Entry for the 2007 Theakston’s Old Peculier Crime Writing Festival competition
The stranger looked up from his pint of Old Peculier. “I knew her," he said. “That lass who died in the Crown Hotel.” Laurence sighed. No such thing as a quiet drink in a station bar.
“The lass who died this morning. Haven’t you heard?"
“No."
“Anita Fitzgerald, she called herself. Plain Ann Foster when she worked in our chippie, before she went to drama school. Anyway, she got a few walk on parts in the soaps. Have you ever been on the telly, by the way?"
“Occasionally, yes."
“Thought I’d seen your face somewhere. Well, you won’t be short of a bob or two. Buy me another pint and I’ll tell you all about it."
“Oh, very well. Barman!" What harm could it do? Laurence had some time to kill before his train was due.
“Ann’s big break came when she got a part in the West End, but she was fired for upstaging the leading lady, who had some kind of breakdown. Attempted suicide. Ann couldn’t get any work after that, until an invitation came for her to do a murder mystery weekend. Part of a corporate event. At least, that’s what she told the police. With her dying breath, that is."
“It must have been a long breath."
“It wasn’t a quick death, poor lass. She’d been told that several actors were booked into the Crown as ordinary guests, each with separate notes on their roles.”
“Standard procedure, surely?"
“Hardly. Not when the hotel staff knew nothing about it. Anyway, the police found the script in her bag. Usual kind of thing. Family fighting over a will. Love triangle. Mysterious stranger. Colonel Mustard in the library with a dagger. Except it was Miss Fitzgerald in the Ripley Restaurant with a tomato juice."
“Shocking," said Laurence. “Well, I must be on my way." His dear wife was due on stage in a few hours and he never missed a first night.