I said, ‘Wanda, look, this is no good. I’m not just talking about the film. I mean, you and me.’
She said, ‘You mean your wife and kid, is that it?’
‘That’s it,’ I said.
She smiled.
‘Don’t worry about a thing, Sam,’ she said. ‘Honestly, there’ll be no fuss. Trust me.’
She reached her slim white arms up towards me. It didn’t seem worth while protesting.
I was awoken by her finger digging in my side. I opened my eyes and saw from the light that it must be very early in the morning. At first, I thought she must be wanting me again and I had serious doubts as to my ability to meet the demand.
But she said, ‘Sam, you awake? I couldn’t sleep much. I’m so worried about this scene.’
‘Jesus Christ!’ I said. ‘What’s to worry? We’ll probably never shoot the thing anyway.’
‘No, I reckon Andy’ll do it,’ she contradicted me. ‘But he won’t be any good at helping me to get it right. Sam, look, it’s getting light. Let’s go rehearse.’
‘Out there, you mean? You’re joking!’
‘Please, Sam,’ she urged. ‘He’ll be wanting to start first thing. This will be our only chance. Please help me, Sam.’
In the end, I gave in. As I got washed and shaved, she disappeared. She must have had a key to the props and costume stores, as she reappeared a little later with our acting clothes and also the pistol Pascoe used.
‘You don’t do things by halves,’ I said.
‘You’ve got to do it properly, even in rehearsal,’ she said. ‘You didn’t object that time you screwed me?’
We both smiled at the memory. I felt a pang of genuine affection for the kid. She had a lot going for her. But not me. Not on a long-term basis. No way.
Like a pair of youngsters breaking out for an illicit moonlight bathe, we stole away. The morning mist was still rising from the college grounds and the campus buildings were dark and sleeping.
‘Over here is where he’s going to shoot it, I think,’ said Wanda.
‘I hope it warms up a bit by then.’ I shivered.
At least the wind had died away and it looked as if the forecast was right and we were going to return to the earlier settled weather.
We worked our way through the scene stage by stage. Wanda was now giving as well as taking, and some of her suggestions were useful, even brilliant.
Finally I said, ‘OK, Wanda. Let’s try the whole thing, shall we?’
‘Yes, Sam,’ she said. ‘Let’s try the whole thing.’
I am striding along the path which leads to the Hall in which Ellie has her room. It is evening. There is no one around. The wind tousles my hair. My face is grim and set. Then I glimpse a figure moving diagonally away from the Hall across the grass heading up a slope towards the bordering woodlands.
It is Ellie.
I call out, ‘Wait!’
She hears me, turns, stands silhouetted for a moment with her hair streamed out in the wind, then begins to move away.
I break into a run shouting, ‘Ellie!’
She is almost in the woods when I overtake her.
Now she stops and faces me.
For a moment we stand in silence.
Finally I say, ‘I know, Ellie. I know.’
She doesn’t reply. I pull out the revolver and hold it up for her to see.
She says, ‘You know? What do you know? My God, it’s taken you long enough to find out what a backward child could have guessed in minutes! As for knowing anything, Peter, really knowing it, you never have, and I doubt if you ever will.’
‘Ellie,’ I plead. ‘Listen to me. I need to talk to you. I want to help.’
‘Help? You mean you’re going to do a cover-up and keep it all quiet, even from that fat mate of yours?’
‘No!’
‘What, then? You’ll put in a word for me with the judge if I cooperate? Is that it?’
‘No!’ I cry again. ‘Ellie, I want to understand!’
‘Understand what? How you could have let yourself be fooled, is that it?’
‘No!’
She makes a dismissive gesture and turns away.
‘Ellie, I love you.’
‘Love? How can you love what you don’t know?’
‘Ellie, you can’t go. You have to stay.’
She looks back at me and says, ‘You mean I’m under arrest, is that it? Or do you mean you’re so desperate to have me stay with you that you’ll forget all that law and order crap you’ve been spouting and ride off with me into the wild blue yonder to live happily ever after? Which is it Peter?
Which?’
‘There has to be a way,’ I say helplessly.
‘Yes, there has to be. But you’ll not find it, Peter. That’s why you’re a policeman, so you can tread a nice clear path. It’s a beat you want, Peter, not a life. But I loved you! Believe that.’
She starts to move away.
I cry, ‘Ellie!’
She turns a tear-stained face towards me. I have raised the revolver and levelled it. She begins to smile and then to laugh.
‘No,’ she says lifting up her hand with a white envelope in it. ‘Oh no. Not that! That’s too absurd. Too absurd!’
I pull the trigger.
The laughter freezes on her face. She looks down at her chest. A red stain is spreading across her white blouse.
She looks up at me once more.
‘Too absurd,’ she murmurs. And falls to the ground.
I let the gun fall and run forward crying, ‘Ellie!’
Her sightless eyes gaze up at me.
The envelope is still held gently between the fingers of her outstretched hand. I see it has my name on it.
I take it up and open it.
Dear Sam, When you read this, I’ll be back home with my folks. Enough’s enough. It didn’t take me long to realize that everything people had said about your egotism, bad temper and violent nature had a lot of truth in it, but I loved you and I thought that little Fiona would be the key that changed you for good. I’ve done everything I can to please you, even submitting to your most perverse demands. But this is too much. That you should start having an affair with that rock-and-roll whore is bad enough. That you should be so reckless about it shows how little you care for my feelings. And that you should boast that you’re going to dump me, but hang on to little Fiona, well, that proved to me you’re close to insanity. You’ll be hearing from my lawyers, Sam. Little Fiona will be kept safe and surrounded by love. Also, in case you get any stupid ideas, she’ll be surrounded by trained guards which my daddy has arranged for. I don’t want to see you ever again, Sam. I’d like to say it was fun. But it wasn’t. Estelle.
I reeled as though struck. This was incomprehensible. What did it signify?
‘Wanda,’ I said. ‘Wanda, what’s going on?’
She did not reply. She was lying very still. I looked down at her. A moment before as I fired and saw the red rose blossom on her breast, I had had to suppress a smile at the kid’s enthusiasm at getting herself fitted up with a blood-bomb just for an unofficial rehearsal. Now in my state of bafflement, not far beyond which lay the beginnings of great pain, I just felt irritated at her stupidity.
‘Make-believe time’s over,’ I said, reaching down to grasp her shoulder.
I shook it. She didn’t move. I shook harder. So totally immersed was I in my reaction to the letter that the truth still eluded me.
‘Wanda!’ I said. ‘For Christ’s sake, Wanda!’
And then at last, I began to realize.
‘Getting the message at last, are we, Mr Stuart?’ said a voice behind me.
I spun round. There a few feet away was the bearded novelist.
He said, ‘Come on.’
‘Come on where?’ I demanded. ‘Wanda … !’
‘She’s dead,’ he replied. He stepped forward, reached down and closed her eyes.
‘Oh Christ!’ I said. ‘We must get help.’
; ‘We won’t get it by standing around here, will we?’ he said. ‘Come on.’
Still disbelieving I stooped and touched Wanda’s brow. It already felt chill. The novelist had set off down the hill, and fearful now of being left alone with the dead girl, I followed.
‘What’s going on?’ I demanded. ‘What’s happening?’
‘You’re upset, Mr Stuart,’ he said in a kindly voice. ‘That’s understandable. Give yourself a few moments and you’ll find it’s all pretty obvious.’
I tried to get control of my thoughts as I almost trotted along beside him in my efforts to keep up with his long stride.
‘Someone must have put a real bullet in the gun,’ I said. ‘Oh God. What an awful accident.’
‘Accident?’ he laughed. ‘Come on!’
‘You mean … ? But who … ? Why … ?’
‘Who’d want to kill Wanda? And why? Well, what about Adamson? He finds out she’s been screwing you, what more natural than that he should kill her. And, being a director, might he not see it as peculiarly apt to arrange things so that her lover did the killing?’
‘Christ!’ I said, appalled. ‘The bastard!’
‘Now don’t rush to condemn,’ he warned. ‘It might not be him. There are plenty of other suspects. Mickey Defoe, for instance. Remember when you were talking to him over dinner, back on page 193 I think it was, he said something about shooting one of his stars to claim the cancellation insurance? Well, that puts him in the frame, doesn’t it?’
‘But why should he want to claim on the insurance when he thinks he may have a big hit on his hands?’ I demanded.
‘Only if the film’s finished,’ said the novelist. ‘But if Adamson walks off, as seems likely, the film won’t get finished. And these insurances are pretty specific. A star dies, they pay out. A director walks out because his wife is playing around, they laugh all his way to the divorce and bankruptcy courts.’
‘But I can’t believe that Mickey Defoe would go to that extreme!’ I protested.
‘All right. How about Gordon Griffin? There’s nothing in the film for him any more, is there? His part’s been cut to the bone and he’s not even on a percentage.’
‘But that’s hardly a motive for murder. What’s Gordon got against Wanda, for Christ’s sake?’
‘Nothing against Wanda,’ said the novelist. ‘But against you, that’s different. He hates your guts! He’s never forgiven you for taking Annie from him, you must know that. But he detests you even more for what you did to her, and for not caring what you did!’
‘What I did to her?’ I said. ‘I let her divorce me, that’s what I did, and a pretty penny it cost me! So what’s she got to complain about?’
‘Nothing. She’s dead. There, you didn’t know that, did you? Back on page 183 when you were making those cracks about her, you didn’t know she was dead, and Griffin’s been nursing her these past three years, and that’s why he’s been out of sight and is almost bankrupt!’
I was so shocked by this that I halted in my tracks. The novelist had led me not back towards the main college buildings but to the rectangular block of the drama hall which stood some way apart.
I said, ‘My God! Annie dead? It wasn’t in the papers.’
‘Her only claim to notice was that she was once your wife. I doubt if Griffin wanted her passing to be published in those terms. In here.’
He opened the door of the drama hall. Obediently I went in. It was dark in there but a moment later the lights came on and I found myself standing in front of the set of Ellie’s flat.
‘What the hell are we doing here?’ I demanded.
‘You wanted to telephone,’ he said.
‘Oh yes.’
I advanced and picked up the telephone, then said, ‘Shit! You idiot, this is a dummy!’
‘I think you’ll find it’s connected,’ he said.
I listened. He was right; there was the dialling code loud and clear.
I dialled 999.
‘Which service?’ said a voice in my ear.
‘Police,’ I said, thinking they could fix up the ambulance.
I got through to the police instantly.
I said, ‘I want to report a death. A woman, Wanda Sigal, rather Mrs Wanda Adamson. At the college – you know the college? She’s up by the edge of the wood on the eastern boundary. Yes, dead. No, shot dead. With a revolver. Who fired it? Well, I did, but – all right, yes, I’ll be here.’
I put the receiver down.
‘They’re coming,’ I said.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Over here.’
I obeyed him. I was in such a state of shock, it seemed easier to follow his instructions than to think for myself.
‘It might be as well to take a look in here,’ he said.
He was standing by the door of the drama store room which our props man had taken over.
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘Someone got in here and fixed the gun,’ he said. ‘Did they break in or what? There’re only two keys.’
‘Don’t be a nana,’ I said. ‘Why should they break in? Look!’
I pointed at the key in the door.
‘Wanda must have left it there when she got the gun,’ I said.
‘But was it there before?’ he asked.
‘How the hell should I know?’ I asked in irritation.
I turned the key and went inside. Everything looked to be normal, which in the case of a props store means chaotic. I came out again.
‘Better lock it and keep the key,’ suggested the novelist. ‘The police will want to have a look round there, I should imagine.’
A new thought had occurred to me.
‘Could Wanda herself have loaded the gun with a live round?’ I asked as I locked the door behind me and pocketed the key.
For the first time I felt I had the initiative over the novelist. He regarded me thoughtfully and said, ‘That’s very ingenious. But why?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Suicide? A joke that went wrong?’
He laughed.
‘Some joke! And she didn’t strike me as the suicidal type. No. It’s an interesting theory, useful for a bit of diversion, but it falls down on motivation. That’s the important thing, Mr Stuart. I’m a writer; I know. Motivation is the lifeblood of a novel. It’s the divine breath which gives it life. You start mucking around with motivation, forcing it, ignoring it, and you are maiming, perhaps even destroying, a living creature. That’s what you and Adamson and the rest of you were doing with my book, of course. Oh, I know you can say you’d tidy things up retrospectively, make it all look possible. Yes, we can all do that. It’s very easy. But it’s a cheat, Mr Stuart. It’s an offence against nature and against art. My Ellie, the Ellie Soper I created, could no more be a killer than … I was going to say, than you could, Mr Stuart!’
‘But it makes a better movie!’ I protested.
‘We’ll never know that, will we?’ he said with a smile.
Suddenly a dreadful suspicion was born in me.
I said, ‘There’s only one person who really has a motive for killing Wanda, for getting this film stopped, for destroying all the work that’s gone into it these past few weeks!’
‘Yes, Mr Stuart? Yes?’ he said encouragingly.
‘You! It was you, you bastard, wasn’t it?’
To my surprise he didn’t look shocked or frightened, merely disappointed.
‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘Not me. Except perhaps, of course, as the first author of the work which brought you all here, I could be said to be responsible for all that follows. But that’s a mere metaphysical conceit. Try that on the police and they’ll refute you with rubber truncheons, I shouldn’t wonder. No, Mr Stuart, I thought for one moment you’d got there by yourself, but I see you need a push. The police are simple souls, except for the odd Pascoe, of course. They’ll ask simple questions. Such as: Who shot Wanda Sigal?’
‘I did, but …’
‘Who rang them up and confessed to shooting Wanda Siga
l?’
‘I did, but …’
‘Who got the gun from the props room?’
‘Wanda!’ I cried.
‘So you say. But who has the key?’
‘I have, but …’
‘Most important of all – who has the best motive for killing Wanda?’
‘Not me!’ I said. ‘Certainly not me!’
‘But the letter you received, the letter from your wife saying she was leaving you and taking your daughter, what about that?’
I had forgotten about the letter in the turbulence of the past few minutes. Now the pain of that greater loss overcame me once more.
‘How could she? How could she?’ I moaned. ‘But that’s nothing to do with this business. I didn’t see the letter till after Wanda was dead.’
‘It’s open, and in your pocket,’ he pointed out. ‘It arrived yesterday, I think you’ll find. The question you must have asked yourself was, who told your wife?’
‘It could have been anyone. The bastards, they all hate me and resent me!’ I said.
‘But most likely of all is Wanda. Don’t you remember coming into your room and interrupting her on the telephone? She looked guilty and banged the receiver down. Don’t you remember that?’
‘But that wasn’t Wanda!’ I protested. ‘That was Ellie! It was in the film.’
He looked disconcerted momentarily, then said, ‘No matter … if necessary, there can be a re-write. But I doubt if it will be necessary. Just look at yourself. You’re the perfect murderer. Weapon, motive, opportunity and above all, character.’
‘Character! Me? You’re joking!’
‘Hardly,’ he said. ‘Consider. Remember the things your first wife said about you, there’s a mention of them on page 181. Perverse, violent, mentally unstable. As for Annie, you actually attacked her publicly. It’s all there on page 183. Then there’s your third wife. She’s just briefly referred to on page 192 but once they start digging, they’ll find the story as before. What about Estelle? From what she says in that letter, she’ll be happy to stand up in court and confirm what the others felt about your personality. You’re in real trouble, Mr Stuart!’
I began to edge away from the man. It was dawning on me that I was in the presence of a real lunatic. What they had done to his precious novel might have pushed him over the edge, but he must have been quietly insane for a long time before this. All this talk about what happened on page this and page that! He was treating the whole crazy tragic business as if it were a bloody script!
There are No Ghosts in the Soviet Union Page 17