Staging Death (29 page)

‘A touch of the Turovskys.’

‘Exactly.’

‘And what’s her take on his disappearance?’

‘She hints darkly that your mate Toby was
jealous of him and—’ He drew a finger across his throat. ‘At least that’s today’s story. Yesterday he was just an innocent student who’d gone back to university.’

‘And of course the university in question doesn’t have him on its books either. Do you think he’s still alive? You must get her to talk. It was she who made Toby get me off the premises the other day. Blackmail. But I think she’ll find he’s no longer responsive.’

‘So we can remind her that blackmail’s an offence, but that we might forget it if she talks?’ He smiled again. ‘Actually, it would be nice to have someone capable of talking to us. Your fellow-thespian Frankie has only learnt one line which she repeats endlessly.’

‘No comment?’

‘Exactly. And Mr Nasty is still deeply unconscious. He may never make it to court.’

‘And it was Frankie that injured him? Not one of your people?’
And please, please, please, God, don’t let it be me and my folder.

As if he read my mind, he touched my arm. ‘Definitely Frankie. No doubt about it. Very well, let’s get you somewhere safe. We’ll take over Ted Ashcroft’s office. If and when Frederick bolts, with your help we should be able to head him off.’

‘At the pass,’ I concluded.

I was just taking my seat with Ted and a policeman called Bazza with CCTV expertise when Sandra appeared, a slip of paper between her fingers. ‘202544. There might be a gap between the second two and the five,’ she reported grudgingly. ‘Does that mean anything to you?’

‘Not a thing.’ And neither did the other set of numerals. I rather think she was pleased to have stumped me. I popped the paper with an ironic flourish down my cleavage, and turned my eyes back to the screens, which cut between the grounds and the exterior of the house apparently at random. She watched for a bit and drifted off, promising to return with tea and coffee.

‘There were a few cameras in the house for good measure,’ Ted muttered. ‘Only they both said they wanted them disconnected. Not just switched off, mind you – disconnected.’

Personally I could think of nothing worse than being under constant surveillance, especially given Toby and Allyn’s liking for extramarital sex, but was spared the need to comment by the arrival of the constable with several photocopies of the house ground plans and the news that both Miss Fairford and Greta were being taken down to the police station.

‘You’ve arrested them?’ I asked the young man.

‘No, not yet. Just a few questions, like. And
it’s really safer for them than leaving them here. You see, miss,’ he explained, ‘if this Frederick doesn’t like being hunted down, it might be he’d take a couple of hostages. Two young women – very vulnerable, they’d be.’

Plainly he didn’t think an old bat like me need worry. In any case, I’d got the CCTV constable and Ted to protect me.

‘It’s a pity you’re not allowed to use thumbscrews these days.’ I remarked. ‘Young Greta knows an awful lot more than she’s letting on. Or a lot less. What if she and Frederick really are just two star-crossed lovers?’

Ted and the policemen snorted in unison. It was interesting to see how Ted had immediately aligned himself with fellow-professionals, having as little as possible to do with me. They were joshing in a lamentably sexist way when my radio crackled into life. Was I really going to play my part in a manhunt? I pulled the plans in front of me.

‘Just how many bedrooms did you say this place boasted?’ Martin’s voice demanded.

‘Fifteen in working order, mostly in the most recent part of the house. That’s sections A to F on your plan. In the Elizabethan section – that’s M and N – there are eight, mostly interconnecting. Sleeping seems to have been quite a communal affair in those days. They’re full of stuff stowed as
junk but actually an antique dealer’s dream. The idea was that eventually they would be emptied and sorted out and restored, a nice Herculean task that should keep me in business another twenty years.’

‘Not to mention cleaning out the Augean stables,’ he said, the grin clear in his voice. ‘Anyway, we’ve had no luck so far, and the sniffer dogs looking round the grounds are bored out of their skulls.’

‘Have you brought in those dogs trained to sniff out dead bodies?’ my mouth asked, I swear of its own volition.

His silence was answer in itself.

They never had
longueurs
like this in
The Bill
. There the fictional police officers had hardly taken their first sip of coffee when things started to happen and they had to tip the lot away. In real life the lad who’d brought the plans had eventually drifted away, and Bazza and Ted were talking football, with only intermittent inspections of the screen, or so it seemed to me. There was no sign of the tea Sandra had promised.

My phone rang again.

‘I just thought you’d like to know we’ve handed Greta over to the Serious and Organised Crime Agency. All my colleagues got out of her was that last time she’d seen Frederick he was
alive and well, having had a sleepover in her cottage.’

‘And that was when?’

‘This morning, she says.’

‘Do I detect a note of disbelief?’

‘You might. Unless she’s got an obsession with cleanliness, there’s no sign of anyone ever having stayed there. We shall get SOCOs on to it, of course. But for the time being we must assume he’s still around. Vee, is there anywhere else he might be? Any priest’s holes?’ he added hopefully.

‘Let me check on my measurements for that part of the house,’ I said, aware that Ted and Bazza had stopped talking and were obviously eavesdropping. The problem with priest’s holes, of course, was that they were designed not to be found. And if I didn’t know about one, having been all over the building with my camera and tape measure, how would Greta and Frederick? I didn’t buy that idea at all. Until I had another idea. Toby’s time at Stratford was sacrosanct, of course, and my phone call was immediately diverted to his voicemail. I wasn’t much of a hand at texting, but I knew Toby couldn’t resist checking any messages when he wasn’t actually on stage.

There must be some sort of texting shorthand for what I had to ask, but I didn’t know it. So I typed it out in full:

Where did you and Greta have sex? Important!

It looked a bit bald, when I came to think of it, but there wasn’t a more polite way of putting it.

At last Sandra returned with a tray, over an hour since she’d set out. I didn’t comment, but the men did loudly and at length, which gave me excellent cover for Toby’s return message.

How urgent you know?

Vital, now
I replied.
Think Fred might be there.

CU@2.

I took my cup of hot water outside and dunked a green tea bag. Martin, intrigued by my text to him, soon joined me.

‘I think you may be right about a priest’s hole. Toby’s coming back to show us where he and Greta had their magic moments. Toby’s taste in sex always has favoured unusual locations, or so I’m led to believe,’ I added, not so quickly that he’d think I was being defensive, but because I wanted to reinforce the truth.

‘Coming back? When? Two! Couldn’t he just tell us?’

‘Actors like a bit of limelight. I should brace yourself for a roll of drums and a bit of a flourish. Or it may be that his…er…love nest is somewhere really obscure, of course.’

‘Any ideas where it might be?’ Martin was
so casual you could almost feel the pain.

‘Not a clue. Tell you what, I’ll get the plans and we could check my measurements. Have you requisitioned somewhere with a nice flat surface? The kitchen table would do.’ I might have meant to discuss my plans of the house but my words took on sexual overtones all by themselves.

There was no doubt Martin was aware of the innuendo, but he pretended he wasn’t, which made it all the more potent.

No matter how we tried, we couldn’t make my figures wrong. If there was a priest’s hole, then it was as well hidden as anyone hiding could have wished. In any case, weren’t they cramped and uncomfortable?

‘Is there anywhere you haven’t checked yet?’ I asked.

‘Plenty of places, I’d think. Not a single sighting, or don’t think I wouldn’t have asked for your help. Anywhere you haven’t measured yet?’

‘There was one place I didn’t need to,’ I said slowly. ‘Because it was going to be someone else’s job to restore it. Only I talked Allyn out of doing any major work because it was so inappropriate. After that I think she rather lost interest. The chapel.’

Martin looked disconcerted, even offended. ‘Surely a man wouldn’t—’

‘It’s been deconsecrated.’

‘Even so… OK, it’s a long shot. I’ll get back up.’

‘Martin, I don’t love Toby anymore, but he is a mate. So much of a mate he’s getting us tickets for tonight’s show, and has invited us to a champagne reception here afterwards.’ I wouldn’t – just yet – mention my role in the catering.

It was clear he wasn’t desperate to accept. ‘Do you really want to go?’

‘I really have to. And I’d like you there beside me.’

‘In that case, very well. But what’s it got to do with the chapel?’

‘I should imagine the red tops are already baying outside the gates. If one of your lads blabs about what we think Toby has been doing…’

‘Point taken. But we don’t go alone. Daren’t. If it’s obviously a trysting place, then we can blame Greta. I don’t think she’ll be in a position to argue about it, not for a bit.’

The chapel was silent and still, the sudden burst of sun showing the dust motes of two and a half centuries hanging in the air. No work had yet been done on the windows, and I certainly hadn’t had time to address the problem of the pew cushions and kneelers. It was as if we were in a time capsule. In my case, just outside: Martin wouldn’t let me inside.

‘Armed police! Stand up and put your hands in the air. Now!’ Three or four members of the SWAT team rushed in, but as if as affected by the place as I was, kept their noise to the minimum – just the one set of sharp orders.

Nothing happened. One by one they took cover behind and within the box pews.

‘Boss! Over here.’ One of the team had gone round the back of the huge pulpit, with its heavy sound-reflecting canopy, now adorned with a cheap mirror. ‘Reckon this guy won’t be preaching a sermon today.’

Frederick wasn’t dead, not yet. And the paramedics reckoned he’d live. But he was cold and thirsty and very stiff. As you’d expect of someone left trussed and naked in the body of the pulpit. He was also very angry. I didn’t know the language he was growling away in, but the name Greta popped up from time to time, and I fancy he was feeling vengeful.

‘He’ll sing,’ Martin said dryly, as he led me away.

‘Food for the nibbles party!’ Martin repeated, changing gear venomously. ‘I thought you were going to be a guest, not a skivvy.’

He was tired – not surprising considering how little sleep either of us had had the previous night; hungry, since it was now after four in the afternoon and he hadn’t had a break for lunch; and furious because his Serious Crime colleagues showed every sign of taking over the case and the credit for what he’d achieved. Even Frederick, as soon as the medics at Stratford had deemed him fit to talk, had been seized by SOCA. Martin would clearly need a spot of soothing, a task for which I was eminently suitable.

‘I’m not a skivvy. I am a guest. I’m just helping out friends. Greta’s certainly in no position to cater, is she? And I can’t imagine Allyn—’

‘Cater! Hours in the kitchen fiddling with canapés?’

‘Five minutes in Marks and Spencer buying a few trays of nibbles, which I shall slide on to Allyn’s posh plates. Allyn’s kids are going to act as waiters, and I should imagine Toby will enjoy popping his own booze. There’ll be people there I’ve known for years. People you’ll know from TV. Indulge me, Martin, just this once.’ I’d forgotten how tricky the start of a relationship was – my past, not to mention my present, causing agonies to the person I was falling in love with. And Martin wasn’t some air-kissing luvvie, used to emotions turning on a sixpence. He was a man with a history so painful that he’d not had a meaningful relationship with anyone since Sandra had come out. I was glad to change the subject. ‘Look, those cyclists seem to be in trouble. Can we help them?’

‘If you insist.’ Only slightly mollified, he slowed to a halt in a convenient lay-by, where a couple of youngsters in regrettable his and hers Lycra were having a wrestling match with a map. The way they were yanking it about it would soon be in shreds.

‘Do you do OS maps?’ I asked him.

‘I do Sat Nav better,’ he conceded with a grin.

Perhaps it would be all right. I kissed him and
got out. My appearance was enough to trigger an avalanche of dialogue that reminded me forcibly of the Thorpes. I caught one line. ‘A road with a lot of roundabouts?’ I repeated.

‘Here!’ she pointed.

‘But we’re here and I can’t see no roundabouts.’ He pointed too.

‘Yes. You are here. But these aren’t roundabouts. I think you’ll find you’re on a cycle network – indicated by the little green dots…’ I couldn’t wait for their thanks. Not because I didn’t want to keep Martin waiting. But because I was having the glimmer of an idea. Only a glimmer. But at my age you didn’t even pass glimmers up.

‘Waterstone’s?’ Martin repeated. ‘I thought you wanted M and S?’

‘I do. And I want Sheep Street and that designer clothes shop. I’m not going to the theatre like this, darling. I can dress at your place, can’t I?’

It was a good job that the cyclists had wended their unsteady way towards the A429 because Martin’s reply might have shocked them.

My scamper round Stratford was brisk, but the only purchase I had time to look at closely was a very chic dress, and the sort of cashmere wrap that an English spring evening required. Our arrival at the theatre was somewhat delayed by the fact that Martin wanted to check whether
the dress zip went down as well as up.

Toby gave the performance of his life, surpassing every other Coriolanus I’d ever seen. Even Martin, who had no cause to love him, was on his feet applauding.

Before we left for Aldred House I retrieved the nibbles from the boot, putting them in the rear footwell, so that they would not slither about. And I picked up the Waterstone’s bag, too, intending to stow it in the compartment at the side of my seat, but idly opening it.

‘An OS map? I’d have thought you’d know all the routes to Aldred House like the back of your hand.’

‘I think I may have an important idea coming on,’ I muttered. ‘Have you got a torch?’

‘In the glovebox. But won’t my Sat Nav—?’

The scrap of paper was no longer in my cleavage, of course, but I had stowed it in my bag. I retrieved it and unfolded the map. ‘Do the figures 202544 mean anything to you?’

‘They were on the cocaine wrapper.’

‘They’re also on this map.’ I worked out the easting and the northing. ‘And they refer to Holy Trinity Church. Martin, get someone down there. Or it may have no roof left in the morning.’

‘You’re sure?’ But he was already yanking the car round in an illegal turn. So he must have believed me.

‘Certain. And worse still – and I think we’ll have to stop a moment for me to make sure – I think I know where the other figures refer to.’

We were at Holy Trinity for only a matter of seconds, just long enough to see that there were enough officers to take into custody the team of men stripping the lead from its famous roof, with luck earning Shakespeare’s famous curse, and for Martin to take over a police car, complete with flashing lights and siren. Abandoning the canapés to their fate, I joined him. With a squeal of tyres we were on the move again, moving almost as fast as I wished. He didn’t know the road as well as I did, of course, so I became his auxiliary Sat Nav, warning of sharp corners and awkward junctions. There was no time for conversation.

But we were too late. Aldred House’s grand new gates stood wide open.

A figure lay crumpled outside the gatehouse.

The figure was Ted, and the gates were not open, but gone.

Someone had run him over leaving the huge prints of lorry tyres over his face and abdomen.

‘Oh, Ted—’ I was beside him before I knew I’d left the car, feeling for a pulse in a wrist so inert I had my answer before I asked the question. How could he still live?

I could hear Martin call for an ambulance,
but we both knew it was too late.

‘Let’s see if we can save the living, not the dead,’ Martin said in a quiet voice more urgent and compelling than any scream. He pulled me to my feet and back to the car. ‘The statues. They must be after the statues.’

I pointed. Heavy vehicles had gouged lumps from the grass path down to the sculpture park. ‘That way.’

Toby’s car had arrived before us. Allyn and the kids were spilling out after Toby, who was running towards a low-loader already laden with one statue. Its grab was making light work of another, which was swinging in a slow arc. The kids ran towards it. Allyn screamed. Toby ran faster, grabbing them and throwing them out of the way.

And took the full force of the load on the body.

‘Allyn get the kids to the house. Now.’ Martin’s voice was still quiet, still compelling.

Allyn swallowed her hysteria and obeyed. But as she hurried them away, other vehicles started to arrive – the supper guests’.

Martin spoke urgently into his radio. I ran to the smashed puppet that was Toby, stripping off the cashmere ready to swathe him in it. But where to start?

‘Toby? It’s me, Vena!’ As I knelt beside him,
his eyes opened and seemed to focus on mine. I took his hand, raising it to my lips. It might be true that the dying could still feel a comforting grip.

I bent my head towards his mouth.

His voice came surprisingly clear:
‘I am dying, Egypt, dying
…’ He was using Antony’s last lines. Some of them. ‘
The miserable change now at my end Lament nor sorrow at; but please your thoughts In feeding them with those my former fortunes Wherein I lived
…’ Something rattled in his throat and chest. Blood trickled from his mouth and nose. But he managed a few more words. ‘
Now my spirit is going; I can no more
.’

They said that hearing was the last sense the dying lost. I must speak. What else could I say?
‘Noblest of men, woo’t die?’
For Toby’s sake I must use Cleopatra’s words to her dying lover. For Martin’s sake I too must edit the speech as I went along.
‘O, withered is the garland of the boards. The actor’s pole is fall’n; young boys and girls Are level now with men; the odds is gone, and there is nothing left remarkable below the visiting moon.’

Christopher Wild was beside me. He’d lost his dream of a sculpture park and a generous patron. But he lifted me to my feet as I struggled with my sobs.
‘O, quietness, lady!’

I let him lead me away into the silent circle
that had spread to admit paramedics, their banal green uniforms, their quick gestures and terse words completely out of place in this spectacle of death. Out of place, and too late.

Now the police sprang into action. And so must I. Voices broke into chatter, as if what they had seen was a bizarre act of catharsis. Not knowing who Martin would need to have interviewed, who not, I herded them all into Greta’s huge kitchen and made tea and coffee. And then, opening one of those giant fridges in a hunt for milk, I found it full of champagne. That was what Toby would have wanted us to drink. Someone brought Allyn and the boys in. We gathered in a ring, and raised our glasses, each sharing his or her memories in a final toast to Toby.

Then the police arrived, and the moment was shattered.

‘Say, lady,’ an American said, grabbing my arm, ‘that speech of Cleo’s – you did it real well.’ It was Johann Rusch, the casting director. In the moment of Toby’s death, could it be that my life’s dream was about to come true? He made a great fuss, talking about a screen test and pressing his card into my still-bloodstained hand.

Out of the tail of my eye I saw Martin come in.

Smiling, I said very clearly, ‘Thank you, Johann. I used to be an actress, long ago, you know. Before I retired.’ I put the card down somewhere.