Final Act

by J M Gregson

  ‘Clark knew the same damning facts about you which Jackson had used, didn’t he? You hadn’t expected that.’

  Martin licked his lips. This was a shock. He wasn’t a vain man, but playing the leading role in a successful television series made sure that everyone treated you with more respect and consideration than they had previously. People took care not to offend you and that gave you a kind of insulation against criticism. This grave, insistent man had no such inhibitions. ‘Ernie knew a lot of things, yes. I think because he’d been self-effacing whilst Sam was around, most of us hadn’t expected that. I suppose that was silly; you’d expect a producer to know everything that might work in his favour. But most actors aren’t good businessmen. They wouldn’t have chosen this profession if they were.’

  This was a little ironic, because he’d reminded them a couple of minutes ago that he earned more than either of them. But his point was valid; there were more out-of-work actors than out-of-work policemen. ‘You must have been disconcerted to discover how much he knew about you.’

  ‘More than I’d expected him to know, certainly.’ His mind was working furiously now, wondering how much he might safely conceal.

  ‘He knew about the porn film you made early in your career with Sandra Rokeby, for instance.’

  He told himself that he had known this was coming, but he was shaken nonetheless. He would have denied the episode elsewhere, but there was no point in doing that with the CID. ‘Ernie Clark knew about that, yes. Sam had passed the information on to him, or he’d looked through Sam’s files. Perhaps I should have expected it, but I didn’t.’

  ‘So you arranged to meet him, to discuss how he proposed to use this information – perhaps to do whatever you could to get him to suppress it. You told him you would meet him for a private exchange in the hotel car park last night.’

  ‘No. I might have wanted to meet him in due course, but I arranged nothing last night.’

  Lambert nodded slowly. ‘You see our problem, Mr Buttivant. It’s pretty clear that someone arranged to meet Mr Clark last night. Then, whether it was premeditated or on impulse, that person killed Mr Clark. Everyone we have spoken to so far denies arranging such a meeting. You are the latest one to do so. Yet you had probably the strongest motive of all for wishing to see Mr Clark permanently silenced.’

  ‘No! I am established in the role of Ben Loxton in what has proved to be a highly successful series. The worst Ernie could have done is to reduce or freeze my salary in exchange for his silence about this youthful escapade.’

  There was a pause while the three people in the room weighed the accuracy of the phrase as a summary of Martin Buttivant’s appearance with a glamorous member of the Hertfordshire Horrors’ cast in a squalid sexual romp. Then Hook said quietly, ‘There is a rumour that he was contemplating replacing you with a younger actor.’

  ‘That’s rubbish! That was never a serious proposition.’ Martin was shaken by this quiet, deadly contribution from such an unthreatening source. There is nothing that disturbs an actor more than his replacement in a role in which he considers he has been successful. It shakes him to his roots, apart from any financial implications. It seemed to Buttivant almost obscene that these people from outside the profession should even be aware of the suggestion. Yet they were and this was a murder investigation in which he was centrally involved. This was real life with a vengeance, as opposed to Inspector Loxton. He tried to organize his thoughts. ‘Sam issued a vague threat on those lines. I don’t believe it was anything more than another of his ploys to hold my salary steady rather than increase it as the series became even more successful. I can’t see that such internal squabbles would be of any interest to you.’

  Hook raised both eyebrows impressively; it wasn’t a move he was inclined to make very often. ‘Surely you can see that it is something we have to follow up, when we are investigating murder? It gives you the most obvious of motives. Did Mr Clark propose to implement this threat of replacement?’

  How much did they know? Were they tempting him to deny things so that he would place himself in an even more difficult position? Martin made a swift decision that he had much better be honest about this. ‘Ernie Clark came here on Wednesday afternoon to check how location filming was going. He said he wished to reassure us that Sam Jackson’s death wouldn’t make any difference to our present commitments. As we were breaking up for the day and preparing to go back to our hotel, he took me on one side. He made it clear that he knew everything about me that Sam had known. He said that he anticipated that I would continue to work on the series on the same terms as I had already agreed with Sam.’

  ‘Did you accept this?’

  ‘Not in so many words I didn’t. It wasn’t like signing my name on a contract. But Ernie’s expression was “we now both know the score”. He was right. I didn’t like it, but I had to accept that I stood exactly where I’d stood when Sam was controlling my life.’

  ‘But you didn’t like that?’

  Martin Buttivant forced a smile he did not feel. ‘I expect it sounds like greed to you, wanting more money when I’m already quite well paid. But you must try to understand the strange business in which we actors work. Word gets around. Agents pass information to other agents. Anyone who wishes to know will be able to find out what I earn without much difficulty. There has already been some speculation as to why I am earning in this series exactly what I earned in the last one. When it emerges that I shall be earning no more in next year’s series, the rumours will fly and multiply. That won’t do my future prospects any good.’

  ‘So you took steps to put things right. You arranged for Ernie Clark to meet you in the hotel car park.’

  ‘No I didn’t! I admit that I was very depressed to find that life hadn’t changed for me with Sam Jackson’s death. But I’d have thought twice about confronting Ernie. Don’t forget I’ve known him for several years now – never as a friend but as an employer. He had a lot less bluster than Sam, but he was in my opinion likely to be much more dangerous as an enemy.’

  ‘In what way dangerous?’

  Martin knew he was in too far to withdraw now. He couldn’t work out whether being frank was going to make him seem less guilty or more so. ‘He had his own gun. I’ve no idea how long he’d had it, but it was certainly years.’

  ‘What kind of gun?’

  ‘A pistol. We shouldn’t call them guns, should we? I’ve learned that much at least from playing Ben Loxton. A firearm. Definitely a pistol, but I’ve no idea what sort. We have them on set occasionally – never loaded, of course. But I take no notice of the details of the weapon. I’m strictly an actor, with as little use for a pistol as a Turkish scimitar in real life.’

  ‘So you would have expected Ernie Clark to defend himself last night.’

  ‘If he felt under threat, yes. I can only assume that he felt that there was no danger until it was too late. Perhaps he didn’t have his pistol with him, of course. It’s a couple of years since he told me he had it and I’ve no idea if he carried it about with him habitually. For all I know, he kept it locked in a drawer at home and never even thought about it. I’m sure he didn’t think of actors as being a physical threat to him.’

  ‘Not even after his immediate superior Sam Jackson had been murdered on Tuesday?’

  ‘Touché, detective sergeant. In the light of that, I’d perhaps have taken my pistol to any meeting if I’d been Ernie Clark, if only as a precaution.’

  Lambert, who hadn’t spoken for some time, now said very quietly, ‘You deny any personal connection with last night’s death, Mr Buttivant. So who do you suggest disposed of Ernest Clark so ruthlessly and efficiently?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve thought about it, naturally. I’m sure all of us have thought of little else, except when we had work to occupy us. But I am also sure that this death still seems as incredible to my colleagues as it does to me.’

  ‘Yet it’s now increasingly probable that one of you was responsible for both of the
se murders.’

  ‘I have to accept that. It still feels preposterous to me. Perhaps it was one of our support crew who had a grudge against our producers. I’m sure the truth, if it ever comes to light, will be sensational.’

  In that at least the man who played Inspector Ben Loxton was correct.

  Even on this warm May day, the man wore the brown trilby, which was his trademark. Rather an affectation, that, thought John Watts, as he led the way into his caravan and the privacy they needed for this discussion.

  Still, each to his own, and if you dealt for most of your days with actors you were used to affectations. This slightly portly man, who now removed the trilby to reveal thinning, slicked-back hair, watery grey eyes and a small but rather bulbous nose, was not a prepossessing figure. He looked like an unsuccessful shopkeeper. No one would have guessed from his appearance that this was one of the most powerful figures in British drama. The news of Richard Aitchison’s judgements travelled quickly around the land and his decisions were rarely overturned.

  Money brought power, reflected John Watts. It brought even more power in an industry which was chronically short of capital. Richard Aitchison, relaxing into a situation he felt he knew and understood, seemed suddenly more formidable than he had when levering himself out of his car and blinking in the bright sunlight of the location shooting site, where all was busy activity and everyone but he seemed to know whither they were bound. Aitchison leant back in his chair and smiled a little sourly. Then he looked approvingly at the gin and tonic which had been set on the small table beside him. He did not touch it as yet.

  ‘Bit of a crisis for you, this,’ he said with evident satisfaction.

  Watts hesitated. You couldn’t say that two brutal murders in three days were not a crisis without seeming unfeeling or unrealistic. Aitchison wouldn’t greatly mind unfeeling, but he’d frown severely upon the unrealistic. ‘From my point of view, it’s an inconvenience. No one liked Sam Jackson and I was never close to Ernie Clark. So I’m not stricken by grief. But of course I am shaken by these events, as we all are.’

  ‘Your sentiments do you credit,’ said Richard Aitchison dryly. He picked up his glass and savoured his first sip of the gin and tonic.

  ‘I have to be objective rather than sentimental. In these unique circumstances, it seems to me that it is the director’s remit to keep the show on the road.’

  ‘An expensive road, when these deaths come in the midst of the large outlays involved in location shooting.’

  ‘Sam Jackson controlled our expenditure pretty tightly, as you can imagine.’

  ‘And Ernie Clark too, I imagine. He had a commendable sense of economy, Ernie.’

  ‘Yes. And I’m happy to say that the police have allowed us to continue shooting here, despite the sensational crimes which have beset us.’

  ‘And despite the fact that you apparently have a murderer within your ranks.’ Aitchison sipped again and studied the slice of lemon floating within his cut-glass tumbler, as if the sight of it gave him exquisite satisfaction among these dire happenings.

  ‘Things have gone surprisingly well, in the circumstances. We’ve had more good first takes than I can remember on any previous location shoot. It’s almost as if the exceptional circumstances are making people concentrate on the matter in hand. Perhaps they’re relieved to be doing what they know best and what they’re here for.’

  Aitchison set down his drink and said, ‘But you have a financial crisis to contend with. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here.’

  ‘I wouldn’t call it a crisis. We have a series which is selling all round the world. I have no doubt at all that the Herefordshire Horrors will turn out to be another very successful episode amongst that series.’

  ‘It has certainly got a good start in advance publicity, with two murders in your midst and plastered all over the popular press. Public interest when this episode is eventually transmitted should be at an all-time high.’

  ‘It’s an ill wind, I suppose.’

  ‘But you need finance.’ Aitchison reiterated the thought as if it gave him great satisfaction among minor setbacks like murder.

  ‘We do. But I’m happy to report that it is rather a matter of choosing between competing agencies of support, rather than of trailing round cap in hand searching for angels.’

  ‘How gratifying for you! Perhaps my visit here today is superfluous, though I am thoroughly enjoying your agreeably strong mix of gin and tonic.’

  ‘Never superfluous, Richard! Rather is it that when you have an excellent product to sell you look to the best. And, sparing your blushes, I shall speak quite frankly and tell you that I regard you as the best. You have an unrivalled overview of our business and a proven record of success which now extends over many years.’

  Those phrases sounded as if they had been prepared and polished in advance, thought Aitchison. But he had no objection to that. A little deference and a well-honed respect were no bad preliminaries to an investment. ‘I might be prepared to offer my financial support, if the terms were suitable. You have as you say a proven product here.’ He looked around him and tried to feel at ease. He couldn’t remember ever negotiating in a caravan before. But needs must. He was anxious to get in on the Inspector Loxton series, though of course he wouldn’t dream of anything so naïve as a revelation of that.

  John Watts wasn’t going to underplay his own part in sustaining a successful series. He stood to make a lot of money from the week’s events and he had thought carefully about how he would go about it. ‘I know this series and the cast and technicians involved in it better than anyone else on earth. I shall keep it going during the next few weeks, whatever unwelcome revelations the CID might make to us.’

  ‘That will only have a positive effect, as we have already agreed. The greater the name which is eventually attached to these two killings, the greater and more enduring will be the publicity for not only this episode but for subsequent series.’

  That was enough of the preliminary fencing, thought Watts. They both knew why they were here. He knew that Aitchison was a hardheaded businessman, with much more experience of the financing of television drama than he had, but he was determined to turn this situation to his advantage. ‘I want in, Richard. I shall continue to direct and I know my cast better than anyone else. I’ll exploit this situation, not succumb to it.’

  ‘You’re saying that as director of the series you expect a rise. That would be not unreasonable, in view both of its continuing success and the way in which you seem confident you can handle the present crisis.’

  ‘I want more than that. I want a share in the profits. As a result of what has happened, I have been forced to become more than just a television director, even though my talents in that role will be stretched to their limits by the situation which now confronts me. If and when the mystery of these murders is resolved, I want more control.’

  It was what Aitchison had expected. The man most responsible for the success of any television drama series was the director, whatever romantic notions the public held about actors. Actors were important, once they established themselves in roles, because the public grew used to them and resented change. But very few actors were indispensable. It was the director who shaped a series and gave it its distinctive character, who looked ahead beyond particular scenes and even particular episodes and saw how a series might be shaped and developed. Richard had been prepared before he came here for the bid for control and riches that Watts was now making, and had prepared himself for it. ‘You’re currently earning £300,000 for each series of the Ben Loxton mysteries?’

  ‘Yes. It’s been that for the last two series. Sam Jackson didn’t believe in spending a penny more than he needed to.’

  Aitchison wondered for a moment if Jackson had exercised some control over his director, as he had over most of his actors. But that was not his concern this afternoon. ‘It’s a generous fee. But not over-generous, in view of the fact that you are now into the fourth series of what
has been a highly successful enterprise. Let’s assume for the moment that the next series is already funded, whether wholly by me or by a combination of backers. Exactly what are you proposing for yourself?’

  ‘I think it would be not unreasonable for my director’s fee to rise to £400,000. But I should be prepared to forgo any rise and put that extra £100,000 into the finances of the enterprise – in effect I would become an angel as well as the director. In exchange, I would expect a fair share of the gross profits from the enterprise.’

  ‘What kind of share?’

  This was where John Watts knew he was on tricky ground. With no previous experience of the risks and rewards of financing television drama, he had no real idea what would be a reasonable demand and what would be an outrageous one. ‘A quarter of the profits.’

  Richard Aitchison smiled patronisingly at such audacity. ‘Far too much, John. A tenth might be rather more realistic.’

  ‘I couldn’t settle for a tenth – not with the extra risk involved; I’d rather just increase my director’s salary.’

  Aitchison knew what he was prepared to concede, but of course if he could get away with less he was prepared to do so. They threw figures back and forth for a few minutes and eventually agreed that Aitchison would take over Sam Jackson’s role as financer-producer and that Watts would continue on his present director’s salary but collect a sixth of future profits.

  Aitchison had a second drink and Watts a first one to celebrate the agreement. Both were genuinely happy with the new arrangement. The fewer people who were in control, the better, Richard assured his new acolyte. He thought of Watts as acolyte in terms of financial control, though he generously called him partner as he left the caravan.

  The sun was still dazzlingly bright outside, but Richard felt rather less of a stranger and rather more proprietorial as he drove away from the location shoot. A good day’s work for both of them, this. He had secured himself the nearest thing to a cast-iron certain profit in a highly uncertain business, and Watts had edged his way into a share of the profits as well as direction.