A Staged Death (A Brock & Poole Mystery Book 2) Read online

  “Unless he beat himself to death with the microphone, I’d say so, yes,” Brock answered in an annoyed tone. “OK, Miss Lennon, you can go now, but please remain in the hotel for the time being.”

  She gave a little sigh, stood up and walked away.

  “Bloody hell,” Brock muttered.

  “Bit of an odd one, sir,” Poole said. “Interesting acting skills.”

  “Glad you noticed, Poole,” Brock said, stretching. “Go and fetch another one, will you?”

  Poole stood up and walked over to the table where Isabella had re-joined the others and was now sipping a cocktail.

  “I’ll go,” a young man said, jumping up before Poole could say anything. “Best to get it over with, eh?” he said cheerily.

  Poole nodded at him and walked back across the room.

  “Eli Patrick,” he said, extending a hand to Brock as he reached the table. Brock shook it with a grim expression.

  Poole sat down, wondering why the man hadn’t offered to shake his hand or introduce himself to him. Clearly he wasn’t of the required seniority.

  “So, I guess you want to know what happened when the lights went out, right?” Eli said, leaning forward and smiling.

  His voice had a plummy, Oxbridge lilt that suggested he came from money, while his fresh face and enthusiastic manner showed his youth.

  “That would be a start, Mr Patrick, yes,” Brock said slowly.

  “Well, I’m afraid nothing happened at all! Well, apart from poor Jarvis kicking the bucket, obviously.”

  “You didn’t get up from your stool?”

  “Lord no. I’d have fallen over in next to no time. I’m a terrible klutz, you know.” He threw his head back in a braying laugh.

  “And did you hear any movement from anywhere else?”

  “No, just heard Jarvis splat on the floor. Thought he was mucking about, but I guess not, eh?” He stared off into the distance, as though the realisation of what had happened had suddenly come to him.

  “Were you close to Jarvis?” Brock asked, pulling Eli from his thoughts.

  “Oh, not really,” he said, sighing. “I’ve only been on the show for one series and he’s the big star!” He emphasised this last part by placing his hands palm out and shaking them.

  “And were people jealous of his fame?”

  “Jealous?!” Eli said, laughing. “Of course they were! Everyone! That doesn’t mean anyone would want to bump him off though, we were all just riding on his coattails. Him being so big helped everyone on the show.”

  “You can go back to your seat now, Mr Patrick. Can you send over another of your colleagues, please?”

  “Course! Nice meeting you chaps. Hope you catch the bugger who did this to poor Jarvis.”

  “Well he seemed fairly happy,” Poole said when he’d left.

  “People with only a few brain cells often do,” Brock said, sighing. “I don’t like this Poole. The lights went out, no one moved, no one heard anything?”

  “Well with the noise from the audience, maybe it’s not that surprising?”

  “Well yes, but if we end up with no one seeing anything and no one hearing anything, what are we left with? There seems to be no sign of a murder weapon yet.” He sighed and leaned back in his seat.

  The rangy figure of Jonny Turnbull arrived at their table, slumping into the chair opposite them like the school bully visiting the head teacher.

  “Come on then, let's get this over with so I can get out of this sinkhole,” he said, spitting the words out with a snarl.

  “You're not going anywhere for the moment; I need you all to stay in the hotel,” Brock said, his voice level.

  “Ha!” Jonny said, shaking his head. “What is it, got some little deal with the hotel owner, have you? Is he your cousin or something? Thought you could keep us locked up here and bleed us dry? Well, the show’s paying, so you’ll have to take it up with Mike.” He leaned forward and narrowed his eyes. “But I go where I want.”

  “Not if you go to jail for the murder of Jarvis Alvarado,” Brock said.

  Jonny sat upright. “I don’t know anything about Jarvis dying,” he said quietly, his bravado shrinking visibly.

  “What happened when the lights went out?”

  “Nothing. The whole place was pitch black. I couldn’t see a thing.”

  “And did you hear anything?”

  Jonny turned, glancing over his shoulder toward the table where the others sat, partly obscured by the bar.

  “I think someone got up,” he said quietly. “A stool squeaked on the stage like someone had moved it.”

  “Anything else?” Brock asked.

  “Well, I heard Jarvis hit the deck.”

  “And was that before or after you heard someone get up?”

  Jonny looked up, his brow furrowed. “After, I think. Look, I don’t know. I wasn’t really paying attention!”

  “And afterward?”

  “Well everyone was sat down and I saw Jonny lying there with all the blood. But that’s what we thought we’d see. He had a blood capsule and was supposed to crack it so it looked real. I didn’t know he’d actually croaked until that little weird fella came on.”

  “Ronald Smith?”

  “I don’t know, that little freak who’s always trying to hang around us. A doctor or something.”

  Poole noticed the flicker of a smile play on Brock’s lips.

  “That’s all, for now, Mr Turnbull. If you could send Miss Glover over now.”

  Jonny huffed and stormed off as though he had just suffered some great injustice, no doubt for the benefit of those at the other table.

  “So, someone moved when the lights were out?” Poole said.

  “Maybe,” Brock answered. “Or Jonny Turnbull is trying to deflect us from himself. But it might explain how Miss Lennon got that blood on her shoe if it was her. We won’t know until we hear the coroner’s report.”

  He looked up as a woman with bright auburn hair and a sharp, intelligent face approached. She stood in front of them, her arms folded over her red dress.

  “Gina Glover,” she said, her eyes sparkling as they ran up and down the inspector. “According to the others you’re still saying we can’t leave?”

  “That’s right,” Brock answered. “Everyone involved in the show will have to stay here until we’re able to take statements from everybody and establish their whereabouts when the lights went out.”

  “Well I don’t see the need,” she said, shifting the weight on her shapely hips.

  “It’s pretty obvious who did it, isn’t it? So I don’t see the point in keeping us all here.”

  “And who would that be?” Brock asked.

  “That little weasley chap, Ronald or something. All of this was his idea and he hated Jarvis.”

  “Hated him? Why?”

  “The same reason everyone else did.” She shrugged. “Jarvis was an arrogant bully who thought he could treat people like crap. That little bald creature got more than his fair share. Jarvis liked to humiliate people like that publicly.” Her voiced quietened. “He got a kick out of it.”

  “Would you like to take a seat?” Poole asked, gesturing at the chair in front of her.

  “I’d rather stand,” she said flatly.

  Poole nodded, though he was finding it slightly disconcerting.

  “And you were on your stool when the lights went out?” Brock asked.

  “Of course. Where else would I be?”

  “And did you hear any movement from anyone?”

  “I don’t think so,” she said, sighing. “I mean, I heard Jarvis throw himself to the floor and then the audience were making a bit of a racket. When the lights came on I jumped up with the rest of them looking shocked and all that business, but I saw something was wrong as soon as I looked at him.” She took a deep breath as though steeling herself to say something. “His eyes were open. Then that little doctor came on and started panicking and I’m guessing you know the rest.”

  Brock nodded. “And what was your relationship with Mr Alvarado like?”

  She began to bite her bottom lip gently as she leaned on the back of the chair.

  ‘I thought we were close once—we knew each other from back when we were starting out—but I don’t think anyone really got close to Jarvis. I’m not sure anyone even really knew him at all. He ticked off almost everyone he ever met though, so I doubt you’ll be short of suspects.”

  “Except there were only the four of you on stage at the time of death,” Brock said purposefully.

  She frowned at him. “Are we done?”

  “For now. Can you send over Mr Hart please,”

  She turned and walked away.

  “Eyes down, Poole,” Brock muttered. Poole wrenched his gaze away from the rear of Gina Glover and looked back to his notebook, cheeks reddening.

  “So, which one do you fancy?” Brock said. Poole looked up at him with a look of panic. “For the murder I mean, Poole,” Brock said. “For goodness sake.” He shook his large head.

  “Sorry, sir,” Poole answered, glancing back toward the other side of the room. “I’m not sure. I mean, it must have been one of them, mustn’t it?”

  “Not necessarily,” Brock said. “Maybe someone from the stage jumped up and did it, maybe someone ran on from the wings. The whole place was pitch black.”

  “But how would anyone have been able to see to do that?”

  “Maybe they eat a lot of carrots.” Brock grinned.

  “Are we all done for the evening?” Mike Hart said, approaching their table.

  “Almost, Mr Hart,” Brock said, smiling. “Can I ask where you were when the lights went out?”

  “I was on the phone,” he said irritably.

  “I asked where you were, Mr Hart, n
ot what you were doing.”

  “I was in the corridor, backstage.”

  “And can anyone verify that?”

  “The person I was on the phone with, I guess. Steve Hatten from the station. They were checking up on the launch.”

  “I bet they're not too happy now,” Brock said, shifting his weight in his seat. He glanced at his watch. Half nine. If he was going to be working this late, he needed to be doing it with a beer.

  “That’ll do for now, Mr Hart. We’ll want to talk to you more, but not tonight.”

  “Right, well I’ll go and let the others know then.”

  “No one can leave though,” Brock said sharply. “I want everyone here tomorrow morning.”

  Mike Hart nodded miserably and turned away, heading across the room.

  “Do you want a lift home?” Poole said, closing his notebook.

  “We’re not going home yet, Poole.”

  “No?”

  “No. I think it’s time we took our colleague Ron for a drink, don’t you?”

  Poole smiled. “Sounds like a plan, sir.”

  Chapter Four

  As they settled down in The Mop and Bucket, three pints of Bexford Gold in front of them, a silence fell across the table.

  In fact, thought Poole, for someone usually so full of things to say, most of them annoying, Ronald Smith had been remarkably quiet on the walk across to the pub. They had found him back at the theatre, still hovering around the crime scene, watching the goings on with a sad air, unable to help, but unable to leave.

  “So,” Brock said. “Do you want to tell me how this all came about?”

  Ronald sighed and turned his pint glass slowly in his hand.

  “A few months ago, I heard that they were thinking of doing some big launch event for the new series. I suggested they should do it here.”

  “Why?”

  “The first episode is set in a country house in Addervale. I suggested they should make it a local event and…” He paused and looked up at them nervously before returning his gaze to his drink.

  “And what?” Brock prompted.

  “Well, I had an idea how they could really get a lot of publicity.”

  “To fake Jarvis Alvarado’s murder?” Poole said.

  “Yes. And I thought doing it here, it would be easier to set up and make sure no one knew what was really going on. In London the press would have been all over it.”

  “And you didn’t think it would be a good idea to tell us about this?” Brock said, his voice like steel.

  “I didn’t see the need!” Ronald squeaked. “It was all safe, just a big joke really!”

  “Well somehow I don’t think Jarvis Alvarado's family are going to see it like that,” Brock said.

  Ronald’s head drooped. “I don’t understand how it could have happened.”

  “Tell us what was supposed to happen,” Poole said as Brock took a huge swig of his pint.

  “Well, when Jane made the lights go out, he was supposed to just drop to the floor and break the blood capsule. Went the lights came back on we thought everything was normal, but when I got to him…”

  “You realised the blood was real?” Poole finished for him.

  Ronald nodded miserably. ‘I only had a quick look, but it was obvious he’d taken a serious blow to the head.”

  “We searched everyone on the stage. None of them had a weapon,” Brock said.

  “Then someone must have run on and done it,” Ronald said. “But I was stood in the wings waiting to go on and I think I would have noticed someone moving past me.”

  “Did you have a light on in the wings?”

  “No. We tried that in rehearsal, but when it’s that dark everywhere else, you could see even a little pen torch. We decided to just turn everything off. As long as no one moved we thought it would be all right.”

  “Who was with you in the wings?” Poole asked.

  “There was just me on my side,” Ronald said, frowning. “Mike had gone off to make a phone call and Jane was the other side, working the lights.”

  “And there was no one else there at all?”

  “No. We made sure it was a skeleton crew because we didn’t want the secret getting out. The only other person involved was Simon Keller, who was up in the lightbox, doing lights and sound.”

  “Why didn’t he turn the lights off from up there?”

  “Oh, he just controls the stage lighting. There’s a main switch on the stage, like a safety thing which turns everything off, house lights as well.”

  Brock drained the last of his drink and placed it down heavily.

  “You’re a bloody fool, Ron,” he said, fixing him with a hard stare. “But we’re going to do what we can to find out who really did this and get you off the hook.”

  Ronald nodded in a jerky little motion. “Thank you, Sam.”

  “That is, of course, unless you did it.”

  Ronald’s head jerked up, his small eyes wide. “Sam, you don’t think I could have?”

  Brock sighed and shook his head. “No. Despite you being a grade one prat, I don’t think you murdered Alvarado, but a lot of people will. Think about it—this guy apparently wound you up a lot, made fun of you?”

  Ronald nodded as though in a trance.

  “Then you come up with this idea of faking his death with you in a prime position to run on and clobber him. I can see that a prosecution would point to your medical knowledge and suggest you’d know exactly where to hit someone to put them down for good.”

  Ronald was breathing heavily now, his perfectly round dome glistening in the dim lighting of the pub.

  Despite it being only a Thursday night, the place was surprisingly busy. Ronald jerked his head around as though he was suddenly under the impression the entire pub was listening in and mentally tagging him as a murderer.

  “It was someone tall,” he blurted out as he turned back to them. “He was hit on the back of the head, but it was right at the top. Jarvis was about five foot ten, so it must have been someone pretty tall to hit him there.”

  “Or someone hit him when he was on the ground, pretending to be dead,” Poole said. Ronald frowned at him before his shoulders sank again.

  “Can you think of anyone who would want to kill him?” Brock asked.

  “The man was a nightmare,” Ronald said sulkily. “He was always trying to make other people feel small.”

  Poole resisted the urge to suggest that he wouldn’t have had far to go with Ronald Smith; it wasn’t the time.

  “He just never, ever stopped, always digging away at everyone. They only put up with him because he was the big star.”

  “Right,” Brock said, stretching. ‘I think it’s time we called it a night. Go home and get some rest, Ron. There’s a long way to go in this yet, and whether you like it or not, you’re right in the middle of it.”

  Chapter Five

  “Hi, Mum,” Poole said as he stepped through the front door of his flat. His mother was on the sofa, stretched out with some sort of face-mask on and cucumbers on her eyes.

  “Hi, love. Did you have a good day?”

  “Oh, the usual—went to a show, someone got murdered.”

  “Oh, a whodunit, was it?”

  “Something like that,” he said as he reached into the fridge and grabbed a beer.

  He had noticed that he had been reaching for a beer more frequently since his mother had decided to move in with him while she looked for a new place. Now he thought about it, he couldn’t remember her ever actually asking him as such; she had just turned up with three large suitcases and announced she was moving to Bexford.

  It was all because of his father. A month ago he had been released from prison, and his first port of call had been to track down his son. Brock had stood up to him and had told Jack Poole to keep away, and so far, he had. But Guy knew that wouldn’t be the end of it.

  His father had told him he was looking to move nearer to him, that he wanted to be part of his life.

  So, while having his mother staying with him was a strain, to put it mildly, he also enjoyed knowing she was here, and safe.

  “Any luck with looking at places today?” he said casually, trying not sound as though he was hounding her out.

  “No—Bexford is just so blooming expensive! I don’t know how anyone can afford to live here!”

  Guy thought that people could afford it because they had jobs, but restrained himself from saying so and instead turned to more practical matters.