The English Boys (17 page)

“If only I could say what I really want,” Marc teased the girl, interrupting Hugh's thoughts.

“It's getting late,” Hugh said, tired of being in the line of fire.

“Just one more,” Marc said, turning back to his friend. “By the way, did I tell you I'm shooting in Amsterdam next summer? A mystery. I'm playing the priest who isn't so innocent after all.”

“No surprise there,” Hugh remarked. He turned his attention to the girl, who was still waiting. “Looks like we'll have another.”

“Haven't been to Amsterdam in a while, have you?” Marc asked as the girl turned to leave.

“It's been four or five years, I think.”

“I hear there's a lot to do, and I intend to try it all.”

Hugh set down his glass as the girl brought another and placed it in front of him. The whiskey looked like a beautiful amber pool, and he swirled it in the glass before lifting it to his lips and knocking back a swallow.

“That's it for me,” he said.

Marc followed his example and then turned toward him, looking serious. “Can I tell you something, mate?”

“Of course.”

“I admire you. I really do. It takes courage in this day and age to make a go of something, and if this girl gives you what you want, then I couldn't be happier for you.”

“Thank you,” Hugh said, surprised.

“I'm almost jealous,” Marc said, stealing a glance at the barmaid once again. “Almost. But not quite.”

He remembered those words now, lying in Hyde Park, wondering what he was supposed to do now. He needed a break from his career, the speculation in the press over Tamsyn's murder, and, not least, from his parents. Tired of thinking, he listened to the sounds around him. He could hear the muted noise of people talking in the distance, all words thankfully obscured by the breeze. Honks and screeches of traffic wafted around him, easy enough to block out when one had grown up in the middle of London. In fact, it was odd that he often slept better in the city than in the country, but then a great many things about life were odd, and when it came down to it, there was nothing he could do about any of them.

His mobile vibrated against his hip and he took it out to see that Daniel had texted him.

Carey and I are looking into things together.
How are you holding up?

Hugh squinted at the small screen and frowned. There was no good answer for that question, as far as he was concerned. No good answer at all.

Twenty-Three

“May I help you?”
a cheerful server asked, startling Daniel from his coma-like reverie in front of the array of choices before him
at
Patisserie
Valerie
. H
ow long he'd been standing there, he wasn't quite certain. He had ventured out of his flat, desperate to get away from the silence as well as the thoughts that beleaguered him, and since his cupboard was bare, he found himself inside the café. Outside, it drizzled, and rain dripped off his leather coat onto the polished floor.

“That one, I suppose,” he said, pointing.

“The almond croissant, or the brioche and butter?”

“The croissant.” He hesitated, watching as she opened the case to remove the pastry from the shelf. “No, sorry. The brioche, I think.”

She eyed him, the pleasant look draining from her face. Evidently she wasn't prepared to deal with dithering customers. “The organic porridge is also popular, if you're so inclined.”

“I'm sure it's quite good, thank you, but I'll take the brioche.”

“For takeaway?”

“Yes, with a coffee, please.”

She withstood the additional information without any further complaint, tucking the pastry into a bag and shouting out an order for the coffee. He turned toward the window, wishing it were a clear day, though he knew if it were he would find himself in the garden of St. Mary Abbots again thinking of Tamsyn. He wondered if he would have to move to a different part of the city to get through a single day without a backlash of grief and despair.

“Sir?” the girl asked, getting his attention again.

He looked up to see her holding the bag and cup out to him, clearly ready to move on to the next customer, who might not vacillate in front of the pastry counter like a fool. He reached for them and then found a table anyway. It was still raining far too steadily to venture outside. His table faced a window, and he pulled the chair close enough to touch the moisture on the inside of the glass. Rain puddled in the gutters outside and tires splashed pedestrians, who scurried to their various destinations. He watched as a couple pushing a pram with a freakish plastic cover went by; he tried to imagine zipping a child into what seemed an airless prison, cut off from all humanity by a torrent of rain. What errand was crucial enough to take a child out in such weather?

Removing the lid from the coffee, he took a swallow and then reached into his pocket for his list of suspects. He had made notations on every inch of the paper, none of which made much sense or had come to fruition, pathetic attempts to learn more about the anomalous friends and associates Tamsyn and Hugh had invited to the wedding. He scanned the list until he came to the couple whom Tamsyn had met when she was first dabbling in acting: Dylan Cole and Lucy Potter. They were a curious duo. Though he had only seen them once, they had made an impression on him. Cole was darkly clad and rail thin, with dyed black hair and eyeliner. He was effeminate and refined, his hair gelled to points, with painted nails on small, bony fingers. The Potter girl was as odd in her own way. The dress she had worn to the wedding was a vintage shop find, with matching shoes and handbag from the 1940s, and between gloved hands, she'd clutched a large handkerchief embroidered with orange geraniums. Tamsyn had mentioned them on one or two occasions, but he really hadn't paid attention. Now he wished he had.

Taking his mobile from his pocket, Daniel got on the Internet and Googled them. There were only brief mentions in the occasional improv show or low-rent theatre production, mostly avant-garde plays with an occasional Chekhov to pay the bills. Carey said she'd never met them, and the only thing more ridiculous than trying to talk to them himself would be to have her do it. He pulled the brioche from the bag and took a bite, brooding. Even with all his connections in theatre, he might not find someone who had worked with them. Daniel ran through a mental list of actors, script writers, set designers, anyone he could think of. As he took another swallow of his coffee, a name sprang to mind: Siobhan Brady.

She was one of few people he knew who worked both high-end and low-end productions. She was a costumer, coordinating vintage
and specially made clothing, shoes, and scarves. She arranged al
terations and scheduled fittings and repairs. She haunted vintage shops to find props and pieces to lend authenticity to whatever project she happened to be working on. Siobhan took a personal interest in each production. In fact, he had once heard it said that when stocking a bookshelf during stage productions, she only chose books that she had personally read. No one had her eye for detail.

It took three calls to get her number, and he was relieved when at last he heard her voice.

“Siobhan, this is Daniel Richardson. We worked together on
The Importance of Being Earnest
two years ago.”

“Daniel! What a surprise,” she said. “What have you been up to? Or should I say ‘whom'?”

There was a hint of mischief in her tone. She knew his habit, even from their relatively brief association, of dating girls from the set. Although she was at least fifteen years his elder, she was an attractive woman, with chestnut-brown hair and dark glasses usually found pushed halfway down her nose. She had a bookish quality that he found appealing. If she had been a little younger, he might have dated her too.

“Nothing but trouble,” he said. “Listen, I wonder if you know a couple of people. I'm trying to reach Dylan Cole and Lucy Potter. Have you heard of them?”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. “Not quite your style, I must say.”

“It's personal, not professional. They're friends of a friend.”

“They're working in a small company called The Players Club. Last I heard, they were doing a wretched hash of
Swan Lake
, without the ballet.”

Daniel tried without success to imagine it. “Any idea which theatre?”

“The Byzantine, I think. They move around from place to place.”

“So you've worked with them before?”

“A couple of times. They were all right. I never had any problems with them.”

He took a deep breath. “Did you know Tamsyn Burke?”

“Not personally,” she answered, “though I've seen her before.”

“Did she have any connection to The Players Club?”

“Not that I know of. She visited Dylan and Lucy a few times when we last worked together, but that's all I know.”

“Well, thanks for the information. How are you? What are you working on now?”

He listened as she told him about her current project, a play written by one of the hottest new writers in London.

“Impressive,” he said when she was finished.

He ended the call with the promise to take her out for a drink sometime, which they both knew would never happen. Outside, the rain had stopped as abruptly as it had begun. He threw his cup in the bin and stepped out of the café, raising his hand for a cab. He was lucky, for perhaps the first time in this entire business. The nearest cab spotted him and pulled up to the curb.

“Hammersmith,” he said to the driver. “The Byzantine Theatre.”

As the vehicle lurched into the morning traffic, he pulled out his mobile and looked up the theatre, then leaned back in his seat and sighed. It was odd, the startling differences between the friends of Hugh and Tamsyn. They barely even came from the same world. Was it true that opposites attracted—the dominant and the submissive, the weak and the strong? In general, he doubted it. He liked to be around people more like himself, who shared his basic values and beliefs, and though Tamsyn had been different, something about her had been familiar, as if they had been friends for years.

The taxi pulled up in front of the theatre. Handing the cabman a note, he went inside, where he found it as dreary on the inside as it was from the street. It had a musty, humid smell. A hundred years old or more, it was everything he hated about old theatres: flat, faded velvet chairs, torn curtains, creaky furnishings that hadn't seen the light of day in decades, seats too small for luxury-seeking twenty-first-century human beings. It was poorly lit, with fading wallpaper peeling back at the corners of the wall. Everything about the place was depressing, but in an effort to be fair, he tried to see it through fresh eyes. It certainly had the space for them to vent their creativity upon the—albeit minor—masses. The stage was large and made of good solid oak, and though it could use a good polishing, it provided ample room for set design and staging. He wandered down an aisle in the empty chamber and opened a door leading into the back rooms. There, each space was small and cluttered in comparison. A few people were working on various projects: a seamstress stitching a threadbare gown; a girl, dressed in tight jeans and a hoodie, emptying bins while listening to her iPod; a young couple in the corner talking in low tones, obviously having a personal discussion rather than a professional one. He opted to speak to the woman who was sewing and walked up to her.

“Is Dylan Cole here?” he asked.

Her eyes widened in recognition. “He's through there,” she said, nodding in the direction of a closed door to the right. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“No thank you,” he said, avoiding her eyes and wondering what she might have meant. He knocked on the door and stepped inside.

“Good god! If it isn't Daniel Richardson!” Cole said, putting down a pen. He appeared to be writing some kind of letter, which he covered with a script. “What are you doing here?”

“I'm not sure I know,” Daniel admitted. He was rather relieved to find him alone.

Cole hesitated, but then lifted a stack of manuscripts from a battered old stage chair.

“Sit down. Do you have any news about what happened yet?”

“Unfortunately, no. It's maddening. Listen, I know it's rude, but may I ask you a couple of questions?”

“What, you're an amateur detective now?”

Daniel shrugged. “I've been making inquiries, trying to establish some sort of context. Were you in regular contact with Tamsyn before the wedding?”

“Define ‘regular,'” Cole said bitterly. “We were inseparable before she met Ashley-Hunt, but she didn't entirely break contact with us afterward. She and Lucy were close. They emailed a lot when she was making the film. And she called to let us know about the wedding.”

“How did you feel about it?”

“How did anyone feel about it? They were a mismatched pair if I ever saw one. I only hoped the blighter loved her and wouldn't break her heart.”

Daniel felt a tightening in his chest. If he was honest, he had to admit he had felt exactly the same way. “How is Lucy holding up?”

“She's miserable. Luce isn't usually a crier, but this has really torn her up. She told me she feels that if she'd talked Tamsyn out of it, she'd be alive today. How is Ashley-Hunt?”

“Same as any man who lost his bride right before the wedding. Shattered, of course. Where did you usually meet Tamsyn?”

“She came here, sometimes. Once in a while, she'd turn up at the flat.”

“Did she talk about anything in particular, that you recall?”

Cole frowned. “It wasn't what she said, exactly. It was what she didn't say.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, she never talked about her life, if you know what I mean. She didn't wax on about Ashley-Hunt, or talk about the film she had made, or mention any of her new friends. When she was around, it was all old times, as if the present didn't even exist.”

“For example … ?”

“You know, she and Luce talked about vintage clothes, jumble sales, ordinary stuff. It's not like we didn't know she had money now, but she didn't mention it. She preferred her old life, I'm sure of it. Otherwise she wouldn't be so keen to write off the new one. I've seen plenty of people who've made it, and they can't wait to tell you all about it. Not Tamsyn, though. I don't think she was happy with her new life.”

Just then, the iPod girl stuck her head in the doorway. “Dylan, Roger needs to talk to you. Something about the set.”

“I'll be there in a minute.”

“I think he broke something.”

He hesitated for a minute, frowning. “I'll be right back.” He stood and pulled the letter he'd been writing from under the script, folded it, and put it in his pocket.

The moment he was out of the door, Daniel walked over to the desk. He pulled out the drawer and ran his hands over the contents. Bills, mostly, and notices of other plays, both past and present. He opened one of the lower drawers of the desk and then froze when he saw the photo on top. His heart gave a lurch. Tamsyn's smiling face stared up at him from the top of a stack of papers. He lifted the photo to get a closer look. She was younger, by at least four or five years. It was a publicity portrait, probably taken for some play. She looked uncomplicated and happy, just as she had been until some bastard had taken her life.

He set the photo on the desk and looked with surprise at the clippings beneath it, which had been cut from various newspapers. Most of them he had never seen before, apart from the more recent ones. One, whose headline read
Actress to Star in Hodges's Film
, jumped out at him. By the look of the stack in front of him, Cole had followed every mention of Tamsyn Burke since Daniel had known her. What was he doing with these clippings? Was he obsessed with Tamsyn? Angry that she had dropped the two of them when she'd made it into a feature film? He could only imagine the jealousy that they must have felt to see her get everything she wanted without any trouble at all.

He heard footsteps in the hall and stuffed everything back into the drawer just before Cole walked in. The clippings were odd, but without
anything else to go on, they didn't explicitly implicate Cole in her murder.