Classic Calls the Shots (19 page)

I heard nothing further from Dave on what had transpired after my visit to Helsted car park. Stour Studios was now cleared, but filming was still continuing at Syndale Manor and Louise told me they were now shooting in the gardens, in particular by the lake and temple. The latter was an eighteenth-century folly and had at first been deemed too decrepit for use. Bill, however, egged on by Tom, had been seized by its possibilities. There might be secret meetings between guests in the folly, Tom told me, giving a sense of old ages passing away and politicians oblivious to the new trends in Europe. The DOP had been working overtime to get the necessary repairs carried out to meet H & S standards.

As for us, when Louise had time between calls and in what was left of the evenings, we went walking in the Kentish countryside, through apple orchards and strawberry farms, through meadows and woods, beside rivers and ponds. We followed the Jane Austen trail around Godmersham, as Louise took a fancy to seeing where Jane Austen used to stay on her visits to Kent, then drove to Godinton and Goodnestone, which were quietly slumbering off the beaten track and looking much as they must have looked in Austen's day. I murmured about Julius Caesar and his camp on the Pilgrims Way, but battles didn't interest Louise so much. We ate in pubs so remote that even Pen Roxton would never find us.

On Wednesday however Louise returned too tired even to go out and brought an Indian takeaway with her.

‘Filming not going well?' I asked, concerned.

‘Superficially, it's fine, but the pressure is beginning to get to Bill. The ideas are all there, but then his mind calls wrap. He's trying hard, but the soul is missing.'

‘Couldn't that be down to the police investigation?'

‘Could be. DI Brandon came to see him yesterday. After that, Bill was closeted with Roger for an hour. Don't know what that was about. The sergeant was whipping around everywhere with questions for everyone. It's throwing us off course, naturally enough. We try to live completely in the nineteen thirties and are dragged back to the twenty-first century just as we're settling in. Don't get me wrong, Jack. We want Angie's killer caught, and the police have to find him, but it's hard to concentrate on work.'

I tried to put myself in her place. ‘Would it help if you thought of the thirties and the police investigation as being on parallel lines? In the film you're living in the shadow of the First World War and of what might happen in the future. Isn't living with the police around the same – with the shadow of Angie's death and the unanswered questions of what will happen next?'

Louise considered this. No instant answers for her. ‘You mean we should apply our current situation to the film, not fight against it.'

‘Yes. Is that psychological claptrap?'

She put her arm round me. ‘No. There
is
a dark edge to what's happening to us, like the one Mosley and the Nazis created. It's a shivering thought though. Is Angie's death part of that? Does it mean there's still something worse to come? Even that Pen Roxton's theory might have something to it?'

She looked so upset that I hastened to reassure her. ‘There were plenty of motives for Angie's murder, without accusing Bill.'

It didn't help. ‘Tom?' He wouldn't, Jack. He really wouldn't kill Angie, and anyway he's one of us.' Her voice rose.

And so was Nigel Biddington, I thought, aware that I had not heard from Dave.

The next day I did. He asked me to come over to HQ in Charing. That meant it was serious. I was torn between wanting to believe Nigel was involved in some dirty work and finding it hard to reconcile with the Nigel I'd met.

Charing village is cut in two by the A20, and the police HQ is on the far side from the main street, as is the railway station. This is convenient for me, as they are both on the Pluckley road from which I turn off for Piper's Green. It's not so convenient if you want to see Charing itself, however. It's an ancient village on the way to Canterbury with the ruins of a medieval bishop's palace and a lovely old church, nestling in the lee of the downs. I always expect to see Miss Marple popping out of one of the timber-fronted cottages and shops. Police HQ is not a timber-fronted cottage, alas, nor does it house any Miss Marples. It's a modern purpose-built block. Dave's office is on the first floor so there is a good view of the Downs in compensation. Not that I get much chance to admire them.

‘Good news,' Dave greeted me. He was in his breezy mode which sits oddly with his academic and organized appearance.

‘I've still got a job?' Good news depends on the angle from which you're looking.

‘You have. You're high on my list of favourite people.'

This sounded really good. ‘I try my best,' I said modestly.

Dave snorted with laughter. ‘Luck, that's all it is. Now look, remember that Aston Martin you saw, the DB4, which then vanished?' And when I nodded, he told me, ‘We've found it. Stolen all right, and false plates, but its chassis number doesn't tie in. It's not the one we were after.'

‘And that's good news?'

‘Give me a break. That's coming. There's no sign of the Jag either.'

Nor of the promised good news yet. ‘And?' I asked.

‘We did a check on the car parks guarded by Shotsworth Security, eight in all over our neck of Kent, and lo and behold we found six more classics in six different car parks. Not a lot, but this particular crew doesn't seem to deal in numbers. It deals in quality and not getting caught. Until now, I trust.'

‘I take it the six were all stolen?'

‘Yes. But,' Dave said complacently, ‘the interesting thing is the time they've been in their present car park homes since the thefts took place. The Bugatti was only nicked two days before you found it. The DB4 only one day, but the others between two and six weeks max – quite a time, don't you think? The Jag had been there thirty days before you found it gone. And all of them under the guardianship of Shotsworth Security. Conclusion: there's a plan.'

‘Any links to Stour Studios and our chum Biddington, apart from Ken Merton working there?'

‘That's the bad news. We can't find anything on Biddington for you. There was an insurance hitch over the Auburn and Oxley Productions but it got sorted out.'

‘What sort of a hitch? Roger Ford didn't mention one.'

‘He was right. It had been sorted. The Wades' private insurance on the car turned out to be nowhere near high enough, and Oxley Productions was therefore suddenly presented with a whacking extra premium. That meant there were about ten days when it was insured privately, but not yet for Oxley's use while it was under negotiation. The Oxley insurance for the film didn't kick in until the Friday morning before filming began at Syndale Manor, two days after Angie Wade's death.'

I saw immediately. ‘But on the Thursday before it was pinched Eleanor Richey went for a drive in it with Angie.'

‘Right. Before they left, Angie checked the insurance situation either with Roger's office or with the company and must have been told it wasn't yet insured for film work. That didn't matter since she and Bill were privately insured for the drive with Eleanor. Nevertheless when she next saw Nigel, she tackled him about it, since she knew the car should have been covered by Oxley from the day she and Bill first brought it there. In her book, that meant Nigel had been paid.'

‘Expletive deleted,' I commented. ‘That can't be laid at Biddington's door. Even if he mishandled the private insurance, it doesn't add up to a motive for killing Angie.'

‘Looks as if you'd better get your skates on finding out who pinched that Auburn. I can't hang on forever, Jack. There's the—'

‘Budget,' I finished for him gloomily.

My theory had exploded in my face. I was not in the business of concocting theories without evidence – that was Pen's province – and I was forced to admit that over Nigel I had come a cropper at the first fence. Angie had been rampaging with Nigel about some trivial point she had misconstrued and I'd blown it up into a major incident. Nor was I doing much better over Angie's death. Only Tom had any motive as far as I could see, or possibly Brian Tegg – excluding Pen's daft notions. I forced myself to wonder whether they were so daft. Should I begin looking into the
Running Tides
angle more deeply? Over ten years still seemed a long time to wait for a boiling pot. Revenge would not only be cold, but icy. My time was running out though. The end of the filming couldn't be more than two weeks or so away, and then finished or not, the stars were going to have to take up previous commitments.

Including Louise.

Wild thoughts raced round my head. Were there hidden financial difficulties with the film that gave Roger a motive? Was the film planned to make an enormous loss, as it was insured against failure? No, that was ruled out because Roger's wife was financing the film. The dirty tricks campaign, Angie's death, the theft of the Auburn, Tom's sacking. Nothing fitted. No one fitted the role of murdering maniac, but then how many murdering maniacs had I met?

When I arrived at Syndale Manor on Thursday afternoon, security told me that filming was going on in the grounds behind the house, but I could hear something happening much nearer than that. An interested crowd had gathered around a slanging match going on through the open sash window of Roger's office. Pen – for of course it was her outside the window – was conducting her own form of interview with Roger. Today Pen had been clever. She was dressed in 1930s costume, obviously hoping to be taken for an extra. Roger had not been fooled. He, as everyone else, had been forewarned about Pen.

‘Out,' he was shouting to her, as I approached to join the fun.

‘Don't you want publicity, Mr Ford?' Pen sounded hurt. She was in her element.

‘Not your kind,' he retorted.

This was a new Roger Ford to me. Gone was the smooth businessman, the caring fatherly figure and pacifier. His angry face showed the gritty determination and prize fighter qualities that must lie behind his rise to the top.

‘There's a hate campaign going on, isn't there?' Pen cried gleefully. ‘It will make jolly good reading. Especially after Mrs Wade's death. Who did you think did it, Mr Ford? Does it go back to
Running Tides
?'

There was a commotion at the window and an attractive dark-haired woman in her forties pushed past Roger. ‘No, Miss Roxton, it does not,' she said coolly. ‘That is your name, isn't it? I hope so because I've been on the phone to your editor.'

Pen laughed. ‘You terrify me.'

‘I hope I do. I've also spoken to the police. They take seriously the fact that you are masquerading as one of our cast.'

‘I'd willingly leave,' Pen said plaintively, ‘if only someone would tell me the truth.'

‘And what,' Roger said quietly, ‘would you accept as the truth?'

Pen immediately sharpened up. ‘Something that makes sense. The police line is
still
that they're following up lines of investigation. What are they? Is Bill Wade chief suspect?'

Time for me to intervene or Pen was going to get into serious trouble. I moved forward, put my arm round her and practically lifted her, still fighting, away from the scene of action. ‘Enough, Pen,' I said as she dug her elbow into my sore abdomen.

I promptly dropped her and she flew at me, but I managed to catch her flailing arms. ‘Wrong target, Pen. Remember me? I'm the good guy.'

‘Judas,' she hissed. ‘I'll sue you for assault.'

‘That won't save you if the police come. And the
Graphic
isn't going to like the publicity.'

‘They will if the story's good enough,' she shouted at me. ‘You'll see. They're all hiding something.'

‘Possibly. But, Pen, just trust me.
Go
.'

This time she took some notice. ‘Look, Jack,' she began, in a voice carefully designed for everyone to hear, ‘there's something weird going on here. There's a story and it's one I'm going to get with you or without you.'

‘Without,' I said firmly, marching her away without too much injury to myself. I escorted her through security and then over to the car park. ‘Pen,' I continued, ‘you must see you have no evidence for this cockeyed idea of yours.'

‘I never will have if I don't have a chance to look, will I?' she said, reasonably enough, and I had to laugh.

‘Look, Pen, if I find anything to help and it's not under police confidentiality, I'll tell you.'

‘By the time it's been through that mill it'll be mush. Thanks, Jack, but I prefer my own methods.'

And what they might be I didn't dare to think.

When I returned to the Manor, I was asked to step into Roger's office by reception, which was usefully sited next door to it. I half expected expulsion myself but he was surprisingly cordial. He wanted me to meet his wife, Maisie, the dark-haired lady who'd faced down Pen.

‘So you're Jack Colby.' Maisie welcomed me appraisingly. Luckily she didn't look another Angie Wade, which was something. ‘Roger says Bill wants you to help find Angie's killer. We wanted to ask you if there was any news?'

Bearing in mind that she had been a close friend of Angie's, I went cautiously. ‘There's progress on what Angie meant about something fishy going on with the cars. Whether it has any bearing on her death, I don't know.'

‘Don't tell me. Insurance.' Roger groaned. ‘I had the police crawling over our house, the studios and even here, looking at every blasted computer and bit of paper we have.'

‘But what they found or didn't find seems to eliminate that as any kind of motive for her death.' I hesitated. ‘Do you know what Pen Roxton's line of investigation is?'

‘I do.' Maisie flushed red with anger. ‘The woman's mad. She thinks Angie killed Margot. It just is not true.'