Staging Death (27 page)

‘But what if they say that I gave them the cocaine? And you’ve no proof I didn’t?’

‘Lots of hidden cameras, don’t forget,’ said Sandra. ‘And bugs in every room.’

There was a tap on the door. Claire popped her head in. ‘Mr Kemble again, pressing for an early afternoon appointment. Can I go ahead and make it?’

‘I’ve actually got another appointment,’ I ventured. No one took a bit of notice; very well, it gave me a good reason to cancel it till I was happier in my own mind about going there.

‘Make it three-thirty earliest,’ Martin snapped.

Sandra stood up. ‘I’ll come with you and give you a voice you can murmur to if they get stroppy. Refer to me as Mr Burford. I can do squeaky Brummie.’

‘He might be squeaky but he’d kill you if you call him a Brummie,’ I said. ‘He’s Black Country.’

But I spoke to a closing door.

‘What brought you over here, Martin?’ I asked. ‘And via the tradesman’s entrance, too?’

‘I don’t think it’s a good idea for the police constantly to be seen coming in to one particular estate agent’s office.’

‘Good point. And the reason you came?’

‘To ask Claire if she’d mind attending a
line-up
. We think we’ve picked up your art thieves. My feeling is they’ve got nothing at all to do with the drugs gang, but you ought to look at them too, from the far side of a two-way mirror, of course.’

This didn’t quite answer my verbal question, as I didn’t believe that a DCI would leg it across the street to put a question he could easily have got a junior officer to ask over the phone. On the other hand, his body language and the warmth in his smile certainly gave the right response to the question in my eyes. He even allowed the faintest, exasperated lift of his eyebrows when Sandra bustled back in.

‘He stuck out for two forty-five, on the grounds he wants to see three other properties by daylight. Is it doable, boss?’

‘It’ll have to be. Can you start setting it up? Thanks.’

Perhaps the ID parade hadn’t been an excuse. He ushered me through to the main office, and explained to Claire what she must do. We nodded and synchronised our diaries. I suppose making an appointment for six that evening was a sort of touching wood for the success of the afternoon’s activities.

At last, turning to leave the way he’d come in,
he said, ‘I think we should definitely reconsider this afternoon’s plan. We should pick up our friends after the first visit, not the last. Minimise the risk.’

I nodded. He would not see me swallow in terror.

There was no flirtation in his very grim smile. ‘Are you up to this, or do you want one of my officers to stand in for you?’

‘It seems to me that one of them already has. And I owe it to her to go ahead.’

If I had asked myself why I was spending more money on one outfit than I usually spend on a whole season’s, I suppose the answer would have been that if this was my last day on earth I was not going to meet my Maker looking scruffy. I also bought another pair of glasses, even more fearsome in their angles and, most importantly, with Reactolite lenses.

As for Allyn, I left a message with Miss Fairford that I was obliged to cancel. I did not explain why, which nonplussed her into silence.

The Focus and I presented ourselves outside The Zephyrs a few minutes before time. I practised my breathing, and tried to smile. My preparations were interrupted by a phone call.

‘Sandra?’

‘I’ve just had a call from Claire. Your friend
Heather phoned her, with a message for poor Vena’s successor. There’s a man she called Mr Nasty back on the scene. She says that’s as good a name as any other, because she’s sure he uses aliases.’

‘He does. I know him as Mr Gunter.’

‘Anyway, Heather says she’s seen him with the same middle-aged wife in tow, parking in the Rother Street car park.’

‘What if Mr Nasty, aka Mr Gunter, is Mr Kemble?’ I asked, my throat unpleasantly dry. ‘In which case, his wife is probably none other than Frances Trowbridge. There is no way she wouldn’t recognise the woman who shoved her in the Mondeo boot. And then she might make the connection with Vee Burford, since they once shared a smile over the antics of a bird.’

‘I’m telling Martin to abort the operation. It’s too great a risk. Get back in your car and drive off. Now.’

‘It’s too late. There’s a silver Merc just nosing its way towards me now.’

‘Can you recognise the driver?’

‘I can. And the car. And his so-called wife. Sandra, I’m in the shit.’

My Glasgow accent as strong as I could make it without needing subtitles, I emerged from the car and limped towards them. I owed the limp to a piece of gravel I’d inserted into my right shoe, just to remind me. The important thing was to give no sign of recognition to either.

‘He chooses his staff, that Burford, doesn’t he?’ Kemble-Gunter sneered to his wife. ‘One in hospital, one with a bad leg. What’ll the next one be, blind?’

Trying to blot out his possible subtext, I pursed my lips. ‘I’m sure we’re all very worried about poor wee Ms Burford. A terrible fire, I heard. They say she may not survive,’ I added dropping my voice to a graveside whisper. ‘As for my leg, don’t you worry your head over that, Mr Kemble. It’ll get me round this house and the others on your list.’ I turned and led purposefully
up the steps, cursing that I hadn’t had time to unlock and switch off the burglar alarm. But perhaps Connie didn’t do things in advance, as Vena did. I made a great show of consulting my file for the code, and tapped it in just as the electronic warning beeps became hysterical.

Each room I led them into, I referred closely to my file, holding it rather closer to my face than was comfortable. When would they give up and go to the loos? Not until they’d seen the whole shebang, by the look of it. By now the gravel was viciously painful, but I needed that limp.

We came to a halt in the drawing room. It wasn’t at its best in the grey light of the persistent drizzle, but I could hardly point that out.

‘A bit dark, isn’t it?’ he grunted.

Vena would have pointed out the transformation that the right drapes and furniture would have made, but Connie wasn’t into interior design and was inclined to be truculent. ‘That’s a problem with a lot of these old places. I shouldn’t say this, but give me a nice modern place every day. A barn conversion if you’re determined to go for an older property – at least it would come with mod cons.’ Without waiting for their comments I headed into the dining room, where I permitted myself a shiver of cold, rubbing genuinely icy hands together.

The longer I kept going, the longer Martin had
to assemble his colleagues. But the more chance Kemble-Gunter had of discovering my true identity. How much spiel should I give them?

They followed, apparently arguing. I withdrew to the darkest corner and let them get on with it.

He turned to me. ‘My wife and I were wondering if we’d ever met you before. I say there’s something familiar about you, but my wife disagrees.’

Thank God for that. But why was she protecting me? Something to do with yesterday morning? She must know that if she betrayed me, I’d certainly betray her. The last thing she’d want Kemble-Gunter to know was that she’d spent a good deal of time in the company of Martin and his team.

‘It depends if you’ve been to Glasgow, Mr Kemble. I worked for many years in the Kelvingrove Museum. You know, where they’ve got all that wonderful Charles Rennie Mackintosh stuff. Are you familiar with the place? There’s talk of them restoring the tea rooms he designed. Imagine that, pulling a place down, storing it and then rebuilding it.’ Plainly bored with this gem of English domestic architecture, I stomped off to the kitchen area.

How long could this go on? Please God, make them use the loos soon, and end the charade.

They nodded at the butler sink and wooden
drying racks, and said nothing. I was aware of a lot of scrutiny from him, while she kept her eyes studiously averted. Once again, I led them away, this time upstairs.

‘What was that noise?’ he demanded, halfway up the stairs.

Some idiot had let a car door slam.

‘It could have been the next lot of visitors,’ I improvised. ‘Mr Burford called me to say another party was inspecting at about three-thirty. Seems they only called over lunchtime.’

‘Very interested, then.’

‘Och, you know what these Americans are like, all mouth and trousers. Now, the bedrooms lead off this corridor. Some have interconnecting doors, as you’ll see,’ I added, head deep in the file again. I just hoped my chatter would cover any other movement and my commentary tell Martin where we were. ‘This is the master bedroom, with its en suite bathroom.’

Neither wished to use it. I paraded them through all the other rooms, more and more anxious by the moment. Kemble-Gunter, not a man given to humour, I’d have thought, was wearing a smile. It was more terrifying than the meanest sneer.

I wasn’t the only one who thought so. Frances was white, her teeth almost literally chattering.

‘Are you not well, Mrs Kemble?’ I asked,
moving over to her and putting my hand on her arm. ‘Is there anything I can get you? Would some fresh air be a help? If only I knew how to open these windows without setting off the damned alarm. Shall we get you downstairs?’

‘If – if I might just use the bathroom,’ she managed. ‘I feel terribly sick.’

‘Of course.’ My arm round her protectively I eased her along the corridor. And now I was in a quandary. Should I offer to go in with her, which would stop her getting the drugs from the cistern, or wait outside, alone with Kemble-Gunter? What would Connie do? Leave her to it and head purposefully down the stairs.

‘And where do you think you’re going?’

‘I was under the impression that you’d finished here, sir. Have you not? If there’s anything else I can show you, you only have to say the word.’

‘You stay where you are, Ms Burford.’

‘I beg your pardon, sir? Och, she’s the poor lass in hospital. I’m just her stand-in, as you’ll have gathered.’

He knew, didn’t he? And he was going to kill me with that gun of his, no longer just a bulge in his suit pocket but plain and ugly in his hand. So much for Martin and Sandra and their plans. Perhaps they had a Plan B. I needed to give them a clue that they should activate it soon.

Someone on
The Bill
had told another
character that you should always remind a potential killer that you were human. How could I do that, and in a fake Scots accent too?

‘What’s with that gun, sir?’ I demanded, trying to keep my voice clear and steady, and still to stay in character.

‘You stupid cow. Thought you’d taken me in for a minute, did you? Frances recognised you the first time she saw you. And did you really think you could tip her into your car boot without her noticing? I’ve a good mind to let her do this herself. I’m sure she’d enjoy it.’

‘Come on, she’s a decent woman. She’s only helping you because she’s fallen on hard times, like most of us actors. She’s doing a job; I’m doing a job. Why kill us for that?’ That was a slip of the tongue, of course, but had an interesting consequence.

Behind his head a voice screamed, ‘Kill me? You’re not going to…please, please, no! Please. I beg you!’

Why didn’t the silly woman hurl that bag of cocaine at him? Whatever else it did it would knock him off balance. All I had was a file that wouldn’t fly true. But if I dropped it, it might sound like someone coming in. Perhaps there was someone coming in.

‘Throw the bloody packet at him!’ I yelled. ‘Hard as you can.’ As I shouted, I slung the folder
sideways and upwards. Dare I vault the banister rail? Easier to roll over it.

Noise and cordite and goodness knows what else filled the stairwell. Had I been shot? The pain in my left shoulder was unbelievable. But there was no blood. There were so many people swirling round, so much shouting. I stayed where I was, face down, praying an inchoate wordless plea for help. The floor started to move, and I with it, but in the opposite direction. Was this death? ‘Our Father, who art in Heaven…’ I hoped He was listening. Because that was all I could manage.

A voice was saying, ‘This is going to hurt, but then it won’t be so bad. Don’t worry, I’ve done it half a dozen times on the rugby pitch.’ It would have been nice to pass out again, but whoever had spoken was telling the truth. The pain was subsiding, and I could open my eyes.

‘Martin? Was that you?’

‘You dislocated your shoulder as you fell. I just put it back. But we’d better get you to A and E, just in case. No, don’t try to get up.’

‘The floor’s bloody cold and I’ve an idea my skirt’s hitched up.’ I might even have wet myself with terror at one point, and didn’t want that to be common knowledge.

‘Let me lift you then. Don’t try to use that arm.’

I wiggled my fingers. My arm was working all right. But then perhaps it would be nicer to be helped up. It was. I discovered that for all his apparent sangfroid Martin was trembling too. His arm around me, we reached the front door.

It would have been a miracle if
Kemble-Gunter
hadn’t heard something. The approach to the house was swarming with people – black-clad men and women toting guns, ordinary uniformed officers with body armour. Martin was wearing armour too, under his nice leather blouson. Three ambulances vied for parking space with at least six police vehicles of various shapes and sizes.

‘Wow!’ I said, in an approximation of my normal voice. ‘I hope no one gets burgled in Barford or wherever – it’ll take a long time to get a police car to them.’

‘We might have one or two in reserve,’ he said. ‘Now, let’s get you into one of those ambulances.’

Time for a little honesty. ‘Martin, I’m phobic about hospitals. Phobic. Not just a little scared, but I’d almost prefer to face Gunter’s gun than see a man in a white coat.’

‘But you offered to go and read to Karen.’

‘It wouldn’t have been easy. If I’ve got to go on my own account – I’m sorry, I can’t.’

‘You need treatment, Vena.’ He touched my hair. ‘Do you want me to come with you?’

I clutched his hand. And then I realised that I was really messing with his reputation – his mates would laugh about it for weeks, wouldn’t they? So I released my grip and walked with as much dignity as I could manage to a paramedic. ‘Can I have a lift please?’ I asked.

Sandra was waiting for me when what even I recognised were really kind folk in A and E had finished strapping me up.

‘That was good of you,’ she said. ‘Coming without Martin. He’d have held your hand, you know, but he really has so much to do after an incident like that. Balancing the budget for one thing. God knows how much it’s cost.’

I hitched my coat more comfortably across my shoulders. It felt very strange carrying my bag with my right hand, but carrying it on either shoulder wasn’t an option. ‘Was it worthwhile?’ I asked coolly. ‘You realise no one’s told me about Gunter or Frankie yet?’

She waited for me to go through an automatic door before replying. ‘You were really good, you know. There was Trowbridge in hysterics and you telling her what to do. It was very impressive.’

I came to a dead halt. ‘Did he shoot her? Did he shoot anyone? Bugger me, Sandra, any moment I shall be offering to run a course for you all in communication skills.’

‘She threw the bag. He shot her. He missed. He fell arse over tip when she threw a second bag of cocaine. He’s hurt his back very badly. Head injuries too. The medics won’t let us question him. He’s under armed guard in Warwick Hospital. There. Is that enough info for you?’

I grabbed her arm. ‘Not the same place as Karen?’

‘They moved Karen ages ago. To a specialist burns unit. It was on a need-to-know basis. That’s why we didn’t tell you.’

I found myself getting angry. ‘What about cards and flowers for Vena Burford? Have they gone to the same hospital?’

‘The flowers have gone to some old folks’ home – some hospitals won’t allow them in, as I’m sure you know.’

And I was in one. A real live hospital. I ran as fast as I could to the main entrance.

When she caught up with me, she was yelling, ‘And I’ve kept all the cards so you can reply when you’re better! But first you’d better come and make a statement.’

For some reason I had to be driven the couple of hundred yards back to the police station I’d normally have walked in minutes. I maintained what I hoped was a dignified silence but might well have been a sulk. Or perhaps I was too weary
to make small talk. Shock or something. Why did I have to tell everyone what had happened when they’d have heard it all on their clever mikes? I wanted to be comforted, not interrogated. I wanted a cup of tea, or preferably a glass of brandy, some good food – I’d been too busy buying props for Connie George to have lunch – and some strong arms around me. I didn’t want to go to bed in what was, teddy bears apart, a coldly anonymous room in a flat I could never love. I didn’t want to go to bed alone, and I didn’t want to wake up alone. But such comfort was pie in the sky. Martin was working on his budget and I was an old woman who’d had to shed her knickers in a hospital loo.

Sandra parked well, and waited for me to get out. ‘I need to go to Marks and Sparks,’ I said, not moving.

‘That’s down on Bridge Street,’ she said.

‘I know it’s down on bloody Bridge Street. I want to walk down to Bridge Street and make a purchase. Then I’ll return here. Understand? And if you tell Martin why I need to buy knickers I shall kill you.’

A glimmer of a smile softened her face.

‘Or if you laugh.’

‘Come on into the women’s changing room. I’ll nip and get them for you. Anything else? You know, that nice outfit of yours took a bit of a
battering all round,’ she continued, ushering me into the backstage area of showers and changing rooms. ‘I’ll get you a paper suit so you can strip it off and I’ll pop into the cleaners for you.’

‘And I wear the paper job for this here ID parade? I’ll look more like a suspect than they do.’

The Thorpes and Greg were there as well as Claire, none allowed to confer with the others, which in the case of the Thorpes must have been hard to achieve. I was permitted to watch, as Martin had promised. If he registered the change from designer suit to Marks and Sparks Per Una top and skirt, he didn’t comment on it. In fact he was singularly silent, merely grunting with satisfaction when all four in succession picked out the same suspects. Since their choice confirmed the CCTV pictures, surely the CPS would be satisfied.

Later I was allowed to talk about the pictures to the Thorpes. They were garrulously delighted at the prospect of financial security for their old age, and wanted to know when the next lot of viewers would be coming.