Oscar shrugged. Pinkie had tried this line before. “Rumour. I’ve survived gay rumours before.”
Pinkie grinned malevolently. “But I’ve got the proof this time, you forget.” He patted his man bag. “I’ve got the conversations you had with your little British boyfriend. You won’t be able to deny you sent them.”
Oscar gaped. “You wouldn’t fucking dare.”
“Oh, would I fucking not?”
Oscar was appalled. “You disgust me.”
“Yeah, well, how do you think I feel? Finding all that stuff. Learning that all this has been going on behind my back for months and months.”
“Pinkie, we’re not together. We never were.”
Pinkie’s hand clamped onto Oscar’s knee. “You enjoyed it when I used to visit you in your trailer. Didn’t you?” He walked his fingers up Oscar’s thigh. “When I would get on my knees. When I would bend over the table.” The fingers reached Oscar’s flies. Oscar slapped them away. His eyes jerked towards the driver. Pinkie nodded.
“Of course, of course! Sure! This is not the time or the place.” He sat back, smiling. Oscar was playing ball again. The online affair with that lumpen lookalike was over - and what had it been really? Words on a screen. Swapping stories. Telling each other secrets like passing notes in class. Pathetic.
But what he had with Oscar was the real thing. And it would endure any number of flings and affairs. So what if he had to pull the reins a little bit more sharply from time to time. Oscar needed to be reminded of the rules every now and then. But he always came around.
And now I have actual proof the media will lap up, well, Pinkie grinned to himself, I’ve got my movie star in the bag...
***
The scene was the hospital gift shop. Doctor Kilmore and Nurse de Screens were stealing a moment to arrange a dinner date. Stevens and Pattimore were lurking in the background, ostensibly buying flowers and magazines for the loved one they were visiting.
“We are all set for tonight?” Delia Cartwright whispered.
Oscar frowned. “Is that a line from the script?”
Delia laughed and swatted at him. “No, silly! I mean the fashion launch. It’s tonight.”
“Fashion launch?”
“You said you’d come.”
“I did. That’s right.”
“It’s for a good cause.”
“What charity?”
“Well... ” Delia had been thinking more along the lines of her career being the good cause, “something to do with children or crippled animals, I expect.”
“Okay, cool.”
Delia would have preferred him to display a little more enthusiasm but decided he was probably getting into the zone in advance of the camera rolling.
“Ready, loves?” Julian’s voice was tinny, amplified through a megaphone.
Everyone nodded. The clapper loader appeared in front of the doctor and the nurse.
The first take went badly. Oscar Buzz seemed distracted. He kept stumbling over his lines. Eventually he called ‘cut’ himself and apologised profusely to everyone.
“That’s no problem, love,” boomed Julian. “We’ll go again. When you’re ready.”
The second take was just as bad. Julian cut rather than prolong the agony.
“What is it, Oscar love? I’m just not feeling it.”
“I’m sorry, Julian. I guess I’m tired.”
Pinkie strutted over from the sidelines. “I’ll pump him tonight. Get him full of camomile tea, I mean. He’ll sleep like a happy baby.”
Oscar paled.
“Who’s this?” said Julian.
Pinkie turned towards the director’s chair. “I’m his close friend and personal assistant,” he dipped in a curtsey. Eyebrows were raised. Oscar felt sick.
“You’re not actually employed on this picture?” Julian asked.
“Well, er... not exactly,” Pinkie tried his most twinkly smile.
“Then I must ask you to leave the set,” said Julian in no-nonsense tones.
Oscar held his breath. Could it be that easy? Pinkie was glaring at him, urging him to say something.
“Julian,” Oscar smiled, “Pinkie will wait in my trailer. He won’t be any trouble.”
Pinkie huffed. He stamped his foot.
“Whatever,” said Julian. “Now can we please get back to the bloody scene?”
Pinkie stormed off, his heels clattering. No one spoke until he had gone.
“Wherever did you get him?” Delia laughed.
“L.A.,” said Oscar. “I’m going to have to let him go.”
“Fabulous hair, though,” said his co-star.
“Yours is nicer,” said Oscar.
Delia’s eyes widened. The tide was turning in her favour at last, it seemed.
Oscar noticed his stand-in, lurking among the crew, watching the scene, and somehow he felt better.
The next take was flawless.
“Cut and print,” said Julian. “Perfection, Oscar love. Just perfection.”
“Isn’t he just?” muttered Delia Cartwright.
***
They broke for lunch - or rather the actors did while the crew re-set the scene for coverage from other angles. Oscar looked for Dan but he had slipped away. He almost went back to his trailer but remembered at the last minute that Pinkie was there. Instead, he joined the line at the catering truck. Delia Cartwright was delighted to queue beside him. She rattled on about other films she’d been in, productions she did at drama school. “My Hedda Gabler was a thing of wonder, I was told. Perhaps I could give you a snatch later? Would you like that, Oscar? Would you like me to give you my Hedda?”
But Oscar was distracted. He pushed his food around his plate and ate none of it. He kept looking up expectantly at everyone who walked past in case they were Dan. But they never were.
I’ve been too harsh and too hasty, Oscar scolded himself. I didn’t give the guy chance to explain. I owe him that much at least. After all we’ve said to each other. His friendship has helped me through some tough times, and for that reason, I’m going to give him the opportunity to say his piece.
“So seven then?”
“Um, seven what?”
“The time, silly! Tonight. We need to be there for seven. There’ll be a bit of red carpet before the launch, I expect.”
“Launch?”
Delia rolled her pretty eyes. “Tonight, you silly sausage. The fashion launch. You know: for charity. You and me... ”
“Oh, yeah.” Oscar suddenly brightened. It was just the excuse he needed not to go back and have another clash with Pinkie. “I’m looking forward to it,” he smiled, piercing her with his eyes. For a second Delia Cartwright couldn’t breathe. Her legs wobbled, threatening to fail on her.
Golly, she couldn’t believe it was happening. Oscar Buzz is coming out with me tonight and he’s looking forward to it. This is it, this is it, this is it!
At another table, Stevens was tucking into a mountain of fried food. Pattimore was ignoring a more modest sandwich. He was on the phone with Miller who was relating the findings of Harry Henry and Ian the technician.
“I see... ” said Pattimore. “Cheers, Mel. No; we won’t do anything until you get here. See you.”
“Mmghh?” said Stevens through a mouthful of grease and carbohydrates.
“That was Miller,” Pattimore put his phone away. “We’ve got to have a word with the new director chappy.”
“What about?”
“His internet activities.”
“Ugh. Mucky pictures is it?”
“No. This film. Miller thinks there’s something dodgy going on.”
“Of course there’s something dodgy going on,” said Stevens. “They’re actors, for fuck’s s
ake. That’s not normal. And did you see that one with the hair and the pencil moustache! Fucking hell.”
“I hope you’re not coming over all homophobic again, Benny boy.”
“Nah, course not,” said Stevens. “I’m all actoriphobic. Is that a word?”
“It is now,” said Pattimore.
A bell rang. Lunch was over. Stevens and Pattimore got back to their positions in the gift shop as though deciding between tulips and chrysanthemums. Stevens let out a rip-roaring belch and pressed his hand to his chest.
“Indigestion,” he moaned.
“Not surprised,” said Pattimore. “But it does make you look concerned for the loved one we’re visiting. You might get a BAFTA.”
“Fuck off,” said Stevens.
The megaphone squeaked and a voice boomed out of it. But it wasn’t the voice they were expecting.
“Hello, sorry, everyone, sorry,” said Jessica Bean, through the megaphone’s echoes and feedback, “but I’m afraid - well, let me put it this way: Has anyone seen Julian? He appears to have vanished.”
Silence ensued.
Stevens belched again.
“Trust you,” muttered Pattimore, wilting from embarrassment.
“Er... ” Jessica Bean continued, “We’re pressing on. It’s what Julian would want. Just the close-ups this afternoon, so you background artistes are all released. You’ll still get paid for the whole day - don’t worry about that.”
The woman at the till and a few other shoppers tutted and filed off. Pattimore and Stevens ambled over to the p.a.
“What’s all this about Julian?” said Pattimore.
“I don’t know,” said Jessica, and then remembered to lower the megaphone. Stevens wiggled a finger in his ear. “He’s just... gone. He left a steaming cup of coffee on his desk and his jacket on the back of his chair.”
“Perhaps he’s in the bogs,” said Stevens, “Having a big shit.”
“I sent a runner in to check,” said Jessica. “No sign.”
“And you’ve checked everywhere?” said Pattimore.
“Everywhere. And before you ask if I’ve phoned him, he left his phone on the desk as well.”
“What’s the hold-up?” The American producers had arrived. “Why aren’t we rolling?”
Jessica filled them in.
“How unprofessional of him,” said one.
“Another expensive delay,” said the other. “Stick to the schedule. You have the master in the can. Any idiot can shoot the angles.”
“Seems a bit callous,” observed Pattimore.
“And who the fuck are you?” said the first producer. Pattimore showed him his i.d.
The sculpted eyebrows arched. “We are flattered, Constable, to have your protection. Our only wish is that you’d do a better fucking job of it. Good day to you.”
The producers turned on their heels and strode from the set.
“Ignore them,” said Jessica. “It’s always stressful, producing a film.”
“Even more so, I expect,” said Pattimore, “with directors going missing every five minutes.”
“I’d best crack on,” Jessica smiled an apology. “Got shots to shoot.”
Stevens watched her go, admiring the view. Pattimore swatted at him. “Time we did some behind-the-scenes snooping,” he suggested.
“I thought you’d never ask,” said Stevens. “Lead on, McDuck.”
Pattimore cringed. Davey would have been horrified by that one.
Oh, come back, Brough! Let me apologise. I’m better now, I really am. I’m getting help. It won’t happen again. We can still make a go of it. Please!
“You look fucking constipated,” said Stevens. “Let’s start in the Gents.”
9
Miller drove Harry Henry to the film set. He got out of the car and blinked through his thick lenses as he took in the building.
“This place is haunted,” he said. “There’s all sorts of stories.”
“Not you as well,” said Miller. “Bunny says - oh never mind, what Bunny says. And remind me to give her a call later to see how she is.”
Harry said he would.
They flashed their i.d. to get past the security staff at the gate.
“Hoi, Mel,” the man called after them, “How’s Bunny today?”
Miller waved back but kept walking. She was grinning from ear to ear. If felt good to be associated with someone so famous.
“Who’s Bunny?” said Harry Henry. Miller checked to see if he was joking. He wasn’t.
“Oh, Harry!” she despaired. “Now, a bit of shush, in case they’m filming.”
She guided Harry through the gift shop set. She pointed out Oscar Buzz and Delia Cartwright but Harry was unimpressed. She might as well have just said there’s a man and there’s a woman, never mind their status as two of the most attractive people ever produced by millions of years of evolution.
They waited patiently until someone said Cut, then they approached Jessica Bean who baulked to see their i.d.
“Is there anyone on this lot who isn’t a copper?” she tried to laugh.
“The missing and the dead,” said Miller tersely. “Where’s Julian Farrow?”
“Beats me,” said Jessica Bean.
“Does he?” said Harry Henry. Miller nudged him and told him not to write that down.
“You’re welcome to look for him,” Jessica turned on a smile. “We’re trying to keep busy here. To help us get through this difficult time.”
“His office?” said Miller.
“Through there,” Jessica waved vaguely.
“Thank you!” beamed Harry Henry. Miller pulled him away.
“I’ve never liked her,” Miller confided. “Didn’t she seem a little off to you? A little nervous?”
Harry Henry pulled a face. “Nervous business, film-making. I expect.”
They had come to a corridor that used to house administration rooms when the hospital was functional. The rooms had been commandeered as offices for the crew. The producers had the largest and the director the next. Both rooms were empty.
They looked around at the paperwork left behind by Dabney Dorridge and now by Julian Farrow. Miller jumped when the fax machine beeped and grunted. Printed pages spooled out and fell to the floor.
“From L.A.” Harry Henry twisted his neck to read the papers at his feet. Miller pushed him aside and picked up the pages.
“From someone called Monty,” she read. She flicked through the scripted scene. “Bloody hell. There’s aliens.”
“Where?”
“In the film. There’s going to be aliens showing up and Doctor Kilmore will save the planet by introducing them to penicillin.”
“Sounds unlikely,” said Harry. “Was the programme so outlandish?”
“No,” said Miller. “The programme was all doctors and nurses, falling in love and out again. There was none of this bollocks.”
“I don’t understand... ”
“It’s the Americans,” said Miller. “They’re into all this kind of thing. CGI. Here, there’s an ambulance that turns itself into a giant robot.”
“I don’t think I’ll be queuing for a ticket,” said Henry, losing interest in the faxes. “Have you seen this, Mel?”
He pulled out a map of the hospital from under other papers on the desk. Areas were marked off with the scenes that would be filmed there. “Look,” he tapped one corner, “That’s where they’re doing that shop scene we walked through.”
Miller peered over his shoulder. “That’s right. And there’s the main ward... I was in that bed there and Oscar Buzz walked right by me.”
“I wonder where the aliens will land... ” Harry perused the map.
“Never mind that. What about thes
e areas here?” She tapped her finger on unlabelled rectangles in one wing of the main building.
Harry stuck out his lower lip and shook his head.
Miller looked closer. There was tiny print, faded with age. “... Treatment quarters... ” she read. She shuddered. “This place used to be a wossname, a loony bin, you know.”
Harry was shocked. “You can’t call it that, Mel. It’s not nice.”
“It wasn’t nice. What they used to do to those poor buggers back then. That’s where the ghosts come from, you know. Supposed to be the restless souls of the tortured.”
“Ugh,” said Harry with a shiver. “Ghosts is one thing. But loony ghosts is another.”
A breeze riffled the papers on the desk. The detectives froze.
“There’s a draught,” said Miller. “Old place like this; bound to be.”
Harry Henry was unconvinced.
“Come on,” Miller tugged his sleeve. “Let’s go and have a look. Don’t worry; I won’t let the loony ghosts get you.”
Harry Henry whimpered. But he followed Miller along the corridor and deeper into the building.
***
“We can’t go in there,” Pattimore said to Stevens. He pointed at the chain strung across the corridor. A sign hung off it. “It says it’s condemned.”
“I’m not into politics,” said Stevens obliquely. He hitched his long leg over the chain.
“Are you sure?” said Pattimore. “It’s dark down there.”
Stevens looked at the younger detective. He knew what Pattimore was referring to. Their last case had been particularly unpleasant, involving an extended period in a dank and dismal cellar. It had been a horrific business all round.
“I’m fine, Jason,” Stevens said. “Done my time with the shrinks. Got all that out of my system. Now, are you going to plant your arse there or are you coming with?”
Admiring Stevens’s resilience, Pattimore followed. There’s something to be said for being a thick-skinned boorish wally after all, he reflected. Pattimore’s own experience with counselling had not been such plain sailing. He still attended on a fortnightly basis to discuss issues arising from that last case and others - oh, if Davey knew how dedicated I am to sorting my head out! It pained him to think that Brough wasn’t around to see how virtuous he was being.
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