Murdering Ministers by Alan Beechey Page A

the machinations of a world-weary, somewhat pretentious actor who really wanted to direct.
    And yet, it was funny. At first the audience seemed as baffled as Oliver. But gradually they accepted the interpretation, starting with Bottom’s demonstration of tyrannical acting, which was not emoted with the full force of Mallard’s lungs but mumbled like a latter-day Marlon Brando. Titters were heard, followed by more sustained laughter. At the end of the scene, with Bottom’s exhortation to “hold, or cut bowstrings,” followed by hugs all around, the audience was roaring. They clapped loudly as the scene ended, and by the interval, they were applauding Mallard’s every entrance.
    â€œSo how’s the Plumley Plod Squad?” Oliver asked Effie, while they drank stale, overpriced coffee from an urn at the back of the theater. “Did they welcome you with open arms and an honor guard of raised truncheons?”
    Effie sniggered. “Something like that,” she said. “Detective Inspector Welkin now reminds me of Ozzy Osbourne.”
    â€œTalking of resemblances, don’t you think Uncle Tim’s Bottom seems vaguely familiar?”
    â€œIt’s a good job I know what you’re talking about,” she remarked wryly. “However, while we have a moment, I’d actually like to pick your brains on a case.”
    Oliver glowed inwardly. Six months earlier, she would have been eaten with resentment if Mallard had approached him for help. It’s amazing how love can alter your perspective.
    â€œPick anything you like,” he caroled, instantly regretting the phrase. “What is it, a nice juicy murder?”
    â€œNo, it’s a missing persons case. A thirteen-year-old schoolgirl.”
    â€œNot guilty.”
    â€œNobody’s guilty. Everything points to her being a runaway, not an abductee. But I think you may know her. When you were in Plumley last weekend, did you encounter a couple called the Quarterboys? They said they went to your friend’s church, so I put two and two together.”
    â€œSam and Joan. Yes, I met them. Why?”
    â€œIt’s their daughter, Christina, who’s done a bunk. Did you meet her, too?”
    â€œYes…look, are you sure Tina’s run away?”
    â€œWell, her parents were convinced at first that she’d been kidnapped by Mormons, but it’s clear she went off of her own free will. A bag is missing, some of her clothes, some food items from the kitchen. And she left a note to her mother, saying not to worry, although Joan was positive that it was written at gunpoint. But why were you doubtful?”
    Oliver brushed his hair out of his eyes and tried to revisit his time with the Quarterboys the previous Sunday.
    â€œSam and Joan seemed to be remarkably strict in controlling what Tina could and couldn’t do, Sam especially,” he told her. “I think young Tina has been brought up to believe that her number-one priority in life is to please her parents, never mind what she wants for herself.”
    â€œSounds like the perfect recipe for creating a runaway daughter.”
    â€œI agree, but I didn’t think Tina was quite mature enough for a teenage rebellion. Of course, all this is based on seeing her only for an hour or so. What have you been doing to find her?”
    â€œI’ve been steeped in gore so long, thanks to Tim, that I’m a bit rusty on the standard procedure. Fortunately, my new partner, Tish Belfry, is fresh out of Police College and knows the drill. We’ve circulated the girl’s description around the manor, checked the hospitals and shelters and bus stations, that sort of thing. I spent the day at her school, talking to teachers and school friends. Just in time—they broke up today for the Christmas holiday. The evening shift’s taken over now, but I have to be back early tomorrow, so I’m afraid I’ll have to drop you off at your flat