Murder On The Knees

By William Stafford

Dedley detectives Brough and Miller are back with their fourth investigation. Members of the Black Country town's most prominent amateur dramatics society are being bumped off in a series of bizarre murders. Brough, Miller and the rest of the Serious Crimes division are tested to the extreme in this latest fast-moving and funny whodunit.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AG Books
• Release date: Jun 21, 2016
• ISBN: 9781783331451

Book preview

Stiffy

1

Donna Simpkins parked on the sloping surface of the car-park on Fear Street. She attached the lock to the steering wheel and then retrieved her overall from the boot. She locked the car with her key ring, eliciting a quirky electronic boop and rubbed her eyes. It had been a late night; she had been surfing the net, looking for a new job, something else to do, anything, and anywhere away from Dedley. She’d lived in the boring Black Country town all her life. Nothing ever happened. Or so it seemed to her.

She nodded to a fellow car-park user. She saw him most mornings at that time. He was nice-looking and always smartly turned out. Donna wondered where he worked. She’d bet her last fiver it wasn’t anything as arse-achingly bad as being a dental hygiene assistant.

The nice-looking man raised his hand to acknowledge her nod. He locked his car and walked away to begin his day. A sigh escaped Donna as she watched him go. Bet he has a great job, she mused bitterly. Bet he has an exciting life. Bet he has a great body under that suit. Bet he’s fantastic in bed...

She blushed to realise she was walking past a church as she thought these improper thoughts, as if the resident could hear her thoughts. He could do that, couldn’t he, God? He knew what you were thinking.

Donna kept her eyes averted as she passed the incongruously modern building. It was like a pyramid drawn by a child. Like one of those teabags that was supposed to give you better flavour. That’s what the church is supposed to do, isn’t it? Give your life better flavour?

She reached the main entrance of the Fear Street Health Centre and keyed a code into the pad. The door clicked; she pushed it open and went in.

There was time for a cuppa before work. The kettle could boil while she changed into the horrible shapeless thing she was made to wear.

She let herself into the surgery and breezed through to the staff kitchen. She filled the kettle from the tap and began to hum a tune. As the kettle rumbled on its stand, Donna’s humming evolved into words. A listener might be gratified to learn that this year she was off to sunny Spain.

She went to the staff toilets to undress, giving her song full voice. It was, apart from being the start of her shift, the best part of the day. For a few moments, she had the place to herself. The cleaners had gone and Mr Parker wouldn’t be in yet.

Donna piled her hair on top of her head and pinned it in place. She touched up her make-up - Mr Parker didn’t like her to wear any but what was hidden behind her surgical mask wouldn’t hurt him.

She left her civvies on a hanger behind the door and went to see if that kettle was ready.

It was then that she noticed something was wrong. The door to the examination and treatment room was closed but that in itself was not unusual; Mr Parker took pride in keeping the key to that to himself.

But coming from under the door and spreading out into the corridor, staining the carpet a deep shade of crimson was a puddle of blood.

Donna’s happy song caught in her throat. She held her breath. There was only the sound of the kettle building to its climax.

She took tentative steps towards the door. The white canvas pumps that were part of her uniform made the carpet squelch. Donna froze, unwilling to step directly into the puddle.

She leaned forwards and pressed her hand against the door. It swung inwards, unexpectedly, catching Donna off guard. She fell forwards landing in the blood. She slid around, revolted, trying to get up but the blood was slick and slippery. Donna’s front was covered, as though a butcher had thrown a bucket over her.

At last she managed to get up. She stepped into the room, holding onto a supply cupboard for support.

And then she saw the source of the puddle.

Mr Parker was lying on his own dentist’s chair. The adjustable lamp illuminated his fatal wounds. Clamps held his mouth open, wider than was natural, dislocating his jaw and spreading his lips in a broad rictus.

Donna whimpered.

Along the corridor, the kettle released steam with a final roar of boiling water.

As it did so, Donna screamed.

***

Knock, knock. Detective Inspector David Brough rapped the doorpost with his knuckle and went in anyway. You decent?

Detective Sergeant Melanie Miller turned from her mirror and spread her arms so he could admire her outfit. Brough pursed his lips and nodded his approbation.

It’ll be better with the veil on, he grinned. To cover your face.

You’re not funny, Miller scowled. She gave her wrist an anxious glance only to be reminded she wasn’t wearing her watch. How much time have I got?

Christ, Miller. It’s a wedding not an execution. Brough elbowed her aside so he could adjust the carnation in his buttonhole. Jason’s in the car. We best get going. You know: traffic.

Miller nodded, resigning herself. She snatched up her bouquet and a clutch purse. Holding her gown at the front, she tottered on unfamiliar heels towards the door. She stopped.

Need another pee, she grimaced. Brough rolled his eyes.

Go on then.

***

Brough joined Police Constable Jason Pattimore at the unmarked car. It was bedecked with white ribbons and silver bells but even with those it was an improvement on the customised Mini Pattimore usually tootled around in. Pattimore was leaning against the driver’s door and, Brough was dismayed to see, enjoying a cigarette.

Wish it was our big day, Pattimore leaned across to peck Brough’s cheek. Brough moved his face out of range.

Yeah, he muttered.

Pattimore glanced at Miller’s front door.

What’s she doing in there?

Spending a penny. Another one.

Pattimore laughed. You are funny. ‘Spending a penny’!

Fuck off.

That’s better. Pattimore dropped his cigarette stub and crushed it underfoot.

I hope you’re going to bin that, Brough muttered.

Don’t start. Is she going to be all right, do you think?

Brough looked at the door. Miller had moved into the ground floor flat with the proceeds of the sale of her mother’s house. The old girl hadn’t lived to see this day. Probably for the best, Brough reflected; she was confused enough at the end.

Here comes the bride! Pattimore got into the car as Miller emerged. The sunlight hit the fabric of her wedding dress, making the white satin gleam.

Wow, said Brough. He opened the door to the back seat and made a gallant gesture to usher her in. But something was wrong; Miller was still on the doorstep. Come on! Brough urged. We’re on a schedule, you know.

I can’t, Miller wailed.

Brough hurried towards her.

Cold feet?

No. Miller turned bright red. I’ve shut the door on my train.

***

Fucking hell. Detective Inspector Benny Stevens gave his assessment of the crime scene. He felt inappropriately dressed having replaced his tan leather jacket for a morning suit. He supposed he should consider himself fortunate, to be called away from the church. He’d never been one for churches. Or weddings. Or anything like that.

His first reaction on hearing that the victim was a dentist was Serves him right - Stevens was not big on dental appointments either. Why pay someone to torture you every six months? He shuddered. Lying in that chair made you vulnerable. They could do anything to you. They could gas you into total submission and then get to work on you with those...instruments. He shuddered again.

Yeah, it’s pretty grim, said a nearby officer from Forensics, taking another flash photo of the victim.

I dunno, said another, similarly clad in a white plastic coverall. He looks kind of happy to me. Lovely big smile.

The Forensics team all laughed heartily at this. Stevens’s moustache curled in disgust. Weirdos.

He wrote the victim’s name in his notebook and underneath drew a big smiley face.

***

There was a low turn-out at the church. Unlike the more modern example on Fear Street, St Mungo’s was a more traditional, Gothic affair of grey stone blackened by time and air pollution. The congregation was mainly coppers, all smartened up in rented suits (the men) and newly-bought hats (the women). The organist was tootling through Sheep May Safely Graze. On the front row of the pews, the groom was waiting, casting anxious glances up the aisle. Reverend Vickers stood before the altar, beaming benevolently.

Outside, on the gravel path, Brough fussed with Miller’s dress.

You can’t see the crease, he tried to reassure her. Or the footprints. Or the mud.

Miller was looking up at the steeple.

Are you sure you want to go through with it?

Miller cleared her throat and dabbed at her eyes with a tissue.

I’m here now, she said.

They went inside. The organist made an awkward shunt from Bach to Wagner.

***

D I Stevens was fed up of waiting and fed up of the dirty looks the trim little WPC kept giving him. She had one arm around the witness, a Donna Simpson - no, Simpkins. Her free hand gave Stevens a two-fingered salute.

Charming, Stevens muttered. I’ll come back when you’re both less hysterical.

He turned away from the dentist’s kitchen and felt at a loss. He wasn’t used to tackling these things alone. Not that his presence seemed to be required. Forensics were busy, documenting and collecting. The witness was being mollycoddled; perhaps he’d get a statement from her later at the nick.

He consulted his watch. He could still make it to the church. He didn’t want to waste the rented suit.

***

Reverend Vickers blessed everyone for turning up and tried to crack a few funnies in his opening address. The bride was standing in front of him with her veiled face downcast. Beside her was the groom, a tall, handsome fellow, like a rugby player squeezed into his little brother’s clothes. The happy couple had hardly looked at each other at all. Nervous, Reverend Vickers surmised. He’d seen it all before.

He introduced the choir who were to lead the congregation in a rendition of When A Knight Won His Spurs - a peculiar choice for a wedding, in his view, but then it was preferable to the modern trend for pop music, which was wholly inappropriate. If he had to hear that execrable song about liking it and putting a ring on it one more time...

The choirboys got to their feet and began. The congregation shuffled to a standing position. There was an awful lot of smirking going on, Reverend Vickers frowned. Some people had no respect for the solemnity of the occasion.

Had he turned around he might have seen what was giving rise to so much amusement in his flock. One of the choirboys was short and squat but what singled him out was his aged face. It was caked in foundation but even at a distance you could tell this chorister was considerably older than the others. And, what was also clear, the choirboy didn’t seem to have heard the hymn before in his life. He was mouthing along like a nervous goldfish, trying to keep in synch with the rest.

At long last, the hymn was over. Everyone sat down and Reverend Vickers got down to business.

When the moment came, Miller’s voice, thick with emotion, stammered out her response. In their pew, Pattimore gave Brough’s thigh a squeeze and Brough, a devout atheist if ever there was one, pointed at the vaulted ceiling to remind the PC where they were.

Reverend Vickers pronounced the happy couple to be man and wife. A ripple of unenthusiastic applause limped around the church, turning to catcalls when the groom lifted the bride’s veil to plant a smacker on her lips.

Of course, Reverend Vickers leaned towards them conspiratorially. You’re not exactly kosher yet.

He announced they would retire to the vestry to sign the legal documents and hoped they would all enjoy Mr Higgins’s organ for a few minutes or take the opportunity to indulge in a brief bout of silent contemplation. He ushered the bride and groom and a couple of witnesses towards a side door as Mr Higgins’s fingers bumbled through I Do Like To Be Beside the Seaside.

The chorister with the old face broke ranks and climbed into the pulpit, shucking off his alb as he went - it was apparently surplice to requirements. He pulled off his wig revealing Chief Inspector Karen Wheeler in her blue serge uniform.

Right, fuckers, she announced, let’s tear this place apart.

The congregation didn’t need telling twice. They swarmed around the church, tearing up hymnals, ripping open cassocks and tipping over pews.

Wheeler urged the organist to play louder to cover the noise.

In the vestry, Miller played her part, signing the wrong part of the certificate. Reverend Vickers found another and filled in the appropriate sections. This one she blotted, having unscrewed the barrel of the fountain pen while the vicar was distracted.

Beside her, her ‘husband’ a man she’d never met, guarded the door.

Dear oh dear! Reverend Vickers exclaimed. Talk about butterfingers. I hope you won’t be this clumsy on your wedding night, my dear.

Miller scowled. Was every man a bloody arsehole?

With a flourish, she signed completely the wrong line. Reverend Vickers tried not to swear. He moved to his bureau to retrieve yet another certificate but the witnesses stopped him. They were another couple of detectives Miller didn’t recognise.

We’ll do the searching from now on, said the female one, stony-faced.

Meanwhile, cast your beadies over this, said the male, offering the vicar a piece of paper.

What’s this?

Search warrant, the woman sniffed.

Well, well, well, the man pulled his hand out of a drawer. He held up a polythene bag containing pills of many colours. Forgive me, Father, but you’re fucking nicked.

2

The team convened in the briefing room at Serious Crimes. There was a celebratory atmosphere. They congratulated each other for a job well done. Wheeler got to her feet and called for their attention.

Well done, everyone, she said, although her expression was grim. Whoopee-fucking-cack.

Her lack of enthusiasm puzzled her officers. Brough was the first to pick up on the negative vibes that were emanating from the little woman like radioactive waves.

Something wrong, Chief?

Oh, look! A fucking detective! was Wheeler’s sarcastic reply. It got everyone serious and sitting up straight. She was about to tear a strip off them when a man came in. He was in a chequered suit and his bald head shone like polished eggshell. He clapped his hands slowly and sarcastically as he made his way to Wheeler’s side.

Wheeler showed him her teeth.

Thanks to you lot, he addressed the room, We’m facing a hefty bill for damages to St Mungo’s. This is where your play-acting gets you.

Wheeler held up a finger.

Hold up, she interrupted. "It was your goons that