Classic Calls the Shots (23 page)

Memories of Joan lying alone at Nemesis hung over me, naturally enough, as I turned off the Egerton Road into Frogs Hill Lane. Even the thought of home could not shake me out of the darkness of the day. There were no street lights of course as I drove along the narrow bumpy lane with the hedgerows high on either side. As I turned in at my gate the security lights came on, but tonight they seemed harsh, no warm glow. They merely seemed to underline my stark failure to find Angie's killer. It was no good telling myself that if the police could not track him down, how could I hope to do so? The police are hedged in with the need to find sufficient proof to convince the CPS before they can charge their suspect. I am not so constrained, at least in my thoughts, and I was all too well aware that Joan's ghost had now been added to Angie's in reproaching me.

Ahead of me as I drew up, the Pits loomed and in the stark light even they looked forbidding. Here be dragons indeed, one waiting round every corner. There was no sound, save the hooting of the occasional bird and the rustle of trees and tonight darkness was far from being a friend. I was relieved when I was inside the farmhouse again. No dragons lurked here, only the Glory Boot. I could have time to think a little and then sleep. Think how Joan Burton, friend of Margot Croft, could possibly have fitted into this crescendo of violence. How did it fit with Angie's murder? I could not believe that Nigel was so deep into car crime that it led to not one but two murders. Or was the fantasy of film throwing its mantle over the truth, blowing stardust in my eyes to disguise the real picture?

To my disbelief, the security lights went on again. A cat? A fox? Nemesis? Then, for heaven's sake, there was a knock at the door. At gone two o'clock?

‘Police?' I wondered as I dragged myself to open it. I realized at the last moment that this might not be such a good plan and put the chain on just in case. It wasn't Brandon's smiling face on the doorstep. It was, unbelievably, Pen's. Already she must have got hold of the new story, and being Pen, she was on to it.

‘Story, Jack?' she asked hopefully.

‘It's two o'clock in the morning, Pen.' I tried not to screech too loudly.

‘Story, Jack?'

‘No,' I bellowed ungraciously.

A foot was placed in the doorway. ‘Cup of cocoa for a lone lady? Or have you got Louise tucked up in there?'

‘No and no,' I snapped.

‘Can I quote you on that?'

‘No.'

‘Do take that chain off the door. I feel unwelcome,' she complained.

I gazed at her wondering if she was a werewolf sent to haunt me. I struggled with reason. If she quoted me as refusing to talk to her, I would appear once more in print as someone with something to hide, and that wasn't going to do my reputation any good. If I did talk to her, I'd be murdered by Brandon and possibly Bill too. I chose truth.

‘There's nothing I can tell you because I don't know myself. I'm knocked sideways and I can't think straight tonight. I liked—' I pulled up short. I nearly used Joan's name and that probably wasn't public yet.

Pen's eyes gleamed. ‘Friend of yours, was he?'

So she hadn't got the full story yet. ‘Fishing, Pen?'

‘My job netting innocent minnows like you. Is my theory proven or is it not?'

Here we go again, I thought. ‘No comment, sweetheart.'

‘My guess is, laddie,' she replied thoughtfully, ‘that it's got a whole lot closer to proof this evening.' Pen grinned. ‘I'll give you a break, Jack. I'll leave. But I'll be back.'

‘That I don't doubt, unfortunately.'

When I arrived at Stour Studios on Saturday morning, it was gone nine and I half expected to find that the film production had been abandoned, and indeed everything seemed suspiciously quiet. I checked in at reception where a very pale Jane was presiding. Filming, she told me to my surprise, was taking place in Studio Two: Miss Shaw and Miss Richey.

I found that hard to believe at first. Filming so soon? Then I realized that this could be Bill's way of dealing with the situation. Fine for him, but how did the cast feel about it?

When I reached Studio Two, I saw that ‘filming was taking place' was somewhat of an overstatement. The crew was there, so were Louise and Eleanor, but they looked frazzled. Louise and Eleanor were sitting on the set of a drawing room, while Bill was giving the benefit of his blistering tongue to the crew. It appeared that perspective was wrong for a high-angle shot resulting in the mastershot for the scene being a complete failure. Louise noticed my arrival and came over to me.

‘What's happening?' I asked. ‘Is the film still going on?'

‘Yes. Bill wasn't—'

Bill whirled round – he had sharp ears – and snapped that he wanted no ‘garbage talk'. ‘Yes, it's going on.
We're
going on. I don't give way to anything, not even this.'

I drew Louise out of earshot, sensing something might have happened that I didn't yet know about. I was right.

‘Tom's been arrested,' she said.

My heart sank. ‘For what?'

‘Joan's murder, but maybe Angie's too. We don't know. That's why Bill's in such a state. Roger's going to make an announcement about the film at midday, but meanwhile Bill insists on filming as though it's going ahead. But Tom – oh, Jack, it's the last straw. How could he possibly have killed Joan? They were close friends.'

‘Arresting him doesn't mean they'll be able to charge him,' I pointed out. I knew Brandon though. If he'd had his eye on Tom all the time and left it too long with the result that Joan had died too, he'd press on hard with every bit of evidence he could find.

‘But Bill denies making any such arrangement with Joan to go to Nemesis, and Tom's story about a radio call telling him not to come to the Manor with the storyboards turns out not to be from Bill but from one of the runners, but none of them admits to calling him. What does it all mean, Jack?'

I remembered Pen's theory that Bill had murdered Angie, and I remembered Bill's fury yesterday in Roger's office, when he himself realized that he might be being fitted up for Joan's murder. But Bill was a clever man – and knew both I and Brandon would see that the garage doors were self locking, and that in theory he might have killed Joan and then locked himself in. I warned myself that careful driving was called for here. Slippery surface ahead.

I slipped in to the canteen where the midday meeting was being held. Roger had decided on democracy by holding a vote for continuing or abandoning the film at least temporarily. Put that way, he won almost the whole company to his side, as perhaps he had calculated. It was a go-ahead. Sunday would be a free day but on Monday morning filming would recommence at the studios. One or two dissented and some of the crew and cast had other commitments, which would take some sorting out and the canteen and green room were both abuzz with talk while arrangements were discussed.

‘How are you placed, Louise?' I asked her, fearing her answer.

‘I'm staying,' she told me to my relief. She made a face. ‘But I've had enough of that hotel. You were right about its being the right place to be last night, but now I need some distance.'

I held my breath. ‘They say Frogs Hill has good air at this time of year.'

‘That sounds just fine.'

A whole day to ourselves. Louise brought her luggage at lunchtime and settled into the farmhouse, because Roger had freed them from midday. That afternoon I had a date already fixed with Dave and Brandon, weekend or not, but on Sunday, glorious Sunday, I would be free and so would Louise.

‘Let's go over the hills and far away,' Louise said.

‘Seaside?'

‘Countryside? Picnic?'

That was agreed.

Then fate stepped in. As it was Saturday, the Pits had officially closed at one o'clock before Louise and I had reached Frogs Hill, but Zoe had stayed on to finish a job, noted Louise's car arriving and came over to see us.

‘I thought you and Louise might want to go the Marsham Hall Fun Day tomorrow,' she said brightly.

It sounded ghastly. ‘No thanks.'

‘But it has that classic car show. I thought you knew it. It was pretty good last year. I kept my ear to the ground, just as you told me, and guess who tripped over it?'

‘Rob?' I asked mildly.

A scathing look. ‘Your chum Nigel will be there.'

T
he moment I walked in I could see Dave was in hedging mode. Shifty would be a less polite way of putting it. Usually he's happy to chat freely, but not today and not just because he dislikes having to work on Saturdays. Perhaps it was because I'd come to the dragons' den ostensibly to see what was happening on the classic car front, but in reality to find out why Tom had been arrested. Dave prefers his chats somewhere quiet – quiet in his view anyway – such as a pub where he fondly imagines he is invisible, but today that had not been possible.

‘The film-set murders', as the media termed them, were high profile, with the eyes of the world upon them, and I knew Brandon must be feeling the pressure. Once upon a time, the answer was simple: ‘Call in the Yard'. Nowadays the Serious Crime Directorate for Kent and Essex, which currently included him, had the spotlight of the world's press on it. Pen must be a positive pussy cat compared with what he must be facing.

Dave guessed quite well what I was here for, but couldn't give me the answers himself. ‘Hopkins isn't yet charged. Looks possible though,' was all he could contribute.

‘What's he got on him?' I asked. ‘And is it Angie or Joan or both?'

‘Pass.'

‘I don't see it. Tom's no murderer.'

‘Don't tell me he's not the sort.'

‘He's not the sort.'

Dave sighed. ‘That's why you're not in our shoes. I let Brandon know you were honouring us with your presence. He wants to see you. For all our sakes, give him good news if you can.'

Fat chance, I thought, as I filled Dave in on my latest Biddington theory. Police stations, like hospitals, march to a different tune from the outside world. Their rules rule, and no arguing. By the time I reached Brandon's office, under the protection of a PC in case I decided to rob the canteen till en route, I was beginning to feel like a policeman myself. I was glad I wasn't, even though I had no magic wand of good news to wave at Brandon.

He nodded anyway, and informed me that it was good to see me. I'd have liked a little more clarity on exactly why. Until recently his sole ambition had been to throw me into a cell and chuck the key away.

‘You'll want to know about Hopkins. We'll have to charge him soon.'

‘Or release him.'

His eyes gleamed. ‘Any reason why we should?'

Once I had bitten back my instinctive reply – ‘Any reason why you shouldn't?' – he indicated that the initial sparring was over and we could get down to business.

‘Dave Jennings tells me you're following a hunch about Nigel Biddington being deep into car crime.'

‘It's still a possibility.'

‘Taking you anywhere?'

‘Not far,' I admitted, ‘but there's hope. Circumstantial at present.'

Brandon did not look impressed and I couldn't blame him. ‘Circumstantial is all we've got on Hopkins. He was around at the time of both murders, he had a motive for Angie Wade's murder and for Joan's too if she'd cottoned on to his role in the earlier death. Bill Wade denies any plan to meet Joan Burton at this temple place and Hopkins, like several people, knew she was going there. The runners all deny calling him to cancel the manor appointment and so does Bill Wade. What's more, Hopkins admits he went up to the temple himself not just the first time when filming was still going on, but again after he got the call.'

That set me back a few notches. This was sounding bad.

‘Bill Wade's story,' Brandon continued, ‘is that he had a dinner date with Sir John and was expecting to see Hopkins before that. Then he was called to the garage by Security. Denied by them. What we don't have on Hopkins – yet – is forensic backup.'

‘What's his explanation about going to the temple? Looks as if he really did have a call or why would he go up there?'

Brandon looked at me in a kindly fashion, and I couldn't blame him. ‘Because he didn't have a call and he knew Joan would be on her own. That's our take. His is that he took this famous call around seven forty-five; it was a woman's voice and she was one of the runners with a message for him from Bill Wade. All quite normal, apparently. The message was that Wade was cancelling the meeting because he was meeting Joan Burton at the temple over some lighting problem. Hopkins claims that, not wanting to leave this storyboard question dangling, he went up to the temple half an hour or so later where he expected to find Bill. He wasn't there, and Joan was, highly annoyed at being kept waiting. Hopkins claims he found her alive and left her the same way. If so, she was dead not long afterwards.'

That call . . . I remembered the female gardeners whom Angie might have thought were calling her down to the garden. ‘Could there have been two of them in it?' I suggested. ‘The caller and the murderer?'

‘Not likely in a murder case. Hopkins claimed he was in the canteen after he returned from the temple. No one confirms it so far.'

‘Short on alibis then.'

‘Precisely.'

‘So where do I come in?' There had to be some reason Brandon actually wanted to see me.

‘Nigel Biddington, if he's still in the frame for car crime.'

‘It's wobbly. What worries me though—'

‘Is that it's a big jump from car crime to double murder.'

‘Precisely,' I commented. ‘Glad you think so too.'

‘You're too kind,' Brandon murmured. ‘If there's nothing concrete over Biddington, however, it means I'll have to draw a line under your official collaboration. Anything more though, and you'll still be under an obligation to tell us.'