Written To Death E-Book

Abrams Zach

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Did you believe writing was a safe pastime?

It was not the first time bestselling author Sheila Armstrong had died on stage, but it would most certainly be the last.

DCI Alex Warren and his girlfriend, D.I. Sandra McKinnon, return from a short holiday, but hardly manage to step from the plane before they're called to investigate the suspicious death.

Sheila, a member of Eastfarm Writers, has been stabbed to death on stage during a rehearsal of a play she'd written. Her death mimics the plot.

Within hours, Sandra is roped into investigating a separate series of crimes, which appears to be mob-related. As the enquiries run parallel, they struggle to make progress while supporting each other.

But can there be a connection?

This is a standalone mystery, and can be enjoyed even if you haven't read other books in the series.

Leseprobe

Written To Death

Alex Warren Murder Mysteries Book III

Zach Abrams

Copyright (C) 2016 Zach Abrams

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Cover art by http://www.thecovercollection.com/

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

My thanks and undying love go to my family

Special thanks go to authors Elly Grant, Brenda Perlin and Carol White for their help and support.

Chapter 1

When Sandra and Alex disembarked from the Boeing 737, they had to brave the damp, cold April wind. They hurried across the tarmac before escaping through the doorway then climbed the staircase into the terminal. The welcoming five-tone Nokia jingle from Alex's phone heralded their arrival.

Sandra playfully punched Alex's shoulder, chiding him, “I thought you enjoyed the holiday. We've been back in Glasgow for twenty seconds and already you've switched your phone on. Can you never relax?”

“Although it was only a short break, I can honestly say that was the best holiday I've ever had. Sorry, switching the phone on was a reflex reaction. In any event, I need it to contact the mini-cab we booked to say we've landed. Don't you remember? It was much better value than the airport taxis. So, I'm totally innocent. You're off work until Wednesday. Although, I'm back tomorrow, we still have the rest of the day to do what we like.”

Alex sent the text, but as they took their place in line for passport control, his phone rang. He pressed receive, expecting it to be a call confirming his booking before noticing the caller was Sanjay.

“Hello, Boss. How was the holiday?”

“I'm still on it. I've only just landed in Glasgow. Why are you calling?”

“Sorry, Boss. I didn't realise. Do you want me to call back later?”

“You've started. I'm guessing it's something important, out with it.”

“It's a mysterious death. I wouldn't have bothered you normally, but this one's happened in your backyard.”

The queue shuffled forward and Alex and Sandra were now at the front.

“You have to switch that off before you step forward. Can't you read?” the immigration officer announced to Alex. He pointed to a large sign stating the use of mobiles was prohibited while passing through the check point.

In response, Alex opened his wallet, showing his warrant card displaying DCI Alex Warren, and replied, “Police business.”

“I don't give a stuff,” the border said. “You have no jurisdiction here.”

“I'll get back to you in a minute, Sanjay. I have a man with a small problem here, or maybe it should be a small man with a problem.” Alex ended the call and placed his phone in his pocket. His towering frame dwarfed the man as he handed his passport to the official. The border guard took his time scanning, then carefully examining it before returning it to Alex with a curt nod and a whispered, “Thank you, Sir. Have a nice day.”

Stepping past the desk, Alex was approached by one of the airport police who'd recognised him. “I'm sorry about that, Sir. He was within his rights so I couldn't do anything. He's not really a bad lad, but he had his balls chewed the other day by one of his supervisors for being too lax, so perhaps he's overreacting a bit.”

“No sweat, it'll take more than the likes of him to put me off my stride. Besides, I'm chilled out. I've had nearly a week away from the job.”

Sandra raised her eyebrows, clearly amused. Although she realised Alex's statement had been meant in earnest, she observed the falseness of his words. As she steered him forward, he fumbled in his pocket to recover his mobile and reconnect to Sanjay.

“I'm back, now. You were saying something about it being in my backyard and precisely what did you mean by 'mysterious'?”

“Well, we can't completely rule out an accident but personally I think it most unlikely. The victim was stabbed through the heart,” Sanjay stated. “As for the location, it took place on the stage of the main hall at Eastfarm School.”

“Oh my God, that's my kids' school. Was it one of the pupils? What age was the victim? How did it happen?” There was a distinct note of panic in Alex's voice, any residual trace of being chilled out after his holiday totally disappeared.

Sandra stopped walking and instead directed Alex towards a quiet corner of the baggage reclaim area, a deep frown now furrowing her brow.

“Relax, Boss, it had nothing to do with the kids or the school for that matter, other than the venue,” Sanjay reassured. “The stage had been loaned out to a local community group to rehearse a play.”

Alex raised his hand to indicate to Sandra not to worry. “Okay, who was the victim? Was he from a local am-dram group?”

“Not quite, Sir. To start with, he's a she and it wasn't an acting group, it was the local writing group. It's quite bizarre really.”

“I'm a bit confused here, Sanjay. I want you to go back to the beginning and tell me what's happened.”

“Yes, sorry, Boss. It is a bit mixed up and it's getting more so the deeper we dig. We were called to the school earlier this afternoon. A woman is dead as a result of being stabbed through the heart. Her name is Sheila Armstrong and she's a member of the Eastfarm Writers' Association. They meet on a regular basis at the Community Centre. Their members are apparently working towards a national competition to produce a one act play. They need to perform it for the competition, so they've been allowed to use the school's stage facilities to rehearse.”

“Okay, now it's starting to make a bit more sense,” Alex said.

“Here's the really bizarre bit,” Sanjay added. “The play they were rehearsing was written by Sheila herself. It was a spoof about a stage production where the female lead is a writer and she's stabbed to death, on stage.”

“You're telling me she designed her own murder?” Alex asked.

“Well, yes, in a manner of speaking,” Sanjay replied.

“Listen, you can give me the details later. I take it you'll be there for a while. I'll be out of the airport in a few minutes. Sandra's at the baggage belt looking for our cases as we speak, so I need to go and give her a hand. I should be home within the hour which means I can be with you within two. Who else is there helping you?”

“Phil, Steve and Mary are already here and Donny's on his way. We have a few uniforms as well, keeping order. Scene of crime are already on the job and Duffie's due at any minute. Mind you, I can't see them telling us too much more. We already know how and when she died and we've got the knife. We also have about a dozen eye witnesses, but I suppose we still have to go through the motions.”

“Don't be so complacent, there's an awful lot more the technicians can tell us than we can hope to learn from witnesses. What's more, the scientific evidence doesn't have a vested interest. It isn't biased the way people are.”

“Sorry, Boss, you're right of course.”

“Get everything set up and I'll be with you as soon as I can.”

As Alex disconnected the call, he spotted an incoming text confirming his taxi booking. It identified the registration number of a grey Skoda Octavia which would be waiting for him at the pick-up point. He rushed over to help Sandra manoeuvre their cases onto a trolley.

“I guess the holiday's over earlier than planned. What's it all about?” Sandra asked.

Alex repeated what he'd learned from Sanjay.

“Do you want me to take the luggage home, then you can take a separate taxi and head straight over to the school?” Sandra offered.

“No, it's okay. Our plan had been to go back to my flat in Shawlands and it's practically on the way. We can drop you there with the bags and I'll go on to Eastfarm. As soon as I've made sure everything is set up properly, I'll be straight home. It shouldn't take me too long.”

“Yeah right! With a bit of luck, you might be back before midnight,” Sandra noted.

“No, but …” Alex paused. He grinned before continuing, “I guess you know me better than I know myself.”

“Remember, I'm used to working on investigations with you. I've only been out of your team for three months. Even that was just because it made sense for us not to work together when it become public knowledge we were a couple. I've seen what you're like once you've started. You don't know how to stop.”

Alex gave a leering expression and pulled Sandra into an embrace. “Better get started then. I need to go to work soon,” he whispered.

Laughing as she spoke, Sandra pushed him away. “Idiot, you know what I was talking about. But come to think about it, couldn't Sanjay look after things for a bit longer?”

He pecked her on the cheek and clasped Sandra's hand in his. “Okay, you've called my bluff. I did say you knew me too well.” Using his other hand, Alex pushed the trolley through the Customs post and out of the terminal.

The mini-cab was one of seven waiting at the designated pick-up point in Car Park 2. After identifying themselves by calling, “Taxi for Warren,” they quickly loaded their luggage and jumped in.

“The booking's for Shawlands isn't it? Been somewhere nice?” the driver enquired, striking up a conversation. “You certainly didn't turn that colour in the U.K. It's been pissing down for the last week.”

“Good detective work,” Alex joked. “We've just spent a few days in the South of France, although we flew back from Barcelona. The weather was terrific, bright and sunny every day with temperatures in the high twenties and low thirties.”

“The temperature's not been too different here, although that would be Fahrenheit not Centigrade. So you don't need to rub it in,” the driver continued. “I've another month to go before I have a chance to get away. Even that's only for a lads' weekend in Blackpool. There's not much chance of seeing any daylight, never mind sunshine.”

“Well, don't ask me for sympathy. Your hardship will be self-imposed. Listen, there's a change of plan. I still want you to take us to my address in Shawlands, but just to drop off my partner and the cases. Then I'd like you to take me to Eastfarm School. Will that be okay?”

Although they'd been a couple for several months, Sandra still felt a thrill hearing Alex describe them as partners and realising it was no longer in the business sense. Alex and Sandra had worked together for several years. She'd been a Detective Sergeant in his team, sharing a close friendship and risqué banter before their relationship was consummated. Since then they'd been practically inseparable, other than during work hours, with Sandra moving to a different department and collecting her inspector's badge in the process.

“Yeah, no sweat. But why the change? You're just back from holiday, you said. You must be awfully anxious to get back to work. What's it all about?”

Alex didn't have an answer. So far, he had only a scant idea about the incident he'd been called to attend. Irrespective, he had no intention of imparting any information about an ongoing investigation. Nevertheless, he felt compelled to give a justification for the late alteration to his booking.

“No rest for the wicked.” He winked at Sandra and added, “And I've been very wicked.”

“What is it you do?” the driver persisted, not taking the hint.

“Whatever I'm called to, I'm a public servant,” Alex answered, with sufficient vagueness.

“Oh, right,” the driver answered, implying an understanding which he clearly didn't have. “I know the feeling, Mate. In this job, you have to be at everybody's beck and call.”

Arriving outside Alex's building, he quickly jumped out and lugged their main bag up to the flat. Sandra followed carrying a smaller one plus their hand luggage while the cab waited, its taximeter running.

Alex lifted his leather jacket from a peg, pecked Sandra on the cheek and added, “I'll try not to be too long. You will stay? That's what we'd planned.”

“It's not really what we planned,” Sandra replied. “But if I'm going to be sitting alone, I'm as well here as in my own flat. I've had enough travelling for one day. So yes, I'll be here. I think I'll pop across to Morrisons to pick up cold meats and salads then we can snack. I can chill a bottle of Rose so it's ready for when you get back.” She pulled him into a longer and more lingering embrace.

“Was that to dissuade me from going or to encourage me to come back quickly?” he enquired. Then without waiting for a reply, Alex gave a final squeeze to her shapely rump, before racing down to the waiting vehicle.

Less than ten minutes later, the cab slowed in front of the school's main entrance. Seeing several police vehicles parked in the vicinity and a throng of people crowding outside the entrance, the driver asked, “Hey, looks like something big has happened here. I don't think you'll be allowed in. Do you want me to take you back, or else I can wait to see how you get on?”

“No, I'll be absolutely fine,” Alex peeled off a couple of banknotes, settled the bill and exited the vehicle, almost before it had drawn to a halt.

Chapter 2

Spotting Alex's approach, a uniformed constable rushed to hold the door open. Out the corner of his eye, Alex saw the cab driver's open-mouthed expression as he pulled away.

“Where's the action?” Alex enquired loudly, struggling to be heard over the barrage of questions from the mob gathered outside.

“The body was found on the stage in the assembly hall. Sergeant Guptar was there coordinating everything, the last I heard. I've been left here to try to keep order and stop anyone unauthorised from getting in.”

“Alex, I'm glad you're here. Can you tell me what's going on? Since your people arrived, we've been kept back and not told anything.” Alex glanced around to see his friend, Brian Phelps, deputy headmaster of the school. Colleagues at university, they'd practically lost touch afterwards, but had re-established contact in recent months. This followed a series of incidents with a delinquent pupil who'd made spurious accusations against one of his teachers. Alex didn't have any formal involvement with that investigation, but he'd been drawn into making unofficial enquiries as his son had been in the same class. Alex and Brian now met infrequently for a drink, taking the opportunity to catch up on old times.

They shook hands in greeting.

“There's nothing much I can tell you. I've only just arrived back from holiday. I was in France this morning and Barcelona this afternoon. In fact, my plane landed little more than an hour ago. What have you learned so far?”

“I suppose that explains the tan. I've been told very little. I was taking a class when everything kicked off. I heard someone was stabbed in the main hall and none of the pupils or teachers or any of the school staff was involved. The police and the ambulance service were called. All the kids were sent home early to keep them away from the incident and we've been trying to put the word out to cancel the evening classes too. Some parents and the press are camped outside the door, but what can we tell them?”

“Don't worry, that's not your problem. No doubt, we'll be making a public statement soon. Can you tell me anything about the victim?”

“Haven't a clue. I know the local writers' club was using the hall, but that's about all.”

“I've not had an update yet, but I can confirm what you've told me is correct. There's been a stabbing, the incident involves the writers and the victim is dead. But keep it to yourself for the time being; our people will make the announcements.”

“Which one was it? I've met a number of their group. They get quite involved with the school, judging our essay competitions and providing prizes. It's quite prestigious for them to be involved with the school as a couple of them are published authors. In return, they get the free use of our facilities. It's a 'win - win' scenario, or it was until now.”

“I'm sorry, Brian, but there's nothing more I can tell you at the moment. We'll get a chance to talk later. I'd better get on.”

Alex had been at the school many times, so didn't need to be shown the way. He raced along the corridor throwing open fire doors as he went and leaving them to ease shut. Arriving at the main hall, he was far more cautious entering, to ensure nothing would be disrupted. He needn't have worried as the large room itself was almost empty, save for an ambulance crew standing in the corner. All the action was taking place onstage and the unfolding scene was macabre. Alex stepped forward and could make out the heavily bloodstained body of a smartly dressed middle-aged woman lying prostrate on the floor. As far as he could judge, she appeared to be of average height and build, with pale skin and neatly coiffed hair framing a round attractive face. He recognised Doctor Duffie in attendance, examining the corpse. Sergeant Sanjay Guptar was standing behind, notebook in hand, fastidiously recording every detail which came to mind. Sharing the stage were four, white-suited, 'scene of crime' specialists each carefully examining, measuring, sampling and photographing anything which sat still long enough for them to record.

“What have you got for me?” Alex's voice resounded through the large empty hall and all but one head turned.

Sanjay bounded from the stage while the others returned to their duties.

“Nothing new, Boss. Just going through the formalities.”

“Where's everyone else?” Alex asked.

“I sent the kids and most of the teachers home. Anyone who'd been on or around the stage at the time and anyone else thought to be even remotely connected are still here. We've taken over some of the classrooms to get them out from under our feet. Also, many of them were rather upset. It's hardly surprising, really. I thought it best to keep them out of sight of the body.”

“Good, where are they?”

“First, we moved them to the music room next door. We have a couple of uniforms sitting in with them and we're taking them out one at a time for interview. Donny and Mary are in one room and Phil and Steve in another.”

“Any feedback?”

“Nothing much yet, but it's early days. The man holding the knife when she was stabbed is suffering from shock and had to be sedated, so I doubt we'll make much progress there. His name's Bert Singer. He's aged about seventy and looks pretty frail. We're lucky he's not had a coronary. One body's enough to cope with.”

“He can't be too frail,” Alex mused, “if he's been able to carry out a lethal stabbing. What can you tell me about the knife?”

“It's been thoroughly examined, bagged and tagged. There's nothing particularly unusual about its appearance. It has a solid steel, double-edged blade, about five inches in length. The hilt's made of heavy plastic and is another six inches long. However, there is something special about it. It's been designed especially for theatre and is one of a pair. The second one looks identical, but the blade retracts on contact. If you stab it against anything, it does no harm. They're used in performances like magic acts or stage murders as substitutes for each other. The real knife is shown first to prove how dangerous it is. Then the knives are switched and the dummy one is used for the act. It appears to cut into someone, but no harm is done.”

“Except it didn't work this time. What went wrong? Did the blade stick or did something go wrong when they did the swap?”

“Neither. The switch happened as planned, but there was a third knife, identical to the first and someone swapped it for the dummy one.”

“Give me that again.”

“Okay,” Sanjay replied. “There's meant to be two knives, a real one and a dummy. The actors watch the real one being demonstrated and see it's solid so, by default, the other must be the dummy. Then they can feel confident using it when they're exchanged. As a further security, the dummy has a little notch in the handle so the actor can tell the difference. It should be idiot proof, except in this case the dummy was replaced by a second real knife which also had the notch in the handle.”

Alex exhaled slowly in a quiet whistle. “Could it still be an accident? Could the supplier have sent the wrong thing?”

“Not a chance. The two knives were tested before they went onstage. They were even larking about with it, from what I've been told. Besides, we've found the dummy. It had been dropped in a litter bin in the side room offstage, the one they used for storing their costumes and props.”

“It's definitely premeditated then,” Alex surmised.

“It sure looks that way, Boss.”

“Okay, give me a full rundown. How many of the group have we got here? And what can you tell me about them?”

“Right, I've already told you about Bert. We have another twelve of the actors, or writers actually. First, there's the victim's husband, Graeme Armstrong. He's not one of the writers, but he helps with the sound and lighting. Apparently, he's in a drama group and knows about all things technical. He's an engineer in his real life.”

“Now that is interesting,” Alex's attention fully focused. “Family are always the first suspects needing to be eliminated, and if he was at the scene and he has technical skills, then we need to closely examine his story.”

“Yes, Boss, we have it covered. Phil and Steve are talking to him as we speak.”

“Good, we can follow up later if necessary. What are Donny and Mary doing?”

“You mean 'The Osmonds' or our very own pairing?” Sanjay jested.

“That was Donny and Marie, not Donny and Mary. Anyway, I thought you're the one who slags off Phil for his schoolboy humour and bad jokes. Now here you are trying to compete. I'm tired, I can't take much more. Just fill me in,” Alex continued, labouring over his words to add emphasis.

“Sorry, Boss. I sent them to interview Patricia Bannister. She's the group's secretary. She was standing next to Sheila when the stabbing took place.”

“Who does that leave?”

“The next in line are Scott Burton, Lionel and Aaron Goldstein, Fiona Wark and Debbie Quinn. Here's a list of all the Club's members noting which ones were here at the time.”

As they were talking, they continued walking in the direction of the music room. Their progress was halted by the sound of a door slamming followed by a peal of laughter. Then they caught sight of Phil and Steve moving in their direction.

“You would hardly credit it,” Phil's voice boomed out then stopped after spotting Alex and Sanjay.

“Keep your voice down,” Alex barked. “It's hardly appropriate under the circumstances. Now what do you find so funny?”

Phil looked down at his feet, embarrassed, realising his insensitivity.

“Well, out with it,” Alex pursued.

“We interviewed Graeme Armstrong, the husband of the victim. He told us about the play they were performing. Apparently, it was written by his wife and the story's about a group of actors performing a play when an accident takes place and one of them gets stabbed.”

“Yes, Phil, I was aware of that already and the parallels are clear to what's actually happened. But I still don't know what you were laughing at,” Alex confronted.

“No, it's something else I found funny. Armstrong said to us that although it was his wife's play, he'd come up with the idea for the title and his wife agreed. He called it, Abridged Too Far,” Phil replied.

“Clever, yes, but not funny,” Alex stated. “Hardly a justification to laugh out loud.”

“Okay, Sir, I suppose not. It appealed to me, though,” Phil answered.

“I was quite taken with it too, Boss,” Steve added, supportively.

“Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to put you two together,” Sanjay sighed. “More importantly, what have you found out that's relevant to the enquiry?”

“Yes, of course, sorry. To start with, he was unusually calm. It was quite bizarre. His wife has been murdered, stabbed through the heart. Now here he is, all matter of fact, talking to us as if he was describing a television programme,” Phil replied.

“It really was quite surreal,” Steve added. “He gave us a graphic description of what happened and showed no emotion whatsoever.”

“He could be in shock,” Alex suggested. “Perhaps it hasn't sunk in yet, what's really happened, and he's working on autopilot. Has he been seen by a doctor?”

“The medical crew offered to examine him, but he'd have none of it,” Steve said.

“Well, what did you get from him?” Alex asked.

“He seemed to be completely open. He answered everything we asked. His wife wrote the play as entries for a national competition. A number of the Association's members submitted an entry, but Sheila's was the one picked by the writing group to represent them.”

“Interesting,” Alex replied. “Might any of the others have been aggrieved not to have been picked?”

“I asked the same question,” Phil said. “He thought it was unlikely. He said all the submissions were examined by a sub-committee then read out at one of their meetings and Sheila's won overwhelmingly. There was no serious competition.”

“It doesn't mean someone wasn't upset by the decision,” Sanjay posed.

“True,” Phil replied, “but there wasn't any suggestion of anyone taking umbrage.”

“Early days, wait 'til we've noted everyone's version before drawing any conclusions,” Alex admonished.

“Yes, Sir,” Phil said. “How was your holiday? I thought you weren't going to be back until tomorrow.”

“I'm not,” Alex stated. “Or rather I shouldn't be. This is my boys' school and Sanjay rightly thought I should be told what was going on. While I had a good break, the holiday's most definitely over.”

“And how's the lovely Sandra?” Phil persisted.

“She's fine, at home doing the unpacking, I hope. But you should be aware that it's Inspector McKinnon to you, now she's had her promotion,” Alex chided.

“Yes, Sir, of course, Sir, right away, Sir, three bags full, Sir,” Phil responded, while mocking a boy-scout style salute.

Alex could only smile and shake his head as he walked away with Sanjay.

Steve turned to Phil, “How do you get away with talking to the Chief like that?”

“Like what? That's how I talk to everyone. But seriously, the boss is a really good guy. I've worked with him for years. Most of the time he's one of the lads, but he knows how to crack the whip when he has to. Sandra, his partner, worked in this unit too, until she got her promotion. The Boss is a lucky man. She's really smart and quite a doll, not at all bad to look at. But I'd better not let her or the Boss hear me saying it. You're new here. You just need to learn the ropes. You'll soon settle in. I'll help you.”

“I'd appreciate it,” Steve replied. “I worked CID in Edinburgh for two years before transferring here. There was no eye candy there and my chief was a real tyrant. You were frightened to open your mouth in his presence if he didn't ask you to first. It may take me a while to adjust.”

Chapter 3

“Good afternoon, Ms Bannister, please take a seat,” Mary ushered while depositing a portable recorder on the table and then switching it on. “I am DC Mary McKenzie and this is DC Donald McAvoy. We're here to take your statement, to find out everything you know about what's happened, and we'll be recording all that's said. Afterwards, we'll prepare a transcript of what you've stated and we'll ask you to check to make sure it's correct and then sign it. Do you understand?” The lady had been standing staring out of the classroom window as the two police officers entered the room.

“Of course I understand, I'm not stupid. But aren't you meant to read me my rights or something like that?”

Patricia Bannister's voice was sharp and nippy matching her small-featured, narrow, angular face. She was tall and her slender frame slouched forward with her shoulders turned in protectively. Her movements were hesitant and belied her aggressive words.

With thirty years of experience as an investigator, Donny immediately recognised this as her defence mechanism when facing unfamiliar circumstances.

“A caution isn't required unless we're charging you with something,” Mary explained.

“Should we be charging you with something?” Donny added, capitalising on her discomfort and seeking to test her.

“Of course not,” she spat back. “I want you to tell me exactly what's going on. I'm not used to being treated like this. I was told to come into this room and wait to give my statement. That was more than an hour ago. I want you to tell me what's happened to Mr Singer. He was looking most unwell when I last saw him. I'm used to being taken seriously and treated with respect. I worked as an English teacher up until I took my retirement. So don't play me for a fool.”

“No-one would dream of it. We're sorry you've been kept waiting, but as I'm sure you can imagine, there are a lot of very important matters to deal with besides yourself. Now, so we can get started, will you please state your name, address and occupation for our records?” Mary requested and Patricia duly obliged.

“You've not told me yet about Bert Singer,” Patricia persisted.

“Mr Singer had a nasty shock. He was sedated and I understand he was taken to hospital to be checked over. We won't find out any more until later. If you'll forgive me mentioning it, shouldn't you be more concerned about Sheila Armstrong?” Donny challenged.

Patricia's face paled. “Oh, yes, of course.” She paused. “I was assuming there was nothing could be done to save her.”

“No, I'm afraid not,” Donny confirmed. “Now, can you please tell us what you saw?” Ordinarily, Donny would take more time to settle a witness before trying to draw out their recollection of an incident. In this instance, he could tell there was nothing to be gained by delaying the inevitable.

“Well, we were working through the script. Have you read it?”

“No, not yet,” Mary replied. “Please explain?”

“It's a scene round about the middle of the play. Mrs Rathbone, that's the character played by Sheila, well, she gets stabbed by her husband, and he was played by Bert. It all seemed to go as expected. Bert lifted the knife and drove it into Sheila's chest then Sheila collapsed onto the floor. I thought she was acting and doing it quite realistically. But Debbie called out saying she should have acted the fall much better and played it to the audience with more flourish. More fool her, I suppose. Then Lionel started complaining that she was wasting all the stage props and shouldn't be using the fake blood for the rehearsal. It was only then Bert realised his hands were covered and so was Sheila's chest.

“Bert sank to his knees and let out a whine. Then everyone rushed forward. We didn't know who to look after first.

“Someone, I'm not sure who, yelled, 'phone for an ambulance,' and then everything became chaotic. It was all a blur after that and I can't remember who said, or did, anything. Some of the school staff rushed in. I came away from the stage and sat down and can't be certain what happened. Someone said, 'I think she's dead,' and then I heard someone else say, 'It's not the first time she's died on stage but probably the most effective.' I remember laughing at the thought, because it was true, she wasn't a good actress. Then I realised how awful it was and thought that we shouldn't be making jokes about such a terrible accident. I assumed she was dead, but I wasn't certain at the time.”

Although the classroom was warm, Patricia pulled her cardigan tightly around her shoulders as if to ward off a chill. “I suppose it was an insensitive remark under the circumstances, but people say strange things when they're nervous or shocked.” These words were spoken in little more than a whisper, expressed more as a comfort and a justification for herself than a statement to the officers.

“Can we get you a cup of tea or coffee?” Mary offered.

“No, I never touch caffeine. A good stiff brandy is called for, but I'd better not, I need to drive home to get back for Sammy, to make his supper.”

“Is Sammy your partner?” Mary asked innocently.

“In a manner of speaking, he is. He's my cat and the closest living creature to me.”

“Do you have any family?” Mary enquired.

“I'm a widow, my husband died eight years ago. My son lives near Motherwell, but I haven't seen him or his family for years. He's married with two children, but I've never met them. His wife's a strange one and won't let him or the children visit. The last contact I had was two years ago when he sent me a letter advising of his new address. I thought he was trying to resume contact and sent a 'welcome to your new home' card and flowers. Then she phoned me to ask why I'd sent it and told me she didn't want any contact. I asked her, if that was the case, then why had my son sent me the letter? Do you know what she said? She told me, it was for me to update my papers in case anything happened. The callous bitch only wanted me to correct the contact details in my will.” Tears were welling up in Patricia's eyes.

Donny was unmoved, but Mary looked on sympathetically. “You've had a bad shock. Is there a friend or neighbour who you can go back to? It would be best if you weren't alone.”

“It's all right, I'll be fine.”

“There are a few more questions we'd like to ask you if you're up to it?” Donny continued.

“Okay, yes,” she conceded. “Go on.”

“Were you aware of the trick knives and how they worked?”

“Yes, we all were. It was Graeme who purchased them. I'm sure he said he'd bought them over the internet. He brought them to the meeting we had last week and showed us all how they worked. In one of the early scenes a knife is used and the audience sees Bert with it. He then places it in a box on the sideboard. Hidden inside is the fake knife and when it comes to the murder scene he lifts the fake one out of the box. What went wrong? Did Bert lift the wrong knife? Was it his fault?”

“We're still investigating so we can't tell you anything at the moment, but, as far as you were aware, were there only two knives?” Donny asked.

“Yes, that's how they came. They were kept in the container they were delivered in. It has inserts for the two knives. Why? Do you think there were more?”

“We're still checking, but we need to look at every option,” Donny replied. “To move on, can you tell me if Sheila had been fighting with anyone? Had she upset anyone who may have had a reason to want to hurt her?”

“I really couldn't say,” Patricia turned her head away, to avoid meeting their gaze.

“Couldn't or would prefer not to?” Donny challenged.

“I don't know anything.”

“You must tell us anything you have knowledge of,” Mary probed. “We're treating this as a murder enquiry and we need to identify anyone with a motive, however tenuous.”

“Murder? Surely not?”

“We need to consider every possibility,” Mary explained.

“Yes, I understand,” Patricia's tone was unconvincing.

“Well, please go on,” Mary urged.

“It's probably nothing, but if you insist, Sheila was not the most popular of people. She had a sharp tongue and a way of upsetting almost everyone she met.”