Treble Clef, page 1
part #8 of DCI Cyril Bennett Series
Treble Clef
Malcolm Hollingdrake
Book Eight in the Harrogate Crime Series
Copyright © 2019 Malcolm Hollingdrake
The right of Malcolm Hollingdrake to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing from the publisher or in reprographic production, in accordance with the terms and licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All names, characters, places, organisations, businesses and events are either a product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely co-incidental.
www.malcolmhollingdrakeauthor.co.uk
Praise for Malcolm Hollingdrake
This is a gripping tale which is written well and paced perfectly. I was pretty engrossed rather quickly and particularly appreciated the discussion of scientific stuff which certainly sets this book apart from the rest of the crime genre. The only other books I know that do this is the amazing CSI Eddie Collins series by Andrew Barrett. The perspectives were also pretty interesting, especially the point-of-view of the unidentified killer, I can't remember the last time I read a crime novel that includes the killer’s POV but it works incredibly well and kept the story fresh and interesting. The other POV is that of DCI Bennett, which talks about his father’s death as well as the case. I must admit that I loved the effortlessness of the prose as it made the story very readable with everything flowing beautifully chapter-to-chapter, and I had quite a bit of trouble putting it down due to this.
Lou – Top 500 Amazon Reviewer.
To me crime books need that background of characters so that they are not “just about the job” and Malcolm always does this so very well. Cyril and his team come alive on the pages and the snaps of background give them that reality factor.
Another brilliant read from Cyril and Malcolm, I very much look forward to the next one.
Misfits farm – Book reviews
The research by the author is just outstanding again, he is a perfectionist with his story lines and very unusual methods of killing. Extremely original and totally gripping, these books are classy with humour in perfect balance!
Susan Hampson – Books from Dusk Till Dawn – Book Blogs.
A great book with Malcolm's now trademark mix of technical research and knowledge, character build, use of God's own country for a backdrop and a plot that keeps you hooked until that moment where you realise you missed it too... not just Cyril.
Leeds Buyer – Amazon Review
Dedicated to
Ruth, Ann and John Eagin.
Remembering
A.E. Eagin MM
1918
In the animal kingdom, one of the keys to survival is to outwit your enemies.
Neil deGrasse Tyson
Prologue
“Trompe l’oeil.” The words sounded on the lips like a forbidden fruit as they were repeated a number of times. On each occasion different elements were exaggerated. “It has a certain ring to it, a… je ne sais quoi… a kind of magic mixed with a hint of mystery that allows the eye to confuse the brain. The two-dimensional wall becomes three-dimensional or that is the appearance it gives and that is the whole point… to create something that does not really exist. It only seems to appear in the eyes of the beholder. It will help them suspend their disbelief and that is all it takes… Trompe l’oeil.”
The large bristles of the paintbrush continued to apply the light stippling. Finer brushes bled in the detail and on standing back, the wall had the appearance of a police cell dating back to the sixties. The lights were turned down and the atmosphere changed significantly.
“It’s so simple to create. Without smoke and mirrors the place simply changes and with their help…”
The paints and trays were collected and the light extinguished. It was nearly ready.
Chapter One
The charity shop, situated on Harrogate’s Montpellier Hill, appearing squashed between a bar and an art gallery, had seen a steady stream of customers for a midweek day – especially considering the capricious nature of the weather. The grey cloud mantle showed clear signs of receding as the day lengthened, leaving only the occasional brisk but often short shower. The majority of customers had been visitors to Harrogate, according to Valerie Thew, who had worked in the shop voluntarily for the past four years; she had a nose for these things. Guessing their status in life and their hometown had been a game she had developed and would often play to alleviate the tedium on quiet days. It was a personal challenge but recently, on occasion, she had started to share her perceptions with her colleagues; the Svengali gift, as she had incorrectly called it. She had the impression that a Svengali could see the impossible and Valerie had no idea or desire to know the truth. In her mind a Svengali was someone who had a controlling and possibly sinister influence over others, but then no one corrected her because maybe they believed the metaphorical hat might just about fit.
Valerie could not recall when the habit of people watching had started, nor could she remember the first time she had made judgements on their circumstances and character; somehow it had always seemed so obvious, to be part of her make-up, her very DNA; a gift she had often boasted of. Was it when she was at school? She could not recollect. What she did know was that it happened almost daily, briefly it must be said, but daily and it amused her.
On summer days when time hung loosely like a luffing sail she would sit and watch people. She had become fascinated by their mannerisms and what she interpreted to be idiosyncrasies; how she loved that word. She had a particular fondness for both the particularly young and the old. To her, however, the young were those older than twenty. These judgements would fuel her imagination and very soon a whole fictitious scenario would be played out in her mind with the innocent street actors being totally unaware of her personal, imaginary theatre. She would give them names, accents and social class, stammers and impediments, even emotional baggage to enhance the mind games she played. Only she heard their conversations, felt their happiness and their anguish, but then, only she cared. This belief that she was blessed with a strange power was not a snobbish affectation. She truly believed she had a gift and she could see what those around could not.
The elderly lady had been in the shop for a few minutes before allowing her fingers to run along the length of the clothes hanging on the rail like a pianist silently caressing the keys. Stopping occasionally, she extracted various sleeves, holding them against the skin of her hand before tucking them back with little regard. It was a sudden and almost brutal action that saw her extract from the collection a bright yellow blouse. Dropping her bag securely by her feet, she held the garment against her and turned to look in the mirror. The sequence of actions made Valerie grimace. That frown concealed the intrigue she felt growing. A false image came to her mind’s eye with great clarity, a mirage, hazy at first but slowly growing more clear by the second.
She pictured the woman standing in front of a small cooker in a one bedroom flat, possibly in Bradford, maybe Shipley. A cigarette was hanging from the side of her mouth. Ash fell casually like dandruff, contrasting sharply with the wisp of smoke travelling heavenward. To heaven and to hell, she said quietly to herself. The smell of stale fat and fags hung heavily in the imaginary air. Valerie could make out the curlers wrapped tightly in her hair and partly enclosed in a flower-patterned scarf to complete the mental vignette. She would know more of that place when the woman spoke. Valerie seemed to be able to glean most from her auditory sense but what she did know was the woman was out for the day and hoping to find a bargain; after all, the inhabitants of the North Yorkshire town were considered affluent and there were likely to be better pickings from their donated items than those in the shops situated in the big cities.
“That looks very nice, the warm colour would brighten any day. It suits your complexion.” Valerie’s voice seemed outwardly sincere and brought a smile to the stranger’s lips. “The lemon yellow brings colour to your complexion... It’s very flattering… As I said, it suits you.”
“Do you think so? I wasn’t too sure.” She looked across at Valerie hoping for a second helping of complimentary words. Her speech clearly changed from her normal to a more pretentious enunciation in an attempt to convey a different social standing. Her words were a little too exaggerated and Valerie knew the diction was false.
Valerie looked away momentarily but still watched the customer surreptitiously check the price tag before looking in the mirror a second time. Turning back Valerie nodded again. “Suits you, really.”
“It’s a great style, and was once expensive I bet you.” The flat vowel burst from the word, great, like truth carelessly flushed from a vocal lie and exposing the customer’s attempt at appearing refined.
Bradford, Valerie said to herself and that brought an even greater feeling of satisfaction; she was getting so accurate but she still needed the confirmation. “Did you come on the bus today?”
The shopper collected her bag before handing the blouse to Valerie.
“No, my son is working here for the day and he brought me in his…” she paused before continuing, as if she were embarrassed... “Car. It’s a new one too. He spoils me.”
“Travelled far?” Valerie placed the blouse in a recycled plastic bag and handed her the change
“No, Bradford, forty minutes, that’s all. Nice to get out into the fresh air.” The word sounded like Bratford.
Valerie could not help but repeat the word Bradford in a surprised tone but she felt triumphant inside. She had considered whether to mimic the word emphasising the mysterious letter t but decided against it.
“I only popped in to pick up a cheap brolly, left mine in the va… car.” She quickly corrected her error, but her face still flushed red.
“Sold the last one about an hour ago, sorry. We’ve had a run on umbrellas but then that’s normal when the weather proves so unpredictable. We can never get enough.”
As the customer put her change away, Valerie moved towards the door. She pulled it open, the action bringing with it the familiar chime from the small bell. “Thank you for popping in. Enjoy the rest of your stay in Harrogate and have a safe run home in the va…” she paused wanting to say van, cruelly, but stopped herself. She did, however, allow her accent to mimic that of the customer’s fake snobbish tone. It was clearly part of the game she played. The now embarrassed customer flushed red again. “…car journey home.”
Valerie watched her turn quickly and scurry up Montpellier Hill before moving back into the shop. She chuckled to herself but stopped momentarily as she realised that those brief moments outside in the fresh air had suddenly resurrected the shop’s familiar smell to invade her nostrils. It was never pleasant but she knew it could soon be banished. Over the course of the day she had grown accustomed to the compensatory, masking smell that artificially drowned the stale aroma that permeated from tightly railed, second-hand clothes. The stink, as Valerie referred to it could be temporarily banished with an air freshener. Leaning under the counter she collected the aerosol and sprayed the shop before checking her watch.
***
At the flick of the remote, the garage door juddered momentarily before beginning to rise noiselessly. It was allowed to progress until it was a third of the way up. Kevin Carruthers’s finger swiftly activated the stop button. It was enough for the average height adult to slip below and in. Kevin bent and moved forward as if to limbo dance under the door. The courtesy light had already illuminated automatically and would remain on for three minutes after the door had rolled down to the closed position; before then, the main lights had been switched on.
The internal space had been sectioned. The first quarter of the room looked like any other of the garages in the row, the exposed brick and unpainted concrete floor seemed positively austere. Three bicycles hung from metal, purpose-made brackets, screwed to the wooden rafters by their front wheels as if convicted and condemned for capital misdemeanours. Picking up a cloth he wiped the frame of the nearest and his newest bike.
There was to the right a steel clothing rack on four small, wheeled feet. Hanging from this were cycling clothes, all bright Lycra, and below on the wooden shelf, four pairs of shoes that had the appearance of tight ankle boots. He took the recently washed clothing he had brought in and hung it on hangers before adding the clothes to the rack. Other small accoutrements linked with his cycling hobby were dotted on shelves. Three posters showing images of the Tour de Yorkshire were pinned to the rear stud wall next to which was a door. It was behind this that the ambience of this garage changed.
Here the walls were lined and painted a satin black. The floor was carpeted, again in a dark colour but now charcoal grey. However, it took on a darker appearance owing to the depth of colour reflected by the walls. Along the two sides were glass-fronted, illuminated cabinets containing hundreds of small figures, each beautifully painted. To discern their features and the quality of the paintwork they would have to be studied in daylight but they were all subtly different. A table sat squarely in the centre of the room and four high back chairs were positioned at each face, the seats, tucked under, concealed below the table top. A pendulum light hung a metre above, the metal shade also black.
The most bizarre element of the whole space sat on the shelves above the cabinets and if counted, the observer would note they totalled twenty-two.
On the very far wall were shelves containing boxes of games, all orderly and immaculately presented. It was clear to any casual observer this sanctum was, to the owner at least, a very special space and one that was treated with utmost reverence. Kevin opened the second cabinet and removed a solitary figure; it was neither human nor animal. Bizarrely, he brought it to his lips and kissed it. We shall work together, and we shall be the victors, he said to himself as he tucked the figure into a small soft cloth bag before turning to the miniature security camera positioned to the left of the penultimate object along the shelf. Connected to the mains it would record, should sound or movement trigger a response. Images would then be stored on the loop of the mini disc. Normally this would give an hour’s viewing of the captured moments. In most cases there was nothing; the banging from another garage or even a wagon passing the road had triggered the camera. He had planned to install a device that would send the images to his phone on activation but the cost had proved prohibitive, besides he had no Wi-Fi connection in the garage.
Closing the inner door he moved past the cycles. “Open!” his whispered command made him smile as his finger touched the remote. He watched the door rise again and left, pausing until it had closed fully.
***
Within half an hour the shop would close and Valerie could walk back to her apartment, slip off her shoes, feed Monty the cat and have a cup of tea before getting ready. She smiled to herself as thoughts of her evening, that she had managed to keep secret, brought a flutter to her stomach. It was the first time for many months she was going on a date. Or was it a year? She checked her calendar and was surprised to see it had been thirteen months! How time was flying by. It would be nothing fancy, a stroll along The Stray if the weather continued to improve and a drink in possibly The Old Swan Hotel or The George. She was filled with an almost forgotten excitement and if she were honest, a frisson of anxiety as well; either way it was euphoric.
The sound of the doorbell broke her thoughts and two more customers walked into the shop. She smiled politely.
Valerie’s world had been exposed to new opportunities since her friend had persuaded her to join the local U3A. She had chuckled at the thought of being in The University of the Third Age. She reminded herself that apart from her Svengali gift, she had neither been clever nor motivated enough to attend a university of the first age when she was younger, let alone now when there were times she could not remember what day it was, or when she found herself standing between rooms wondering why she was there. She held that thought in her head as she bagged the items of clothing and a pair of shoes one of the customers had placed on the counter. She was going through the motions but maintained a smile, ignoring the belief that bad luck might come to those who carelessly place footwear where they had. As the customers left, the familiar tinkle of the bell seemed louder somehow as the door opened and closed, leaving the shop empty apart from its familiar aroma and the late sun’s dappled rays dancing on the empty counter. To Valerie the jittering was not unlike the butterflies that had returned to her stomach but, as it was time to close, they were even stronger than before.
Chapter Two
The players, the majority of whom were leaning away from the game table, were deep in concentration. The ambient yellow light brought a silent yet competitive air to the room. The atmosphere had changed and seemed to hang heavily like smoke as the night progressed. For one player, the game was his, the Secret card he had been dealt was clearly marked Betrayer. The others would have realised had he not possessed the skill to mask his advantage with nonchalance. As a seasoned player he knew just how to conceal his growing hold over the game. He still held his cards cautiously, maintaining a façade that concealed his strategy. Overconfidence, the wrong facial expression, a simple gesture when decisions had to be taken collectively, or wrong posture could bring about a sudden disadvantage. It was about distraction without overcompensation and the ability to watch and observe mistakes in others before taking the initiative and acting swiftly and decisively at the right moment, a time of weakness; it had to be remembered that they, the group, had many chances, he had but one. He was, however, rewarded by seeing the group’s morale score slowly falling towards the target marked on his Secret card and should it reach that then the game was his.
