Fatal Act (24 page)

‘It’s a great script,’ he explained earnestly. ‘There’s so much we could do with it, but the director insists we stick to one stupid idea. It’s not even his idea. Of course no one dares criticise him because everyone’s scared of being kicked off the production. I’m supposed to work on his stupid design without making myself look pathetic. God, I could really do something with that set if I could just do it my own way. He’s got no idea, but he thinks he’s some kind of genius. He’s as bad as my father.’

D
arius frowned. ‘What do you mean, as bad as your father?’

‘He always has ideas –
his
ideas – about what I should do with my life. He’s always trying to foist these stupid women on me, like he’s doing me such a favour. They’re all desperate to get off with me, because they think it’s a way of getting to my father.’

‘Getting to him?’

‘Yes. I thought I told you, he’s a casting director. He can influence their careers.’

‘Of course.’ Darius sipped his wine. ‘But you’re not interested in girls are you?’

Zak barely hesitated. ‘No. But my father doesn’t know that.’

‘Really?’ Darius sounded sceptical. ‘Why not?’

Zak shrugged. ‘Oh, I don’t know. We’ve just never discussed it. I mean, it’s pretty obvious, isn’t it? You knew straight away. Do I really need to spell it out for him? I have tried to tell him, but he never listens. He’s got his own ideas about me. What I want doesn’t come into it.’

Z
ak drained his glass and Darius refilled it at once. He gave his nephew a sympathetic smile.

‘It must be hard, having a father like that. So powerful, yet so blinkered. But you mustn’t let it get to you. I’m sure he’s very fond of you, in his own way.’

‘Oh, I don’t care. I’m used to it. I mean, he’s fond of me, of course he is. He’d do anything to help me. But that’s only because I’m his son. He’s completely self-obsessed, sees everything in terms of himself.’

‘At least he can help you in your career.’

‘Only it doesn’t help, not really.’ Zak could feel himself growing angry. ‘Everyone thinks I only got a place at a top drama school because of him, but it’s not true. I wouldn’t have got on the course if I wasn’t good at what I do. It’s a really difficult course to get on. There aren’t many places, and lots of people want to study there. They don’t give places out to just anyone.’ He was close to tears. ‘He’s ruining my reputation, him and his bloody women. They all think they can take over my life, but I’m no pushover.’

O
n to his third large glass of wine and with some decent food inside him, Zak felt himself drifting beyond his agitation into recklessness. It wasn’t just the food and alcohol. He had often drunk more than three glasses of wine, and eaten in smart restaurants. It had nothing to do with the time or the place. It was because of his uncle. There was something about him that loosened Zak’s tongue. Although they had only recently met for the first time since Zak was a baby, he had felt a connection with the older man right from the start, perhaps because of their physical resemblance. Looking at his uncle he could have been watching himself in thirty years time. He suddenly felt an overwhelming desire to confide in his uncle who was listening to him so intently.

‘I’ve got powers of my own,’ Zak went on. He knew he had drunk too much, but he didn’t care. ‘They don’t know what I’m capable of. No one does.’

H
e must have been talking too loudly, because a waiter came over.

‘Is everything all right sir?’

Darius dismissed him with a wave of his hand but the mood had been broken. By the time the waiter had gone, Zak had recovered his self possession.

‘You were telling me about your father,’ Darius prompted him.

‘I don’t know what’s happening to him. I don’t know what’s going to happen to me. You know he’s been accused of murdering his girlfriend?’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘No, no, I don’t want to talk about him any more. I’d rather hear about my mother.’ He was feeling slightly dizzy.

‘What do you want to know?’

‘I just want to know what she was like. And don’t say she was an angel. I want to know more than that.’

Z
ak tried to concentrate on what his uncle was saying about his sister: how good-natured she had been, the kind of woman who would do anything for anyone, as well as being beautiful.

‘But what was she like?’ Zak insisted. He had a feeling he was repeating himself, but he was too tipsy to care. ‘My father never talks about her. He just says what’s past is past and should stay there. You keep going on and on about how saintly she was. But what was she really like? Tell me the truth. You know, I don’t even know what she looked like. He didn’t keep anything that belonged to her.’

D
arius looked surprised.

‘You’ve never seen a photo of your own mother? That’s shocking. Wait. I’ll show you – you’ll see, you look just like her.’

He took out his wallet and rummaged inside it.

‘Here.’

He held out a small picture. Zak stared into the eyes of his dead mother, two dimensional, slightly faded, but still his mother. He had a few facial features in common with his father, but his resemblance to his mother was striking. They had the same large dark eyes and olive complexion, the same small straight nose and thin lips. He would have liked to see a picture of her smiling, but that was the only photograph Darius had.

‘She looks sad,’ he muttered. ‘I’m not surprised, married to my father. But he’ll get his comeuppance one day, and serve him bloody well right. You’ll see.’

Darius put the photograph down next to Zak’s plate. ‘You can keep it.’

The room spun as Zak shook his head. ‘What would I want that for?’

His uncle looked surprised. ‘I thought you’d like to keep it.’

‘I only wondered if I look like her, that’s all.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘It’s difficult enough keeping track of one parent. I don’t need another one.’

With a cold smile, Darius replaced the photograph in his wallet.

I
T
WAS
ONLY
HALF
past four but Geraldine didn’t feel like going back to sleep. She lay in bed, musing over what they had learned. There wasn’t much to go on, but what they had discovered was puzzling. A tall person had been seen following Bethany on to the bridge. Although the team had studied the tape for an hour after the time Bethany was killed, there was no sign of anyone, tall or otherwise, leaving the bridge. The person who had apparently been following Bethany had simply disappeared, just like the driver of the van. Suddenly Geraldine sat up, wide awake. The police constable who had been first on the scene of Anna’s crash had sent a journalist packing, a tall woman with blonde hair. Geraldine wondered who she was, and whether she could have been the same tall person they had sighted following Bethany.

A
rriving at the station she shared her idea with Sam. The sergeant didn’t share Geraldine’s interest in the two tall people who had been sighted immediately before and after the two murders.

‘Lots of people are tall,’ Sam said, ‘it doesn’t mean anything. We don’t even know if there really were any such people there at all –’

‘You saw the CCTV of someone following Bethany.’

‘We don’t know for sure she was being followed. It could’ve been a random pedestrian. What makes you think the person behind her on the pavement had anything to do with Bethany’s death?’

‘If they weren’t implicated, they might at least have seen something. What happened to that pedestrian? People can’t just vanish.’

I
t wouldn’t take long to speak to the police constable who had been first on the scene of Anna’s car accident. Questioning Marco might prove more time consuming, so Geraldine decided to see the constable first. He was easy enough to trace. Making sense of his testimony proved more of a challenge. He was in his late fifties, solidly built and square-faced, the picture of an honest copper. But he scratched his head in perplexity when Geraldine explained what she wanted.

‘Yes, I was first on the scene,’ he admitted. ‘It was a bad business, a very bad business. The victim was an actress off Down and Out, wasn’t she? My wife watches that programme, never misses. She was very cut up about the whole thing. It’s a very sad affair. Such a young woman.’

‘W
e’re interested in tracing the journalist who was at the scene when you arrived.’

To begin with the constable didn’t know what Geraldine was talking about.

‘You reported seeing a journalist when you arrived. You said she had heard the crash and went to investigate. We caught a glimpse of her on the CCTV footage, hurrying out of Ashland Place on to Paddington Street, but after that we lost her. She was wearing a long coat, and we could see she had blonde hair but her face was hidden under a hood so there’s no way we can identify her.’

O
nce Geraldine had jogged his memory, the constable’s attitude altered and he bustled away to check his notebook. When he returned, he was apologetic. He had no record of the woman’s name or what paper she had worked for. He could only confirm that she had been tall and he had sent her packing as soon as he saw her.

‘We can’t have reporters nosing around crime scenes, flashing cameras and trampling on the ground,’ he said fussily.

‘Could the reporter have been a man?’

‘Well, she had long hair, but now you come to mention it she was unusually tall, and broad shouldered.’ He screwed up his eyes then shook his head in regret. ‘I can’t recall her face at all, I’m afraid. I was distracted by the accident. Sorry, but I was there on my own and there was a lot to do.’

W
hen they reached the college they found Marco chatting to a girl with white blonde hair and black rimmed eyes. Perched on a stool, he turned when Geraldine called his name and put his pint down with a belligerent expression.

‘What do you want now?’ he growled.

‘We need to ask you a few questions about Bethany,’ Geraldine said quietly.

Marco glanced back at the girl who appeared to be studying a script, putting on a show of not listening.

‘It would be best if you came along to the station with us.’

Marco raised his glass. ‘Do you mind if I finish my pint? Money doesn’t grow on trees for some of us.’

Geraldine put a couple of quid on the table.

‘Let’s go, Marco. This won’t take long,’ she added although she had no idea whether that was true.

M
arco didn’t ask for a solicitor. He slouched sullenly in his chair like a sulky teenager, arms folded, head down, while Geraldine spoke.

‘Where were you on Friday evening?’

‘Why do you want to know?’

‘Just answer the question, Marco. You know perfectly well what this is about. Where were you on Friday evening?’

He didn’t answer straight away. Geraldine repeated the question.

‘All right. Give me a chance. I’m thinking. I was going home.’

‘Were you alone?’

‘Me and half of London out on the streets in Camden.’

‘How were you travelling?’

‘I was on foot. I like to walk back to Camden. It’s not far. And it saves the train fare.’

‘Was anyone else with you?’

He shook his head. ‘Not on the way, but I met a few other students in the Kings Head in Camden Road on my way home. You can check with them.’

‘We will.’ Geraldine took the names of the other students. ‘What time did you meet them?’

He shrugged.

‘S
o you were out walking the streets, two or three miles away from where your girlfriend was killed –’

Marco interrupted her irritably.

‘You keep calling her my girlfriend but she isn’t – she wasn’t. Not any more.’

‘She dumped you?’

Geraldine wasn’t sure if he turned red with anger or embarrassment.

‘It wasn’t like that,’ he muttered.

‘What was it like? I’m trying to understand.’

‘It was mutual. But we’d have got back together. We always did.’

‘She’d left you before?’

‘I told you, it wasn’t like that.’

‘Only this time it was different,’ Geraldine continued, ignoring his interruption. ‘This time she was serious about leaving you because she was seeing someone else, and you lost your temper with her.’

Marco scowled. ‘I can see exactly what you’re trying to do and believe me it’s not going to work. God, you’re transparent. You think you can provoke me into breaking down and confessing to something I didn’t do? I’ve just lost someone I cared deeply about and that’s all you have to say to me?’ He stood up. ‘I’d like to go now.’

S
am was convinced Marco was lying.

‘He was her boyfriend, he was crazy about her, she dropped him for someone else – an older, successful man – and he lost it. Disguised as a woman, in a blonde wig, he followed her and there you have it, a crime of passion by a jealous ex-boyfriend. He would have had access to wigs and women’s clothes, and he doesn’t have an alibi!’ she ended triumphantly.

Reg was inclined to agree but Geraldine wasn’t sure.

‘I know his alibi is a bit vague –’

‘A bit vague?’ Sam echoed. ‘I’d say it was non-existent.’

S
am had been checking up on Marco’s movements on Friday evening.

‘He was seen in the college bar but he left by himself at about eight. He arrived at the pub in Camden at half past ten. There’s at least an hour unaccounted for, if he did walk, and he could have taken a cab.’ Her face fell as she realised what was coming. ‘Oh God here we go, we need to check more bloody CCTV. I’ll get the visual images identification and detection office on it.’

‘Check his Oyster card and the CCTV at all the stations in walking distance of Holborn, and any buses that might have dropped him off in the area,’ Geraldine said, ‘and check all the London taxi drivers.’

‘I’ll need more officers.’

‘Whatever you need to do a thorough job.’

Sam nodded. ‘Leave it with me. We’ll nail him.’

‘If it was him,’ Geraldine said.

She was thinking about Anna, and how this case looked more complicated than a simple crime of passion.