The Final Act (#4 Bestselling Spotlight Series)

by JS Taylor

  Lorna shrugs, as though this is all perfectly normal. I see her eyes seek out David the props handler, who looks badly shaken. He’s talking on the telephone. Presumably trying to ascertain how a letter from an imprisoned stalker got into the props.

  “No worries,” she says. “I’ll hang out here for a bit and come by later, when you’re feeling better.”

  Chapter 27

  The rest of the day feels like a strange, broken thing. The cast and crew were all on such a high. Now everyone is milling uncertainly, waiting to hear when we’ll shoot the final scenes.

  By late afternoon, James has traced the tampered letter back to an external props department. But it’s a dead end. The props department were sent the poison pen by post, with instructions they assumed to be from Berkeley Studios to substitute it.

  They no longer have the post-marked envelope or any other evidence as to the sender.

  I am determined not to let the stalker intimidate me. But it’s hard not to feel upset. Particularly since I can tell James is worried.

  If the stalker can bribe a guard to send letters, could he bribe his way out too?

  It’s what we’re all thinking, though no one says it out loud.

  “Issy,” says James gently, after finishing his barrage of phone calls to security services and the police, “I think it’s best that you don’t go to the premiere.”

  So it’s come to this. James really does think the stalker might get out.

  His eyes rest on mine. “If the stalker is successfully bribing a guard,” James explains, “we just don’t know what kind of influence he has. He could just be playing power games. Or perhaps he can bribe his escape for real.”

  A feel a lurch of horror at the idea of the stalker breaking free.

  I swallow, about to agree to James’s suggestion. And then a stubborn protest rises up.

  I won’t let the stalker win.

  “No.” I’m shaking my head. “No.”

  James looks surprised.

  “I won’t do it,” I say, fixing my gaze on James. “I won’t let him intimidate me.”

  I bunch my fists.

  “You said yourself,” I say, “that he’s just trying to frighten me. That he’s locked up, and he can’t get out.”

  James’s face shows uncertainty.

  “Someone close to the stalker is accepting bribes,” he says. “We don’t know how low they’d sink for money.”

  “But that doesn’t mean, he’ll get out,” I protest.

  James’s face looks sad. “Money is a powerful motivator,” he says. “If we could find out who is funding the stalker…”

  “You’d have a better chance of finding out who is being bribed?” I fill in.

  I twist my mouth, suddenly feeling like a petulant child who’s not allowed to go to a birthday party.

  “Ok,” I agree. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I won’t go to the premiere.”

  James’s face breaks in relief.

  “Things might change,” he says. “I’ve got every resource on this. If we find out who’s funding the stalker, I think we have a good chance of nailing whichever police officer is helping him.”

  I nod, keeping my face impassive. Because in reality, this seems like a slim chance. Everything to do with the stalker has drawn a blank.

  I so wanted to go to the premiere!

  I drive the thought back down.

  “I’m so sorry, Issy,” says James, seeing my expression. “His hands hold my shoulders. You’ve worked so hard on this movie. You, more than anyone, deserves to get dressed up and be recognised for your input.”

  I shake my head.

  “It’s not that,” I say. “It’s… I’m just so proud of you,” I say, my eyes on his. “I wanted to be at your side at the launch of your big movie. I wanted the world to know we’re together.”

  I give him a helpless look.

  “You are so wonderful,” he smiles. “When any other girl would be planning her dress, all you’re thinking about is me.”

  “I’ve planned the dress too.”

  He laughs. “That’s not true, is it?”

  “Not really,” I admit. “I was just looking forward to being at your side, that’s all.”

  James smiles, and kisses my mouth. Then he frowns determinedly. “I’ll do everything in my power,” he says, “so that you can go to this premiere.”

  I smile back. “I hear your powers are considerable.”

  “With your faith in me, I think they are.” His mouth twists in thought.

  “Listen,” he adds. “Let’s call Lorna. We’ll have a nice dinner and an early night. Then tomorrow we can pick up filming again. After that, we’ll have a few months, just the two of us. The rest of the cast and crew will go their separate ways. We can hole up in the studio, write scripts and be happy.”

  I give him a weak smile. “That sounds great,” I admit.

  He nods. “In the meantime, my best people will be on to this stalker case. Something has to crack. We’ve got months to find him out.”

  Months. That sounds like a long time. But a little voice in my head tells me those months will go by awful fast.

  Chapter 28

  I’m dressed in a long ball-gown, and I’m running.

  Behind me is a monster. And I know if I slow, even slightly, it will tear me to pieces.

  I’m calling to James, but he’s nowhere to be seen. And as I run, the familiar surroundings close around me. Dark tunnels with no end, which run on and on.

  “James!” I cry. “James! Help me!”

  But the only sound is the ragged breathing of the Thing behind me.

  I come to a junction, and my head whips this way and that, deciding which route to take. Seized with panic, I turn blindly left and will my legs to move faster.

  Almost immediately, I hear a hissing, horrible sound. The monster’s voice is both behind me and all around me.

  “Wrong choice,” it whispers delightedly. “Wrong choice.”

  A chilling laugh echoes.

  And as the laugh ends, the floor beneath me turns to dark glue, and my feet sink and catch.

  I turn, stumbling to face the monster, and see a cloaked figure with a deep hood.

  It’s then I realise I’m holding something in my hand.

  A knife.

  I wave it threateningly.

  “Get back!” I shout.

  The monster only laughs, and moves closer. It pulls back the hood. Underneath is a face I know well.

  It’s the Lipstick Stalker. His brown hair is down this time. But his face still holds the same maniacal hatred I saw when he wore a stage wig.

  “My little dancer,” he hisses, and the words come like snakes, writhing around me. “How can you hurt me?” he asks, nodding to the knife in my hand. “You don’t even know my name.”

  As he speaks, the knife in my hand melts to nothing. And then the stalker opens his cloak, revealing a world of dark twisted horrors beneath. I see the pale faces of his past victims floating in sightless anguish.

  “No!” I shout. “No!” But he’s gathering me up in his cloak, taking me to a dark underworld. A place where no one will hear my screams.

  I wake up in a cold sweat, sitting bolt upright in bed.

  “Issy? Issy!”

  James has his arms around me.

  “You were talking in your sleep,” he says. “Shouting. Bad dream?”

  I nod, shaking miserably, and press into the warmth of his body.

  “About the stalker again?”

  “Yes,” I admit in a small voice. In the weeks leading up to the premiere, I’ve been haunted by ever more vivid dreams of the stalker.

  Despite James’s best efforts, his team haven’t been able to crack any details of the stalker’s identity. He’s a total mystery, without bank account, driver’s license, or other identification.

  “Go back to sleep,” soothes James. I nod, and he kisses my cheek, laying me back down in bed.

  “I’m ok now,” I li
e as James settles beside me. But my eyes are wide open, and my brain is whirring.

  I turn the situation over and over in my mind. If we could find out who was giving the stalker money. That would be something.

  How could I find that out? James has done everything.

  I’ve thought these thoughts many times before. And once again, I dismiss the idea as hopeless. I’ve made my peace with missing the premiere. Although it galls me that the stalker will think he’s won. It’s the mystery of it all which bothers me.

  Why was the stalker profiling Berkeley Studios? Who could be paying him money?

  I close my eyes, trying to let an uneasy sleep take me again. An image from the dream flashes up. The stalker’s cloak, with his previous victims.

  I squeeze my eyes tight shut, pushing it away.

  You can’t hurt me. I tell the phantom dream figure. You’re not real.

  But something comes to me. Something I hadn’t thought of before.

  The stalker had another victim. Before he got to me.

  The other girl. The actress from before. She was terrorised by the stalker and never acted again.

  I turn over what I know of her. She wouldn’t speak to the police or tell them anything. She was too frightened.

  But an idea is creeping into my mind, whispering to be heard.

  What if she’d talk to me?

  I consider this. Maybe, just maybe, she would. Could I find her?

  They kept the case out of the papers. But I’ll bet her details are in the police file.

  I set my jaw determinedly. I’ll find her. Talk to her. Maybe she can provide some information. The more I consider it, the more sense this makes. I’m a fellow victim. Surely I’ve got a better chance of extracting information than the police?

  I turn my head, studying James. His breathing is a steady rise and fall, and his handsome features are soft.

  I know how he will respond to my intention to help solve the mystery. He’ll want me to stay out of things and try and forget all about the stalker.

  But I’m burning with a sudden certainty that I might be able to help.

  James has the police file on the stalker. I saw it in Barcelona. The stalker’s previous victim would be in that file.

  Charged with the hazy unreality of being half asleep, I slide gently out of bed, careful not to wake James.

  I pad from the bedroom and enter the main apartment.

  The police file. Hmmm. Where would he keep it?

  Fully awake now, I begin making a careful search. I check James’s study, the main living area, and even the kitchen cupboards.

  But James must have learned his lesson from leaving documents around in Barcelona. The Lipstick Stalker paperwork is nowhere to be seen.

  Think Issy. Where would he put documents?

  Then I remember he has a wall safe hidden behind a picture.

  James joked that he never used it. But maybe he has put the papers here. Knowing that I’d never look.

  I approach the Damien Hirst Butterfly picture, and flip it open to reveal the safe behind.

  A numeric keypad is revealed, with space for a code.

  My heart sinks. What was I expecting? An open safe?

  Then I see an LED screen with flashing text running along it.

  “Six numbers,” it reads, “which are most dear to you.”

  Odd. That’s a strange thing for a safe to display. Then I realise.

  James has typed in a clue, so he won’t forget his code.

  Six numbers which are most dear to him.

  I’m all alert now, relishing playing the detective. Perhaps I have a chance to crack the code.

  I think carefully. Which six numbers could be most dear to him?

  His birthday?

  It’s a long shot, and I punch in the digits, knowing this is probably wrong. I’m rewarded with an angry sounding beep. Wrong code.

  Eeek. I wince, thinking of James sleeping in the far room. Did he hear that?

  I pause with my breath held, waiting for footsteps. But after a moment there’s nothing. The bedroom door must be thicker than I thought.

  I consider carefully. Should I try again? It would be awful to wake James. Then again, I know he would never agree to my visiting the stalker’s past victim.

  Screw this, I decide in a flash of rebellion. I’m going to break this code.

  I smile to myself. Brave words, Issy. Now there’s the small matter of getting the number right.

  Okaaay. Most dear to him.

  My birthday? I type in the numbers and cross my fingers.

  BEEP! Another angry sound. And this time a message flashes on the display.

  “Warning. Further wrong attempt will sound security.”

  Shit. I make a hasty glance to the bedroom. No one is stirring. I can’t count on my luck holding a third time. Because the system will trip onto alert.

  This is the last thing I want. I try not to think about how embarrassed I would be if James was woken by a security alert to find me trying to break into his personal safe.

  I step back from the safe. Maybe it’s better not to risk it. James is doing everything he can.

  Then all I have at stake surges through my brain.

  Come on Issy. You have to solve this.

  I close my eyes, letting everything I know about James run through my head.

  Something dear to him. A number. A number which is dear to him.

  I let everything in his life combine. Something to do with the studio? Certainly he holds that dear.

  Or Berkeley Estate? The family name? Those are things I know James takes great pride in.

  I let these ideas bubble through my head. But none of them result in a number.

  Is it something to do with me?

  This strikes me with sudden force.

  But I’ve already tried my birthday. What other numbers relate to me?

  Not my phone number. That’s eleven digits. Could it be… my measurements?

  I consider this.

  James has had several outfits made for me. I bring to mind the Chanel suit he bought for my first date, and the beautiful green dress for our flamenco night. Those clothes fitted perfectly. Did James guess my measurements by eye?

  He must have.

  I stare at the safe with a little more certainty now. I know James. That is exactly the kind of combination he would use. It’s cute and unnerving and romantic all at the same time. Which sums him up perfectly.

  With my finger shaking a little, I punch in the number and press enter.

  35-26-36.

  There. No going back now.

  I wince, waiting for the angry alarm to sound.

  But instead, the display flashes stars and I hear a click.

  Yeeeees!

  I don’t believe it. I’ve actually got the combination right.

  I restrain myself from punching the air with glee. Because as the safe goes back, I see I’ve scored a double victory. Stacked inside is a file I recognise. It’s the Lipstick Stalker’s case file.

  I snatch out the papers and begin rifling through. I’ve seen most of this before, and I flip distractedly through the old information.

  Then I hit on the right page. His previous victim.

  Hungrily, I scan for details.

  “Emilia Holt. Age 22.”

  My eyes flick down the page, but there’s no picture, and hardly any more information on her. Just the bare bones of her case. The stalker imprisoned her, but she won’t talk about what happened.

  My eyes light on some welcome information. There’s an address for her. My heart sinks. She lives in LA.

  That’s a ten hour plane trip away.

  Ok. Nice try, Issy. Time to leave things to the experts now.

  But part of me refuses to give up. I remember the money in my bank account. All the zeros paid by Berkeley Studios. I could afford to buy a last minute flight, if I wanted.

  James is holed up in production every day this week. I’m not needed for anything i
mportant. I’ve got the money for the flight.

  The plan forms itself with utter certainty.

  I’m going to do this. I’m going to LA. I’m going to speak with Emilia. And I’m going to find out something which will nail the stalker for good.

  Chapter 29

  I tell James that I’m visiting my mother for a few days. He’s so busy with editing, he barely questions it.

  “Say hello for me,” he says, kissing my nose. “And send my apologies I can’t come too. We’ll arrange a dinner soon.”

  I nod, feeling guilty for lying.

  “I love you,” I say, with feeling.

  “I love you too.”

  I kiss him goodbye, and then I head to the nearest computer to book a flight.

  Arranging a trip to America is so easy, I can hardly believe it. Part of me still thought I would be unable to get a flight at short notice. Or something else would happen to sabotage my sudden plans.

  But I order tickets online, and an hour later, I’m at Heathrow, checking in.

  Another two hours, and I board the plane. Then seven hours later, I’m blinking in the LA sunshine.

  It’s all so fast, it feels like a dream. I wander out of LAX in a partial daze, my hand gripping a bundle of fresh bills, picked up from the currency exchange.

  I’m not used to having money, but I have to acknowledge it speeds the way. My previous trips abroad have involved complicated transport arrangements after touch down. But this time around, I get in a cab with a wad of cash. And almost before I know it, I’m pulling up at a quiet-looking house, in a homely area of the city.

  At the sight of the house, I’m flooded with a sudden panic.

  What on earth are you thinking, Issy? Emilia might not even live here any more. You could get arrested for trespass.

  I pay the driver, tipping generously, and ask him to wait just around the corner.

  I’ve booked a flight back only a few hours from now. And my plan is risky at best. I have a few hours to try and get an audience with this girl. And persuade her to tell me things she wouldn’t tell the police.

  The enormity of what I’m doing is coming with full force now.

  She could call the police. You’ve obtained her address from confidential documents.