‘He chooses his staff, that Burford, doesn’t he?’ Kemble-Gunter sneered to his wife. ‘One in hospital, one with a bad leg. What’ll the next one be, blind?’
Trying to blot out his possible subtext, I pursed my lips. ‘I’m sure we’re all very worried about poor wee Ms Burford. A terrible fire, I heard. They say she may not survive,’ I added dropping my voice to a graveside whisper. ‘As for my leg, don’t you worry your head over that, Mr Kemble. It’ll get me round this house and the others on your list.’ I turned and led purposefully up the steps, cursing that I hadn’t had time to unlock and switch off the burglar alarm. But perhaps Connie didn’t do things in advance, as Vena did. I made a great show of consulting my file for the code, and tapped it in just as the electronic warning beeps became hysterical.
Each room I led them into, I referred closely to my file, holding it rather closer to my face than was comfortable. When would they give up and go to the loos? Not until they’d seen the whole shebang, by the look of it. By now the gravel was viciously painful, but I needed that limp.
We came to a halt in the drawing room. It wasn’t at its best in the grey light of the persistent drizzle, but I could hardly point that out.
‘A bit dark, isn’t it?’ he grunted.
Vena would have pointed out the transformation that the right drapes and furniture would have made, but Connie wasn’t into interior design and was inclined to be truculent. ‘That’s a problem with a lot of these old places. I shouldn’t say this, but give me a nice modern place every day. A barn conversion if you’re determined to go for an older property – at least it would come with mod cons.’ Without waiting for their comments I headed into the dining room, where I permitted myself a shiver of cold, rubbing genuinely icy hands together.
The longer I kept going, the longer Martin had to assemble his colleagues. But the more chance Kemble-Gunter had of discovering my true identity. How much spiel should I give them?
They followed, apparently arguing. I withdrew to the darkest corner and let them get on with it.
He turned to me. ‘My wife and I were wondering if we’d ever met you before. I say there’s something familiar about you, but my wife disagrees.’
Thank God for that. But why was she protecting me? Something to do with yesterday morning? She must know that if she betrayed me, I’d certainly betray her. The last thing she’d want Kemble-Gunter to know was that she’d spent a good deal of time in the company of Martin and his team.
‘It depends if you’ve been to Glasgow, Mr Kemble. I worked for many years in the Kelvingrove Museum. You know, where they’ve got all that wonderful Charles Rennie Mackintosh stuff. Are you familiar with the place? There’s talk of them restoring the tea rooms he designed. Imagine that, pulling a place down, storing it and then rebuilding it.’ Plainly bored with this gem of English domestic architecture, I stomped off to the kitchen area.
How long could this go on? Please God, make them use the loos soon, and end the charade.
They nodded at the butler sink and wooden drying racks, and said nothing. I was aware of a lot of scrutiny from him, while she kept her eyes studiously averted. Once again, I led them away, this time upstairs.
‘What was that noise?’ he demanded, halfway up the stairs.
Some idiot had let a car door slam.
‘It could have been the next lot of visitors,’ I improvised. ‘Mr Burford called me to say another party was inspecting at about three-thirty. Seems they only called over lunchtime.’
‘Very interested, then.’
‘Och, you know what these Americans are like, all mouth and trousers. Now, the bedrooms lead off this corridor. Some have interconnecting doors, as you’ll see,’ I added, head deep in the file again. I just hoped my chatter would cover any other movement and my commentary tell Martin where we were. ‘This is the master bedroom, with its en suite bathroom.’
Neither wished to use it. I paraded them through all the other rooms, more and more anxious by the moment. Kemble-Gunter, not a man given to humour, I’d have thought, was wearing a smile. It was more terrifying than the meanest sneer.
I wasn’t the only one who thought so. Frances was white, her teeth almost literally chattering.
‘Are you not well, Mrs Kemble?’ I asked, moving over to her and putting my hand on her arm. ‘Is there anything I can get you? Would some fresh air be a help? If only I knew how to open these windows without setting off the damned alarm. Shall we get you downstairs?’
‘If – if I might just use the bathroom,’ she managed. ‘I feel terribly sick.’
‘Of course.’ My arm round her protectively I eased her along the corridor. And now I was in a quandary. Should I offer to go in with her, which would stop her getting the drugs from the cistern, or wait outside, alone with Kemble-Gunter? What would Connie do? Leave her to it and head purposefully down the stairs.
‘And where do you think you’re going?’
‘I was under the impression that you’d finished here, sir. Have you not? If there’s anything else I can show you, you only have to say the word.’
‘You stay where you are, Ms Burford.’
‘I beg your pardon, sir? Och, she’s the poor lass in hospital. I’m just her stand-in, as you’ll have gathered.’
He knew, didn’t he? And he was going to kill me with that gun of his, no longer just a bulge in his suit pocket but plain and ugly in his hand. So much for Martin and Sandra and their plans. Perhaps they had a Plan B. I needed to give them a clue that they should activate it soon.
Someone on The Bill had told another character that you should always remind a potential killer that you were human. How could I do that, and in a fake Scots accent too?
‘What’s with that gun, sir?’ I demanded, trying to keep my voice clear and steady, and still to stay in character.
‘You stupid cow. Thought you’d taken me in for a minute, did you? Frances recognised you the first time she saw you. And did you really think you could tip her into your car boot without her noticing? I’ve a good mind to let her do this herself. I’m sure she’d enjoy it.’
‘Come on, she’s a decent woman. She’s only helping you because she’s fallen on hard times, like most of us actors. She’s doing a job; I’m doing a job. Why kill us for that?’ That was a slip of the tongue, of course, but had an interesting consequence.
Behind his head a voice screamed, ‘Kill me? You’re not going to…please, please, no! Please. I beg you!’
Why didn’t the silly woman hurl that bag of cocaine at him? Whatever else it did it would knock him off balance. All I had was a file that wouldn’t fly true. But if I dropped it, it might sound like someone coming in. Perhaps there was someone coming in.
‘Throw the bloody packet at him!’ I yelled. ‘Hard as you can.’ As I shouted, I slung the folder sideways and upwards. Dare I vault the banister rail? Easier to roll over it.
Noise and cordite and goodness knows what else filled the stairwell. Had I been shot? The pain in my left shoulder was unbelievable. But there was no blood. There were so many people swirling round, so much shouting. I stayed where I was, face down, praying an inchoate wordless plea for help. The floor started to move, and I with it, but in the opposite direction. Was this death? ‘Our Father, who art in Heaven…’ I hoped He was listening. Because that was all I could manage.
A voice was saying, ‘This is going to hurt, but then it won’t be so bad. Don’t worry, I’ve done it half a dozen times on the rugby pitch.’ It would have been nice to pass out again, but whoever had spoken was telling the truth. The pain was subsiding, and I could open my eyes.
‘Martin? Was that you?’
‘You dislocated your shoulder as you fell. I just put it back. But we’d better get you to A and E, just in case. No, don’t try to get up.’
‘The floor’s bloody cold and I’ve an idea my skirt’s hitched up.’ I might even have wet myself with terror at one point, and didn’t want that to be common knowledge.
‘Le
t me lift you then. Don’t try to use that arm.’
I wiggled my fingers. My arm was working all right. But then perhaps it would be nicer to be helped up. It was. I discovered that for all his apparent sangfroid Martin was trembling too. His arm around me, we reached the front door.
It would have been a miracle if Kemble-Gunter hadn’t heard something. The approach to the house was swarming with people – black-clad men and women toting guns, ordinary uniformed officers with body armour. Martin was wearing armour too, under his nice leather blouson. Three ambulances vied for parking space with at least six police vehicles of various shapes and sizes.
‘Wow!’ I said, in an approximation of my normal voice. ‘I hope no one gets burgled in Barford or wherever – it’ll take a long time to get a police car to them.’
‘We might have one or two in reserve,’ he said. ‘Now, let’s get you into one of those ambulances.’
Time for a little honesty. ‘Martin, I’m phobic about hospitals. Phobic. Not just a little scared, but I’d almost prefer to face Gunter’s gun than see a man in a white coat.’
‘But you offered to go and read to Karen.’
‘It wouldn’t have been easy. If I’ve got to go on my own account – I’m sorry, I can’t.’
‘You need treatment, Vena.’ He touched my hair. ‘Do you want me to come with you?’
I clutched his hand. And then I realised that I was really messing with his reputation – his mates would laugh about it for weeks, wouldn’t they? So I released my grip and walked with as much dignity as I could manage to a paramedic. ‘Can I have a lift please?’ I asked.
Sandra was waiting for me when what even I recognised were really kind folk in A and E had finished strapping me up.
‘That was good of you,’ she said. ‘Coming without Martin. He’d have held your hand, you know, but he really has so much to do after an incident like that. Balancing the budget for one thing. God knows how much it’s cost.’
I hitched my coat more comfortably across my shoulders. It felt very strange carrying my bag with my right hand, but carrying it on either shoulder wasn’t an option. ‘Was it worthwhile?’ I asked coolly. ‘You realise no one’s told me about Gunter or Frankie yet?’
She waited for me to go through an automatic door before replying. ‘You were really good, you know. There was Trowbridge in hysterics and you telling her what to do. It was very impressive.’
I came to a dead halt. ‘Did he shoot her? Did he shoot anyone? Bugger me, Sandra, any moment I shall be offering to run a course for you all in communication skills.’
‘She threw the bag. He shot her. He missed. He fell arse over tip when she threw a second bag of cocaine. He’s hurt his back very badly. Head injuries too. The medics won’t let us question him. He’s under armed guard in Warwick Hospital. There. Is that enough info for you?’
I grabbed her arm. ‘Not the same place as Karen?’
‘They moved Karen ages ago. To a specialist burns unit. It was on a need-to-know basis. That’s why we didn’t tell you.’
I found myself getting angry. ‘What about cards and flowers for Vena Burford? Have they gone to the same hospital?’
‘The flowers have gone to some old folks’ home – some hospitals won’t allow them in, as I’m sure you know.’
And I was in one. A real live hospital. I ran as fast as I could to the main entrance.
When she caught up with me, she was yelling, ‘And I’ve kept all the cards so you can reply when you’re better! But first you’d better come and make a statement.’
For some reason I had to be driven the couple of hundred yards back to the police station I’d normally have walked in minutes. I maintained what I hoped was a dignified silence but might well have been a sulk. Or perhaps I was too weary to make small talk. Shock or something. Why did I have to tell everyone what had happened when they’d have heard it all on their clever mikes? I wanted to be comforted, not interrogated. I wanted a cup of tea, or preferably a glass of brandy, some good food – I’d been too busy buying props for Connie George to have lunch – and some strong arms around me. I didn’t want to go to bed in what was, teddy bears apart, a coldly anonymous room in a flat I could never love. I didn’t want to go to bed alone, and I didn’t want to wake up alone. But such comfort was pie in the sky. Martin was working on his budget and I was an old woman who’d had to shed her knickers in a hospital loo.
Sandra parked well, and waited for me to get out. ‘I need to go to Marks and Sparks,’ I said, not moving.
‘That’s down on Bridge Street,’ she said.
‘I know it’s down on bloody Bridge Street. I want to walk down to Bridge Street and make a purchase. Then I’ll return here. Understand? And if you tell Martin why I need to buy knickers I shall kill you.’
A glimmer of a smile softened her face.
‘Or if you laugh.’
‘Come on into the women’s changing room. I’ll nip and get them for you. Anything else? You know, that nice outfit of yours took a bit of a battering all round,’ she continued, ushering me into the backstage area of showers and changing rooms. ‘I’ll get you a paper suit so you can strip it off and I’ll pop into the cleaners for you.’
‘And I wear the paper job for this here ID parade? I’ll look more like a suspect than they do.’
The Thorpes and Greg were there as well as Claire, none allowed to confer with the others, which in the case of the Thorpes must have been hard to achieve. I was permitted to watch, as Martin had promised. If he registered the change from designer suit to Marks and Sparks Per Una top and skirt, he didn’t comment on it. In fact he was singularly silent, merely grunting with satisfaction when all four in succession picked out the same suspects. Since their choice confirmed the CCTV pictures, surely the CPS would be satisfied.
Later I was allowed to talk about the pictures to the Thorpes. They were garrulously delighted at the prospect of financial security for their old age, and wanted to know when the next lot of viewers would be coming.
‘I’ll come and talk about that in the next day or so. You see,’ I continued, aware of Greg’s flapping ears, ‘the price you suggested might be a little high for this financial climate, and you may want to consider what offer might tempt you. Now, I understand you need a lift home. I’m sure my brother would be happy to oblige.’ I doubted if they’d ever driven in a civilian Merc before, and it was one way of getting rid of Greg, who was inclined to yap over the effects the drama this afternoon might have on his business. Claire ventured a wink over his shoulder as they all ebbed away, escorted by Sandra.
In the silence that followed, I permitted myself to droop against a handy door-frame. ‘You really want a statement now, Martin?’ I asked. ‘Because I tell you, it’ll come at a price.’
He raised a surprisingly formal eyebrow. I quailed. I might be about to blow everything.
‘I can only do it if I’m fortified by the prospect of dinner afterwards. A deux.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
‘You’re seeing that country plod!’ Toby exclaimed, his voice carrying around the natural amphitheatre now filled with ugly lumps of metal and designated Aldred House’s sculpture park. I’d managed to drag him out well before his usual breakfast hour. The weather was back to sunny, but hadn’t managed warm yet. ‘For God’s sake, Vee, you can do better than that.’
‘You, for instance?’ I demanded, arms akimbo. I dropped them quickly. Anything that put the shoulder at an unnatural angle hurt twice, once inside where I’d yanked the tissue out of place and again outside where the skin and the strapping fought it out. Rather than wrestle with an unfamiliar car, I’d taken a cab out here.
‘Why not?’ he asked, his voice, his face, his whole body painfully sincere. ‘We’re made for each other. You know that. You always have known. From the minute we first set eyes on each other, we’ve known.’
I’d waited for this moment all my life, it seemed. This was when I should step into his arms, accept his kiss and
ride off into the sunset with him. Half of me still wanted to. But it was the other half that responded. ‘And what do you propose? That you have a highly publicised divorce from Allyn, which would ruin her career? Not to mention doing the lives of the twins immeasurable harm? And probably result in your losing Aldred House as part of the settlement? Or…?’
He had the grace to blush.
I hit my stride. ‘What did you offer Greta, for instance? It was she who wanted me off the premises, wasn’t it? She threatened to expose your relationship with her.’ Of course, I was guessing, but it was a guess that struck home.
Even such a consummate actor as he couldn’t hide the faintest wince. ‘I never had sex with that woman!’
Surely he was aware he was echoing someone else’s words. But he spoke without so much as a tremor.
‘Not even involving a cigar and a blue dress?’ I asked ironically. ‘Come off it, Toby, I’ve known and – yes! – loved you the best part of forty years. I know you better than most. If ever there was a man for having his cake and eating it, it’s you. The real question is why Greta wanted to get rid of me. It wasn’t because she thought I might harm Allyn by my presence. She’d seen enough of me and your wife together to know we were well on the way to becoming friends, and you know all too well I wouldn’t break friendships, or especially marriages, just to have sex with you.’ There was another minute flinch when I used the word just. Perhaps it was time to segue into flattery. ‘So why did she want to get rid of me? Come on, Toby. You’re such a wonderful actor because you’ve got a brilliant brain.’ It was a pity he usually thought with another part of his anatomy. ‘I really need your help. There’s no one else I can turn to. We’ve never been lovers but we’ve always been friends. Dear friends. Haven’t we?’
‘We have.’ He touched my face in some sort of farewell and turned away. ‘You think you constitute some sort of threat to her, and that as long as you’re around, she’ll want to get rid of you?’ he mused, putting his hands in his pockets and facing me again. ‘And perhaps on a more permanent basis?’
Staging Death Page 26
