Showstopper, page 19
Greg’s car was one of the last on the drive. The de-rig was done and nearly everyone had left. Before starting up, he called his partner, Natalie, hoping her hands would be dry enough to pick up her phone.
He waited for her soft, “Yes?”
“Still at Trowbridge, I’m afraid, but just about to leave. I’ll pick up fish and chips on the way home. I hope your day was better than mine.”
“I got through as much as I wanted,” she told him.
“Nice work, love. You must have enough for a firing.”
“Not until next week. Today’s little fellows have to dry properly. How long will you be?”
“Depends if there’s a queue in the chippie. Fifty minutes max.” The pottery was a converted farmhouse on the slopes west of Bath. “Put the oven on in half an hour, would you? The fish and chips will need warming up.”
If he’d been home earlier, he would have cooked. This was their main meal of the day. He never ate much at lunchtime.
HE’D FIRST MET Natalie before he’d started his career in TV, when he was struggling to find regular work of any kind in Bristol. He’d put a man-with-van card in a newsagent’s window. The van part wasn’t true at the time. His plan was to hire one if anyone came up with a worthwhile offer. Natalie had seen it and phoned him. She already had her ceramics business and was making it pay, with a wholesale contract supplying souvenir mugs, microwave-safe and with a durable glaze that didn’t fade, to various outlets in the area. Her last driver wasn’t reliable and she would pay well for someone who would make several trips a week.
Her location was really remote, up a lane hardly anyone else used. She joked that if he could find the place, he would get the job, so he splashed out, hired a van with a sat nav and drove straight there.
That morning in the pottery she’d made him coffee in one of her Royal Crescent mugs and shown him the address list of her clients. He’d agreed to start right away. Even in her work apron splashed with clay, hair tied up and covered with a scarf, she was enchanting, small, pretty and vivacious. It wasn’t love at first sight, but there was a physical attraction from the beginning—on both sides. He saw the spark of interest in her eyes and was happy to encourage it. She was fully fit when they met, divorced and living alone, working long hours. The first signs of her MS didn’t appear until two years after.
She had her own website that brought in steady sales of the work she really enjoyed, making much larger pieces. He’d spotted a sensational blue vase out in the yard that she’d rejected because of some flaw in the glaze and he knew straight away he must have it for his flat. She’d let him take it for nothing.
They both appreciated the arts and had good conversations about creative people they admired. In addition to the mugs, he’d started delivering what Natalie called her “specials” to some high achievers in big houses in Bath and Bristol who were paying hundreds for them. One was Saltus Steven, the TV executive. It was Saltus who later invited Greg to work at Bottle Yard studios.
THE CHIPPIE WAS not far off, in Church Walk, and regularly won the “Best in Wiltshire” competition. The Codfather, a name that made people smile, groan, or do both, had been found by the riggers before the first day of shooting and quickly become popular with others in the Swift crowd. Tonight Greg wouldn’t have been surprised to find one or two already in there. As it happened, three people he didn’t know were ahead of him. His turn didn’t take long. “Two plaice in batter, please, and one portion of chips. No salt or vinegar.” They always added their own at home.
Everyone chatted while the frying was going on. The locals already knew about the filming at Milroy Court. They didn’t say so, but they were clearly disappointed he wasn’t a familiar face. If you’re looking for appreciation, it’s better to be an actor than the producer.
He was on the road again in ten minutes. There was no fast road if you wanted to avoid the centre of Bath. He had a route along unlit roads and lanes that kept well south, by way of Wellow and Combe Hay. The worst of the evening traffic was over.
HIS RELATIONSHIP WITH Natalie had soon become more than a business one. After two weeks, she had invited him for an evening meal and he’d stayed over. The sex was the best he’d experienced. Next day she’d suggested he move into one of the empty rooms in the farmhouse. He didn’t hesitate. He was still struggling financially and she didn’t ask him to pay rent, and of course there was a saving in petrol. Even better, she continued paying him for delivering the pots. He drove back to Bristol, told his landlord he was leaving, stacked his few worldly possessions into the van, including his lucky blue vase, and made the move.
When Saltus offered him the chance of being a runner at Bottle Yard, he couldn’t turn it down. At the beginning, he had tried doing both jobs, making Natalie’s deliveries on his day off, but she soon saw it was too much for him, so she suggested hiring a new driver. Greg stayed on as Natalie’s live-in lover and that was no hardship. She was amused when he’d started using the “luvvie” talk of the showbiz crowd. He’d always been responsive to language, quickly picking up accents and new phrases. So Natalie got used to being called “love of my life” and “sweetheart” even though they both knew it wasn’t quite true. What they had was a friendly relationship with good sex that pleased them both.
Greg worked hard at the TV job and got promoted to assistant producer after Candida left. So his spectacular rise continued.
It was during this purple patch that Natalie had experienced her first symptoms of the multiple sclerosis: blurred vision, dizziness and numbness down one side of her body. She thought it was some flu virus. Nothing like it occurred again for several months. The onset was slow and there were long periods when she felt normal. She didn’t go for tests until nearly a year later, after being unable to move from bed one day. She was devastated when told that the illness was progressive and not curable even though it could be treated. She most feared losing the sensation in her hands and being unable to work as a potter.
Greg helped her through the shock and was a strong support. For a time, there were no lasting symptoms except that her sex drive became less active, which was understandable. She lost some of her confidence, knowing the control of her body could be taken away from her at any time. There is no certainty, no way of knowing how long you have got. Her hands and arms were spared, but in one terrible week she lost the use of both legs. This time it was permanent.
Greg became her caretaker and morale booster. He found her a wheelchair-accessible potter’s wheel and she managed to continue with the contract jobs, but it was just about impossible to work on the large pieces that were her joy. He researched chairs and found one she could raise a metre higher by the touch of a button, enabling her to get the height she needed. He shopped, cooked, cleaned, helped her to dress and shower and did the heavy work in the pottery, loading and emptying the kiln. Between them, they kept the business going. “You rescued me from dire straits at the beginning, my love,” he told her, “and now I can give something back.”
SOMEWHERE BEYOND THE small village of Combe Hay, deep in a valley, the road became a lane and the lane became little more than a farm track before reverting to tarmac again and continuing west. This was where visitors in search of the pottery had their confidence tested. There was no signposting and precious few landmarks. Greg knew it well, and even he had to concentrate hard on a moonless night. He was using his Range Rover. A four-wheel drive was essential for anyone living in an area where you sometimes got snowed in.
He was little more than a mile from home when he spotted a light ahead, white, like a flashlight, moving as if it was being swung as some kind of signal. He slowed and flicked off his main beam so as not to dazzle the person holding it. Closer still, he could make out a figure wearing a yellow reflective jacket, pointing with the left arm and beckoning to him to turn right with the other. If you’re a driver and someone in high-visibility gear is diverting traffic, you don’t argue.
A gap in the hedgerow was now revealed, an open gate.
Greg put the headlights back on to make the turn off the lane, up a slight hump and into a field, which was grassed.
He swung the Range Rover through a tight circle and halted facing the lane for an easy exit, leaving enough room for another vehicle to drive in, even though it was highly unlikely anyone else would come that way.
He turned off his headlights and waited with only the sidelights still on. Parked there with the engine running, he could smell the fish and chips in their paper wrapper on the passenger seat. All he could see through the windscreen was the open gateway and the hedge on the opposite side.
He partly unwrapped the packet and took out a chip.
When it became obvious no one had followed him into the field to tell him what was happening, he opened the door and stepped out.
He hadn’t taken more than two steps when he sensed a movement nearby. The car’s sidelights picked up a fast-moving shape. Something or somebody charged at him out of the darkness. Greg barely had time to register he was under attack. Instinctively he turned, swayed backwards and in that split second saw the glint of a knife blade. His back thumped against the Range Rover. Trapped on the bonnet of his own car, he could do nothing to defend himself.
19
DIAMOND WAITED UNTIL ten next morning before phoning Earnshaw, the dive supervisor. The exchange was more civil than the morning before even if the basic message hadn’t changed.
“I didn’t come by last evening. Thought you’d be in touch if you found anything useful.”
“Good decision, sir. Don’t want to waste your time. I’ve hired a skip for all the scrap we fished out. We’ll charge that to your budget. That’s the way it works.”
No point in arguing. The reckoning would come later when Georgina found out the cost.
“You haven’t finished?”
“God, no.”
“How much of the marina have you searched?”
“Nearly all the clear water. We’ll start looking between the moored boats before the end of today—that is, if the boat owners don’t object.”
“You don’t need their permission, do you?”
“Their cooperation would be nice.”
“Are they giving you abuse?”
“I wouldn’t call it that. By now they all know what we’re looking for and some of them aren’t comfortable with it. What’s more, they don’t like press photographers crawling over their homes to get good shots. Have you seen the Bristol Post this morning?”
“I can guess,” Diamond said. “I have better things to do.”
“We’re expecting gawpers today.”
“Can’t you keep them at a distance?”
“We’ll put tapes across and then the residents will complain about a loss of freedom. Can’t win. It’s okay. We’re used to this.”
“I was thinking you’re nicely placed to observe what goes on among the people who live on the boats. You know the couple I’m interested in?”
“Deck the Halls? Woman with the young kid? You were talking to her when you were here.”
“Right. The man has the day job. Uses a motorbike.”
“I saw him when we arrived this morning. He visited Daisy Belle before he left for work.”
“Who’s she?” Diamond asked.
There was a tone of disrespect in Earnshaw’s answer. “It’s a boat. The narrowboat moored next to them. I got the impression it was locked and not in use. He had a key and let himself in like he owns it.”
“Perhaps he does. Like a second home, extra storage or something.”
“But the wife doesn’t go in. She’s here all day and she doesn’t set foot on board. It’s only him. Do you think he’s got another woman installed there?”
Diamond laughed. “Too close to home, I reckon.” But he wrote Daisy Belle on the notepad on his desk, with a question mark beside it. “Mustn’t hold you up. I hope you search under the jetty.”
“I’m standing on it now.”
“I’d be happier if you were underneath.”
“I’m directing operations.”
Hope sprang briefly in Diamond’s breast. “So the diver is underneath?”
“Out in the middle. The final strip of open water. What is it with the jetty?”
“It’s the place I would stow a corpse if I had one to dispose of—out of sight in case it rises to the surface.”
“We’ll see if you’re right, but don’t hold your breath. It may not be today.”
Diving for bodies in cold, muddy water doesn’t bring out the best in people, Diamond decided.
After ending the call, he took out his phone and found the Bristol Post website and the headline POLICE DIVERS SEARCH MARINA. Below was a picture of a black-clad figure jumping into the water in full gear with snorkel cylinders strapped to his back.
He closed the page without reading the main text. He knew what it would say and the publicity would do no harm. The public would be reassured that the police were doing something, or seen to be. He might need to convince Georgina of that.
His self-confidence, usually so robust, was being tested by this case. If nothing was recovered from the marina, his suspicion of Fergus and Candida would have to be reassessed. He might even ask himself whether he’d got it hopelessly wrong and there were no bodies anywhere.
He hadn’t slept well. His brain had been struggling to process all the information he and the team had gathered. Worryingly, he couldn’t remember a piece of conversation he’d believed at the time was significant, or might be.
Bad sleep, memory lapses, loss of confidence. Could Georgina be right about wanting to pension him off?
Perish the thought.
He stepped into the incident room and found Ingeborg working her keyboard. “Your memory is better than mine, Inge. Cast your mind back to when we interviewed Sabine. There was a lot to take in and she was more talkative than you or I expected, right?”
“Quite the charmer.”
“I hear the same note in your voice as when you reminded me she’s an actor. Her charm passed you by. Enough of that. I’ve been trying to recall something you said when we were with her.”
“You did most of the talking, guv.”
“Right, but you chipped in when you felt I was in danger of missing a point, as you do.”
“We were on a steep learning curve,” Ingeborg said. “There was a lot to take in.”
“Plenty. Isn’t it annoying when you’re trying to hook things out from the back of your brain and can’t? Your comment on something Sabine said made an impression on me—not enough of one, it seems.”
“Something I said?”
“And I didn’t follow it up at the time. I told myself you and I could discuss it later.”
“Can you give me a rough idea what it was about?”
“I have a feeling it was when we spoke about the jinx incidents with her.”
“Let’s go through them, then,” she said, spreading her hand to count them off on her fingers. “Trixie pulling out?”
“Not that.”
“The fire in the sound engineers’ van? The injury to the stuntmen?”
“Keep going.”
“Dave Tudor going missing? Mary Wroxeter’s death?”
“Not that.” Does she think I’m losing it? he asked himself.
“Dan Burbage?”
“No.”
“Daisy Summerfield?”
His hand went up. “Something about the old lady. You took over the questioning when Sabine mentioned her. What was it you said?”
“That the way she died was mostly speculation? The break-in was only discovered after she was found dead.”
“Something else. A remark you made.”
“That it was odd the burglar chose that evening to break in?”
“Yes!” A surge of relief. “I can almost hear your exact words: ‘How did the burglar know Daisy was supposed to be away filming?’”
“I said that?”
“I’m sure of it.”
“Maybe I was reading too much into it,” Ingeborg said, without fully appreciating the significance. “I suggested the burglar had seen the call sheet. But there was this last-minute change he couldn’t have known about. She came home early after they filmed her scene as an add-on at the end of the day.”
He felt like hugging her. “This is what I’ve been struggling to remember and it has to be followed up.” His brain was in overdrive now. “We’ll call the Met and get the latest on their investigation.”
“‘We,’ meaning me?” she said.
“No. I need your brainwork for this, not your research skills. It’s a job for Jean Sharp.”
He crossed the room. Jean saw him coming and turned as pale as the whiteboard behind her.
“Relax,” he said. “I’m not asking you to drive me anywhere. I have an in-house task for you. Daisy Summerfield, the old dear who played Swift’s mother in the show. Cardiac arrest believed to have been triggered by finding a burglar in her bedroom. We haven’t examined the full facts.”
She was frowning. “It’s not our case, guv.”
“Right. I need an update from Richmond CID. The name of the investigating officer would be a start. Case notes, postmortem report, anything the coroner is willing to let us have. Maybe no more can be said about a sad occurrence, but it’s part of our brief and we should have looked at it before now.”
Confident she’d deliver what he’d asked for, he returned to Ingeborg. “It’s too much to hope they already arrested the burglar.”
“The Met clear-up rate for residential burglary is about five per cent, guv, and that’s better than ours.”
Crime statistics were a sore point for Diamond. He was always being reminded by Georgina that Bath lagged behind everyone else. “But they’re investigating and they may even have their suspicions who it was. Burglars have their MO, whether they favour smashing windows or ringing the doorbell and conning their way in.”
