Murder at the Murder Mystery Weekend

by David W Robinson

  Chapter Thirteen

  When Joe stepped back into the Scampton Room, it was to find the place its usual hive of chatter and clinking glasses. He checked his watch and was surprised to learn that it was after twelve noon.

  By the window, Sheila and Brenda had secured drinks (a glass of lager stood in front of his vacant place) and were still trying to calm a tearful Fliss Kendrew.

  He sidled between his two companions, and sat down, staring at the distressed woman.

  She was pitiable, almost unrecognisable from the smartly dressed young woman who had danced with her husband on Friday night. Her clothing hung on her like a sack, her hair and makeup were a mess, and her eyes, which had sparkled as recently as yesterday when she collected the champagne, were empty and hollow. As she sat, she looked up and at him, but her eyes did not register his presence. It was as if she were looking through him.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “but you can’t escape the facts by blaming me.”

  She gave the tiniest shake of the head, and Joe thought for a moment that it was acceptance. He was wrong. “He didn’t do it,” she said in a voice so tiny and distant that he felt she was talking more to herself than him.

  Joe took a sip of lager, and sat forward. “Listen, Felicity, I know how hard this must be, but you have to face it. I heard your husband arguing with Reggie on Friday night, you, yourself admitted he was missing for almost an hour, and he led you to find the real gun out there, not the prop gun the drama group are using.” It was a half lie, he knew. He had not heard Robbie Kendrew answering Reggie, but there was no point nitpicking now.

  Fliss shook her head again. “You didn’t hear him arguing with Reggie because he never went near Reggie on Friday night.”

  Joe sighed in frustration. “I heard Reggie warn him off. About midnight. As I passed the Grimshaw’s room.”

  Some of her fire returned. “You’re so bloody sure of yourself aren’t you? Well, if you heard Robbie arguing with Reggie at midnight, explain how he was smooching with me on the dance floor at exactly the same time.”

  The announcement pulled Joe up short as he was about to take another mouthful of lager. He noticed another glance pass between Sheila and Brenda, but it was surprise this time.

  “Are you sure of the time, Fliss?” Brenda asked.

  She nodded. “The DJ pointed up at the clock.” She, too, pointed to the wall clock in the corner, depicting a Lancaster bomber flying over Lincoln Cathedral. “He said, ‘there’s only twenty-four hours of the year left, ladies and gentlemen’.” She glowered at Joe. “Or are you going to tell me, Robbie altered the clocks, too?”

  Rapidly evaluating this new evidence, Joe shook his head. “No. No, I’m not.” He swallowed more lager. Those questions which had plagued him since Friday, and which he thought had been answered by Kendrew’s arrest, suddenly returned.

  “All right, so maybe it wasn’t him I heard. But Reggie was killed later in the morning and, like I said, you admitted he was gone for almost an hour. If he didn’t do it then, if he really did go outside for a smoke, he may well have sneaked out in the early hours. The same goes for the murder of Naomi, this morning, and the only way you can guarantee that Robbie never left your side on either night is if you didn’t sleep. Well?”

  “I slept for several hours on Friday night. Not so much last night because I was busy cleaning up after him. He spent most of the night throwing up.” She did not look any the more interested, but her voice was stronger, more determined to prove her point. “I can tell you he was drunk on Friday night and again last night. In fact, he was even worse last night thanks to the tummy troubles.”

  “He didn’t have far to point the gun, did he? So drink doesn’t make a lot of difference. And so he was puking. I assume he took something for that. A seltzer or something. It wouldn’t stop him sneaking out to murder Naomi.”

  Fliss made to get up. “There’s obviously no point talking to you, Mr Murray. You and everyone else in this room have made your mind up that Robbie is guilty, and that’s an end of it. If you’ll excuse me, I’d better shower and change and then get down to the police station.”

  “Sit down,” Joe barked.

  “Joe,” Sheila protested. “Don’t be so rude.”

  “What? Her husband is arrested for two murders, she comes in here slagging me off, screaming at me, wishing me dead, but that’s all right because she’s upset. Me? I’m supposed to be polite.” His fiery gaze pinned Fliss to her seat. “You sit where you are. If you go to the police station they won’t let you see him or talk to him anyway. Not for hours, yet. You can do him more good here.”

  Joe took a moment to let his anger subside. Around the room, they were still the focus of attention, but it was passing instead of fixed. People engaged in conversation cast the occasional glance in their direction, those waiting for service at the crowded bar would look around and in doing so, just for a brief second, their eyes would light upon him, his two companions and the dishevelled woman sat in their company.

  Calming down, he launched another, yet milder, attack upon her. “You sit there, the dutiful wife, swearing your sweet little husband would never do anything like that, and for all I know you’re going to promise us that he supports homeless children and animals, but it’s not knowledge. It’s blind faith, based on love, and that isn’t enough. There’s more evidence to convict your other half than there is to free him. He had the motive. He had the means… or we think he had the means. You say he didn’t have the opportunity, I say you only believe that, you don’t know it. We know he had the opportunity.”

  As he continued speaking, Joe’s finger wagged between Sheila and Brenda.

  “I know these two. They’ve already fallen for you. They’d feel sorry for a mass murderer on his way to the electric chair. And I know what they’ll do next. Bring pressure to bear on me so that I’ll work to clear your husband’s name. Well, fine. I don’t mind. What the hell am I here for if not work?” The wagging finger stopped and homed in on Fliss. “But you give me something to work on, something more than faith, because right now, I’m sure he’s as guilty as hell.”

  He fell silent and none of the three women responded. He had expected Sheila or Brenda to pick him up, but they did not, and for a few moments, the chatter and clatter of the room swamped them.

  Eventually, it was Fliss who spoke. “Do you really mean that, Mr Murray?”

  “What? About him being guilty? Yes, I do.”

  “No, not that. Did you mean it when you said you’d help to prove him innocent?”

  He fumed. “What is it about dunderheaded women who can listen to the whole of Hamlet’s soliloquy and only hear him say ‘to be or not to be’?”

  “You’re overstepping the mark, Joe,” Brenda warned. “Were not thick, and I don’t think Felicity is, either. She’s just very distressed.”

  “And I’m not? We came here for a New Year break and we’re in the middle of a double murder… again.”

  “You fought tooth and nail for Brenda in Chester,” Sheila pointed out in tones of attempted mediation. “You wouldn’t let go in Filey because you insisted Nicola had been murdered, you harangued the police to death in Leeds to get George Robson off the hook.”

  “Because I know Brenda, and George, and I knew Nicola,” Joe insisted. “I knew George was no killer, and neither was Brenda, and Nicola’s death was just too suspicious. Well, this time, I know again, only I know Robbie Kendrew is guilty.”

  Fliss shook her head. “He’s innocent.”

  “Tell me why,” Joe demanded.

  “I… I can’t. I just know it.”

  Joe spread his hands. “End of argument. Anyone want another drink?”

  “I’ll ask a question,” Brenda challenged brightly, “and if you can answer it, Joe, I’ll stand the next round.”

  He groaned loudly. “Go on.”

  “How did Robbie know that Reggie was alone on Friday night? How could he possibly know that Wendy wasn’t with him?” />
  Joe stood up. “I’ll get the drink. You want another, young lady?”

  She shook her head. “Thank you, but no.”

  Brenda’s question was one of those he had purposely avoided and now here he was confronting it. The argument between Reggie and his unseen, unheard companion had answered it prior to Fliss’ announcement of a few moments ago. But if Reggie’s overheard warning were not directed at Kendrew, then who, and how did the killer know Reggie was alone later?

  While waiting for his drinks, he tossed a number of alternatives round his head. There were possibilities but even he had to admit they were remote.

  “So, Murray, you’re changing sides?”

  He found Les Tanner stood at his elbow. “Oh. Hi, Les. No. I’m still convinced it’s Kendrew, but Sheila and Brenda are pushing me into proving myself wrong.”

  “Shouldn’t be difficult given your track record as an administrator.” Tanner grinned sadistically and Joe reminded himself just how much the old fool enjoyed winding him up.

  “Tell me something, Les. Do the council run courses on how to be a total prat?” Before Tanner could rise to the bait, another question shot into Joe’s mind. “No. Strike that, and tell me how easy it is to get hold of a British service revolver.”

  “The Webley Mark IV? Not easy, but not difficult either. You have to get round the firearms act, y’see.” Tanner licked his lips in anticipation of delivering a long and solid lecture. “Webley stopped making them in the seventies, and most of those available would be considered antique or collector’s items, and they’d be deactivated...”

  Joe cut the history lesson short. “You mean they can’t be fired?”

  “Correct. They can be dry fired; letting the hammer fall on an empty chamber. Many of them have the firing pin filed down or removed altogether, but no matter what method of deactivation is used, the pistol needs a proof certificate.”

  Joe paid for his drinks. “All right. So how difficult would it be to get hold of a Webley thirty-eight that will fire live rounds.”

  Tanner smiled his superiority. “I think your niece would be the best person to ask about that.”

  Thanking Tanner and collecting his drinks, Joe made his way back to the table with the thought that the captain was right. His niece, Detective Sergeant Gemma Craddock of Sanford CID, would know, but she would also ask too many questions if he rang her.

  He squeezed himself back into his seat, sipped his lager, and then called his small audience to attention.

  “There are a number of ways he could have known Reggie was alone. Perhaps he called later than the argument I’d heard. Perhaps he spotted Wendy shacking up with Carlin.”

  Brenda laughed and gulped down a generous slug of Campari. “Typical amateur.”

  Joe’s natural irritation rose. “What? Who are you calling an amateur?”

  “You. You’re an amateur bed-hopper. Listen to me, Lothario, a woman like Wendy Grimshaw, married, staying here with her husband, isn’t going to advertise the fact that she’s screwing another man. For crying out loud, Joe, we didn’t know you were jumping Melanie Markham, and when it comes to discretion, you’re in the same league as a brass band marching down the High Street.”

  “I wish you’d shut up about me and Melanie.”

  Joe risked a furtive glance at Fliss to see if Brenda’s announcement had had any effect upon her, but she had not changed. She was still and silent, staring emptily at the table, and he knew there was only one thing on her mind.

  “How many guns does Robbie own?” he asked.

  Realisation that he was speaking to her, spread slowly through Fliss’ face and she stirred. “What? Oh. Sorry. Er, one. A twelve gauge shotgun.” She smiled weakly, apologetically. “We live in a rural area and we have trouble with foxes now and then.”

  “So he’s no stranger to weapons,” Joe pointed out. “I just spoke to Captain Marvel…” He trailed off. Sheila and Brenda would understand immediately, but Fliss would not. “Captain Les Tanner. Territorial Army. He’s one of our party and an old, er, friend for want of a better word.”

  “Only in the same way a lion befriends a zebra at lunchtime,” Sheila joked.

  Joe, too, smiled. “Les is a proper pain in the arse, but he knows his stuff. He’s just told me that it wouldn’t be too difficult to get hold of the revolver, but there might be a problem getting one that works; one that hasn’t been deactivated.”

  “Robbie does not own a pistol, Mr Murray.”

  “Do you keep track of your husband’s credit card transactions, Felicity?” Sheila asked. For the benefit of Joe and Brenda, she explained, “He may have bought one using his plastic.”

  Joe clucked. “Saints preserve me from honest women.” He eyed Brenda. “Even those with crooked haloes. Sheila, if he had a live firing pistol, he probably got it from some back street dealer, and they tend to deal in cash.”

  “Oh. I never thought of that.”

  Fliss dragged them back on topic. “I repeat, Robbie does not own a pistol.”

  “To your knowledge,” Joe corrected. “Now listen, luv, if you want me to help, I will, but you have to be practical about it, and you have to answer my questions as honestly as you can.” He allowed a short pause for the advice to sink in. “We know you have money problems and Robbie was desperate for promotion.”

  “And he’s gone the best way about getting it, hasn’t he?”

  Fliss’ sarcasm was not lost on Joe’s companions, both of whom laughed and then apologised to the distraught younger woman.

  “We do not have financial problems,” Fliss went on. “Well, we do, but they’re not as severe as you make them sound. We’re struggling to meet the mortgage on the house. The property is too big for our budget, and I warned Robbie about that when we first took it on, but he insisted. He was so sure we could cover it. When we first began to struggle, he cracked the whip with his team and went out selling again to increase his income. But he always said that when Reggie retired this year, if he could secure the top job, Sales Director, we’d be all right.”

  “Yet he thought Naomi Barton was jumping Grimshaw to make sure she got the job.”

  “Yes. I don’t know how true that is, but the rumour factory insists Naomi was sleeping with Reggie.”

  “She as good as told me so yesterday,” Joe admitted, “but she also said it would not get her the sales director’s job. She said Grimshaw had a habit of promoting on merit, not upon who dropped her knickers.”

  “Robbie didn’t believe that,” Fliss insisted.

  “Generally speaking, how did Robbie get on with Reggie?” Sheila asked.

  “All right,” Fliss replied. “They had their ups and downs, and lately, it was more down than up. Sales were, well, not poor, but not brilliant either. Reggie was always hassling Robbie and Naomi to get more out of their teams. And I know there was some problem last year which worried Robbie. Something to do with Midland Kitchens.”

  “Why would that worry Robbie?” Sheila asked.

  “He was concerned that Midland Kitchens only wanted the factory. He and the rest of the sales force could be facing redundancy. That would aggravate our mortgage problems.”

  Joe had his next question ready, but when it came out, it was not in his voice. It was almost as if Brenda had read his mind.

  “How did you feel about Reggie?”

  Fliss’ face distorted disdainfully. She checked over her shoulder, scanned the room and her eyes lighted momentarily on Wendy Grimshaw. Joe guessed she had been making sure the newly widowed woman was out of earshot.

  “He was an appalling man. Noisy, brash, a terrible bully. Publicly, he was all, yes please and thank you, but in private he bullied everyone; his staff, his wife, even his customers. Arrogant and ignorant.”

  “Did he ever make a pass at you?” Joe asked.

  “No. I’m not saying he would be beyond it, but he never hit on me personally. I think he knew I didn’t like him.”

  “What about other wives, other
saleswomen?”

  Fliss had to think about it. “I don’t know them well. The men and women in Robbie’s team, yes. I had to arrange dinner parties for them and so on, but even so, I only got to know them superficially. There was Naomi, of course, but you’ve already mentioned her.”

  “And how did you feel about her?” Joe wanted to know.

  “If you’re looking to pin a motive on Robbie through me, you can forget it, Mr Murray. I didn’t like Naomi. I don’t like direct salespeople in general. I’d have preferred it if Robbie took another job, even if meant giving up the house and taking a cut in salary. Like all of them Naomi was too pushy. Simple as that. And I don’t care what she told you, if she was sleeping with Reggie, it would have been as a means to an end.”

  “And to Reggie’s end,” Brenda quipped.

  Joe frowned at her, then switched his attention back to Fliss. “But you didn’t heap more slime on her when you were speaking to your husband? You know. Encouraging him to dislike her.”

  “I didn’t have to. Robbie hated her.” The wagging finger came back, directed at Joe. “However, he would not have killed her. He wasn’t like that; there are others, you know, who may have had a motive.”

  “I was just going to come to that,” Joe pleaded. “You must know something about the crew at Grimshaw’s, even if it’s only scuttlebutt from your husband. How many of them hated Reggie and Naomi enough to kill them?”

  Fliss’ pliable features went through another transformation this time edging frustration with irritation. “As far as I’m aware, none. We’re from Sheffield, Mr Murray, not Chicago or Sicily. People in Sheffield don’t murder their bosses just because they hate them.”

  Joe took a nonchalant sip of his ale. “I dunno about Chicago or Sicily, or even Sheffield. I think you’re living on Fantasy Island. Don’t you read the papers? There are murders in every big city, almost every day, and often, they’re carried out for the most trivial of reasons.”

  Fliss looked as if she had been personally offended.