Doggerland (Sam Applewhite Book 2)

by Heide Goody

  Saturday was the day of the escaped animal drill. Sam was up early for there was a lot to do. Any kind of large scale drill would require considerable effort and manpower, but making the patently ridiculous seem credible was doubly hard.

  Marvin came into the kitchen of Duncastin’ as she cooked up a batch of pancakes. “Smells good,” he said.

  “A nice treat to set us up. We both have a busy day today.”

  He nodded. There was a glint of glee in his eyes.

  “Nervous?” she said.

  About what?” he said. “I’m quite excited to be treading the boards again, I must say.”

  “It’ll be more like treading the community lounge, but at least the lighting should be flattering,” said Sam.

  “True. A small intimate gig. I’m going to throw in some of my old time stories.”

  “Like the night you stole Jimmy Cricket’s wellies? Or that one where you had to hitchhike up the A1 with, er, Lena Zavaroni?”

  “Bonnie Langford. Yes, that kind of thing.”

  “Showbiz stories from a real showbiz legend? They’ll love it.”

  She put the latest pancake on the pile she was creating, only then noticing the suit and gold bow tie her dad was wearing. “Good choice. You look suitably glamorous, but not too shiny.”

  “Mr Marvellous – not too shiny. They should put that on the posters.”

  “Just right for an intimate gig.” Sam looked at the various boxes of props that had taken up temporary residence in the kitchen. “Which of these boxes needs to go in?”

  “All of them,” said Marvin.

  Sam stared in dismay. She was certain, in Marvin’s mind’s eye, her van was the same size as a normal one. In truth, the Piaggio Ape 50 had about the same capacity as the teak sideboard her dad insisted was a cocktail bar (maybe it was, but Sam had never seen a cocktail anywhere near it).

  “Can we maybe get the things you need into one or two boxes?” she asked.

  “I suppose we could leave the saw the lady in half box.”

  “Yeah.” She nodded slowly. “Let’s leave geriatric dismemberment for another day, eh? But bring the levitation table.”

  In the end they got everything Marvin needed into the van, but Sam had a real fear the tiny engine would fail to move the weight. She inched down the drive and they crawled to Otterside at a little over ten miles an hour.

  Chesney the manager came out to meet them. He was wearing a shiny lilac shirt that was more flouncy blouse than shirt, and more fire hazard than anything else.

  “Spotted your sweet ride from inside. Taking it nice and steady I see!” he said. “Can I help you with your props, Mr Marvellous?”

  “That would be helpful,” said Marvin. “And it’s Marvin, please.”

  Chesney giggled and blushed like a lovestruck teen. “Oh, I couldn’t. Can I? Can I? And you’re fine for me to open for you, Marvin?”

  “Open…?” said Marvin.

  “Just a couple of numbers. Get them warmed up.”

  “Er…”

  “Two maximum,” said Sam. “As his stand-in manager, that’s a direct order. And you did get his list of riders, didn’t you?”

  “Riders?”

  Sam caught her dad’s suspicious look, but she kept a straight face. “Mr Marvellous insists on five hot chocolates prepared for him in advance of every performance. He will only drink one. The rest must be disposed of securely. And he needs a private dressing room. With a bouquet of lilies on his dressing table.”

  Marvin frowned. “Aren’t they a sign of death?” he whispered.

  “As a reminder not to die on stage,” said Sam, making it up on the spot.

  “Of course,” said Chesney.

  “And a bottle of scotch,” said Marvin, joining in with the silliness.

  “I don’t think Mr Marvellous has scotch as a contract rider,” said Sam.

  “Oh, he does,” said Marvin, deadpan.

  “Anything. Anything. Of course,” said Chesney.

  “And you’re not to sing any songs with the letter ‘a’ in the title,” said Sam, because the more Chesney agreed to the demands, the more she wanted to make up.

  Chesney’s brow creased.

  “Well known stage tradition,” she said.

  “Oh. Oh, is it? I knew that. Of course, I knew that.”

  Marvin squeezed her hand. “I think this young man is going to look after me perfectly well,” he said.

  Chesney gestured to the corner of the building. “Your actors have arrived. They’re over by the rose garden. Dunno if they’re doing tai chi or something.”

  Sam walked over. The group was a large one, at least thirty people. Sam recognised Sergeant Cesar Hackett (out of uniform) among them. Like the rest, he was dressed in loose gym wear. All of them were facing Cat from the café, who was bellowing instructions at them.

  “Right, it’s the Ice Age, so I don’t want to hear anybody else suggest that we get a nice cup of tea, is that clear? I want you to feel that glacier under your feet! You are animals. This is your world, your truth. Remember that half hour we did on Meisner technique. I want you to look up and see the snow falling from the pewter sky! Can you see it?”

  A hand went up. It was a young woman with auburn ringlets. “If we’re animals who lived in the Ice Age, we’re not actually going to feel cold are we? We’ve got thick coats and we’re adapted to—”

  “Thank you for your thoughts Rhianna, but were you there?”

  “Was I where…?”

  “In the Ice Age!”

  “No, but science suggests—”

  “There is no place for science when we’re easing our way into a role!” Cat snipped. Sam was some distance away, and she was a bit too loud even for her. “Feeling is everything. We immerse ourselves in the world of our subject. Go totally Stanislavski on this, okay?”

  “Yes, but science can—”

  Sam strode forward to insert herself before Cat could respond to the unwanted insubordination of her troupe.

  “Ah, Sam. Good to see you. The Skegness Operatic and Dramatic Society are delighted to be here. Aren’t we everybody?” There was a vague mumble of assent. “We were just warming up our acting chops.”

  “There are some things we need to go through,” said Sam. “The residents have kindly given us the use of their summer house. There are chairs and tea-making facilities in there.” She indicated where that was, and there was a surge towards the building. Cat frowned slightly. Sam wondered if she was peeved at how quickly her troupe had forgotten the icy glacier under their feet.

  “I’ve got to mark some things out,” Sam said, jiggling the heavy rucksack on her back. “Then I’ll come give some instructions.”

  “Acting suggestions,” said Cat.

  “The rules of the activity.”

  Cat gave her a haughty look. “Any production can only have one director.”

  She smiled. “You’re the director?”

  Cat inclined her head regally.

  “Which makes me the producer,” said Sam. “And, er, the producer is the one who writes all the cheques, yes?”

  There was a minute change in Cat’s expression. Not so much a direct acknowledgement that Sam was in charge, but a concession she might have some very minor but conceivably important role to play in proceedings.

  “I must make sure our caribou does not have too many cups of tea,” said Cat. “Otherwise, he’ll be excusing himself every five minutes to go to the loo. Played havoc in our production of Sweeney Todd having a bloody corpse get up, apologise to the audience, and go off to go have a tinkle.” She ran to summer house. “Cesar! One cup only! Half a cup!”

  * * *

  Polly stood in the north lounge and read the poster the woman, Sam, had stuck on the door.

  * * *

  Do not leave the building by this exit. Practice drill taking place.

  Do not be alarmed. The animals are not real.

  In the event of a real emergency, please go around to the fron
t of the building.

  * * *

  “What animals aren’t real?” she mused, looking around for animals, real or otherwise.

  Sam had placed similar posters on all doors and fire exits along the rear of the building, and was now working along the lawns with metal stakes and lengths of twine.

  “Is she constructing a maze?” asked Jacob.

  “Or possibly having a mental breakdown,” said Polly. “Hard to tell.”

  “My uncle Jack made a replica of the Blackpool Tower out of bulldog clips when he was having a nervous breakdown.”

  Polly nodded, conceding the point.

  There was a squeal of electronic feedback. “Right everyone,” said Chesney on the mic. “Do you want to gather round?”

  The chairs in the north lounge had all been rearranged into a circle, focusing on a central spot where Chesney had set up a microphone and PA.

  “He’s not going to bladdy sing to us, is he?” said Strawb.

  “Is he bad?” said Polly.

  Strawb nodded. “I got us front row seats.”

  “Come on, come on,” said Chesney to the more reluctant residents. “Find a spot.”

  “I was looking for the animals,” said Jacob, tapping the window.

  Chesney squinted. “What animals?”

  Jacob shrugged. “They’re not real.”

  There was a distant buzz. A white helicopter started to descend behind the trees separating the Otterside lawns from the beach beyond.

  “And there’s a helicopter too,” said Jacob.

  Chesney railed at the implication that a helicopter and non-real animals could possibly compete with his singing skills.

  “Here’s one you’ll all like,” he said, tapping the phone plugged into the PA. “Looking Through the Eyes of Love.” He said it in a peculiar measured way, as though checking each word as it came out of his mouth.

  Polly sat down next to Strawb as the intro music began. She put her hand on the armrest and her fingers brushed up against Strawb’s. She didn’t pull away politely as she might normally have done.

  “In the eyes of the world I’m a loser…” Chesney crooned.

  Strawb lifted his hand and gently took Polly’s hand in his. He leaned in. “Awful, isn’t it?” he whispered.

  46

  Rich and his impeccably attired butler, Peninsula, entered the grounds of Otterside retirement village from where their helicopter had landed on the beach. Peninsula carried an old-fashioned picnic hamper. Sam finished spooling out the cord and markers delineating the enclosures and walls of their imaginary Ice Age zoo.

  Rich clapped his hands. “This all looks very clever. Don’t understand a bit of it, mind.”

  She thrust a folded map against his chest and kept on with the job in hand. She wouldn’t normally treat a client with such rudeness, but Rich was her ex and warranted special treatment.

  He wore an expensive suit jacket over a loose cotton shirt that didn’t have enough buttons. He might be slumming it in mid-winter Skeggy, but he was dressed like he was lunching in sunny St Tropez. He didn’t seem to notice the cold. He unfolded the map.

  “This is Chester Zoo,” he said. “Why is this Chester Zoo?”

  “I’m using it as a stand-in plan for your theme park, since you don’t have one yet and— Does your Ice Age theme park even have a name yet?”

  “I’m tossing up between Doggerland and Ice Land,” said Rich.

  “There is already an Iceland, if you recall, sir,” said Peninsula.

  “Right. The shop.”

  “And the country.”

  “Yeah, that too. We’re working on it.”

  “Today’s layout is all scaled down,” Sam explained. “Miniature versions of the real thing. Eurasian cave lion enclosure there. Irish elk paddock there. Giant cow things here.”

  “Madam means the aurochs,” said Peninsula.

  Sam resisted the obvious comeback. “That’s what I said. Giant cow things.”

  “With the massive steak house next door,” Rich grinned.

  Sam waved at the map and gestured across the lawns. “Hot dog stands. Ice creams. Toilets.”

  “This looks very good,” said Rich. “I’m impressed.”

  “We’re recording everything with DefCon4 bodycams and I’ll be monitoring, so—” she carefully took the map from him and took a step back, smiling genially “—why are you here?”

  “Oh, just observers,” said Rich, grinning. “Aren’t we?”

  Peninsula opened the picnic hamper and produced a pair of binoculars. “Observers, madam.”

  “With a delightful selection of goodies from Cartwright and Butlers to enjoy while we watch,” said Rich. “Their onion chutney is to die for.”

  A picnic in the middle of December… There was a fine line between madness and eccentricity and apparently the only difference was wealth.

  Sam pointed out a distant damp bench to her eccentric ex. “Sit there. Eat chutney. Do not get in the way.”

  There was a text on her phone. Delia had arrived. Sam went up to the main building and round to the car park.

  Delia was lifting plastic-wrapped animal costumes out of the car, struggling with some of the papier-mâché heads. Sam had agreed the heads could form a useful part of the scenery, while the more practical ski masks would be on the moving animal actors. Hilde Odinson was helping Delia, and a tall figure with a shock of black hair had also been roped in, apparently.

  “DC Camara,” said Sam. “I did not expect to see you here.”

  “He’s helping,” Delia grunted. “Leave him alone.”

  The gangly detective gestured helplessly. “When you told me you were holding an emergency escaped mammoth drill, I just had to come down to see.”

  “Professional curiosity?”

  “Cruel fascination. I gather one of my colleagues is among the actors.” He regarded the wolf head he was holding. “Wonderful craftsmanship … Delia, isn’t it? I was only admiring your coffee pot cosies the other day.”

  “Ideal Christmas present,” said Delia. “I’m sure Mrs Camara would love one.”

  “My mum, you mean. Maybe she would.”

  Sam gathered up as much as she could, which amounted to two bucket-like animal heads with costumes stuffed inside. “The actors are in the summer house. Round here.”

  Delia scurried to catch up with Sam. “See how I did that?”

  “Did what?” said Hilde close behind.

  Delia jigged her head. “The detective isn’t married. He’s single. Sam’s single.”

  Sam was blindsided by the suddenly new conversation. “Who are you? The village matchmaker?” She looked back. “I’d get a crick in my neck trying to kiss him. And, God, think of the children.”

  “The ability to reach high shelves is an underrated attribute,” said Delia. “Trust me.”

  Sam laughed her comment away, but knew the thought had been lodged in her head now.

  In the summer house, actorly types milled and drank tea. Breath misted in the cold air. Condensation clung to the windows. Sam put her costumes down on a lounger that had been put in there for storage.

  “So,” she said loudly, trying to draw everyone’s attention, “I have blu-tacked some posters around the room. They give the basic rules for the roles you will have today.”

  “Acting guidance,” said Cat, equally loudly, positioning herself next to Sam within the zone of authority.

  “Rules,” said Sam. “Different rules for every role. There will be costumes for some—”

  “Courtesy of Back to Life,” added Delia, equally loudly. “Quality creations for every occasion.”

  “Thank you, yes – and everyone will be equipped with one of these body cams.” Sam opened a plastic briefcase. Inside thirty of the devices nestled in foam compartments. “So, can we spend a few minutes assigning roles to each of you please?”

  “I’ll do that,” said Cat. “I know my people and have assigned roles already.”

  “Well, the st
arring roles, if we’re going to call them that, are the five animals,” said Sam. The mammoth, the sabre-toothed tiger, the bison, the wolf and the caribou. Then we will need ten zookeepers. Everybody else will be members of the public.”

  “Right! Step up!” said Cat. She pointed at various people in the group. “Bison, caribou, mammoth, wolf, sabre-toothed tiger.”

  Sam wondered what had informed Cat’s choices. A large dose of type-casting might have been involved. The bison and the mammoth were both big hairy men. The wolf was a grey-haired woman with a permanent scowl. The caribou was Sergeant Cesar, a suitably doughy and doe-eyed man. While the sabre-toothed tiger was the young woman who had argued for a scientific approach earlier. Cat strode through the group appointing zookeepers, then told everyone else they were members of the public.

  “You will all need to carefully study and follow the rules,” said Sam. “There is also an indicative timeline that tells you when tranquiliser guns will become available, and other key details. Cat here will issue the guns from the stores located within this room.”

  Cat realised she was effectively being removed from the action. “How can I offer feedback on the actors’ performance if I’m based in here?” she asked.

  “You will get to view the collated footage,” Sam said. “Consider this to be part of your professional showreel.”

  Cat nodded, although she still looked slightly peeved. Sam really didn’t want her holding up the exercise while she admonished the actors for some perceived shortcoming.

  “One last thing,” Sam shouted, as everyone milled around reading the posters, “I will arrive on scene and represent the local law enforcement agencies. If I issue an instruction, I expect it to be followed. Understood?”

  There was a murmur of assent. Sam looked to DC Camara, half-expecting him to step in with a ‘I’m a real copper so do what she says’ but he just nodded happily as though accepting her instructions.

  The actors familiarised themselves with the rules, and discussed the exercise in their groups. Delia moved around the actors who were playing the animals, making sure the costumes and masks fitted properly. With a few safety pins she soon transformed them into grinning Ice Age beasts.