by J M Gregson
As he drove away, Richard Aitchison reflected that John Watts was the man who had gained most of all by the two deaths which had occurred this week. It was only at that moment that he found himself hoping fervently that Watts had no connection with them.
SIXTEEN
Four o’clock and the end of what had become for him a very long day. Sir Bradley Morton looked for signs of fatigue in the two CID men and saw none. Perhaps the hospital visit that morning had been more of a strain than it had seemed at the time. He didn’t feel that: he’d grown used to the idea of death now. It brought with it a sort of serenity, he felt. But perhaps that was just him being theatrical, as he was about most things. Well, it was sixty years since he’d first trodden the stage as a nervous boy, so a little theatricality was built in and even welcome by now.
Brad said, ‘This is a turn-up for the books, isn’t it? I wasn’t terribly surprised when someone saw fit to dispose of Sam Jackson: he’d been asking for it for years. But Ernie Clark is much more of a surprise.’
Lambert looked at him with undisguised curiosity. ‘You do not seem to be unduly shocked by this death yourself, Sir Bradley.’
‘Oh, but I am. I suppose that it’s just that after a lifetime in this curious business, one disciplines oneself to be shocked by nothing. I remember Larry Olivier saying something on those lines back in the Sixties.’
‘Nor do you seem to be devastated by grief.’
‘Do you know, that’s true! And yet I didn’t dislike Ernie. I suppose I was fond of him, with that rather muted affection we accord to non-actors. There is always a sort of invisible barrier between us and those on the fringe of the profession, Chief Superintendent Lambert. We know that someone has to put up the money to allow us to operate, but we rather resent the fact that they take most of the profits without ever exposing themselves to audiences and critics.’
‘Men like Jackson and Clark are risk-takers, are they not?’
‘Indeed they are. Angels back their judgements and make the profits. But we actors often conveniently forget that they can lose money as well as make it. They have to back the right horse, often without much form to guide them towards a decision. I flatter myself that I have proved a pretty reliable runner, over the years!’
There was something disconcertingly confident about this fellow, thought Lambert. If he was their murderer, he was doing an excellent job of presenting a man without a care in the world. National institution Sir Bradley Morton might be, but was he really as good an actor as that?
Lambert said brusquely, ‘Your resentment of people who make money from drama without ever appearing on stage or on television sets doesn’t extend to authors, though, if I remember rightly.’
Brad looked baffled for an instant before his face brightened. ‘Ah, you are recalling the conversation we had yesterday, when I expressed my enthusiasm about Dennis Potter to you! Because I come from these parts, Dennis is rather a special case for me. We both walked the Forest of Dean in our youth, though I was younger than Dennis and didn’t know him then. I reiterate that in my view Potter remains our greatest television playwright. But authors aren’t like angels; many of them began as actors. And they give us our very lifeblood.’
The old knight was enjoying this link with high culture and he warmed to his theme. ‘Authors write the lines we speak on stage or screen, and no actor can survive a bad script. We live or die by the words we speak, and the people who provide them for us make a unique contribution to British culture. I was much praised for my Falstaff, but it was the Bard’s ability to encapsulate humanity in all its many shades which gave me the opportunity to sway the house.’
In his spare time, Lambert was a fair golfer, who had insisted on introducing Hook to that infuriating game when he had relinquished cricket. He now noted certain parallels between ageing golfers and ageing theatrical knights. Golfers always remembered the very best of their athletic youth and forgot their deficiencies. He had a shrewd idea that Sir Bradley Morton’s Falstaff had brought mixed reviews, but Sir Bradley spoke of it with a majestic recall, as if his caperings in the Boar’s Head tavern could be set beside the greatest fat knights of the twentieth century. Actors, like golfers, like humanity in general perhaps, bathed reality in the golden glow of remembrance.
Lambert said, ‘You were pressing Samuel Jackson for more work.’
‘That was some time ago. Circumstances have changed.’ Bradley wondered whether to tell them that his days were limited, that future work was no longer an issue. But he felt that clutching the knowledge to himself gave him a kind of dignity. Death was the ultimate trump card, to which there was no reply. He would keep that card up his sleeve for the moment. It gave him a feeling of superiority, of standing aside from these men and their necessary but sordid investigation. He hadn’t even told Sandra Rokeby about the terminal nature of his case, when she had been good enough to run him to the hospital this morning. He wondered how much that shrewd woman had gathered of his situation and his activities. Sandra had always been considerably more than the collection of curves she presented to the popular press.
Lambert was studying him closely and disconcertingly, as he did all of his interviewees. ‘Sir Bradley, you told us yesterday that Samuel Jackson was a friend of yours and that you had a high regard for him. Other people have told us a different story. Would you now care to revise your account of your relationship?’
‘Yes. I was being over-sentimental.’
‘Or dishonest.’
Sir Bradley Morton looked for a moment outraged. Then he forced himself to relax into a smile. ‘That’s how it looks to you. I can see that. Could we settle for both sentimental and dishonest? They often go together, I suppose – perhaps more so for actors than for others. I’d known Sam Jackson since he was a young man, but I don’t suppose I liked him any more than did others in the cast.’
‘By all accounts he wasn’t a likeable man. But that doesn’t mean that you should attempt to deceive us about your relationship with him. Why did you do that?’
The knight wasn’t used to being challenged like this. People joked with him, flattered him, were disproportionately pleased by his small jokes. But basically they deferred to him and he had grown used to deference. Challenge was a novelty and he was rusty when it came to coping with it. ‘I suppose I was unnerved. I was being questioned about a murder. I hadn’t met that situation before. Not many people have, and you must accept that we are disturbed by it. My reaction was defensive. I wanted to clear myself of any involvement in Sam’s death. I suppose I thought that if you accepted I was a friend of his, you would think I was unlikely to have killed him. So I pretended we had been closer over the years than we had.’
‘And now that has been exposed as deceit. That deceit must make you more of a suspect for these crimes.’
Brad gave them a serene smile. When your lungs had delivered a death sentence to you, police suspicion scarcely mattered. But he determined again not to tell them about that. That would be the secret he retained, the secret which would preserve his feeling of superiority to all this questioning, which would allow him to view these queries as the pettiness they were for him. ‘I’m now quite prepared to admit that I didn’t like Sam Jackson any more than anyone else did. In my view, indeed, the world is a better place without him. That doesn’t mean that I killed him though, does it?’
Lambert ignored the question and pressed on hard with this over-verbose man who seemed almost unaware that he was a suspect for two murders. ‘Ernest Clark possessed all the information which Jackson had been using to coerce his cast members. We think he proposed to use it in the same way: in effect, to blackmail cast members in the Inspector Loxton series to accept pay and conditions which they would not otherwise have entertained. In your case, he probably proposed to deny you further work in subsequent series.’
Sir Bradley bathed them in that superior, knowing, exasperating smile. If only you knew, he thought. But you shan’t know. This is my secret and my advantage.
‘These things would have been subject to negotiation, as they always are. I should have weighed whatever Ernie had to offer against the wealth of opportunities available to me elsewhere. Then I should have made a rational decision.’
‘You are still receiving plenty of other offers, are you, Sir Bradley? Forgive the impertinence of the enquiry, but you will see that it has a bearing on how important any decision of Mr Clark’s might have been to you.’
He was very tempted to tell them that he had shot his last location scene today, that a couple of short scenes in the studio would conclude a long and varied acting life. But his resolution to keep his secret held. He felt for a moment as if he were looking down on these men from a great height and seeing their enquiries into his conduct as the trivialities they were. He said almost impishly, ‘I didn’t kill Ernie Clark. I wonder who on earth did?’
‘Someone almost certainly asked him to drive to your hotel last night. Someone met him and talked with him at the end of the hotel car park. Someone put a bullet through his head and left him to die there.’
‘You make it all sound very dramatic. I should appreciate that, as an actor. But all I want you to do really is to arrest someone for this. My curiosity is aroused and I wonder who that could be. The fact that it now seems even more likely to be one of my acting colleagues who dispatched our two financiers and producers makes it only more intriguing.’
‘It wasn’t you who arranged for Clark to come?’
‘It quite certainly wasn’t me.’
‘And you didn’t sit in his Jaguar and discuss the future with him?’
‘No, I did not.’ He was tempted again to tell them that he had no future to discuss, and again that strange feeling of superiority infused him as he held his peace.
‘You have more experience of life, of the theatre, and of most of your fellow-professionals involved in this than anyone else. We have questioned people thoroughly, but you may still know things which we do not about some of them. It is my belief that you have a shrewd idea who killed these two men, whether or not you have the evidence available to support that idea. Presumably I do not need to remind you that it is your citizen’s duty to inform us of any thoughts you have about a culprit. What you say here will prove confidential, if it proves to be mistaken.’
Morton looked from one to the other of the two very different but equally expectant faces and it seemed for a moment that he would do as they suggested. Then he shook his head abruptly. ‘I don’t know, I’m afraid. It’s nice of you to credit me with such knowledge, but I really know much less about the private lives of the rest of the cast than you assume I do.’
Hook, who had done nothing save observe him so far, now spoke softly. ‘Sam Jackson was not a very fit man. We think whoever strangled him with his necktie took him completely by surprise and killed him very quickly. Ernie Clark was shot through the temple with a pistol; again he appears to have been taken by surprise and offered little resistance. This means that both of these crimes could have been committed by a woman. Have you any thoughts on that and on the women involved in the case?’
Brad’s smile turned almost to a nervous giggle in his relief. ‘For a moment, DS Hook, I thought that you were about to suggest that it would have been perfectly possible for a man of my advanced years to have committed these crimes. I thought indeed that you were about to make some sort of accusation, or at least some sort of villainous suggestion! Curiously enough, I find that thought flattering rather than scandalous. The theory that I might even in the twilight of my career have rid the world of television drama of two of its more repellent men seems to hint at the virility and judgement still within this ageing frame rather than at any vicious evil lurking deep within me.’
Hook caught a flash of Lambert’s impatience at the old man’s garrulity. He said rather less gently, ‘The women in the cast, Sir Bradley. Do you think one of them might be responsible for these murders?’
‘Now that I come to think of it, I have to confess that I have not previously entertained either of the women with major roles in the Inspector Loxton series as candidates for these crimes. Old-fashioned and unrealistic chivalry, I suppose you’d call that. I expect you see quite enough viciousness on the distaff side of our species to include women from the outset as candidates for serious crimes. Well, let’s try to give proper consideration to your question, shall we? I’ve known Sandra Rokeby for many years now.’
‘And she had known both of our victims for many years, Sir Bradley.’
‘Indeed. Long enough to build up a considerable enmity, I think you are suggesting. Well, Sandra is no angel; nor would she claim to be one.’ He smiled as some libidinous memory struck him, but did not enlighten them.
‘Sandra had reasons to dislike Sam, even to hate him. He knew things about her that very few other people knew. Highly embarrassing things, which he used to control her.’
If Morton knew about the porn film, he didn’t mention it. ‘He knew things about all of us and used them against all of us, which is what made him such a thoroughly unpleasant man. Sandra is much more than an ageing Page Three pin-up. I count her as a friend and I certainly shouldn’t like to have her as an opponent. She’d be much more formidable than her popular image indicates she would. But I can’t see her as a murderess, whatever embarrassments Sam threatened her with. No way.’
This was a much more thoughtful and astute man than the amiable image of the national treasure he had previously presented. Hook fancied that he was enjoying presenting this other and more subtle side of himself. He even persuaded himself that he would value the man’s opinions. ‘What about Peg Reynolds?’
‘I don’t know her anything like as well as Sandra. I’ll tell you one thing, though: Peg’s going to be a hell of an actress. Long after I’ve left this earth, Peg Reynolds will be dominating stages and screens. It’s an uncertain business, ours, but unless she has health problems or makes serious enemies among the hierarchy, she’ll become a household name within the next generation. But that isn’t what you asked me, is it? You’re interested in her as a potential murderer. I’d prefer to bill that crazy boyfriend of hers as a candidate, because I could quite see him doing something violent, under stress. But we know that he has a cast-iron alibi for Sam’s murder, because he wasn’t even around at the time, and the two deaths must surely be connected.’
‘And Miss Reynolds?’
‘I’ve got to beware of the charms of a very pretty face on the most promising actress I’ve seen in years. I can’t envisage Peg twisting that tie round Sam’s neck or turning a pistol upon Ernie, but I’m forced to admit it’s just possible. I think that young lady is cool enough and organized enough to commit these crimes, if she had a reason to do so. And it seems everyone around Sam Jackson had a reason to do so. He gave us all reasons to hate him, almost as if it were one of his missions in life.’
‘That is an interesting view, and we know that Miss Reynolds is also under stress from other sources. Stress leads often to rash actions.’
‘Indeed. I’ve seen severe bruising on Peg Reynolds’ upper arms and back, when we’ve been changing or adjusting costumes. That had nothing to do with Sam, but I’ve seen people suffering that sort of physical violence lash out at other people indiscriminately. It seems quite preposterous that anyone like Peg Reynolds could have done these things, but then it seems almost equally preposterous that any of the men should be involved in this.’
Hook glanced at Lambert, who said, ‘Thank you for volunteering your thoughts to us. You know more of the personalities of the people we are considering than we do, even after detailed police questioning. Please go on thinking about this and make us aware of any new thoughts you have on these deaths.’
They discussed him, of course, when he had gone, agreeing that he had greater and more thoughtful depths than they had previously suspected. At length Lambert said, ‘He seemed very frank with us today. But he still had the air of knowing something important which we didn’t know, which gave
him a sort of effortless superiority.’
Sir Bradley Morton was by this time well on the way back to the hotel, forcing himself once again to confront the notion of early and inescapable death, which had been with him all day. It took a man time to accept these things, but he’d had plenty of time now. And the acceptance of the inevitable, once achieved, brought with it a sort of composure.
David Deeney arrived at the café by the river in Ross-on-Wye two minutes in advance of the time he had specified, but Trevor Fisher was already there, looking anxiously towards the road above him where he knew David would have to park. He was like a worried child, thought Deeney, with the impatience which he had told himself on the way here that he would not feel.
‘I waited for you to come before I ordered,’ said Trevor. ‘You can assemble a full afternoon tea here, if you wish to. I’m going to have scones and cakes and lots of tea.’ He liked the old-fashioned full afternoon tea which was now quite rare, with bread and butter and jam and a variety of cakes. Childish, David thought irritably, though he had always previously rejoiced in the innocent enjoyment of his partner in such things. ‘I’d better confine myself to a cup of tea. I’ll have to eat a full dinner with the others this evening. Perhaps I’ll steal half a scone from you, if you feel you can spare it.’
The river flowed softly here, wide and unthreatening. A hundred yards below them, dogs barked excitedly and swam swiftly after sticks. The shrill shouts and laughter of excited children echoed as they played on the wide stretch of green beside the water. David thought of that other stretch of the Wye, beside the hotel where he had stayed for the last week, equally picturesque but very different from this. There the river flowed softly below them in a deep cleft, its beauty part of a wider scene in which fields ran away to slopes and eventually to mountains in the west. It seemed in his imagination a more sinister beauty now, because it was identified with the killing which had so recently taken place beside it.