Twelve Thrilling Tales Page 2

  As Jan was putting up an advertisement for a new waiter in the window of the Brown Sugar Cafe she thought to herself how stupid she had been to be fooled so easily by Jason’s – or, rather, Benny’s deception. He had seemed such a quiet nice young man, who had kept himself to himself. She never dreamt he wasn’t who he said he was. However, Jan never really knew anything about Benny’s life outside work.

  Better luck next time, she said to herself, with the appointment of a new full-time waiter. She would be sure to check their identity and paperwork very carefully. Despite the scandal, business at the cafe was booming even more than usual.

  The Brown Sugar Cafe nearly turned into Black Treacle, with all the excitement of the local crime incident.

  The Murder Mystery Weekend from Hell

  Pete and Anne were good companions. They fancied a weekend experience with a difference. Pete booked a murder mystery weekend at the Old Swan Hotel in Harrogate. The scenario was a country house gathering of family and friends to celebrate a birthday.

  Pete and Anne arrived at the Old Swan Hotel to check in for two o’clock on Saturday afternoon. They went up to their room, unpacked and made their way downstairs to the lounge for afternoon tea at three o’clock. This was the first part of the murder mystery experience. Pete and Anne mingled with the other guests, some of whom were actors. They began to listen and look out for clues. Anne had a small notepad and pen in her handbag. When she or Pete thought they had discovered a strong clue Anne made a note of it for later reference.

  “This is fabulous, Pete,” remarked Anne enthusiastically, as she tucked into her afternoon tea.

  “Good. Have you spotted who the actors are yet, Anne?”

  “I think I’ve identified two or three of them. Did you observe anything, Pete, when you scanned the lounge?”

  “I noticed that the old chap sitting by the bar passed a note to a tall young man wearing a bright blue jumper. Don’t know whether that’s significant… ”

  “Well, I’ll jot it down, Pete.”

  The murder mystery weekend coordinator, Dan Johnson, suddenly appeared in the lounge.

  “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. You are welcome to go off now and enjoy some free time in Harrogate. We meet again tonight in the Library restaurant at seven thirty sharp for dinner. It will be formal dress.”

  Pete and Anne walked in the Valley Gardens. On their way back to the hotel they went into the art gallery. Pete spotted the tall young man in the bright blue jumper.

  “Oh, look, Anne. It’s that young man I saw in the lounge at the hotel taking the note from the old chap at the bar. Shall I ask him what was in the note, just in case it’s a vital clue?”

  “If you really must, Pete.” Pete went over to the tall young man.

  “Excuse me… I saw you earlier at the afternoon tea at the Old Swan Hotel. I don’t know if there was anything relevant written in the note that the old chap at the bar passed to you, was there?”

  The young man turned around to face Pete and replied, “I’m not at liberty to discuss any action you may have observed earlier with you now.”

  Anne apologised.

  “Sorry. Pete thinks he’s Hercule Poirot, and does have a tendency to take his powers of detection too far.”

  “No worries. See you later this evening.”

  The tall young man walked quickly to the exit of the art gallery, where he promptly made a call on his mobile phone. He appeared rather agitated.

  “I wonder who he was speaking to, Pete,” remarked Anne inquisitively.

  “I don’t know, my love. Let’s make our way back to the hotel.”

  “OK, Hercule,” joked Anne.

  Pete and Anne made their way downstairs to the Library restaurant. They were shown to their places at the dinner table by Dan Johnson. Pete sat next to the old chap he had seen at the lounge bar during afternoon tea. Anne was sitting next to a blonde-haired woman in a skimpy black dress. When Dan Johnson introduced the main murder mystery characters it turned out that the old chap was Lord Haversham and the young blonde was Susie Manning – girlfriend of Ralph Haversham, the youngest son, who just happened to be the tall young man.

  As the dinner progressed and the wine flowed endlessly the conversation became more animated between the guests and the actors. Pete was like Hawkeye, never missing a move, or an aside, from any of the murder mystery characters.

  Anne thought the maid who was waiting at table resembled someone she knew.

  Just at that moment Pete slumped face first into his dessert. Everyone stopped eating and turned towards Pete. Anne gave Pete a nudge, but he didn’t stir.

  “Oh, my God,” said Anne. “What has happened to my boyfriend? He can’t be dead… surely not?”

  The maid waiting at table dropped the empty dessert plates she was carrying. One of the waiters rushed to help her rescue the fragments of crockery strewn across the carpet. Ralph Haversham got up and left the room.

  Dan Johnson was mortified. He asked everyone to go to the Library bar. Anne insisted on staying with Pete until the police, the doctor and the paramedics arrived.

  “This wasn’t supposed to happen,” explained Dan Johnson to the diners. “Lord Haversham was to be the murder victim. I must ask you all to remain here, as the police will want to ask you some questions about the evening’s events.”

  Anne was still sitting next to Pete in the Library restaurant. She was traumatised by what had happened. Anne suddenly remembered who the maid waiting at table reminded her of. It was a long-lost acquaintance called Rachel. Of course… Anne had heard she was working as a film extra. Perhaps she might know something. If only she could catch Rachel’s attention and speak to her. This had turned into the weekend from hell for Anne.

  Anne was moved to a smaller, private lounge. Close examination of Pete’s body by the doctor and the police inspector revealed the cause of death as poisoning.

  Pete’s body was taken away to the police mortuary. Witness statements were taken from all present, including Anne. The hotel and grounds were searched extensively for the missing actor, Ralph Haversham. He wasn’t found.

  When Anne eventually returned home and entered her house Rachel and the tall young man who played Ralph Haversham were sitting before her in the lounge.

  “Hello, Anne. We thought you wouldn’t want to return to an empty house… So sorry your twit of a boyfriend got Lord Haversham’s poison by mistake. He really was becoming a threat, going on about the note,” remarked Rachel.

  The tall young man pointed a gun at Anne.

  “We can’t let you live, either. Goodbye Anne.” He shot Anne. She fell down on to the lounge floor. After taking Anne’s notepad from her bag and removing all traces of fingerprints – and the gun – Rachel and the tall young man vacated the house via the back door.

  “Phew! Those amateur sleuths nearly blew our cover. If they had found out what was written on that note we would both be doing time now at Her Majesty’s pleasure,” remarked Rachel.

  The note written by the old chap at the bar, which he handed to the young tall man, had said,

  I’m watching you and your girlfriend, who is playing the maid. I should have informed the police a year ago about how you murdered that wealthy old lady at Sunnyside Mansions.

  Don’t let history repeat itself tonight.

  Garden Makeover

  Fred and Nora Bates looked out of the window of their bungalow onto their rain-sodden garden.

  “Not ideal weather for the start of our garden makeover, Nora,” exclaimed Fred, a retired escapologist.

  “No, indeed it isn’t,” replied Nora.

  At that moment two large transit vans pulled up outside the front of Fred and Nora’s home. Written across the side of each van was CREATIVE GARDEN ANGELS.

  “My goodness,” remarked Fred, “I didn
’t imagine the garden makeover we won in the magazine competition would be such a big job.”

  “It will certainly give the neighbours something to look at over the next few days,” said Nora.

  The front doorbell rang. Fred went to answer it. Standing before him was the most gorgeous garden angel he had ever seen. She looked like a Pre-Raphaelite goddess.

  “Good morning. I’m Jasmine Hollis, from Creative Garden Angels. You must be Fred and Nora Bates.”

  “That’s correct,” replied Fred, mesmerised by the delightful young red-haired beauty standing before him.

  “May I come in and share the provisional plans for the garden makeover with you both before the groundworks team make a start?” asked Jasmine.

  Fred, Nora and Jasmine viewed and discussed the provisional plans for the garden makeover. There was a unanimous agreement about the location of the pond, with its impressive water feature. This was to be located in a corner of the back garden. Jasmine explained to Fred and Nora that a small excavator would be used to dig the eight foot long by three foot deep hole for the pond liner. The earth removed from the pond site would create the raised flower beds in the front garden. The project would be completed within four days, irrespective of the weather.

  Work commenced on the preparation of the garden’s main areas for redesign and redevelopment. Creating the pond with the water feature was the largest aspect of the garden makeover project.

  The small excavator made its way into the back garden. It was driven by a surly-looking giant of a labourer. He had been subcontracted by Jasmine. He wasn’t a full-time member of the groundworks team.

  Fred and Nora kept an eye on progress from the bungalow windows. The team of six groundworkers, which included Jasmine, appeared to work efficiently together.

  Nora kept the gardeners supplied with hot drinks and biscuits throughout the day. Fred was considered to be very lucky to have such a treasure of a wife as Nora.

  The nosy gardening neighbour from hell, John Partridge, regarded himself as the Alan Titchmarsh of Winkleton. He kept an equally close eye on the work from over his garden fence. He couldn’t resist trying to disrupt the work of the Creative Garden Angels with his unhelpful comments about how they should be doing the garden makeover.

  Jasmine Hollis just about managed to keep her patience while remaining polite towards the interfering busybody and know-it-all. John Partridge, who had entered the same gardening competition as Nora and Fred, felt very aggrieved that he hadn’t won it.

  Day two of the garden project saw an improvement in the weather. The pond area was still waterlogged. Therefore the day was spent landscaping the gardens and planting out new shrubs.

  “I’m a bit disappointed that work on the pond has stopped,” remarked Fred to Jasmine.

  “Don’t worry, Fred. The team will focus their efforts on the pond construction tomorrow,” replied Jasmine.

  The remodelled garden was really beginning to take shape. Fred took a walk over to the pond site before bedtime to check if the area was less waterlogged.

  The light from the full moon was sufficient for Fred to see by. Just as Fred leant forward to peer down into the deep hole he felt an almighty blow strike the back of his head. He went dizzy. He fell head first into the pond pit, and lost consciousness.

  Some time later, when Fred regained consciousness, he felt an overwhelming dampness from the earth on top of him. It was pitch black. Soil was up his nose, and in his eyes, ears and mouth. He felt the unbearable, heavy weight of the damp soil on top of him crushing his ribs and pressing on the sides of his head like a vice.

  Fred tried to move his arms and get his hands free. It was no good. The weight of the wet earth was defeating him. Despite Fred having previously been an escapologist, he suffered from taphephobia – the fear of being buried alive in the ground. It was no use Fred panicking, as he knew that the more he struggled the greater would be the damage to his body. His bones would break, his eyeballs would pop out of their sockets, and he would suffer brain damage.

  “Please don’t let me die all alone in the darkness,” choked Fred, as he lay still and frightened. No one came. No one heard Fred.

  The next morning, when the Creative Garden Angels arrived on day three, they were surprised to get no reply when they rang the front doorbell. Jasmine went around to the back and knocked on the kitchen door. Her knock remained unanswered.

  Jasmine thought it most unusual that Fred and Nora were not in. Perhaps they had gone out somewhere and had forgotten to tell her.

  Never mind. The team will make a start on creating the pond, she decided.

  The pond liner was brought across the lawn and laid down at the edge of the hole. The hosepipe was connected to the external water tap in preparation for filling the pond with cold water once the pond liner was secured. Jasmine peered over into the three foot deep hole that had been dug out. To her amazement, she saw a mound of earth lying at the bottom.

  How did that get there? she wondered. Jasmine wasn’t very impressed with the work of the subcontracted labourer. She called two of her groundworkers over and asked them to shovel out the earth. Within three minutes of them starting to dig they called Jasmine over. To her horror, the body of Fred Bates lay there motionless in the bottom of the pond pit.

  “Oh, my God. Is he dead?” enquired Jasmine.

  “Yes, I’m afraid he is,” replied one of the groundworkers. “I’ll telephone the police.”

  “Leave the body exactly where it is,” said Jasmine.

  Twenty minutes later a police car arrived outside the bungalow. A forensic team followed closely behind. John Partridge, the neighbour, had spotted the police. He rushed out to his back garden fence and asked what was going on.

  “Nothing to concern you, sir. Please go back inside,” requested Detective Inspector James.

  The forensic team and the police doctor got on with examining the body. The doctor confirmed, with the inspector, that the deceased had received a blow to the back of his head – which was most likely to have been done with a heavy metal implement, such as a garden spade. The blow to the head would have caused the deceased to lose consciousness. In turn, he would have suffocated and died under the weight of the wet earth. Further examination of the body, back at the mortuary, would provide more conclusive information about the exact cause and time of death.

  “It doesn’t look good. We have a murder enquiry on our hands,” remarked Detective Inspector James. Statements were taken by the police from Jasmine, and from the groundworks team. The hired labourer who operated the excavator would also be questioned later, with the neighbours. The police knocked at the back and front doors of the Bates’s bungalow, but got no reply.

  “We will come back later on to speak to Mrs Bates. In the meantime, I would request that the garden makeover ceases. The garden is now being treated as a crime scene. It will be sealed off immediately,” instructed Detective Inspector James.

  Creative Garden Angels packed up their equipment and vacated the garden.

  A police search was launched for Nora Bates, who had failed to return to the bungalow. The operator of the excavator was also missing. Local gossip in the neighbourhood was rife, as John Partridge took great delight in spreading nasty rumours about the demise of Fred Bates. Creative Garden Angels moved on to another project.

  A month later the Winkleton Herald reported that the police had unearthed further evidence to prove that Jim Grimes, the excavator operator, had murdered Fred Bates. Nora Bates was an accessory to the crime. Both were still at large.

  An international manhunt was now under way. The motive for the crime was still unknown. However, it had come to light that Jim Grimes had briefly been an escapologist, and an ex-boyfriend of Nora Bates.

  Double Deal in Nice

  Neville Kent, senior property representative – who works for Graham Chase
, managing director and owner of Kent Chase International Properties, based in Knightsbridge, London – is feeling fed up. Graham Chase enters the office looking pleased with himself.

  “Good morning. What’s making you look sorry for yourself, Neville, on such a beautiful sunny morning?”

  “Morning, Graham. I didn’t realise I looked so glum. I was thinking about Leoni. How, over the last month, she’s been going out for long, lazy lunches with her female friends and shopping until she drops at Harrods and Fortnum and Mason’s. When she gets home she is too exhausted to cook the evening meal, and we end up getting a takeaway meal.”

  “That doesn’t sound like my daughter Leoni’s usual behaviour,” remarked Graham.

  “I wonder if the magic is beginning to vanish from our marriage. It’s been ages since Leoni and I went away together,” muttered Neville.

  “Why don’t you take Leoni to Nice for a few days this week to rekindle your romance? It’s quiet in the office at present.”

  “That’s a wonderful suggestion, Graham. I’ll get on with booking our flights and hotel now, if that’s OK with you?”

  “Of course it is, and enjoy yourselves.”

  As Leoni finished the last of the packing for the surprise Nice trip with Neville she gave Pierre Le Roi a quick call on her mobile phone.

  “Hello, Pierre, my love. I haven’t got long to chat. Absolute disaster is about to happen. Neville’s booked a three-day break in Nice. It’s supposed to be rekindling our sham of a marriage! How are we going to be able to carry out the plan for that property deal you mentioned in Nice with Neville around?”