Submission Details

Who Is Bruce Taylor?
Who Is Bruce Taylor?
Max Robberts
Comedy
Yes - full manuscript is available


Set in 1985 to a backdrop of Duran Duran and Denim deodorant, Who Is Bruce Taylor? is a country-house, murder-mystery, serial-killer, gangland, mistaken identity, kidnap, whodunnit, comedy, love-story. Michael Lucas, multi-millionaire entrepreneur and owner of Lucas Group Communications, had lived a life fuller than most; but now it was over. Detective Chief Inspector Hinton Ampner and Detective Sergeant Jack Hughes insist that he took his own life but Michaels daughter, Kate, is adamant that this is murder. Michael may seem to have led a charmed life but, when it comes to his death, there are plenty of possible suspects: Kates step-mother, Jane Lucas; gangland boss, Frankie Molloy; ex-fighter pilot, "Polish Eddy Kretovic; computer pioneer, Brian Braeburn and fabulously famous actor, Antony Cleopatra; perhaps even Kate herself or even Bruce Taylor. Richard Hartley, junior reporter with the Sweffling and Saxmundham Herald and Free Advertiser Incorporating the Peasenhall Crow, feels as though his life has yet to begin. He and Michael Lucas had never met but their stories are set to become intertwined as Richard is kidnapped; beaten; followed; arrested; released; incredibly tired; afraid of ghosts he doesnt believe in; desperately in need of a wee and in love with Kate. Despite all this he brings his unique knowledge and skills to bear on the case and almost manages to solve it. He also comes up with an answer to the question that everyone is asking: "Who Is Bruce Taylor?

Chapter One
CHAPTER 1 On a still, soft and silent late-winters morning in the crypt-cold countryside around Wolverton Manor, the spiders webs sat jewelled with dew as the early light tried with all its insubstantial might to break through the heavy curtains hanging at the half-open French windows of the study and into the room where everything was clinging to the gloom of the long night. A light breeze let past the suns first rays; they turned each speck of dust into a tiny dancing star and played in jubilation on every surface. They gambolled on the bloodstained, leather-inlaid desk, they skipped across the lifeless, staring corpse; and they danced on the gaping, oozing exit wound. Michael. A voice called from somewhere high in the house. Michael didnt respond. Michael, are you down there? The voice called as its owner arrived at the top of the sweeping dark staircase. She was tall and blonde and wearing peach coloured silky nightwear that owed more to central heated comfort than winters mornings. Jane Lucas started to walk down the stairs for the very first time as the widow of the late Michael Lucas. She made no sound on the carpet, never looking for the next step. Her silent slippered feet noiselessly flowed across the hall to the painted door of her late husbands study. She tried the handle, Are you in there, Michael? Given what we now know of Michael Lucas, millionaire entrepreneur and owner of the Lucas Group, it is unsurprising that he did not feel that he was in a position to confirm to his widow that he was in his locked study. He had been in the habit of working late and sleeping in a spare room, of which there were many, just to avoid waking his beautiful wife. On occasions he would just curl up on the sofa in his study and it wasnt entirely unknown for him to sleep right there at his desk. Early in life hed learned to sleep when he was tired, regardless of where he was. He was not, it has to be said, in the habit of dying from a gunshot wound in the hour before dawn and today, having done this, his routine was a little disturbed. Jane Lucas continued to search their home for her missing husband. The Victorian architect of this house had clearly made a list of all possible rooms and had sat at his drawing-board, scratching his be-whiskered face and attempting to sketch a plan which could include them all. Sitting room, drawing room, kitchen, scullery, dining room, billiard room, orangery, boot room, game larder; hed squeezed in every one, as well as adding a couple of rooms that hadnt even had names. Over the intervening century, tastes had changed and a downstairs cloakroom and utility room had been added; all seemed today to be completely devoid of Michael Lucases. The only possible conclusion that Jane Lucas could come to, knowing what she did of her husbands habits, which was not as much as she assumed, was that he may have fallen asleep whilst listening to some music. She headed to the front door, pulling on a coat over her nightdress and robe. Leaving the warm house was like entering a cold, calm church on a summers day; the sudden stillness and keen frigidity a shock to the early senses already struggling with the day. If he still had the headphones on he might not be able to hear her. She wasnt sure why the door was locked but she was certain that her reasoning must be sound and that this must be the answer. Yes, thats it. She said to herself. Of course, that wasnt it at all. She shivered and crunched her way around the house to the French windows of her late husbands study; they were locked but there was a small gap in the heavy velvet curtains. Jane peered into the study and fainted.     Who Is Bruce Taylor?  PAGE \* MERGEFORMAT 2 Y, dXiJ؇(x$( :;˹! I_TS 1?E??ZBΪmU/?~xY'y5g&΋/ɋ>GMGeD3Vq%'#q$8K)fw9:ĵ
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Chapter Two
CHAPTER 2 Richard Hartleys alarm clock buzzed for the sixth time as the red figures on its face moved from eight-fourteen to eight-fifteen. He hit the snooze button one more time and then opened one eye, just to make sure that he hadnt hit it too many times already. Bollocks. He had. He threw back the duvet and regretted it, as a very cold February morning hit him with its full force; but at least he could now be certain that he wouldnt go back to sleep. Coffee. He moved to the kitchen with all the grace and control of a day old foal on roller skates and, just as an unconscious almost involuntary reflex, jabbed at the top of the radio until the slightly too loud sounds of Duran Duran accompanied his coffee making, Richard had been a fan of Duran Duran since Girls on Film came out; or, to be a little more precise, hed been a fan since the video to Girls on Film came out but, as they warbled: try-i-i-i-i not to bruise it, buy-i-i-i-i time dont lose it into his morning, he found it very hard to remember quite why-i-i-i-i. Mornings were never his best time, even when things werent actually going wrong, which he found that they did with an almost reassuring regularity. The heating in the flat had a habit of reflecting the weather perfectly, seeming to make it colder in winter and warmer in summer. The hot water could be relied on not to adequately match at least the first half of that description on three mornings out of any seven; though it played it footloose and fancy-free with which days it would choose. Richards car failed to start on about a quarter of the occasions it was needed, sometimes refusing to start all day, and then, for no apparent reason and despite his total lack of attention and mechanical knowledge, starting first time as though that was the most normal thing in the world to do. Even the day itself could also be a thing which Richard found difficult to start and he never quite knew why an alarmingly large number of his days failed get going, altogether. He had to be honest about just how elusive the window of time which he would label as his best could be to track down. Afternoons werent a great deal better than mornings and evenings could often be a total write-off; at night he slept. So, in all honesty there was, at best, ten minutes somewhere around noon in which he could truly hope to be at his best. As the kettle came to the boil he stared vacantly out of the kitchen window at the still slushy yard below; two dustbins and someone elses cat were his only view. His reluctance to rise from bed this morning and enthusiastically greet Tuesday was, on the whole, understandable; given the days and weeks and months and now even years which brought him here. His previous day at work had mainly involved doodling on a pad, this had only been interrupted and punctuated by taking two or three tedious telephone calls, he couldnt even be sure that today would include the use of the telephone. His evening had been even less memorable, if such a thing were possible. He had a vague memory of Terry Wogan interviewing Elton John about his marriage to Renate Blauel on Valentines Day the year before but, beyond that, he could remember nothing of his evening at all. Work supposedly consisted of being a reporter for a local newspaper and he could still remember why it was hed wanted to do that. It seemed like the chance to bear witness to interesting things as they happened; to be part of the world; to go to new places; to meet all sorts of people and, perhaps, do some good. Perhaps the job never really offered that or perhaps it still did but he was no longer looking. We, all of us, only ever see what our feelings let us see and Richards heart wasnt in the job any more; in fact, he couldnt really remember when it last had been. It was no real surprise, then, that he couldnt summon up a great deal of enthusiasm for a day of muchthesameness. Worse than all that, it was Tuesday; dreary, dreadful Tuesday. The weekend was as distant a memory as childhood and Friday lay behind the two great peaks of Wednesday and Thursday; as high as the Himalayas. As he showered that morning in the bathroom that only seemed to get above freezing on the three days in the year, of which this was definitely not one, he could hear Mike Read playing the new Phil Collins song on the radio in the kitchen. What kind of name is a Su Su Sussudio, anyway? He had a definite feeling that he was walking up the down escalator of life. When a man is in his twenties, surely he should have more to show for his life, he should have more to do than doodle all day and stare at the television all evening, he should have excitement and adventure. Richard could have blamed where he lived and, if you live in a big city, you might imagine that small provincial market towns have little to offer a young man in his prime. You have no idea just how right you are. He couldnt blame where he lived, though; he knew with some certainty that if he lived in Tokyo or Berlin he would spend the evenings in much the same way; he just wouldnt understand the telly. It was just after nine when he arrived at the offices of The Sweffling and Saxmundham Herald and Free Advertiser incorporating the Peasenhall Crow, not the catchiest of titles, especially if you have to answer the telephone a hundred times a day. Richard felt as though he had been there for almost a century but, in reality, it wasnt even quite six years since he had joined as a trainee cub reporter and yet, with dizzying speed, he had managed to work his way up to the giddy heights of junior reporter. Still writing the Local Cat Makes Good and the Man Passes Driving Test stories to earn his crust and pass his days. To be honest the Sweffling and Saxmundham Herald and Free Advertiser incorporating the Peasenhall Crow didnt really have many stories that were much more exciting than the Man Passes Driving Test number. In fact, the last good story anyone could remember was the infamous Peasenhall Murder, that had been marvellous; lots of gory details, loads of scandal, intrigue and mystery, theyd dragged the story on for weeks. Mind you, that was in the early summer of 1902, so it was perhaps time for another. On the morning that Boeing 727 Alhambra de Granada crashed on approach to Bilbao killing all 148 on board, Richard might, at best, hope to write about a fire in a dustbin behind the shops in Leiston High Street. After a few good mornings and a not entirely successful attempt to avoid the gaze of the editor, Richard was soon at his desk, which was its usual clutter of paper. His almost perennially absent colleague, Peter, said that a tidy desk was the sign of a disordered mind but Richard knew that a cluttered desk was the sign of someone who could not be arsed tidying up; the psychology was no more complicated than that. Cluttering this desk up was about the kindest thing that he could think of doing to its chipped-formica dullness anyway. Richard loved desks: antique desks; art deco desks; Victorian davenports; early-American secretaries; arts and crafts bureaux; he loved them all. Late-sixties formica-topped functional furniture didnt quite do it for him, though. Not all of the clutter was his own, people added clutter as they passed this space; it seemed to be that part of the building where thoughts that no-one else had the time or inclination to entertain any longer could come to rest a while, undisturbed; all trickling down through the newspapers staff until they arrived here. His desk was usually the penultimate resting place for all of these things without an obvious home and for all the stories which had proved too uninteresting for others to follow up. There really wasnt much further for them to go, the only obvious next and very final stop being the rubbish bin; which was often where they went. Richard had been known to tackle the occasional book review to liven up his day and books which had found their way into the building unbidden were often thrown into his workspace for him to largely ignore. This morning he had three volumes lying on his uninspiring desk; a history book called From Sarajevo to Potsdamm, a slim volume about the New Zealand cricket teams tour of India in the mid-sixties and a history of the San Francisco 49ers; American football was becoming quite a popular sport amongst those who watched the brand new Channel 4. He flicked idly through the detritus on his desk and found one typewritten sheet which really caught his eye; it was titled Huey Lewis and the News. Richard was not particularly musical and fell into Thomas Beechams definition of an Englishman: they may not like music but they are often quite fond of the noise it makes. He was quite proud, though, of being a Huey Lewis fan mainly because no-one else in Saxmundham in February 1985 had a clue who Huey Lewis was and Richard was fond of things which no-one else was, often losing interest if they reached any real level of popularity; though he tried never to wonder why. He read through the article, which was entirely about how Huey Lewis wasnt Huey Lewis name at all and there was absolutely nothing newsworthy in the article whatsoever. He skimmed without thinking, without really reading, through a couple of the books. His eyes noticing the words but his brain barely bothering to wrangle with the meaning. Before long he was settling down to a really good stare out of the office window at another average February day in Saxmundham. The sky was now grey, with clouds like an army surplus blanket forming a makeshift shelter for the town. The streets were grey and covered in the greying slush of the recent snow, the shops were grey, the people were grey. Richards life itself seemed a more or less uniform shade of grey; life and the clouds hanging heavy. Today seemed destined to be another yesterday and yesterday had been much like the days before and, before them, yesterday, yesterday, yesterday. And what of his tomorrows? An endless line of todays forever and forever into the future? None of the people he saw seemed to notice that the days were ticking by and their lives had yet to begin. Perhaps they didnt feel like Richard, perhaps this was actually how they wanted all their days to pass. He, on the other hand, knew that soon, surely, his life must really begin.     Who Is Bruce Taylor?  PAGE \* MERGEFORMAT 2 Y, dXiJ؇(x$( :;˹! I_TS 1?E??ZBΪmU/?~xY'y5g&΋/ɋ>GMGeD3Vq%'#q$8K)fw9:ĵ
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Chapter Three
CHAPTER 3 After finding Mrs Lucas unconscious and Mr Lucas rather conclusively dead, the gardener, Clive Hamilton, had decided that it might be a good idea if he called the police. He had half spied a grisly scene through the French windows, one in which his employer now had rather too much of his insides on the outside. Clive realised that it was probably best to leave this to the boys in blue. He hadnt seen a mess like that since the war and the forty intervening years had done nothing to lessen the horror of seeing someone you knew in that state. The police arrived just as Jane Lucas was regaining consciousness, they agreed that calling them had been a very good idea indeed and were very happy to be given an excuse to drive fast and use their flashing lights so early in the week. So, Detective Chief Inspector Ampner leant against the fireplace in the drawing room and alternated his gaze between the woman sat, pale and trembling, in front of him and the view across cold lawns through the long windows to his right, you didnt notice anything untoward at all last night? No, Chief Inspector, Jane lifted the bone china cup to her lips and sipped the sweet tea, nothing at all. And you didnt notice that your husband was, shall we say, missing, until what, nearly eight this morning? He looked out into the distance, to the trees, in what he hoped might be the direction of the golf course. Michael often worked late and then slept either in his study or a spare bedroom so that he wouldnt disturb me. She was feeling decidedly groggy this morning and she had only had a couple of glasses of wine last night; it must be the shock. In his study? Hinton Ampner sounded as though he didnt believe her; she wasnt to know that Hinton Ampner always sounded as though he didnt believe you. He didnt mean to, really he didnt, but nearly thirty years of being told unbelievable things does that to a man. Sometimes he hated the way in which he sounded disbelieving, inquisitorial and accusatory in equal measures. It didnt make for an easy life and an easy life was, without doubt, Hinton Ampners highest aim. Yes, he occasionally slept in his study, on the sofa I suppose. Jane answered. You suppose? See, disbelief and accusation at every turn, he couldnt help it. Yes, it was his study, his domain; no-one ever went in there except him. He would occasionally allow it to be dusted or vacuumed but, other than that, no-one ventured in. He would sleep in there sometimes and the only reasonable place to sleep was on the sofa; so I suppose that is where he slept. She hated her use of the past tense, it sounded so unfair in so many ways. Could, you tell me, maam, did your husband own a gun? He knew that people were rarely honest when the police asked about guns and, if they were, they generally regretted it later, when theyd had chance to think a little. He had an old wartime thing, I dont know if it still worked, to be honest, Chief Inspector. I see, maam. Well, if it was the one he was currently holding in his cold, dead, rigored grasp. Do you know what kind of gun it was? I think he said it was a Russian one, I dont know about these things. Of course not, had you seen it? Yes, once or twice. Can you remember what it looked like? Whether it had a magazine or a chamber, like the guns in westerns. Oh, now I really dont know, it looked like a gun to me. Big, heavy, dark, wooden handle. Did you ever see or hear it being fired, maam? No, no Chief Inspector, as I said, I didnt know it worked. Jane shook her head, partly to re-inforce what she was saying but also in an attempt to clear it. Thank you maam. DCI Ampner continued to stare out of the window; giving the impression of thinking hard. His steel grey hair and matching eyes gave him an intense quality which he would have been quite amused to learn of; particularly as he was thinking about golf. Its odd what peoples faces do when theyre not really concentrating on them: the sharpest minds can look quite stupid and the most agreeable and gentle souls can seem fierce and forbidding. Hinton finally tore his gaze from the window and his thoughts from distant golf, looking directly into Jane Lucas reddened eyes. So, you last saw Mr Lucas at precisely what time, Mrs Lucas? Just before I went to bed, about eleven last night. I read for some time and then went to sleep. I didnt wake up until after seven this morning. And there are no witnesses to that? His mind still only half on the questions. Certainly not Chief Inspector. Jane Lucas could now feel the tears starting to well up in her eyes and her bottom lip starting to tremble. Er, no, of course. DCI Hinton Ampner wasnt one of the police officers whod enjoyed the chance of running around the countryside with lights and sirens; hed had enough of that a very long time ago. Hed become a policeman in the mid-nineteen fifties and had worked hard for twenty years to get to a place where he wouldnt have to work too much for the last ten years of his service. Now, with only a matter of months to his pension, he really didnt want that to change; least of all here, at this house. He excused himself and walked back to the study to see if he could find an even slightly plausible excuse to go home and take the rest of his career off. He could almost smell retirement; weekdays playing golf and weekends watching Worthing Football Club. If he had ever been a man of ambition, and he wasnt certain that he had, then this was its zenith: golf, football and the odd pint. Well Ted, what do you make of it? DCI Ampner asked of the man who knelt beside the late Mr Lucas walnut desk and tried to pick something up with a pair of tweezers. Well, its an open and shut case, really. Teds eyes were bleary, he blinked to try to clear them. It looks like he was shot at very close range, certainly close enough for him to have done it himself. Any burns or powder marks? Hinton Ampner narrowed his grey eyes at the tweezers Ted was still holding. No sign but it looks like its some fancy army revolver, Ive seen one like this somewhere before, really good gas seal, probably wouldnt be anything anyway. Is it, by any chance, Russian? I think youre right, guv. Ted was never surprised by Hinton Ampner coming up with things like this because he did so quite regularly. DCI Ampner was a man who didnt seem to try too hard, largely because he didnt, but he was still a good copper and was almost universally held in high regard. So, suicide is a possibility whether there are marks or not? Ampner asked; really kicking the idea around his mind, it made the most sense, in light of the evidence. I guess so, Ted nodded, no note? No, I bloody hate it when they dont leave a note, selfish bastards. So, whats your gut feeling? DCI Ampner asked. For what its worth, he peered intently at the tweezers for a few seconds before he realised that they didnt hold anything, I think theres every reason to believe its suicide. He didnt try very hard to make it look like anything else. His own gun, a locked room, I cant imagine any other answer. DCI Ampner looked around the study. What about the table? Kicked it over to throw us off the scent. Perhaps there was something in his mind; make it look like murder, less scandal, more insurance money. Not a very convincing job or maybe he got drunk first, bit of Dutch courage, and knocked it over. I dunno, you never know what these people are thinking. Anyway, youre the bloody detective, not me. Yeah, well, perhaps there isnt that much detecting to do here, eh Ted? Where do we go from here? I suppose well have to wait for the PM, see if hed been drinking, might be a start. Guess so. DCI Ampner nodded. There is one thing though. DCI Ampners eyes narrowed ever so slightly, this time actually concentrating on the matter at hand. Theres not a lot of blood. Ted Olsen had seen enough murder scenes to know that there was always far more blood than you expected, even when you thought youd seen enough murder scenes to expect the right amount and expect not to expect as little as you were expecting. DCI Ampner looked at the brain splattered Highland scene, the congealed blood that had run down the wall beneath it and formed a large patch on the carpet, echoed by the small puddle on the green leather of the desk, beneath his head. How much do you want, Ted? Okay, theres plenty of blood, but not enough, a little goes a long way and this is only a little. There never seems to be the right amount, Ted. Perhaps this is one of those with less than you expect. Not indoors, theres always plenty of claret indoors, same as in cars; always seems like gallons of it in cars. What about the carpet, good quality carpet probably soaks stuff up. Maybe, well see. Ted conceded. Okay, youll let us have the full report? He didnt wait for the answer but moved just a few feet away and then spent some time looking at the body of Michael Lucas, staring at him as though he might come back to life for long enough just to give him one clue. It would be great if they could do that. In fact, Hinton Ampner would have liked two clues, one about this death and one about a death a long time ago. Hinton Ampner had never once in thirty years had any difficulty being around dead people; which, given the number hed spent time with, was handy. Some of his colleagues were less relaxed with cadavers but he had realised right from day one that dead people dont really look like people who are dead. A dead dog looked like a dog that had stopped; a dead badger on the side of the road could just be sleeping, albeit very heavily. A dead person, though, looked like something else entirely; like a waxwork figure or a grotesque doll but not like a person at all. The study was starting to fill up now, as well as Ted Olsen and DCI Ampner there were two uniformed constables trying to look as though they had a purpose, a scenes of crime officer taking photographs, two undertakers shuffling and waiting, three detective constables and Dr. Alfred Featherstonehough, the force surgeon, who had been called to confirm death even though having most of the inside of your head on a picture behind your desk was enough to convince most people that you were definitely dead. Policemen love rushing to the scene of a supposed crime as fast as they can, even if its not clear what theyll do when they arrive. A dead body was even more fun as it allowed you to call lots of other people who could come rushing to the scene to stand around with you. What do you think Doc? Hinton turned to Featherstonehough who was fastening up his case. I think hes dead. Featherstonehough had not got to be force surgeon by making contentious statements. Yes, Id got that. How? The gunshot wound to the head would do it. Any idea when? Hinton tried to coax some more from the doctor. Oh, its recent. Recent? Ten minutes? Ten days? Within living memory? This was like getting blood from a Featherstonehough. Id be very surprised, he ignored the policemans insolent attempt at humour, if it was more than six hours and probably less; its a cold room, though but probably after four this morning, Id say. And, what are your thoughts? Suicide? Murder? Yes, one of those no doubt, though Im no detective. Must be off now, see you soon Detective Chief Inspector. Featherstonehough grunted as he bent down to pick up his bag, his bulk a testament to just how well he managed to ignore the advice that he gave to all of his patients. Yeah, thanks Doc. As DCI Ampner walked back to the drawing room he knew full well that there was more than enough to suggest that this was a suicide; it was, without a shadow of a doubt, the most immediately obvious answer. A locked door, his own gun, that was suicide but there was something; a shadow hanging over Wolverton Manor. Perhaps not a shadow of doubt but one of uncertainty, of guilt, of recrimination, of death. Excuse me maam, DCI Ampner walked back into the drawing room, could I just have a quick word please? Yes Chief Inspector? Jane hadnt moved from the sofa. This is very difficult. DCI Ampner started, hed learned a long time ago that things were made a lot easier if you started off by telling people how difficult they were. We have to consider all possibilities here and well, looking at the initial forensic results. Shifting the blame ever so slightly made him comfortable enough to sit in a chair by the fire. Well, can you think of any reason why your husband may have considered taking his own life? No, Jane was quite adamant, that was ridiculous, surely? I dont think that my husband would have done that, Chief Inspector. He had no reason to want to kill himself at all. He was a very happy and contented man. Of course, its very early days and very difficult to tell but initial indications do point towards the possibility: the locked doors, the fact that he was holding the weapon and it seems to be his own gun, he was shot at extremely close range. There were other reasons which he thought it best he didnt add. Oh, I see. Well I... she paused and her eyes clearly stopped focussing on the policeman for a moment, ...I really cant think of any reason why he might do that. Of course, my husband never discussed any of his business interests with me, Chief Inspector. So if he had any worries relating to them I wouldnt really know the specifics. Well, I will certainly look into that fully, miss. Specifics he didnt need, motive was motive whether you understood it or not. I dont really think that my husband had any financial problems though. Jane recognised that, though she had always felt secure, she would never have known if Michael were worth a billion pounds or stony broke. Of course, Im sure our investigations will bear that out. He could have had worries from a long time ago, perhaps even before you met, these things are sometimes very deep rooted. I may not have known his business but I knew my husband, Chief Inspector. And, in this, she felt that she was on unshakeable ground. Yes, maam. They all thought that. If he had a pound for every time someones actions were entirely out of character then he wouldnt have to wait for his pension. I will investigate it all fully, though, rest assured. Very well, Chief Inspector. Jane Lucas stood up and walked to the door. Hinton guessed that he was being shown the way out and got up to follow her through the hall to the front door. Goodbye, Chief Inspector. Thank you. Jane Lucas said as DCI Ampner stepped outside into the rather grim daylight; the sun now, quite wisely, hiding behind the accumulating clouds. Well be finished here as soon as possible Mrs Lucas and Ill be in touch as soon as. . . The rest of the sentence was lost on Jane as she shut the large oak door in the policemans face. His Detective Sergeant stood waiting for him by the car. Do you really think that it was suicide, guv? Detective Sergeant Hughes had already heard the rumours from inside the house. The three fastest methods of communication known to man being telephone, television and tell a copper. Looks that way to me, Hughes, looks that way to me. I know that there was no note but his study was locked and it was his own weapon. This is the real world, Hughes, not some second rate detective novel, locked rooms really are locked rooms. Now lets go and get something to eat, I missed breakfast for this.     Who Is Bruce Taylor?  PAGE \* MERGEFORMAT 8 Y, dXiJ؇(x$( :;˹! I_TS 1?E??ZBΪmU/?~xY'y5g&΋/ɋ>GMGeD3Vq%'#q$8K)fw9:ĵ
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