The Murder Cabinet: an Inspector Constable murder mystery (The Inspector Constable Murder Mysteries Book 7) Read online

  THE

  MURDER

  CABINET

  The Inspector Constable Murder Mysteries

  Murderer’s Fête

  Murder Unearthed

  Death Sails In The Sunset

  Murder Comes To Call

  Murder Most Frequent

  The Odds On Murder

  The Murder Cabinet

  THE

  MURDER

  CABINET

  by

  Roger Keevil

  Cover design by Christopher Brooke

  THE MURDER CABINET

  an Inspector Constable murder mystery

  by

  Roger Keevil

  Copyright © 2017 Roger Keevil

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission of the publisher, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside these terms should be sent to the publisher.

  [email protected]

  www.rogerkeevil.co.uk

  ‘The Murder Cabinet’ is a work of fiction and wholly the product of the imagination of the author. All persons, events, locations, and organisations are entirely fictitious or are used fictitiously, and are not intended to resemble in any way any actual persons living or dead, events, locations or organisations. Any such resemblance is entirely coincidental, and is wholly in the mind of the reader.

  But you knew that already, didn’t you?

  To the person who first suggested to me that Inspector Constable and Sergeant Copper should appear in print,

  and to the many loyal readers who have followed them over the years,

  this book, with my grateful thanks, is dedicated.

  “In my beginning is my end”

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  The Final Chapter

  Chapter 1

  “Bit of a cliché, isn’t it, sir?” remarked Detective Sergeant Dave Copper.

  “Mmmm?” absently responded Detective Inspector Andy Constable, his attention focussed on the dead body lying before him.

  “A politician getting stabbed in the back, guv. I mean, we know journalists talk about it all the time …”

  “But you don’t expect that you’re actually going to see one in real life. So to speak.”

  “And I certainly never expected to be back in here.” Copper looked around the room at the bookshelves lining the walls. “With an actual body in the room this time.”

  “I seem to remember your rather flat-footed attempt at humour on our last visit.” Constable smiled grimly. “Which went down like a lead balloon.”

  Copper frowned. “So who on earth is going to be Prime Minister now, guv?”

  “That, sergeant, is one thing we do not have to trouble ourselves with, thank goodness,” replied Constable. “I suspect we shall have enough to do, finding out who killed this one.” He took a deep breath. “Well, I suppose we’d better make a start.”

  *

  Andy Constable stood in the doorway to his office, supporting himself with both hands against the door jamb. His face bore an expression of stunned bemusement which Dave Copper had never seen before in all the years they’d worked together.

  “So what’s the Lawless situation then, guv?” asked Copper brightly.

  “That’s Chief Superintendent Lawless to you, sergeant,” retorted Constable. “You haven’t got your promotion yet. And this is not the occasion for levity.”

  “Sorry, sir.” Copper sounded chastened. “So what’s afoot, guv?” enquired the sergeant, puzzled. “I’d hardly had a chance to get behind my desk first thing when we get sudden demands from the Chief Super for your immediate attendance, as close to yesterday as possible. I don’t think she was too impressed when I said you’d gone to the loo. Maybe she doesn’t think you ought to be doing that sort of thing on police time. And she wouldn’t say what it was about. It all sounds very mysterious.”

  “And it’s going to remain that way, as far as everyone else is concerned.” Constable shook himself slightly, and his voice filled with determination. “Right. Get your jacket on. You and me, and not a word to anyone else for the time being. I’ll fill you in when we’re in the car. We’re off to Dammett Hall.”

  “Hell’s bells!” ejaculated Copper, as the two detectives headed down the corridor towards the police station car park. “That brings back memories. It’s a few years since we got called out there, isn’t it? Don’t tell me they’ve been at it again at Château Lawdown?”

  “It doesn’t belong to the Lawdowns any more,” explained Constable over his shoulder. “Not for a while now.”

  “I remember the money side of things wasn’t too good when we were there on that other case,” mused Copper. “So what did they do – flog it off?”

  “Something like that, I gather. There was an article about it in the paper which caught my eye, just because I noticed the name. And probably the business with the murder didn’t make it the happiest place to live. So somebody bought it and turned it into a country house hotel.” Constable blipped the car door locks and the detectives climbed in.

  “And having had one murder there, somebody thought it would be great fun to have another one. Is that it, guv?” grinned Copper.

  “Yes, there’s been another murder,” replied Constable grimly. He directed a brief sideways glance at his junior colleague. “But you do not find me smiling.”

  “Oh, come on, guv,” said Copper. “Take pity on a poor bewildered sergeant. What on earth is going on?”

  “This absolutely goes no further for now, until I know what we’re facing. All I know is, it’s the P.M.”

  “Blimey!” responded Copper. “That’s jumping the gun a bit, isn’t it? They don’t normally get on with the post-mortem before we’ve at least had a chance to look at the body.”

  “Not that p.m.,” said Constable with a touch of asperity. “The P.M. - the Prime Minister.” He took a deep breath. “She’s been killed.”

  “What!?!”

  “You heard. The Prime Minister of the United Kingdom has been killed.”

  “What, murdered?” Copper was aghast. “Sorry, sir – stupid question. Of course it’s murder – why else would we be on our way there? But … why us, for goodness sake? I mean, wouldn’t the Prime Minister be up to her ears in police and security and whatnot?”

  “You’d think so. But in this instance, apparently not. So somebody somewhere is probably going to catch a very severe cold when this is all over. But for the time being, the whole thing is being kept under very tight wraps. Something to do with not announcing anything while the European stock markets are still open. Somebody extremely high up has leaned very heavily on the Police and Crime Commissioner, who has leaned on the Chief Constable, who has leaned on the Chief Super, who had nowhere
to go but lucky old us. And since we knew the Dammett Hall turf from the previous case …”

  “As you say, guv, lucky old us.”

  “We have the rest of the day to sort out what we can. After that, the whole thing goes public, and the big battalions rush in.”

  “No pressure then, sir.”

  “None at all,” agreed Constable with a taut smile.

  “Guv,” ventured Copper after a brief and reflective silence. “Sorry to sound stupid, but I don’t get it. I mean, you know me and politics. I don’t follow them at all. So you’d better help me out with a bit of background, or else I’m only going to show you up when we start asking questions.”

  Constable sighed. “Another tutorial? I should have gone into teaching. Oh well – it’ll fill the time till we get there.”

  *

  The previous two years in British politics had certainly lived up to the ancient Chinese curse about living in interesting times. Following a controversial result in a referendum about a major issue concerning the country’s future, a general election called to resolve the matter had ended up with an even more confusing picture. Massive recriminations followed, and all the major parties were convulsed with a period of bitter in-fighting which led to the dissolution of many old allegiances and the forming of some surprising new ones. Favourites to succeed to the party leaderships rose and fell with breathtaking swiftness. Freshly-formed parties, some of them coalitions of people from every part of the political spectrum, emerged, and in the second general election which followed swiftly on the heels of the first, the Alternative Alliance Party swept unexpectedly to power. Headed by its charismatic leader, Doris Ronson, former mayor of a major northern city, the party held an overwhelming majority in Parliament, although its claim to be bringing an entirely new face to British politics was somewhat belied by the number of familiar faces from several of the old parties who now occupied the seats around the Cabinet table.

  As Britain’s third woman Prime Minister, Doris Ronson was a godsend to the media. Dubbed ‘Diamond Doris’ by the tabloids – to those who loved her, the title was an accolade as the female ‘diamond geezer’ of the masses, whereas to those who loathed her, it was a condemnation of her resolutely adamant stance in certain areas of policy – she was instantly recognisable, with her mop of unwillingly-tamed grey-blonde hair, her trademark trouser suits in a startling range of colours, and her businesslike bustling walk.

  “So what’s she doing at Dammett Hall?” asked Copper. “Do prime ministers often go off to country house hotels? And you said there was nothing in the way of security. Please don’t tell me she’d sneaked off for a naughty weekend.”

  “From what I gather,” replied Constable, declining to react to his colleague’s implication, “it was supposed to be a secret meeting of a group of ministers away from the prying eyes of the TV and press. Some sort of unofficial inner cabinet, I think. But don’t ask me exactly why – apparently there are wheels within wheels, and everybody is being very tight-lipped about the whole thing.”

  “I still can’t figure out why Dammett Hall, guv. I mean, prime ministers have got their own official country house for this sort of thing, haven’t they? So why couldn’t they use Chequers?”

  “Death Watch Beetle in the timbers, I believe. I’m told half the roof’s off, so for some reason they picked Dammett Hall as a suitably discreet alternative venue.”

  “Putting us on our very own death watch. Great!”

  “Copper,” said Constable severely, “I suggest that in the context of the situation, you make strenuous efforts to keep your well-known sense of humour under rigid control. People may not be as understanding as I, lord help me, have had to be over the years.”

  “Right, guv. Sorry, guv,” responded Copper humbly. “So who’s running the country while all this is going on?”

  “The Deputy Prime Minister, I gather. He’s probably sat behind a desk in Downing Street at this very moment with his head in his hands waiting for us to tell him what’s been going on. So, let’s not disappoint.”

  After passing through the village of Dammett Worthy, it only took a minute or two to reach the gates of Dammett Hall, where the car was halted by a familiar uniformed figure standing in the opening.

  Constable lowered his window. “Well, well. Collins, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right, sir. Fancy you remembering me after all this while,” smiled Robbie Collins.

  “I’m hardly likely to have forgotten our last meeting,” said the inspector. “Although I notice a set of stripes that wasn’t there when I was here before. Congratulations on the promotion.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Sergeant Collins. “Well, I won’t hold you up. You’ll be wanting to get on up to the house. I was told to expect you, although I don’t really know what’s going on. Some sort of trouble up there, they said, and nobody’s to get past me without authority. Oh, and I’m to expect the police doctor as well.” A speculative look entered his eye. “So does that mean …?”

  “Let’s just say, Collins,” replied Constable, “that it seems that you and I are fated to be brought together again by the discovery of a dead body at the Hall. And you didn’t hear that from me.”

  “Right you are, sir. Understood.” Collins stepped back and gave a smart salute as the detectives’ car pulled past him and headed up the drive, past the sign in elegant lettering reading ‘Dammett Hall Country House Hotel’.

  As the house came into sight, Andy Constable reflected that Dammett Hall appeared completely unchanged from his first visit. The soft red brickwork with its accents of creamy grey stone at the corners, the dormer windows, the cluster of tall chimneys, all still exuded an air of unruffled calm. The lone monumental cedar still graced the sweep of lawn which fell to the lake. But at the foot of the steps which led to the front door sat the familiar prime-ministerial limousine, with a formidable black security SUV in attendance. At the sound of the approaching car, a female figure appeared at the front door of the Hall and descended the steps to greet the new arrivals. She appeared to be in her mid-forties, with a sturdy build and grey-brown hair cut in a short businesslike style. Her dark grey suit was well-tailored, and her shoes of the kind best described as sensible.

  “Inspector Constable?” She held out her hand as the detectives emerged from the car. “How do you do? Thank you for getting here so quickly. I’m Sheila Deare – head of the P.M.‘s security detail.”

  Constable shook the proffered hand. “How do you do, Miss … Mrs …?”

  “Inspector. But call me Sheila, please.”

  “Andy.”

  “Andrew?”

  “Andy,” reiterated Constable firmly. “And this is my colleague, Sergeant David Copper. You’d better call him sergeant, or else he’ll start getting ideas above his station. Although having said that, you may not have the chance to call him sergeant much longer, if the results of a certain set of exams come through. So, what’s all this about?”

  Sheila’s reply was forestalled by the sound of a further set of wheels crunching on the gravel of the drive, as a rather battered-looking Volvo estate drew to a halt alongside the detectives’ vehicle, and a plump jolly-looking man climbed out.

  “Andy!” he cried in greeting. “I have the strangest sense of déja-vu!”

  “Morning, doc,” said Constable. “We meet yet again. But yes, I’m afraid Dammett Hall is apparently hosting another dead body which requires your attention.”

  “Not in the garden again by any chance?” asked the doctor. “If so, I think I can remember the way.”

  Constable raised his eyebrows in enquiry. “Inspector … Sheila?”

  “No, doctor. The … er … the victim is in the library.”

  The doctor mounted the steps to the front door. “Which I take it will be through here and …”

  “Third door on the right,” chorused the detectives in unison, before sharing a wry grin.

  “I’d better get on, then,” said the doctor. “You coming, An
dy?”

  “Be with you in a second, doc. I need to talk to Inspector Deare here to find out more about the current set-up.”

  “And do we have any idea who the victim is?”

  “Oh yes, doc,” replied Constable heavily. “We do. You’ll soon see.” He declined to say any more and, with a frown and a slight shrug, the doctor disappeared into the house.

  “We may as well go inside as well,” said Sheila, following in the doctor’s wake and stopping in the centre of the hall. “I don’t know where you want to begin. I’ve got the man who found the body – he’s the general manager of the hotel, and he’s stashed away on his own in his office. And it all happened before any of the ministers had come down for breakfast, so I’ve got them all to stay in their own rooms for the time being. That’s pretty much it. There’s been nobody else in the house since last night.”

  “What, no staff? In a place this size?”

  “Normally there would be, yes, but the P.M. wanted as few people around as possible, so other than me, there’s just one chap from the Number 10 catering staff.”

  “And you weren’t staying in the house?” Constable was incredulous. “I’d have thought that, as the P.M.‘s security officer, you’d have stuck to her like glue.”

  “And so I would normally,” replied Sheila Deare, “but orders were, nobody but the P.M. and the ministers at the house last night, and there weren’t any spare bedrooms available here anyway, so the P.M.‘s driver, the waiter and I stayed overnight at the pub in the village. The driver’s still down at the pub - the waiter and I arrived this morning at pretty much the same time as the general manager appeared, and he was the first one into the library where he found Mrs. Ronson.”

  “At which point, no doubt, all hell broke loose?” surmised Constable.

  “Absolutely not,” retorted Sheila firmly. “We can’t afford to panic in this business. So the waiter was sent into the kitchen with strict orders to stay put, the manager’s in his office in the old butler’s pantry as I said, the ministers are all upstairs, and I was on to my boss at the Met within about five seconds of checking that there wasn’t a great deal of point in calling for an ambulance.”