Classic Calls the Shots

by Amy Myers

  ‘You still want me to carry on?’ I asked. ‘The situation has altered since Joan’s death.’ I had to bear in mind that Bill himself must have been investigated by Brandon.

  ‘Let me tell you something. I want this ugly business over,’ Bill told me. The chances are one in a hundred you’ll turn up anything, but because of that one, I won’t take the risk. If you contribute anything at all, it will be worth every cent.’

  ‘Even if it leads nowhere – as this Geoff Manning theory might?’

  He thought for a moment. ‘You know why I go to twenty takes sometimes? Because sometimes that’s what it needs to get there. Nothing you can do about it. Just get there, Jack.’

  Geoff Manning. The elusive husband who might or might not be amongst the Dark Harvest company. His target – the film, then the personal revenge. He was preying on my mind, almost as if he were mentally stalking me. Intangible, but out there.

  Louise was worried about me and insisted after we had eaten that evening that we went for a walk along the River Stour. It was good, it was quiet, the dog roses were in blossom, a few ducks quacked annoyance as they were disturbed.

  ‘Tell me, Jack,’ Louise said at last. ‘You can’t go on brooding like this.’

  ‘There’s a cough in the engine,’ I said, burrowing down to the root of my discontent.

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Joan. Her death doesn’t fit. By my reckoning Angie was the end of the trail for our joker. I can only think Joan wasn’t part of the killer’s original plan, but was killed for something she knew. Or someone she knew. Geoff Manning, perhaps. She was certainly worried about something and yet if it was obvious, she wouldn’t have hesitated to tell Bill or the police or even me.’

  I hardly dared go further, but I had to face it. I had been assuming the killer’s original plan had been a gradual build-up of the dirty tricks, then the theft of the car, climaxing in the death of Angie. So how did Joan present a threat? Identifying him as a killer? Possible but suppose identifying him would interrupt his completion of the plan?

  Pen was way off the mark. I was convinced I was on the right trail now. The killer had steadily deprived Bill of what he cherished most, but it didn’t end with Angie’s death as revenge for his losing Margot.

  Now Geoff Manning wanted something just as precious. Bill’s own life. Bill had been the ultimate target all along.

  SIXTEEN

  I forced myself to sleep on this scary deduction. After all, if it was so blindingly obvious why hadn’t it occurred to me earlier – and even more significantly why hadn’t Bill considered that his death might be the final goal? There could be a chance that I had been suffering from an end-of-the-day fog and imagining bogeys that weren’t there, in which case morning could present a more balanced view.

  It did not do so. I was still convinced I was right, with all the terrifying implications. Louise announced her intention of rejoining the cast at the hotel for the Thursday night before filming ended on the Friday. Those two days would see the remaining scenes shot, including a big one for her.

  ‘Is it a difficult one?’ I asked as she didn’t seem to be looking forward to it.

  ‘No,’ she admitted. ‘It’s just because it’s the last chance to get things right before the final wrap.’

  ‘And after that you’ll disappear with a merry wave of a hand.’

  She avoided looking at me. ‘There’s the wrap party to come that night.’

  I knew about wrap parties but hadn’t realized one would be coming up for Dark Harvest – especially in the circumstances. ‘That means everything’s finished? For the film,’ I added, in case she thought I meant between us.

  ‘No. It just marks the end of shooting. Then it’s over to the editing team to do the hard work of fitting the scenes and shots into some semblance of what Bill is trying to achieve. The mood in other words. The cast returns to the cruel reality of the outside world.’

  I refrained from bleating, ‘And what about us?

  ‘Bill’s hosting the party at his home,’ she continued. ‘Roger’s laying on buses to take us over there and bring us back.’

  The last part sounded good, the first didn’t. If my instinct was right, it would play into the joker’s hands – and increasingly I was giving a name to him: Geoff Manning. ‘Does it have to be at Bill’s home?’

  ‘Bill has spoken, and it shall be. My guess is that he’s deliberately sticking his neck out. The show must go on at all costs, and be seen to do so. Normally at a wrap party everyone lets their hair down.’

  ‘Dancing on tables?’ I asked dubiously.

  ‘And drunk under them.’ She made a face. ‘I hate them, but I have to go. It sounds worse than it is, though. Usually once I’m there, it somehow works. This time, though, it wouldn’t be right to have that sort of do. Bill and Maisie have planned a communal dinner and then they’re showing the rough cuts of Dark Harvest in his cinema in their correct order, so that we can see that something at least has been achieved.’

  ‘Has it? Are you happy with it?’

  ‘I never am, but that goes with the territory. But I have faith in Bill – he could edit a stone statue into giving a performance of emotional depth.’

  I wondered whether to point out the risks, but Louise wasn’t stupid. She must see them. Even so . . . ‘Has Bill considered that the announcement of a plan like this could be a red rag to a bull?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He has. I think that’s what he wants. Jack, I’m scared.’

  I woke up to an empty bed again on Thursday, because Louise had had a dawn start, and by the amount I already missed her I realized she was fast becoming part of my life. I wasn’t sure of the wisdom of this as I’ve never seen myself hitched to any kind of star, but then Louise was different. Not a ‘celeb’, but a woman with a job that she did well and a dream that was all her own. I supposed I was more or less in the same position, but without the ‘star’ tag. The question was: whose dream would come first if they met head-on?

  I had a clear agenda for the day. I had to talk to Bill and fast. If he was the target and the cast and much of the crew would be dispersing after the wrap party, the killer would have precious little time to lose – and so therefore would I. Bill however was going to be pinned down to a film set, and wasn’t going to welcome distractions such as chatting to me. Tough. He would have no choice.

  I drove over to Stour Studios once more, marvelling that so much could be going on in such a relatively small industrial area, surrounded by a rural scene to tempt Constable. I reminded myself that currently I was part of it, and asked Jane to get a message to Bill that I needed to see him urgently. I watched the runner depart on her mission, from which she returned unexpectedly quickly.

  ‘Bill says wait in his office.’

  The word had been spoken. I went over to the farmhouse and tried to be patient once I got there, but looking down on the garden where Angie had died made it hard. Pen’s daft theory jumped around in my mind. Bill kill Angie? No way. I’d been with him when we found her and that shock and grief had been genuine. I remembered reading how one should play being drunk on stage or film: don’t stagger around all over the place, but do one’s utmost to stand still. That’s how I knew Bill wasn’t putting on a show for me. He had gone inside himself, not wailed his grief to the heavens.

  In a way Pen and I were both right, however. There was a story here somewhere, and Bill was my first priority. It was thirty minutes before he arrived and I wondered again how a man so relatively slight and not particularly tall could convey so much energy and strength. He wasn’t hurrying, and yet he gave the impression once again that Montgomery had suddenly joined me. I almost saluted.

  ‘What have you got?’ he barked. ‘Make it important.’

  ‘It is.’ I explained my reasoning and like all good generals he listened, without reacting.

  When I had finished, he said calmly, ‘I take that on board, but it doesn’t wash.’

  ‘It does if Geoffrey Mannin
g is behind it.’

  A long pause, while he weighed this up. ‘I doubt that. You’re working on the premise that Running Tides or Margot has something to do with what’s been happening here. I tell you it’s coincidence that Angie and Joan worked on that film. Angie barely exchanged two words with Joan let alone Margot. Both film and tragedy took place over ten years ago. Stick to your cars, Jack. That’s what you’re good at.’

  I felt like a schoolboy slinking out of the headmaster’s study but at least my ‘caning’ hadn’t been too severe. He’d thought about my theory and rejected it. I believed he was wrong to do so, but I could do no more where he was concerned. I’d have to make my own way round the problem.

  He called out to me as I left: ‘Come to the wrap party tomorrow night, Jack. You’ll see I’m right.’

  I was all too afraid that I would see something rather different. I went over to the canteen where, finding myself alone apart from the staff busy chatting in the kitchen, I put through a call to DI Brandon.

  At least he too listened to what I had to say. He didn’t reject my theory either. Indeed he sounded almost relieved as he pointed out that Sissinghurst wasn’t in his policing area. I persevered with a plea that it would be a good plan to have police in attendance. He said he would pass on my advice – and make some enquiries about Geoffrey Manning.

  Had there been sarcasm in Brandon’s voice? For once I didn’t think so. Two murders on his patch in the same company had achieved what one could not.

  Encouraged, I then rang Dave. ‘Nigel Biddington,’ I began. ‘Any news?’

  I’d reported to Dave on Monday about Fun Day at Marsham. The fact that Nigel brought an old lady with him as cover didn’t rule out a role as spotter for some scam. I had added that he’d spent a lot of time observing cars. Dave had pointed out that it was a car show. That I had granted, but maintained that Nigel was ideally placed with his links to both insurance and cars. Dave had given his usual grunt and said he’d bear it in mind. Today he seemed more interested, however.

  ‘Still got him down for murder?’ he asked.

  ‘Way down the possible list. I’ll keep an eye on him at the wrap though.’

  ‘Eh?’

  I explained what that meant plus my theory about Geoff Manning, and Dave listened more intently than I thought he would. ‘What are you planning to do about him?’

  ‘Stop him, I hope.’

  Dave didn’t laugh. ‘Whether it’s Biddington or Manning, there’s a man with a gun and nasty habits out there, Jack. Get some kit to wear. I’ll sign the order for it. If it is Biddington, remember he’s killed two people already. If it’s this Geoff Manning, who’s harboured a grudge all these years, he’s a maniac, which means if you stand in his way, he’ll blast a path right through you.’

  ‘Anything more?’ I was taken aback by the seriousness with which Dave was suddenly taking this. If he believed it was a real threat . . .

  ‘Nothing more that Brandon and I can do. That’s the problem. Get that gear, Jack. You’re on the payroll again.’

  I hardly saw Louise during the rest of that day. I took Dave up on his advice to get myself bulletproof protection, which took so long on the Thursday that I returned to the studios to find that filming was over and Louise had left for the hotel.

  It was a different picture when I arrived on Friday. Everyone looked under pressure – not unusual of course, but today there was a sense of time running out. Louise made a brief foray into the canteen and warned me they were running late, but her scene was called for two p.m. It turned out it had been shot much earlier in the production but Bill had decided he wasn’t happy with it, and needed another go. The ‘go’ took all the afternoon and at six p.m. he was still not happy with it. Yet another take.

  I’d had no calls from Brandon or Dave so I was forced to leave matters in their hands, cursing cuts and protocol and everything else that stopped them from being able to put a twenty-four-hour guard on Bill and indeed on everyone going to this blasted wrap party. Including me. For Bill, organizing a Custer’s Last Stand was all very well, but it was the men who might go down with him that he should think about.

  I drove myself over to Sissinghurst early to give me a chance to look round the gardens and house before the guests arrived. I was somewhat peeved that Louise told me she’d elected to join the bus group with her mates once the shooting was over and she had changed into party gear. But I could see her point. If ever solidarity was called for, it would be this evening. If Geoff Manning was present, however, his mind would be focused only on killing Bill Wade, not on the togetherness of the company. How could Bill not see it added up? A series of hits against the film, the loss of his precious car, followed by the far worse loss of his precious wife and his own life in danger.

  Now that the joker had taken on solid form, it helped focus me on what Manning might be planning. There was always the chance that I would be wrong, but I couldn’t afford to take any risk. Was it just Bill he was after, or was it the film and everyone connected to it? I pondered the frightening possibility that Manning might intend to burn down the whole house, or more likely the marquee where everyone would be eating, or the cinema. If the film was his target, Bill would have all the rushes there tonight, but I comforted myself that in these days of digitalization there would be copies somewhere even though he shot on film. If Manning’s target was the film, moreover, he’d had plenty of opportunities to sabotage it without waiting for tonight. If he was going for the cast and crew, on the other hand, then the marquee or the cinema in the house would be his best chance.

  But if he was after Bill . . . anywhere, any time, any place. Manning had only to wait for the opportunity. No, that didn’t figure. He would want to cut Bill down in his moment of glory. Bombs? I thought uneasily. Manning had had plenty of time to plan for such a scheme. Mass murder by food poisoning? No, not certain enough. Bus or car brakes tampered with? Nor would that be certain to achieve his objective.

  I took the Alfa to Sissinghurst. No risking nasty tricks in the Lagonda or my noble Gordon-Keeble. There were to my surprise and relief two uniformed police at Bill’s gates. Good work on Brandon’s behalf. Although with that thought came its counterbalance: he must really think something was afoot. My passes were carefully scrutinized.

  Mayden Manor was buried deep in the countryside behind Sissinghurst on the Cranbook side. It was in the Weald, a gentler area of Kent than the Downs, with farmhouse and mills and red tiled houses tucked away almost invisibly among the trees. I could not see the house itself from the gates, but as I turned into the forecourt I saw a striking medieval Wealden house, with red brick additions from Tudor and maybe later dates. A hotchpotch of architecture that worked, as so often with Kentish buildings. I could see why it had appealed to Bill.

  In the evening sun it seemed impossible that I was really thinking in terms of its being blown up or set on fire, or of anything more violent than the popping of champagne corks. As I drove up to the forecourt, I saw to my surprise that the Auburn was parked right in front of the main entrance to the house. The creamy paint glowed in the sunshine, seeming to dare anyone to defile its beauty. Was it there just temporarily? I doubted it. To me it had the hallmarks of a Bill Wade gesture of defiance. Tempting the bull, however, was by no means always a good plan. Bulls were noticeable; our joker was not.

  I parked the car, checked in with Maisie who was superintending the caterers and then went straight into the grounds. The police and two security guards would have checked them of course, and the house too, but these gardens seemed to me the most vulnerable place if there was going to be trouble. In the setting sunlight they looked at peace, however. On the main lawn there was a huge marquee and a subsidiary service area. Tables were already set up inside, and I could see staff dashing around making last-minute arrangements for the seventy or eighty guests that I’d been told were expected. There were also half a dozen uniformed security guards around it.

  I walked round the perimeter of the
garden, more to satisfy myself than with much hope of finding anything suspicious. It took some time, as it was more a small estate than a mere garden. A brick wall, eight foot or so high, surrounded it; there was woodland on the western and southern sides, plus a stretch of trees inside the wall which ran parallel to it for part of the way. It wouldn’t be thick enough to hide a killer for long, although the shrubbery on the eastern side could easily do so.

  I was assuming that the potential killer would be trying to get in from outside the walls, but it was probable, alas, that he would be amongst those seventy or eighty guests. Not good. Any one of them could ‘smile and smile and be a villain’ as Shakespeare realized. I wondered what the Bard would have made of the Bill Wade plot so far.

  Maisie had said I was welcome to tour the house, and I took her up on it. As in Syndale Manor a semi-basement room had been converted to a home cinema, where the unedited Dark Harvest would obviously be shown. The living area of the house and bedrooms added up to a pleasantly relaxed atmosphere, which was surprising in view of its owner’s taut energy. Angie must have had more going for her than my brief brushes with her suggested. Attics? Again, as the killer was in all probability known to everyone here, there would be no reason for him to hide. And yet I checked what I could, telling myself it was a precaution, although in fact it merely meant I could persuade myself I was doing something to help in a situation where – if I faced it starkly – we were all effectively impotent. As Manning was no doubt gloating over at this very moment.

  At eight o’clock the two buses arrived and duly disgorged their passengers, and it was then I felt the first real chill of apprehension. What had been a mental exercise in trying to second guess the killer’s intentions had become an all too real situation. I saw an added touch of defiance in that Bill had, presumably with Nigel’s collaboration, arranged for the other three classics to join the Auburn. The front of Mayden Manor was glorified by the Bentley, the Fiat and the Horch, although amid them the Auburn reigned supreme.