Final Act

by J M Gregson

  ‘I didn’t kill Sam and I didn’t kill Ernie. What reason would I have to wish either of them dead?’

  ‘Ambition, perhaps.’

  ‘I’m doing all right in a crowded profession, thank you very much. Sam wasn’t going to stop me and neither was Ernie. I’m getting good reviews and plenty of offers. I’m sorry if that sounds like boasting, but I’m telling you that I didn’t need the approval of Messrs Jackson and Clark.’

  Others in the cast had said she was good. And she had the looks which always helped talent along. Dark, lustrous hair which concealed just enough of her neck to make it more desirable, and huge brown eyes which seemed to comprehend so much more than they actually saw. But she was nervous, very nervous: much more so than she had been when they spoke with her on Wednesday.

  Lambert said quietly, ‘Ambition can embrace others as well as ourselves, Miss Reynolds. I believe you were trying to secure acting work for Mr Turner.’

  Who had been talking, Peg wondered. She thought she had been discreet, but actors always seemed to know. Perhaps it was the fact that almost all of them had been through the mill themselves, wondering at times where the next job was coming from, which made them sensitive to the efforts of others to find work. ‘I made enquiries on behalf of James, yes. It’s natural when you love someone that you would do that.’

  ‘And you love James Turner?’

  ‘Who knows what love is, chief superintendent? Even someone with your experience might not care to offer us a definition.’

  She forced a smile to gild that thought. It was a brave effort, in the circumstances. Bert Hook shifted a little so as to look directly into her face. ‘Would you care to show us your upper arms, Miss Reynolds?’

  ‘No, I would not! Is this the kind of request you are in the habit of making when you interview a younger woman?’

  ‘No, it is both irregular and unusual. But I have a particular reason for asking the question. We believe that James Turner has offered physical violence to you.’

  He was almost fatherly, she thought, speaking as if he could barely control his regret. She said aggressively, ‘Who told you this?’

  ‘That is confidential. Just as whatever you tell us in the next few minutes will remain confidential from others we shall speak with.’

  ‘James has been under a lot of strain. And what happens between us should remain between us.’

  ‘Possibly. Though if violence is involved, that may not be so. But we’re investigating two murders, and we need to know whether your relationship with your boyfriend has a connection with either of them.’

  ‘It doesn’t. I asked Sam about work for James, pleaded for him to have even a small part in the Ben Loxton series. Jackson laughed in my face. Then he leered at me and asked if I was proposing to prostitute my talents in pursuit of employment for an oaf without ability. We both knew what he meant, though I can’t think he expected to be taken seriously.’

  ‘You must have been glad when he died and happy to have a new man in charge. Did you approach Ernie Clark to try to get work for Turner?’

  ‘No. I was planning to, but I didn’t get the chance, did I?’

  ‘Didn’t you? Someone almost certainly arranged to meet Mr Clark in the car park at your hotel last night. You were separated from your acting colleagues, both in the early part of the evening and after you had eaten dinner. Did you meet Mr Clark then?’

  ‘No. I had no reason to do so.’

  ‘You’ve just given us a reason why you wished to see him. You wished to speak with him alone, to plead the case of James Turner for work in this or one of his other projects.’

  ‘I’d have put the case for James, yes, given the chance. I didn’t arrange to meet Ernie last night and I don’t know who killed him.’

  ‘You’d better give us an account of your movements during the evening.’

  ‘James and I were in my room until we went down for dinner. That was some time later than the others, as you said.’

  ‘Does Mr Turner have a room of his own?’

  ‘No. But mine is a double. Whoever booked the rooms for us was generous: they are the best ones in the hotel, I think. But then the Inspector Loxton series is highly successful, so that they can afford to keep people happy. I expect it’s good policy to do that.’

  ‘You said you argued in the hour before you went for dinner. Was that in your room?’

  ‘Yes. Where else would it be?’

  Hook ignored that. ‘So there is no one who can confirm that you were alone with Mr Turner in your room at that time?’

  ‘Only James himself. And I suppose you won’t accept that. You’d rather postulate some sinister conspiracy between us to dispose of Ernie Clark.’

  In fact, in the absence of other evidence, they’d have to accept what she said. It was the equivalent of a husband-wife alibi; the word of spouses was always suspect, but there was nothing the police could do about that unless they could unearth contradictory information from some other source. ‘What did you do after the meal, Peg?’

  It was the first use of her Christian name by either of them. It dropped oddly, almost harshly, into this context, but Hook was still looking concerned for her, almost fatherly. They did this kind of thing to get you off your guard, she supposed. She felt absurdly vulnerable. Until this week, she had never in her life been questioned by the police. ‘I suggested we joined the others. James didn’t want to and I understood that. They’d made him quite welcome at the beginning of the week, but he hadn’t responded to that; he has his own problems, you see.’

  ‘You mean that he’s hit you and bullied you and that the others know about it and resent it on your behalf. You have friends among the cast of Hertfordshire Horrors, Peg. Perhaps it’s time you listened to them.’

  She refused to meet his eye. ‘When we finished dinner, James and I went for a walk beside the river. It was a beautiful tranquil evening and I think we walked a little further than we had intended.’

  ‘Did you notice Mr Clark’s car at the end of the car park as you passed it?’

  ‘No. I’m not very interested in cars. James knows a lot more about them than I do. I seem to remember him speaking rather enviously about Ernie’s Jaguar, but that might have been earlier in the week.’

  ‘Did you notice any other members of the cast or the crew out there?’

  ‘No. There were certainly other people about, because I remember hearing voices. But whether they belonged to people I knew or to strangers, I couldn’t be sure. It was getting quite dark by then and I was preoccupied with my own conversation with James.’

  ‘And what was that about?’

  ‘I can’t remember. It certainly wasn’t about Ernie Clark.’

  Of course she could remember, thought Bert Hook. But she didn’t want to tell them, and if it wasn’t connected with Clark, it wasn’t really their concern. ‘Who do you think might have killed Mr Clark?’

  ‘I don’t know. If I had any idea, I’d certainly pass it on to you. It’s weird looking around at the people you work with and wondering if one of them is a killer in real life. Weird and very unpleasant.’

  Hook glanced at Lambert, then accompanied her to the door and beyond it. With blue skies and white clouds above, the world out here was brighter and less threatening. Bert said quietly, ‘Get rid of him, Peg, if he hits you. They don’t grow out of it. They get worse. We see the results.’

  Back at the hotel by the Wye, the man he was talking about was bored and moody. James Turner had little to occupy him whilst Peg Reynolds was away at the location shooting.

  He tried his book, but he found himself reading the same paragraph for a fourth time. He tried writing: he’d written poetry when he was at school and been commended for it by teachers anxious to encourage creativity. But he hadn’t kept up the habit, and now when he tried verse for the first time in five years, the words wouldn’t come, or were obviously second-hand when they did. He wrote a message to his mother on the postcard he had bought for her, bu
t even that seemed trite and worthless. But postcard messages were supposed to be trite, weren’t they? He’d been made to write letters home when he was at his boarding school and he’d become quite good at it over the years. But since the advent of e-mails, letters had almost died out, for him as for millions of others.

  He started violently when the phone rang in the quiet room; he must be even more on edge than he’d realized. He composed himself before he picked it up; after all it might be the offer of work for him at last.

  It was not. An impassive male voice asked if Peggy Reynolds was available. The phone messages were always for Peg; he should have known it would be for her. He said, ‘She’s not here at the moment. She’s on location filming for the latest episode of the Inspector Loxton series.’

  Always let them know that you were working, if you were. It was one of the maxims of the profession. People hiring and firing drew confidence from the knowledge that someone else had thought you were worth employing, had chosen you rather than other candidates. He said on an impulse. ‘My name is James Turner. I am Miss Reynolds’ partner and agent. Can I be of help?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I really wished to speak to Ms Reynolds directly. You say you are her agent?’

  James crossed his fingers metaphorically and plunged on. ‘Indeed I am. Peg will not commit herself to anything without discussing it very fully with me beforehand. You will appreciate that her considerable success so far means that she is perpetually having to make decisions about her future. If you can give me as many details as possible of what you are offering, I will make sure that she gives it her full consideration in due course.’ The words seemed to come naturally to him. He had started to play this as a game, but he seemed to be rather good at it.

  It was a man called Datchet from the Coventry Playhouse and he had an enquiry about Shaw’s Saint Joan. He became cagey at this point, maintaining that this was all very tentative and that he really needed to speak to Ms Reynolds directly. But Turner knew too much for him. He knew the play and knew that there was only one major female role in it. It was a plum which was being dangled, even for someone as successful as Peg. He said loftily, ‘There’s only the title role which would be of interest, of course. But I presume that is what you are offering.’

  Datchet panicked. He hadn’t been empowered to offer the role, only to check that Peg Reynolds was available, along with two or three other possibilities. ‘Nothing is definite as yet. Any offer will depend on the availability of the appropriate male actors to appear in the production.’

  James tried a cynical laugh and brought it off. ‘All of us know that this play is almost unique in demanding the correct casting of the title role. Once you get the right Saint Joan in place, eminent male actors will be queuing up to offer their services.’

  ‘Well, if you could just check for me that Ms Reynolds is available, I’ll talk to the theatre management here about exact dates and—’

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t even put such a vague proposition forward for Miss Reynolds’ consideration.’ Turner was gathering confidence as the voice on the other end of the line lost it. ‘I suggest that you speak to your masters and come back to us with a firm proposition, Mr Datchet. Dates, length of run, proposed supporting cast and salary. The fuller the detail, the more likely it is that I shall be able to advise Peg Reynolds to consider your offer.’

  ‘I’ll do that. I’ll get all the detail I can. I’m sorry, but I forgot your name.’

  ‘Turner is my name. James Turner. You may direct any correspondence to me, at Miss Reynolds’ address.’

  ‘I’m not sure how far the budget will stretch on this one. It will depend on our total outlay for the year, I presume, and what other productions might cost.’

  ‘Of course it will, Mr Datchet. And art comes before profit with Miss Reynolds; that is why I have to be careful to protect her interests. She has offers on the table from Hollywood agents, offers you could not possibly match. But you should not lose hope: if a theatrical proposition excites Peggy and makes her feel that it would help her to develop and extend her craft as an actor, she will put that before mere money; she has never been a worshipper of Mammon. But Saint Joan is a demanding role, and the rewards will need to be realistic before I can even encourage my client to consider your offer. We shall need everything in writing before we can weigh the pros and cons against other roles which are being offered. I look forward to speaking with you again in the near future, Mr Datchet. In the meantime, thank you for your interest.’

  James put the hotel phone down and smiled at it for a long time. He’d positively enjoyed that – the first thing he could remember enjoying in many weeks, apart from the fleeting ecstasy of orgasm. Perhaps he should consider becoming an agent. He had something worthwhile to sell, with Peg. And she needed this kind of protection: if she’d answered the phone, she would have been so pleased to be offered such a plum role at such a reputable theatre that she’d probably have accepted there and then, without even asking about money.

  The right questions and the right attitude for an agent had dropped upon him without his needing to think about them. Perhaps that is what he should become: an agent for others, not a perpetually out-of-work actor. He hadn’t heard of many agents going bankrupt. Football agents made ridiculous sums. He might not get into that league, but he could make a fat living in show business, if it was all as easy as this. And all this bluff and counter-bluff was really a sort of acting, wasn’t it? He wasn’t actually deserting his principles.

  He went out into the warm day, savouring the light breeze wafting in over the Wye, reliving again the exhilaration of his phone conversation. The lane which had accommodated several couples last night was deserted now. He looked across to the crime scene as he drew level with the end of the car park. The police still had it fenced off, but it looked as if they were preparing to drive Clark’s Jaguar away – for further forensic examination, no doubt.

  A young uniformed constable was standing beside the driver’s door, exactly where James had stood for a moment in the darkness last night.

  FIFTEEN

  It was early afternoon and Martin Buttivant was feeling quite pleased. He’d successfully completed quite a long scene in the morning and there was only one short exchange with a new young stage constable this afternoon to conclude his work on the location shooting. Most of his serious work was done in the studio. Back there were unchanging models of Inspector Loxton’s CID section and home, where his humorous exchanges with his wife showed the lighter, off-duty side of Ben Loxton.

  The major task in the day for him was this second interview with the genuine CID bigwigs. It felt very odd for Martin to be involved in a real murder investigation rather than the often sensational fictional ones he investigated as Inspector Ben Loxton. It was even odder to be now a suspect rather than the man in charge of swiftly concluded enquiries. He’d need to be careful, he kept reminding himself. But once he’d negotiated this latest exchange with the fuzz, he’d be able to relax.

  Martin installed himself in the chair provided and said, ‘You have your job to do and I appreciate that, more than most perhaps. But it would be a help if we could get this over swiftly to allow me to concentrate on my work here.’

  ‘Where you are playing a fictional detective. That must feel rather strange for you, in these circumstances.’

  Lambert had echoed his own thought as he stepped into the murder room. ‘Yes. I keep feeling I should apologize to you. You’re the real thing and I’m a fictional sham, earning more than either of you for pretending to be a detective.’

  Lambert smiled grimly. ‘The crimes we’re investigating are real enough and quite shocking. The context is the only unusual thing for us. I’m approaching the end of a lengthy CID career and it’s the first time I’ve had to investigate a murder among professional actors. And now we have not one killing but two. We also have a diminished number of suspects. We are satisfied that it was someone staying in the hotel who engineered last night’s killi
ng of Ernest Clark, and only the major members of the cast were accommodated there.’

  Martin forced a smile. ‘It’s taken me years to attain that sort of standing. I didn’t have it until I secured the role of Ben Loxton, in fact. I’ve stayed in some pretty grotty places when I’ve been on location shooting, in the past. Now I’ve reached the elite and elevated myself to the role of murder suspect at the same time.’

  ‘We’d like to eliminate you from that role, if we can.’

  Martin smiled again, trying to show how much at ease he was. He actually felt genuinely relaxed, but he knew that might be dangerous; he needed to stay alert here. ‘You sound almost like me as Ben Loxton.’ He dropped into a deeper and more sombre voice for his parody. ‘“We proceed by elimination, sir. If you can provide us with an alibi, we shall be only too pleased to move on to the investigation of others.”’

  Lambert grinned as he was meant to at the parody, but his steady grey eyes remained fixed on Buttivant’s face. ‘You didn’t like Sam Jackson. You certainly weren’t alone in that. How did you get on with Ernie Clark?’

  ‘I didn’t know Ernie anything like as well as Sam. He was a more self-effacing character. Sam was in your face the whole time, looking for ways to demean you. There was a method in it – if he could denigrate you and degrade your stature in the profession, he could pay you less. He called it keeping you in your place.’

  ‘Mr Clark was also a producer and therefore presumably also preoccupied with costs and resources. He had the same information which helped to make Samuel Jackson so objectionable and so efficient, didn’t he?’

  Martin Buttivant told himself to remain alert. They knew more than he had thought they would; perhaps, indeed, they now knew more than he did about the late assistant producer of the Loxton series. ‘Yes. It seems to me from what others in the cast have said that Sam Jackson passed on all the squalid information he had gathered over the years to his assistant. I suppose you’d have expected that, but somehow I’d thought that Sam was a one-off, gathering scandal and hugging it to himself rather than keeping his deputy informed of what he was about.’