by Oliver Tidy
‘So why would someone just call up and say they had a film? Where was it by the way?’
‘Camera four. It’s out on the battlefield. It’s unusual, but it’s not unheard of. People are absent from their posts sometimes, maybe through illness, or a more important errand.’
‘Seems a bit sloppy if you don’t mind me saying so?’
‘It’s a system that works, Inspector,’ said Crawford. ‘Everyone on the set is trying to make a film. They are all part of the big film making machine. No one is here to obstruct the process.’
‘Someone was, Mr Crawford.’
‘I think that you know what I meant.’
Romney smiled. He was feeling suddenly quite affable. ‘How long have you been doing the job that you do, Mr Ramsden?’
Ramsden made a face. ‘Twenty years or so.’
‘How many times have you known remote cameras to call up and say that they have film to be collected?’
Ramsden opened his eyes wide and puffed out his cheeks. ‘Very few. I can’t actually remember the last time. But it does happen.’
‘And what about entire filmed scenes being hi-jacked? That’s to either of you.’
‘Never,’ said Ramsden
‘Never,’ echoed Crawford, wearily. ‘Security has always been too efficient in the past.’
And now everyone was looking at ex-Detective Sergeant Wilkie.
‘Samson Security want to say anything at this point?’ said Romney
Marsh looked for the first time in Wilkie’s direction, something she had pointedly avoided doing since arriving. He was sitting stone-faced, clearly not relishing his position or presence. She wondered when she would see something of the old Wilkie, the spiteful, nasty Wilkie. It had to be there simmering, just beneath his professional exterior. And the way they were setting him up for the fall she expected his restraint to be weakening.
‘Yes. I’ll say a couple of things. While I’m sitting here listening to all this I am not able to get on with my job of trying to find out what happened to the missing film and recovering it. How many reels of film are missing?’
‘Five. That’s every camera’s recording of the battle. They were all helpfully labelled for whoever took them,’ answered Ramsden.
‘How big are they?’ asked Wilkie.
‘They were all in their metal cases. Big discs. You’d need a decent sized box for them.’
‘One person carry them all right?’
‘Yeah.’
Wilkie turned his attention back to Romney and the DI felt those legendary blue eyes bore into his own. ‘It’s an inside job. It has to be. And it has to be someone who knew that because of the incident on the field security presence up here was depleted because the police had requested our assistance to secure the perimeter of the battlefield. I did have a man up here, but when the call to help the police came through, he was someone who I thought we could spare.’ He was doing a half-decent job of worming himself and Samson Security out of their responsibilities, thought Marsh.
Instead of Romney taking the path of cooperation, harmony and least resistance, he somewhat predictably, chose the opposite, felling Wilkie’s significance and value as a contributor with a cruelly manufactured dismissal. ‘Well it’s a police matter now, Brian. Thanks for your time. I’ll get someone to come and take a statement from you if I think it’s necessary. Samson Security might as well go and get on with whatever it has to do. Shutting stable doors, perhaps.’ It was an unnecessary, low and cheap blow and Romney stared at his old colleague daring him to take issue with it.
Marsh almost felt some sympathy for the man who had tried to ruin her as an investigative police officer. Regardless of his obvious failings as an officer of the law, Wilkie had taken his people from their allotted positions only at the request of, and to aid, the police. He had not really had much choice and it was arguably unfair in the extreme for Romney to suggest that Wilkie and Samson Security had failed in their duties. No one could have known what would happen. But as Marsh sat suffering Wilkie’s embarrassment and some of her own she found herself wondering if perhaps her own boss should have taken steps to have made the securing of the potentially vital evidence in a possible murder enquiry an over-riding priority. Then again, everyone knew that hindsight was a wonderful thing.
Romney waited until Wilkie had left trailing his almost palpable cocktail of injustice, indignation and resentment after him before resuming. ‘So, potentially crucial evidence in our suspicious death enquiry is missing. It’s unheard of according to you two. What does that tell you?’
Hugo Crawford said, ‘You want us to do your job for you, Inspector?’
‘You think you could, Mr Crawford?’
Tired of their sniping, Marsh said, ‘Possibly, it suggests that whoever was involved in the death of that poor man this afternoon was worried that it had been captured on film. And, if that is the case, then whoever it was must have had knowledge, ability and opportunity, not to mention balls of steel, that enabled them to then get up here from the battlefield commit assault and steal the evidence.’
‘Well said, Sergeant Marsh,’ said Crawford. ‘It’s like Wilkie said: an inside job.’
‘We’ll see about that,’ said Romney. ‘Who is in charge of providing the soldiers that took part today?’
‘We have an agency that deals with that,’ said Crawford.
‘I’ll need their name and contact details. Who choreographs the action?’
‘I’m the director. It’s the director’s job to envisage, to imagine, to see what is required, determine what will be the best cinematic representation of what needs to be achieved.’
‘So the action of the battle would have been at your instruction?’
‘In something like this, something that requires an authentically historical depiction we consult with an advisor, a specialist, usually an historian who specialises in the period.’
‘And who might that be in this instance?’
‘A chap named Godfrey Wilson.’
‘Where is he now?
‘Presumably still in quarantine on the battlefield. I haven’t seen him. I gather no one is allowed off it without your say so. Why do you ask?’
‘We’ve taken a lot of statements. And a number of the French contingent have complained that there were elements of the British forces who were plain violent in what should essentially have been a non-violent affair. I’m led to believe by self-confessed veterans of this kind of thing that while superficial injuries are not unusual the number and nature of French casualties from today’s little excursion into history has been well beyond what is expected. That’s not including the fatality, by the way.’
Falling back on his defensive indignation, Crawford said, ‘What are you getting at exactly, Inspector?’
‘Someone told me that you have a reputation as something of a shock-jock. I was wondering if perhaps there was an added ingredient in today’s proceedings? The requirement for a little more reality perhaps?’
‘I do hope you are not suggesting that I, or anyone else involved with this project, would sanction and encourage actual violence simply for sensationalism, or to add an element of realism. That would make someone in your perverted way of thinking an accessory to murder.’
‘Who said anything about murder, Mr Crawford? But since you brought it up, I will ask you straight, do you know anything that might assist us in our enquiries regarding the level of violence demonstrated by an element of those taking part in today’s battle?’
‘No, I do not. Is that clear enough for you?’
Romney smiled, ‘Perfectly. Thank you.’
Crawford stood. He was probably used to this tactic encouraging those he was dealing with to get the message that the interview was over and to push off. ‘Is there anything else I can do for you, Inspector? I do have rather a lot on my plate to sort out, as I’m sure you can imagine.’
Romney stayed put. ‘Just one more question for now. Do you know anything about a small gr
oup of men wearing British uniforms who were involved today, about half-a-dozen, that might not have been part of the re-enactment society?’
‘No.’ Crawford’s denial was emphatic and swift, a reaction that both Marsh and Romney interpreted as a sign he had had enough.
‘Well, that’s all for now. I’m sure I’ll be talking to you again soon, though. How long are you here for?’ Romney obstinately continued to sit.
‘At least another two weeks. We have filming inside the castle to do.’
Romney made an exaggerated face of disgust, no doubt, thought Marsh, for Crawford’s benefit. ‘Is that the animal thing?’
‘Yes, Inspector. It’s the animal thing,’ said Crawford, his patience clearly wearing thin. Marsh hoped that the DI was not going to start on about it again. In any case, if he was thinking that way he was too slow. Crawford slammed his window of opportunity shut. ‘Possibly we’ll have to redo today’s shoot while everyone is still here. Christ what a mess. You said that the theft of those films is now a police matter, Inspector.’ A sly grin teased at the thin crease that was his mouth. ‘I hope you’ll be doing everything in your power to recover them. I know that my uncle, the chief constable, will be taking a great personal interest after I speak with him about today’s events.’ As a thinly veiled threat it was as counter-productive as it was crass.
Romney finally stood and as though he had been chatting amiably with an old friend said, ‘Why are you shooting this the old-fashioned way, with film? I’d have thought everything was done digitally these days.’
Crawford’s features adopted a look of disdain. ‘Quite simply put, Inspector, film is the best quality option. Film is the thing I am most comfortable with. Film gives the best results.’
‘Give my best to the chief constable when you see him.’
Marsh wasn’t surprised when they didn’t shake hands.
*
‘You hear him threatening me with old Crayfish senior, Sergeant?’ said Romney, as they navigated their way through the dark and the obstacles.
‘Is that what he was doing, sir?’
‘Don’t tell me your detective’s intuition missed it? Well he’d better hope that I don’t get my hands on his precious film before he does.’ He didn’t say why.
They were walking through the castle grounds heading back to the battlefield. They crossed through little pockets of eerie dark and quiet and Marsh felt the ghosts of centuries crowding in on her to make her feel strangely claustrophobic. She hurried her step to keep close to her DI.
‘So, what do you think?’ said Romney, oblivious to her reaction to the setting and the hour.
Marsh was grateful for the opportunity to use her voice and occupy her mind with something rational. ‘It’s almost certainly no coincidence the film was stolen the day a man is killed. According to independent and knowledgeable parties about both separate incidents, both rarer than hen’s teeth. It doesn’t take much seeing then that they must be related. It looks like the theft of the film has to be an inside job. You’d need to be in the know to know where the films were kept. You’d also need to be in the know and have access to the communication equipment to be able to call up and get that boy out of the way. All of which must mean that whoever was involved with the death and the violence – if those two factors are related – must have been involved in the filming in another way, or at least have had bloody good contacts in there. There’s only one reason someone would take the risk of attacking Ramsden and then taking all the film: fear of what it would reveal. But, what I don’t get is why people would take the field with the intention of visiting extreme violence on others, knowing full well there would be a good chance they were going to be caught on camera and then have to go through the highly risky business of stealing it. You suggested in there that maybe Crawford wanted proper violence, but if he did why then have the films disappeared? That’s not in his interests, is it?’
‘Perhaps because the violence got out of control and someone died. That’s a bit different to a few scratches and bruises that could be played down, explained away as over-exuberance,’ said Romney.
Marsh said, ‘Given the assault and theft development, I think we’re probably wasting our time down there now. We know that everyone on both sides has been accounted for. At least everyone who was on a list in the first place has been accounted for, and having spoken to a good number of them now, my gut feeling is that those responsible were never part of this group of people. I think we have to find those blokes from the car park, sir.’
‘While I try never to think with my gut, Sergeant, I believe you’re probably right.’
***
4
Superintendent Falkner, uniform jacket fully buttoned up, stood centrally, stern-faced and erect at the large picture window of his top floor office, which provided a commanding view of Dover police station car park. Up until the barbed-wire-topped brick and stone wall that separated them from the outside world, he was Lord of all he surveyed. Romney spied him as he drove in, unable as he was since the super’s practice had become a habit, to keep himself from glancing up. He believed Falkner’s hands were clasped firmly behind his ramrod straight back. All that was missing was his hat and baton and maybe some Wagner.
Once again Romney speculated upon the station commander’s motives for this new early morning behaviour. Was it simply a method of exercising some personal need for a form of intimidatory control over his subordinates in the wake of ‘Wilkie-gate’? Like some eighteenth century ship’s captain on his poop deck while his pressed men scurried about beneath his authoritative presence, he was letting them know he was at his post, watching over them with his disciplined eye. Romney wondered if others had noticed him and if, like himself, they always felt his disapproval bearing down on them. Automatically, he guiltily checked the dashboard clock. He was not even close to being late.
Getting out of his vehicle and after glancing around, Romney tucked his little cushion behind the driver’s seat. He locked up and began walking towards the car park exit and the small delicatessen a short walk away that served proper coffee. He resisted the urge to look up again and be forced into some form of mutual acknowledgement. He wasn’t going to be intimidated into abandoning his yearning for a cardboard cup of the real thing. It was his start to the working day.
He hadn’t gone far before he became aware of a strong tapping on glass. It wasn’t something he could reasonably ignore. He looked up to find his boss crooking his finger at him and now he wasn’t a ship’s captain, but a stern-faced headmaster who had been looking out for a recalcitrant pupil.
Romney put on a cooperative face that he didn’t feel like assuming and changed direction as though it was absolutely no bother for him at all – a pleasure to be summoned up. He was careful to mutter his objections without moving his lips.
The door to Falkner’s office was wide open. He stood, still staring out of the window. Although Falkner must have been aware of his approach – the outer office door had squeaked loudly on its dry hinges when he entered – Romney tapped lightly.
‘Come in, Tom.’
On his little trek up the stairs Romney had rooted around his conscience for something that he had done wrong, or perhaps not done at all, that would warrant his senior officer’s impatience to have a word with him. There was only one thing that he could think of – Hugo Crawford had carried out his threat of tittle-tattling to his uncle, the chief constable, and the old-boys’ network had been humming. Forcing himself to be optimistically affable Romney said, ‘Morning, sir.’
‘Take a seat.’
Romney had little choice but to accept the invitation, although it was going to cause him no little discomfort. The seats for visitors in the superintendent’s inner sanctum had recently been changed to a hard unyielding moulded plastic, like the ones in the canteen. Romney guessed it was an attempt by the man to dissuade visitors from, if not visiting, then at least staying long.
Falkner turned to face him, or rather l
ook down on him. His lofty position had been restored and Romney was struck by the unkind notion that perhaps his senior officer had been brushing up his boss skills from some self-help manual.
‘How did the incident at the castle end up last night?’
‘We are currently of the opinion that the death and the theft of the day’s filming are related. For one thing, the odds against this being the case are just too long for reasonable consideration and for another it makes sense that anyone who had been involved in the incident on the battlefield would then want to remove any and all evidence of that.’ Romney altered his position and grimaced.
Falkner noticed and said, ‘Everything all right?’
‘Yes, sir. A bit stiff, that’s all,’ lied Romney.
‘Any leads?’
‘We are as convinced as we can be that whoever bayoneted the Frenchman was not one of the hundreds of people officially involved in the re-enactment. DS Marsh and I encountered a small group of men in uniform of the period in the car-park soon after the battle scene. They don’t appear to have been part of the official proceedings. How they came to be on the set in the right gear is currently a mystery and our first priority to find out.’
Romney had racked his brain the previous evening for the elusive memory of a familiar face that had been triggered when he and Marsh had run into the buoyant group soon after the battle scene had been shot. The fact that he had not been able to trawl it up irritated him beyond reasonable measure.
‘About the theft of the film.’
‘Has to be an inside job, sir.’ Romney’s sixth sense told him that Falkner was building up to it.
‘I had a phone call from the chief constable rather late last night.’ And here it was.
‘Really, sir?’ Romney decided to play it dumb. Let Falkner do the work.
‘I gather you had cross words with his nephew, the director of the film.’
‘I wouldn’t call it that, sir. A difference of artistic opinion perhaps, but it was all in good spirit, as far as I’m concerned.’