by H. Y. Hanna
“Yeah, you’re probably right…” Cassie conceded. “Well, let’s just hope we’ve seen the last of that mouse—wherever it’s gone.”
I started to reply but was interrupted by the shrill ringing of my phone. I fumbled in my pockets, pulling it out and hitting the button to answer.
“Hello!” I snapped.
“I suppose this is a bad time to ask you out for dinner,” came an amused voice.
“Devlin! Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you. I’ve just had a hell of a morning.”
“That makes both of us,” said Devlin with a sigh.
“No progress on the case?”
He gave another sigh. “So far, this investigation is going nowhere and Monty Gibbs is not happy about it. He’s pressuring us to reopen the concert hall and let him get on with filming the show.”
“Well, haven’t your forensic team gone over the crime scene already?”
“Gemma, have you seen the size of that place? All those rooms full of props and equipment, the various stairwells and entrance ways… and that’s just backstage. I’m loathe to reopen it and allow people to contaminate the area, when we haven’t had a chance to go over all of it properly.” He paused, then added, “On the other hand, we could scour it for weeks and still wouldn’t be able to cover every corner. That place is like a rabbit warren.”
“But it’s not as if you need to find the murder weapon, is it? I mean, in this case, you know exactly what killed Lara.”
“Yes, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that crucial evidence can turn up in the most unlikely places. We don’t know what’s important—until we see it. There could be something incriminating hidden in one of those rooms or a trace left by the murderer in the Waiting Area…” Devlin made a frustrated noise. “I just wish I had a good lead! Right now, I’ve got a list of suspects as long as my arm and nothing to link any of them to the victim.”
“What about Nicole Flatley? I thought she was the strongest suspect? Although I suppose her motive is a bit philosophical, isn’t it? I mean, she’d be killing Lara just because she hates the woman’s callous attitude and unethical behaviour.”
“Actually, her motive might be based on more hard reality than you think,” said Devlin. “We checked out her background and it turns out that Nicole split up from her husband recently. He’d had an affair with a neighbour, and when Nicole found out and confronted the woman, there was quite a nasty scene. It was witnessed by several of the other residents on the street, and according to them, the woman was completely unrepentant about breaking up their marriage. She just laughed at Nicole and said that it was her own fault for not being able to hang on to her husband.”
“Oh my God, that’s pretty much word-for-word what Lara said!” I cried. “No wonder Nicole totally lost it and went for her. I saw the look on her face—she was absolutely furious.”
“Yes, the question is whether that anger continued to fester—enough that Nicole decided to murder Lara the next day.”
I thought again of the shy, quiet pianist. “I don’t know, Devlin—I just can’t see Nicole murdering anybody. I mean, I can see her getting emotional and losing her temper—in fact, I saw it first-hand—but based on that note you found by the liquid nitrogen, this murder was very calculated and I just can’t believe that Nicole could plot to kill someone in cold blood.”
“Well, appearances can be deceptive. On the face of it, none of the contestants are likely to be murderers.”
“Actually, I can see that woman, Trish, plotting to murder someone quite easily,” I said darkly.
“Gemma… you can’t let your personal prejudices affect your judgement,” said Devlin, sounding amused. “Just because you had a run-in with her and you don’t like her doesn’t immediately make her a villain.”
“But have you checked up on Trish?”
“Well, we’ve only done preliminary background checks so far but yes, she seems to be kosher. She works as a dog walker and spends all her spare time with her dogs. She seems to be at some kind of dog sport or obedience competition every weekend. Not how the average person spends their weekend, perhaps, but it’s hardly a sign of homicidal tendencies.”
“Yes, but it’s a sign that she’s competitive,” I said.
“Being competitive isn’t enough of a motive for murder,” said Devlin impatiently. “I need more than that.” He paused, then added thoughtfully, “You said the Old Biddies’ friend, June Driscoll, wanted the prize money for a particular reason—what was it?”
“You don’t think she could be the murderer?” I laughed.
“I have to consider every alternative.”
“Aww, come on, Devlin! That’s just ridiculous. You said yourself last night that we can probably cross a bunch of geriatric pop-star wannabes off our list of suspects.”
“I can revise my opinion. Anyway, I’d just like to know.”
“The money’s to save her husband’s support group.”
“Support group?”
“Yeah, he passed away last year and his widow is desperate to keep his support group going, in his memory.”
“You mean, a group to support him?”
“No, it’s a group to support people like him—people with bushy eyebrows.”
“What? You’re taking the mickey.”
“No, no, I’m serious. It’s called B.E.A.S.T.—it stands for ‘Bushy Eyebrows Activists Stand Together’.”
Devlin was silent for a long moment, although I suspected I could hear the sound of muffled laughter coming from the other end of the line. Finally, he cleared his throat and said:
“The Pussy Puffs are one of the stronger acts. In fact, you could even argue that they’re stronger than Trish or Gaz and would have been the most likely contestants to go through to the Finals, if Lara was no longer in the running.”
“Yes, but… you’re not seriously considering them as murder suspects?”
Devlin sighed. “Right now, I’m almost ready to consider anybody. Certainly those who don’t have solid alibis. Most of the crew have checked out—other than a couple of the lighting technicians who were alone at the time of the murder. As for the contestants, the only ones in the clear are the twins, who are ten years old, and Albert, who was on stage at the time of the murder. But I think we can rule out Franz Ziegler and Tim the hip hop dancer. The former was talking to a member of the crew and the latter was playing with the twins, as confirmed by their mother. That leaves us with Nicole, Cheryl, Gaz, Trish, and the members of the ‘granny band’. A few members of the cast say that they saw the Old Biddies, but they weren’t able to identify each one individually. Nobody can confirm if they saw Nicole, Cheryl, Trish, or Gaz in the Waiting Area at the time of the murder.”
“I saw Gaz,” I said. “In fact, he spoke to me.”
“But you said in your statement that there was a gap of several minutes between speaking to him and finding Lara’s body.”
“Yes, that’s right,” I admitted. “After speaking to him, I went out to take a peek at my mother on the judging panel, and then I went to search the other backstage rooms again for Cheryl. I found a shortcut into the area behind the stage, which leads to the wings, and then I stumbled across the body.”
“So in fact, there would have been time for Gaz to sneak out into the wings and kill Lara after you saw him.”
“I suppose so…” I said reluctantly.
“And you said you were searching for Cheryl?”
“Yes, she asked if she could use Muesli as a substitute for her cat, who’d gone off wandering, so I went home to fetch Muesli. But when I arrived back at the concert hall, I couldn’t find Cheryl anywhere.” I realised how that sounded and added quickly, “Although I’m sure I probably just missed her. As you say, that place is such a rabbit warren.”
“But it’s interesting that she was ‘missing’ around the time of the murder,” mused Devlin. “When we questioned her, she was very vague and said she was moving around, looking for her cat.”
“Well, that’s true. She was worried about Misty. Besides, Devlin, Cheryl definitely isn’t the murderer.”
“How do you know?”
“I… I just do! I was chatting to her for quite a while yesterday. She’s just not the type—”
“Gemma… you like her, don’t you?”
Bugger. Devlin was always too sharp. “That’s nothing to do with it,” I said defensively.
“I think it is. And like I said with Trish—you can’t let your personal feelings affect your judgement in a murder investigation. Just because you don’t like someone doesn’t make them a villain, and just because you do like someone doesn’t make them innocent either.”
“Oh, all right,” I said. “But I tell you—I definitely didn’t see Trish in the Waiting Area. I saw Skip, her dog, tied up to his crate but she wasn’t with him. I know, I know, you’re going to say I’m biased again… but the point is, she was ‘missing’ as much as Cheryl was. Did she say where she was when you questioned her?”
“She said she went out for some fresh air.”
“I don’t believe that,” I said flatly. “That woman would have been practising to the last minute! And if she did go out for some fresh air, why didn’t she take her dog with her? It would have been the logical thing to do.”
“What about Nicole?” asked Devlin, abruptly changing the subject. “Did you see her?”
“No, I didn’t see her either,” I admitted. “What was her excuse?”
“She says she went to the Ladies. But, of course, no one happened to see her enter or leave the toilets.”
“Bloody hell, this case really is a mess, isn’t it?” I said sympathetically.
“Well, I’ve got the night off from it anyway,” said Devlin. “Not a night off, exactly, but at least it’ll be a change of scene and subject. Listen, this was actually why I called—I know it’s a bit short notice but would you be free to go to a black-tie dinner tonight? It’s for work, actually, but partners are welcome and since we haven’t had much chance to see each other lately… It’s not the same as a romantic dinner, I know, but it would be a chance to spend a bit of time together. And maybe we can go out for drinks afterwards.”
“You’re on!” I said, smiling. It would be nice to see Devlin, whatever the situation. “What is it—some police departmental function?”
“No, actually, it’s the Oxford University Sherlock Holmes Society. They’ve got their annual Speaker’s Dinner at Montague College and the Superintendent was invited as a guest speaker but he can’t make it, so I’ve been roped in at the last moment. I’m giving a talk on ‘The Psychology of Murder’.”
“I can’t believe people want to listen to that over dinner.”
“Ah, well… this is Oxford…” said Devlin with a laugh. “‘The Psychology of Murder’ is probably pretty light fare—it could have been ‘The Multiple Identities of Dark Matter’ or ‘Classical Latin and How It Has Influenced Modern Oratory’.”
“True,” I agreed, laughing as well. “Okay, what time?”
“Pre-dinner drinks are at seven-thirty, with dinner at eight. Shall I come and pick you up around seven?”
“I’ll be ready,” I said, my mind already starting to drift as I wondered what to wear. I felt a pleasant sense of anticipation. It would be nice to have an evening out and forget about the talent show for a while. And it’s always a treat to see Devlin in black-tie, I thought with a smile to myself. With his piercing blue eyes, lean, dark good looks, and tall, muscular physique, Devlin O’Connor could give James Bond a run for his money any day.
I hung up in a much better mood and was still happily contemplating the evening ahead when the Old Biddies walked into the tearoom a few minutes later. They were accompanied by June Driscoll, who looked tired and strained.
“…Gemma will know,” Mabel was saying as she led her friend up to the counter. “Her young man is the detective in charge of the investigation, you know.” She turned to me and said: “Have you had any updates on the case? Are the police planning to arrest anyone?”
“You know Devlin can’t discuss the details of active investigations with me,” I lied.
“Nonsense,” said Mabel. “It’s not as if you’re a normal member of the public—you’ve been involved in murder investigations before. In fact, you’ve helped the police solve many a past case. With help from us, of course,” she added smugly. She crossed her arms and regarded me complacently. “So… what did your young man tell you when he called you just now?”
“How did you kno—?” I stared, then sighed and gave up. “Nothing much. The police are stumped at the moment. There are so many suspects in this case but no strong leads to tie any of them to the murder.”
“Who are the suspects?” asked June in an anxious voice.
“All of you, really,” I said. “Anyone backstage could have done it, although the contestants certainly had more motive than the crew for killing Lara.”
“What do you mean?” asked Glenda.
“Well, with her gone, there’s more chance for the other contestants to go through to the Finals.”
“But surely Devlin doesn’t think anyone would commit murder just to win the contest!” cried Ethel.
“That would be despicable!” said Florence, her usually kindly face contorted in an expression of disgust.
I couldn’t help noticing that while Mabel, Glenda, Florence, and Ethel all looked flushed and indignant, June had gone very quiet. Devlin’s words came back to me and, for a moment, a crazy thought flashed in my mind. Looking at the pale woman in front of me, I couldn’t help recalling the way she had seemed so determined to win, and the military precision with which she had assessed the other contestants. Just how far was June Driscoll willing to go to keep her husband’s memory alive?
Then I pushed the thought away with an inward laugh. Surely I didn’t think that a little old lady would murder someone just to save her husband’s ludicrous support group for bushy eyebrows?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Montague College was not one of the bigger Oxford colleges, but its beautiful quadrangles and ivy-covered neo-classical buildings were still majestic by any standards. I followed Devlin through the main gate, past the Porter’s Lodge and across the main quad into a second quad which was enclosed by cloisters. Darkness had fallen and the college was lit only by vintage lamps, which emitted a feeble yellow glow and threw sinister shadows along the cloister walls. By the time we arrived at the large, arched doorway at the other end of the arcade and climbed the creaking wooden stairs up to a private antechamber, I felt like I was walking in a Gothic horror movie.
The feeling was quickly dispelled, however, as soon as I stepped into the brightly lit antechamber, with medieval tapestries lining the walls and an antique wrought-iron chandelier dominating the ceiling. We were slightly late, as Devlin had been delayed at the station, and the room was already filled with people milling about with drinks in their hands, the men looking suave in their black tuxedo jackets and bow ties, and the women elegant in their cocktail dresses and evening gowns.
Devlin gave me an apologetic look as he was hailed by a member of the society committee and quickly became embroiled in a discussion on police ethics. I didn’t mind—I was quite happy to mingle by myself and chat to strangers. As it happened, however, I had barely accepted a glass of champagne from the roving waiter when someone tapped me on the shoulder.
“Gemma! Fancy seeing you here!”
I turned around to find myself facing a young man with thick dark-rimmed spectacles. I broke into a wide grin as I recognised Seth Browning. After Cassie, Seth was one of my closest friends, and the three of us had been inseparable during our time at college together. And while Cassie and I had both been keen to leave student life at Oxford—me for a fast-track graduate position in Sydney, and Cassie for a chance to pursue her artistic dream—Seth had opted to remain in the bosom of the university. The life of an academic suited his shy, quiet personality and he was now one o
f the youngest Senior Research Fellows in Chemistry at Gloucester College.
“Seth! This is a nice surprise,” I said warmly, giving him a peck on the cheek. “What are you doing here? Don’t tell me you’re a member of the OU Sherlock Holmes society!”
“Well, as a matter of fact, I’m considering it,” said Seth with a laugh. “I’ve heard that they have very thought-provoking debates. One of my colleagues is a member and he suggested that I come along and see what the society events are like.” He glanced across the room at Devlin. “I hadn’t realised that Devlin was speaking tonight.”
“He wasn’t supposed to originally—they’d invited his boss but the Superintendent couldn’t make it, so he asked Devlin to step in.”
We were interrupted by the sound of someone striking an old-fashioned gong and, a moment later, a pair of double doors leading into the dining hall were opened and people began to file in. I was pleased to discover that there was no seating plan, and with Devlin still occupied by the society committee members, I decided to sit with Seth. As the white-uniformed staff began serving the four-course meal and I gazed down at the formal place setting in front of me, with the dozens of different forks, spoons, and knives laid out in concentric layers around the plate, it felt for a moment almost as if I was back in college again. Life as a student at Oxford involved many unique quirks, one of which was the number of black-tie and formal events you were expected to attend. In fact, in my first term at college, I probably spent as much time trying to remember the correct fork to use as the correct answers for my tutorials. Start from the outside and work your way in, I reminded myself, picking up the outermost set of knife and fork as the starter was placed in front of me.
“It’s a shame Cassie isn’t here,” said Seth. “We could almost have had the night out that we missed.”
“Yes, I’d been so looking forward to catching up with you both on the night of the Semi-Finals,” I said ruefully. “And then it all went crazy and I never even saw you guys.”
