Death In The Closet (Edward Crisp Mysteries Book 3) Read online

  DEATH IN THE CLOSET

  AN EDWARD CRISP MYSTERY

  PETER BOON

  Contents

  DEATH IN THE CLOSET

  Copyright © June 2021 Peter Boon

  Map of Chalk Gap Village

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  Edward and Noah’s next adventure…

  Copyright © June 2021 Peter Boon

  Published by Meadowcroft Publishing

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

  Cover design by [email protected] and Book Cover Zone.

  Map of Chalk Gap Village

  To my family: Mum and Dad, Karen and Steven. Thank you for all your support in helping me become who I am today, firmly out of the closet!

  And, as always, to Graeme.

  I’ve hidden who I am for 25 years.

  25 years is a long time.

  25 years is a long time to live with a secret like this.

  I want to say who I really am.

  I want to tell the world who I really am.

  I want to tell the people who love me who I really am.

  I’m just going to come out with it: I’m gay.

  I’m gay. It’s such a relief to be able to write these words.

  I’m gay. And I’m a footballer. I’m a gay footballer.

  *NOTE DELETED*

  1

  Watching football reminds me of ‘playing’ it in PE at school, when I was always the last one picked. I’d be standing shivering, sleeves dangling way past my arms in the borrowed kit that was far too big, watching the respective team captains look right through me: making their choices as if I wasn’t there.

  Apart from Jamie Appleby, my bully; whenever he captained, he’d flash his smug, arrogant grin at me as he passed me over. Then, when I was the last one left, he’d deliver the final blow.

  ‘Come on then, Edward, looks like we’re stuck with you. Don’t worry mate, even you can’t be worse than you were last time.’

  I’d still hear the laughs of the whole PE class ringing in my ears as I stumbled around the muddy pitch, praying that the ball didn’t come anywhere near me, literally counting the seconds to hear the whistle signifying the end of my 90 minutes of torture. And then spend the rest of the school day reliving my humiliation, waiting for the end of day bell to ring so I could retreat home into the world of reading murder mysteries. The only respite from the anxiety that lived in my heart.

  I’d like to say a lot’s changed since those days. Some things have, some haven’t. I still love retiring into the lands of Sherlock Holmes, Poirot, Miss Marple et al when I want to escape the world around me. And I still have crippling anxiety. But I cope with it a lot better, a lot of days. And my old school bully is now a Detective Inspector with Sussex Police CID, and I’ve assisted him in solving several real life murder cases using my expertise, as my mum calls it.

  Would I still be picked last in a football team? I was pondering this as I stood, feeling out of place, watching Beachy Head United’s private training session at their imaginatively titled home, Beachy Head Stadium.

  I’ll forgive you for not knowing it if you’re not a football fan or from our area; the stadium is relatively new, as is the team’s rapid rise to success in the last few years. A small local semi-pro team at first, a change of ownership to a billionaire businessman, Vincent Tan, saw Beach Head United rocket through the leagues and become a Premiership football side, competing against the best football teams in the country.

  Despite their home being just a mile or so from our village, Beachy Head United had barely touched my life up until now (yes, Dad is a huge fan and proudly shows all the games in our family’s pub, but I avoid visiting on match days) so this was my first time visiting the stadium. The first thing I noticed was the sea of green and white, everywhere; the bright colours of the seats, the stands and the players’ kits all represented the countryside of our beautiful South Downs.

  Many of the players themselves were now genuine celebrities-loved and loathed online, gossiped about in the tabloids–and I could tell that this had gone to the heads of some players as I observed them train.

  ‘Do that again, Roberts, see what happens!’ I heard one player howl at another as he fell to the ground after a savage looking tackle.

  ‘What you gonna do, Higgins?’ the other player growled menacingly as he stood over him. ‘You can’t even keep your missus in check, let alone any of us.’

  ‘Ricky Roberts is a nasty piece of work,’ my best friend Patrick said from the seat next to me. ‘If he’s not fouling every other player, he’s winding them up.’

  I kept my eyes on the curly haired, tattooed player as he sauntered away from his fallen teammate. ‘But why someone on his own team?’

  Patrick was my football expert, I knew he would have more insight. But he didn’t get a chance to tell me.

  ‘Jealousy,’ piped up my other best friend, Kat, from the opposite side of me. ‘Danny Higgins and his girlfriend are bonafide celebrities. Twitter, Instagram, magazine deals… they’re everywhere. That oaf who just fouled him? Not so much. I’ve no idea who he is.’

  ‘She’s right,’ replied Patrick with a sigh. ‘He is known but not as much outside football fans and the occasional kiss and tell. Anyway, Roberts hates Danny Higgins. But hold on, look. Higgins isn’t taking it lying down.’

  Sure enough, the younger, better looking player was back on his feet and storming after his assailant with a yell. ‘Come here and say that to my face!’

  ‘Gladly, mate,’ Ricky Roberts said with a smirk as he stopped and faced him. ‘Which one? Your real one, or the one you show all your fans?’

  The two squared up to each other; this didn’t look good: until a third player, one I recognised, shoved his way in between them. ‘That’s enough, lads. We’re teammates, remember. Not to mention we have guests today. Now walk away.’

  Both players turned away, Danny with a slight hobble as he walked.

  ‘You okay, mate?’ the third man asked him as he put his hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Golden boy to the rescue of his boyfriend, what a shock,’ Ricky Roberts quipped.

  But golden boy wasn’t having it. ‘Oi, Roberts. I’m your captain, don’t forget that.’

  ‘Yes Kieron, of course, sorry,’ Ricky replied with sarcasm I could spot all the way from my seat in the south stand.

  The three men separated, and the training session resumed. But I didn’t know at that point that one of those three men would soon be murdered. And it would be
the one I least expected, for a reason that would make history.

  2

  I’ve not even explained why the three of us were at the training session in the first place. Even though we socialise together (more socialising is another development for me in the last year), it isn’t usually in empty stadiums watching millionaire footballers having a clash of egos.

  We were representing our village school, Chalk Gap Academy, where Kat is the Head Teacher and Patrick is the English and PE teacher. Looking back, I can see why those two in their job roles were there that day, but I’m not sure why the school librarian got roped in. I was certain I’d looked visibly uncomfortable in the press photos we’d endured earlier. And I wasn’t especially looking forward to the celebration reception that evening, either; I only had a few chapters left to read in my latest book, and I was excited to find out if I’d guessed the killer correctly. It would have to wait until tomorrow.

  Having one of our sixth form students sign with Beachy Head United’s first team was a great honour to both our school and village. It wasn’t often that little Chalk Gap got much spotlight (beyond the recent murders), and it would do wonders for the reputation of Chalk Gap Academy. Kat was also especially proud because of the player being one of her family (actually, it was upon her invitation, so that was probably why I was there).

  Beaumont Albright was the son of our local GP, Dr Beverley Albright, Kat’s cousin. He’d played football from a young age and had been signed to a lower league youth team, but on turning 18 he’d got the attention of our local heroes and was Beachy Head United’s brightest new signing.

  The entire village was buzzing with excitement at the news. Dad had already christened our family’s pub, the Chalk Inn, the Official Pub of Beachy Head United as soon as they were promoted to the Premier League, but as I arrived at the pub that evening ready to meet Kat for the celebration reception, I noticed a new sign: Beaumont Albright drinks here.

  ‘Dad, no he doesn’t! He’s not even been 18 for very long.’

  ‘His birthday was 2nd March, son. That’s nine weeks he could have been drinking here for.’ His voice sounded adamant as he ‘fixed’ the sign, probably for the twentieth time that day.

  ‘And has he?’

  ‘No, but he could have,’ Mum chipped in. ‘Besides, he came in with his mum for a Sunday lunch a couple of years ago. He had two glasses of lemonade then, so that’s drinks plural.’

  I suppressed a laugh as she continued. ‘I bet Doctor Albright is chuffed to bits that her son’s career is taking off like this. I just hope he stays the pleasant lad he’s always been, and doesn’t become like the rest of them. Honestly, brawling like that while you were watching.’

  I knew I’d regret telling her about the incident in the training session. ‘It was barely brawling, Mum. A couple of them just had words with each other.’

  But she was off now. ‘Words aren’t the only things those lot have had. Up to all sorts, I’ve read. Their antics are always online and in the papers. Just watch out for them tonight when you’re off gallivanting with these celebrities and missing our karaoke night.’

  It was true that the press and social media were often buzzing with the off-pitch behaviour of the Beachy Head United players. As much as they’d brought attention to our little corner of the world, sometimes it was the wrong kind.

  ‘And of course,’ Mum started ominously as she appeared in front of me and began fixing my tie, ‘there’s that rumour about one of them.’

  ‘Oh yes, Dad replied, nodding his head. ‘That rumour.’

  As is often the case with my parents, I had no clue what they were talking about. ‘What rumour?’

  ‘You know,’ Mum said, as she stepped back from tie-fixing to admire her handiwork. ‘That one of them is…’

  Not being able to say what she means wasn’t one of her usual traits. ‘Is what?’

  ‘You know,’ she repeated. I didn’t know; that’s why I was having this frustrating conversation. ‘The big rumour. That one of them is… on our Alfie’s bus.’

  Her mouthing of those last few words made this discussion even more ridiculous. Mum and Dad were so proud of my brother, I knew that for a fact, and didn’t care about his sexuality.

  ‘Gay, you mean? What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘Nothing, son, of course,’ Dad said. ‘Just that there aren’t any openly gay players in football. Not in English Premier League football, anyway. A couple have come out after they’ve retired or gone to play elsewhere, but not while playing over here. Apparently they’d get too much trouble from the fans at other clubs.’

  ‘Idiots! If someone wants to be gay and football, good for them,’ Mum declared, as she started fixing my tie yet again. ‘But it is fun to speculate who it is, isn’t it, Casper?’

  ‘Mum, you don’t even know who most of the players are.’

  ‘No, but your dad does, don’t you, Casper?’ She barely gave him time to nod before she continued. ‘He keeps me up to date with who’s who. Besides, I read the internet.’

  ‘’My money’s on Ricky Roberts, for the record,’ Dad spoke up. ‘He acts too macho, like he’s over-compensating.’

  ‘Especially after what you told us about this afternoon,’ Mum said, as I immediately regretted saying anything. ‘He’s definitely hiding something.’

  ‘How do you know any of them are gay?’ I asked. ‘It’s just a silly rumour, probably made up by the press.’

  ‘It’s true, the press does sometimes embellish the facts. But I’m going to be different when I’m a journalist.’

  I turned to face Noah: my student library assistant, self-proclaimed partner in the murder cases I’ve solved, and now my foster brother. The first thing I noticed was that he was smartly dressed, in a grey suit, which looked much smarter than the shabby one I’d thrown on.

  There’s so much to say about Noah that I never know where to start when I mention him in these case notes. I guess I’ll start with what he was talking about. His latest interest at the time was that he wanted to be a journalist. As you may remember, he has a deep fascination with murder mysteries, which haven’t gone away, but since becoming the editor of the school magazine, journalism had become all he talks about. Mum has been reading up about autism since the fostering, and keeps pointing out to me that fixated interests are common, but I don’t even see it like that; it’s just Noah being Noah.

  That explains his comment about journalism; what I didn’t have an answer for at the time was his attire. ‘Noah, why are you dressed so smartly?’

  He looked at me as if I’d asked the world’s most stupid question. ‘For the celebration reception, of course. I’m going undercover.’

  I went to reply, but Mum got there first. ‘Well, I think you look very handsome, my darling!’

  ‘But, Noah, I’m afraid -’

  Dad soon cut me off. ‘Let the lad have his fun before you spoil it for him, son. Noah, what are you going under cover for?’

  ‘An undercover journalist, of course!’ Noah declared, oblivious to the exchange between me and Dad. ‘You know, I was thinking about it - it’s not too different from being an undercover detective. Except I’m not exposing a crime, but the Beachy Head players’ deepest, darkest secrets!’

  He said those last three words as dramatically as he could, with pauses in between, before looking at me for approval. I wasn’t sure I had the heart to do this.

  ‘I didn’t realise you wanted to come, Noah. The thing is, it’s strictly over 18s tonight.’ It was probably for the best that it would spare Beachy Head United Noah’s attempts at being Lois Lane, but the age limitation was correct: Beaumont himself was only nine weeks from being unable to attend his own celebration reception.

  ‘Oh. Oh, yes of course.’ He replied, but the disappointment I’d expected to be on his face wasn’t there; instead, he simply reached into the jacket pocket of his suit. ‘But I won’t be drinking and I’ll be there to work, so I don’t think it matters. I have this.’
r />   I glanced forward to see him holding out a laminated card dangling down from a lanyard and stating in large, bold red font: ‘Press Pass.’

  ‘What this?’ I asked, immediately realising my mistake with Noah, who answered every question literally.

  ‘It’s a press pass.’ He placed the pass round his neck proudly, beaming as he did this. I refrained from saying that having a press pass on full display negated his undercover role, whatever it was.

  I knew I needed to join the dots to find out. ‘Yes, I can see it’s a press pass, but why do you have it?’

  He looked at me incredulously. Sometimes, Noah didn’t realise that what was obvious to him needed explanation. ‘I’m doing an unpaid internship with Fiona Turtle. For the Chalk Gap Observer.’

  ‘The Observer, is that even still going?’ Dad asked in between sips of his pint. ‘I thought it shut down years ago.’

  ‘Oh yes, Casper, it’s very popular on social media. In fact, that’s how I made contact with them.’

  I was pretty sure that ‘them’ was just Fiona Turtle these days, who’d ran the Observer as an online only publication for the last few years. Fiona was very vocal on their social media pages, often getting into arguments with members of the public who commented on articles, having a bit of a reputation as a keyboard warrior. And she’d whipped up a bit of a stir online after the murder cases I’d solved, implying that Chalk Gap wasn’t a safe place to live anymore.

  Other than that, I didn’t really know her, not any more; she was in my brother’s year at school and was briefly his girlfriend when they were around 16 (until Alfie realised he didn’t like girls). I also remembered she was very shy, hurrying round everywhere with her head down and her green backpack pulled tightly to her. A specific memory suddenly came back to me: Ninja Turtle. That’s what they used to call her as they laughed at her scuttling past. Maybe such abuse made her so handy behind her keyboard these days. But what had led her to Noah?