Final Act

by J M Gregson

  ‘I don’t know, do I? I’d have told you by now, if I did.’

  ‘Yes, I believe you would. Unless you are in any way involved in this crime yourself – as an accessory after the fact, for instance. Or unless you have something to gain by withholding information from us.’

  ‘You know everything I know now.’

  ‘That is much the best policy for anyone closely involved in a murder investigation. But you are not quite correct. At this moment, you know far more about other people we have to investigate than we do. By the end of the week, after we have questioned them and checked what they tell us, that might not be so. At the moment, we need you to speculate. What you say need go no further than this room, but we need your thoughts on others involved. The overwhelming probability is that it was one of the major actors, directors or support staff who killed Samuel Jackson. People at a greater distance, like the extras you have here, did not know the victim and had no reason to hate him or to feel menaced by him, though we shall check to see if there are any exceptions to this. You know most of these principals. Which of them was desperate enough to go into that caravan yesterday and strangle Jackson with his own tie?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve thought about it overnight and I haven’t a clue. It’s one thing to say you hate a man’s guts and quite another to go in there and kill him, don’t you think?’

  ‘I do. But the fact is that someone appears to have done just that. You work with the people who resented Jackson and many of the things he had done. Which of them is most likely to have done this?’

  The thin face was quiet for a moment, then shook quickly from side to side. ‘This business deals in hyperbole. I can think of several people who might have voiced the thought of murdering Sam, but none who would have actually carried it out. Some of us like a bit of melodrama – indeed, the Loxton series has rewarded it well – but we don’t carry it into real life. We’re better at producing murderous phrases and murderous rhetoric than at murder, I fancy.’

  Lambert stared hard at Watts for a moment before nodding. ‘I accept that. But the fact is staring us in the face that there was an exception here. Desperation leads to desperate acts. We need to find out who was feeling desperate.’

  David Deeney had calculated it carefully. He wasn’t involved in the next two scenes they were planning to shoot. Then there’d be lunch; you had to allow the camera and technical staff who were working continuously a short break. He wouldn’t be needed until early afternoon; not before one thirty, he reckoned. He could get to Oxford and back in under three hours, he was sure of that. That would leave him up to an hour to conduct his business there. Ample time, if he moved into action quickly.

  The Mercedes sports car was six years old, but he’d looked after it and the mileage wasn’t high. It purred softly and discreetly away from the site, then roared more throatily as he accelerated towards Gloucester. It took him a little time to negotiate the ring road round the city, but once he was away up Birdlip Hill he moved quickly and found the roads pleasingly quiet. There were a couple of lorries ahead of him, but he was able to sweep past them on the short stretch of dual carriageway which was available as soon as he rejoined the A40.

  As always, he enjoyed driving the Merc. He’d bought it when it was two years old. It had dropped a lot from the original price but it had still been an extravagance. It had been his way of celebrating his contract for the first series of the Inspector Loxton stories. He’d played a dangerous and violent young criminal then, much younger than his real age. But he’d got away with it and had survived for four episodes before he was eventually unmasked and shot whilst resisting arrest. The work this provided, the success of the series, and the consequent repeat fees from around the world had amply justified the purchase of the Merc. He accelerated swiftly past a Ford and a Citroen on a rare stretch of straight road, revelling in the thrust of the seat against his back and the precision of the steering which complemented the effortless power that surged so immediately when his right foot compressed the accelerator pedal.

  The traffic slowed as he queued towards the roundabout where the A40 met the A34 on the outskirts of Oxford. But he had known it would be so and he forced himself to be patient as the minutes ticked away. He was at the house within twelve minutes of clearing that roundabout. This home was modest but lovingly cared for, in estate agents’ jargon. There was not a weed to be seen in the front garden. It felt very good to him to have someone waiting for his arrival. The familiar royal blue front door opened silently as he moved between the wallflowers and savoured their scent. The guardian of the door wasn’t visible; Trevor Fisher was a man who favoured privacy, even guarded it fiercely when he felt it was threatened.

  They embraced each other enthusiastically as soon as the blue door was shut behind them, then kissed at leisure before moving through to the immaculate sitting room, where the coffee pot steamed softly upon its stand on the low table. ‘You timed that well,’ said David. ‘Must be some sort of ESP between us.’

  ‘Nothing so exciting. I saw you parking so I made the coffee.’

  Trevor worked from home. He was a linguist and picked up plenty of work from local firms as a translator of two languages into English. One of his most lucrative recent commissions was producing English versions of Swedish crime novels, which David Deeney had helped to secure for him through a contact from the Loxton series. Fisher made an effective house-person. Deeney loved the fact that he was almost always there when he came back to the house, a calm constant in the hectic and ever-changing life which was the lot of the actor.

  Actors had to be ready to go wherever work was available, as he had explained long ago to Trevor. Oxford was a good base. London, Stratford and the great provincial theatres were accessible from the great university city, which also had its own thriving theatre. Indeed, he had appeared there last year as Edmund in King Lear, one of the parts he had always wanted to play and thought he never would. All actors wanted to play villains who were blackly humorous; they never failed on stage. He’d got spontaneous applause at the end of the great monologue at the end of his first scene. Of course he had deplored the applause publicly to his director as interrupting the flow of the action, but secretly he had welcomed it as a personal triumph.

  Trevor Fisher had been in the audience, delighting in his lover’s success, and no doubt leading the applause. It had helped to cement their relationship, that production. He’d had excellent notices, and while the Oxford Playhouse wasn’t Stratford or the National, it was the next best thing. He was being offered more and more television work and his agent was negotiating character roles in films, but the theatre remained his first love, he thought. Nothing else gave quite the buzz which a live audience could bring to you.

  They were finishing the coffee when Trevor said quietly, ‘Did you think any more about marriage?’

  It was a thing he’d raised before and David knew he would keep coming back to it until they resolved the matter. He wasn’t in any hurry to embrace it himself, though he definitely saw their relationship as long-term. He simply didn’t see any need for the formal bonds of marriage, perhaps because he’d seen so many heterosexuals make such a mess of it. But it was obvious that Trevor wanted it. Perhaps he felt threatened by the high number of gay actors who peopled the profession. That was understandable, David thought, when you looked at the situation from Trevor’s point of view. Like many actors, he wasn’t very good at considering other points of view.

  He said, ‘There isn’t time to talk now. I’m not opposed to the idea, but it needs careful thought. We’ll discuss it properly at the weekend.’

  ‘You should have something to eat before you go back. Even if it’s only a snack.’

  David glanced at his watch. ‘I haven’t much time. I mustn’t risk being late back. With a bit of luck they won’t even realize I’ve been away.’

  Then he realized that he still had the important thing to do. This was something he didn’t wish Trevor to share. They didn’t ha
ve secrets from each other. But he didn’t want Trevor involved in this. It would somehow taint their relationship, taint the younger man, and he wanted Trevor to remain the innocent he always had been to him. He looked at his watch again and said, ‘I reckon I’ve just about got time for a quick snack.’

  Trevor Fisher was delighted. He was getting enough translation work now to make a steady living, but working from home meant that his life was a lonely one, especially with his partner having to be away so much. ‘Cheese on toast,’ he said immediately, knowing it was one of David’s favourites, and bustled away into the kitchen to prepare it.

  Deeney waited until the door shut and then moved swiftly. His holdall was still near the front door, with the washing he had brought at the top of the contents. He slid the trainers from beneath the shirt and smalls and glanced at them quickly. Then he slipped through the door with his body as shield between what he carried and the house. Wednesday was rubbish collection day. The black bin was outside the gate, as he had known it would be when he had planned this visit. He breathed a sigh of relief when he raised its lid and saw that the bin had not been emptied yet. It was usually two or after by the time they reached this street.

  He lifted the black plastic bag and slipped the trainers beneath it. Trevor wasn’t likely to visit the bin again until the refuse lorry had been and it was empty, but his instinct was to conceal the footwear. He didn’t want a conversation about the trainers, not with anyone, and least of all with Trevor. He was back in the house within a few seconds, with his brain telling him inconsequentially that it was a pity the trainers had to be sacrificed whilst they were still scarcely worn.

  He was surprised how good the cheese on toast tasted. He hadn’t eaten much breakfast in the hotel, and with his mission now accomplished he felt quite hungry. They embraced again in the hall before he left, Trevor’s large hands seeming to linger for a fraction too long on his shoulders when he was anxious to be away. The refuse lorry, with its noisy machinery grinding what it received into oblivion, was at the corner of the road as he drove out.

  He had been anxious on the journey to Oxford, but he positively enjoyed the return. The Merc was at its best as he cleared the roundabouts and reached the open road of the A40. He waited patiently for the several miles of dual carriageway which by-passed Witney, then opened up the engine and swept effortlessly past a long stream of vehicles. Then he was through Burford and on towards Gloucester and the location site just over the Herefordshire border, exulting in the fresh greenness of the English spring and nature thrusting back into life all around him.

  It was ten past one when he drove into the car park at the edge of the site. He found that the parking place he had deserted three and a half hours earlier was still vacant. As he reversed the sports Mercedes expertly into it, that seemed to David Deeney a good omen.

  SIX

  Peg Reynolds was a sight to cheer even two senior professionals who were determined to move forward quickly on a serious crime investigation. She was twenty-six years old and had large brown eyes; they looked quizzically at the two men who were about to question her. Her hair was black and lustrous, seemingly without any artificial help.

  The two CID officers were of course completely objective about her. They thrust to the backs of their minds the thought that this picture of comely innocence could not possibly be guilty of a crime like this one. Until they knew better, she was as likely to be guilty as anyone else they saw today, Bert Hook told himself firmly. Yet her smile was telling him how unlikely it was that she could be in any way involved in murder. He resolved to give great attention to his notebook.

  Lambert opened with: ‘You have your own caravan here. We’ve already learned that that is something of a status symbol during location shooting.’

  ‘I suppose so. It’s more related to the number of lines you have than anything else, I think. There’s an assumption that if you have a certain amount to do, you need a certain degree of privacy to prepare and to recover. You have to remember that the first take is rarely the final one. There’s a lot of shooting and re-shooting when you’re on location. It can become quite stressful. You need somewhere to rest and consider your part in the scene, especially if you happen to be the reason why they’re having to re-shoot.’

  Lambert resisted the temptation to say that he was sure she would never be the one who stumbled. He had no expertise in the area and no reason at all to offer such a banal compliment, but this beautiful woman looked also so composed that it was difficult to imagine her stumbling over lines or movements. He needed to disturb that composure if he was to make her reveal anything she might wish to conceal beneath that immaculate exterior. He said abruptly, ‘I haven’t heard your name before. Is this your first major role?’

  She smiled at him, not at all offended, indicating that as an outsider he could not be expected to know the details of her career thus far. ‘It’s my first major television role, yes. I’ve done various things on stage, but I wouldn’t expect you to know about them. Even my agent has to be reminded of them from time to time. I’m not even sure that it’s fair to call this a major role. I’ve a couple of scenes and then I’m on with the rest at the end. But it’s important for me, because this is a successful series and shown at peak times. It will give me exposure here and in the States, which are the key markets for someone like me.’

  It was a prepared speech, but she delivered it as if it was freshly occurring to her. Lambert did not respond immediately. He looked hard at her for a second or two, a tactic which often unnerved those not used to police questioning. Peg Reynolds was used to being studied and the scrutiny did not seem to embarrass her. Lambert said with a touch of abrasiveness, ‘And now the whole project is thrown into confusion. From a purely personal point of view, the death of Samuel Jackson must be a blow to you.’

  The brown eyes widened a little before she nodded understanding. You couldn’t expect coppers, who operated in a completely different world, to know about these things, her bearing said. ‘Someone will take over. The Loxton series is a great commercial success. There is no shortage of backing for successful projects. It is the original and the experimental which suffer in theatre and television. In the short term, a sensational murder might even help the series. I’m sure I’ve heard Sam Jackson voice the old showbiz maxim that there’s no such thing as bad publicity.’

  Bert Hook looked up from his notebook. ‘I met Mr Jackson myself.’

  ‘Yes. I saw that seven minutes on Central Television. Excellent advance publicity for us; it was a good idea to get a real copper involved.’

  Bert would rather she hadn’t seen that exchange; he was sure he hadn’t come out of it very well. He said rather desperately, ‘Jackson seemed to me a difficult man. I wouldn’t have liked to work for him. How did you find the experience?’

  ‘The work is fine. We’ve got an excellent director and all the established actors know what they’re doing. That makes it easier for a newcomer.’

  ‘Did you like Mr Jackson?’

  The perfect features relaxed for a moment into a rather strange, humourless smile. ‘Not much, no. But I didn’t have to like him. I had to play a part and take his money.’

  ‘He had a reputation for boorishness and sexism. Did he give you any personal reason to be offended?’

  ‘“Personal reason to be offended.”’ She repeated his phrase, weighing its awkwardness with a hint of mockery. ‘Did he try to put his hand up my skirt? No. Did he indicate that he would like to do that at some time in the near future? Yes. But it wasn’t a problem.’

  ‘It must have been highly unpleasant, though.’

  She looked at Bert Hook as if she both liked him and pitied him. ‘I haven’t always been an actress, DS Hook. Only for the last three years, in fact. Before that, I was a fully trained nurse. I even have a degree in nursing. The publicity people like to throw that in, when they’re desperate for something to say about me. It doesn’t have a lot of relevance to acting, in my opinion. But
it does have a certain relevance to your enquiry. I was well used to handling sexual advances from men in hospital. For the old and the aged, I even made certain allowances.’

  Bert swallowed hard, trying to thrust aside the thought that he wouldn’t mind having his declining years sweetened by this angel in a nurse’s uniform. ‘You’re saying that you are well used to handling unwelcome advances.’

  Another of those tolerant, almost affectionate smiles. ‘I’m saying that Sam Jackson wasn’t a problem. I’ve handled worse than him, in my time. Not literally, of course.’ An unaffected grin now, an assurance that this ethereal presence could even tolerate a little innocent bawdry.

  ‘You will understand that I have to ask you this, Ms Reynolds. Did you leave your caravan and visit that of Mr Jackson yesterday morning?’ Hook thought he sounded unduly, ridiculously, apologetic.

  ‘I share my caravan with Karen Norman. I mention that only because it means there are certain times when we are in there together. Karen plays a secretary and has the odd line in quite a few scenes. But we’re in different scenes and we aren’t often resting at the same time, so I could certainly have sneaked out and put paid to Sam. But I didn’t.’

  ‘Have you any thoughts on who might have done that?’

  ‘Lots of thoughts, but nothing useful. It’s as big a mystery to me as the one I’m involved in on set. But more distressing, of course. One doesn’t like to think that there is a murderer somewhere among us, perhaps even acting with me on set.’ Her intensely serious face broke without warning into a ravishing smile. ‘It’s rather exciting, though, isn’t it? Not for you, because I suppose it’s just work for you. But for the rest of us it’s rather frightening and rather thrilling.’

  Lambert frowned what felt like very elderly disapproval of this. Then he said austerely, ‘Keep thinking and keep observing, Ms Reynolds. Your intelligent appraisal of those around you could be most valuable to us in the days to come.’