by Amy Myers
Brian and I remained outside the gates for some while as the camera crew fixed angles in the drive and the gaffer’s team and sound technicians prepared for shooting. Eventually my great moment came. I was told to drive some way back, turn and be ready for the shot. Then I heard ‘master’, the clapperboard snap shut and then came the magic word ‘action’. I was Hastings in his Lagonda in the Poirot series, I told myself, trying to adopt his look of grim devotion at the wheel, as I drove the Lagonda back towards the gates – the idea was that the engine should be heard before the car actually turned into the gates. I liked that touch. The Lagonda’s engine is one sweet purr. And then I made my triumphant way through the open gates. I was on film. The cameras were rolling.
Not for long, I have to admit. The word ‘cut’ rang in my ears, and Bill demanded a retake. Then another. And another. The Lagonda was beginning to baulk at yet another turn in a bumpy gateway, but at last Bill was satisfied and Brian came forward to take my place. I kept pace with him and the crew as they advanced up the drive, in case Brian had difficulties, but he managed well (albeit with two or three extra takes of his own, which made me feel better).
Divorced even so temporarily from my outsider’s position I could appreciate better the unity that held cast and crew together. I could understand the spell that Running Tides might still be casting over those involved in both films, no matter whether they were stars, management, actors, extras or crew. But Angie had been murdered, and it was possible that that unity had been broken.
The consensus was that the day’s filming had gone well. The Lagonda scene was the last to be shot and by a mere seven p.m. I was free and so was Louise, which left the evening for us to share – or so I hoped. I had still not yet managed to speak to her in person and finally resorted to calling her mobile to leave a message. Luckily she happened to be in her caravan, and so the evening, and night, lay ahead.
I drove Len and Zoe back to Frogs Hill in the Lagonda, and then came back to meet Louise, assuming that we would eat at a local pub without the hordes watching our every move.
‘We could get a takeaway and eat at Frogs Hill,’ she suggested.
‘You’re a dream.’
‘No, all too real. Are you on?’
‘Eat at a pub near Frogs Hill?’
‘Done.’
There was no one around in the car park to be remotely interested, and so I took her into my arms and kissed her. It was a fairly long kiss and it was being returned with enthusiasm when I came briefly up for air and saw we were no longer alone. I groaned. Pen was studying us with great interest, nose twitching, the dear little ferret.
‘Pen—’ I began.
‘Jack,’ she interrupted. ‘I hope I’m the first to hear your happy news.’
The last thing Louise needed was this kind of publicity. There was no reason she and I shouldn’t be a couple, as we were both single, but I have a funny preference for keeping my love life to myself. I imagined that Louise shared this view and with much more reason. I’d never seen anything about her private life in the press and was certain she would want to keep it that way.
There was only one way out, and I was forced to take it. ‘I’ll swap you, Pen. Collaboration for letting Louise and me off the hook.’
To my astonishment Pen had no chance to reply and I was physically and vocally pushed aside as Louise took to the battlefield. ‘No deals, Jack. No need for them. Pen and I understand each other very well, don’t we?’
Pen was knocked off course – for the first time ever in my experience. ‘Do we?’ she asked cautiously.
‘Certainly we do. You go ahead and print a photo of us – I’m sure you’ve already taken one or two on your mobile. And do please print an outrageous story about us in your newspaper.’
I gazed at her, wondering whether I’d figured Louise out correctly, as she continued, ‘I shall be interested to read it. Especially as on the day before you will be reading a similar story written by me in the Kent Evening Star, and possibly in all the tabloids too. You publish on a Wednesday, so I can give my exclusive to the Star for their Tuesday edition.’
Pen got the message. Oddly she didn’t seem to mind. ‘You’re ace, Louise,’ she said admiringly. ‘I could give it to the tabloids right away, but I think I’ll keep it on file, OK?’
‘Any point saying no?’ Louise asked.
‘No.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ Louise said casually. Pen looked suspicious but Louise refused to elaborate – even to me, but then we had better things to think about than Pen. Not only think, but do. I didn’t consider what might lie ahead for us in the future, and I doubt if Louise did either, but whatever it was the present was enough.
The next morning Louise had again vanished by the time I woke up. Bill had called the cast even for today, and our quiet planned Sunday was doomed. Which made it all the harder to remember that I had to speak to Harry Prince and I might as well get it over with, Sunday or not.
I drove over to Charden, without much idea of how to approach the matter of Shotsworth Security. I rather fancied Lewis Carroll’s method in his poem about the old man a-sitting on the gate. ‘Come, tell me how you live,’ orders the narrator, ‘and thumped him on the head.’
Somehow though I didn’t think Harry would appreciate this. When I arrived, his wife opened the door. Jackie is a peach, and I like her very much. ‘Afraid he’s out, Jack.’
‘Odd. I did ring,’ I said pleasantly.
‘His memory’s getting awful.’ Jackie giggled. ‘Want a coffee?’
I was tempted, but decided against. Harry undoubtedly was here and it would be fun to make him cool his heels wherever he was hidden, but pointless. Instead I pondered over just why he didn’t want to meet me. It was strange. Usually he’s very keen indeed to see me, hoping I want to throw myself on his mercy and ask him to take over Frogs Hill. It didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to work out therefore that Harry must be edgy over Shotsworth Security. I’d like to think he had objected to the way I was duffed up but I doubted that very much. What it did mean was that tracking down good old Nathan in his new assignment should be priority.
Dave had given me the details and I found it quite easily. Helsted was a larger affair than Gladden with four parking levels, and was so called because it was on an eighteenth-century smuggling route from the Seasalter coast. I was looking forward to my reunion with Nathan, and relished the look on his face when I pulled up at his booth. I’d like to say he looked as jolly as ever, but today he was distinctly sullen, as though the old amusement arcade attraction the Laughing Sailor had suddenly turned into Captain Hook.
‘What do you want?’ Nathan snarled.
‘First to show you my police badge.’
He didn’t even bother to look at it.
‘And then to park my car,’ I told him amiably.
‘Then what?’
‘I thought I’d just wander round. Want to come with me?’
He didn’t accept my offer. There were quite a few classics in the car park, but mostly they looked in use and without that forlorn look that unloved cars (and people) can acquire. To my pleasure I spotted several under wraps – cars, not people. Before I began to investigate them, however, I returned to friend Nathan.
‘Got a list of the cars under wraps?’
‘No,’ he snapped. ‘Permanents. Ring Mr Shotsworth. He’ll have the details.’
‘Have any arrived or left since you’ve been here?’
‘I have to sleep some nights. Might be whizzing ’em in and out all the time when I’m off duty.’
‘They wouldn’t be under wraps then, would they?’
Nathan found logic too hard to deal with, so I returned to my prey. I didn’t find the Aston Martin, but I did score a bullseye. Securely wrapped up was a pearl cast amongst the mundane swine.
It was Dave’s missing Bugatti and it made my day.
ELEVEN
Dave fastened on to my phone call like a seized wheel-bearing. No long wa
it this time. His team was at the car park within thirty minutes and I left them to it.
Back at Frogs Hill, I basked in my own glory for a while, then remembered that although this move might or might not be a step forward in my assignment for Dave, it was no indication that it had any connection to Angie Wade’s death or to Nigel Biddington, save that the same security firm was involved. Consequently there was unfinished business.
I was cheered by the signs of Louise left from her snatched breakfast – the half grapefruit left in the fridge, the banana skin in the composting box and the crisp packet wedged under the rubbish bin lid. Hardly romantic memorabilia, but they served as welcome signals. The filming of Dark Harvest was soon going to come to an end and what happened then between Louise and myself would be up for grabs. So would my present assignments. I could not claim the Auburn was an ongoing case much longer, and I doubted if my hunt for Angie’s killer would outlast filming. Still, there was no point looking at the chequered flag while taking a tricky corner at speed.
Speed had to wait until Monday, however. Nothing was going to move on the car front until then at least, and I knew that Oxley Productions was frantically trying to catch up with the schedule.
On Monday, while I was in the Pits endeavouring to sort out where Len and Zoe were with the work load there, my mobile rang and I took it into the yard where the reception is better. It was Harry Prince.
‘Jack, my old mate,’ came his booming voice. ‘Sorry to have missed you yesterday.’
Something was up. For Harry, yesterday was yesterday. He wasn’t into politeness where business was concerned, and I was definitely considered business.
‘I’m sorry too,’ I said cordially. ‘No problem though. I paid an interesting visit to Helsted car park. Met one of your employees. Nathan. I think he’s the man—’
‘Wouldn’t know about that, Jack,’ he told me hastily.
‘Pity,’ I remarked. ‘It holds the most interesting cars. The Kent Police Car Crime Unit dropped in later to take one away. Fancy finding a stolen Bugatti there. And so recently after their visit to Gladden, also guarded by Shotsworth Security.’
‘Nothing to do with me.’ His voice had risen a note or two. ‘That’s what I wanted to tell you.’
‘Really?’
‘Me and Mark Shotsworth had a talk,’ Harry pressed on. ‘The long and short of it is that I’m cutting loose from the firm. Can’t keep my eye on every ball to see where it’s bouncing. I drive on a straight road. You know me, Jack.’
I admitted that I did.
‘I’m a garage man, not security and all that stuff. I’ve decided to leave that to those who know the business. Hands on, not off. Understand me? Mark did. All friendly.’
I hoped Harry was right for his own sake. I was still suffering from the results of a non-friendly encounter with Shotsworth Security. ‘Is that all you wanted to tell me?’
‘Sure. Didn’t want you to get the wrong idea.’
‘Don’t worry, Harry. I never do. Not with you.’
The message was clear. Harry Prince was clambering as fast as he could out of dangerous waters. Any fish he wanted to fry, dirty or clean, would come from safer ponds. ‘Now you’re no longer part of Shotsworth, Harry,’ I continued, ‘I’m sure Dave Jennings would like to have a word with you about it.’
‘Rather not,’ came the instant reply. He’d obviously foreseen that risk. ‘That’s why I rang you, Jack. There’s still the paperwork to do, and all that stuff. All going through quickly. I’ve no active part any more, but I’m still tied up with it. See what I mean?’
‘I do. What active part were you playing, Harry?’
A split-second pause. ‘Only a manner of speech, mate.’
‘I’ll explain that to Dave.’
Harry then got very ratty for some reason. ‘Let’s talk plain, Jack. I didn’t know what was going on, and I still don’t. That clear?’
‘So you don’t know who kicked me senseless at Gladden last week?’
Harry grew very silent, and then said, ‘No I bloody don’t and that’s what sent me to Mark. Not that he had anything to do with it,’ he added hastily, ‘but I believe in being safe.’
‘Of course. Any help you can give me on cars and Stour Studios, Harry, to show your good intentions?’
A long pause. ‘Nothing, and that’s the truth.’
In case the phone was tapped, I didn’t comment, but I was prepared to give Harry some credit.
Whether Dave Jennings would was another matter.
I heard nothing further from Dave on what had transpired after my visit to Helsted car park. Stour Studios was now cleared, but filming was still continuing at Syndale Manor and Louise told me they were now shooting in the gardens, in particular by the lake and temple. The latter was an eighteenth-century folly and had at first been deemed too decrepit for use. Bill, however, egged on by Tom, had been seized by its possibilities. There might be secret meetings between guests in the folly, Tom told me, giving a sense of old ages passing away and politicians oblivious to the new trends in Europe. The DOP had been working overtime to get the necessary repairs carried out to meet H & S standards.
As for us, when Louise had time between calls and in what was left of the evenings, we went walking in the Kentish countryside, through apple orchards and strawberry farms, through meadows and woods, beside rivers and ponds. We followed the Jane Austen trail around Godmersham, as Louise took a fancy to seeing where Jane Austen used to stay on her visits to Kent, then drove to Godinton and Goodnestone, which were quietly slumbering off the beaten track and looking much as they must have looked in Austen’s day. I murmured about Julius Caesar and his camp on the Pilgrims Way, but battles didn’t interest Louise so much. We ate in pubs so remote that even Pen Roxton would never find us.
On Wednesday however Louise returned too tired even to go out and brought an Indian takeaway with her.
‘Filming not going well?’ I asked, concerned.
‘Superficially, it’s fine, but the pressure is beginning to get to Bill. The ideas are all there, but then his mind calls wrap. He’s trying hard, but the soul is missing.’
‘Couldn’t that be down to the police investigation?’
‘Could be. DI Brandon came to see him yesterday. After that, Bill was closeted with Roger for an hour. Don’t know what that was about. The sergeant was whipping around everywhere with questions for everyone. It’s throwing us off course, naturally enough. We try to live completely in the nineteen thirties and are dragged back to the twenty-first century just as we’re settling in. Don’t get me wrong, Jack. We want Angie’s killer caught, and the police have to find him, but it’s hard to concentrate on work.’
I tried to put myself in her place. ‘Would it help if you thought of the thirties and the police investigation as being on parallel lines? In the film you’re living in the shadow of the First World War and of what might happen in the future. Isn’t living with the police around the same – with the shadow of Angie’s death and the unanswered questions of what will happen next?’
Louise considered this. No instant answers for her. ‘You mean we should apply our current situation to the film, not fight against it.’
‘Yes. Is that psychological claptrap?’
She put her arm round me. ‘No. There is a dark edge to what’s happening to us, like the one Mosley and the Nazis created. It’s a shivering thought though. Is Angie’s death part of that? Does it mean there’s still something worse to come? Even that Pen Roxton’s theory might have something to it?’
She looked so upset that I hastened to reassure her. ‘There were plenty of motives for Angie’s murder, without accusing Bill.’
It didn’t help. ‘Tom?’ He wouldn’t, Jack. He really wouldn’t kill Angie, and anyway he’s one of us.’ Her voice rose.
And so was Nigel Biddington, I thought, aware that I had not heard from Dave.
The next day I did. He asked me to come over to HQ in Charing. That meant it was serious
. I was torn between wanting to believe Nigel was involved in some dirty work and finding it hard to reconcile with the Nigel I’d met.
Charing village is cut in two by the A20, and the police HQ is on the far side from the main street, as is the railway station. This is convenient for me, as they are both on the Pluckley road from which I turn off for Piper’s Green. It’s not so convenient if you want to see Charing itself, however. It’s an ancient village on the way to Canterbury with the ruins of a medieval bishop’s palace and a lovely old church, nestling in the lee of the downs. I always expect to see Miss Marple popping out of one of the timber-fronted cottages and shops. Police HQ is not a timber-fronted cottage, alas, nor does it house any Miss Marples. It’s a modern purpose-built block. Dave’s office is on the first floor so there is a good view of the Downs in compensation. Not that I get much chance to admire them.
‘Good news,’ Dave greeted me. He was in his breezy mode which sits oddly with his academic and organized appearance.
‘I’ve still got a job?’ Good news depends on the angle from which you’re looking.
‘You have. You’re high on my list of favourite people.’
This sounded really good. ‘I try my best,’ I said modestly.
Dave snorted with laughter. ‘Luck, that’s all it is. Now look, remember that Aston Martin you saw, the DB4, which then vanished?’ And when I nodded, he told me, ‘We’ve found it. Stolen all right, and false plates, but its chassis number doesn’t tie in. It’s not the one we were after.’
‘And that’s good news?’
‘Give me a break. That’s coming. There’s no sign of the Jag either.’
Nor of the promised good news yet. ‘And?’ I asked.
‘We did a check on the car parks guarded by Shotsworth Security, eight in all over our neck of Kent, and lo and behold we found six more classics in six different car parks. Not a lot, but this particular crew doesn’t seem to deal in numbers. It deals in quality and not getting caught. Until now, I trust.’
