by Amy Myers
‘Margot Croft was the starting point though?’
‘Margot. Yeah. You know, when he was there, in the room, he really thought he was Margot. That caricature of a face. He was wearing identical clothes to those she wore in Running Tides. Who’d have thought it? He looked so normal. And I thought I was a good judge of character.’
‘Is he clinically deranged, do you think?’
‘Not to him. Pure logic, the whole damn charade. He told me calmly how he planned to take everything from me because I’d driven Margot to suicide, and before I died I’d know exactly how he felt.’
I’d been working on the right lines then, but the thought gave me no comfort.
‘He said he disliked Louise because she had taken Margot’s place as lead actor. Next he decided to blow my wife away just as I’d taken Margot from him. And then it would be my turn. But Joan . . . I couldn’t understand that, and told him so. He looked at me as though I was the crazy one. She’d guessed, he said. So naturally he had to kill her or she would spoil his plan for killing me. He strangled her, then returned with Graham to have a witness to finding the body. He was quite matter of fact about it. He was sorry, but it had to be done.’
‘Would he have killed himself after you?’ I felt cold at heart.
‘Who knows the answer to that? I doubt if he did.’ He paused. ‘It’s gone five, Jack. Feel like a kip? I guess I’ll just stay here. You?’
‘Me too.’
‘We’ll catch up sometime, Jack. A few days maybe. I’ve some thinking to do.’
My mobile was ringing. Louise was frantic with worry. The first news bulletin had been that there had been a shooting at a house in the Weald of Kent, the second that it was the home of film director Bill Wade. I assured her that Bill and I were safe, but that everything else would have to wait until the police had done with us.
I could hear a sob of relief in her voice. ‘I’ll be at Frogs Hill, waiting,’ she said.
That sounded good. The police had come back at dawn which was precisely thirty minutes after Bill and I had decided to call it a day and nod off. They had left us alone for a while because they were at work in the woods, and didn’t move into the house until an hour later. The security guard had come out of surgery, was in intensive care and expected to make a full recovery. Good news there, then. Something to cling on to, while Bill and I still floundered in a morass of whys and might-have-beens. We left the police to their job, and some time later that morning we gave them formal statements in the incident van. The van looked out of place drawn up by the Auburn, still defiantly parked outside the front entrance, its purple paint addition still in evidence. Bill didn’t give it a second glance. The first was enough. ‘Time for that later,’ he said briefly.
I thought I should ring Dave before I left Mayden Manor. He was at his desk, Saturday or not. ‘Heard the news, Jack. Bit of a scrap, eh? Glad you’re OK. So’s Brandon.’
My stock had indeed risen! ‘Give me Mark Shotsworth’s crowd any day,’ I tried to joke. ‘At least I know what sex I’m dealing with.’ That white mask of make-up had haunted what little sleep I had had, and it wasn’t going to go away for quite a while.
‘At least it wasn’t Nigel Biddington.’
‘How’s that going?’ I’d almost forgotten that he’d been one of my suspects for murder.
‘Big time. We’re doing a stake-out. Let you know what happens.’
Stake-out of what, I wondered, but hadn’t the energy to ask him. ‘Thanks for your help, Dave.’
‘Over what?’
‘The bulletproof gear.’
‘I’d forgotten about that. Useful, was it?’
‘Turned me into a cross between Superman and Bonnie Prince Charlie. I felt safer going in.’
‘That’s what budgets are for. Speak to you later on the Biddington front, Jack. You’re going to love it.’
I didn’t give a second thought to Dave’s gleeful quip. I wasn’t in the mood. Nevertheless coming back to the security of Frogs Hill was bliss. The sound of a newly tuned engine in the Pits, and the sight of Zoe’s clapped-out Fiesta were comforting. I parked the Alfa, but saw no sign of Louise’s. My spirits dropped even further. Had she given up on me? The farmhouse felt empty and lonely as I walked in.
But I was wrong. Louise was there. She told me her car was being given a loving once-over by Len and Zoe. All was suddenly right with the world again. I should have told her all about what had happened. I should have told her how much I loved her. I should have shown her how much.
I did none of these three things.
Instead, I fell asleep.
I seemed to be on automatic pilot for the next few days. On my own. Louise had a job in London and I had a general feeling of waiting in the wings for something to happen on stage. There were a lot of comings and goings with the police both at Charing and Sissinghurst in whose areas Angie and Joan’s murders had taken place. I was questioned so closely I half expected to be arrested myself for attacking Chris, but this didn’t happen. The guard was already off the critical list. Chris had been formally charged but whether his mental condition would enable him to stand trial or not was doubtful. I’d even had to pay a visit to the Studios, which seemed full of ghosts without Louise and the cast of Dark Harvest. Editing was in progress, and all was quiet as I walked around.
There was of course also Pen Roxton. I opened Wednesday’s Graphic to find that this time I was the hero of her fantasy. I read the article with some trepidation, expecting to find heavy hints that Bill was the real guilty party rather than the poor misguided actor. Fortunately Pen hadn’t thought of that one – yet.
I rang her to congratulate her – not quite the right word perhaps but it would do – on the story, and she seemed pleased to hear from me.
‘Great,’ she said. ‘Now show your gratitude. I’ve dug out all I can about Chris Frant and his sad quest for stardom and all that, plus his crush on Margot Croft.’
‘He’s been charged, Pen,’ I said patiently. ‘You can’t use it.’ Bang, the trap shut.
‘So now you can tell me the real story, darling.’
‘You’ve got it,’ I said through clenched teeth. Big mistake to ring Pen about anything.
‘Come on now. You’re hiding something. I can smell it a mile off.’
‘I-am-not-hiding-anything.’
‘Someone is,’ she said brightly and rang off. Two minutes later she rang again. ‘Girlfriend going strong, Jack?’
‘Yes, no thanks to you.’
‘She there with you?’
‘In London. Got a job.’
‘Casting, actually.’
‘Casting for what?’ I asked blankly.
‘Haven’t you heard? Major series coming up on TV, Moore’s Esther Waters. Being shot somewhere up north. She’s tipped as hot favourite for Esther.’
Louise hadn’t told me.
EIGHTEEN
And then Bill rang. I hadn’t seen him since the Saturday it all happened, four days ago. ‘Feel like coming over, Jack? We can meet at a pub if you can’t face Mayden Manor again, or eat here if you can.’
I was about to choose the pub, but then had second thoughts. If I visited the manor again, it might help put the whole experience into perspective, instead of its being a memory from which I shied away. If it wasn’t still a crime scene, and if Bill was happy to stay there, why should I object?
Without the marquee, the gardens looked altogether different. Mayden Manor was a peaceful country house albeit with massive security – but all such houses needed that nowadays. This was a fairly remote dwelling but I reflected that even so the sound of that noise in the night must have had some neighbours complaining, not to mention quite a few sheep shocked into running for their lives.
We settled on lunch in the garden. With a beer in front of us, a salmon salad at its side and raspberries to follow, this seemed to be what summer was all about. No maniacs running around here.
‘So,’ I began at last, after we’d covered
all the small talk. ‘Why did you ask me over?’
‘Let’s kick off with this. You saved my life, Jack. I reckon I owe you.’
‘Pay me with the Auburn,’ I joked.
He laughed. ‘It’s cleaned up OK, and I can just about afford the respray it needs. I don’t feel the same about it, Jack. It’s an unlucky car.’ He paused. ‘I’ll settle up for your time spent on my behalf, Jack, but I owe you more than that. An explanation. I want to tell you about Margot Croft.’
I was instantly alert. At last. ‘Margot and Chris Frant?’
‘No. The real Margot Croft, her life, her death – and me. OK by you?’
I nodded, and he began.
‘I knew the lady long before Running Tides. I’d seen her in her early movies, even directed her once in a bit part. There was something about her – you ever see that Griffith movie Broken Blossoms? The original not the remake. Margot reminded me of Lilian Gish. She didn’t need words to act, she used herself. She was dedicated, like Gish. She wasn’t just a good actress, she was, well, a mood, a dream, in herself, something you couldn’t quite grasp, beyond direction, but it left you trying to pin it down. She was delicate, yet had this strength that could carry her past that quality into something mighty glorious. Opposites: fragile; strong; inspiring love; inspiring hate; unselfish; selfish; giving love; taking it. All those. Except she never hated anyone in her life.
‘When I first directed her,’ he went on, ‘I knew little about her offstage. I knew she was married, even met Geoff quite a few times, but I was solely interested in her performance. I’d had a bad first marriage, and wasn’t looking for anything permanent, or even mildly serious by the time I was looking to cast Running Tides. I’d wanted to direct it ever since the script landed on my desk. It was based on this short novel, based on a true story and written by the head of intelligence involved. You’ve probably heard it was based on a short novel published in the early twenties in a magazine – not Pulitzer Prize material, but it had potential and I could see what I might be able to do with it to turn it into something special. I remembered Margot Croft and that was it. I knew I had to have her play Ramble.
‘I don’t know which was the first obsession, the film or Margot. Did I have this great idea about the movie and fitted Margot into it, or was it the other way about? I reckon it was Margot first and the dream of the movie grew out of her. Whichever, we were in bed together within a few days. After that days and nights seemed to become one, feeding each other. Sleeping with her, loving her, seemed part of the vision for the movie. I don’t like that word, but what could replace it? Only dream maybe, but if it’s realizable it’s no dream. You see what you want and try to create it. Margot was part of that, maybe the whole of the inspiration. She threw herself heart, soul and body into Running Tides. She could see exactly what effect I was after and created it for my sake. She loved me all right, and I loved her. That went on for four months or so, while we were shooting here and in France. At what point does passion become obsession? For the movie and for each other. Where’s the dividing line? I didn’t know then and I don’t know now.
‘The problem is that some day filming ends. What happens then to the passion and obsession? Continue with it? How do you channel it? If you can’t, there’s disaster staring you in the face. If it’s obsession it’s more serious. Margot and I had reached that point. We realized that at the wrap party. The movie would be a success, and we’d go off into the sunset together.
‘So what went wrong? You’ll have heard everyone’s version but mine, and mine’s the truth. Margot’s part in the movie was over, while I was still obsessed night and day with getting what I saw as my dream expressed exactly as I wanted it throughout the editing stage. Margot was restless, she had another filming job to do, and I was still caught up with Running Tides. She wanted us to be together right away, but I wasn’t ready. The movie wasn’t finished for me. You could put it crudely and say that I was just falling out of love with her now the shooting was over. But that would not be the case. I was still in love with her, but I had to get the movie finished. The more she badgered me the worse it grew. She wanted me with her every minute and if I wasn’t, she’d come to track me down, crying that I no longer loved her. It got to the point where I realized I was more sorry for her than in love with her.
‘Then she told me she was pregnant with my child, and I believed her. I went to see Geoff to discuss it and he told me she was lying. She couldn’t have kids. They’d tried. I refused to believe him, but Margot admitted it when I tackled her. Then I did cool. I couldn’t take that. When I delayed, made excuses, then the real problems began. She’d ruin my career, she’d kill herself, she’d do this, she would do that.
‘I talked to Geoff again. He hated my guts, incidentally, which was hardly surprising. He admitted I wasn’t the first in Margot’s extra marital life and that suicide threats had been made before, without her acting on them. So I didn’t take her ranting as seriously as I should have and I told her it was over. Geoff said he loved her and that he would look after her. They lived in London and I was down here in Kent by that time, so when the threats ceased I thought everything was calming down.
‘Then I had a phone call from her in the middle of one night to say she was going to kill herself. She had driven down to the spot where we had shot a scene in Running Tides on the cliffs near Folkestone. I still didn’t take it seriously, but I had to go. I drove down there in the Auburn, half thinking she wouldn’t be there when I arrived. But she was. Sitting in her car, waiting for me. I wondered if she’d taken pills but she said no. Not yet. She wanted me back and the threats began all over again. She’d ruin the movie and me. All nonsense but I began to see what life with Margot would have been like.
‘I’m not proud of myself, Jack, but I realized I was beginning to hate her. “I knew you’d come, Bill,” she said complacently. “Just like in the film. Bill, Bill, come to me, and here you are.” You can imagine how that sound hit me the other night, Jack. Chris couldn’t have known about our meeting there, and yet he hit the weak spot.
‘Margot told me quite calmly that she had bought a gun, just like mine. She thought we might have a suicide pact. She’d shoot me and then herself. Great! She whipped the gun out and I tried to get it away from her but it was no use. She was shrieking with laughter and getting wilder and wilder, waving it around. I tried reason, I tried telling her how much she was needed, about how much she had to offer as an actress and finally, lying, I told her how much I loved her. She didn’t believe me, and I knew if I tried to run, she would kill me. This time it was for real. I knew that. She put the gun to her head –’ Bill swallowed – ‘then to mine. I thought she was going to pull the trigger, she was talking so wildly. So I put my hands over hers on the gun and wrenched it back the other way. It went off. Who pulled the trigger? No idea.’
I was cold with horror. ‘So in effect—’
‘I killed her.’
His hands had been over hers, not on the gun, and there was no other proof of course. Even if Bill decided to turn himself in, there would be nothing to back up his story. Had it been accident or self defence, or had he intended to kill her? He didn’t know himself, and I believed him. I thought of what he had said to me as I left.
‘No one liked Angie, Jack, but she was the best thing that ever happened to me. Except for Roger and Maisie, everyone thought that Margot was the goodie and Angie the baddie. But for me the opposite was true. Margot was sweet and lovable but as implacable as stone; she cast a spell but spells can be bad as well as good.’
‘So what now?’ I had asked him.
He knew what I meant by this. ‘I do movies, Jack, like you do cars. Angie and Joan died because of me. I owe them something. I do movies best.’
Dave rang me about Nigel, not that I cared now. I still felt drained. ‘You can put in your invoice now, Jack,’ Dave said. ‘You’ve earned your dosh.’
‘You’ve nailed Nigel?’ I felt almost sorry.
&n
bsp; ‘Nope. Biddington was just an innocent decoy. We’ve nailed the organizer.’
‘Anyone I know?’
‘Yes. Her name’s Clarissa.’
When I’d picked myself up off the floor and Dave had stopped chuckling, he told me that being in a wheelchair and pretending to be forgetful had been the ideal cover for her. When she was questioned, she had been proud of herself, and in view of her age the case might have to disappear for lack of supporting evidence. She was a tough lady, and no one wanted to be on her wrong side – especially in view of the heavies that she employed, many of which worked for Shotsworth Security. Mark Shotsworth himself was as clean as a whistle and so was Nigel Biddington, nor was there anything amiss with the cars for Dark Harvest.
Clarissa must have been raking in a fortune, I thought. Dave read me part of her statement: ‘Everyone is so kind. They come up to chat with me and tell me about their cars as I know so much, thanks to my father. I can be so helpful to them, telling them how good Nigel is as a broker. Dear Nigel and Rob are so good to me. They know how much I love cars and I can usually get one or the other of them to drive me where I need to go. Of course there are taxis, but that would be an extravagance.’
‘Why did she put me on the right track over the Auburn?’ I asked, bewildered. As a car detective it seemed to me I was a washout. ‘Even though she was wrong about the woman driver.’ I did a double take. Or was she? Had Chris in his madness dressed up as Margot to take the car? It was all too possible.
‘She sticks to the woman driver, and as for telling you about it, she was highly annoyed that the Auburn had been stolen so publicly and that the thief had had the audacity to put it in her car park, as she put it, although she had not authorized the theft. Pure chance I gather. Chris heard from Ken about the car park and thought it would suit his purpose nicely.’
And then I had come along and been led by the nose to find it. I didn’t think I’d dwell on that aspect to Dave.