Classic Calls the Shots (14 page)

Bed did not appeal – for one thing it reminded me of Louise, which was a painful memory in the circumstances. James Bond might manage to continue his love life no matter what, but we mere mortals aren't so indefatigable. Hardly to my surprise, my mobile had disappeared, but luckily I don't keep details of my sensitive contacts in it for just this eventuality.

Once inside the farmhouse, I crawled to the sofa and investigated the landline. It had six messages on it. Two were from Louise, wanting to know where I was. The mere sound of her voice was frustrating, both emotionally and physically. The second said she'd heard what had happened and would be over as soon as she could. I couldn't ring back because she had explained that Bill banned mobiles within a dozen miles of his sets, on the grounds that he paid for his cast to stay in character. Taking time off for lunch was OK though, because it was shared with the rest of the cast and therefore
in
character. Mobile calls would take them
out
of it. I could leave a message but I'd rather wait until I could speak to her in person.

Dave had rung me too, and the rest of the calls were from Bill Wade. I decided to get up to date with Dave first. After all, Gladden was on his turf. He was all sympathy.

‘Can't pay you compensation, Jack. Budget, all that stuff. Bad news you being duffed up. Insured, are you?'

I wasn't actually. I told him what I'd found in the car park, then thought to ask him: ‘Have you got an Aston Martin DB4 on your stolen list?'

He checked. ‘No.'

Bang went that theory. ‘A Jag XK150?'

‘Yes.'

‘Too late. It's gone.'

‘Number?'

Car numbers come easily to me, so I reeled that one off and for good measure the Aston Martin's too. Dave checked both. ‘No Aston on the list whatever the number, but there was a Jag XK150. Not the same number, although that means nothing. Suspicious though.' A pause. ‘I don't like the smell of this, Jack. Want to do some more scouting?'

‘They know my form now.'

‘No problem,' he told me cheerfully. ‘This Shotsworth Security . . .'

‘Owned by Harry Prince but not, I think, run by him,' I supplied.

‘It isn't. Know Mark Shotsworth?'

‘No.'

‘You should do. He runs it. He doesn't move in the rarefied circles of classics though. More in the grab everything you can nick line.'

‘Which side of it? Harry's normally our side.'

‘The other. Did GBH a few years back.'

‘And runs a security firm?'

‘Reformed character.'

I felt my ribs protesting. ‘Maybe.'

‘Just a guess, Jack. Talking of classics, there's another local wee lamb out there bleating for its mother.'

‘Name?'

‘Bugatti Type 57. Year 1937.'

Something between a gasp and a whistle emerged from my lips. ‘They'd be crazy to hide it down there.'

‘Some people are crazy, Jack. Does no harm to keep an eye out.' With a few more kind words he rang off – which left only Bill to call.

Bill didn't waste time in sympathy in the messages he'd left. Each time he merely said: ‘Ring me, Jack.' When I did so, he got to the nub of the matter immediately. ‘Gladden car park. That where you found my Auburn?'

‘That's right.'

‘Why? Did you ask yourself that?'

‘I did. There could be several reasons. I'll find the right one.'

‘I already have. Angie was right. The cars, Jack. Something stinks.'

My body reminded me of that all too painfully.

For all Bill's eagerness for me to be on the hunt, I slept a lot of that day, missing a call from Louise, who had sneaked a mobile into her caravan.

I woke up at about six on Thursday evening with the setting sun streaming in the window and forced myself to read the offending article in the local paper again. Stour Studios were always a prime source of material for the local press one way or another, but seldom quite so dramatically or horrifically as in these last eight days. The national press and TV had been present in force at the studios and most of the reporters had found their way up to Syndale Manor. Which can't have pleased Sir John. Nor Bill. Fortunately security was heavy, with police and guards at the gate and patrolling the grounds. Not surprisingly, Brandon's press conferences had not satisfied press hunger, but intensified it. Murder on a film set is newsworthy enough, let alone when the victim is the director's wife and the director is Bill Wade. Years ago rumours that Marlon Brando had been spotted in east Kent had set off a kerfuffle of speculation and rumour that ran and ran for many a long year. It was a given therefore that the
Kentish Graphic
would make the most of local drama. Its territory is wide, covering the whole of east Kent and most of the west too.

I knew who was responsible for yesterday's article, without even looking for a byline. This was Pen Roxton's work. I've known Pen for years on and off. She is a redoubtable journalist; she's physically tiny, slender, hair in varying shades of yesterday's blonde, sharp-nosed, squeaky-voiced and eagle-eyed, and she has the ability to melt into the background at will. It's when she emerges out of the undergrowth in one tremendous rush that the ferret in her takes over. One word, and she is in for the kill. I know quite a few who have crossed swords with her, but never before had the pleasure of either seeing her at work or being the rabbit she was hunting.

I suspected that moment had come, as I read her current handiwork skilfully blending fact and fiction. Super-sleuth Jack Colby had apparently told ‘our reporter' Pen Roxton that I was hot on the trail – not specifying whether of the murderer or car thief, but somehow also managing to imply that the finger of suspicion for both was firmly pointing at me. Fortunately Pen has more than one finger, and nor does she like events to prove her wrong, so she was also pointing at several other people. The tragic Bill Wade had his turn. Pen had done her homework on
Running Tides.
The tragic Bill had first lost his great love Margot Croft to suicide and now his beloved Angie
who
had been an extra on the same film. My italics, but I could hear Pen panting her eagerness to promote suspicion loud and clear.

Roger Ford came off lightly, portrayed as the embattled producer dogged by scandal and trauma. Nevertheless, he was putting a brave face on it. ‘I believe in
Dark Harvest
,' he had apparently confided to Pen. ‘I believe in Bill; I believe in his ability to surmount this devastating tragedy.'

Devastating? I wasn't yet on Roger's wavelength, but one thing I was sure of was that he wouldn't speak of ‘devastating tragedy' to Pen, even if like most people he took refuge in the familiar when grappling with events that lay outside expectations of what life should offer.

Pen had a go at Joan Burton too, having cottoned on to the fact that she too was in
Running Tides.
‘So I asked Joan what the great star Margot Croft had been like to work with. She has been compared with Greta Garbo, but off set what was she like? “She was my friend,” Joan told me quietly. “How could I describe her? Her loss was a devastating tragedy and for me still is. We all adored her, men and women. That link still holds us together – Bill, Roger, Chris, Graham, Tom, Brian – we seldom speak of her, but we
know
we are all thinking of her.”'

I could imagine how Bill had reacted to this story, if he had even bothered to read it. My guess was that he would ignore it by blitzing his way through to what was more important: solving Angie's murder, and getting the film produced as an antidote to the pain of her death.

How I was going to react was a different matter. No point in raging against Pen, or ignoring it. I favoured phoning her. Pen can be surprisingly helpful if she chooses. She usually doesn't so choose.

‘Hi,' she squeaked, when I announced myself on the phone. ‘What d'yer think of the article?'

‘Devastating, darling.'

Pen's sharp. She giggled. ‘Always good to hear from you, Jack, and don't say you don't return the compliment.'

‘Touché,' I said politely.

‘Want to be my man?'

I know Pen. No sex involved here, not even as a joke. She must be in her early forties now and of her private life I know and care little.

‘Would if I could. But no way,' I answered. Be a temporary tame poodle for Pen? Absolutely not.

‘Pity. What's your take on Angie Wade?'

‘No comment,' I replied. ‘I've been quoted enough without my saying a word.'

To do her justice, Pen laughed. She always does. Criticism runs off her like water off a duck's back. ‘Keep in touch, Jack.'

‘I will,' I assured her. ‘You might be able to help me.'

A silence as she rapidly assessed this. Then: ‘OK.' A pause. ‘Get me an interview with Louise Shaw and I'm yours for life. I hear there are wedding bells for you two.'

‘Get lost, Pen,' I said less than amiably.

I dozed off again, lost in a nightmare in which I murdered Pen, but woke up when the doorbell rang. I didn't answer it. It might be Harry Prince. My caller came round the back of the farmhouse and appeared at the French windows, knocking gently. Fortunately it wasn't Harry. I awoke from another nightmare and saw Louise, clutching a box in both hands with a bottle tucked under her arm.

Every bone in my body cried out while I rushed for the door.

‘Can you eat?' she asked anxiously.

‘If I mash it up with a fork,' I managed to joke. ‘I think so.' It occurred to me that I hadn't eaten all day save for the soup Zoe had heated up for me.

‘Good. You just sit back there on the sofa.'

No further urging needed, as I watched her unpack an array of interesting looking dishes from their insulated box. ‘Cooked by your own fair hands?'

‘I wish. The catering staff packed it up for us.'

‘What's happening up there?' I enquired once I had dispatched a couple of glasses of wine, a large portion of lasagne, salad, and strawberry mousse.

‘Not going well. Bill is getting rattled. We did the takes of the hunting scene where we gather in front of the Manor and Julia makes her bid for Robert's attention. That didn't go well and we haven't got much time left at the Manor. The police say we can go back into the studios from this weekend, which in effect means Monday, but we might not be ready to leave Syndale by then. So Roger's rattled too.'

‘And you, Louise?'

She hesitated. ‘I'm not sure when I'm on all next week.' She looked at me hopefully. ‘But I'm free on Sunday, if we don't have an emergency shoot.'

That was all I needed to know. ‘Are you on call for Car Day?'

‘Yes, briefly. Incidentally the news about us is getting around. Bill and Roger asked me to pass on their good wishes for your speedy recovery.'

‘Fine by me, provided the
Kentish Graphic
doesn't print the story.'

She regarded me pityingly. ‘It will. And it will spread further. Give it a day or two.' What she didn't point out, being Louise, is that she was a star and thus fair game everywhere.

‘Do you mind?' I asked.

‘Only if it stops us being together.'

‘Together?' How long, I wondered. For tonight, for the duration, for ever?

‘In the quiet places. Beside the still rivers, the green forests, and the silent meadows. With you, Jack.'

She did not return to the hotel that evening, but stayed with me for that quiet time in the quiet places of the night.

When I awoke on the Friday morning, Louise had already left. Bearing in mind that it was only twenty-four hours to Car Day, I experimented on moving like a human being. It was a tad easier than yesterday, and I reminded myself that I had a job to do that wasn't going to wait for those twenty-four hours. If there was indeed something amiss with the car situation, then tomorrow was crunch day, and as yet there were far too many unanswered questions.

I could understand the thief's annoyance with my finding the Auburn, but why should that extend to my returning to check out the rest of the car park? Two possibilities. Either my assailants had it in for me personally and the car park had been their choice of venue for making their point, or there was something in or about it that they didn't want investigated further. Or both could be true. So how did Car Day fit in with that, if at all? I could see why someone would not like a car detective prowling around, but what could be suspicious about an old Renault? There had been the Jag XK150, but that had gone. It had been worth quite a bit, and so of course was the Aston Martin DB4. That did not mean the cars were necessarily hot, because people often choose to keep their cars under wraps. It was odd, however, to keep such expensive pleasures in a car park like Gladden, although not unknown in such small ones. Was that significant, or coincidence? Nothing for it; I would have to take another look at Gladden car park – and it would have to be today.

As the old joke goes, it felt like déjà vu all over again as I drove into the car park. I've never been one for heroics and I wondered just how heroic I was being in hobbling in here one more time. Who was watching the CCTV cameras, for instance? Maybe no one was, because the car park was currently manned.

When I had been carted off to hospital, Zoe and Len had come over here to fetch the Alfa back to Frogs Hill and I had been agreeably surprised that it hadn't been ripped to pieces by my assailants. Zoe had reported to me that whoever was on duty it was not Nathan Wynn, judging by my description of a short, jolly thickset man. Nor had there been any interesting cars there, she said. That, I had thought, was odd. What about the Aston Martin? She hadn't seen it.

Nathan was not on duty when I arrived either. This guard was tall, thin and lugubrious. He didn't even blink as I drove in and drew a ticket. I decided to waive announcing myself with a police pass. I leaned my head out of the window and yelled conversationally, ‘Where's Nathan, mate?'