twenty-three

Belinda had told Rex where Darrell Brewster lived with his mother in Littleover, a village a few miles southwest of Derby city centre, and he drove straight there, only to find no one home.

Mrs. Doreen Brewster was a widow, Belinda had informed him, and was employed as a clerk for the post office. She must still be at work, he realized, but rang the bell again for good measure, hearing the tinny chime behind the door of the stark brick bungalow. Still no human sound from inside the house. Rex decided to drive out to the Old Rectory, unannounced, to find Trey. The police probably still had Trey’s phone and Rex felt he would get more out of the young man if they could talk in person, away from Ada and the others, and on his own turf.

Brick row houses, old churches, and seedy shops passed by his open car windows as he drove into downtown Derby among a stream of rumbling buses and honking cars and taxis. The air in the Renault was close and fume-ridden. He temporarily released his seat belt and wrestled out of his jacket. The AC was in dire need of a tune-up, yet another item on his to-do list.

Finally, he left the city behind, proceeding north on Alfreton Road into the countryside. A cleansing breeze blew in through the windows as he sped along to the sound of the radio tuned into a classic rock station. His mood lightened and his thoughts flew to his forthcoming honeymoon and recent wedding. So engrossed was he in memories of the ceremony that he drove past the sign for the Old Rectory and had to execute a three-point turn in the wooded lane.

He headed back to the open ornamental gates and followed a gravel driveway flanked by lawns and rhododendron bushes to a square, mid-Georgian house, the mellowed red brick, stone quoins, and parapet draped in ivy. His tyres crunched to a stop beside Trey’s blue BMW, and he got out and stood for a moment surveying the residence. Though not as grand as many country homes he had seen in Derbyshire, the Old Rectory had clearly belonged to a well-to-do parson, and he could readily visualize carriages pulling up to the gabled portico entrance that was supported on a pair of white pillars.

He climbed the short flight of steps to the smart black door surmounted by a fanlight with intricate radial tracery, and pressed the brass bell. No one answered, but it was a sizeable house, and he surmised Trey could be in the deepest recesses of it. He waited several minutes before trying again. Just then, he heard the clopping of horse hooves coming from beyond the residence and headed in that direction.

In a cobblestone courtyard stood two pure-bred stallions with sleek brown coats and flowing ivory tails, waiting docilely while their riders dismounted. One of the individuals was a teenage girl in jodhpurs and riding boots, a blonde ponytail cascading down the back of her polo-neck jersey from beneath her black velvet hat. Her companion, similarly dressed, he recognized as Mr. Reddit’s niece. Both watched warily as he approached. A white-and-tan Collie emerged from the group and sat down, drooling and panting, at his feet. Rex guessed it had gone out with the riders.

“Hello, Miss Shaw. And you must be Trey’s sister,” he said, stopping a safe distance from the horses, harbouring a childhood distrust of the equine breed and not wishing to startle them. They eyed him sideways, their tails swishing at the flies that beset them. “I’m Rex Graves, an acquaintance of your brother. I tried ringing the doorbell. Is he around?”

“I’m not sure. We just got back from a trek.” The girl was tall and fine-featured like Trey, with the same pale, lightly freckled skin. “Is his BMW parked out front?”

“It is.”

“Then he can’t be far.” She handed her reins and riding crop to Bobbi. “Could you see to Brett for me? Thanks.”

Bobbi led the two horses towards the stables on the far side of the courtyard while the girl took Rex to a back door of the house, which opened outwards before they could reach it.

“Mr. Graves here has been looking for you,” she told her brother in an annoyed tone of voice.

“Sorry,” he said to Rex. “I looked out the window and didn’t recognize the car.”

“It could have been for me,” his sister reproached him.

“It could equally well have been the press. Mr. Graves, please come in—and excuse the mess. Abby, you go and help Bobbi.”

Trey retreated into a clay-tiled mud room, which housed a rectangular stone sink and an old wooden table covered with trowels, packets of seeds, a stack of flower pots, and a pair of women’s gardening gloves. An assortment of anoraks and fleece jackets hung from an iron coat rack. Wellington boots, galoshes, fishing tackle, and a Badminton net lay in a mildewy heap below the outdoor garments. Clearly, the Atkins family embraced the country life with open arms.

Rex followed the young man into a spacious flagstone kitchen featuring an eight-ring gas burner range in stainless steel, above which a collection of pans dangled in order of size beneath the giant hood.

“I was surprised to see Bobbi Shaw here,” Rex said, planting himself in the middle of the floor. “Although, come to mention it, her uncle did tell me she liked horses.”

“She helps out with ours, mucking out and exercising them when my parents are away. I’m getting tea for everyone. Will you join us?”

“Gladly. When is your mother due home?”

“Tonight, thankfully.” Trey filled a kettle at the farmhouse sink. “Abby is being a right little brat, as you can see.”

“She’s at that age, I suppose.”

“No consideration for anyone but herself.”

While Trey busied himself with the tea, Rex walked over to a large bay window and stood for a moment contemplating the walled vegetable garden, where spring cabbage and radishes sprouted in the tilled earth, and raspberry canes grew in orderly rows. It was hard not to make comparisons between this comfortable property and the modest bungalow where Mrs. Brewster lived with her son.

He leaned back against the window sill. “You must think I keep turning up like a bad penny, but I spoke to Cassie’s aunt this afternoon and she was able to confirm a suspicion I had regarding a certain Darrell Brewster, and I hoped you could enlighten me further.”

Trey, a glazed pottery teapot in one hand and two matching mugs in the other, halted in his tracks on the way to the knotted pine table by a second window. “Did she tell you he’d been stalking Cassie?”

“Aye. It’s relevant information, don’t you think?”

Trey continued to the table and set down the items. “If he were still in England,” he agreed, “but he’s not.” He looked directly at Rex, his chiselled face evenly lit by the natural lighting from the window. “Although it did cross my mind that the call you received might have been him calling from the States. That would be just like him, to impersonate me.”

“The call came from a petrol station not far from here, on Sunday. And the caller did sound a bit like you.”

“You’re saying he’s here? In Derby?” The young man’s Adam’s apple moved as he swallowed. “He can’t be.”

“I don’t know for certain. Penny showed me a photo she received from him on Friday morning, taken of him in Hollywood with the iconic sign in the background. But the picture might have been photo­shopped. When was the last time you saw him?”

“Wednesday, at the dress rehearsal. He was filming it.”

“Excuse me?” Rex asked in surprise. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. He was standing towards the back of the hall with a tripod-mounted camcorder.”

That at least made sense since the play had been recorded in a wide shot. Rex tried to picture Darrell videoing the rehearsal as it unfolded onstage; the would-be murderer behind the lens, perhaps.

Trey stared out of the window, as though not really seeing the view. “It was his parting gift, he said. And a memento for him to remember us all by. And now you’re saying he never left?” He turned around to face Rex.

“I didn’t know he was still around on Wednesday,” Rex mused aloud, his mind busy with time sequences.

“He hadn’t been by in a while, and he didn’t come to the pub with us afterwards. He said he had to pack for his flight in the morning.”

“I thought Ben had shot the dress rehearsal, since he was the one who gave Penny the DVD.”

“Ben had to work backstage with Bill. There’s a lot goes on behind the scenes.”

“Apparently,” Rex said with irony, recalling the events of opening night.

Trey flopped into the chair at the head of the table. “It was him. Darrell. He shot Cassie,” he said in a stunned voice.

“First we need to prove he was still in Derby on Friday.” Rex took a seat on the cushioned pine bench running the length of the table beneath the window. “Tell me exactly what happened between him and Cassie.”

Trey straightened in the chair. “She’d dumped him, but he was not ready to give up. Darrell Brewster has a massive chip on his shoulder. He acted like everything was cool, but I always felt it was just that—an act. There was an incident early on in our relationship where a figure dressed from head to foot in black jumped onto the bonnet of my car as we were leaving a restaurant. I swerved, almost hitting a wall. As it was, he left a dent in the bodywork, which I had to get fixed. Cassie was terrified. At the time, I thought it was a mugger and I called the police.”

“Was he arrested?”

“No, he ran off, and although Cassie said she knew who it was, we couldn’t prove it. That’s when it all came out about the stalking. It was apparent he was trying to scare me off, but she said she wasn’t going to let him get between us and she assured me she could deal with it. I suggested she apply for a restraining order, but she said it wouldn’t be fair to him because then he’d essentially be banned from local theatre, as it might look like he was harassing her.”

“Was it not a wee bit awkward with the three of you in the same play?” Rex enquired. Darrell must have felt the sting of losing the role of Henry Chalmers to Trey, her new boyfriend. On the other hand, taking a lesser part had kept him close to Cassie, and perhaps he had hoped to win her back.

“We played down our relationship so as not to provoke him, even though it had been over between them for months. But then he seemed to take an interest in Susan, which was a bit odd, considering the age difference and the fact she’s married, but, whatever. It was a relief to us both.”

“Especially as Susan had been sweet on you?”

A blush spread over Trey’s well-defined cheek bones. “I never encouraged her. And, anyway, she got over it. It’s not uncommon to take a fancy to someone you’re supposed to have an emotional connection with in a play, especially since you’re working so closely together. That’s why so many big-name actors end up in relationships with their co-stars.”

“Which often fail,” Rex remarked, “no doubt because the illusion doesn’t live up to reality. Another thing: could Darrell have stolen Cassie’s mobile?” Perhaps her stalker had left texts on it that he would have preferred the police not find in the event of her death.

Trey’s gaze drifted across the room to the white-washed wall. “It went missing Thursday night,” he said wonderingly. “Cassie rang me at around eight and said she was going to watch TV with her mum. When I phoned her the next morning, her mobile went straight to voicemail. She finally rang me on Joanna’s phone to say she had misplaced hers, although she was sure she had left it in her room after we had spoken the night before.”

“Her aunt told me she thought Darrell had been in her room before and had ripped up some of her clothes. Could she have left her bedroom window open?”

“It’s possible. They don’t have air conditioning in the house, and she made do with a floor fan.” Trey’s chin dropped to his chest. “She never mentioned about the clothes. I suppose she didn’t want me going after him. There’s probably loads more she didn’t tell me. I can’t tell you how happy I was when I found out he was going to LA and could be gone for months.” He wrung his hands in his lap, a pained expression on his face. “It’s hard to admit I wasn’t able to protect her. If it was him, I’ll never be able to forgive myself.”

At that point in the conversation, Trey’s sister burst into the kitchen from the utility room, accompanied by Bobbi, both in their socks and bringing in with them a whiff of the stables.

“Where’s tea?” Abby scolded. “Oh, my God, I have to do everything myself.”

She disappeared into the pantry while Bobbi stood by gawkily, fluffing up her short auburn hair which had been flattened by the riding hat.

“Bobbi,” Rex said, breaking the strained silence. “We were discussing Darrell Brewster. How well did you know him?”

Her eyes slid first to Trey, who remained unresponsive at the table. “Pretty well, I suppose,” she said in her husky voice. “He had the role of Father Brown originally but had to relinquish it when he got the chance to be in a hospital drama on a major American cable network. He wasn’t at the community centre much these past weeks, but he came by last Wednesday to say goodbye to everyone. We were all sorry to see him go.”

Trey lightly raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. Abby breezed back to the table and plonked down a round tin containing walnut cake and a cutting board holding a loaf of bread. She then strode to a refrigerator disguised behind a distressed wood door panel and extracted a butter dish and a pot of homemade jam covered with a brown paper lid, which she likewise deposited on the table, directing an exasperated look at her brother.

“Mr. Graves, shall I get you a plate?” she asked politely, suddenly remembering her manners.

“Thank you, but I should probably get going. I have another stop to make.”

Trey stirred from his chair. “I’ll see you out.”

He led Rex through the house, past a billiard room, and into a harlequin pattern marble-floored hallway in black and white, where a heavily carved oak staircase wrapped the walls and rose to what originally could have been a small minstrels’ gallery.

“How can I reach you?” Rex asked at the front door. “Have the police returned your phone?”

“Not yet. I’m making do with a pre-pay.” Trey read out the number, which Rex entered into his phone. “Are you going after Darrell?”

“I need to confirm where he is first.”

“He has an agent in Manchester. I don’t have a name, though.”

“Thanks. I’ll be in touch.” Rex gave Trey a paternal clap on the shoulder.

As he approached his car, a call came in from Mike Fiske. Rex stopped on the gravel to better hear what the inspector was saying. Christopher Ells had been released on police bail. No snuff films had been found on his hard drive, and Timothy Holden, unwilling or unable to provide further information, had been allowed to leave the station the previous night.

“I had hoped to be able to make an announcement to the press today, but we don’t have a solid enough case,” the inspector said ruefully.

“I may have something.”

“Well, don’t keep me in suspense.”

“I have a few more enquiries to make yet.” Rex felt he had already stuck his neck out with his theory. He did not want to be caught with egg on his face if Darrell Brewster proved to have been in LA since Thursday. Before leaving the Old Rectory, he rang Helen to enlist her help.

As he drove back to Derby, Billy Joel’s “Only the Good Die Young” floated over the airwaves, reminding him of the sentiment Helen had expressed on the opening night of the play after news of Cassie’s death had come out. What a waste, Rex lamented. What a tragedy.