Play Dead Read online

  PLAY

  DEAD

  A crime thriller full of twists you won’t see coming

  ANNE PENKETH

  First published 2019

  Joffe Books, London

  www.joffebooks.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this.

  ©Anne Penketh

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  THERE IS A GLOSSARY OF ENGLISH AND POLICE SLANG IN THE BACK OF THIS BOOK FOR US READERS.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

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  Chapter One

  It was a woman, a cellist. At least that’s what it sounded like.

  “Did you say ‘cellist,’ ma’am?” In the blustering wind it was hard to make out the voice at all, let alone what the super was saying. With the phone pressed hard against his ear, Sam Clayton gestured with his free hand for Melissa to carry on walking towards the distant breakers.

  He turned and faced the dunes, raising his collar against the wind.

  “Hello? Sorry about that. Hello . . .?” He removed the phone from his ear and stared at it in disbelief. No signal. A dead cellist on his patch — possibly. A dead someone anyway. And now a dead phone. He swore and hurled the phone as far as he could, overarm, like a bowler in a cricket match. It landed in the sand beside a puddle of seawater. He strode over to pick it up, kicking at the wet sand.

  Melissa was running towards him, leaving deep footprints. “What’s the matter, Sam?”

  “Something’s come up at work. But because we’re practically up to our necks in the North Sea, I can’t hear a bloody thing.” He paused and smiled at her. “Sorry, love.” It wasn’t her fault. He didn’t mind his Sunday being disrupted — he was used to it — but he minded that she minded. It was her only day off. This was a fine way to embark on a new relationship.

  They set off towards the distant car park, hidden behind a barrier of pines. Clayton resisted the temptation to break into a run. Holkham beach was the place he usually chose when he wanted to pound his middle-aged joints of a weekend. Today, he and Melissa had planned to spend the afternoon wandering along the shoreline, maybe finishing in Wells and picking up some fresh crab at the shellfish stall.

  They marched through the sand, crunching seashells under their feet and muttering a brief ‘hello’ to an elderly couple hunched on a bench overlooking the bay. It took them fifteen minutes to reach the wooden walkway that twisted through the pines. They stepped onto the boards, made slippery by drizzle, and followed the trail, their progress obstructed by dog walkers who forced them onto the sand.

  Sam was struggling to control his impatience. He had a hard time resisting the temptation to grab hold of Melissa and hurry her along. Why was she dawdling like this, pointing at the red hues of the samphire as if this was some nature walk? She watched the sky while a flight of honking geese flew overhead. She stopped to talk to the owner of a cockapoo, patting the little black dog. She kept turning round to look back at the beach and the clouds scudding over the distant breakers. He was just about to take her by the arm when, at last, his phone vibrated. They had just reached the car park, where seagulls wheeled and fought one another over the rubbish bins. He had two voicemails and a text message, all from DCI Bligh. The first voicemail asked where he was. In the second, her clipped tones informed him that DS Julie Everett had been sent to the murder scene. The text message gave him an address in Costessey.

  He guessed that was why Bligh had sent Julie. She lived in the Norwich suburb where the victim had been found. He wondered whether Julie had been taking care of her son, or if he was with his father for the weekend. This corpse was an inconvenience for all of them.

  Clayton wiped his nose with the back of his hand and replied to Bligh’s text message: will be there in an hour. Then he put his arm round Melissa and held her for a few moments, burying his face in the silky dampness of her hair, before clicking open the car doors.

  “Got to go back. There’s been a murder in Costessey. Sorry.”

  “Oh,” she said. He’d felt how tense she was and sensed her irritation and disappointment. “Why didn’t you tell me it was urgent?” she said.

  “It’s always urgent if I get called on a bloody Sunday,” he said with what he hoped would pass for a grin.

  “I’ll drop you off,” he added.

  Melissa gave him a thin smile. She was an estate agent who’d made good on a promise to find him a smaller house after he decided to save money on his mortgage repayments. He was now installed in a terraced house on the other side of Unthank Road, where Melissa still lived. Her place was only a short walk away. Her property search, like everything else she did, had been a masterpiece of breathtaking efficiency. In fact, she’d only shown him a couple of properties before leading him into the house and announcing, “This is the one for you.” She was right, of course. He remembered how she’d marched straight to the dishwasher in the renovated kitchen, a triumphant smile on her face. “Now you’ll have no excuse.”

  He’d said nothing, pretending not to notice the implicit reproach. OK, so he wasn’t keen on housework.

  “So who is it this time?” she asked, breaking into his reminiscences. He didn’t often talk about work — too grisly.

  “A dead musician. At least I think it is. I couldn’t really hear what the boss was on about, to tell you the truth.”

  “A musician? So that’s why you got the call. Right up your street.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know.” If he wasn’t running off his excess adrenalin, Clayton relaxed by playing classical guitar. Music was something he had in common with Melissa. A few days ago he’d watched her sing in the Norwich Festival Orchestra chorus, standing erect and elegant in black, be
low the organ of St Andrew’s Hall. He’d felt her eyes on him and sensed an imperceptible blink of recognition before she fixed them back on the conductor, who was jumping up and down like a demented chimpanzee. He’d wondered if Melissa’s arm ever got tired from balancing the score on one hand. She’d drawn her hair back to reveal her dimpled cheeks, and he noticed a splash of colour on her lips. She was what his father would call a ‘bonny lass,’ which was a nice way of saying that she could stand to lose a few pounds. Anyway, Clayton was hardly an example of perfect fitness. He blamed Melissa’s home cooking for that.

  They drove back to Norwich in silence, Clayton’s mind racing ahead to the murder scene. He’d find out soon enough what had happened. But why had Bligh mentioned a cellist? So far as he knew, there wasn’t a professional orchestra in Norwich. The victims in most of the murders he’d investigated were known by their professions or their toxic relationships, not their hobbies. Unless she’d been killed because she was a cellist. Like someone targeting model railway enthusiasts. Surely not.

  Shaking off his speculations, he turned into Melissa’s street. He couldn’t help glancing towards the Victorian red-brick house that had been his home during the dying days of his marriage. He hadn’t foreseen that the move from Lancashire would come as such a culture shock. Norfolk people didn’t like outsiders, they kept to themselves. And as for the surroundings, what else was there but flat emptiness? Maybe he should have listened to Claire and stayed put. They might still be together if he had. Could have, should have. Get over it, Clayton. He slowed the car and found a parking spot outside Melissa’s, two doors past his old house.

  “I won’t invite you in then,” she said.

  He shook his head. “Sorry, love.”

  She hesitated before opening the car door and squeezed his arm.

  “Ring me when you get the chance.”

  * * *

  Clayton drove straight to a modern housing estate near the retail park in Costessey. He pulled up in front of an anonymous semi-detached house. The front door was ajar. In a parking space next to a silver hatchback, he recognised the forensics van.

  He spotted Julie’s Clio on the street and parked behind it. Just as he reached the house, the front door opened wider and Julie herself emerged. She seemed flustered or maybe even distressed. As she pulled the door to behind her, she was busy searching for something inside her bag. He’d never understood the mystery of women’s handbags, their tendency to make things disappear as though sucked into a black hole.

  She looked up, having retrieved her car keys from the hidden depths. “Oh, hello.”

  “I was in Holkham,” he said before she could ask. He couldn’t tell whether she was fiddling with her keys because of what she’d seen inside, or if she was annoyed with him for showing up late.

  “It’s a bit grim in there,” she said, pointing a thumb in the direction of the kitchen. “In fact, I’ve never seen anything quite like it.” He raised an eyebrow. “It looks staged to me.”

  “Staged? What do you mean?” he said.

  “You’ll see,” she said, brushing a flyaway strand of blonde hair behind her ear.

  She followed him back inside and stood in the doorway while he slipped on protective shoes and gloves.

  “So, do we know who it is?” he asked.

  “Kristina Manning. With a K. She’s a cellist with the NFO. Was, rather. The boyfriend found her. He came round because she didn’t show up to meet him in Norwich this morning.”

  Clayton caught the reference to the NFO. Maybe Melissa knew the woman.

  “Where is he now?”

  “He went home. He’s coming to the nick tomorrow.”

  “What about the neighbours? Anyone in?”

  “There’s an upstairs flat but nobody’s in now,” she said. “Same as the two flats next door. The couple downstairs were out earlier today, probably when she was killed. They’re also coming in. Nobody knows about the other people upstairs.”

  “Is Fifi here?” he asked. Fifi was Dr Fiona Blackhurst, the dour Home Office chief forensics officer. Everyone referred to her by her nickname.

  “She stopped by but didn’t stay long,” said Julie. “Her team’s still here. Anyway, I’ve got to go now. See you tomorrow.”

  “Thanks. See you.”

  He opened the kitchen door.

  The first thing he saw was the cello. It stood upright in the centre of the small modern kitchen as though held up by invisible thread. It made Clayton think of a swan-necked ballerina about to perform a pirouette.

  Clayton’s eyes travelled downwards. The woman lay on the floor, her white T-shirt and jeans stained purple by the pool of blood she was lying in. She was barefoot, her shiny toenails a perfect match with the blood. Her hair had congealed into dark corkscrews on her shoulders and partly covered her swollen face. One of her arms was stretched above her head, as though she was waving. Her hand was clenched in a fist. Had she struggled, desperately, against her attacker? Now he saw how the cello stood upright. She’d been impaled by the spike, which had been thrust into her belly.

  Chapter Two

  Clayton gasped. He bent forward for a closer look. It was only then that he noticed the chaos around him. Bloodstained knives and forks lay strewn all over the floor. A pair of pink fluffy slippers lay incongruously among them.

  “Can someone tell me what’s going on here?” he said to nobody in particular. One of the techies in white overalls came in from the living room, holding a clipboard.

  He nodded to her. “DI Clayton.”

  “Penny Champion, crime scene manager,” she said. She nodded towards a kitchen drawer which had been pulled out and emptied of its contents. “As you can see, there was a struggle. The head wounds are from when she hit the floor. There’s so much blood around because the spike went straight into the abdominal aorta.”

  Clayton looked round the kitchen. “Owt else?” Blood had dripped from the kitchen counter and was smeared on the drawer handle.

  “Yes,” she said, following his gaze. “We’re checking the DNA from the blood spatter.”

  Clayton reached up to open a cupboard door. The bottom shelf was empty.

  “The glasses are in the dishwasher. Judging by how many there are, there’d been a party here.”

  Clayton looked back at the body. “Is it the cello spike that killed her?”

  “That’s something we’ll have to find out.”

  “And she died here, in the kitchen?”

  “Looks like it,” said Champion. “And not that long ago either.”

  “What time do you think?”

  “I’d say late this morning, judging from the blood spatter. I could smell the coffee when we came in.” She motioned towards a coffee pot and a single mug, painted with a flower motif, which lay overturned on the counter.

  “Forced entry?”

  “Apparently not,” she said. “But Doctor Blackhurst will be able to tell you more.”

  “Yes. Thanks,” said Clayton. He went to the kitchen window. A blanket of ivy was draped over a wooden fence surrounding the courtyard garden.

  “So the attacker didn’t come in this way?” he asked, pointing towards the kitchen door.

  “Doesn’t look like it,” said Champion. “We checked that door.” She stepped aside to let him enter the living room.

  “Party drugs? Anything like that?” he asked, giving the kitchen one last look.

  She shook her head. “Not so far. Nothing they left lying around. But again, we’ll have a better idea from forensics and the post-mortem.”

  Clayton noticed a music stand and an upright chair by the window. He had the same setup at home for his guitar playing. He bent over the photographs displayed on a windowsill. He always felt like an intruder in these situations. The woman in the photo was holding a hand to her forehead, shielding her eyes against the sun. The young man beside her was blandly handsome, without a single defining feature. His teeth were even, his nose perfectly proportioned and the eyebrow
s arched. They definitely didn’t meet in the middle. Clayton sighed. A golden couple on a beach. Who would want to kill this young woman? He bent over to scrutinise the other pictures. Here she was playing the cello solo, with her eyes closed and her bow arched, seated erect with the orchestra and facing towards the invisible conductor.

  There were no birthday cards, presents or gift wrapping that he could see.

  The living room led into a small bedroom whose curtains were open. The bed was made. The cello case stood in front of a walk-in wardrobe. He said ‘hello’ to a scenes of crime officer who was making a list of the items on a small chest of drawers. Better let the SOCO get on with it. Clayton’s stomach was beginning to churn.

  * * *

  The following morning, Julie caught up with Clayton by the coffee machine.

  “Awful, isn’t it?” she said. “The poor woman.”

  “Yeah. Horrible.” They stood in silent reflection for a moment. Then Clayton said, “We’ll see what the boyfriend has to say for himself. The house isn’t far from you in Cossey, right?” He’d noticed that was how she referred to her village.

  “Yes, only a few minutes’ drive. My place is a bit nearer the shops,” said Julie.

  “I hope it didn’t ruin your Sunday,” he said. He ran a hand across his head where his hair used to be.

  “Ollie was with Paul this weekend. I was trying to clear up some stuff while he was out,” she said. She always brightened up when she talked about her son. “What about you?” she asked.

  “Not great timing, I must say.”

  Clayton had never been to Julie’s place. After the merger of the Norfolk and Suffolk police forces, the nick had been moved from central Norwich and plonked down in the middle of a field. The new location didn’t give much opportunity for socialising. It used to be a pint down the pub, but these days it was coffee in the canteen. Clayton had moved from Lancashire, while Julie came from Ipswich, so they were both outsiders, at least as far as the locals were concerned. Is it four years already? He’d never expected to stay so long in this vast flat expanse shrouded in mists and mystery.