by Amy Myers
‘Clarissa.’
‘What for? About the Auburn again?’
‘No idea.’ That said, Rob returned to his pizza.
Louise and I retreated, found a Rob-free place to sit and threw ourselves into enjoying the day. She had dressed up in a floaty summer dress for the occasion, and though her outfit didn’t run to a parasol I felt that the eyes of any Impressionist artist who wandered by would light up at the sight. Mine did.
This had all the signs of a great day for dads, mums, children – and sweethearts. There was a pleasant mingling of petrol smells, grass, and faint whiff of hamburgers in the air. Perhaps Nigel and Clarissa were taking their ease dining with Rob’s Cyril in the hall, because I could see no sign of them in the car display area when I went back there. It would be tempting to enjoy the day for itself but even leaving Nigel out of the equation both Louise and I were conscious of the nightmare that hung over the studios. I had to keep a tight rein on what I could tell Louise about Joan’s death, but in fact Louise told me rather more than Brandon had.
‘It seems Joan had had a call to meet Bill at Nemesis, because she’d told several people about it. It seemed a reasonable arrangement if annoying for her that Bill should want to see her, because it would be for an exterior shot the next day and shadows in the dying sun would be important, especially as Joan would be in black. Bill denies making that call and so does his PA.’
‘Who were the other people who knew about it?’
‘I don’t know.’ Louise saw what I was after and didn’t like it. ‘I didn’t, but Graham says that Joan wasn’t making any secret of it. Anyone could have heard about it.’
‘Including Nigel?’ I forced myself to ask.
She flushed. ‘Probably.’ A pause. ‘You really do have a vendetta against him, don’t you?’
‘Strong words, Louise. It’s my job, remember? I work for the police.’
‘Sorry.’ But she didn’t sound it, and there was an atmosphere between us at odds with the pleasure of the day. I went back to the subject of Tom.
‘Do you think he invented that call?’
‘No, but he might be scared that Bill murdered her,’ Louise said defensively. ‘After all, in theory Bill could have been hiding when Tom arrived at Nemesis, awaiting his chance. Loyalty comes first with Tom. He’d never voice any such suspicions.’
Why would Tom think that Bill might want to kill Joan, though? I was sure Pen would have her answer ready. Louise was tight-lipped, however, and we dropped the subject. We wandered around for a while and then I proposed to go back ‘to work’, although the array of cars here made that no hardship at all. She said she would prefer to find a place by the stream and wait for me with a good book. I had some breathing space for doing my job without having to feel guilty over darling Nigel.
Every age of cars from the twenties to the sixties was here, and such a mix of cars brings aficionados together in comradely fashion. Get a collection of classic Porsche owners together or MGs and there’s a totally different atmosphere. In wider gatherings there’s a general rejoicing that such wonders as classic cars exist for the common good.
At last I saw Nigel doing the rounds of the assembled beauties. It was still hard to think of his being bent on some criminal task on a summer’s day such as this, with everyone wearing their best bibs and tuckers. Nevertheless I noticed he was inspecting a Sunbeam Tiger very closely and jotting down a few details.
‘Hi,’ I greeted him.
He didn’t look in the least bit guilty. Again he looked pleased to see me, dammit. ‘Is Louise here?’ he asked.
‘Somewhere around,’ I said vaguely. ‘I heard Clarissa wanted a word with me.’
He looked blank. ‘Did she? You’ll probably find her up on the terrace in her wheelchair. It’s an electric one so she can drive up and down there giving herself what she calls a majestic overview of the proceedings. She likes it because people come up to talk to her without any effort on her part.’
I made my way over to the terrace, where I did indeed find her, complete with sunglasses, sun hat, and a book. Someone else was just leaving her, so I took the vacant chair at her side. Losing her memory or not, she remembered who I was, which was flattering.
‘Ah, Mr Colby, how nice.’
I replied that it was equally nice to see her. ‘I heard you wanted to speak to me.’
She looked puzzled. ‘Did I? What about?’
‘The 1935 Auburn?’ I suggested.
‘Do you have one? Lucky you.’
‘No. I was looking for one when I came to see you and you were very helpful.’
‘Oh yes,’ she said triumphantly. ‘I saw it one night. And dear Nigel tells me that you then found it in Gladden car park.’
‘That wasn’t hard after your tip.’
‘I’m pleased to have been of help,’ she said grandly. ‘It’s all very interesting,’ she continued. ‘That’s why I wanted to see you. One of the car park guards who does odd jobs for me was telling me . . . I wanted to tell you . . .’
She looked puzzled.
‘Tell me what?’ I asked hopefully.
‘That he likes crumpets. He came to tea one day.’
‘Who? The guard?’
‘No. Mr Shotsworth. Rob brought him. And of course, as you know, dear Nigel now owns part of the firm.’
FIFTEEN
The day brightened, as Louise and I looked forward to a peaceable afternoon. I left her chatting to Zoe while Rob and I went back to the car display where judging was in progress. I hadn’t sought his company but Zoe thought it would be a good idea. Enough said. Anyway, I wanted to see whether my secret hopes of the Lagonda winning the Best in Show award were fulfilled. Len had crawled over it before I left Frogs Hill and I tried to give it the final spit and polish that the judges love. Whether it won or not, however, it was a good place to keep an eye on friend Nigel.
At last I might have the link I needed. Nigel had bought his way into Shotsworth Security and the probability was therefore that Mark Shotsworth had not been a stranger to him. As Nigel bounced up to me during the judging process, I was beginning to feel guilty for even suspecting him of any criminal activities, let alone murder. His rosy-cheeked beam hardly sat easily with a possible role in organized crime. But with the news of his co-ownership of Shotsworth Security, he was fitting that profile all too well. He might just need nailing down, although that was hard to contemplate on a day such as this when elderly friends were being wheeled out for a day’s pleasure, golden lads and lasses sported in the sunshine and their elders chatted about the really important things of life, namely classic cars.
Oblivious to my suspicions, Nigel beamed at me. ‘Hoping for the Best in Show, are you?’
‘That’ll be the day,’ I said modestly. ‘There are some good examples of concours cars here.’
He took up the theme with relish, and while he chatted on about Bentleys and Alvises, I wondered whether any of the cars he mentioned were destined to feature in some future list of Dave’s missing classics.
‘Clarissa said you’d bought into Shotsworth Security – is that right?’ I asked when he ground to a halt.
‘Bang on,’ said Nigel enthusiastically. ‘Great chap, Mark. Know him?’
‘Not personally.’ I was aware that my ribs were still aching from my encounter with his heavies.
‘He’s around somewhere.’ Nigel looked vaguely around. ‘Over there.’ He pointed to a group of men huddling round an Austin Healey. ‘The chap in grey cords.’
I’m not sure why I expected Mark Shotsworth to be a heavyweight macho guy, but I was wrong. He was tall, slightly built and looked as urbane as your average city gent.
‘Want to meet him?’ Nigel asked.
‘Why not?’ I was all for meeting ‘great chaps’.
Nigel took me over to the group admiring the Austin Healey and detached Mr Grey Cords. ‘Jack Colby, Marcus. Frogs Hill.’
‘Of course.’ Keen blue eyes with more than a hint of ice summed m
e up. ‘Dave Jennings mentioned you,’ he added.
He made me feel as though I was the villain while he himself was great chums with Dave. I put him down as the slippery sort that doesn’t allow you a handle to find your way in. As no doubt he intended. We chatted briefly of Clarissa, of Harry Prince, and of Dave Jennings, and then he cut to the chase.
‘You found that Auburn in Gladden.’ He shook his head as in disbelief that such wickedness as stealing cars could still take place in this day and age. ‘Bad deal that,’ he continued. ‘Pity we can’t control who comes in and out of our car parks. On the stolen lists or not, there are so many clones and false IDs around nowadays, that there’s no checking them all.’
‘I’ll have a word with Dave about improving the situation,’ I assured him, taking pleasure in the way those icy blue eyes were flickering in annoyance. I could well imagine his urbanity giving way to macho ruthlessness.
‘Good to meet you, Jack.’ His tone suggested it wasn’t as good as all that.
‘And you.’ I meant it. My brew was thickening nicely. With Nigel tied into Mark’s operation, at least I had something to report to Dave, even if its place in Brandon’s murder cases remained an open question. Satisfied, I returned to the Lagonda, where Louise and Zoe were now struggling to strap on the picnic basket. There was no sign of a Best in Show award. Some people have no taste.
And then there was Bill. Were my services still required on Angie’s death? Not that I was going to give up, even if they weren’t. Monday saw me back at Stour Studios and despite my best efforts I felt a metaphorical prison door clang behind me. There was little sign of life, although I knew filming must be proceeding in one of the studios – which meant Bill would be there and not amenable to discussions. At reception’s direction, I went to the ops room in the studio building to double-check. I found no Bill, but to my relief Tom was back at his post, busily guarding the storyboards. No sign of digital influence anywhere. At least something was normal.
‘They threw the book at me,’ he told me gloomily, ‘but released me without charge because they couldn’t find enough evidence. And that’s because,’ he thumped the table viciously, ‘I didn’t kill either of them. You know what hurt me most of all, Jack? That anyone, even a flat-footed copper, could think I would harm a hair of Joan’s head. After Bill, she was my dearest friend.’
‘They might have thought you killed Angie and that Joan’s death followed from that.’
He snorted. ‘If everyone took a hammer to those they didn’t like we wouldn’t have a world food shortage. And as for killing Joan – do you think that’s really likely?’
‘No. That call you had, plus your second trip to the temple, were unfortunate though.’
‘So what if I thought Bill was up there? Think I set out to kill them both, do you? Or that the idea of killing Joan just popped into my head when I found Bill wasn’t there?’
He was red in the face with anger, not against me, but at the sheer lunacy of the idea, and I was in full agreement.
‘You’ve been through a rough time, Tom.’ I knew through bitter experience what a grilling by Brandon was like.
He relaxed a little. ‘I tell you, Jack, they’re not easily going to find out who did this, and so I might still be dragged back by the scruff of my neck.’
‘Unlikely,’ I said firmly. ‘Look at it this way. Firstly, there’s a cold-blooded murderer out there who killed two people; secondly there’s the joker who poisons dogs and sends filthy anonymous notes, and thirdly the Auburn gets pinched. They must all link somehow but I can’t see you being involved with all of them, so therefore it’s none.’
‘Thanks.’ Tom’s eyes strayed to the storyboards, perhaps as reassurance that a saner world was still to be found.
I abandoned Nigel at least temporarily as a suspect and went back to square one. ‘Is there anything about Margot Croft or Running Tides that I need to know?’
I realized it was an impossible question when he looked at me helplessly. Give it one more spin, I thought. ‘Who might still want revenge from those days, Tom, and for what? Margot’s suicide?’ I added.
Silence. Genuine bewilderment, I thought.
I tried to help out. ‘Her family – her husband? He wasn’t an actor but he could be here as an extra for Dark Harvest.’
A stirring of interest. ‘Geoff Manning?’
The idea began to grow on me. I remembered what Joan had said about strong emotions festering.
‘Did you meet him?’
‘Sure. He was a nice chap.’
‘How old would he be now?’ I was busy calculating how much mileage there might be in this.
‘He was older than Margot,’ Tom said. ‘Could have been mid-forties then – fifties now. But Bill knew him. He’d have recognized him.’
‘There are an awful lot of extras and crew coming and going,’ I pointed out. ‘In costume and with different styles of hair and clothes, he might have escaped notice.’ He could have retired or been forcibly retired, I thought feverishly. Maybe he lost his job.
At least it was a line to follow up. I’d look at the extras lists for a start, even though with evil intentions he could well be using a different name. The more I prodded at the theory the more possible it became. Why would Margot’s husband want to kill Angie? Because, he might reason, Bill had been responsible for Margot’s death, so he would kill Angie.
‘Would there be a photo of Geoff around?’ A long shot, but worth asking.
‘Doubt it,’ Tom grunted. ‘Try the old celeb mags if you can get hold of them. Maisie might have some and she might have photos too.’
‘Good idea.’ I went straight over to the DOP’s office and asked to see the pass lists. Frustratingly they showed nothing under Manning or Croft although there were one or two Geoffreys, which I noted down without much hope. Still, it was a beginning. Then I went to Roger’s office to ask if Maisie was around. She wasn’t, and when I explained what I was after, Roger didn’t look convinced. Granted he must have other things on his mind – such as a film falling to pieces around him and a business that might soon be following suit.
‘Check the pass lists,’ he suggested.
‘I’ve done so. No obvious lead. Do you think you would recognize him?’
‘I guess not. I only met him a couple of times.’
‘Would your wife have any photos of him?’
‘I’ll check that out.’ Roger was looking more interested now.
‘Did you keep in touch with Manning after the film?’
‘Only to ask him to the premiere. Offer rejected as far as I recall, but I met him at the funeral.’
As yet anyway, my theory was holding water. Unfortunately I was outdone. When I reached the car park, there was the Queen of Theories herself.
‘I’ve been thrown out again,’ Pen told me cheerfully. ‘Thought I’d wait here to net a couple of fish. You’ll do.’
‘Thanks. Why did you get ejected? Did you by any chance mention to Bill that he might have killed his wife?’
She looked hurt. ‘Not yet. Joan Burton’s death has thrown a spanner in the works. I’ve got to deal with that.’
So would her family and friends, I thought sadly. ‘Are you planning to fit Bill up for Joan’s murder too?’
‘I like to do thorough research first,’ she said primly. ‘You know that. I’m doing some scuffling around on Joan.’
‘And what have you dug up?’
‘Not a lot. Divorced. No children. Husband beat her up.’
‘No secret love affair with Bill? Or one with Roger perhaps?’
‘I hadn’t thought of that angle,’ she said seriously. ‘You’re right. That’s possible. Roger and Bill at daggers drawn over her.’
I groaned, hoping I hadn’t played into her hands. She looked highly pleased with herself.
‘How’s Louise?’ she asked.
‘Staggering on without your kind attentions.’
‘She’s all right, is Louise.’
&nbs
p; ‘I think so too.’
She looked at me pityingly. ‘Careful, Jack. They’re a world to themselves, these film and theatre folk. Step outside their magic circle and they can’t cope with the big wide world.’
‘Which of us can?’
She considered this light comment carefully. ‘I can.’
‘Tell me your secret.’
‘No secret about it. You know what Billy Shakespeare said? All the world’s a blinking stage. Just build your own and invite suitable guests for the play of the moment.’
‘Am I invited?’
She grinned. ‘Any time, Jack.’
It took two days before I saw the photos. In the meantime I had tried my theory out on Louise and she had agreed it might hold water, given some backup. I was champing at the bit to get it moving, but the Internet and other sources had not yet produced anything on Geoffrey Manning’s life after Margot.
‘I’ve asked Graham and Chris if they can recall this Geoff Manning,’ Louise told me, ‘but Graham said they hardly knew him. He rarely came to the set and didn’t socialize with them anyway. Chris asked around but no one heard from him after the funeral. They all moved on, naturally enough.’
Moved on. Geoff Manning may not have been able to do that, I thought. I had another burst of hope when Maisie brought the photos but they weren’t good. She had also kept a scrapbook of the filming of Running Tides but Geoff had not figured in more than a couple of the photos included. The face was blurred and rang no bells with me or Louise. Nor unfortunately with the casting department. ‘Might be one of ours,’ I was told. ‘Can’t say for certain. It’s an old photo.’
Which left Bill.
He bearded me in the canteen. ‘I hear you’ve been busy,’ he said accusingly. ‘Geoff Manning, Roger tells me.’
‘A possible line. Would you recognize him now if he was one of the extras here?’
‘I would.’
That was something, I supposed.
‘If,’ he continued, ‘I saw him. But you know how many of my extras I actually see? One in a hundred. I look at the shape of the group, the height, the girth, the clothes, the movement, but the faces? Rarely. They’re there for a purpose, that’s all. Background. Louise, now –’ he passed a hand over his face – ‘I see her as a character. Same with Ellie and Justin. Even Brian Tegg. But the other extras – even those playing silent characters, the Prince of Wales, von Ribbentrop, Mrs Simpson – I don’t see them. Sorry, Jack, but that’s the way it is.’