Fear in the Sunlight (7 page)

David Franks ran lightly down the steps of the Bell Tower and emerged into the daylight, excited at the prospect of what the weekend held. The sun streaked the cobbles of Battery Square, and there were still plenty of visitors milling around at the outer limits of the village, making the most of their day before the curfew struck and they were shown politely back through the gates, leaving Portmeirion to its nocturnal guests. The character of the place changed completely after seven thirty, he had noticed: as everyone gravitated to the hotel for drinks and dinner, the village became a ghost of its daytime self, its illusions at once more rewarding and more unsettling. Without people to bring it to life, Portmeirion’s essentially artificial nature was somehow exposed. Last night, returning to his suite in Government House, he had sat for a long time on a bench in the Piazza, enjoying the peace; it was exactly like being the last person left on a film set at the end of a day’s shoot – so much so that, when he finally got up to go to bed, he almost felt that he should turn out the lights.

Now, he leant against one of the small cannons which had been placed in the square to justify its name, and squinted back up at the tower he had just left, admiring the way in which its architectural detail had been deliberately scaled down to make the building appear larger than it really was. There were several examples of this sort of forced perspective all over Portmeirion, and David – whose job it was to create illusions on screen – had a grudging respect for the man who managed it so successfully without the help of a camera. It was an achievement that he would have been proud to call his own had things been different.

He looked at his watch to make sure that the Bell Tower’s clock was reliable: no one with any sense was late for an appointment with Alfred Hitchcock. He had ten minutes to wait, so he took a carefully timed stroll round the gardens and tennis court, and knocked on the door to the Watch House exactly as the mechanism on the old turret clock kicked into life. When he saw that Hitch was on the telephone, he offered to wait outside, but the director shook his head and waved him in, so David retreated discreetly to the balcony. There was no ethical decision to be made over whether or not to eavesdrop: Hitch’s distinctive voice – gruff and deadpan, still faithful to its East London origins – carried easily across the small room, and he made no attempt to hide his part of the conversation.

‘I’m not denying it’s a generous offer,’ he said, with a strained patience which suggested that the discussion had been proceeding along the same lines for some time. ‘I’m merely pointing out to you that until I’ve completed the films I’m contracted to make for Gaumont British, I’m not in a position to consider
any
offer, generous or not. Forty thousand dollars a picture or four – it makes no difference.’

He fell silent again, and David waited for the next skilful deflection. Hitch turned down at least three offers a month from Hollywood, but there was a growing speculation among those closest to him that it was only a matter of time before he jumped – speculation, and an accompanying disquiet, as the people who relied on Hitchcock’s career for their own jockeyed with varying degrees of subtlety for a position in the new empire. There were no guarantees, but David was reasonably confident that, after ten years of working for Hitch and Alma, first as production designer and most recently as assistant director, there would be a role for him in the Hitchcock creative circle for as long as he wanted one.

‘What do you mean he’s going? He hasn’t said anything to me.’ There was a new tone in Hitch’s responses and David listened with more interest, wondering who had been reckless enough to plan a future behind the director’s back. He leant over the balcony and scanned the quayside below. Two or three bathers were by the hotel pool, but more seemed to favour the small, sheltered coves which punctuated the shoreline; a couple of parties had found the energy to take out one of the rowing boats kept for idling along the coast, but most people seemed content to relax on the terraces. He picked up a pair of binoculars which was lying on the red brick and looked across to the island in the middle of the estuary, holding the glasses first in one hand and then in the other so that the scorching metal did not have time to burn his skin.

‘Did you know that Selznick was trying to persuade Jack Spence to move to Hollywood?’

It took David a moment to realise that Hitchcock was talking to him. ‘What? No, sir, I didn’t.’ It was only a half-lie. Spence hadn’t actually said anything to him but they worked together closely enough for David to know that the cameraman had grown restless recently, and he was far too good for any of the major studios to baulk at exploiting that restlessness. Like David, Spence had arrived on the scene at a time when Hitchcock was just beginning to carry enough clout to make his own decisions about who worked with him, and director and cameraman had quickly developed a mutual respect. Now, that partnership seemed about to dissolve into bitter recriminations, with David caught in the middle. He admired Hitch and Alma tremendously and had learnt a great deal from both of them, inspired as much by their diligence, enthusiasm and professional courtesy as by their creativity. Even so, his liking for the couple could not blind him to a certain arrogance in the assumptions they made. Spence was a free man, not particularly ambitious but proud of his work and with no ties to hold him down; why shouldn’t he try his luck in Hollywood?

There had been a long silence and Hitch was clearly expecting him to say something. ‘Perhaps it’s just a rumour,’ he suggested, falling easily into his habitual role as studio peacemaker. ‘If Hollywood can convince you that enough of your people are on the brink of leaving, perhaps they think that will encourage you to jump as well.’

He spoke persuasively‚ but Hitchcock looked unconvinced. Spence’s timing was unfortunate: only a couple of weeks ago, Charles Bennett – another of the director’s closest collaborators, who had worked on every script with him since
The Man Who Knew Too Much –
had announced his decision to go to America after one more film. To the director, it must have felt like the end of an era, as the people he trusted conspired to hasten a decision he wasn’t yet ready to make. ‘And what about you, Mr Franks?’ he asked. ‘Are you still happy with us?’

‘Yes, of course,’ David said truthfully. ‘I’m not saying I wouldn’t like to make a film of my own one day, but I’ve still got a lot to learn.’

Hitchcock nodded thoughtfully. ‘What about the future, though? A little bird told me recently that you might draw the line at going back to America as part of your education.’

David looked up sharply. ‘Who told you that?’

‘Bella Hutton. Is she wrong?’

‘Yes, she is. I haven’t discussed my plans with her and she has no idea what’s in my mind.’ He made an effort to keep the anger out of his voice, but it was only partially successful. ‘I’m grateful to Bella for everything she’s done. She had faith in me at a time when my life could have gone in a very different direction, but these days I stand on my own feet and make my own decisions. That might be hard for her to accept‚ and I know she has unhappy memories of America, but they’re her memories, not mine.’

‘It was quite a surprise to see Bella, actually, but it plays into our hands that she’s here. There’s certainly no love lost between her and Mr Turnbull. Has the star of our weekend arrived yet?’

‘Yes, he checked in an hour ago and he’s been in the bar ever since, so we’d better catch him while he’s still sober enough to listen. Do you want to brief him, or shall I?’

‘Oh you do it. I can’t bear the man.’ Hitchcock poured them both a drink and passed David’s over. ‘So – run through it all with me.’

‘All right, but we’ll have to go outside.’ They walked out onto the lawn, and David wondered how Hitch could bear to make so few concessions to the weather; true, he had removed his jacket but he was still wearing a starched white shirt and navy-blue trousers, and just looking at his tie made David’s short sleeves and wide flannels feel heavy and claustrophobic. ‘You see why we can’t use the roof,’ he said, pointing out the distance between the Bell Tower and the Watch House. ‘The trajectory simply wouldn’t work. No one would believe it.’

Hitchcock nodded reluctantly. ‘And it would have made such a nice scene.’ He pouted, and wiped away a mock tear. ‘Where do you suggest Mr Turnbull’s body should land, then?’

‘Over here on the gravel. Apart from anything else, it’ll be easier for people to see him – those who follow us up from the hotel.’

‘You’ll be there to stop them getting too close, though? We don’t want anyone to know it’s a gag until we’ve had our fun.’

‘Of course. It’ll be easy to cut them off at the gate by the Bell Tower. Except for the steps up from the terrace, it’s the only entry point to this courtyard. No one will be able to see that his bruised and broken body is neither bruised nor broken.’

Hitchcock looked sceptical. ‘Unless the idiot moves.’

‘I think the amount you’re paying him to lie still will do the trick.’

‘Good. I’ll gather everyone together on the terrace at around midday. Mr Turnbull will be in the Bell Tower by then?’

‘Absolutely. If he stands on the fourth level – under the bell, where the brick changes to stone, see?’ Hitchcock nodded. ‘If he stands there and leans out a little, he can be easily spotted from the front of the hotel, and he can see you. All you need to do is draw attention to him a couple of times to make sure everyone knows he’s up there.’

‘That’s easy enough.’

‘Then we need to make everyone believe that he’s jumped. When you’re ready, give Turnbull the signal.’

‘Which is?’

‘Oh, something simple that’s plain enough for him not to miss. Why not just stand up? That’s ordinary, but there’s no mistaking it from a distance and it will tell him it’s time to make his way down the steps and take his position outside. When you see he’s gone from the balcony and you’re sure everyone’s looking at you, just tell them what you want them to believe. By the time we get up there, it’ll look as if everything’s happened exactly as you said.’

‘Turnbull
will
be there by then?’

‘Yes, I’ve timed it. It takes two minutes to get up here from the hotel, plus an extra few seconds for the shock to register with everyone. Turnbull will be able to get down those steps easily in that time, even if he’s had a couple of drinks. And the other advantage of having his body on the gravel is that no one will see him getting into position. It’s a blind spot from anywhere but here.’

‘Splendid. You’ve thought of everything.’ Pleased, he slapped David affectionately on the shoulder and turned to go back inside. ‘It’s his most appropriate role yet, don’t you think? Whoever would have imagined that Leyton Turnbull would stage such a dramatic comeback so late in his career? Bella will be livid. She’s worked so hard to destroy him.’ He glanced at David, trying to gauge his reaction, but David pretended not to notice; he was determined not to lose his composure again. ‘And there’ll be a full supporting cast for dinner?’ Hitchcock asked, when he saw that David wasn’t going to rise to the bait.

‘Oh yes. Everyone’s here now.’

‘Excellent.’

‘At least, everyone
I
know about.’ Just because David was party to
most
of the director’s jokes, it didn’t rule out the possibility that there would be a little surprise or two planned for him over the weekend: Hitch was nothing if not egalitarian in his manipulation of people’s lives. The director raised an eyebrow and smiled, but gave nothing more away. ‘You haven’t said anything about what you intend to do afterwards,’ David said as they walked back across the grass towards the Watch House.

‘Sit back and watch, Mr Franks. Sit back and watch.’

‘But what do you hope to get out of all this? It’s a lot of trouble to go to for a gag.’

‘Call it an experiment in guilt and fear. Put simply, I want to know how people will behave when they think a man’s death might be their fault.’

It was always a mistake to second-guess Hitchcock’s motivations, but his reply genuinely surprised David. ‘Why would they think that?’ he asked.

‘Because by the time Mr Turnbull goes to bed, he’ll have been insulted, humiliated or threatened by everyone around that dinner table.’

‘You can’t rely on that, surely? Astrid Lake doesn’t seem the type to bully anyone. Spence wouldn’t think he was important enough to make the effort, and even Bella . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘I know she loathes him, but squabbling over a dinner table is a bit beneath her.’

‘Is it? We’ll see. And I’m touched by your faith in human restraint, but I’m afraid I don’t share it.’ He gave David a wry smile, and there was a flicker of challenge in his eyes as he sat back down under the shade of the loggia roof. ‘Perhaps we should have our own little bet? That drawing you admired last time you came to dinner in Cromwell Road – the Sickert that’s hanging in the hall.’ David nodded. Art was Hitchcock’s most expensive indulgence, and he had an enviable collection of paintings, drawings and sculpture – bought, as a rule, to celebrate the success of a particular film. ‘If anyone shows the sort of self-control you credit them with tonight, the picture’s yours.’ He held out his hand to shake on the wager. ‘Alma is exempt from the agreement, of course. A gentleman should never bet on his wife.’

‘It’s too easy, sir. All I have to do to win is keep my mouth shut.’

‘But you won’t.’

He spoke with a confidence that disarmed David. ‘What do you want from me if I lose?’ he asked cautiously.

‘Whatever you choose to give. That’s for you to decide.’

David accepted the gamble but felt strangely apprehensive as he stood to leave. ‘I’d better go and find Turnbull,’ he said, picking his keys up from the table. ‘Just to make sure he knows what he’s doing.’

‘Take this with you.’ Hitchcock collected a book from the bed and threw it over to him. It was a proof copy and there was no cover illustration to indicate what it might be about, but David glanced through the opening pages, intrigued by its unusual title. ‘A little holiday reading for you – it looks like this will be our next project if the Madame gets her own way.’ They exchanged a glance that suggested she usually did. ‘You’ll see it opens with a death. I’ve been thinking while I was sitting on the balcony‚ we could even do that scene here. The tide goes out so quickly once it starts. Imagine the water receding to reveal a body lying on the beach, a woman in a swimming costume, her white bathing cap picked out in the sun. There’s a belt next to her, curling snakelike in the sand as the last of the water drains away – and we know immediately that it’s been used to strangle her.’ David looked out across the estuary, and the image was as clear to him as if he were looking at a photograph. ‘Two girls come out of the hotel, dressed for an early-morning walk across to the island. It’s the perfect day – carefree, hopeful, innocent. Then they spot the body, seagulls circling overhead. They open their mouths to scream, but all we hear is the frenzied screeching of those birds.’