Carnforth's Creation (26 page)

Facts were not facts and never would be again. Three days after Roy’s death, from what she had read in the papers, Eleanor doubted whether the police would ever get
anywhere
. In death, Roy had given Paul a finer opportunity for
fantasy than he had ever afforded him in life.

The body had been found in that most affluent semi-rural swathe of golf club, expense-account suburbia, a mile or two from Virginia Water. More precisely: in a shrubbery
separating
the garden of a large mock-Tudor house from a secluded road, twisting through rhododendrons and azaleas to the entrance gates of about twenty stock-brokerish residences. The shrubbery had been a dozen yards from a splendid swimming pool (though no more splendid than those to be found in the gardens of roughly half the houses in the vicinity).

The coroner’s inquest was still to come, but the police had already indicated that death had been caused by drowning in chlorinated water. Their pathologist’s report mentioned a heavy blow to the head, which might, or might not, have led to unconsciousness, and might, or might not, have been inflicted shortly prior to death. Other facts reported: the time of death was thought to have been during the morning or early afternoon of the day preceding the discovery of the corpse. The stomach had contained digested fragments of breakfast cereal, but nothing to suggest a midday or evening meal. There had been marks and bruises on the singer’s back consistent with the theory that the person or persons
responsible
for his involuntary immersion (involuntary
because
he had been fully clothed, and injured) had panicked after leaving him in the water, and had then returned to try artificial respiration. When attempts at resuscitation had failed, the body had been carried to the spot where it had been found, approximately twenty-four hours later, by a man walking his dog.

The attempt to hide the body had been half-hearted, as though carried out in haste and with the sole intention of reducing the likelihood of immediate discovery. The owners of the house had been away at the time and no other residents of the locality, so far interviewed, had seen or heard anything unusual on the morning or early afternoon in question. Because the gardens were large and contained so many mature shrubs, this had aroused little comment in the press.
The police had failed to unearth anyone in the
neighbourhood
who had ever met Roy Flannery.

So how had the star come to be anywhere near a swimming pool belonging to strangers, in a neighbourhood where he was entirely unknown? It was here, as Eleanor readily
conceded
, that Paul’s manipulative gifts had been most striking. The police were working on the assumption that Roy had been the victim of a bungled kidnap attempt. They believed this because, before Eleanor had driven Roy’s car to London and left it in a side street off the Strand, Paul had scuffed the leather of the front seats, had pricked his finger and squeezed out as much blood as might have been caused by a nosebleed, and more significantly, had emptied the dregs of Roy’s supply of chloroform onto the floor by the driver’s seat. Since there would be no traces of the anaesthetic found in Roy’s body, Paul had counted on the police supposing that, in a fierce struggle, what had not gone on Roy’s clothing had ended up on the floor. The pool water would have washed away what went over him, the rest would stay where it was.

The bruise on Roy’s forehead had fitted this pattern. Having failed with the chloroform, the kidnappers would have been forced to slug him before being able to get him into their car or van. And why the particular locality where the corpse had been found? Suppose he had come round on the floor of the gang’s vehicle, before they had reached their hide-out; had screamed and struggled? Their first thought would have been to get off the main road at the first minor turn. Out of sight, they would have been better placed to do what was needed to keep him quiet. Somehow they had blundered, and allowed him to make a break for the nearest house. They had caught him by the pool and in the tussle he’d gone in. Perhaps, when he screamed, they had panicked; had held him under to keep him quiet; had killed him accidentally, hence the attempt to revive him? Paul had tried in the dark to leave behind, on the turf between shrubbery and pool, suggestions of pursuit and struggle: running and sliding on the grass, dropping a match-box, several coins, and a small quantity of marijuana, found in the
glove-compartment of Roy’s car. His main worry had been whether Roy could credibly have drowned as quickly as the scenario required. A great relief to read later, a
pathologist’s
opinion: ‘Sudden and unexpected inhalation of water can cause a severe reflex spasm of the larynx, and rapid asphyxia.’

The disposal of Roy’s car had involved Eleanor in none of the horrors Paul had faced when dealing with the body. But he had still worried about it. The likeliest location for the kidnapping would have been Hampstead, in one of the walled lanes near the chapel. Yet it had been out of the question to take the Cobra back to such a spot; any number of passers-by could have been expected to remember seeing it during the day. Hence Paul’s decision to have Eleanor abandon it in Central London. The gang could arguably have removed it from the scene of the crime because it was normally garaged when not in use; they would not have wanted to arouse suspicion locally before being well clear of London and ready to make their ransom demand. Paul had been eager to remove evidence that the car had been in the country, and Eleanor had therefore taken a plastic water bottle and sponge to wash away insects from bonnet and windscreen before driving the car on to its final resting place.

Although Eleanor was back at Delvaux, Paul had stayed in London to ‘keep in touch’, as he put it. Roy’s death had caused pandemonium at Exodus, where the staff were being driven mad not only by the police and the press, but by distraught insurance officials, distraught fans, and
businessmen
demented by the cancellation of the American tour.

Cut off from such diversions, Eleanor had leisure to reflect; and, though she had slept badly, wept in private, and found food distasteful, she had to admit that fear and
excitement
had soon outweighed grief. Too distressed at first to take pleasure in the mounting evidence of Paul’s success, later she had come to find ‘pleasure’ too mild a word to describe the wild exultation she experienced, listening to newscasts or reading the papers. At last Eleanor understood the god-like excitement Paul had known in the days of Roy’s
first successes. Only a truly gifted producer of real life could have prevented Roy’s history ending as a clumsily torn script, bringing pain and discredit to all involved. Not that luck hadn’t favoured Paul. The dropped cannabis an example – since the autopsy had revealed traces in Roy’s blood.

When Paul telephoned her, soon after news of this forensic bonus broke, Eleanor was astonished by his pessimism. In a day or two, he thought, the police would start investigating alternatives; would have to when they got no leads. Eleanor was puzzled. Her own worst fear, that Roy might have let slip some hint of his destination to a friend or employee, had ceased to bother her. If he
had
said anything, detectives would have been at Delvaux long ago. Paul agreed, but pointed out that the police wouldn’t like the total absence of witnesses either in Hampstead
or
Virginia Water.

‘So it’s a mystery,’ said Eleanor. ‘Plenty of murders are never solved.’

‘You know they’re going to want to interview all his
girlfriends
?’ he asked softly. ‘You’ll have to come clean. Too dangerous to deny it, and have them find out later.’

‘They’d think I didn’t want you to know I was his
mistress
.’

Paul’s reply made her tremble. ‘I was living at Delvaux; you were in London. They’ll know I knew.’

‘So why didn’t you warn me sooner?’ she screamed, knuckles whitening as she gripped the receiver.

‘Because there’s nothing to worry about if you play it right.’

‘You’re mad. If I admit … it gives you a motive.’

‘Which room are you in, Elly? Keep your voice down. There’s no problem. Tell them I was unfaithful too. I didn’t care what you did.’

‘But you’d stopped seeing Gemma by then. You can’t risk asking
her
to lie for you.’

‘I think I can depend on someone else.’ Another longish pause. ‘You mustn’t worry, love … but something slightly awkward has come up. I got this from one of the detectives
over at Exodus this morning. They reckon Roy’s car was in the country the day he died. They found bits of long grass underneath. They hadn’t dried out enough to have been there long.’

‘It doesn’t prove anything,’ she cried. ‘We can’t be the only people he knows in the country.’

‘Perhaps not. But I’d still rather the police didn’t come down to interview us, and saw the pool. Better come up to London pronto, and save them the journey.’

‘But they could find out about the pool from anyone in the village.’

‘They won’t bother poking around, unless they can
implicate
us first; motive again.’

‘Will it get worse?’ she faltered.

She heard him laugh reassuringly. ‘You can’t have
expected
nothing
to go wrong.’

‘How long will it go on?’

‘After the publicity dies down? A couple of months.’

Afterwards Eleanor felt dazed. He had sounded almost pleased by this new turn of events; as if without setbacks he would have found it all too bland. What price his night’s grisly work unless he could get sharper thrills from it?

But something, she couldn’t at first pin down, disturbed her more. Those blades of country grass. Yes – why hadn’t
they
made any column inches when the papers had been full of the car’s forensic treasures: the spilled chloroform, the bloodstains? Because inexplicably the police had held them back? Or because Paul had only now invented them? (
Waiting
till she had felt quite safe before lobbing his grenade?) His reason? Imposing his grip on her again; adding deft touches to the final picture …?

Yet not everything had gone his way. Her period had still not come; and, after Roy’s death, Eleanor no longer felt sure what she ought to do. Anything unknown to Paul, brought comfort of a sort, but not enough to blind her to her real situation. By accepting the role of accomplice, in Paul’s most ambitious fantasy, she had tied her survival to it and would never, never escape.

Eager to talk to Bridget as soon as possible, Paul was alarmed to find that she and Matthew had moved. A phone call to Gemma brought relief. Hadn’t he seen the piece about Matty in The
Sunday
Times
? Paul hadn’t. ‘Well, thanks to you, he’s directing a feature film.’ One of the big American studios, it seemed, had hardly bought the rights in a novel about the British pop scene, when, spot on cue, along had come Matthew’s documentary. Young English director; knew the field; creative, bright, resourceful. ‘Pretty sickening after everything,’ concluded Gemma, evidently expecting Paul to echo her opinion.

Instead he asked for Matthew’s address.

*

Sitting drinking coffee with Bridget in her new and
magnificently
equipped kitchen, Paul nodded sympathetically when told how awful she had felt on seeing news placards announcing Roy’s death. ‘A shock for all of us,’ he agreed, leaving a decent interval before making admiring noises about the house. A happy day, he inferred, when two old friends came through a minor storm and landed safely on such a pleasant shore. Paul meant it too. Eminently sensible for Matthew to make a timely truce between principles and prosperity, slotting prize-winning documentaries into the gaps between more lucrative assignments.

If she was uneasy to see him after old troubles, Bridget gave no sign of this, as she launched into a humorous account of problems Matthew had been facing in Los Angeles as a result of Roy’s death. Apparently the event had given his producer cold feet about their story of a star rising above Jet Set unreality, and triumphing, Candide-like, through
clear-sighted
innocence. Everything fine till then. But now a different tune: wasn’t there plenty to be said for
that
kind of
dramatic ending? True to life for Christ’s sake. And face it – he’d been hired on account of a film about Rory; so why bitch about a story-line more in that ball-park?

‘Quite a problem,’ murmured Paul, trying to judge when best to introduce his own problems.

‘The silly thing is how wrong they are,’ insisted Bridget. ‘People are crying out for a film where a few old-fashioned “goodies” win in the end.’

She lit a cigarette and exhaled slowly. ‘It’s what Matty could never stand about Henry James – his young hopefuls always fooled by sham sophistication.’ She noticed his
expression
and laughed. ‘Oh, Paul. I promise that wasn’t a dig. You were fantastic to Roy from start to finish.’

‘I wish I could rely on everyone thinking so,’ he sighed.

As Paul finished telling Bridget about his fears of
imminent
police enquiries, she laughed uproariously.

‘You can’t mean it,’ she spluttered. ‘Can’t let a gang of kidnappers nudge you out of the limelight. Not enough to make him a star … you’ve got to be chief suspect too.’ She dabbed at her eyes with the back of a hand. He joined in half-heartedly; told her he could see why she should think that; probably nothing to worry about. She calmed down, becoming sympathetic, as well as amused.

‘A chance in a million,’ he began hesitantly, ‘but, just for the hell of it, suppose you
are
asked anything. Could you say that what Roy once
imagined
happening between you and I, really did?’

Fearing rejection, and perhaps anger, Paul was surprised to see her become solicitous.

Soon she was pouring out how wretched she’d felt about him, when she’d read in some rag that he was living apart from Eleanor. She’d realized then what an idiot she’d been to think he’d used her in his struggles with Roy and Matty. The film too seemed horribly unfair in retrospect. Her eyes met his with difficulty. ‘It looks as if Matty and I did rather well by kicking you in the teeth.’ Paul smiled understandingly, then looked troubled.

‘It’s only to give myself a second chance with Elly that I’ve
got to make sure these bloody enquiries don’t rake up the past.’ He stared at the gleaming floor tiles. ‘If you and I were having an affair, they wouldn’t even go though the motions. Jealousy wouldn’t stand a chance as a motive.’

After a few moments’ thought, Bridget got up and stood by the glass doors with their pretty town-garden view. ‘Paul, Paul,’ she laughed, ‘won’t you ever be content unless talking people into dotty promises? Or are your most shamefully disloyal friends a special challenge?’ She came towards him, smiling archly. ‘You swear I won’t have to appear in court? He nodded. ‘Just meet a policeman who won’t be coming … or will when pigs grow wings?’ He hung his head meekly. ‘All right then,’ she murmured, ‘when did we begin our affair?’

‘The last week in March?’ he suggested.

‘And finished?’

‘Let’s say a week ago. You’re still pretty upset.’

‘A week ago,’ she repeated, looking at him with a mixture of exasperation and fondness. ‘Doesn’t it ever get confusing,’ she asked, ‘remembering what you really
did
do?’

*

The following day Bridget phoned Matthew in Los Angeles. She thought she’d had a useful idea for his script. Would it really be such a disaster to let his star come to a bloody end? He could make sure the ‘baddies’ got blamed for it, even if it wasn’t strictly their fault. An accident perhaps? Nice irony,
and
the right side winning in the end. Matthew was
impressed
. What’d made her think of it? ‘Oh, nothing in particular,’ she replied. After finalizing the date when she expected to meet him in America she rang off.

A week later, she had almost stopped thinking about Paul’s visit, what with buying clothes, collecting tickets, getting a visa, and exhorting the painters to finish the outside of the house before her departure.

Only two days left when the doorbell rang.

‘A what?’ she asked the middle-aged man, standing in the rain. She couldn’t have heard him right.

‘A police officer, madam,’ he repeated, producing a
plastic
-covered card. ‘Could I come in for a moment?’