Category Archives: Drama

Arts, Drama

Drama: ‘A Run-In With Death’

Dar es Salaam safari park, Tanzania.

Danyon Loader broke through the finishing tape and collapsed in a heap on the track. Reporters and photographers rushed around him and, looking up, Danyon couldn’t make out their faces because of the stadium floodlights. He gasped to catch his breath. His coach shoved his way through the crowd and bent over.

“You all right Danyon? That was a good run! I’m proud of you – you did it!”

He helped Danyon up, put one arm under him and carried him down the tunnel to the dressing rooms. His feet were bruised, but otherwise he was fine. He smiled at the coach.

“I did it Pete, I really did,” he said.

A few days later, Danyon was at his London flat, drinking coffee and flicking through some travel brochures. The prize money for winning the 10,000 metres, his first professional win, was sitting in the bank. He could finally afford that holiday he’d always dreamed of – a month’s safari in Tanzania.

A week after that, he was all set. At Heathrow, he boarded his plane and, ten hours later, walked out of Dar es Salaam airport into the blinding sunshine. He took a taxi to the Holiday Inn and tried to sleep off his jet lag. He was woken by reception, who told him that his guide was waiting in the lobby. The clock said 10am.

The man waiting for him introduced himself as Ngoko and they shook hands. They had coffee together in the morning room where Ngoko laid out a map and pointed to all the best places to go and see the big five – elephant, lion, leopard, rhino and cheetah. To Danyon, all of it looked wonderful. He nodded and told Ngoko that he was in his hands. Ngoko arranged to pick Danyon up the following morning and said goodbye.

Recommended Reading: The new DCI Banks novel.

Danyon went to his room and packed his boots, a pair of ‘dusters’ to wrap around the lower legs, a thermos flask, a wide-brimmed hat and a pair of high-strength binoculars. The following morning, Danyon was ready and waiting outside the Holiday Inn as Ngoko pulled up in a dusty old car. Danyon put his stuff in the back seat next to a large rifle and got in. Ngoko was dressed completely differently, he now wore khaki from head to toe instead of the shirt and trousers he’d worn yesterday. They drove west out of Dar es Salaam and soon hit the open country. Danyon sat back enjoying the hot African sun on his back and the wind in his hair.

On the way, Ngoko explained that there were many more animals in the wild now that international laws prevented poaching. But, he said, there was the new threat of poachers kidnapping or even killing foreigners for their money or their car. That’s why he used the same old car, he said patting the steering wheel. “This old baby’s been going for years,” he said.

The next few days were bliss for Danyon. By day, they drove deeper into the savannah, watching lions, leopards and cheetahs from afar through the binoculars and taking photographs. At night, Ngoko chose a place to stay and they pitched camp, built a fire and prepared the evening meal. In their sleeping bags, Ngoko told Danyon stories about the African wilderness and Danyon listened, amazed.

tanzania-safar

Dar es Salaam safari and surrounding off-beaten tracks and roads are littered with the fiercest animals on earth. Lions, tigers and leopards, for instance, roam freely in search of prey.

ON the fifth day, they had just struck camp and driven off when the car suddenly stopped. Ngoko tried to start it again, but nothing happened. He looked at the petrol gauge and noticed they had run out of petrol. “No problem,” he said, “I have a spare can.” He got out, opened the boot and took out a jerrycan. It was empty. Ngoko looked at the can and discovered a hole in the bottom. “Oh my God,” he said.

After the initial panic, they looked at the map and calculated they were 27 kilometres from the nearest town, where there was a petrol pump. They had enough food, but there was only enough water to last one person for a day. They had planned to return to town before the day’s end to replenish their water supply. There was a moment of silence as each man thought of the alternatives. Finally, Danyon spoke.

“Look, one of us has to go to the town to get more petrol. I’m an experienced runner, so I should go. It’s that simple.”

Ngoko looked at him and swallowed. “It’s a long way,” he said.

“I know. But there’s no alternative.”

Ngoko nodded.

“I’ll take half the water in my flask and the rifle. You stay here, lock the doors and sit tight. Okay?”

“Okay,” Ngoko said.

Danyon measured out half the water and picked up the rifle. “See you in a few hours,” he said, and ran off.

As he ran, Danyon tried not to think about his predicament, or Ngoko’s. He got into a rhythm with his running, not beginning too quickly so that he could cover the distance. He’d run 27 kilometres before, but never in such a dangerous environment and never in such an unforgiving heat. This would be something to tell his grandchildren, he thought.

Two and a half hours later, he saw the town in the distance. Oh thank God, he thought. His whole body was wet with sweat, the insides of his boots, his hair, everywhere. After a few minutes, he hit the outskirts of the town and ran towards the centre. He found the garage and explained to the attendant what had happened. Soon, he was being driven towards Ngoko with two litres of petrol in a new jerrycan.

Half an hour later, they came to the car. Danyon could see Ngoko sitting inside. The windows were rolled up and, when Danyon tried the doors, he found that they were locked. Danyon looked closer and realised Ngoko was dead. There were several bullet holes in his body, but no powder marks, indicating that he had been shot from a distance of at least three or four metres. The car was untouched and there was no sign of forced entry.

If all the windows were up and the doors locked, and there were no bullet holes in the car or signs of forced entry, how had Ngoko been shot?

 

© MD 2017: all rights reserved

  • Appendage

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Arts, Drama

Whodunnit: The Logician

A MURDER MYSTERY CONUNDRUM

INSPECTOR PARNACKI was enjoying his Sunday morning newspaper when the call came. An hour later, he was standing outside the door of one Harold Rivera, a mathematician who worked for a large firm in the city. The detective on the scene opened the door to let him in.

“Good to have you here, Inspector,” said the man. “My name’s Burrell. I’ve spoken to the victim’s cleaner and made a few enquiries, but it’s not getting me anywhere.”

“What can you tell me about the victim, Detective Burrell?”

“Harold Rivera, 48, lived alone. No spouse, children, or near family. Mathematician for Longmuir & Sons, accountants. He seems to have devoted his spare time to chess. He had several regular chess partners, and very little social life otherwise. The body was found in the living room. He was killed by a blow to the head, twelve to twenty-four hours ago.”

“I should have a look,” said Parnacki.

“Of course.” Burrell led him down the hall and into a modest living room.

There was a small couch and coffee table, but the room was dominated by a table holding a large, fine china chessboard. Two smaller tables, each with their own chessboard, were off to the side. Games were in progress on all three tables, but white appeared to be in a particularly strong position on the large table, with the middle of the board dominated by three adjacent mid-level pieces, the two white bishops separated by a white knight. The floor in front of the board was heavily stained with blood, as was the plain wooden chair lying on it.

“He lived alone?” asked Parnacki.

“Yes. A cleaner comes for two hours every day, generally mornings. She’s the one who found him. Apparently, the small tables were always mid-game, and she was under extremely strict instruction never to touch them. He used them to keep track of play-by-mail games, he had told her. The big one was for face-to-face contests.”

“I see,” Parnacki said. “Do we have any idea of why anyone would want to kill a chess fanatic?”

“From what the cleaner said, he could be very rude at times. Accidentally, that is. No malice, just poor social skills. Way I see it, one of his chess pals finally snapped and killed him.”

“Well, it might explain the game.”

Burrell nodded. “We found a note on the coffee table. Three names. The cleaner confirmed it was the victim’s handwriting, and said he often made notes of who to expect that day. To prepare himself, she said. Alphabetical order, sadly.”

“Of course,” said Parnacki. “How else would a logician order names?”

“Two are regular chess partners,” Burrell said. “The third, it turns out he’s a work colleague. Thomas Creech is a loner, like Rivera. Thirty-eight. A lawyer’s assistant. I spoke to him – he said he was going to come over in the afternoon, but he had a cold, so he cried off. Matthew Norton is a bad writer, forty-two. He’s the other chess guy. He said he was going to visit in the evening, but he got distracted reading about bears, forgot the time and decided it was too late to visit. The colleague is Brendan Cotton. They work in the same section. He said he did come over, after lunch, to discuss a troublesome client account. It was something he did occasionally. He remembers noticing that the big chessboard was empty.”

“Excellent work, Detective,” Parnacki said. “You’ve solved the murder.”

“I have?” Burrell sounded highly doubtful. “I thought I’d barely begun digging.”

Parnacki nodded. “I can tell you who the murderer is right now.”

Who killed Rivera, and how does Parnacki know?

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Arts, Drama

Whodunnit: Murder At Mattingley

Whodunnit

A keen member of the Ornithological Society, Miss Miller was delighted by the chance to visit Mattingley Chase, whose extensive grounds included an area of marshland that attracted rare species. The owner, Kyler Mattingley, was a noted recluse but ornithology was his passion, so he allowed four Society members to stay for the weekend.

The guests were familiar to each other from exchanges in the Society’s journal, Tweetings. The ride to the Chase was the first time they had actually met, however.

They were a merry bunch. Miss Wilson was the youngest of the quartet, fashionably dressed, with a special interest in finches and an enthusiasm for photography. Austin Ball was charming and magnificently attired in a cream jacket, dark trousers, black boots and silk kerchief. Clayton Hendricks was an outdoor type strongly built, with a large beard.

Their conversation was dominated by thoughts of Kyler Mattingley.

“I hear tell that Mr Mattingley is an impeccably gracious host,” said Miss Miller.

“A cautious one,” Hendricks replied.

Miss Wilson smiled. “We’re very lucky,” she said.

“Indeed, we are,” said Hendricks.

“We shall just have to ensure that the great Mr Mattingley has no reason to be displeased with our presence,” Ball said. “Maybe that way we can hasten the day when this opportunity is extended to other members of the Society.”

Miss Miller nodded. “Quite. I assume we all remembered our gifts?”

“Of course,” said Hendricks. “I have brought him a book of doves; the illustrations are magnificent.”

“That sounds delightful, Mr Hendricks,” said Miss Wilson. “I’ll have to ask Mr Mattingley for a look.”

When they arrived at the Chase, they were met by Gustav, Mr Mattingley’s man, who showed them to their rooms.

Miss Miller’s bedroom was charming. A comfortable bed and tasteful décor were complemented by a selection of beautiful artworks of birds. There were several sketches, a silver-backed mirror engraved with owls, a small, graceful carving of a jade heron in flight, and a wooden bookend in the form of a woodpecker. But what really caught her eye was a striking oil painting of birds of paradise.

After refreshing themselves, the guests assembled downstairs, clutching their gifts. Kyler Mattingley was there to greet them.

“Welcome, my friends,” he said, smiling. “I so rarely meet people, but I feel as if I know you all already. Where would we be without your lovely studies, Miss Wilson, or, Mr Ball, your hilarious anecdotes?”

After cocktails, the party went into the dining room, where they were served an impressive meal. Afterwards, he opened their gifts with every appearance of delight.

Miss Miller had brought a dozen hand-carved whistles in the likeness of less common woodland birds, in a lacquer box. When blown, each one made the trill of the bird it resembled. Hendricks presented Mattingley with the book of doves, each illustration a masterpiece of both art and biology. Ball gave a rather elegant jade phoenix, caught in the moment of its fiery rebirth, cleverly wrapped in silk. Miss Wilson, finally, had prepared a series of photographic exposures showing the changes in a park near her home over the course of a year, bound in red leather. Eventually, they retired early, to facilitate a dawn start.

Miss Miller had barely dozed off when she was awoken by a heavy knock, and Gustav entered.

“Ah, you at least are in place. Forgive me for disturbing you, Madam, but Mr Mattingley has been murdered. Your companions are not in their rooms.”

“I shall come down directly,” said Miss Miller.

By the time she was dressed and downstairs, the other Society members had been gathered.

“They say Kyler Mattingley is dead!” Miss Wilson exclaimed.

“So I hear,” said Miss Miller. “It’s a terrible business. I was in bed.”

Miss Wilson paused. “I was in the dining room, actually. I wanted to look at Mr Hendricks’ book.”

“I was in the drawing room, enjoying a cigar,” said Ball. “It is my invariable habit.”

Hendricks shrugged. “Well, I was in the kitchen. I need milk to take my medicine with.”

Miss Miller waved to the manservant. “May I have a word, Mr Gustav? He nodded, and she crossed over to him. “I fear that I know who the killer is.”

Who is the assassin, and how does Miss Miller know?

Detection level of difficulty: 4/5

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