Play Dead Page 5

  “Can you identify any of these people? They were all at the party. Take your time.” She gestured towards the pile.

  Henderson picked up the photo of Kristina with her two friends and sighed. His eyes were moist when he looked up. “That’s Sarah and Marie. They’re both in the orchestra and they worked with Kris at the hospital. Lovely women.”

  Clayton nodded. Then he picked up the photographs and fished out those of Lauren Garner and Chris Mercer. “What about these two? Recognise either of them?”

  Henderson picked up the photo of Lauren Garner. “Never seen her before,” he said. “Nor him. Sorry.” He paused. “May I? I met a Brian. Let’s see . . .” He shuffled through the photos and stopped at one showing a group of young men standing in a semicircle, their eyes red in the flash.

  “That’s him,” he said, pointing at the only bald man in the group. “He’s a vet, I think he said. He lives somewhere out near the airport.”

  Clayton ran a finger down the list of players and underlined the name Brian Steele. “He’s a trumpeter, right?”

  “I’m afraid I didn’t ask him which instrument he played. I’m not a musical person. We were just talking generalities, like you do,” Henderson said.

  “And these other guys? Any idea?”

  Henderson studied the photos for a while, then sat back. “Sorry. I might have been introduced but I can’t remember. Like I say, I didn’t stick around too long that night.”

  “OK. One more thing.” Clayton took out the photo of the orchestra that he’d taken at the concert. “I want you to circle the faces you recognise from the party.” He tossed a pen across the table.

  It took Henderson a few minutes to identify the ones he knew. But when he pushed the photo back, he’d circled only five or six of them.

  “Mr Henderson, when you arrived at the party, how were things between you and Kristina?” Julie asked.

  The question seemed to puzzle Henderson. “Fine. Why?” he replied warily. “I actually went round early in case she needed any help.”

  “And what was the mood at the party? Was anyone behaving aggressively?” Julie asked.

  “Aggressively? Where are you going with this?”

  “We’re trying to establish whether the killer was someone from the party who returned the next morning,” she replied.

  “It was perfectly normal. People were shouting but that was because of the loud music, like you do at parties.”

  “And Kristina didn’t mention anything to you? Something she was unhappy about?” Julie said.

  “Absolutely not. No,” he said.

  Clayton gathered up the photos from the table and stood up, signalling that the interview was over.

  So, who was this mystery caller who showed up on Sunday morning?

  The two detectives escorted Henderson and the solicitor to reception.

  “Coffee?” Julie asked, tapping her watch. Clayton wondered whether she was thinking about Neil like he was.

  “Sure,” he said, wondering if the canteen would still be serving bacon sandwiches. “The Café Royal awaits.”

  They found a quiet corner by a yellowing potted plant. Julie watched, apparently fascinated, as Clayton examined his sandwich and began with the crispy bits at the edge.

  “Can we recap?” she asked. “You’re making me hungry.”

  He grinned. “Well, at least Henderson gave us something to go on. Do you think he was telling the truth?”

  “Yes, I do. Do you?”

  “Aye. He seems genuine. But we’ll have to wait to see if his alibi stands up,” he said.

  “And we don’t know for sure that Lauren Garner and Chris Mercer weren’t at the party. They may have gone along later,” Julie said with a sigh. “How was the concert, by the way?”

  Clayton shrugged. “I don’t know why I went really.”

  “Well, you’re the musical buffa,” she said, mimicking Romano’s accent.

  He smiled. “I was looking for connections — body language, you know — trying to figure out who might be friends with each other. That sort of thing. But the Mendelssohn was good. So was Romano, actually, although a bit overdramatic for my taste.”

  She put down her spoon. “Ah, that’s the Italians for you. I can imagine he must be very different from Proctor.”

  “It’s quite funny, actually. An Italian conducting the Scottish symphony — in Norwich!”

  Julie didn’t seem to think it funny at all. “So, I’m still going to see the two women this afternoon, right?” she said. “I’ve arranged to meet them at the hospital. They’re carrying on doing the music therapy without Kristina.”

  “Yes, of course. Fine.” Clayton was glad Julie had taken that on. He didn’t fancy bumping into Claire there. “We need to find out who the ringleaders are, the ones who forced Proctor out. By the way, what’s going on with him?”

  “He’s being discharged this afternoon,” she said. “Why? Do you want me to interview him too?”

  “It’s OK. I’ll go myself. It’s only round the corner from my place. I might take Bullard, and then we can go to see Lauren Garner,” he said.

  “What about the other one — Mercer?”

  “We’ll have to find out where he lives and set up a meeting with him too, yes. I’ll get someone to see the principal cello,” Clayton said.

  He finished his sandwich. Julie stared into her coffee, apparently deep in thought.

  “Do you miss Neil?” he asked, chewing on the last bit of his sandwich. He hadn’t intended to come out with the question, and Julie seemed surprised. He didn’t usually open up with her.

  “Yes. Of course. Why?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. The coffee routine, you know, and other stuff. His black humour. I think about him every day.”

  “So do I,” she said. There was another pause.

  “Sometimes I feel responsible,” Clayton said. “You know, for what happened.”

  Julie stretched out a hand towards him. He noticed she was no longer wearing a band on her ring finger. She intercepted his glance and covered that hand with the other.

  “Don’t beat yourself up, guv,” she said. “There was nothing anyone could have done. Really.”

  “And how are you doing, Julie?” He’d seen the weals on the back of her hand.

  “The OCD?” She looked embarrassed. “Much better, thanks. I’ve got some cream for this.” She nodded at her hand. “My therapist told me the best thing is not to get stressed. That’s easy in our job, right?”

  Clayton knew that losing her daughter to cot death, and then her husband’s desertion while they were both in the early stages of grief, had been the original cause of her complaint. But clearly it had returned amid the pressures of their job and childcare.

  He smiled, picked up his cup and cradled it with both hands. He kicked back into work mode.

  “Reet, well, see you later,” he said, getting to his feet. “We could do with a break on this case.”

  Chapter Ten

  Marian Proctor led Clayton and Bullard inside. Proctor was seated by the French windows, a tartan rug over his knees. His jowly face was pale.

  “Forgive me for not getting up,” he said.

  Clayton introduced Bullard. “How are you doing, sir?” the DC asked.

  “Never better,” was Proctor’s dry reply.

  Marian Proctor went into the kitchen and returned with a plate of biscuits and a pot of tea on a tray. She must have been expecting them. Clayton found himself wondering how old she was. Proctor was now in his seventies, and she must be quite a bit younger, though her hair was too dark for her complexion. But what did he know about women’s wiles?

  The two detectives sat facing the musician with their notebooks open on their laps.

  “We won’t keep you long, Mr Proctor, but we need to know how much you remember about the attack,” said Clayton.

  “I don’t know who did it, if that’s what you mean,” Proctor said. “There were two of them. I’ve been wondering w
hether they weren’t waiting outside the gate because the buzzer went not long after Marian left to do the shopping. I presumed that she’d forgotten something and didn’t think any more about it.”

  He paused and passed a hand over his head, smoothing the comb-over.

  “So you let them in,” said Bullard.

  “I opened the door, yes. As I say, I thought it must be Marian coming back. But before I could say anything, they pushed their way inside and overpowered me. They forced me to swallow those tablets, which I now know were tramadol.”

  “Did they say anything?”

  He shook his head. “They were wearing hoods and balaclavas over their faces. That was frightening. At first I thought they were burglars, they had those surgical gloves on. But then they got out the pills, and I had no idea what was going on. They obviously knew what they were doing.”

  “And where were you when they administered the pills, Mr Proctor?” asked Bullard.

  “I was on the couch,” said Proctor. “They pushed me onto it. The whole thing happened very quickly.”

  “So not on the piano stool, correct?” asked Clayton.

  “Not so far as I can remember. But to be honest, I quickly began to feel extremely tired. I suppose that I must have passed out at some point.”

  “So, you don’t know how long they remained in the house?” asked Bullard.

  “No idea.”

  “Right, so what can you tell us about the pair? What sort of build were they?” said Clayton.

  “Let’s see . . .” said Proctor.

  His wife leaned forward to pat his hand. “Are you alright, dear?” she asked.

  They waited. Then he said, “I’m five foot ten, and I’d say they were about my height. Maybe one of them was slightly taller, but honestly, I really wasn’t taking anything in. And I couldn’t see their faces. They were slim, anyway. And they both wore jeans — I can tell you that.”

  “And were they both males?” Clayton asked.

  “I supposed they were, but,” Proctor frowned, “a slim woman, with her face covered up . . . it’s possible. They all wear the same things these days, don’t they?”

  Clayton flipped his notebook shut and got up to thank Proctor.

  “Just to finish, Mr Proctor, you’re not on painkillers yourself, then? Antidepressants? Anything like that?”

  “Well, in fact my doctor did put me on an antidepressant after this business with the orchestra. Do you remember the name, dear?”

  “Seroxat, I think. Let me check,” she said. She returned a few moments later with a white pack of tablets. “Here we are. Seroxat.”

  She handed the pack to Clayton, who took a photo of it with his phone.

  “Should we be worried, Inspector?” she asked.

  “I’ll check this at the lab,” said Clayton. “Were any of your colleagues from the orchestra aware that you were taking these?”

  “I very much doubt it,” he said. “As you can imagine, I’ve not seen any of them since I left.”

  “None of them? Not even Kristina?”

  “No. I made a clean break.” Proctor glanced at his wife, then back to Clayton, his eyebrows twitching. “I’m not sure what you’re driving at, Detective Inspector,” he said, “but you may know that a lot of musicians take pills for stage fright. And also for physical injury. I was certainly aware that they were being handed round in the orchestra, but I’m afraid I didn’t say anything. So I suppose it’s possible some of them might have surmised that I was on something like that. But not necessarily.”

  Proctor leaned back in the chair, his eyelids flickering.

  “My husband is a little tired, as you can see,” said Marian Proctor.

  Clayton shot a glance at Bullard. They hadn’t had a chance to prompt him about Lauren Garner and Chris Mercer.

  “Would you mind if I came back to jog your memory about Lauren Garner and Chris Mercer, the two players that you dismissed?” asked Clayton.

  “Were those their names? Sorry, I’m afraid I really can’t remember,” said Proctor. “Be my guest.”

  Gravel crunching under their feet, the two detectives returned to the car. As they reached it, they heard the click of the front door behind them.

  “So what do you think then, guv?” Bullard asked. “The entire orchestra all popping uppers and downers. Blimey!”

  “Looks like they moved him to the piano and then jammed his head under the lid, don’t you think?” Clayton said.

  “It certainly looks that way. And so that means . . .”

  Clayton finished his sentence as he opened the car doors. “That means, Dave, that these guys wanted to stage Proctor’s death, just like they did with Kristina Manning. This could have been an attempted murder.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Bullard rapped on the front door of a small red-brick house off Bethel Street and stepped back while Clayton peered through the sash window.

  “Knock again,” said Clayton. “She may be out at this time of the afternoon.”

  The door creaked and a young man with a mop of dark hair appeared in the doorway. Clayton knew he’d seen him somewhere before.

  “Can we come in?” Clayton held up his warrant card. “DI Clayton from Anglian Constabulary, and this is DC Bullard. We’re investigating the murder of Kristina Manning and we’d like to speak to Lauren Garner.”

  The man took a step back. His expression was hard to read.

  “Terrible about Kristina,” he said. Clayton immediately remembered where he’d seen him. He was a member of the NFO.

  “Lauren’s not here. She’s gone,” he said. He pronounced it in a posh way — Laurenne.

  “Gone where?” Clayton asked.

  “Dunno. She never said.”

  “May we?” Without waiting for an answer, Clayton and Bullard made their way into a low-ceilinged room. Clayton’s first thought was that the place could do with a good airing. The damp armpit smell reminded him of the gym. It was why he’d always preferred outdoor running. Dark beams ran across the ceiling, making the room feel oppressive, as though the walls were moving inwards. A sofa covered with a heap of dirty laundry was pushed up against the wall. A mattress stood propped up against a small bookcase, empty of books. Cigarette ends filled an ashtray on the floor.

  “May we?” Clayton asked again. He went into the back room and switched on the light. The odour of stale cigarette smoke hung in the air. He saw a double bass case and a music stand in a corner. Sheet music was piled on the floor.

  Two yellowing mattresses on top of each other lay under a sash window, which had green stains running along the edges. Condensation dripped from the upper panes. A half-empty pint of milk and an ashtray stood on a small table with two folding chairs tucked underneath. He peered into the back and made out a small kitchen. He imagined the dirty dishes that were surely piled in the sink and remembered how Claire had complained about his own bachelor habits not that long ago.

  “You must be making a fortune from Airbnb,” Clayton said, stepping over a T-shirt on the floor.

  “It’s student lodgers, actually,” said the young man.

  Clayton turned to face him. “Didn’t you play at the Mendelssohn concert the other night?” he asked.

  “No prizes for guessing which instrument,” the man said guardedly.

  “So what made you start playing the double bass?” asked Clayton. He was always curious as to why people chose their particular instrument. “It’s a heavy thing to carry round.”

  The man grinned. “To pull women, of course.”

  “Really?”

  “No, not really. The truth is that it was the only instrument they had left when I was at school. All the best ones had gone. But I was into jazz, so . . .”

  Bullard, notebook in his hand, had joined them in the back room. “So what’s your name then?”

  “Mark. Mark Braithwaite.”

  “Date of birth?”

  “Fifth of June 1995.”

  “And Lauren was a clarinettist
with your orchestra, right?” Clayton asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “Until Proctor got rid of her,” said Clayton. “But I hear that the orchestra got their own back.”

  “Oh, you heard about that? Yes, we did,” said Braithwaite. “Because he didn’t stop with Lauren. He also fired Chris Mercer, one of the flutes.”

  “Yes. So the woodwind was decimated.”

  “Exactly. They — we — decided we wouldn’t put up with it,” he said. He folded his arms, frowning.

  “Who’s we?” said Clayton.

  “The orchestra,” Braithwaite replied.

  “And was Mercer the ringleader then?” asked Clayton.

  “Who? Chris? You’d better ask him.”

  “But what was the reason for him and Lauren being fired?” Clayton asked.

  “Proctor never said. He said he didn’t have to give a reason.”

  “Oh?” Clayton wondered whether he was telling the truth. “And how did Lauren react?”

  “She was upset, of course,” said Braithwaite. “Anyone would be. Proctor humiliated her.”

  “Are you still in touch with Lauren?” Bullard asked.

  Braithwaite shook his head. He had a faraway look. “Not since she left a few weeks ago, no.”

  “She was your housemate? Girlfriend?” Clayton asked.

  “Girlfriend, yeah.”

  “So you broke up?”

  Braithwaite shifted his feet. “Not exactly. But she was the one who left.”

  “Do you have any pictures of her?” Clayton asked.

  Braithwaite took his phone from his back pocket and swiped through some photographs.

  “This is her,” he said, holding out the phone to Clayton. He recognised the delicate features of the woman he’d seen on the NFO website.

  Except that one thing was different. Her blonde hair was piled loosely on top of her head and streaked with pink. She had pale blue glitter smudged on her alabaster cheeks. Clayton looked at Braithwaite, who was smiling.

  “She likes unicorns,” Braithwaite said, with a shrug.

  “Unicorns?” Was this supposed to be the explanation for her appearance? “Right,” said Clayton. “And how old is she?”

  “Twenty-two.”