by J M Gregson
They were a good combination, these two, she decided. They had both given every sign of respecting her grief, but she was sure that Peach had been probing to detect whether she had other men in her life and then whether Adam had been putting it about. Now this man was broadening the field of suspects. They were determined to take as much as they could from a meeting which had been put to her as merely a segment of police routine. ‘You’ll need to question others about that. As I say, I haven’t seen a lot of Adam in the last few months. I know he was planning to change his agent. I know that passions occasionally run high in the theatre and television, when people don’t get the parts they want. It’s a highly precarious business. Disappointments are accentuated by that. Adam wanted to switch off and enjoy his family life when he was away from the studio or location filming, which I understood. But it also means that I know nothing of any quarrels that might have occurred in the recent past. The people he’s been working with might be able to tell you something about that. But I’m sure you’ll find nothing which would be serious enough to warrant killing him.’
It was a long speech and she looked at the end of her resources. Peach flicked a look at Northcott, then said, ‘Thank you for being so helpful, Mrs Cassidy. We’ll keep you in touch with developments. And we shall probably need to speak to you again in a few days, when we know more about this.’
She rose and accompanied them to the front door, where she stood watching until they had swung the car round and disappeared between the high brick gateposts.
Northcott had driven a slow mile through the lanes before Peach said, ‘You did well in there, Clyde. The best thing to aim at is to be a complementary team. It’s not always just good-cop, bad-cop; you have to play it by ear. I’ll need you to be a hard bastard at times – I know you can do that. At other times, like this morning, you need to seem sympathetic. Perhaps even to be genuinely sympathetic, if it helps us to get the information we need.’
Clyde knew that the DCI was thinking of that very different presence which had been beside him over the last three years, Lucy Blake. Good to know that the much-feared and much-admired Percy Peach could be a sentimental old sod, at times. But Clyde had far too much sense to voice that thought.
They had gone another half-mile before Peach said, ‘The first interview with the spouse of the victim is always difficult. You want to learn everything you can, but you can only push a grieving wife so far. She seemed a nice woman, Jane Cassidy. I wonder how deep her grief really goes.’
They had gone another half-mile before Peach said, ‘The first interview with the spouse of the victim is always difficult. You want to learn everything you can, but you can only push a grieving wife so far. She seemed a nice woman, Jane Cassidy. I wonder how deep her grief really goes.’
TWELVE
Joe Hartley, the director of the Alec Dawson series, had been in the business for a long time. He had cut his teeth on documentaries, served three years as an assistant director on Coronation Street, directed a couple of moderately successful sitcoms, then confirmed his status and greatly increased his salary over the four series of Call Alec Dawson. Despite his proven talent, Joe was an unprepossessing figure. He was a little below average height, thin-limbed and scrawny rather than slim. His hair was straight, grey and thinning rapidly and his nose was a little crooked; it had been badly set after an accident in his last year at school forty years ago. His small grey eyes missed very little; they were set deep, behind silver-rimmed spectacles, in a face which was now deeply lined.
Few things in television could surprise Joe Hartley any more. But this was reality, not television. He had never before been interviewed by the police in a murder case. He was nervous and it showed.
Peach did nothing to ease the strain. A man on edge was likely to reveal much more than one who was relaxed and unthreatened – particularly when it came to those things he would rather conceal. The DCI nodded towards an unsmiling Clyde Northcott. ‘We’re here in connection with the death of your big star. Mr Hartley, I’m told you’re the man who can tell us most about his life in the last few months.’
‘I know nothing about this awful thing. I’m just a professional associate of Adam’s. I stand to lose by this, not gain by it. I don’t suppose we’ll make another series, without our star.’
Peach’s very black eyebrows rose towards the baldness of his pate, more eloquent than any words. ‘No one is suggesting you killed him, Mr Hartley. Not yet, anyway. I’ve merely been directed to you as a source of information. I’m told you are the man with what my chief superintendent calls “an overview” of the situation. You can tell me about who liked Cassidy and who disliked him; about his relationships with you and the rest of your cast. About his sexual preferences and how they manifested themselves.’
Hartley looked very doubtful. ‘So long as it’s understood that I had nothing to do with this – that I’m just giving you information.’
Peach leaned even closer to him, making Joe wish that the office they had been allocated for this meeting was not so small and cramped. ‘Nothing is understood at present, Mr Hartley. Not until we know much more about what happened to your star.’ He leaned back again and smiled, making Joe very conscious of a full set of healthy white teeth. ‘But if you’ve nothing to hide, then you’ve nothing to fear from us. Can’t say fairer than that, can I?’
‘I suppose not. But are you sure that Adam was murdered?’
‘We are, yes. Even though it’s not been officially announced yet. There you are, you see! I’m volunteering information to you already, when I should be gathering it in. Sometimes I think I’m too soft-hearted altogether for this job. DS Northcott here often tells me that I am.’
As Joe looked automatically at the big man, the long black face nodded solemnly. The dark eyes studied Hartley for a moment as if he were a specimen beneath a microscope. Then Northcott said, ‘When did you last see the victim, Mr Hartley?’
‘Last Friday. About three o’clock. But you surely can’t think that I had—’
‘Did he seem his normal self then, or in any way upset?’ Clyde did not even look up from his notebook to reassure his man. DCI Peach congratulated himself on a wise choice in his newly promoted sergeant.
‘His normal self, I think. He was looking forward to his weekend. Looking forward to the next few weeks, I think, when he’d have had time to himself before we began filming the new series.’
‘Looking forward to his weekend.’ Clyde echoed the words slowly as he wrote them down. Then he looked hard into Hartley’s eyes. ‘Did he tell you what he proposed to do in this weekend he was so looking forward to?’
‘No. Not that I can remember.’
‘And you surely would remember, as it’s so recent and you’re a man used to having to remember things.’ This was Peach again, just as Joe was priming himself to address the tall man beside him. ‘A drama director has a lot of things to remember, I should think. He must get to know the men and women he directs quite intimately, as the weeks become months and the pressure on everyone increases. I think you’re the best person to give us the names of the people Cassidy worked with most closely.’
Joe reeled them off, glad to be able to offer something to this formidable pair as evidence of his good faith. DS Northcott wrote seven names down in his notebook, with the odd detail about the importance of their roles which Hartley volunteered to him. Then Peach said sharply, ‘Which of these people had cause to dislike Adam Cassidy, Joe?’
Joe tried not to conjecture what this first use of his forename might imply. He licked his lips and said, ‘There are always things flying about among a cast working intensively together. We try to foster an ensemble attitude in our actors, because we think team playing is important when they’ve been brought together for a series. Emotions run high and the degree of friendship varies. But I’m sure no one hated Adam enough to kill him.’
‘Did I mention hate, Joe? I think I used the word “dislike”. Important that. Briefs don’t like yo
u twisting their words, when you’re in court. Be best if you just tell us everything you know, and let us worry about the degree of dislike.’
Joe didn’t at all like the mention of briefs and courts. ‘Yes, I can see what you mean. And I must emphasize that I only saw what went on when we were rehearsing and filming. I make it a policy to know as little as possible about what goes on in people’s private lives.’
‘Do you, indeed? Pity, that, from our point of view. We’d like you to be able to come straight out and tell us who blew Adam Cassidy almost in two. But I suppose if you can’t, you can’t.’ He made it sound as though it was a highly suspicious omission on the director’s part.
Joe was anxious now to offer them everything he could. ‘Two of the people I’ve mentioned had good reason to be . . .well, to be, shall we say, disappointed with Adam.’
‘Shall we say “disappointed” or not, Joe? I’m in your hands, here. You’re the only one in possession of the facts.’
This man was unlike any policeman in the limited range Joe Hartley had met before. When James Walton had said that these people wanted to speak to him, he had expected it to be quiet and sympathetic. He had half-expected them to be deferential, in view of his status as a major director. Now he was terrified of missing out anything which might prove significant, which might lead this man with the sharp black eyes which never left Joe’s face to come back and accuse him of concealment. He said hastily, hearing the tremor in his voice, ‘I’d better tell you everything I know, and let you decide what to make of it.’
Now Peach almost purred behind his sudden smile. ‘Much the best policy, Joe, as I think I indicated to you at the outset. Let us follow up these little disagreements. Let us see whether they grew into hate when people were away from the set. We shan’t even reveal the source of our information when we speak to the parties involved.’
Hartley took a deep breath. He was now pathetically anxious to convince them that he was being absolutely honest. ‘Dean Morley was an old friend of Adam’s. He’d appeared in the last episode of the Call Alec Dawson series we’ve just completed. The producer and I had him in mind for a major role in the next series. He was going to be the master-villain who controls all the people operating against Alec. That way he would have been in every episode.’
‘Would have been, Joe?’
‘Yes. The plans were changed. Dean wasn’t going to get that part, after all.’
‘I see. And who changed the plans?’
‘Adam Cassidy did. Stars don’t cast people, but they have the right of veto over casting. Adam asserted that right.’
‘I see. Did Morley know about this?’
‘Yes. James Walton, our producer, has overall responsibility for casting. He said it was only fair to let people know as quickly as possible that they weren’t going to be involved, so as to give them the chance to look for other work.’
‘You said “people”. Were there others involved in losing parts they thought they’d secured?’
Hartley gave a little sigh, as if lamenting the foolishness of human behaviour. ‘There was one. The woman we’d thought ideal for the female lead in the next series, Michelle Davies. Adam suddenly said he didn’t want her.’
DS Northcott made a note of this second name, then said, ‘From what you say, Cassidy seems to have gone along with these changes initially.’
Joe paused, wanting to get this exactly right; he needed to be rid of this formidable pair, once and for all. ‘I don’t think he’d given his formal approval. Things don’t work that way; actors normally leave the producer to get everything in place for the next series. But a kind of tradition has grown up that the star can intervene if he really objects to someone. No one thinks it’s a good system, but it’s a fact of life. Everyone knows that once the lead actor in a series becomes a well-known face to the millions who watch it, the whole thing falls apart if he decides to withdraw. So he accumulates powers over casting which he never had at the outset. In the great days of Hollywood, the studio bosses controlled the stars. In British television, it’s the star players who have the power – sometimes to make and break careers. For the last two series, Adam Cassidy has had the right to veto casting built into his contract.’
Peach frowned. ‘So Mr Walton had to tell both Dean Morley and Michelle Davies that they weren’t going to get the leading roles they had expected. Did he tell them that it was Mr Cassidy who had made this decision?’
‘I’m sure he did. James was furious with Adam for forcing his hand when we both thought everything was decided. We spoke afterwards and he said that both Dean and Michelle had virtually been told they were in and were delighted about it. James was furious because he felt he’d been undermined. He’d every intention of letting both Dean and Michelle know just who it was who had dumped them.’
‘Do you know when he told them?’
‘Yes. He said he had to tell them in person and as quickly as possible. He had them both in to his office on Thursday morning of last week.’
Clyde Northcott made a careful note of that, then said thoughtfully, ‘About thirty-six hours before Adam Cassidy was last seen alive.’
It was twelve thirty before Jane Cassidy finally managed to make contact. ‘I’ve been trying to get you all morning. Ever since the CID men left.’
Her voice was nervous, resentful, almost accusing. He said, ‘Calm down, Jane. I’ve been out and about on the farm. I told you I would be.’
‘You could have taken your mobile with you. You knew they were coming here at ten.’
‘I did, yes. But I never take my mobile when I’m working in the fields or in the shippon. My workers know that; they know that I don’t like being interrupted on the farm. We have to follow the routines we normally do, until the police arrest someone for this. That’s what we agreed. We don’t want to attract suspicion. I knew you’d get me on the landline if I came home for lunch. There’s only me here.’
A short pause. He could hear her breathing, could picture that look of wide-eyed concentration, that slight furrowing of her forehead which was so attractive to him. Then she said, ‘You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s just that I’m more on edge than I expected to be. It was quite an ordeal. And you’re the only one I can talk to.’
‘So how did it go?’
Now that she had managed to contact him at last, she realized that she hadn’t much to say, beyond the fact that it was over. ‘All right, I think. They wanted to know when I last saw him. They’d found his Purdey shotgun – whether in the car or beside his body, they didn’t say. I don’t think they know yet exactly when he died. But I might be wrong about that: they don’t give much away.’
‘What else did they ask?’
‘If I knew of any enemies he had. I said I wasn’t in touch with the people he’d been working with. Which is true enough. He’s shut me out of his life pretty effectively over the last year or so.’
‘And let me into it.’
‘I suppose so. Except that I like to think you’d have been part of my life, however Adam had behaved.’
He was silent for a moment, wondering how far her husband’s neglect of her had contributed to her turning towards him. ‘Did you tell him that Adam was fond of putting it about?’
‘I think I suggested it. But I didn’t have to, really. They were looking for anything and anyone who might have had reason to hate him. Don’t the police say that sex and money are the motives behind most crimes?’
‘I think they do, yes.’ He gave a small, mirthless chuckle. ‘Which is why we have to be careful, isn’t it?’
‘I suppose so. I think that at one point they were suggesting I might have been bored here and looking for diversions, but I didn’t give them anything.’
‘Attagirl! I can just see you looking puzzled and innocent! You’re a cracking actress, and you’d do it so much better than I could.’
‘It’s different when you’re acting for real. But I think it was OK. They didn’t really press me. But they said
they might be back to see me again when they knew more.’
‘I expect that’s part of their routine. I shouldn’t worry about it.’
‘I feel very lonely. I’ll be glad when the children come home from school and demand my attention.’
‘I want to hold you in my arms, my darling, to feel your fingers on my back! But we mustn’t see each other for a while.’
‘No.’ Jane sighed heavily. ‘I can see why, but that doesn’t make it any easier. Let’s hope they arrest someone soon.’ She blew a little kiss into the phone. She enjoyed being silly and childish again, with the right person.
‘We’ll speak again tomorrow. Same time? I’ll make sure I’m here.’
Paul Barnes put down the phone and stared at it thoughtfully for a few seconds.
When a citizen becomes a murder victim, lists of his associates are quickly compiled and fed into computers. Principally through cross-referencing, modern technology can throw up matters of interest which in the past might have taken weeks to emerge. When a victim has the public prominence of Adam Cassidy, these lists of people who have connections with the deceased can quickly become so long that there is a danger of careful police work becoming counter-productive.
DCI Peach, scanning a catalogue of names and functions which was lengthening alarmingly, lighted upon one which prompted his immediate attention. He collected Clyde Walcott and drove the thirty miles to Manchester swiftly.
The block letter capitals stretched black and bold across the full width of the frosted glass door. TONY VALENTO. THEATRICAL AGENT. Peach paused for a moment before he turned the handle. He said in a low voice to his companion, ‘You might need to be the hard bastard here, DC Northcott. I need you to protect me from my easy-going nature.’
In the outer office, the PA uncrossed long legs from beneath a very short black skirt and looked at them doubtfully. She said coldly, ‘Mr Valento doesn’t take people on unless they already have considerable experience in theatre or television. He normally prefers to make his own contacts with people in the profession rather than have people approach him.’