Twenty-Two
Ben Drabble and Paddy Colligan sat opposite each other at a table in the studio cafeteria. They were noted for being the first customers of the day, and that morning was no exception. What was exceptional, however, was that instead of their normal intense conversation, during which pages of script were shuffled back and forth across the table, the two writers seemed to be barely aware of each other’s existence. In fact, both men seemed to be totally absorbed in their own little worlds.
Ben Drabble was thinking about his agent. The novel needed a few changes, the bloody man had blithely said the previous day.
A few changes!
And what did he mean by that? A sentence here, a paragraph there? No! The changes he wanted would necessitate a completely new plot – and possibly a new set of characters, as well!
If only his agent knew the mental anguish which had gone into writing the book. If only he could even begin to comprehend how, once it was finally completed, it seemed to its author to be etched in stone.
Drabble lit up a cigarette and inhaled what, in his present mood, tasted like dried camel dung.
What if his agent was right? he asked himself gloomily. What if the bloody man was only half-right? Wasn’t it possible that Valerie Farnsworth’s death, rather than being good publicity for the book, would merely expose it as flimsy and insubstantial when contrasted with a real crime?
How he wished that when he’d started writing The Shooting Script he’d chosen to make one of the actresses the victim, rather than the producer. But that wasn’t how the idea had come to him! That wasn’t how his muse had dictated the book should be written! And now that treacherous muse could well be the cause of his getting his legs broken by men working for his increasingly impatient bookmaker.
Paddy Colligan, for his part, was indulging himself in a sweeping review of his life so far. It was a far-from-optimistic exercise. Looking at it as objectively as he could, it seemed to him that while he had made a few wise decisions, there had also been a long string of foolish ones.
Despite being so poor he’d had to live off little more than bread and margarine in a rat-trap bed-sit in the worst part of Dublin, he had dedicated himself to writing his play, Troubled Times in the Old Country, and had eventually finished it.
A wise decision.
He had taken the play to a small theatre company, and persuaded the manager to produce it.
A very wise decision.
Waiting for the reviews, he had been hoping that they would hail him as the new Brendan Behan, and when they had been merely encouraging, he had seen it as a crushing blow.
Foolish.
He had taken the job as a scriptwriter on Maddox Row.
Downright bloody stupid.
And he had stuck with the job, even when it had become clear to him that as long as characters like Jack Taylor and Madge Thornycroft filled his head, he would never write another word which was really worth a damn.
Cowardly!
But it was not just his professional and artistic life he’d buggered up, he reminded himself.
With eyes wide open, he had walked into the most obvious of emotional traps, and now, though escape should have been the easiest thing in the world, he seemed unable – or unwilling – to break free.
‘Mind if I join you, lads?’ asked an intrusive voice from the wider world beyond the two men’s own miseries.
The two scriptwriters looked up. Larry Coates, a mug of tea in his hand, was standing over them and smiling benignly.
The lack of an immediate response caused Coates’s smile to fade a little. ‘If I’m interrupting anything important, you’ve only got to tip me the wink and I’ll go elsewhere,’ he said.
‘No . . . please, take a seat,’ Paddy Colligan said, suddenly realising how his and Drabble’s self-absorption might be interpreted as just plain rudeness. ‘Sorry if we seemed out of it. We were both thinking about the script.’
‘Ah, the script!’ Coates said, sitting down. ‘That sacred book which rules all our lives.’
He’s taking the reversals in his fortunes very well, Paddy Colligan thought. Why can’t I be like that?
‘So what treats have you got in store for Jack Taylor, the Laughing Postman?’ Coates asked, offering the two scriptwriters a cigarette. ‘Any chance of him falling down a manhole and breaking his neck?’
Paddy Colligan shook his head regretfully. ‘Jack’s going to lead a charmed life, at least for the foreseeable future,’ he said.
Coates sighed. ‘Yes, I suppose he is.’
‘You must be bitterly disappointed about not going to Hollywood,’ Paddy Colligan said sympathetically.
‘I was,’ Coates said.
‘But not any more?’
‘It comes and goes,’ Coates admitted. ‘It’s true that I’ll probably never get such a big chance again, but while there’s life there’s hope. And so what if I have to stay on this show until I’m old enough to draw my pension? It’s steady work, and at least it pays the mortgage.’
That’s what they’ll be putting on my tombstone, Paddy Colligan thought. He did steady work and paid the mortgage.
‘Besides, there are other compensations to working on Madro,’ Larry Coates said.
‘Like what?’ Paddy Colligan asked, with the sudden desperate air of a man clutching for a lifeline.
‘We bring a great deal of pleasure into a lot of people’s lives,’ Larry Coates told him.
‘Oh, that old chestnut!’ Paddy Colligan said dismissively.
‘The fact that it’s almost a cliché doesn’t make it any less true,’ Larry Coates countered, with a hint of reproach in his voice. ‘You only see the viewing figures, but I see the viewers. I’ve lost count of the number of times that some old dear has come up to me in a shop to say how much she enjoys the show. I wouldn’t get that if I was in films, and I’d miss it – because however many times it happens, it always gives me a warm glow inside. So, by and large, I’m not too unhappy about staying on the show. When all’s said and done, there are far worse places than Maddox Row, you know.’
Are there? Paddy Colligan asked himself. Are there really?
That’s easy for Larry to say, Ben Drabble thought. He’s stuck here now, so he’s got to make the best of it. But I don’t have to stay. If I’d got the guts do something about it, my book could take me away from all this.
Twenty-Three
The studio day was in full swing, and central concourse was as busy as any small town high street. But how many of those busy people would have noticed him turning down the alley which led to the front of the actors’ dressing rooms? Woodend wondered. And of those who did notice him, how many would actually remember it later? Probably none at all!
That may well have been the murderer’s calculation, too, when, two nights earlier, he made his way down the alley with a large electrical screwdriver concealed on his person. Or perhaps he didn’t need to make that journey at all. Perhaps all he had to do to kill Valerie Farnsworth was step out of his dressing room and into hers!
He came to a halt at the dead woman’s door. Larry Coates’s dressing room was to the right of it, George Adams’ to the left. He stepped to the side, raised his fist, and knocked on Adams’s door.
‘It’s not locked,’ called a voice.
Woodend turned the handle and stepped inside.
George Adams was sitting on his couch, a large cigar in his mouth. When Woodend had seen Larry Coates for the first time, he’d immediately thought of him as the Laughing Postman, but there was no such confusion in his mind about Adams and the character he played on the screen, because without his make-up the man bore no more than a passing resemblance to Sam Fuller, the crotchety old-age pensioner of Maddox Row.
Adams puffed on his cigar, and blew a smoke ring up at the ceiling. ‘What do you want?’ he demanded.
‘I’ve had warmer welcomes in my time,’ Woodend replied.
‘Then they probably came from people who’ve got more time for
rozzers than I have,’ Adams said.
‘Got something against the police, have you?’ Woodend asked.
Adams gave him an officious smile. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s usually them that have got something against me.’
Woodend was starting to feel on familiar ground. ‘Let me guess,’ he said. ‘You’ve been inside.’
Adams nodded. ‘In my youth I was a guest at one of His Majesty’s secure institutions for a couple of years.’
‘What were you in for? Robbery?’
Adams looked offended. ‘Of course not! Nothing so illegal! I merely hit someone who deserved it rather harder than I’d intended to. And let me tell you, by the time I came to trial I had a few bruises of my own, which your fellow so-called police officers had inflicted on me while I was in the cells.’
‘So now you don’t like bobbies,’ Woodend said.
‘So now I don’t like bobbies,’ Adams agreed.
‘But you wouldn’t mind answerin’ a few questions, would you?’
Adams shrugged. ‘I can see no objection to that – as long as it doesn’t start to bore me.’
‘Where were you at the time Valerie Farnsworth was murdered?’
‘I certainly wasn’t in her dressing room with a screwdriver in my hand, if that’s what you’re suggesting.’
‘I’m not suggestin’ anythin’,’ Woodend said evenly. ‘All I’m doin’ is askin’ you a question.’
‘From six o’clock until fifteen minutes before the show went on air, I was here.’
‘An’ you didn’t hear any sound from next door?’
‘You mean, did I hear Val call out something like, “No, Jennifer, put that screwdriver down”?’
‘Well, did you?’
‘I’m afraid not. The walls are so well insulated that I didn’t hear even a peep.’
Two can play the smart-arse game, Woodend decided, looking slowly and ostentatiously around the dressing room.
‘Seen enough?’ Adams asked.
‘I must say, it’s all very egalitarian,’ Woodend mused.
‘Meaning?’
‘In Whitebridge Police Headquarters, you can pretty much tell how important somebody is from the size of his room.’
‘How fascinating,’ Adams said sarcastically.
‘Aye, I thought you’d be interested,’ Woodend said. ‘Take the chief constable’s office as an example. You could throw a party in there. Whereas you’d be pushed to swing a cat in mine.’
‘So?’
‘It’s not like that here. All the dressin’ rooms are the same size, which seems to suggest that all the people who occupy them are of equal importance.’
‘And so they are.’
Woodend grinned. ‘Come off it, Mr Adams! You know that’s crap. You’re nowhere near as popular as Valerie Farnsworth was.’
Adams looked stung. ‘We have a very diverse audience, and different characters appeal to different viewers,’ he said defensively.
‘As far as I can work out, Valerie Farnsworth appealed to all the men between the ages of thirty and sixty – an’ a good proportion of the women as well,’ Woodend said. ‘Who watches the show to see you? A few old-age pensioners?’
‘A great many old-age pensioners,’ Adams said hotly. ‘And children, too. I’m everybody’s favourite granddad.’
‘But you’re not, are you?’ Woodend asked.
‘Not what?’
‘Not a granddad. An’ as far as I can tell, you’re a long way from drawin’ your pension yet.’
‘I’m forty-seven.’
‘So how did you get the job? Why didn’t they give it to an old feller who wouldn’t have needed much make-up?’
‘They did – originally. And he popped his clogs a week before they were due to broadcast the first episode. That’s when Bill decided it would be safer to give the role to someone younger and healthier.’
‘Which is how you got your big break,’ Woodend said. ‘Tell me about Valerie Farnsworth.’
Adams smiled again, as if he’d realised he’d lost control of the interview for a while, but was now firmly back in the driving seat again.
‘Why ask me?’ he said. ‘Haven’t you read her obituaries in all the newspapers?’
‘Yes, I have, as a matter of fact.’
‘Then you already know that not only was she a great actress, but also a very warm human being with a heart as big as a mountain.’
‘Was she?’
‘A great actress?’
‘A very warm human being.’
‘Of course she was. When she wanted to be. And as long as someone was watching.’
‘Is that just another way of sayin’ that you didn’t like her very much?’
‘People who didn’t like her make natural suspects as far as the police are concerned, so I’d have to say in my own self-interest that I personally worshipped the ground she walked on,’ Adams replied. ‘But I will tell you this – one of the two most important lessons you learn in prison is who to trust and who not to trust, and I didn’t trust Valerie Farnsworth.’
‘Any particular reason for that?’ Woodend asked.
‘If you bite the hand that feeds you, you’ll bite anybody’s hand.’
‘An’ is that what she was doin’?’
‘Yes, if the rumours I’ve heard are true.’
‘Whose hand was she supposed to be bitin’? Bill Houseman’s?’
‘That would be a fair assumption. His was, after all, the hand that fed her.’
‘So what was she plannin’ to do? Abandon him? Run off to Hollywood like Larry Coates wanted to do?’
Adams shook his head. ‘No. Nothing like that. Her betrayal was of a more personal nature.’
‘That’s a bit vague, isn’t it?’ Woodend asked.
‘Yes,’ Adams agreed. ‘And that’s exactly how I intend to keep it.’
‘Don’t you want Valerie Farnsworth’s killer caught?’
‘The second valuable lesson you learn in prison is that if you want to survive, the best thing to do is say nothing and keep your head down. And that’s what I’m doing right now – saying nothing and keeping my head down.’
Deputy Chief Constable Henry Marlowe noticed the cream-coloured ambulance, with its light flashing dementedly, the second he pulled into the Whitebridge Police Headquarters’ car park. The ambulance was parked close to the back door of the station, and the driver and his mate, having unloaded their stretcher-trolley, were on the point of entering the building.
Marlowe wondered if some keen young bobby had been a little too ‘enthusiastic’ while questioning a suspect. And if he had, how the bloody hell would they handle it?
In the old days, it would have been easy enough to deal with a situation like that. He, personally, would first have torn a strip off the officer in question, and then blandly told the press that the suspect had fallen downstairs, and he could produce half a dozen witnesses to prove it. But the old days – sadly – seemed to be gone forever. Now that squeaky-clean John Dinnage was in charge of the force, everything had to be done by the book.
Marlowe parked his car and walked over to the crowd. ‘What’s going on here?’ he demanded.
‘It’s Mr Dinnage, sir,’ one of the uniformed constables said.
‘What about him?’
‘His secretary found him slumped over his desk a few minutes ago. They think he’s had a heart attack.’
Christ, that was better news than hearing he’d won the football pools, Marlowe told himself.
But even as the thought flashed across his mind, his face assumed the troubled expression of a senior officer who has just learned that one of his valued colleagues has been struck down.
‘I didn’t realise you’d all had medical training,’ he said, addressing the small crowd in general.
‘We haven’t, sir,’ said the constable who’d spoken earlier.
‘Then you’re not much use here, are you?’ Marlowe asked. ‘Look, I know you must all be as shocked as I am,’ he
continued, lowering his voice and blunting the edge on his tone a little, ‘but there’s really nothing you can do, so wouldn’t it be a good idea to go back to your duties?’
It was more of an order than a suggestion, and recognising it as such, the group began to disperse, leaving Marlowe in sole charge of the car park.
The DCC lit up a cigarette, and waited. It was less than two minutes later that the ambulance men emerged with their patient. The Old Man didn’t look good, Marlowe thought, glancing down at the stretcher. His skin was as white as flour, his facial muscles had collapsed, leaving his features almost flat. It was possible that he would make a full recovery, but a betting man would think twice before putting any money on it.
The ambulance crew loaded the stretcher into the back of the vehicle. The driver’s mate followed it, and knelt down by the sick man. The driver himself closed the doors and strode quickly round to the front of the vehicle.
As Marlowe watched the ambulance drive away, it was only the knowledge that he was being observed from every window in the station which preventing him from dancing a jig.
He jangled the change in his pocket as he thought about the grave words he would use at the press conference later in the day, and, because there was no one close enough to hear it, he permitted himself the luxury of whistling a cheerful tune.
Twenty-Four
For the first part of the drive to Sladebury, Constable Pickup seemed to be rather intimidated by the fact that he was sharing a car with an inspector, but the closer they got to the village in which both he and Valerie Farnsworth had spent their childhoods, the more voluble he became.
‘The place has really grown since I was a kid,’ he told Rutter. ‘There was only one shop back then, but now there’s three, includin’ a branch of Co-op. There’s a petrol station, an’ all.’
‘It’s obviously becoming quite a little metropolis,’ Rutter said, with a slight smile playing on his lips.
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