Play Dead Page 15

  “And after that you went to the trouble of hooking him up to the window with a string from his violin.”

  A faint smile played on Braithwaite’s lips. “Yes.”

  They were done. Clayton turned round and shut his notebook. This confession was just what Bligh needed for the CPS. That should stop him smirking. What a smorgasbord of charges! He mentally ticked them off: two counts of murder for Kristina Manning and Steve Carter, conspiring to murder Alex Parker, manslaughter by gross negligence in the case of Lauren Garner, and assault against Mike Proctor. He knew that Bligh would want to deliver them all in person once she heard back from the CPS.

  * * *

  Mercer was brought into the interview room. Clayton studied his solicitor with fresh interest. He guessed she was in her early forties, roughly the same age as him. She was dressed in a grey suit, typical of that gender-neutral look affected by lawyers, allowing herself only a smear of lipstick to brighten up her pallor. Her auburn hair was cut short.

  Clayton made sure Mercer was watching while he put the tape in the machine and informed him that he was being questioned under caution.

  “We’re still waiting to see the doctor’s prescription for the tramadol which you say you were given,” said Clayton. “Two hundred tramadol tablets were found in the barn where you were hiding Mark Braithwaite. That seems like a lot for a bit of backache.”

  Mercer didn’t bat an eyelid. Not a single blond hair was out of place. “You mean where Mark Braithwaite was hiding,” he said. “I know nothing about any tramadol in a barn.”

  “Still on the drugs issue, let’s return to the night you last saw Lauren Garner. We understand that you were the person who supplied the drugs found in her body, which our forensics team have now identified. They included tramadol and ecstasy.”

  “Supplied, did you say?” Mercer asked.

  “We’ve been told by Mark Braithwaite that you supplied drugs to Lauren Garner and indeed to other members of the orchestra.”

  A slight frown clouded Mercer’s features. He stroked his beard.

  “We also hear that it was your idea to take Lauren Garner’s body down to the basement on the night she died, rather than call an ambulance, for fear that the police would find the drugs on the premises,” said Clayton.

  “That’s not true,” said Mercer. “I’d gone home before she died. It must have been the others who took her downstairs.”

  “You went home? All the way to Cley?” asked Clayton. “Having taken all those drugs?”

  “I didn’t take much,” said Mercer.

  “But what about the others? You provided the drugs, right?” said Clayton.

  “As I recall, they were already pretty far gone when I got there,” Mercer said. This wasn’t going well.

  Clayton cleared his throat. “We’ve also been hearing from your friends about the hit list of NFO players,” said Clayton.

  “Hit list?” asked Mercer. “What hit list?”

  “I’m talking about Kristina Manning, Steve Carter and Mike Proctor. Alex Parker was the first, for siding with Proctor over the players’ vote. After all, you were the one Proctor fired, weren’t you?”

  With a sidelong glance at his solicitor, Mercer said, “No comment.”

  “Mr Fiske-Mercer, this interview is an opportunity for you to give your version of events,” Julie said. “I’d remind you that it is taking place under caution.”

  Clayton tried one last question. “Did you bear a grudge against Mike Proctor after he told you to leave the orchestra?” Mercer remained silent. “Or against the other players who sided with Mr Proctor in the vote?”

  Silence.

  “Mr Fiske-Mercer? Your answer?” said Clayton.

  “No comment,” he said, with another glance in the solicitor’s direction.

  Clayton stood up. “OK. I suggest we leave it there for now.” He and Julie watched Mercer and his solicitor depart.

  “I’m dying for a bacon buttie,” Clayton said to Julie. They went along to the cafeteria, where the smell of freshly grilled bacon wafted towards them, making Clayton salivate.

  “We need more, Julie. It’s his word against Braithwaite’s.”

  “Yes. We’ll have to double check the statements of the others who were there that night — the students.” She picked up her coffee cup and cradled it in her hands.

  “The worst thing is that we had him pegged as the ringleader,” she said, “but he could well brazen it out if we’re not careful. He’s getting away with barefaced lies!”

  “Well, one of them’s lying, that’s for sure.” Clayton picked up his sandwich with one hand, surveyed the crispy end and took a large bite.

  “He’s confident, but maybe a bit too confident,” he said. “He’s an actor, remember? We’ll have to check all his alibis down to the last second and get more witness statements. I mean, are we really expected to believe that he drove back to Cley the night Lauren died? All we need is for him to make one mistake and then we’ll have him.”

  Chapter Thirty-five

  St Andrew’s Hall was buzzing. Clayton chose a seat bang in the centre, beside the central aisle. He sat down and looked around. Behind him, the ranked seats were filling up. It looked like they were going to have a full house. He was pleased for Melissa.

  The last people brushed past him to get to their seats, and he was finally able to settle. He watched the orchestra tune up, smiling to himself as he recognised some of the players, smart in black. There was Sarah Cooper with her clarinet, warming up. And Brian Steele, the trumpeter, sitting next to someone he didn’t recognise. And Jake Easton at the back. The percussionist was bent over, checking his collection of instruments. There was even a female harpist. The full works.

  He studied the programme sheet. They’d limber up with Sibelius’s Finlandia and then perform the Cavalleria Rusticana after the break. He realised it was the first time he’d been to St Andrew’s Hall since that Mendelssohn concert. He really ought to come more often.

  The choir assembled and he sought out Melissa. She was sitting in the second row of the altos and was chatting with a woman next to her, who had bright red hair. She looked good in her black, shiny dress, and he felt a surge of pride. Would she notice him?

  Maybe they should go on holiday together, after he finally managed to wrap up this investigation. But when would that be?

  He heard a burst of applause. Marie Ridgewell had taken her place with the violins. She glanced at the oboist, who obliged with an A. Then came Romano, to more applause. He seemed different this evening, like he’d lost his usual verve. Where was that annoying spring in his step? He looked somewhat withdrawn and pale. Had he lost weight?

  The poor man must be going through hell. Anyone would be traumatised by the kind of mail he’d been receiving. It reminded him that he’d forgotten to ask Mandy how she was getting on with the investigation into the poison pen letters.

  Romano turned his back to the audience and waited for silence before raising his baton. The choir stood. Clayton listened raptly to the boldness of the brass and swayed his head to the choral harmonies of the Finlandia. The hall, with its tall windows, had wonderful acoustics. Romano conducted as though in a world of his own. Clayton nodded slightly in appreciation. This guy is good.

  Clayton got up to stretch his legs in the short interval. Members of the audience were milling about in the entrance. He wondered if he might spot a familiar face among them but didn’t see anyone he knew. He presumed that many of these people were friends and relatives of the performers. There was a lengthy queue at the bar, so he returned to his seat to wait for the music to resume.

  The choir stood for the main event. Clayton tingled with anticipation. Melissa looked spectacular. She glanced into the audience and their eyes locked for a moment. She gave him an imperceptible smile. Again, that sense of overwhelming pride tightened his chest. He sat back and prepared to enjoy himself as the choir sang, “the air is sweet with orange blossoms,” followed by the ‘Easter
Hymn.’ He shut his eyes, trying and failing to isolate Melissa’s voice among the altos. Maybe the fact that he couldn’t manage it was a tribute to the choir’s harmonising. And now the ‘Intermezzo,’ which never failed to bring a tear to his eye. He relaxed and let the music wash over him.

  After the concert, he waited outside in the cold for Melissa to emerge from the hall.

  “That was great,” he said, embracing her. “Well done. Can I cadge a lift?”

  They set off towards the nearby car park.

  “Did you notice Romano?” she asked.

  “Of course. He doesn’t look good, does he? But he did a brilliant job, probably because he was conducting an Italian piece. He put his heart into it.”

  “Well, do you know what I just heard? He’s going back to Rome. Apparently, he’s been getting anonymous letters. Just what the hell is going on, Sam?”

  Clayton stopped dead. “Oh no. That’s terrible. If he goes back to Italy that means the bastards have won!”

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  He lowered his voice and put a finger to his lips. “Promise you won’t tell anyone this? Nobody? Please.”

  She nodded, looking anxious.

  “Romano came to report that he’s been getting hate mail. The letters are accusing him of being a paedophile. We’re investigating but haven’t got anywhere so far. It could be that there’s a link to the NFO murders.”

  “Oh no!” She stared at him, eyes wide. “Sam, I thought you’d arrested somebody for the murders. And now you’re telling me that the killer could still be on the loose?”

  He hugged her close. “No, I’m not saying that, love. It’s just that we’re struggling a bit to pin down evidence on a second suspect. It could be that in their warped minds, they have the idea that they can destroy the NFO. If Romano leaves, he’ll be playing right into their hands. If it is them who are sending those letters.”

  Melissa took out her car keys and opened the doors. “Let me see what I can do about this.”

  Chapter Thirty-six

  “Got anything on those poison pen letters?” Clayton asked Mandy.

  The morning after the concert she, too, was in early. Her desk was piled high with papers. “Not really. Well, not so far, anyway,” she said. “There were no fingerprints. Forensics couldn’t get any DNA from the stamps because they’d not been licked. They did say, though, that they might be able to isolate the printer details from the envelopes because the address was printed.”

  “Really?”

  She smiled. “I know. Amazing, isn’t it? I’m still waiting to hear though.”

  “And did you speak to Romano at all?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Should I? I thought you asked him to come back if anything else happened.”

  “That’s OK. Thanks. Let me go down to forensics and see if I can rattle their cage.”

  He was about to go when he turned back to face her.

  “It’s weird, isn’t it, sending an anonymous letter these days? It seems so old fashioned, like something out of Miss Marple. I mean, couldn’t the sender just go on Twitter?”

  Mandy smiled. “Romano’s not on Twitter. I checked. And if he was, it would be easy for us to trace whoever was trolling him. This has been carefully thought out.”

  * * *

  Clayton dropped in on Kevin Fuller to check progress on the Cley investigation, and make sure it was his top priority. “Thanks for saving my phone. It could have been a real disaster.”

  “No worries,” said Fuller. “Hairdryers can come in handy.”

  Clayton then made his way to the chief pathologist’s office. He found her in her lab coat, locking the door to her office.

  “Oh, Sam. What can I do for you?” she asked.

  “I need to check something with you,” he said. “It won’t take a minute.” She unlocked the door and ushered him inside.

  “We’ve got a suspect in the NFO case who’s trying to muddy the waters,” he said. “For example, he denies that he had anything to do with taking Lauren Garner’s body downstairs. So, first of all, would it be possible for someone to have carted her down to the basement on his own?”

  “I see. Well, the bruising on her upper body and shins are consistent with two people having lifted her. And anyway, she’d be too heavy for one person to carry down those stairs on their own.”

  “OK. But there’s nothing you’ve picked up from your tests that could help us identify the people who did it, am I right?”

  “I’m afraid so.” She raised her eyebrows, evidently impatient to be gone.

  “Thanks. You haven’t got anything linking Mercer to the murder scenes at Kristina Manning’s and Steve Carter’s yet, I suppose?” He should have known better than to ask.

  “I’ll be in touch when we do, Sam,” she said. “We brought back quite a lot of stuff from the cottage.”

  He risked one more question. “Also, do you happen to know how long it will take for us to get back the forensic test results from the printed envelopes addressed to Massimo Romano?”

  “The conductor? I would think in the next day or two,” she said briskly, and almost pushed him out of her office.

  He returned to the detective suite. Bullard and Julie were both on the phone. He sat at his workstation and rested his head on his good hand.

  What if Mercer was telling the truth? In that case, someone else had to have helped Braithwaite carry Lauren’s body downstairs. They’d have to go back to the students and interview them under caution.

  “Shit,” he said, under his breath. He reached out a foot and went to kick the wastepaper basket under his desk. But his foot missed, and he struck his shin hard on the corner of the table. His howl had his colleagues in stitches.

  * * *

  It was getting on for six p.m. when Julie came over to his desk.

  “I’m going to call it a day,” she said. “But if you’ve not called a taxi, I can offer you a lift home.” She’d realised he wasn’t driving.

  “That’s kind of you,” he said. “Gratefully accepted. You can brief me on the way.”

  He squeezed himself into her Clio, careful of his broken arm. Seatbelts were particularly painful.

  “Bullard’s gone back to the students,” he began. “We’ll have to interview them under caution in the light of what Mercer is claiming. He’s also arranged for Jake Easton to come in again. We need to double check Mercer’s alibi. How did you get on?”

  “I spoke to Sarah Cooper. She came in earlier this afternoon. She confirmed what Braithwaite told us about Mercer handing drugs out to all and sundry. She also knew that Kristina was getting drugs from him. Maybe he supplied the ecstasy she took on the night of the party?”

  “Good. That sounds like progress,” he said. “There’s nothing new from forensics, though. I was hoping something might have come through by now.”

  They drove towards Norwich in silence.

  “Are you sure you’re not going out of your way?” Clayton asked after a while.

  “It’s fine,” she said.

  He looked out of the window at the empty fields. It felt strange not to be in the driving seat.

  “When do you think we’ll hear back from the lab?” she asked after another lengthy pause.

  “Soon, I hope. But you know what Fifi’s like,” he said. “A tomb. But there was a struggle at the murder scenes of both Kristina Manning and Steve Carter. I’m just hoping that something might have rubbed off on Mercer. If not—”

  “We’re up shit creek.” Julie finished. She drew up outside his house. “Here we are. See you tomorrow then.”

  Should he invite her in? She must be curious to see his place. Clayton pictured the mess that awaited him: dirty dishes in the kitchen, coffee mugs and old newspapers in the living room. The unmade bed, and probably spiders’ webs that he’d never even noticed.

  “Thanks a lot, Julie. Good night,” he said.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  As they stepped up the pa
ce of the investigation, the adrenalin started pumping and Clayton was newly energised.

  Although they were still waiting for word from forensics, the pile of witness statements was mounting.

  Clayton sifted through the interviews with the four students who had been at Braithwaite’s flat on the night of Lauren Garner’s death. The two who’d been dancing had no recollection of Mercer leaving, nor did they remember seeing him the next morning. The other two had crashed out in the front room on their return in the early hours and said they hadn’t seen Mercer at all. What if he was telling the truth? This question kept coming back. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time that a police hypothesis had collapsed. In that case, it had to be one of the student lodgers that’d helped Braithwaite carry the body downstairs. But why would Braithwaite lie? His account was the only one that made sense.

  Clayton got to his feet to take another look at the timeline. Was there something else that they’d missed?

  He heard his desk phone ring. It was the analyst with the results of the tests on the poison pen letters addressed to Romano.

  “I could have emailed you these, but Mandy said you’d like to know right away,” she said.

  “Shoot.” He wrote down a series of numbers and letters making up the serial number of an Epson printer, and repeated it back to her.

  He thanked the analyst and immediately called Kevin Fuller in IT.

  “Kev, you know the printer that came from the cottage in Cley? Do you think you could get me the serial number?”

  “It’s locked up in the evidence room,” said Fuller, “but I’ll see what I can do.”

  Clayton stopped himself from telling Fuller to hurry. It would only be counterproductive. He busied himself rereading the interviews, but his heart wasn’t in it. Why wouldn’t his phone ring?

  It took an hour for Fuller to call him back. Clayton grabbed the phone before the end of the first ring.

  “OK, so it’s an Epson WorkForce Pro G4FX 004398,” the technician said.

  “Geronimo!” Clayton exclaimed. He glanced over to see whether Mandy was at her desk and caught her looking in his direction. He gave her a thumbs up and went across to instruct her to call Romano with the news. Maybe now the conductor would have second thoughts about returning to Rome. He hoped so.