Murder for Murder: The Danzig and Hare Murder Mysteries, #2

By Roger Butters

Murder for Murder

The Second Danzig and Hare Murder Mystery

Another adventure for Jim Danzig, the Castletown enquiry agent wedded to old-fashioned methods and deeply suspicious of (and incompetent at handling) modern technology. He and his partner Judith Hare are called upon to investigate the death of 16-year-old Ryan Kelsall, former pupil at the local independent Grammar School, who met his death by a fall from the top of a deserted multi-storey car park. Suicide is the obvious explanation, and the police have written it off as such. However the method seems strange for someone terrified of heights. Two other people associated with the deceased also died recently in obscure circumstances. Is this a coincidence, or is there a more sinister explanation?

Enquiries by Danzig and Hare lead to their joining a local drama group run by former pupils and staff of Castletown Independent Grammar School, who are producing Measure for Measure. Many of the cast are found to have guilty secrets, from mere sexual peccadilloes to an elaborate fraud involving a hitherto unsuspected Shakespeare play.

Not without grave risk to themselves, an occasional punch-up, and some friction with the police, Danzig and Hare uncover the truth, and the murderer is revealed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Roger Butters
• Release date: Oct 9, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393356400

Roger Butters

Roger Butters is a native of Stafford, where he still lives. At various times, he has tried his hand at aviation, owning racehorses, and Shotokan Karate. Altogether he has published over a dozen novels.

Book preview

Principal Characters

and their parts in the play

Jim Danzig, enquiry agent, myself ... Claudio, a young Gentleman

Judith Hare, my assistant ... Sister Francisca, a Nun

Marcia Johnson, my client, a schoolgirl ... Froth, a foolish gentleman

Richard Mantle, solicitor ...Vincentio, the Duke

Francis Carne, senior English teacher ... Angelo, the Duke’s Deputy   

at Castletown Independent  

Grammar School, doubling as  ...  Abhorson, an Executioner

(also assistant director)

Samantha Forrest, Carne’s former wife ... Mistress Overdone, a Bawd

(aka Miranda Lorraine) 

Anthony Forrest, estate agent,  ... Elbow, a simple Constable

married to Samantha

Beth Scarlett, history teacher, CIGS ... Isabella, Novice, Sister to Claudio

Marcus Defoe, former professional actor ... Escalus, an ancient Lord

Tamsin Defoe, his daughter ... Juliet, beloved of Claudio

Bertie Arrowsmith, photographer ... Lucio, a Fantastic

Cynara Cross, artist and new-age therapist ... Mariana, betrothed to Angelo

Duane Pritchard, builder ...  Barnadine, a Prisoner

Alex Walton, head boy, CIGS ... Pompey, Servant to Mistress Overdone

Angela Tiverton, music and drama teacher ... Director

Caroline Pritchard, Duane’s wife ... Stage manager

Dinah Yardley, Marcia’s friend ... Assistant stage manager

Jack McGlinchey, lighting technician ... Provost

Non-thespians:

Midshire County CID:

Detective Superintendent Lockwood  

Detective Inspector Tilson   

Detective Constable ‘Nobby’ Clarke

Others:

Harvey Bracknell, entertainment editor, Castletown Chronicle

Ted, his photographer     

Cheryl, my receptionist

Joan Littlehales, Mantle’s telephonist

Denise Gregson, mother of Ryan Kelsall, a murder victim

Joe Zaffa, a newsagent

Dr Gilbert, headmaster, Castletown Independent Grammar School

Steve Everton, a paramedic

Scholtz van der Wyk, forensic pathologist

Jack Ashwood, a jobbing builder

Kirsty, Forrest’s assistant

Andy French, garage proprietor

I

I GOT to work about an hour late that morning, having been to view a house in Heronswood Park. Even after the recent upturn in my fortunes I probably couldn’t afford it; renting the new offices was taking quite a chunk out of my income, and I didn’t want to overreach.

The business centre housing my office lies half a mile south of the Market Square, converted from the Turk’s Head pub, which five years earlier had given up the struggle to compete with the more fashionable Seven Stars at the end of the road. In fact, not so much converted as eviscerated. Virtually nothing of the original interior remains. It now looks like every other new suite of offices save for the old Victorian frontage, which the planners haven’t let them touch. As a result the words: ‘Riverdale Business Centre: Offices to Let’ appear only on the side of the building, visible as you approach from the main Hampton Road. At the time in question only four of the six offices were tenanted. Mine lay on the first floor, alongside that of a jobbing builder, Jack Ashwood. My name’s Danzig: Jim Danzig. I’m a private investigator.

The staff car park was a luxury I was just getting used to. I could have gone straight up the fire escape, but in a morning I usually go round the front to collect my post from reception. I did the same today just from force of habit. My assistant, Judith Hare, would be sure to have collected it by now. The communal receptionist, Dawn, or Cheryl, or some such name, of whose wages I was presumably paying a quarter, glanced up from a magazine as I entered.

‘Judy’s collected your post, Mr Danzig.’ I nodded. ‘But there’s someone waiting to see you.’

This was unexpected. Seventy-five per cent of my work comes through solicitors, and even the other twenty-five usually make first contact by phone. ‘Get the name?’

‘I didn’t ask. Judy’ll tell you, I expect.’

The girl was sitting in the waiting area formed by a sort of mezzanine landing they’d constructed between the ground floor and the first suite of offices. She looked very young, I judged no more than sixteen, fairly tall, with straight dark shoulder-length hair. She was neither attractive nor plain, and wore a sort of unisex jacket and denims. I’d have passed her in the street and not noticed her. Or would I? I’d a feeling I’d seen her before. Or if not her, her photograph.

‘Good morning,’ I said, stopping. ‘I’m Jim Danzig. Did you want to see me?’

‘I really only came to make an appointment, Mr Danzig. I didn’t expect to be able to see you straight away.’

There was no point in trying to pretend I was busier than I was. ‘That’s all right. Come on up.’

Judy was sitting at the desk going through my post, what there was of it. She glanced up and pushed the tousled red mane from her face with the back of her hand. ‘Oh, you’ve met. This is Miss Johnson.’

‘Marcia Johnson,’ the girl provided.

I gestured her to a seat. As I said before I wouldn’t have noticed her in the street, but one thing about her was unusual: she possessed the rare quality of complete repose. I’ve sometimes observed it in girls of her age. Oddly enough it often seems to happen if they have a neurotic mother; as if they’ve been forced to mature early and are trying to avoid their parents’ mistakes. She looked a very serious young lady. Despite her extreme youth I was to think of her throughout the case as Miss Johnson rather than Marcia.

Judy stood. ‘I’ll leave you to it. I’m next door if you need me, Mr Danzig.’ I’m Mr Danzig when there are clients present.

‘Thanks.’ I sat in the place she’d vacated and gestured Miss Johnson to the seat opposite. ‘Judy’s my assistant,’ I explained. ‘She may overhear us; I hope you’ve no objection.’

‘That’s all right,’ she said placidly.

‘Do you mind if I make a few notes?’ I’m not a great one for recording machines; they’re impersonal and give clients the impression you don’t trust them.

‘Of course not.’

‘Good. Well now, how can I help?’

The girl paused, rather than hesitated. ‘I’m not sure that you can, really. I’ve come because I hoped you might be able to suggest something. I’m told you’re the best enquiry agent in Castletown.’

‘That’s right,’ I said with some confidence. ‘So far as I know I’m the only enquiry agent in Castletown.’

She smiled quickly. ‘Well, I don’t supppose my name means anything to you.’

I glanced at the newspaper the ever-efficient Judy had placed on my desk, folded back to display the appropriate item. It was the Castletown Chronicle of 8th September, just over a month ago. The heading read: ‘HORROR OF TEENAGE DEATH FALL.’ There was an indifferent picture of Miss Johnson, looking even more serious than at present.

‘It wouldn’t have done,’ I said, ‘but I remember now. I’m very sorry. Er, your boyfriend, wasn’t he?’

She shook her head. ‘No. We were just friends, that’s all. The press made out I was his girlfriend, but you know what they’re like. I never got round to correcting them, and I think Ryan would have liked it anyway.’

It struck me that however good friends they’d been, she didn’t seem particularly heartbroken. Youngsters are emotionally tough about such things. Or used to be, until counselling and public displays of grief became more or less compulsory.

Aloud I said: ‘Do you mind if I spend a few moments reading this? It’ll probably save time.’

‘Before you start,’ she said awkwardly, ‘I’d better explain that I don’t have much money. I’ve only got about two hundred and fifty pounds altogether. I don’t know how much of your time that’ll buy.’

All of a sudden she seemed very young, earnest and vulnerable. ‘Don’t worry about that,’ I said briskly. ‘I’m not like solicitors - I don’t charge for interviews. After you’ve told me the whole story, I’ll let you know whether I think I can help. If so, we’ll talk about my fee then.’

‘I see. Thank you.’

I scanned the item quickly.

‘In an horrific incident last Sunday morning, a Stoneleigh teenager plunged twenty metres to his death from the top of a Castletown multi-storey car park. Ryan Kelsall, 16, a former pupil at Castletown Independent Grammar School, is believed to have fallen from the top storey of the Bridge Street Car Park in the town centre shortly before noon ... Police are at a loss to suggest a cause, though it is believed Ryan may have been affected by the recent accidental death of his stepfather, Wayne Gregson, of King’s Way, Barnham, near Stoneleigh ... Ryan’s mother, Denise Gregson, 37, was too upset yesterday to be interviewed, but his girlfriend, Marcia Johnson, 16, a fellow-student at Castletown Independent Grammar School, said that she was unable to suggest a reason for the tragedy. I spoke to Ryan on Friday evening, she said, when he seemed just the same as usual. It’s all very sad. ’

‘I remember reading about it, of course,’ I said. ‘Rather puzzling.’

‘Yes. The inquest was held the week before last, and adjourned while the police make further enquiries. It seems no-one saw Ryan fall. The town centre’s practically deserted at that time on a Sunday, of course. He was found soon after twelve by a group of people on their way from church back to the car park.’

I nodded. ‘And you’d like me to investigate.’

‘Yes, please.’

‘I’ve no doubt the police are doing so already.’

‘I honestly haven’t very much confidence in them. I get the impression they’ve written it off as suicide. Either a severe attack of’ - she pulled an apologetic face - ‘teenage angst, or ...’ She hesitated.

‘Go on.’

‘Ryan’s stepfather was a thug. A drunken lout. He gave Ryan and his mother the most terrible time.’

‘And he also died recently as the result of an accident.’

‘Yes. If you remember the case, he fell into the canal at Stoneleigh Lock some weeks ago on his way home from the pub late at night. Pretty well paralytic, as usual. The inquest verdict was Accident.’

‘Mm. But you’re not sure that it was?’

She nodded. ‘That’s right, I’m in two minds about it. There was some bruising to his head, but the pathologist said that could have been caused by striking it on the side of the lock as he fell.’

‘Are you saying you think Ryan might have been responsible?’

She sighed and shook her head. ‘I honestly don’t know. He had an alibi, but not an especially strong one. He was at home with his mother. I expect she’d have lied for him, but somehow I don’t think she did.’

‘So the police think Ryan might have been responsible for his stepfather’s death, and committed suicide out of remorse?’

‘That’s one of the theories they seem to be working on, yes.’

If I knew the police they weren’t working very hard. Assuming young Kelsall had committed suicide, quite frankly from their point of view it didn’t much matter whether he’d killed his stepfather or not. There’d have been no point in causing unnecessary distress to the family by stirring things.

‘What do you think?’

‘As I say, I don’t know what to think, Mr Danzig. One thing I haven’t told you yet, and I should. About a week before he died, Ryan told me he’d done something terribly wrong. But he wouldn’t say what.’

‘Did you ask him?’

‘Yes, of course. All he said was that at first he thought it was intended as a bit of a joke, but then it had turned serious.’

Shoving his hated stepfather into the canal might have been regarded as some sort of joke, I supposed, though heaven help young Kelsall if his victim had found out who’d done it. And if Gregson had banged his head as he fell the kid might have panicked and run off.

‘Have you told the police about this?’ I asked.

‘Yes. I thought I ought to.’ She looked up gravely. ‘I believe in the truth, you see.’

The sort of thing that could have sounded priggish. But somehow the way she said it, so simple and unaffected, increased my respect for her even further. In my experience few people believe in the truth if it doesn’t suit their purposes.

‘But I still don’t think it was suicide, somehow.’

‘Why not? If he’d done something terribly wrong, that might have driven him to it.’

A pretty obvious remark. In reply I was expecting her to come out with the old cliché about the deceased not having been the suicidal type. In my view pretty well anyone’s the suicidal type in the right circumstances. But she surprised me again.

‘It’s possible, I suppose. I can certainly imagine Ryan killing himself. He was rather an unhappy person. But I don’t think he’d have done it that way. You see, he was terrified of heights. Even on top of a bus, or looking out of a second-floor window made him feel uneasy. It may not seem very logical, but ...’

There was some force in the argument. ‘No, you’re right. Suicide doesn’t enable you to overcome the fears of a lifetime. And there are certainly some unexplained features. The main one of course is what Ryan was doing in Castletown on a Sunday morning in the first place. If he intended suicide, why not save himself a seven-mile journey and do it in Stoneleigh? How did he get to Castletown, anyway?’

‘By bicycle, it seems. His bike was found padlocked to the railings in North Walls. But as you say, there are things that still need explaining. I feel ... I feel I owe Ryan the truth. He hadn’t many friends. Or many interests outside school. As I say, he was ... unhappy.’

A misfit, in other words. And there’s no worse age than sixteen to be a misfit. I nodded.

‘Did he have a girlfriend?’

‘No. I was the nearest. I haven’t got a boyfriend, and I felt, well, sorry for him, so we tended to spend a certain amount of time together. Occasionally he’d pretend I was his girlfriend. But that was all.’

I got the picture. A sad lonely youth who claimed to have a girlfriend to avoid ridicule from his peers. Who’d want to be sixteen again?

‘Anything worrying him in particular, apart from the thing he’d hinted to you about? What about - I don’t know - exams?’

‘He’d just got his GCSE results. They weren’t especially good, mostly Cs and Ds, but about what he’d expected.’

My guess was that Miss Johnson had got straight As. She was a bright girl, and didn’t seem to feel the need to boast. I changed tack. ‘How’s his mother taken it?’

‘Pretty badly, as you might expect. But she isn’t interested in looking into things any further. I think ...’ She hesitated again.

‘Go on.’

‘I think she’s afraid of what she might find out.’

‘Well,’ I said after some moments’ thought, ‘I don’t mean to be difficult, but I’m not really sure what you want from me. There’s not much I can do that the police haven’t already. I daresay I could get hold of the inquest notes, but from what you say they wouldn’t tell me anything you don’t know. And there don’t seem to be any witnesses who might help. Unofficially the police might be a bit more forthcoming with me than with you, but not much.’

‘There’s a couple more things I haven’t told you yet.’

‘Go on.’

‘I said Ryan hadn’t any interests outside school. That’s not quite right. He had one. Drama.’

‘That’s a bit unusual.’

‘It was very recent.’ She sighed. ‘I’m afraid you must think Ryan rather a sad sort of person, and so he was in some ways. His family had knocked all the stuffing out of him. He wasn’t interested in anything much, certainly not sport, and he hadn’t enough confidence to approach girls. He played about on the Internet a bit, but didn’t really take to it. Until recently his only hobby, as far as I know, was codes and ciphers. He became quite obsessed by them at one time.’

Again it fitted. A lad who couldn’t come to terms with the outside world empowering himself with secret knowledge no-one else could share. I nodded. She continued: ‘But in our last year at school he suddenly started taking an interest in Shakespeare. King Lear was one of our set books. It absolutely fascinated him.’

By now I knew Miss Johnson well enough to realize that this would prove relevant somehow. I simply said: ‘It’s a fascinating play.’

‘Yes, I think so too. As I say, Ryan could be an obsessive sort of person, and the play started to take over his life. For one thing it persuaded him to start reading Shakespeare. He liked some plays better than others of course, and he never found one to equal Lear, but he went so far as to join the Fags. They’re a local amdram group specializing in Shakespeare. Supposedly they consist of past and present pupils from the Grammar School, plus some members of staff, but in fact they accept pretty well anybody who’s interested.’

The term ‘Fags’ was derived from the acronym of the local Independent Grammar School, CIGS. And I knew enough about the amateur theatre to realize that they couldn’t afford to be choosy when it came to recruiting members.

‘One reason I mention it - Jon Appleby was a member too. You know, the man who died in the fire.’

I did know. The case had hit the headlines both in the local and regional press, and even got a brief mention on the national news. Jonathan Appleby had been a teacher at CIGS who had apparently lived a conventional sort of life. One night six or seven weeks ago somebody had shoved a fire-bomb through his letter-box, the place had gone up in flames, and he’d been pretty well incinerated. One theory was that he’d been the victim of a racist attack based on mistaken identity - a Pakistani family lived next door but one. Another was that his estranged wife had been responsible. Neither explanation seemed very likely.

‘I suppose it’s occurred to you,’ I said after a pause, ‘that the thing Ryan had done that he felt so badly about might have been the fire-bombing? He’d said it was a joke that turned serious. Might it have been some sort of idiotic prank that had gone horribly wrong?’

‘It occurred to me, yes, but I don’t think it’s at all likely. For one thing Ryan wasn’t a prank kind of person. And he didn’t bear Mr Appleby a grudge, so far as I know. They scarcely knew one another.’

‘Appleby taught English, from what I remember of the press reports.’

‘Yes, but he was the junior English teacher, and he’d only been at the school a year, so he’d never taught Ryan. And as members of the Fags they seemed to get on all right.’

‘So it wasn’t Appleby who inspired Ryan’s interest in King Lear?’

‘No. That was Mr Carne, our senior English teacher. He’s a member of