‘I find most police people are pretty bright,’ Heap said. ‘And have a wide range of interests.’
‘What are Detective Inspector Gilchrist’s interests?’
‘You’d have to ask her that, ma’am – I’m sorry, Ms Grace – I don’t know her that well.’
Grace suddenly shifted subject. ‘Did you always want to be a copper?’
‘I did, Ms Grace. Yes.’
‘Does it run in the family?’
‘It does, Ms Grace. Yes. My mother’s father and his father before him.’
‘What rank did they achieve?’
‘Chief superintendent and chief inspector respectively. In Somerset.’
‘My grandfather was a chief constable in Gloucestershire.’
‘I know, ma’am.’ Heap saw her quizzical look. ‘Wikipedia.’
‘Of course. What else does it say about me?’
‘You don’t know?’
‘I don’t read anything about myself. I’ve never read reviews. I’ve never seen a finished film. I loathe how I look on screen.’
‘That surprises me, Ms Grace. The loathing bit.’
‘Why? Have you ever met a woman happy with how she looks?’
‘No, Ms Grace, but you – well …’ Heap flushed. ‘You’re luminous.’
‘Why, thank you, kind sir. But my nose is too small, my ears too big, my breasts are different sizes, I have no waist to speak of, my knees are chubby and my ankles too thick. My feet you know about.’ She lifted a hand palm outwards. ‘And my fingers are stubby and podgy.’
Heap looked down then said, with the sly smile back on his face: ‘But aside from all that you’re beautiful.’
She laughed a full-throated laugh now and Heap turned crimson.
‘There you are!’ a woman called from the doorway of the French windows. ‘Nim, we have to go. It’s been fab, as always.’ The female half of the theatrical couple.
‘Am-drammers,’ Grace murmured. ‘Far worse than pro actors in the luvvie stakes.’ She put on a patently false smile and Heap excused himself and went past the woman back into the house. He glanced back to see Grace and the amateur actress air-kissing goodbyes. Darlings filled the air.
Heap walked across to Gilchrist.
‘I wondered where you’d got to,’ she said. ‘Been having an interesting conversation?’
‘Just chatting to Ms Grace,’ he said.
‘I wish I’d had an even mildly interesting conversation. Reg Dwight and Mark Harrison grabbed me again – metaphorically speaking. I now know even more about llamas and their husbandry than I ever imagined I would want to. In fact, I’m not sure I do want to but now it’s all implanted in my brain. And did you know you really can recreate a T. Rex from ostrich DNA?’
Heap smiled. ‘I still haven’t seen any men in red trousers – have you?’
‘I hope you’re not talking shop,’ Grace said as she joined them. ‘Cop shop, that is.’
‘People have started to leave,’ Gilchrist said, looking around. ‘We probably should go too.’
Grace squeezed Gilchrist’s arm. ‘You know, as I said, I’d be grateful if you two would stay on after the rest have gone.’
‘I’m useless at washing up,’ Gilchrist said.
Grace laughed. ‘Not that, I promise. A bit of cop-shop talk actually.’
‘We can’t talk about the case,’ Gilchrist said quickly.
‘But I can,’ Grace said. ‘I know you’re off duty but there’s stuff you might need to know for context.’
‘Sure then,’ Gilchrist said. Grace looked at Heap. He nodded.
‘Great,’ Grace said. ‘And, you know, I have guest bedrooms if you want to stay over since I intend to ply myself with drink and I hope you won’t let me drink alone. Let me get rid of everyone else.’
They sat on the large sofa in the high-ceilinged sitting room with the French windows open.
‘What did you want to talk about?’ Gilchrist said. ‘Oh, actually before you tell us that – do you know any men round here who habitually wear red trousers?’
‘What … a military type you mean? Rabbitt probably. Why?’
‘We found footage of someone in red trousers by your lake at the same time Rabbitt was there.’
‘But it’s not Rabbitt?’
‘We don’t think so.’
‘That’s a clue, right? I’ll have a think and keep my eyes peeled.’
‘What did you want to talk to us about?’ Gilchrist said.
‘Am I in any danger?’
‘Because of what happened to Rabbitt?’ Gilchrist said. ‘Why would you think so?’
‘I just feel very vulnerable. What Reg Dwight said about Rabbitt leaving here the other evening – well, Rabbitt didn’t visit me. If he was here he was up to no good – spying on me or worse. It gives me the creeps to think he might have been lurking in my garden, peering through my window. But then when he said if it wasn’t Rabbitt it was some other man that really freaked me out. You see I thought someone else was doing that last night.’
‘Someone you recognized?’
‘I thought I did. He did it once before so maybe that’s why. But it couldn’t have been him – he lives thousands of miles away.’
‘Bellamy, call the local community copper. Get him to liaise with Lewes about a patrol car driving by every hour or so tonight.’
‘Ma’am,’ Heap said. He went out into the garden and talked quietly into his phone.
Grace sighed. ‘Listen, the tabloids are going to pick up the story of the death at my lake soon, if they haven’t already. They’re going to be doorstepping me and sending drones over and that whole “Whatever happened to Naughty Nimue?” thing is going to start up again.’ She wrapped her arms round her body. ‘That’s what creeps me out more than anything.’
Heap came back in and sat beside Gilchrist.
‘I’ll be news again,’ Grace continued. ‘And the questions will start again. Why did you leave Hollywood, Nimue? Why have you retired, Nimue? What happened, Nimue?’ She suddenly shouted: ‘None of your fucking business!’
Gilchrist and Heap exchanged glances. ‘But are there any people who actually might wish to harm you physically?’ Gilchrist said.
‘Loads who might wish harm on me. You never read the comments underneath articles in the Daily Pustule? There are so many people in this country full of hate and bile, especially when it comes to what are perceived as beautiful women and/or luvvies. A beautiful luvvy? That really enrages them.’
‘Loads?’ Gilchrist said.
‘Sure. Have you ever read the novel or seen the film The Day of The Locust? Nathanael West wrote it in the late 1930s. Fans of movie stars from the underclass – which is what we have again in this country – feel shortchanged by their favourites and go on the rampage in Hollywood.’
‘You think that is what is going to happen to you?’
‘Ha! That came out wrong didn’t it? No, I went off at a tangent. I didn’t mean quite that but there are oddball fans out there who can behave quite frighteningly. Donald Kermode is on the harmless end of the spectrum.
‘When I was doing Cleopatra in Chichester I needed a bodyguard because of someone obsessed with me who suggested we meet in a café in town and when I didn’t turn up – because I never said I would and had no intention of doing that – began to post very aggressive messages to the stage door. All because of my stupid looks.’
‘Your career has never been all about your looks,’ Heap said.
‘Why, Sir Galahad,’ Grace said, ‘more gallantry.’
Heap flushed, a little smile on his face, but said nothing. Then he excused himself to use the bathroom. Gilchrist and Grace watched him go, then Grace said, almost sadly: ‘They’d eat someone as kind and decent as him alive in Hollywood. It’s not just that nice guys finish last; it’s that they get trampled into dust.’
‘Bellamy is a lot tougher and more resourceful than is immediately apparent. I don’t think there would be anything he can’t han
dle.’
Grace patted Gilchrist’s hand.
‘I believe you. You and he …?’
‘No!’ Gilchrist said.
‘Oh, I know there’s a height difference but that’s the usual in Hollywood. That town is full of high-achieving midgets and the taller the woman they can cut down to their size the better they like it. The film business out there was founded on small man syndrome.’
Gilchrist laughed. ‘I’ve met the type. But I’ve never seen Bellamy exhibit any of that. You know he lives with my best friend, Kate – around the same height.’
Grace nodded. ‘I’d forgotten – I’m a bit tipsy. So what happened with you and the chief constable?’ She saw Gilchrist stiffen. ‘Oh, come on – I know you told me a bit but all the stuff I’ve told you? And I’m not a suspect, am I?’
‘You’re still part of an official investigation, Ms Grace,’ Gilchrist said primly, though conscious there was a slight slur in her words.
‘Of course I am. I respect that. Have another glass of wine and dish.’
Gilchrist barked a laugh just as Heap came back in. The two women both looked across at him. ‘Saved by the Bell-amy,’ Grace said and snorted. Gilchrist laughed again and a second or two later both were doubled over in fits of giggles, Heap looking on with a bemused smile on his face.
Grace looked up, her eyes watering. ‘We weren’t laughing at you, Bellamy,’ she kind of hiccoughed. ‘May I call you Bellamy?’ He nodded. ‘We were laughing at how daft we were being, right, Sarah?’
‘Speak for yourself,’ Gilchrist said, setting off a new round of giggles.
‘I know about these contagions,’ Heap said, grinning despite himself. ‘Before you know it the whole village is infected.’
‘I can’t remember the last time I laughed like that with a girlfriend. Not that I have many girlfriends. Surprising how quickly friends melt away when you’re not on the Hollywood radar anymore. Which means, of course, they weren’t real friends anyway.’
Gilchrist smiled but Grace saw an awkwardness in it. ‘Not that I’m saying we’re girlfriends,’ she said quickly, looking embarrassed. ‘But I hope perhaps we might be.’ Now it was Gilchrist’s turn to look embarrassed.
‘You don’t want someone like me as a friend,’ Gilchrist said. ‘Not someone like you.’
Grace looked disappointed. ‘Someone like me is more like someone like you than you might think. I was never like that Nimue Grace you see on the big screen. My entire career I’ve been waiting to be found out. I’m not this super-sexy movie goddess. I’m just little old frightened me.’ She looked down, then up again, a bright smile on her face. ‘What was it Rita Hayworth, that other redhead, said? Something like how disappointed men were when they went to bed with Gilda – her sexiest part, just the toss of her hair! – and woke up with Rita.’
‘And Cary Grant,’ Heap said, clearly wanting to help out. ‘He said everybody wanted to be Cary Grant and, actually, so did he – because he was just plain old, tormented Archie Leach from Bristol.’
Grace pointed at Heap dramatically. ‘Exactly! You know that other thing about him? The arc of an actor. Who’s Cary Grant? Get me Cary Grant. Get me a Cary Grant type. Who’s Cary Grant?’ Grace suddenly seemed very drunk. Heap smiled and nodded. ‘Here’s one,’ Grace continued. ‘Knock, knock.’
‘Who’s there?’ Heap asked politely.
‘Nimue,’ Grace said.
‘Nimue who?’ Heap said.
‘That’s show business!’ Grace said, giggling again.
Gilchrist stood. ‘We’d better leave you to get on. You’ll be safe tonight. Well, and every night, actually.’
‘I feel more secure,’ Grace said. ‘I’ll see you out through the garden.’
‘No need,’ Gilchrist said, gathering her things.
‘There is cos I have to lock up after you. Makes me feel even safer.’
Heap said: ‘These are pretty high walls you’ve got around your garden. Somebody would have to be pretty determined – and agile – to get in here. You have security though?’
‘Alarms on the doors and windows but no cameras.’
Heap glanced at Gilchrist. ‘Maybe if something does kick off with the press we can justify the police putting some security cameras in.’
Gilchrist nodded. She was definitely feeling pretty tipsy herself as Grace led them through the French windows onto the terrace. ‘Watch out for the uneven flagstones,’ Grace called back. ‘And don’t trip over the trapdoor to the apple cellar. There’s a chute underneath and a huge tub that the apples just roll into. I’ll show you next time you’re here. I’ll need to move the skeleton of my mother out of her rocking chair first, of course.’
‘Sorry?’ Gilchrist said.
‘Psycho,’ Heap said.
‘Clever copper. And watch out for the peacock shit. The sods crap everywhere and it stinks.’
‘I didn’t realize you had peacocks,’ Gilchrist said.
‘I don’t. Horrible, noisy shitting things. The males prance around thinking they are God’s gift because of their over-the-top tails. OK, I know that’s like Hollywood men again. A neighbour has them but they don’t exactly respect property boundaries. They seem to regard my terrace as their toilet for some reason. I wanted to hire a fox to eat them but that isn’t feasible alas.’
She stopped at the solid, barred door set in the high Victorian wall. ‘A local farmer who did some work for me when I first arrived told me how a fox killed his two peacocks. They nested in a really tall tree in his garden. The local fox could see them but he couldn’t get at them. So he ran round the tree, his head cocked, staring at one of the peacocks. The peacock stared back and rolled his head to keep track of the fox as he ran round the tree. The peacock got dizzy and fell out of the tree and, voila, the fox had his dinner.’
Gilchrist laughed. ‘I’m not sure I believe that. Sounds a bit like an Aesop’s fable.’
‘Good story though,’ Grace said. ‘Drive safely.’ She watched them into Heap’s car then she closed the big door and they heard the bolts sliding into place.
SIX
Heap was parked outside Gilchrist’s flat when she emerged at 7.30 a.m., feeling like death warmed up, as one of her northern colleagues used to say. He jumped out and opened the boot for her suitcase.
‘This makes sense, ma’am,’ he said. ‘You can’t be coming back to Brighton every night the hours you’re working on the other side of the Downs.’
‘Yes, but Pelham House?’ Pelham House had been for many years the County Council offices behind the High Street in Lewes until it had been converted into an upmarket hotel.
‘If Lewes Police District has got a good arrangement with the hotel, no reason for you not to take advantage of it.’
‘I guess. Do you feel as rough as me?’
‘Probably worse. I didn’t get much sleep last night as Kate wanted to talk. It’s her mum’s funeral tomorrow.’
‘Did you get any sleep?’
‘Not really.’
‘Maybe I should be the one driving,’ Gilchrist said. ‘Or, better still, we get Sylvia driving and we can both kip in the back.’
‘Maybe later in the day. Shall we drop your things off at the hotel then go and check on the dredging at the lake, see Said Farzi and also the ostrich guy?’
‘Sounds like a plan. Has it broken in the papers yet?’
‘Not a word but I get a sense of the vultures circling. We need to figure out a way to protect Ms Grace.’
‘You are her Sir Galahad, aren’t you?’
‘Any woman’s Sir Galahad, I hope, ma’am,’ Heap said. ‘If required. Isn’t that what men are supposed to be?’
‘Well, women can fend for themselves and maybe act as Dame Galahads for men, Bellamy.’
‘I welcome both those things, ma’am. But on those occasions when they aren’t able to be that, that is a man’s job.’
‘You’re a good man, Bellamy. Who was Sir Galahad, by the way?’
‘You don’
t want to go there, ma’am,’ Heap said. ‘Especially with a hangover. I studied the Arthurian legends and the Vulgate Cycle at university and this car journey is not long enough for me even to get in the foothills of what I know.’
‘Useful for policing, that Vulgate Cycle learning, was it?’
‘All these knights looking for the Holy Grail is a kind of investigation … It was a little side thing I did out of interest. And Ms Grace has misnamed me. She is thinking of chivalry and courtly love in Provence where a knight pledges to protect a lady. But Sir Galahad – who came late to the Arthurian legends – is essentially a celibate fighting monk who goes in search of and finds the Holy Grail. He’s not interested in women – or men, in case you were wondering. In some versions he was actually Sir Lancelot’s son by Eleanor, the one who drowned herself—’
‘You’re right, Bellamy – I don’t want to go there.’
Pelham House was down one of the very narrow, steep lanes off the High Street in Lewes. Heap swung the car into the car park and opened the boot to get Gilchrist’s bag.
‘A quick in and out,’ Gilchrist said. ‘As somebody said to somebody else – oh, blimey – I must be tired.’
In the foyer they almost collided with Nimue Grace’s agent, Kip, coming out of the breakfast room. She was dressed down compared to last night. Tight leather trousers, stilettos and bright pink cashmere roll-neck.
‘Hey, Mr and Mrs Policeman – you looking for me?’
‘No,’ Heap said. ‘Should we be?’
‘Well, we didn’t finish our conversation last night. You got time, come and join me for a coffee in this lounge place here.’
Once Gilchrist had left her bag with the concierge she and Heap joined Kip in the empty lounge.
‘I ordered a big pot of coffee,’ she said (pronouncing it corfee), ‘I only take it black but I’ve ordered milk, hot and cold, for whatever you want.’
‘Perfect,’ Heap said. ‘What was it you wanted to tell us?’
‘You said last night that somebody had died. Did you mean the gangster next door got his comeuppance?’
Gilchrist frowned. ‘By the gangster next door do you mean Richard Rabbitt at Plumpton Down House?’
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