by Oliver Tidy
Marsh forced herself to look away. She looked at the members of the film crew and saw only professionalism etched into their features. She looked at the faces of the animals and saw only concern racking theirs. And she looked at Romney’s face to find him grinning from ear to ear, his school boy mentality conquering all. Maybe he hadn’t grown up after all. Clearly, he just couldn’t believe his luck. Marsh actually feared that he was going to laugh out loud and start pointing.
There was a cry from Hugo Crawford and he leapt back from the creature with whom he had been simulating copulation. The animal, clearly disturbed by the director’s attentions, had voided its bowels and its bladder in response and defence of its virtue. Crawford swore and someone rushed to him with a towel. He fussed at his trousers for a moment and then looking around the assembled throng for someone spied the police. It clearly didn’t please him.
‘Get set everyone,’ he called. ‘We’ll be going in five.’ He strode over to where Romney and Marsh stood, while everyone else involved themselves in their duties behind him. ‘What do you want, Inspector?’ He was glowering, no doubt expecting some smart remark. Romney didn’t disappoint him.
‘I can see you’re a busy man, Mr Crawford,’ said Romney politely. ‘When they said that you were working on an interior scene I didn’t quite understand exactly what they meant.’ He obviously liked this little attempt at humour enough to run it out again. He went on quickly. ‘Just a couple of questions about last night when you’ve got a minute.’
Crawford regarded him coldly. ‘A minute? I have one minute now. Ask what you need to and then I would be happy if you would leave. I have work to do.’
‘You look very comfortable with the ewe there. Did you grow up on a farm?’
Oh no, thought, Marsh. Please don’t.
‘I beg your pardon. What has that got to do with anything that happened yesterday?’
‘Just making conversation, Mr Crawford. Showing an interest in what you’re doing here.’
‘Will you just ask your questions, please?’
Romney affected hurt. ‘Who stands to gain if this project is ruined? If it’s, let’s say, sabotaged beyond recovery? If it can’t be finished?’
Now, Crawford looked completely bewildered. ‘What are you driving at? No one would stand to gain. Everything would be lost.’
‘What I mean is, is a production like this insured? Does insurance get taken out by a production company so that in the event they pour hundreds of thousands, if not millions of pounds, into a project and it, for whatever reason, cannot get finished, then they are insured against their losses.’
The question left Marsh and Crawford equally stunned. It was so unexpected, so left-field as to be almost out of bounds.
When Crawford had recovered himself he said, ‘Do you mind telling me what you are driving at, Inspector?’
‘Mr Crawford, our investigation must consider all aspects of an enquiry. I’m merely wondering if it would be in anyone’s interest to have this project halted in its tracks for whatever reason. It’s an avenue I feel we must consider if only so we can rule it out.’
‘Of course we are insured,’ said Crawford. The irritation in his tone had been replaced by something more reasonable.
‘Thank you. That answers that. Being a director is all about reputation, am I right? Churn out a duffer or two and it might be difficult to get further commissions, yes?’
‘That’s one way of looking at it. Is it relevant to the here and now, or are you just making conversation again?’
‘It could be. Last question: as the director would it be fair to say that reputation wise you have the most to win or lose on a filming project?’
‘That could be argued, why?’
‘Well, if you had an enemy, someone who harboured a professional jealousy, a rival in the industry, or even on the set, who wanted to see you come unstuck – throw a spanner in the works of your career – then sabotaging your project would accomplish that, wouldn’t it? It could certainly do harm?’
‘Yes. It could certainly do harm. But I don’t have those kinds of jealous rivals. And as I tried to explain to you last night, everyone working on this set is focussed towards one end and one end only – making the best film we can together.’
‘Bear it in mind though, eh?’
A young girl clipboard in hand shuffled over. ‘I’ve been asked to let you know that the sheep are getting restless, Hugo,’ she said.
‘Restless or nervous,’ said Romney, flashing her a smile that was not returned. ‘You should have got them from Wales. I understand that they would find this sort of thing much more normal.’ No one laughed. ‘Right thank you. That all helps a lot. Sorry to have been a nuisance.’
Crawford turned to leave. He hadn’t said goodbye.
‘Oh. One last thing, Mr Crawford,’ called Romney, after his back.
Crawford stopped in his tracks and made a show of taking a deep breath before turning back to face them. ‘Where did you learn your policing skills, Inspector, watching Columbo?’
Marsh thought that was rather good. Romney ignored it. ‘Had any bother with animal rights protestors? They can be a bit funny about this sort of thing.’
‘It’s a film, Inspector,’ said Crawford, irritably. ‘Everything is simulated. No one is actually going to fuck the animals.’ The set went very quiet. Even the livestock appeared to be listening, pleased or disappointed at the news.
‘I’m sure that will be a big relief to all God’s creatures, Mr Crawford.’
Crawford walked away. Romney spied a man standing off to the side dressed in the uniform of the period and looking nervous. He led Marsh over to him. ‘What’s your part, soldier? Sloppy seconds?’
‘Eh? No. I’m Rupert’s stunt bum.’ The man delivered this line as though it were something to be proud of.
‘Pardon.’
‘When the time comes for Rupert to drop his trousers they substitute me for him.’ It was an earnestly serious reply. Someone else taking their art beyond their sense of humour, or reality.
‘What do they pay you for that?’
‘A hundred and forty-five a day.’
‘Just for showing your backside.’ The man nodded smiling. ‘We’re in the wrong business, Sergeant,’ said Romney looking saddened. ‘Well I hope you’ve had your jabs and you’ve got your tackle well insured lad. A sheep’ll give you a nasty nip. I hope for your sake you don’t end the day feeling you sold out cheap. And I do have to caution you that the RSPCA are present and they’re reporting directly to us in the event that anyone, shall we say, gets carried away in the heat of the moment. Make myself clear? No inappropriate touching with any part of yourself.’ Romney tapped the side of his nose with his index finger and walked off. Marsh noticed that the young man was not smiling now. In fact he looked rather worried.
There were two RSPCA officers present. Romney told Marsh to wait for him and then went across to where they were watching over the treatment of the livestock with a keen and professional eye. Romney knew them both. After they had shaken hands he leant in and whispered something that made them both burst out in loud guffaws of laughter. Several of the film crew looked round in irritation. Marsh looked over to see Rupert’s stunt-bum staring in their direction. Romney saw him too and made a show of pointing first to the RSPCA officers, then indicating both of his own eyes with his index and middle fingers and then pointing at the stunt-bum. Romney spoke again to the men quietly and then handed one of them his card, patted him on his back and led the way out.
Romney seemed pleased with himself, as they left the castle grounds. He’d been in and spread his mischief; sowed his seeds of discontent and doubt and upset a few people. The way he was acting these days Marsh wouldn’t be surprised if he began to whistle a tune.
***
5
‘What was all that about insurance, sir?’ said Marsh. She was unconvinced of her DI’s motives for the visit and feeling the need and the right to understand more abo
ut what he was playing at, especially if he was using her in an unwitting supporting role in his mischief making.
Romney had wedged himself back in the corner of the front passenger seat and the further they drove, the more he fidgeted with his position. ‘I did some checking last night. It is very unusual for a film company on location to go for a local security firm to protect their interests. There really is often too much at stake to risk on some unknown cowboy outfit that parochial security firms often are. There are dozens of companies within the industry itself that specialise in and have experience of that sort of thing. Professionals. It just made me wonder why Crawford, or whoever decides these things, chose a tin-pot setup like Samson Security.’
Marsh had to concede that perhaps the DI had a point at last. ‘Why didn’t you ask Hugo Crawford about it today, then?’
‘It’s not too important to me, or to the investigation, at the moment and I need to keep something back so I have a good reason to go and see him again.’
‘Why do you need that, sir?’ Her suspicions were shuffling back in.
‘Never mind,’ said Romney. He had already decided he was going to make Crawford minor’s time in Dover as unpleasant as he possibly could and he wasn’t intending to share his plans with someone who had clearly been taken in by the poseur.
Eventually, they left the main carriage-way and followed the signs to Parkwood Industrial Estate where Everything Army had their premises. The small business was wedged in between a work-clothing wholesaler and a vacant building advertising competitive rates and a large storage area. They parked in front of the little office and wandered through the gaping opening next to it to stand on the threshold of the warehouse.
‘Bloody hell,’ said Romney, as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom of the interior. ‘You could kit out a small army with this lot.’
In front of them stretched out racks and racks of neatly arranged and labelled equipment: hardware, clothing, accessories, everything except weapons that might be needed by a military force. As they stood taking it all in, a small bespectacled man, not in uniform, strode over to intercept them.
‘Can I help you?’ he said, a little stiffly. Romney and Marsh showed their identification and he relaxed. ‘Sorry. Let me start again. Good morning. I’m Gordon Glazier.’ They all shook hands. ‘It was me you spoke to this morning, Sergeant Marsh. Follow me through to the office would you and I’ll give you the information you’re after.’
As he led them back the way they had come Romney, still clearly mesmerized, said, ‘Where did you get all this stuff?’
‘Army surplus auctions. MOD clearouts. We’ve bought up a couple of competitors stock too in the last few years. As you can imagine, it’s a niche market and you don’t get business every day. Mind you, when you do some of it can be very good.’
‘Such as?’ said Romney, genuinely interested.
‘For example they’ll be a series on the telly in the spring about the training of raw army recruits. We supplied the production company with a lot of what they needed of a military nature. It was a very good and timely project for us.
‘And what about the older uniforms?’
‘Like I said, buying out the stock and catalogues of competitors who couldn’t survive. We’ve been going a long time too and had a decent amount of stock ourselves. I realised one day that I had a decision to make – either pack it in and sell off everything or go for broke and throw everything I had into it.’
‘Any regrets?’
‘It can be hard work, and a bit uncertain at times, but I’m my own boss and I manage to pay the bills.’
‘So you also hire to individuals as well as film companies?’ said Marsh.
‘Have to, Sergeant. If you want the business you have to do all the business, as my father used to say. Anyway, ordinary people are our bread and butter. Fancy dress hire, stag weekends...’
‘Military themed stag weekends?’ said Romney.
‘Oh yes, Inspector. Putting on a uniform and playing soldiers brings out something different, something base and primitive, in even the most civilised of people, and of course you know what they say about the effect of a good uniform on women? No offence, Sergeant, but the evidence would seem to bear that out. You should see the state some of the outfits get returned in. It’s a good job army clothing is designed and made to withstand abuse. Mind you the mind boggles at some of the stains they get sent back with. Blood, food, sick, mud, vegetation and others that I don’t care to investigate too closely. Still, it adds to the fee and generally people don’t mind the extra dry-cleaning charge if they’ve enjoyed themselves, touched on a fantasy perhaps.’
‘Incredible,’ said Romney, thinking not for the first time in his life that the more he knew about people, the less he understood. But he was also thinking back to his observation of those who had done pretend battle the day before. That poncy Dupont and the effect that his outfit had clearly had on Marsh, and how the donning of uniforms might have contributed to the fervour that had left a man dead.
They were in the office now. A woman was talking animatedly into the phone. Romney overheard her name dropping as she boasted of the company’s reputation and recent hire record.
‘The wife,’ said Glazier, noting Romney’s interest. ‘It’s a family business. One of the reasons we’ve made it. If you have to employ people then you’re paying out for them, even if you’re not doing much business yourself.’ He settled himself at his desk and invited the police to sit also. ‘Get you a coffee or something?’
‘Thanks, but we’re on a tight schedule,’ said Romney.
‘Of course. Mind me asking what this is all about?’ asked Glazier and Romney realised he would naturally be curious about police interest in his business and possibly he had a right to something.
‘All I can tell you at the moment, Mr Glazier, is that we want to speak to the men who you hired five Napoleonic uniforms to. Either they’ll be able to help us with our enquiries or they won’t. At the present time we don’t know one way or the other if they are who we might be looking for, so it wouldn’t be appropriate for me to speculate here and now. I’m sure you understand.’
Glazier indicated that he did, but he looked a little disappointed. Perhaps he’d seen something of the death of the Frenchman on the news and managed to put two and two together. He handed over the rental hire agreement docket.
Romney inspected it. Five Napoleonic uniforms of the British army complete with hats, webbing, boots and wooden dummy rifles. The final price seemed reasonable and he said so.
‘Like most businesses, Inspector,’ said Glazier, ‘there’s a fine line between profit and loss, loss of a customer that is. Nothing to be gained from being greedy. We get a lot of word of mouth referrals because we are reasonably priced.’
Stapled to the docket was a till receipt indicating that the hirer had paid by credit card. Written on the top of the invoice was also the hirer’s name and Dover address. How sloppy of him, thought Romney, and how lucky for the police. And then he experienced a pang of doubt as he wondered why anyone who had taken so much trouble in order to commit murder would leave such a simple paper-trail for the police to follow to their door. He exchanged a look with Marsh and saw what he took to be similar thoughts troubling her.
‘I’m going to need to take the original away with us, Mr Glazier,’ said Romney.
‘Mind if I take a copy first? It’s for my own records.’
‘No. Not at all. But I’d appreciate it if you didn’t act on it in any way for a few days. I’m guessing the gear hasn’t been returned to you yet?’
‘No it hasn’t. It was a three day hire agreement. They’ve got today and tomorrow left.’
‘We’ll know by then, I’m sure,’ said Romney, although he didn’t say what.
After providing the police with a good description of the two men who had hired and collected the uniforms, Glazier escorted them back to their vehicle where they all shook hands once more. Glazier even wave
d them off.
‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking, Sergeant?’ said Romney, as she navigated their way back towards the M20.
‘Why leave your name, address and card details behind if you’re going to murder someone?’
‘Yes.’
‘Perhaps, they’re fake,’ said Marsh.
‘Only one way to find out.’
‘You want to go there now, sir?’
‘Better not. Go by the station and let’s get a search warrant first and organise some beefy uniformed presence?’ Thorough, effective, fair, cooperative and above all everything by the book, Falkner had said. ‘You know we have to do everything by the book these days, Sergeant,’ said Romney, with what Marsh understood to be a hint of melancholy.
*
Romney left Marsh to organise uniform back-up for their visit while he arranged a search warrant. In the offices of CID, he caught Grimes loitering at his desk. His paperwork was untidy and there were crumbs of something recently consumed dotted about. ‘What are you up to, now?’ he asked him. Grimes might be four kinds of useless but his physical presence was not to be underestimated when an intimidating show of force was needed, even if occasionally his enthusiasm could get the better of him, as Romney’s recently broken nose bore testimony to.
‘Off to the hospital, gov.’
‘What’s wrong with you?’
‘Nothing.’
Romney waited and when no explanation was forthcoming, he said, ‘So why are you going to the hospital?’
‘Oh, right. Sorry, gov. Report of a man stabbed on his doorstep.’
‘Serious?’
‘Honest.’
‘No. Is it serious, the wound?’
‘Oh. Not life-threatening, they said. Uniform asked if CID would go and talk to him.’
*
In preparation for their low key visit, the non-descript police car of CID and the colourful patrol cars of uniform assembled at the end of the road in which James Andrews – the apparent hirer of the uniforms – had given as his home address. It was a narrow and depressing road in a poor part of the town. They rolled to a halt outside number seven and Romney and Marsh along with two uniformed constables moved to the front door while two more uniformed officers picked their way around to any rear exit.