Cherringham--Playing Dead (2 page)

He positioned himself on it, then turned to face the auditorium.

“Well then, well then,” he said in his best police-acting-voice. “I hear there’s been a crime committed.”

“There certainly has, ladies and gentlemen,” said Jez, pointing straight at him. “This man has been caught impersonating an actor!”

For a second, Graham thought he must have got the page wrong. He didn’t recognise that line. But then he saw the cast burst out laughing. And he even heard snickering and laughter from backstage too.

They were all laughing at him.

This is so unfair,
he thought. But then he laughed too.

Jez Kramer was a bully. And Graham knew how to deal with bullies. He’d dealt with them all his life. His solution was to surrender completely to them, to laugh at himself louder than they did and just put up with the humiliation.

Because eventually bullies got bored and they picked a new victim.

At least that was the idea.

He watched as Jez stepped closer and put an arm around his shoulder. Graham was familiar with this gesture. To the others it would look like friendly reconciliation. But he knew it was really subjugation. Manipulation.

“Graham, Graham, Graham,” said Jez in a chummy voice. “Whatever are we going to do with you?”

“I don’t know, Jez,” said Graham.

“Maybe we should stick you on a rocket and fire you on to the stage?”

“That would be funny,” said Graham. “But then you’d probably have to fire me off again.”

He watched Jez laugh. But he could also see that Jez was scrutinising him, making sure that Graham wasn’t taking the piss.

“Very good, Graham,” he said. “Just one teeny, teeny note though: do remember to address your line to the actors — not the audience.”

“Yes, yes. Of course.”

“You’re the local bobby, Graham. Called to the country residence of Lord and Lady Blake here.”

Jez gestured to the other two actors, Helen Edwards and Ambrose Goode. Graham nodded to them and felt reassured when he saw them smile back. Helen and Ambrose were old-school. Not newcomers, like Jez.

He realised Jez was still speaking and tried to concentrate again:

“…to investigate a priceless pearl which has gone missing.”

“Yes, yes, sorry Jez.”

“And do remember — it’s a serious whodunit, darling — not a Ray Cooney farce.”

He watched Jez step back. He seemed to be satisfied that Graham had got the point.

“Tell you what, Jez,” said Ambrose. “Why not get him to come in stage left instead? That way you can just give him the nod if he misses your cue.”

Graham watched Jez consider the actor’s suggestion.

“Splendid idea, Ambrose!” he said. “Brilliant, in fact. Perhaps
you
should be directing this.”

Graham felt the air on stage grow even colder.

“Well, I was, wasn’t I,” said Ambrose sullenly, “until you—”

“Stage left, it is then,” said Jez, ignoring him.

“Stage left?” said Graham.

“Yes, Graham,” he said, pointing to the wings. “The opposite of stage
right
. God. Just over there.”

Graham nodded. It seemed simple enough — but wouldn’t it cause problems with the … what was the word? Where they all stood on the stage…

The blocking, that was it.

“You sure?” he said. “Won’t we have to change all the positions round for the end of the scene and how will we—”

“Let’s deal with that when we get to it, eh?” said Jez. “Positions everybody, we’ve wasted enough time already tonight and I’ve got a rather important conference call I need to get home to —
capiche
?”

Graham hurried across to the other side of the stage. As he did, he saw Helen give him a quick thumbs up and mouth to him “You okay?”

He nodded back to her.

Even though she could sometimes be a bit pretentious, she always seemed to understand what he was going through.

In the wings, he looked out across the stage as Jez ran through the scene again. He followed the lines on his script, the action getting closer and closer to his own part, highlighted in yellow on the page.

Closer, closer, then the magic words from Helen herself: “If the Pearl of Bombay
has
been stolen then we shall never recover from the disgrace!”

He stepped confidently onto the stage and strode towards Jez.

Not a bad entrance,
he thought.
Not bad at all…

As he approached Jez, the director stepped back to give him room.

Graham looked quickly for his mark before remembering it would have to change now he was coming in from stage left — they’d just have to find him a new one.

He noticed Helen give him the slightest of nods and a secret smile. With new-found confidence he turned to Lord Blake, feeling for every moment like the local bobby, PC Bull, he was playing.

He drew a deep breath and heard his line echo around the theatre:

“Well then, well then. I hear there’s been a crime committed.”

He waited for Lord Blake to respond. But the line never came. Instead, from up in the rigging above his head, he heard the sound of a chain slipping.

And as he looked up in surprise he saw one of the heavy spotlights looming towards him from the darkness.

Graham went to move but too late.

The spotlight crashed into his shoulder, knocking him to the ground with an unbelievable jolt of pain.

*

And when Graham next opened his eyes, two days later in hospital, that was all he could remember of his last rehearsal for
The Purloined Pearl
.

His plans for Ellie, himself — and his life as an acting policeman, destroyed by an accident.

One of his first thoughts, lying in the hospital bed …
It was only an accident, wasn’t it?

Jack parked his Austin Healey Sprite at the back of Cherringham Church and took the little path that led through the graveyard to the High Street.

As he walked he saw that the trees dotted among the graves were already full of pink and white blossom.

He could never get over just how damned
pretty
some parts of Cherringham were. Like every kid’s story-book idea of an English village.

In spite of the bright sunshine he was glad of his winter jacket: there was a bitter cold wind. The cold — and the blossom — took him for an instant back to his time as a rookie cop in Manhattan.

Spring mornings in Central Park, banging his gloved hands together to keep warm, his breath hanging in the air, coffee and doughnut smells mixing with the scent of March flowers.

Well that was then, and this is now,
he thought, turning on to the sidewalk and walking up past Sarah’s office to the village square.

Everything changes.

Past Huffington’s and the hotel, he stopped outside the newly renovated Cherringham Little Theatre. He looked at the place, painted a stylish white and grey. Steel and mirrored glass doors. A retro sign under the Victorian pitch roof.

Quite a transformation.

When he’d first arrived in the village the old building had been boarded up, its windows shuttered. A forgotten remnant of a time when villagers went out to films, shows, and plays. A casualty of the arrival of TV and then broadband.

But now it seemed people wanted the live experience back again. There was a demand for
real
. So, money had been raised, the builders had gone in, staff had been hired — and now, as he’d read in the local paper, Cherringham was just a month away from having a working theatre again.

The Cherringham Players were putting on an inaugural drama and the posters were plastered across the front of the building:
The Purloined Pearl — a Classic Mystery — guest director — internationally renowned Jez Kramer!

Of course, in the last year Jack had seen plays, even a spot of opera in the village hall — but that didn’t count. This was the real thing. This was show business come to the Cotswolds!

He pushed open the smart new doors and went in to the foyer. The place seemed empty.

Then he saw the tall double doors into what must be the auditorium swing open and Sarah and her mother Helen came towards him.

“Hi, Jack,” said Sarah.

“Sarah.”

Helen gave him a kiss on both cheeks.

“I’m
so
glad you’re here, Jack, you are an absolute brick.”

Over Helen’s shoulder Jack could see Sarah smiling at him. She’d often teased him about how much closer Jack was in age to her mother — and hey, maybe you two should be the detectives?

But age didn’t come into it. He liked Helen. But with her polite Englishness she was a different generation from him. Whereas with Sarah — he just felt … comfortable.

And now they’d worked more than a few cases together, they knew each other well.

“Glad to help, Helen,” he said. “And I have to say — the theatre looks amazing.”

“Doesn’t it just? Let’s do the grand tour,” she said, taking his arm through hers and then lowering her voice, “Then we can get down to the nitty-gritty before the others turn up.”

And into the theatre they went…

*

Jack stirred his tea and leaned back in the battered leather club armchair by the side of the prop fireplace.

Hmm, could do with a chair like this on the Grey Goose,
he thought.

He smiled at Helen and Sarah who sat next to each other on a deep cushioned sofa. Helen had switched on just a few of the lights, so the stage had a cosy feel — not too different from the country house sitting room he supposed it represented.

“So…” he said. “Can’t wait to see the first show. And I promise I’ll buy tickets.”

He saw Helen nod and smile.

“But — just what is the nitty-gritty we need to talk about, Helen? Sarah wouldn’t tell me — said I should hear it—”

“From the horse’s mouth, eh?” said Helen, laughing.

“Something like that,” said Jack, sipping his tea.

He watched as Helen scanned the stage dramatically, making sure they were still alone. Then she started:

“We’re under attack, Jack.”

“We?”

“The Cherringham Players! Someone wants us out — and I think they’ll stop at nothing to achieve their aims.”

Jack glanced at Sarah:
this for real?

He saw her nod, her face serious. Much as Helen could be a little … extravagant … in her storytelling, Sarah clearly thought this was on the level.

“Since we started rehearsing
The Pearl
, it’s been one calamity after another. Food poisoning, breakages, illness, thefts, accidents — I’ve never known a production like it. And now — well, I’m sure you’ve heard all about it — dear Graham Jones up to his neck in plaster. Literally!”

“And you don’t think this is accidental?”

“How can a lantern fall on someone’s head?”

“Lantern?” said Jack.

“Stage light, you know — spotlight — those things!”

She pointed above her head and Jack followed her gaze. Seeing the size of the lights up there he could understand why Graham was still in hospital.

The guy’s lucky he’s not dead.

“That must have been pretty bad,” he said. “Were you here?”

“On stage with the poor chap. It was awful. Luckily the paramedics got here quickly and gave him some morphine.”

“You saw it happen?” said Jack.

“We all did,” said Helen. “Not that there was anything really to see. It just … fell.”

Helen continued:

“But here’s the thing. That whole lighting rig is brand new, top of the range — how can a big spotlight like that just fall?”

Jack shrugged: “Maybe that’s the problem. New installation, teething problems, workers chasing a schedule. Wouldn’t be the first time—”

“Nonsense!”

Jack paused.

“Well how about the police — what do they say?”

“Oh, we haven’t bothered with the police,” said Helen. “Alan Rivers, our intrepid local bobby? Good God, I used to hold his hand at playgroup when the older girls frightened him—”

“I think that’s still happening, Mum,” said Sarah and Jack saw her wink at him.

Helen laughed.

Nice timing, Sarah,
thought Jack.
A little humour to calm Mom down a little.

“Okay — nobody’s called in the police. What about all the other incidents?”

“Taken one at a time, up until the light fell, they just don’t seem that major,” said Helen. “It’s only when you add them all up, it doesn’t make sense. To me, at least.”

Jack looked at the two women sitting opposite. If it had just been Helen, he might have been sceptical. But Sarah clearly thought this was worth him hearing.

Then, as if she could read his thoughts:

“Something that Mum hasn’t mentioned, Jack—”

He saw Sarah look at her mother — for permission? — and waited…

“Sarah, you know what I think about all that,” said Helen. “Gossip. Tittle tattle.”

“I think it’s relevant,” said Sarah.

“Oh, all right, go on then,” said Helen.

“Well,” said Sarah, “Word around the village is that the freeholder of the theatre — a local builder called Andy Parkes — thinks he’s made a big mistake letting the refurbishment go ahead. Feels that — with the current market — he should have knocked the place down for flats.”

“That happens,” said Jack. “But now there isn’t much he can do?”

“That’s it; apparently there is,” said Sarah. “If the theatre can’t demonstrate in year one that it has ‘a credible business plan’, then he can rescind the lease and take the building back.”

“Wow, that’s some small print,” said Jack. “Who let that one through?”

“I don’t like to name names, Jack,” said Helen, “but unfortunately it’s our Chair, Ambrose Goode. Ran the place for years, produced, directed, starred — but recently, well…”

“Ambrose is getting on a bit, Jack, and it turns out he’s been rather in denial about his ability to keep on top of things,” said Sarah.

“That’s putting it mildly,” said Helen.

“He insisted on negotiating the lease and only after it was signed did the other trustees see the sell-back clause,” said Sarah.