The Poisoning in the Pub

Twenty-Nine

It was nearly midnight when the phone at Woodside Cottage rang. Jude was in bed, but not yet asleep. Her mind was still full of the news she had received from Carole, of Greville Tilbrook nearly witnessing Ray’s murder.

The caller was Kelly-Marie. “It’s something bad,” she said.

Carole hadn’t been asleep either – in fact, she had been sitting in her nightdress, finding her way with increasing fascination around the laptop she had inherited from her daughter-in-law. When she got Jude’s call, she immediately said that they should both go to Copsedown Hall. Apart from anything else, it would be quicker in the Renault. Not all the roads in Fethering had street lights, and they didn’t want to be stumbling around in the dark.

So they both threw some clothes back on and set off together.

Kelly-Marie was standing just inside the door, waiting for them. She was wearing a flowered cotton dress, which made her look even more like a child. It was presumably the Sunday best she had put on in the morning to go and have lunch with her parents.

“Viggo? Is it something to do with Viggo?” asked Jude, as the girl let them in.

Kelly-Marie nodded. “I wasn’t sure who to call. I thought I’d call you first.”

“Very sensible.” Quickly she introduced Carole. “Where is he?”

“In his room.”

She limped ahead of them up the stairs. “Are the other residents around?” asked Jude in a whisper.

“Asleep. They have to work in the morning. I don’t think they heard it. Only me. His room’s next door to mine.”

There was only a safety light on on the landing, but Jude could see that the door to Kelly-Marie’s room was closed, and the one to Viggo’s was ajar. The girl lingered outside, unwilling to enter, while Jude and Carole went in.

Given what lay in the armchair, it was surprising that Carole and Jude could take in any other detail of the room, but they were both aware of shelves upon shelves of DVDs and videos, arranged in a surprisingly organized way. On the table in front of the armchair stood a laptop computer, its screen opened but blank. The floor was littered with empty Stella Artois cans.

The entry wound on Viggo’s right temple was neat and had only dribbled a little. Blood from the exit wound, though, splattered over the armchair, sofa, walls and shelves of DVDs.

His right arm had dropped down over the side of the armchair. Just below it on the floor lay the revolver.

As the two women moved forward, pressure on an uneven floorboard was sufficient to jog the laptop screen out of hibernation. The image on the screen had been frozen, the DVD paused. Carole saw the haggard faces of men under pressure in a sweaty bamboo cage.

“The Deer Hunter”, Jude murmured. “The Russian roulette scene.”

Carole looked down. She knew nothing of guns, but she could see the number of bullets, the backs of which showed in the revolver’s cylinder. Every chamber appeared to be full.

“Not very good odds for Russian roulette,” she observed.