“No, surely not,” said Zoë. “I mean — didn’t he win an Oscar?”
“He did,” said Jack. “But that was thirty years ago. The one and only studio film he made. Been doing TV since then. I guess that gate you were talking about must have closed on him. For some reason …”
He waited for Zoë to respond but she said nothing.
“What about the film’s producers — they around?”
“Not really. Lou Bernstein — he’s the exec — he’s still in the States. He has long Skype talks with people, yells a lot and scares them.”
“Ha! Sounds like Hollywood.”
“And Ludo — he’s the real producer. He interviewed me — God they called me back so many times! Supposedly he watches the shoot and the bottom line. But here on location — I never see him. He just stays in his room. Has his food delivered from the restaurant in the village.”
“Really? I thought producers were hands on?”
“I thought so too! The crew all joke about him. They call him Count Dracula! Oh, but look — Jack — I shouldn’t really be telling you things like this — it’s very unprofessional of me.”
Jack was aware that Zoë’s mood had changed.
Was she being polite — her professional instincts stopping her saying too much?
Or was there something more she wasn’t telling him?
Whichever it was — Zoë had clearly been coached in the art of loving everybody on set and telling no tales.
And even though they seemed to be getting on just fine, Jack knew that didn’t automatically mean he was going to get the truth about this movie out of her.
Yet.
Ahead, he saw the turning for Repton Hall. He knew that place well — he and Sarah had helped out Lady Repton a while back when she’d had a little trouble.
And since then Jack had heard the estate, re-imagined as the Repton Hall Conference Centre and Spa Hotel, had gone from strength to strength.
He slowed, and turned off the main road, then drove through the impressive gates and down the long, familiar drive that led through woods to the Hall itself.
“Oh, Jack,” said Zoë. “I meant to ask — did you have breakfast?”
“Just a coffee.”
“Oh well then — you’re in for a treat,” she said. “Lot of the crew are American — so they do a big American breakfast out of the catering wagon.”
“No kidding? And I’m invited too, huh?”
“One of the perks of the job.”
Already Jack was looking forward to it. Pancakes, brownies maybe …
As they emerged from the woods, Jack could see the Hall below in the valley beside the great ornamental lake.
“Hang on. Something’s not right,” said Zoë, leaning forward to peer through the screen. “There are no trucks …”
And as Jack pulled up in the empty car park, he saw a young guy in a black puffy jacket and jeans run towards the car, radio out.
Zoë climbed out, and Jack got out too.
“Robbie — where is everyone? We’re not late. I know we’re not late,” she called as the young guy approached.
“No. You’re not late,” he said. “You’re just not in the right place.”
“What?” said Zoë. “I don’t believe it — no –”
“Location change last night. Weather. We emailed — and phoned.”
“Oh, God.”
“You mean you didn’t check email — messages?’
“Of course I did! I didn’t get anything!”
“Jeez. That’s page one, Zoë! Anyway, you’re on set in thirty. Fraser’s livid. He’s going to kill you. You too …”
Jack watched the young man point at him and smiled back.
“Hey, thanks — Robbie. Always nice to get a warning about that kind of thing.”
“So where are we shooting? How do we get there?” said Zoë.
Jack could hear the panic rising in her voice. This was obviously a big deal — and it couldn’t have happened at a worse time after yesterday’s accident.
“Combe Castle — interiors. I’m taking you myself.” He looked at Jack and rolled his eyes. “This guy can follow.”
“Fine,” said Jack. “Not a problem — ’cept this guy knows where Combe Castle is. I’ll see you there, Zoë. And stay calm, okay …”
But Zoë was already off at a run with her bag, right behind Robbie.
Jack watched them climb into a Land Rover. Robbie gunned the engine and it roared away down the lane that led through the Repton Hall estate towards the river.
Shame about that breakfast, thought Jack. Maybe they’ll still be serving when I get over to the Castle?
That is if Fraser doesn’t kill me first.
5. Below the Line
Sarah held her coffee tight and pushed through the crowd outside Huffington’s Tea Rooms.
She’d never seen the place so busy.
As well as movie fans, hoping to get a selfie with one of the stars, there were little groups of journalists, filing reports. And everywhere — recognisable in their puffa jackets and designer jeans — were members of the crew or cast who were not needed today, leaning against cars or vans, drinking take-out coffees.
Sarah headed down the High Street and up the steps to her office.
Her assistant Grace was already in, hard at work on one of the laptops.
“Okay. I’ve had enough of it now,” said Sarah, taking off her coat. “I want them all to go home.”
“Hey, don’t knock it,” said Grace. “Billy down the Ploughman’s says he’s tripled his takings every week. And the Pig’s booked solid for another month.”
“Oh I know, you’re right,” said Sarah, turning on her computer. “I’m being selfish. But now — I just want my sleepy village back.”
“Really?” said Grace. “I heard you were mixing it with the stars …”
Sarah peered at her around from her monitor.
“Grace. How on earth do you know about that?”
She watched Grace shrug innocently.
“I hear Zoë is an absolute treasure. But if it were me — I’d rather have that Karl Bildt to entertain. If you know what I mean …”
“I certainly do.”
“Hey — you think you’ll meet him?”
“Dunno. I doubt it very much, Grace …”
“Well, if you do — be sure to tell him where he can find me, okay? Your lovely, talented — and single — assistant!”
“Oh I will,” said Sarah. “Right behind me in the queue …”
Grace laughed.
“Seriously though, Sarah,” she said. “What’s the deal — is this another one of your cases? Something wrong?”
Sarah was always honest with Grace about the little detective side-line she had running with Jack.
And Grace in the past had often helped — though Sarah never involved her if there was anything remotely illegal required.
“Hmm, I’m not really sure,” said Sarah. “There’s been some funny stuff happening on set—”
“Oh — you mean those accidents?”
“Is there anything you don’t know?” said Sarah, laughing.
“Probably not,” said Grace. “I just happen to know all the right people.”
“Well, you’ll know that Zoë’s had some close calls. So Jack and I are going to see if they are all indeed accidents — or if someone’s up to something.”
“Can I help?” A big smile. “Please?”
Sarah thought for a few seconds.
The office wasn’t busy right now — and Grace had a knack for unearthing facts online …
“Sure — why not?” said Sarah. “Maybe you can get some background on all the key players. Producers, directors, actors …”
“Scandals, love-lives, death-threats, that kind of thing?”
“Not death-threats — I hope!”
“Don’t be too sure, Sarah. This is Hollywood we’re dealing with. Could be … there’s Mafia involvement. Or a drug deal go
ing down. Could be blackmail. Or maybe just plain old fashioned murder …”
Sarah laughed. “Or maybe none of the above. Just get me the facts, Grace.”
“On it already, boss,” said Grace in her best/worst American accent.
“Meanwhile, I’m going to dig around, see what I can find out about the finance side of things …”
“Follow the money?” Grace said.
And Sarah nodded …
*
An hour later and Sarah felt she knew even less than she did when she’d started.
She’d managed to track The Rose of Cherringham through various movie databases and the online record of the Hollywood Reporter and Variety.
The story had first been optioned ten years ago. Based on a long out-of-print novel from the thirties, it had been adapted by an English screenwriter and touted round Hollywood as ‘Pirates meets Robin Hood’!
Just the kind of film I try to avoid, thought Sarah.
But although it had gone into development, and various directors had been attached, it had consistently failed to find a producer or finance.
Then — just a year ago — in what looked like a crazy hurry, the Hungarian producer Ludo Pesciak had suddenly found most of the budget, done a deal with a Hollywood studio, hired a new director, and the movie had been green-lit.
The headline in a trade paper article said it best: ‘An Unlikely Rose Blooms At Last …’
The whole thing seemed weird — one minute nobody wanted to touch the script, then the next, suddenly they were ready to spend millions of dollars on it. Sarah realised she just didn’t know enough about the movie business to know what was normal — and what wasn’t.
She opened the movie’s Facebook page and scrolled down through publicity photos and various stories from the set. Perhaps there’d be a clue in here somewhere.
Then suddenly — a name she recognised …
For PR enquiries, please email Sophie Goodman at MagicPR.
Sophie Goodman!
God! Back in London, years ago, Sarah’s web agency had used the same PR company. Sophie had been just a junior then — but she’d been brilliant and she and Sarah had gone out for lunch to celebrate a deal one day and ended up clubbing until dawn.
And now she was managing the UK PR for The Rose of Cherringham.
Amazing … and she’d be the perfect ‘in’ for Sarah to get behind the scenes on the film. Being in charge of the PR, she’d be sure to know what was really going on.
And how brilliant it would be to catch up on her!
Sarah picked up her mobile and tapped the screen …
*
Jack leaned against the hood of the Mercedes in the weak early morning sunshine, and took a last bite from his bacon roll.
By the time he’d reached Combe Castle the caterers had moved on from breakfast to preparing lunch — but one of them had taken pity on him and rustled up some rashers of bacon and fresh coffee.
He looked around the crowded car park, filled with trucks, Winnebagos, cars, and limos.
A constant stream of people moved back and forth, carrying gear, or speaking into radios. All looking very purposeful, a well-oiled machine.
Meanwhile, actors in seventeenth-century costumes lounged around on plastic chairs drinking tea from polystyrene cups. Equipment was stacked up in piles everywhere: props, cameras, costumes on rails.
The whole thing was like bees round a hive.
And the centre of the hive — for now — was the interior of Combe Castle.
Jack had worked on a case at the castle before. The place was definitely run-down — but he could see why they’d chosen it as a location.
Half of it was Norman — and the walls ran right down to the Thames. The rest was a hodge-podge of medieval architecture right through to eighteenth century, and the absence of modern repairs made it perfect for a Civil War setting.
Through the tall stained-glass windows of the medieval hall, Jack could see bright lights and moving shadows — the caterers had told Jack that a big love scene was being shot this morning.
One started to make a leering crack about Zoë when another stopped him, quickly explaining that Jack was the actress’s driver.
A movie set was really two worlds. The fantasy before the cameras, the hard-work and labour behind them.
And from various radios that people carried, Jack heard a constant update on the progress of the shooting. Every few minutes another take began, and a call went out around the set for 'quiet please.'
The movement round the hive slowed, stopped, everyone waiting silently for the take to finish.
Then the all-clear, and the constant activity continued.
Jack crushed his coffee cup, dropped it in one of the litter bins that were dotted everywhere and headed across the car park towards the main entrance to the castle.
He’d already been told there was no way he’d be able to get close to the action inside; the room they were shooting in was so small that only key crew and cast were allowed.
So no chance of seeing Zoë in action today — or any of the other stars.
And therefore … no chance of seeing for himself what kind of tensions existed on set — what the real relationships were …
He guessed that those relationships weren’t as cosy as Zoë had implied. Just five minutes with the caterers had given him enough hints at the difficulties the whole show was facing, the schedule hit hard by this series of ‘problems’ with the lead actress.
But Jack knew there were other ways of finding the truth.
Back in New York, his few days on film and TV locations had taught him a very useful lesson: the people who really know what’s going down on a movie are the members of the crew.
They’re the ones who hover in the shadows all day long on stand-by, watching, waiting, observing …
Then over lunch, dinner, or a few beers in the evening — they share what they’ve seen with the rest of the crew.
And what was Jack now but another member of the crew?
Chauffeur to one of the stars might sound pretty cool to the ordinary people of Cherringham — but here, he was just one of the guys.
Just by the main doors to the castle, he saw a cluster of trucks, their back shutters open. From this side, Jack could see a pair of legs dangling down from one of the trucks.
He walked over. The legs belonged to a middle-aged guy in jeans and trainers, who sat leaning against the side of a big crate, surrounded by boxes and furniture wrapped in blankets, reading a newspaper.
“Mind if I join you?” said Jack, nodding to the space at the tailgate of the truck.
“Help yourself,” said the guy, not putting down his paper.
Jack climbed up onto the back of the truck and leaned against a box.
Perfect.
Time to get to work — and find out exactly what was happening in this little world of make believe.
And who might have it in for Zoë Harding.
6. Rumour Has It …
Jack sat in the back of the truck and waited a minute. Then:
“Guess they got the weather wrong, huh?” he said, gesturing to the blue sky.
He smiled at the guy, who shrugged and put his paper down, as if accepting there was now going to be a conversation.
“It happens,” the man said.
“Name’s Jack,” said Jack, holding out his hand.
“I know,” said the guy. “Gary.”
“Nice to meet you, Gary. So you know my name, huh?”
“You keep a film crew waiting mate, everybody bloody well knows your name.”
“Oh,” said Jack. “So no fans here for me today?”
“This the first time you worked on a film?”
“Pretty much.”
“Okay. Word of advice. You can steal the cash float from the production office. Start a fight with the sparks. Screw the director’s wife, even. And you’ll be forgiven. But miss your call in the morning — and you’re a dead man walking.”
Jack laughed.
“That’s the second death threat I’ve had today — lucky I’m bullet proof.”
Gary laughed as well.
Bit of a thaw there …
“You’d better be.”
“So nobody’s blaming Zoë?”
“Oh sure — they’re blaming her too — obviously. What’s not to blame on her?”
“I hear she’s had a couple of scrapes. Close calls.”
“More than scrapes,” said Gary. “After yesterday — well, let’s just say she’s lucky to be alive.”
“Heard about that,” said Jack. “You think it was her fault, that she did something stupid with the horse?”
Jack watched the guy shrug.
“Who knows?”
“But you don’t think so?” said Jack.
“All right. I heard the horse was playing up all morning — you know, spooked? The head wrangler said it was bit dicey, using the black. Wanted to postpone the shot. Maybe use one of the other horses. Or shoot round the girl, pick her up later.”
Gary was proving a useful source …
“But somebody over-ruled him?”
“We’re a week behind schedule. No one’s postponing anything.”
“So — who makes that kind of call?”
“Director, producer …”
“Studio?”
“Maybe,” said Gary. “But they’ve been pretty hands-off.
And then, as if he sensed he’d strayed into an area he shouldn’t: “But hey — what do I know? I’m just one of the prop men.”
“Just a prop man — important role though, no?”
Jack watched the guy shrug. He’d clearly been round the tracks.
“Only if I make a mistake. Pretty invisible otherwise.”
“You not involved now?” said Jack.
“Rare treat for me, this is. Had the morning off. They’re shooting an empty room in there.” Big grin. “No props! And my lads are down on the river prepping the big boat scene for tomorrow.”
Jack nodded, taking his time, moving the chat on slowly …
“You worked on a lot of movies?”
“You bet.”
“How does this one compare?”
The man paused. “Food’s all right. Hotel they put me in is a bit crappy. I’ll be glad when it’s over.”
Cherringham--Final Cut Page 3
