Page 22 of A Village Theatre Murder

‘Excellent, that’s very helpful. Thank you for reminding me, Hector. Yes indeed. Let me see where I can put you.’ Roger looked back down at his notes. ‘I’d like you to take over Guy’s role, if you can?’

‘The Postman?’ Hector said, incredulous. ‘You want me to play the Postman?’

‘It’s short notice, I know, but we all have to do our bit, Hector. I’ll take over as prompt for the performances. You’ll be fine.’

‘Could I have a word?’ Hector said, dropping his voice to a stage whisper. ‘In private.’

‘In a moment. First…’

‘I can’t be back here. I can’t be in the play – I’m a murderer!’ Oscar said loudly. ‘I killed a man. I pulled the trigger and shot a man.’

‘Oh, Oscar,’ said Julia, placing a calming hand on his shoulder. She could feel his body shaking uncontrollably. ‘It was not your fault, it was an accident.’ She might have had her suspicions about Oscar, but seeing how distressed he was, she felt sure now that this was no cold-blooded murderer.

‘You heard what the police said: there’s no such thing as an accident…’ He gulped for breath. ‘I know that. I’m a lawyer, aren’t I? Family law, but still. Anyway, I’ll be disbarred. And rightly so! I discharged the weapon. The man that pulls the trigger is the murderer, that’s what the law says. I know the law. I shot the gun.’

Oscar made a horrible rough gasping sound. He was in a full-blown panic attack, or perhaps even a more serious breakdown.

Julia thought about what to do. Oscar was becoming hysterical. ‘Shall we take a little walk and get some air, Oscar? It might clear your head, calm you down.’

‘Don’t you see, Julia? I don’t deserve to be calm. I killed Graham Powell and I will take the punishment. There was a time I wished him dead and now heisdead. At my hand, don’t you see? I am going to turn myself in. It’s the only way. I must be punished. It’s the only road to redemption. The law requires redemption.’

Every member of the group had their eyes fixed on the rambling, raving man, and with the exception of Julia, they appeared to be struck dumb.

Oscar jumped to his feet, his eyes glittering. ‘I must see that detective at once. I pulled the trigger. I pulled the trigger…She must know me for what I am…I shot the gun…’

He started towards the door muttering, ‘Air…I need air…And the police…I’m going to the police…’

Julia didn’t know what to do, but she knew she couldn’t let him leave alone in that state. She stood up. ‘Well, if you insist on turning yourself in, Oscar, I’ll keep you company.’

12

Oscar had calmed down from the height of his panic attack, but his anxious pacing across the police station waiting area and his occasional low muttering was driving Julia a bit mad. Cherise, the desk officer, had phoned DI Hayley Gibson, who was apparently close by.

‘She asks that you wait for her. She won’t be more than a few minutes,’ said Cherise pleasantly, as if it was the most ordinary thing in the world to have a man, who had just a few days before been brought in for questioning and sent on his way, arrive at the station pacing and muttering and demanding to be arrested for murder.

And here they were, waiting. Oscar, Julia, and a young woman in a rust-coloured hijab, rolling a sweet little boy in a pushchair back and forth, back and forth, his eyelids almost closing, and then fluttering open. Julia had overheard the woman telling Cherise that she had heard a scraping noise and come out of the hardware shop to find a deep scratch running the length of her car. Whoever had hit the car had driven off, but she could see from the paint scratchleft behind that it was a red car. ‘Bloody tourists,’ Cherise had muttered, listening to the story.

Julia envied the young mum her comparatively small and manageable problem, although it doubtless felt overwhelming and stressful to her.

Julia sighed quietly at the loss of her own imagined day of applying her mind to the vexed question of who on earth could have wanted Graham dead. You would imagine that sitting in a police station with a man who wanted to turn himself in for the crime would have solved the issue, but it very much didn’t. If anything, Oscar’s episode was making it clear that he was the least likely suspect.

Instead of hunting down clues, she found herself in an uncomfortable moulded plastic chair in the police station, surveying the informative posters and announcements on the noticeboard, in the company of the one person that she was almost sure wasnotthe murderer. Given her surprisingly regular visits to the station, Julia had already read all of the posters multiple times, and internalised their messages:Don’t fall for Internet scammers!andBe Fire Aware!andWe’re recruiting! Join Cotswold Police in servingyourcommunityandPhone numbers you should know. She sighed again.

You volunteered to come, she told herself sternly,and quite rightly. The man needs your help.

But not from the police. What he needed was medical or psychological attention. Julia had an idea. She got up and said quietly to Oscar, ‘Going for a breath of fresh air. I’ll be right outside the door.’

Oscar nodded in a disinterested sort of way, and walked back in the direction of the noticeboard.

Once outside, Julia phoned Sean. It was a long shot – if she was lucky, she would catch him between patients, or on his mid-afternoon tea break. She was in luck.

‘Julia, hi. I was going to call you this afternoon. I’m sorry. It’s just been so frantic with Jono and I meant to…’

She cut his flustered apology short. ‘That’s fine. No need for an apology. I need a bit of advice.’ She explained the situation in two or three quick sentences.

‘Oscar is a patient of mine,’ Sean said, a little reluctantly. Julia supposed that, strictly speaking, even admitting that was a breach of patient–doctor privilege. ‘If he’s prepared to come and see me, I’ll fit him in today. Perhaps a chat and a mild anti-anxiety medication might help.’

‘Thank you.’

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