middlesbrough, Darlington, and down to Scarborough, inland to York, then out again to Hull, followed by Beverley and then Goole and Doncaster. Moving into Lincolnshire, the line took in Scunthorpe, Grimsby, Lincoln, Skegness and from there moved down to Kings Lynn, Norwich, Lowestoft, Ipswich, Harwich, and ended in Southend.

  “So these are the venues of the Hamlet tour.”

  “Correct,” Nichols agreed. “But look at them and think ports.”

  Joe did so. “All right, so they called at a number of ports. What of it?”

  “They never called at two in a row. They play a port, then move inland, play a port, then move inland.” Nichols paused a moment to let the point sink in. “The NCA believe that at one of these ports, Sedgwick met, or was scheduled to meet the European courier and take delivery of the drugs, and then, when the tour moved inland, he met with the distributors, or perhaps many distributors in different places.”

  The argument made absolute sense to Joe, and he assumed that the NCA would have evidence to back up their suspicions.

  “But the NCA never searched him or arrested him?”

  “They’re not interested in the go-betweens, which is what Sedgwick is… or was. They’re looking for the main man. So far they had Sedgwick, and no one else. They know the stuff is or was due in from Europe, they know that Sedgwick would meet the courier and then transfer the stuff to either other mules or the dealers.”

  Joe understood at once. “But as of last night, he hadn’t met with anyone?”

  Nichols shrugged. “The NCA think not, but they can’t be sure. If he did, then it was right under their noses and they’re gonna come out of this, looking proper berks. Either that or they’ll try to blame it on local CID teams. Personally, I’d like to see Sedgwick’s operation smashed, and the NCA smashed with it, but that’s just me being irritable.” He picked up a paper clip and began to play with it. “What worries us and probably the NCA is last night’s killing. Was it his contacts? Had they learned we were watching him and did they decide to get rid of him before he could grass them up?” Nichols smiled on Joe. “You could help us out.”

  Joe shook his head. “I don’t mind sticking my nose into murders and I’m usually pretty good with them, but major drug rings? Not likely. They’re way out of my league.” When Nichols said nothing, Joe pressed on. “Besides, if they’ve got Sedgwick out of the way, they must have a new man in line for the job, and you don’t know who he is.”

  “And you could help us find out,” Nichols repeated.

  Joe suppressed his surprise. “You think it might be another member of the crew?”

  “Not necessarily,” the inspector admitted. “And I’m not asking you to risk your neck. Some of these people have known Sedgwick a long time. It may be that they can tip you off to something. That’s all I want of you. There’s no reason why anyone should suspect you. You have a reputation for sticking your oar in, especially where friends are concerned, so it’s natural for you to want to help clear your friend’s granddaughter.”

  The longer Joe thought about it, the more it made sense. “You’re gonna have to make it look good,” he said. “Make sure I get the autopsy results and everything.”

  Nichols smiled with the air of a man who was getting what he wanted. “CID can also stand for consider it done.”

  “And I could do with a look at the stage.”

  This time, Nichols shook his head. “Forensic. I meanersay, you can look at it from the auditorium, but I can’t allow you backstage.”

  “Any of the cast there now?”

  The inspector nodded. “Billingham was there, but he had to go out. Michelle Arran is there now. I think she and Billingham have taken over the production now that Sedgwick is dead. I’ll get Hinch to show you round where she can.”

  “Fine.” Joe got to his feet. “Remember, Nichols, we go home tomorrow. If I have nothing by then, nothing is what you’ll get.”

  Nichols stood and led the way from the office. “If your niece is any judge, you’ll have it cracked before then.”

  ***

  They stepped out into the bare corridor, but instead of turning for the foyer, they turned right, deeper into the building, until they emerged in a large, gloomy, but open area.

  Looking to his left, Joe’s narrow view was of the stage spreading away from them to the far wing, while at this end of the wings, a large control panel lay dormant. Sound and lighting, Joe guessed. White suited forensic officers were on their knees working their way across the boards. Behind this view were the flies, that part of the theatre where a system of ropes, pulleys and counterbalances were placed for scene shifting. Joe noticed instantly that the only backdrop on the ropes was the one in place on the stage. Logical enough. The entire play had been staged in the one set.

  In the open area more police officers were working on large trunks, and Joe could hear the occasional whirr of a power screwdriver.

  Sergeant Hinch was talking with a middle-aged, grey-haired woman when Nichols left him.

  “I’ll be with you in a minute, Mr Murray,” Hinch assured him and turned back to the woman. “Now, what’s the problem. Ms Arran?”

  Michelle waved an irritated hand at the backstage area. “Your… your… jobsworths. They’ve found what they insist is a false bottom in one of the prop trunks. I’ve told them that’s not possible. I’ve worked with those trunks for almost five years and if there was a false bottom, I would have known about it.”

  “They can’t just take your word for it,” Hinch insisted. “Sedgwick has been questioned in the past on suspicion of drug dealing. Our people will have to check it.”

  Michelle was not mollified. “I packed that trunk ready for moving on. It was unpacked in the search for evidence last night, and I repacked it again, now they want to unpack it yet again.” She rapped angry knuckles on her clipboard. “It’s all more work for me, and quite frankly, I have enough to be doing ringing and reassuring other venues.” She snorted. “Your people can’t even find a way into this supposed false bottom.”

  “I’ll go check on them,” Hinch volunteered and made off towards the rear of the backstage area.

  With the low whine of the power screwdriver still buzzing in the background, Joe laid a friendly smile on Michelle. “Sounds like they have found a way into this false bottom.”

  “It doesn’t exist,” she asserted, “and even if it did, they won’t find anything in there. Malcolm was never a drug dealer. Never.�
��

  Joe used her obvious dedication to her late employer, as a platform. “You worked for him for a long time, I understand.”

  “Five years,” she replied. “We were both involved in a BBC production of Oliver Twist about six years ago. I was a wardrobe assistant, he was one of the stars. Not long after that, his wardrobe mistress-stroke PA was killed in a hit and run incident. I applied for the job and he took me on.”

  “You obviously knew him pretty well then. So can you think who would want him dead?”

  She looked down her nose at him. “I can think of a cast of thousands, Mr Murray.”

  “But how many of them could have been back stage last night?”

  “A good number,” Michelle replied, tartly. “Many people were simply jealous of his genius.”

  “Genius?” Joe’s eyebrows shot up. “That wouldn’t be my choice of word.”

  “But then, you’re not that well up in the world of theatre, are you?” Michelle bridled with hostility and she was about to speak again when a shout from the team of officers inspecting the trunk, cut her off.

  The team, including Sergeant Hinch, had backed off, and formed a sparse circle around the trunk. But through the gaps, Joe could see bags of white powder and roughly bundled banknotes.

  Hinch turned sour eyes on Michelle. “Tell me again about Sedgwick’s innocence.”

  Chapter Seven

  Sheila pointed urgently to her watch. “Where have you been, Joe?”

  The weather had abated slightly, but the winds were still strong, and having spent the better part of two hours in the warmth of the theatre manager’s office, Joe felt the chill.

  “Let’s get somewhere warm and I’ll bring you up to speed,” he said.

  The bags Sheila and Brenda were carrying, emblazoned with the logos of well-known high street brands, told him they had been indulging in one of their favourite pastimes: shopping. Not that he had needed confirmation. They had told him so and they had been unavailable when he rang. Nevertheless, it was a puzzle to Joe, who rarely visited large stores unless he actually needed something.

  He led the way across the road, and turned the corner into Lumley Road. For a Saturday it was not busy, but then, he reflected, Sanford town centre would not be busy either on the first Saturday of the New Year. The prospect of a return to work on Monday morning would tempt people to get out, but the foul weather coupled to dwindling bank balances would persuade them it was better to stay in.

  Hurrying along the pavements, weaving through the sparse crowds, they stepped through the glass doors of the Tower Diner, where Joe queued while his companions removed their topcoats and settled into a window seat, from where they could look out onto the street.

  If there was plenty of space on the pavements, the same could not be said of the café, and Joe was gone a good ten minutes before he returned with hot drinks and sandwiches, placed them on the table and dropped himself into a red leather bench set opposite his friends. All around them others were taking advantage of the large room and ample seating to escape the blustery winds and icy temperatures, and as he tucked into a cheese and tomato sandwich, washing the mouthfuls down with large swallows of tea, Joe found himself envying the proprietor. The Lazy Luncheonette was out of town and would not be half so busy as this place.

  “This deal is a lot more complicated than we thought,” he announced eventually. From there he gave them a detailed account of what had gone on in the theatre over the last couple of hours.

  Sheila and Brenda listened in silence, but as he went further into the story, their features began to display their obvious concern.

  When he was finished with his tale, Brenda gazed grim-faced at Sheila. “Teri was right.”

  “Right about what?” Joe demanded.

  “We met her across the road about an hour and a half ago,” Sheila said, “and she gave us some information.”

  About to take a bite from his sandwich, Joe paused and raised his eyebrows at them.

  Over the next ten minutes, Sheila and Brenda pieced together an account of their meeting with Teri, and the young actress’s conclusions regarding Nat Billingham.

  Joe listened without interrupting and when they had finished, he pondered their story for a minute.

  “It could make sense,” he said at length. “It would certainly account for why the police have never been able to pick up the go-between.”

  “But bearing in mind what you said, Joe, and what the police have found, Nat has only drawn attention to himself, hasn’t he?” Sheila said. “Playing Laertes, he wielded the gun.”

  “And that’s the clever part,” Joe replied, cradling his beaker as if warming his hands on it. “He’s using the gun, the police put out that Sedgwick has been shot, but in fact, he’s been poisoned. Who was nearest to him at the time? Who had the best opportunity for getting a fast-acting poison into Sedgwick’s system?”

  “Nat Billingham.”

  Joe nodded at Brenda’s assertion. “The only question we have to answer is how. Nichols insists it was a poisoned dart, but I suppose we’ll have to wait for the post mortem result to come through before that’s confirmed. And if it was a poisoned dart, how the hell did Nat Billingham get it into Sedgwick’s leg?”

  “Joe,” Brenda ventured, “you and the law are assuming that it was a dart fired from an air pistol. Suppose it wasn’t? Suppose Nat Billingham held it in his hand and jabbed it into Sedgwick’s calf as they fought?”

  Joe considered the possibility and eventually shook his head. “Those darts are small, easy to conceal, but he’d more than like keep it in his pocket and taint his own clothing with the poison. And it would be very risky to keep it about his person until he was ready to use it. One scratch and he’d end up poisoning himself, not Sedgwick. Not unless, if it was Nat, he had an accomplice. Someone off stage.”

  “He could have had it hidden, Joe. Secreted in the furniture nearby.”

  “Possible,” he agreed with Brenda, “but still risky.”

  “Oh, Joe, this could be serious,” Sheila said. “And Teri could be in danger.”

  “Murder is like that,” he reminded her.

  “I think Sheila means it’s just as serious for you,” Brenda insisted. “All the murders you’ve investigated have been straightforward killings. This time you’re talking drugs, and gangs that deal in them. These people don’t play with a straight bat.”

  “There was that business in Windermere the summer before last,” Joe reminded them. “That was all about drugs, if you remember.”

  Chewing delicately on a sandwich and swallowing it, Sheila disagreed. “To coin an Americanism, Joe, they were little league. From what the police have told you, the people behind Sedgwick, whether Nat is involved or not, must be big players, and they’re frequently armed. If not, they employ people who are. They certainly don’t stop at murder.”

  “So what am I supposed to do?” Joe demanded. “Teri is a friend, remember… well, the granddaughter of a friend. We can’t leave her mixed up in something like this and if it is Nat Billingham, we can’t leave her at his mercy. We don’t know what will happen to her, and if something did happen, how would it affect Sylvia?” He shook his head determinedly. “No. Drugs or no drugs, I can’t leave it alone. And I think you two have been watching too many cops and robbers shows on the telly.”

  Brenda sneered. “All right, CSI Skeggy. You’re the big hero. What next?”

  “No change in the plans as far as I’m concerned,” Joe said. “We go to Mablethorpe and collar this Raif Dempster character. See what he can tell us.”

  “You don’t seriously think it’s him?” Sheila asked.

  “No, I don’t, but they were at it hammer and tongs yesterday, and you know what that tells me? It tells me Dempster knew Sedgwick pretty well. He may be able to give us some background that the theatre people either can’t or won’t.” He drank more tea. “Anyone know how we get to Mablethorpe?”

  Brenda smiled broadly. “As it happens, we’ve
been doing some detective work ourselves. We get the number nine bus from Lumley Square, which is just up the road from here, and it takes us right to Mablethorpe.”

  “Well, it’s only about twelve miles. It shouldn’t take long.”

  Sheila took the wind from his sails. “About an hour and ten minutes.”

  Joe almost spilled his tea. “What? I could walk it in less time.”

  Sheila giggled. “Fine, Joe. You walk. We’ll take the bus and you can wait for us at the other end.” More seriously, she went on, “This isn’t a coach, Joe. It’s a regular service bus.”

  “Yes and I bet the fares will be somewhere just this side of the price of a new car.” He drank more tea. “What time does the bus leave?”

  Brenda checked her watch and read 11:35. “About fifteen minutes. We’d better get moving.”

  “There’s no rush,” Joe told her. “If we miss this one there’ll be another. Buses are like that.”

  “True,” Sheila agreed. “But they’re only one per hour, Joe. Do you fancy waiting until ten to one and getting to Mablethorpe at two?”

  Joe gulped down his tea and stood up. Dragging on his topcoat, he urged them, “Well, come on. Don’t sit there faffing about. We’ve a bus to catch.”

  ***

  Although it was a journey of seventy minutes, it seemed to Joe more like seven hours as the single-decker bus meandered along the Lincolnshire coast, passing small holiday parks, and the larger, more impressive Butlins camp at Ingoldmells, weaving its way through light traffic into housing estates and back out again, turning into villages with quaint names such as Chapel St Leonards, Sandilands and Trusthorpe, all of them equally drab and depressing in the winter gloom.

  Few people used the bus, and to Joe that was just another signal that the nadir of British winter was all around them. Things could only get better from here.

  On their way to the bus station in Skegness, he had bought a street plan which covered most of the towns in the area, and copy of the James Bond novel, Goldeneye, to read on the bus. As they plodded along he immersed himself in the novel, mentally comparing John Gardner’s writing to that of Ian Fleming, while seated ahead of him, Sheila and Brenda chattered amiably and aimlessly, reflecting on years gone past and previous visits to Skegness. Now and then, they impinged upon his consciousness, drawing him into their conversation, only to receive taciturn grunts and grumbles by return.