SILENT (a psychological thriller, combining mystery, crime and suspense)

by D. M. Mitchell

  Nothing? There’s a woman’s finger in a cigar box in one of your drawers. Call that nothing?

  He took aspirin, composed himself and went out to the landing. Nobody was around. He went downstairs and found a set of keys and returned to lock the bedroom door. He’d make sure the maids stayed out of the room till he could clean it up, sort things out.

  Betsy was laid in bed. Mason paused at her door, the patch of light falling from the doorway onto his wife’s sleeping figure.

  ‘Help me, Betsy…’ he said.

  He went to her. Her face on the pillow was at peace. She looked beautiful, he thought. He loved her from the moment he first met her, and it cut him up dreadfully to see her like this. He could have saved Davey for her. He should have tried harder.

  Her eyes flicked open. They were blank, as if dead. Then she screamed and lashed out with her clawed fingers, catching him on the cheek. He jumped back from her and she sat up, pulling the blankets protectively to her chin.

  ‘Get away from me, you beast! Help me! Help me!’ she screamed again.

  Mason put out his hands. ‘Betsy, it’s me, it’s your Rick,’ he pleaded. But it only caused her to scream out all the louder.

  A maid, alerted by the shouting, dashed into the room. ‘What’s wrong, sir?’ she asked worriedly.

  ‘He’s a monster!’ Betsy shouted. ‘Get him away from me!’

  Mason hurried from the room. ‘Call Doctor Lombard!’ he ordered the maid ‘At once. She’s ill.’

  Downstairs, he poured himself a large drink. As he was downing his second the phone rang. He ignored it, poured another, sat down, his head and shoulders slumped forward. A knock came at the door. Warren Sykes was standing there.

  ‘You Ok, sir?’ asked the bodyguard. ‘You look – ‘

  ‘It’s none of your fucking business what I look like!’ he fired angrily.

  ‘The studio is trying to contact you, sir,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t want to talk to the fucking studio. I’m busy.’

  ‘Bunny Foster’s been found dead. She’s been murdered.’

  Mason dropped his glass. It shattered on tiles. ‘When?’

  ‘Last night. I don’t know the details exactly, but they say she’s been cut up real bad, like someone’s tried to drain all her blood as if she was a pig.’

  ‘No…’ he said shakily.

  ‘All hell has broken loose down at Metropolitan, sir.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘You’re bleeding, from your cheek, sir.’

  He put a hand to his face. Felt the tiny sting of pain. ‘Betsy did it, just now.’

  ‘Betsy?’

  ‘Do they know who killed Bunny?’

  ‘No, not yet. The police are swarming all over Metropolitan, though.’ The phone rang again. Sykes looked from it to Mason. ‘You want me to get that, sir?’

  ‘Get the hell out of here, Sykes,’ he snarled, and the sudden flaring up of anger took them both by surprise.

  ‘Sure,’ said Sykes.

  Mason picked up the receiver and put it to his ear, the stem of the phone clutched in a shaking hand. ‘Yeah?’ he breathed into the mouthpiece. He listened in silence. ‘Yeah, OK, I’ll get down to the studio as soon as I can. Yeah, it’s tragic. Poor kid…’

  Mason drove down the winding path from his mansion to the main gates. He called the guy over who was manning the small hut Sykes had installed.

  ‘Morning, Mr Mason,’ he said. ‘What can I do for you?’ His eyes were drawn to the scratches decorating Mason’s cheek.

  ‘You keep a log of who comes and goes here, don’t you?’

  ‘Sure do, Mr Mason. Every visitor, every car, date and time. Mr Sykes’ orders.’

  ‘Can I see the log, please?’

  The guard went to his hut, brought out a grey ledger which he handed to Mason. With trembling fingers, Mason flipped the pages till he got to yesterday’s date, his finger travelling downwards till it got to his own name and car registration. Time out was given as 1.20pm. Time in as 2am.

  ‘Everything OK, sir?’

  ‘Were you on guard last night?’

  ‘No, sir. That will be Joe. He finished his shift at 8am this morning; that’s when I came on duty.’ He reached for the book.

  ‘I’ll keep this, thanks,’ said Mason.

  ‘All yours, sir,’ he said, smiling and giving a salute as Mason drove away, the ledger on the seat beside him.

  * * * *

  31

  The Sacrifice

  ‘This is a crisis!’ hollered Conrad Jefferson. ‘What I need is constructive dialogue, not schoolyard mud-slinging! Let me tell you something; nobody here smells any better than the next man, because we’re all in the shit!’

  The conference room was deathly quiet after that. Someone shuffled paper. Even the paper sounded nervous. Someone said, ‘We didn’t need this, Mr Jefferson. This is real bad news.’

  ‘You think I need to be reminded of that, you blithering moron?’ Jefferson chomped on his cigar, found it distasteful and tossed it across the room. His face was almost puce coloured in parts, and he looked like he’d been ragged by a dog.

  Someone else felt brave enough to speak. ‘We need a final decision on the movie. One way or the other. We’ve held off too long already.’

  Jefferson scanned the room full of suits. He singled out one of them for his steely gaze. ‘As head of finance tell me like it is, and don’t even think to dress it up with any fancy bullshit.’

  The man bit at his lower lip for a second. ‘As you are well aware, shares have been precarious to say the least, falling as fast as a whore drops her underwear. Bunny’s murder has leaked out and cranked up the uncertainty in the company. Once it hits the markets tomorrow Metropolitan shares are in for a tumble that will make the walls of Jericho coming down look like a kid stepped on his toy building blocks. Bride of Dragutin was always going to be a risky venture which we all know the studio needed to succeed, as Metropolitan couldn’t sustain its run of feature productions and was fast running into financial trouble. Thankfully the movie exceeded expectations. In order to capitalise on Bride’s success we moved fast to get a sequel into production. We’ve ploughed a lot of the profits from Bride into the sequel, as well as raising significant money off the back of it from a number of key backers. Thus far, all good and well.

  ‘Unfortunately, we couldn’t predict everything that has happened. The increase of negative feeling towards the movie has grown steadily, and in particular towards Rick Mason himself, which has rubbed off on Metropolitan. Nor could we have foreseen the murder of one of our actresses, and the fact people are even saying it is a copycat murder, influenced directly by Bride, which adds another distasteful and complicated layer to the entire thing.

  ‘Financially speaking, we have both our own and our backers’ money tied up in the sequel, a great chunk of it already expended on production costs. We’ve got some of the largest sets we’ve ever built standing ready to use out on the lots, and as you know it’s like a train that’s gathered up a head of steam and already heading down the track, difficult to stop and turn around. In short, we’ve already spent a fortune on this which we’ll never get back. Then, on the other hand we have such a strong swell of public resentment turning against us that people are already falling out with the entire Dragutin product and may not be in the mood for the new movie when it’s released. It’s likely the film will flop, even if we manage to get it past the censors, which are already waiting like a bunch of hungry sharks to rip it to pieces.

  ‘So, no bullshit; if I had to play devil’s advocate I’d say that this will bring Metropolitan close to bankruptcy, shares crash, the board gives a vote of no confidence, the vultures would swoop in – forgive the predator metaphors – and fight amongst themselves to initiate a takeover.’

  ‘Over my dead body!’ Jefferson burst angrily. ‘The way I see it we still ain’t got a choice. We have to make the movie. Production costs have been immense, everything’s lined up and ready to start rolling, like you say
. We just can’t call a halt now. Pulling out at this stage would shove us into bankruptcy for sure. Our investors will sue us for every cent we have and those same vultures would take everything I ever worked for. We have to keep this thing running. You ain’t telling me anything I don’t already know. What I need is something to make the pain easier to bear.’

  ‘Forgive me for asking,’ said the head of finance, ‘but is a big part of the problem here the movie or Rick Mason, because they’re not the same thing.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Ditch Mason and you ditch a big part of the problem. A lot of the gripe has been levelled in his direction. It’s him, not necessarily the movie, that’s been targeted by those religious nuts – they didn’t bomb Metropolitan, did they? They hit him. Nor have they tried to take it out on you, or the producer or director. The police have already said there may be a connection between Bunny’s murder and the religious protestors. Why don’t we play up that aspect? When we deal with the press we subtly emphasise how it’s Mason the public are falling out of love with, and it’s this that has given rise to the religious protests, and eventually led to Bunny’s death. We deflect public disquiet away from Metropolitan somewhat.’

  A murmur went around the room and Jefferson eyed his head of finance. ‘He becomes the scapegoat, that what you’re saying?’

  ‘It wouldn’t solve everything but it will help. Drop Mason from the movie. Make it loud and clear that you’re making a big sacrifice here, bowing to public opinion. If Mason kicks up a fuss, which he surely will, you can always make out you’re doing it in his interest, privately and in public, too. After all, his life was put in danger because of the movie, and you don’t want another death on your hands do you? Pay him off, whatever; it’s peanuts compared to losing the company. If he kicks up a stink we stick to our guns by insisting it’s in his own and the public interest. If he fights it further he risks turning people even more against him, because he obviously doesn’t have the public interest at heart. You come out of this squeaky clean, public faith in Metropolitan’s integrity restored and the religious nuts getting their pound of flesh into the bargain. They’ll be back, of course, but by doing this you can at least get on with the production.

  ‘Let’s face it, Mason’s become a liability we don’t need, and even his wife is reportedly going nuts. They’re dragging you down, Mr Jefferson. Cut them both free and let them sink so Metropolitan can float. It’s a small price to pay and personally I can’t see many more options.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Jefferson after thinking it over for a few seconds. ‘It’s a risk. Mason is the star whether we like it or not. In spite of those loons there are still thousands of women that want to see him up there, not some cheap stand-in…’

  ‘Which makes it an even bigger sacrifice by Metropolitan.’

  He blinked slowly, his eyebrows working their way ever downwards. ‘Ah fuck it!’ Jefferson said. ‘Have my legal-boys look at it and draw up something watertight.’

  * * * *

  32

  A Black Rage

  Rick Mason studied the police officer warily. They were sitting in a small office at Metropolitan Studios, hurriedly vacated so that preliminary interviews could be carried out and statements taken. Mason found it impossible to stop his hands from shaking, so he put them beneath the table, clamping them onto his thighs. His vision was blurred, his eyes beginning to water.

  ‘I won’t keep you long, Mr Mason,’ said the officer. ‘As you can see, we’re asking a lot of the people at the studio a lot of questions.’ He glanced at his notes.

  ‘What exactly happened to her?’ said Mason.

  ‘She was murdered, sir,’ he returned flatly, flicking paper, licking the tip of his pencil.

  ‘That much is blindingly obvious. How, when? More importantly, why? She was a decent woman…’ He felt his words trying to choke him.

  ‘For obvious reasons I can’t go into too much detail, sir. But safe to say she was found dead in the bathroom of her apartment this morning by her maid. She was cut up real bad.’

  ‘Rumour has it she was found in the tub, her wrists and throat cut, as if to drain all her blood…’

  The officer looked up. ‘Gossip gets around Hollywood faster than in any place I know, Mr Mason.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Are you feeling OK, sir?’

  ‘Must be coming down with something.’ He managed a misty-thin smile.

  ‘I’m a big fan of yours, Mr Mason,’ the officer admitted. ‘You scared the hell out of me and my girlfriend.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Seems like you’ve got another fan who likes you more than most.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Although we didn’t see any of it in all its gory detail up on screen, you and I know the manner of Miss Foster’s death is very reminiscent of what happens to a young woman in Dragutin’s Bride.’

  ‘Are you implying someone’s actually copying what Dragutin does in the movie, doing it for real?’

  The officer didn’t like the blunt end of his pencil and took out a small penknife to whittle away at it. ‘Wouldn’t be the first time someone thought they were a Napoleon, or a Julius Caesar, a George Washington, or maybe now a Baron Dragutin…’ Satisfied, he put his knife away, Mason watching the small movements intently. ‘Miss Foster was at the studios yesterday.’

  ‘Nothing unusual in that; she’s making a movie here.’ He realised it sounded curt. ‘Sorry, like I said, she was a good woman.’

  ‘You were here yesterday, too, which as you point out, is not unusual. Did you see her?’

  He couldn’t read what was going on behind the officer’s eyes. He grew nervous. Hesitated. Tried to swallow but his mouth went dry. ‘Yes I did. We met at the castle set and talked.’

  He nodded. ‘Yeah, that’s what I’ve been told. Someone saw the pair of you. Why’d you meet?’

  ‘She just happened to be visiting the set same time as me and she then said she wanted to go over the script together.’

  ‘Did you? Go over the script, I mean.’

  ‘Yeah. We found a quiet corner of the studio and sat for a while.’

  ‘How long is a while?’

  ‘Two hours maybe.’

  ‘Then what?’

  Mason’s memory was getting foggy at this point. ‘She said she had to go. She was meeting Hal Bremner, I believe. She appeared to be nervous about the meeting.’

  ‘Nervous about meeting Mr Bremner? Why was that?’

  ‘She said he scared her.’

  ‘In what way?’

  He shook his head. ‘Just that type of guy, I guess. Abrasive, you know.’

  The officer nodded. Made notes. ‘What time did you part?’

  ‘I dunno. Maybe three, three-thirty – I can’t be certain.’

  Again the police officer nodded. ‘That tallies with the security guard at the gate. She left the studios at four-fifteen precisely. You’ve no idea if she saw anyone else before seeing Mr Bremner? Or did she mention anyone else she was seeing after meeting with him?’

  Mason said no, she didn’t mention anyone. He was relieved he hadn’t left with her; he simply couldn’t remember what happened after the reading of the script. It was all a terrifying blank. ‘Sorry, I can’t help you there,’ he said.

  ‘Did she seem troubled by anything?’

  ‘Nervous at making the movie, but quite the opposite really; she was excited at the prospect. It was her big break.’ He felt a grey wash of sadness engulf him as he said it. ‘And she was getting married soon. She showed me her…’ He trailed off. Pointed to his finger.

  ‘So let’s get this clear; you never saw her with anyone, either before or after you met with her?’

  ‘No, officer. I didn’t see her with anyone.’

  ‘And when did you leave the studio, Mr Mason?’

  His chest began to tighten. ‘I can’t quite remember. Some time after, I guess.’

  The police officer singled out a sheet of paper from a small p
ile he had on the desk. He ran his finger down a list. Mason began to sweat. ‘This is a copy of the gate log from yesterday. You left the studio at six-ten in the evening.’

  ‘Six-ten,’ he echoed. It was no use; it was still a black hole, a fearful void. Any moment the officer was going to ask what he did next and he hadn’t the faintest idea. All he knew for certain was that he had a pile of bloodstained clothes and a severed finger at home. He sucked in rapid breaths. He should confess to it. He needed to tell him what he’d found, tell him about his memory blank…

  ‘Thank you, Mr Mason,’ the officer said, closing up his notebook and tidying the sheets of paper. ‘We’ll be in touch if we need to speak again. I’m sorry this had to happen to Miss Foster; I know you liked her. But the world is full of crazy people and things like this happen.’

  Mason sighed heavily with relief. ‘Do you reckon there was some kind of motivation, like robbery?’ he fished. ‘Isn’t that the usual motive?’

  ‘The officer paused, gave him the once-over with studious, careful eyes. ‘The only thing missing of any value is her diamond engagement ring,’ he replied. He thought about what he was going to say next very carefully. ‘Plus her finger with it,’ he added. ‘I’ve seen too much to know that robbery wasn’t the motive. This is one sick mother we have here. And a movie it ain’t. Thank you for your time, Mr Mason. I’ve got others to see now.’

  Mason wandered down the corridors of Metropolitan Studios in a daze, vaguely aware of people moving around him, the odd-one greeting him, seeing a few more uniformed police officers who he astutely avoided, and he made his way to the exit. The receptionist at the main desk called him over.

  ‘Mr Mason, your agent is looking for you.’

  ‘I’ll give him a call later,’ he said dully.

  ‘He’s here,’ she said, and pointed to a sharp-faced man who rose from a seat and dashed over to him.

  ‘Where have you been, Rick? I’ve been trying to get hold of you.’