In the Still of the Night

by Charlotte Lamb

  It was only as Johnny’s car accelerated away that Sean woke up. He had fallen asleep, his head on the wheel of his car, his mind almost at burn-out after weeks of stress. Blinking and red-eyed, he sat up, yawning, stretched his weary body, and looked around, dazed, until he remembered where he was and saw that the front door of Annie’s house was now open. Annie had let herself in, and was going through the usual routine of switching off the burglar alarm and putting on the light.

  As she turned to close the front door, someone hurled himself at it, forcing it open again. She stumbled backwards with a cry of alarm, then saw it was only Sean.

  ‘What on earth do you think you’re doing?’ she breathlessly accused.

  ‘What am I doing? That’s the question I’ve been waiting to ask you! You were supposed to go to my place with Harriet – but you ran out on her.’

  She bit her lip. ‘I’m sorry, Sean. I didn’t mean to vanish – Harriet went off to her office and I got bored waiting. When my driver turned up, I decided to go on ahead.’

  ‘You’d no right to do that! It isn’t the first time, is it? You keep vanishing without a word. Do you realise how worrying it is? You know how much rides on you – if anything happened to you, it could be the end of the whole series.’

  She made a weary gesture and he snapped at her angrily.

  ‘Oh, you may not care about that, but what about the rest of us? Me and Harriet and the rest of the cast, and the camera crew, and everyone on the team? All those jobs would go whistling down the wind, just because you got bored waiting for Harriet!’

  ‘Oh, all right, I’m sorry, I won’t do it again – I just thought, while I was waiting I might as well visit my mother.’

  His face was unrelenting. ‘I know you saw her, I rang the hospital – you only stayed ten minutes. Where have you been since?’

  She looked away. ‘I was with Johnny.’ She walked away into the house and Sean shut the door and followed her.

  ‘I’ve been checking up on him.’

  She looked round at him, stiffening, and his eyes bored into her.

  ‘Did you know he’d been in prison for eight years for attempted murder?’

  He saw from her unsurprised face that she had known. ‘How dare you pry into my affairs!’ was all she said.

  He laughed angrily. ‘How many affairs are you juggling at the moment?’

  She almost slapped his face. Through clenched teeth she muttered, ‘That’s pretty cheap, isn’t it, Sean? Cheap and nasty. Why don’t you just mind your own business.’

  Sean curtly said, ‘You are my business. The whole series depends on you. I need to be sure you aren’t in danger – and with this guy I’d say you were asking for trouble. Do you know what he did? He attacked a policeman who stopped his car. No reason at all – hit him so hard he was off work for a year. I take that very personally, Annie. It could have been me.’

  She looked at him with slight shock, never having seen it in that light before. She should never forget that Sean had been a policeman.

  ‘He’s paid for it, Sean. After all, eight years in prison is a long, long time. And it wasn’t like him; Johnny isn’t the violent type.’

  ‘Not violent? Beats a policeman’s head in and you say he isn’t the violent type?’ Sean almost laughed but was too angry. ‘As an ex-copper, let me tell you I can’t agree.’

  She gave a shuddering sigh. ‘No, I know …’ she admitted. ‘It was terrible, he knows that, but … oh, Sean, that was the night I told him about Roger Keats; he ran out in a state of terrible shock. That’s why he attacked the policeman. He’d never do it again.’

  ‘Oh? Did he tell you about the next guy he attacked?’

  Her face was shaken. ‘What?’

  ‘Another prisoner. He nearly killed him, too. That’s why he did eight years, and didn’t get parole earlier. Annie, don’t kid yourself – the man is dangerous. He’s violent and unpredictable. If you go on seeing him you’re asking for trouble. So much rides on you, Annie. You’ve no right to take risks with your life.’

  She couldn’t think straight, she was too confused and disturbed by what he’d just told her – Johnny had never said anything about attacking anyone else. Automatically, though, she stammered, ‘Johnny would never hurt me! You don’t know him!’

  Sean’s eyes were hard. ‘I know this – even if he never slips up again, and there’s no guarantee of that – he could still destroy your career, if the press find out about his past. The publicity would be disastrous. It would ruin your image. You can’t get mixed up with a violent criminal, Annie, and not expect the public to react.’

  She put her hands over her ears. ‘Stop it!’ she yelled. ‘You aren’t making me give him up again. My mother made me give him up, made me kill my baby … I’ll never let anyone do that to me again. From now on, I make my own decisions, and I won’t listen to a word you say. I love Johnny. Nothing can alter that. Nothing, do you hear?’

  He stared at her in grim silence.

  ‘Go away, Sean,’ she wearily said. ‘I’m tired. I’m going to bed.’

  ‘I’m not leaving you here alone. Not with Roger Keats prowling around. Until the police catch him you mustn’t be left alone, especially at night. I’ll sleep on the couch down here.’

  Annie opened her mouth to argue, then thought better of it. She was angry with Sean but she had to admit she was nervous about being alone in the house since Derek’s death. The mere idea of Roger Keats somewhere out there made the hairs stand up on the back of her neck.

  ‘Oh, do as you like,’ she said with a tired sigh, and Sean’s eyes flashed.

  ‘You should be careful how you phrase remarks like that – some men might take it as an invitation.’

  Startled, she flushed, then laughed a little uncertainly. ‘It was nothing of the kind, so don’t even think about it!’ She had felt, lately, that they were becoming friends; she had learnt so much more about him during the hours they’d spent together. Realising they came from the same background, the same sort of family, with the same attitudes to life, had made a bond between them. She hoped Sean wasn’t taking too personal an interest in her; she would hate to hurt him and she didn’t want their friendship to change, either, but she would have to slap him down if he started flirting with her, and she knew enough about Sean to realise how he would react if she rejected him. His pride would be hurt, and he would probably avoid her altogether, which she would regret now.

  Sean saw the changing expressions crossing her face and could read them pretty well.

  Offhandedly, he said, ‘Oh, don’t worry, you’re in no danger from me – it was just a joke!’

  Annie wasn’t sure she believed him, but she hoped to God he was telling the truth. ‘I’ll get you some pillows and a quilt,’ she said, turning away to go upstairs.

  Sean followed. She turned to look at him. ‘I’ll bring them down. You stay here, make yourself a drink, if you like.’

  ‘I think I ought to check the rooms upstairs – just in case.’

  Annie didn’t argue. She went to the linen cupboard above the central-heating boiler upstairs, found spare pillows and a thick patchwork quilt her mother had made many years ago from old clothes cut up in squares and diamonds, and brought them out to the landing. Sean was quickly going through the bedrooms to make sure they were all empty and the windows locked.

  He came back to her, nodding. ‘Everything’s fine. If you hear a sound during the night, though, yell like crazy, and I’ll come running.’

  She handed him the bedding. ‘Thanks, Sean,’ she said gratefully, and he smiled at her a little wryly.

  ‘My pleasure.’ Something in the way he said it made a shiver run down her back, but then he asked, ‘I’m going to make myself some hot chocolate – do you want some?’

  She shook her head, her throat dry.

  ‘Goodnight, Sean.’

  He nodded, turned away and went downstairs saying, ‘Goodnight,’ over his shoulder. Annie went quickly into her bedroom and
locked the door. She knew she wouldn’t sleep, not with her mind buzzing with everything Sean had just said, the way he had looked at her just now. Oh, please don’t start looking at me like that! she thought, confused and upset. Why was life so complicated? For years she hadn’t met anyone she liked that much, now, suddenly, Johnny was back and then Sean …

  Oh, no! she thought, thumping her pillow. She’d have to take a sleeping pill, and she hated doing that, partly because they made her feel as if her head had been stuffed with cotton wool the following day; and partly because she knew they could be addictive if you got used to taking them every night. She kept them for emergencies.

  She took a pill, put out the light, and finally drifted off to sleep, but a sleep troubled by dreams she couldn’t remember when her alarm went off next morning.

  She showered in luke-warm water, to wake herself up, and dressed quickly in dark green ski pants and a beige shirt topped by an olive-green sweater which had a fleeting resemblance to army combat gear. With her short, blonde hair slicked back and faintly damp, she looked even more like a boy when she saw herself in a mirror, and her mouth twitched ironically. Maybe she had subliminally picked this outfit? No man was going to be turned on if she looked like this!

  In fact, Sean was just as pale and red-eyed from lack of sleep as she was; neither of them could face anything but coffee and orange juice.

  Before they left for the studio Sean asked her, ‘Where’s that gun you were presented with?’

  She gave him a startled look. ‘Upstairs in a drawer.’

  ‘Get it and carry it in your handbag,’ he ordered in a tone that made her chin come up.

  ‘I don’t want to carry a gun around with me!’

  His teeth met; his voice grated between them, ‘Don’t keep arguing. For God’s sake, Annie, take this situation serious. There’s a crazy guy out there – you should have some protection. Get the gun. I’ll put the bullets in for you.’

  When Annie got out of make-up that morning, she heard Harriet complaining loudly that Mike was late again, but that was nothing unusual, Annie took no notice, and although Harriet was irritated she didn’t actually need Mike yet, he wasn’t in the first scene they were to shoot, so she carried on working while her assistant rang him.

  Work went well that morning. There were only a few stoppages and nobody forgot their words, or made a wrong move, although Annie had dark shadows under her eyes and was faintly lethargic.

  She and Sean had driven in to work together hours ago, barely speaking. She avoided his eye when she saw him around on the set that morning.

  They broke at ten, with scene 1 in the can, and had coffee while the set was changed; the next scene was to be shot in the police canteen, which involved the scene-shifters moving a lot of chairs and tables, while the cameras and lighting were switched over to that side of the vast, barnlike studio, with its cavernous, echoing roof, festooned with lighting tracks and cables. A dozen extras in police uniform came on set to sit at some of the tables and provide background noise for the scene; Harriet’s assistant went over to talk to them, remind them what to do and when to move.

  Annie slumped in her chair, massaging the back of her neck with one hand while she held her paper cup of coffee in the other and took an occasional sip. When you were working under the hot lights you didn’t notice, but once the lights switched off and you stopped moving you soon began to feel cold.

  There was no heating; every time the double doors were opened the wind blew in around them, which was why all the women studio technicians wore woolly leggings under their jeans and several layers of warm clothing on top. What the men wore was anybody’s guess, but they tried to keep moving a lot, and flapped their arms and stamped their feet on very cold days.

  Harriet, in her duffle coat, wearing a woolly hat with earmuffs, which made her look like a gnome, perched on a chair beside her, zipping through her words and movements for the next scene.

  ‘You turn then; close-up; we want a worried look as you realise your back-up hasn’t arrived – OK? Then Mike comes in … where the hell is he? Can’t he ever get here on time?’ Harriet broke off as a couple of policemen in uniform walked over towards them. She gave them a startled look. ‘Now what?’

  ‘Miss Lang?’ one of them said to Annie. ‘Inspector Chorley has sent us to fetch you – he wants to talk to you again.’

  Harriet groaned. ‘Oh, no! Things were going too well. I might have known it was too good to last. Look, can’t this wait? I’ve got a programme to make and I can’t make it if my star keeps being dragged away to answer police questions. This can’t be urgent.’

  The constable’s expression was totally wooden. ‘Sorry, miss, but we were told to bring Miss Lang back with us.’

  ‘Why? What’s happened? Have you caught the murderer?’

  The policemen exchanged glances, but before they could answer Billy Grenaby came hurrying towards them, barely avoiding tripping over the snaking cables littering the floor, startling Harriet out of her wits because he rarely appeared on the floor of the studio while they were filming.

  For once he was pale, agitated, none of his usual bounce in evidence. He burst out at once before he got to them, ‘Harriet, my God, this is terrible … I can’t believe it … first Derek, now Mike! The series is finished – it can’t go on after this.’

  Everyone within earshot froze, listening, staring, the cameramen and sound technicians, the studio manager in his headphones, the other actors, faces startled.

  ‘Mike? What are you talking about?’ Harriet said, eyes wide and shocked. ‘You don’t mean … Mike’s …’ She turned to stare at the police, her face questioning, incredulous, horrified. ‘Mike’s not …’

  A buzz ran round the studio, a gasp of shock and disbelief. Harriet’s assistant dropped the clapperboard and the sound rang like a shot, making everyone jump and stare.

  Annie looked at the policemen, too; they were watching her in a way that made her blood run cold. Oh, my God, it’s true, she thought; Mike’s been killed too. She could read it in their quiet, watchful faces, the careful eyes which told her as little as possible, never wavering as they stared at her. She couldn’t believe it was happening; it was like a nightmare, first Derek, now Mike. Had he been killed the same way as Derek? She swallowed a wave of sickness. How horrible … horrible. Then she thought: surely to God the police don’t think I did it? They can’t believe that. They can’t.

  But who did? Roger Keats? Why would he kill Mike Waterford? Mike wasn’t seeing Marty. What on earth would be the motive in killing Mike? But there had to be some connection. It couldn’t be coincidence, not when both actors were stars in this series. First Derek, now Mike? What is going on? What is going on?

  People were whispering to each other all round the studio, and they were staring at her, now, with changing expressions. The police had come to get her – she could see that everyone was wondering why, asking themselves if she was suspected, what she had done. The only ones who weren’t staring at her like that were Harriet and Billy Grenaby; they were looking at each other, their eyes silently talking. The two of them often did that, they seemed able to talk without words. But what were they saying to each other now? she wondered. Surely they didn’t believe she was involved in these murders?

  ‘Has there been another murder?’ Harriet asked the policemen.

  ‘I’m sorry, but we can’t answer questions, miss,’ one said gruffly. ‘Better come along at once, Miss Lang. The inspector’s waiting.’

  But Billy answered Harriet, his voice rough. ‘Mike’s been killed. The same as Derek – exactly the same. Strangled.’

  Harriet groaned and he nodded.

  ‘God, when is this going to end?’ he asked her rhetorically. ‘What the hell is happening here? The PR people are going crazy trying to talk on every phone in their office. Of course, the press know all about it.’ He almost seemed to wring his hands, his face distracted. ‘I’m beginning to think we’ll have to come off air. Shut the who
le production down.’

  ‘Over my dead body,’ Harriet said, then began to laugh hysterically. Everyone looked at her, shocked and startled. ‘S-sorry,’ she gulped, getting herself under control. ‘We use these phrases without thinking, don’t we?’ Tears suddenly came into her eyes. ‘I can’t believe it. Mike. Dead.’

  She had been close to being in love with him briefly; it had left a tenderness. He was a bastard, of course; but he had had charm and his body was fantastic. They had never been to bed, but Harriet was a highly sexed woman and very aware of Mike that way.

  ‘I’ll miss him,’ she realised, then, in bewilderment, ‘Who would kill Mike?’ she whispered.

  Nobody answered her.

  It was a short drive from the riverside studios to the police station, a modern building with a view of the river from its top floors, the windows all dark glass to cut down the glare of the sun in summer, the roof bristling with scanning devices and electronic equipment.

  Annie was taken in through a police car park enclosed with twenty-foot-high wire fences; the gates opened and shut electronically. She just had time to see a horde of reporters clustering outside the station entrance who turned and saw the car, came running, shouting, blinding her with flashlights as they took blind shots. The police car shot through into the yard and drove right up to the back of the building.

  Annie was rushed out of the car and into the station while behind her cameras went on flashing and the reporters yelled and fought to get at her. She had been exposed to press interest for years, but it didn’t prepare her for this. She was trembling, and it didn’t help to meet more stares inside the building; there were policemen everywhere, behind the reception desk on the ground floor of the station, hurrying along corridors, turning to look at her curiously, waiting for lifts, a battery of eyes that were an ordeal to face.

  ‘This way, Miss Lang,’ said the policeman guiding her, and took her into the end lift, up to an interview room on the second floor.