A Theatrical Murder

by David W Robinson

  “Trying to get you to confess?”

  She nodded. “Trying to get me to confess. I agreed with him. I promised I would go to the police, but I also I suggested we have one last drink together before we went. For old times’ sake.”

  “And where is he?” Nichols demanded.

  “Still in my room. He’s starting to smell a little, so you really need to get him out of there.” Michelle laughed again. “I love this country, you know. Everyone is so inefficient, you can literally get away with murder.” Her eyes narrowed on Joe. “Or you can if you don’t have some interfering busybody shoving his nose in. Well, let me tell you, Murray, I’ll get life for this, but life doesn’t mean life, and one day I’ll be out, and when I am, I’ll come looking for you. Then I’ll give you the choice of bottle or pistol. Think about it between now and then.”

  At a nod from the inspector, Hinch handcuffed her, read her the official caution and led her out. Nichols looked upon Joe’s angry face and laughed.

  “Shouldn’t worry about it, Joe. She’s obviously off her trolley and by the time she gets out, she’ll be too old to do anything.”

  “Yeah. All the same, I think I’ll get one of the girls to taste my food from now on.” Joe stood and offered his hand. “Glad to have helped out, Inspector.”

  Nichols shook it. “I’m glad you were here to help, Joe.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Denise Latham cradled a beaker of coffee in her small hands. “I’ve spoken to the insurance company, Mr Murray, and the situation hasn’t really changed. They want the money back they paid you after the deliberate firing of your old premises. Obviously, they’re not going to hassle you for it, unless they come up with evidence that you were involved, but they will want the money back.”

  After the skies had cleared overnight, Monday morning in Sanford had come in bitterly cold, and the sub-zero temperatures were exacerbated by biting winds from the north.

  The early rush was over and as she promised, Denise had returned to question Joe again on behalf of his insurers.

  “Unfortunately,” she went on, “no one has been able to demonstrate who torched the place.”

  “I told you all this on Friday,” Joe replied. “You didn’t listen then and I see no reason why I should listen to you now.”

  “Because you are still a suspect,” she told him candidly.

  “Along with Vaughan, I presume?”

  Denise nodded. “Of course. If it’s any consolation to you, I think he’s the more likely candidate. He was losing a lot of money waiting for the old Lazy Luncheonette to come down, and he did stand to gain more than you by seeing it flattened. But I can’t even get a lead on him, never mind prove it.”

  Joe shrugged. “Don’t run away with the idea that I care too much about this, but what happens now?”

  “Nothing. At least nothing happens until there’s a break in the case. At that point, the insurance company will come looking again, and if you’re involved, they’ll want their money back from you.”

  “If I’m involved,” Joe pointed out, “I’ll be in the nick by then. All right, so tell me that you’re the last person I’ll see from the insurance company?”

  She smiled wanly. “I can’t do that, Mr Murray, because I don’t like telling lies.”

  She finished her tea and with a final ‘au revoir’ left the café.

  With the café empty, Joe joined Sheila and Brenda near the counter. “We’ll have five minutes.”

  “The office wallahs will be coming any time now,” Brenda observed, casting her eyes up to the ceiling to indicate the floors above them. “You’re officially in the clear, then, Joe?”

  He shook his head. “Not so you’d notice, but I don’t really care anymore. I know it’s nothing to do with me, so if they come knocking they can sod off.”

  Sheila nodded to the entrance. “Well, here’s another who’ll back you up, Joe.”

  Wrapped in a heavy, winter coat, the fur-lined hood turned up, Sylvia Goodson stepped in and pushed the door shut.

  “Dear me,” she complained. “It’s like the North Pole out there.”

  Brenda moved behind the counter and poured a cup of tea for the newcomer, who, after removing her coat, sat with them.

  “There you go, Sylvia. That’ll keep out the arctic chill.”

  Sylvia gratefully accepted the cup and saucer. “Thank you, Brenda.”

  “Social visit?” Joe asked. “Or do you have something to report?”

  “A bit of both, Joe,” Sylvia replied. “I had a call from Teri about an hour ago, bringing me up to date on everything. Michelle gave the police a full confession apparently, and that’s meant the remainder of the tour has been cancelled.”

  “I think cancelling the tour might have more to do with half the cast having been murdered.” Joe swallowed a large gulp of tea. “And Michelle confessed to it all, did she?”

  Sylvia rooted through her handbag. “Hmm, yes,” she said distractedly. “I can understand how angry she must have been, but that’s no excuse for murder. According to Teri, the police think she’s quite deranged… Michelle, not Teri.” Having found what she was seeking, Sylvia took a brochure from her handbag and passed it to Sheila. “Do excuse me a moment, Joe. Don’t forget, Sheila, this was a couple of years ago. The prices may have changed since then.”

  Intrigued, Joe caught only the front of the brochure, which appeared to show a swimming pool, before Sheila put it in her overall pocket.

  “What—”

  Sylvia interrupted him before he could enquire further. “Now, Joe, Teri says she owes you a big thank you?”

  “For clearing her name? I don’t think so. She was never really a suspect.”

  “No, not for that. It’s for clearing up that business with Nat. Apparently you had a word with him, and he told Teri all about this Kathy Kirby project. She’s obviously very excited, but not building her hopes up. And you settled her mind on why Nat was being so secretive.”

  “At least he listened to reason,” Joe said. “I still wouldn’t back him as a long-termer with Teri.”

  The door opened and the first of the office juniors entered, carrying breakfast orders for her colleagues.

  As Sylvia took the cue and left to go about her day’s business, Joe and his companions got to their feet and moved behind the counter.

  “So what’s with the holiday brochure, Sheila?” he asked.

  “You said you don’t mind if Brenda and I take a week off together.”

  “Course I don’t mind.” He took the list from the young woman and after totting up the bill, passed it to Brenda and Lee in the kitchen. “Eighteen pounds thirty, chicken,” he said to the customer, and while he waited, he asked of Sheila, “So where and when is this? Blackpool? Scarborough? June? July?”

  “Paphos, Cyprus,” Sheila replied, “And it’s the first week in March.”

  Joe stared. “But that’s the same week the 3rd Age Club is going to Tenerife. I’ll need you there to help me keep ’em in check.”

  “We did tell you, Joe,” Sheila argued.

  “You mean you took advantage of me while I was distracted by all those murders.”

  “Hard lines, Joe,” Brenda called from the kitchen. “You’ll just have to crack the whip with the club yourself.”

  THE END

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