Classic Calls the Shots

by Amy Myers

  ‘What’s happening?’ I asked. ‘Is the film still going on?’

  ‘Yes. Bill wasn’t—’

  Bill whirled round – he had sharp ears – and snapped that he wanted no ‘garbage talk’. ‘Yes, it’s going on. We’re going on. I don’t give way to anything, not even this.’

  I drew Louise out of earshot, sensing something might have happened that I didn’t yet know about. I was right.

  ‘Tom’s been arrested,’ she said.

  My heart sank. ‘For what?’

  ‘Joan’s murder, but maybe Angie’s too. We don’t know. That’s why Bill’s in such a state. Roger’s going to make an announcement about the film at midday, but meanwhile Bill insists on filming as though it’s going ahead. But Tom – oh, Jack, it’s the last straw. How could he possibly have killed Joan? They were close friends.’

  ‘Arresting him doesn’t mean they’ll be able to charge him,’ I pointed out. I knew Brandon though. If he’d had his eye on Tom all the time and left it too long with the result that Joan had died too, he’d press on hard with every bit of evidence he could find.

  ‘But Bill denies making any such arrangement with Joan to go to Nemesis, and Tom’s story about a radio call telling him not to come to the Manor with the storyboards turns out not to be from Bill but from one of the runners, but none of them admits to calling him. What does it all mean, Jack?’

  I remembered Pen’s theory that Bill had murdered Angie, and I remembered Bill’s fury yesterday in Roger’s office, when he himself realized that he might be being fitted up for Joan’s murder. But Bill was a clever man – and knew both I and Brandon would see that the garage doors were self locking, and that in theory he might have killed Joan and then locked himself in. I warned myself that careful driving was called for here. Slippery surface ahead.

  I slipped in to the canteen where the midday meeting was being held. Roger had decided on democracy by holding a vote for continuing or abandoning the film at least temporarily. Put that way, he won almost the whole company to his side, as perhaps he had calculated. It was a go-ahead. Sunday would be a free day but on Monday morning filming would recommence at the studios. One or two dissented and some of the crew and cast had other commitments, which would take some sorting out and the canteen and green room were both abuzz with talk while arrangements were discussed.

  ‘How are you placed, Louise?’ I asked her, fearing her answer.

  ‘I’m staying,’ she told me to my relief. She made a face. ‘But I’ve had enough of that hotel. You were right about its being the right place to be last night, but now I need some distance.’

  I held my breath. ‘They say Frogs Hill has good air at this time of year.’

  ‘That sounds just fine.’

  A whole day to ourselves. Louise brought her luggage at lunchtime and settled into the farmhouse, because Roger had freed them from midday. That afternoon I had a date already fixed with Dave and Brandon, weekend or not, but on Sunday, glorious Sunday, I would be free and so would Louise.

  ‘Let’s go over the hills and far away,’ Louise said.

  ‘Seaside?’

  ‘Countryside? Picnic?’

  That was agreed.

  Then fate stepped in. As it was Saturday, the Pits had officially closed at one o’clock before Louise and I had reached Frogs Hill, but Zoe had stayed on to finish a job, noted Louise’s car arriving and came over to see us.

  ‘I thought you and Louise might want to go the Marsham Hall Fun Day tomorrow,’ she said brightly.

  It sounded ghastly. ‘No thanks.’

  ‘But it has that classic car show. I thought you knew it. It was pretty good last year. I kept my ear to the ground, just as you told me, and guess who tripped over it?’

  ‘Rob?’ I asked mildly.

  A scathing look. ‘Your chum Nigel will be there.’

  FOURTEEN

  The moment I walked in I could see Dave was in hedging mode. Shifty would be a less polite way of putting it. Usually he’s happy to chat freely, but not today and not just because he dislikes having to work on Saturdays. Perhaps it was because I’d come to the dragons’ den ostensibly to see what was happening on the classic car front, but in reality to find out why Tom had been arrested. Dave prefers his chats somewhere quiet – quiet in his view anyway – such as a pub where he fondly imagines he is invisible, but today that had not been possible.

  ‘The film-set murders’, as the media termed them, were high profile, with the eyes of the world upon them, and I knew Brandon must be feeling the pressure. Once upon a time, the answer was simple: ‘Call in the Yard’. Nowadays the Serious Crime Directorate for Kent and Essex, which currently included him, had the spotlight of the world’s press on it. Pen must be a positive pussy cat compared with what he must be facing.

  Dave guessed quite well what I was here for, but couldn’t give me the answers himself. ‘Hopkins isn’t yet charged. Looks possible though,’ was all he could contribute.

  ‘What’s he got on him?’ I asked. ‘And is it Angie or Joan or both?’

  ‘Pass.’

  ‘I don’t see it. Tom’s no murderer.’

  ‘Don’t tell me he’s not the sort.’

  ‘He’s not the sort.’

  Dave sighed. ‘That’s why you’re not in our shoes. I let Brandon know you were honouring us with your presence. He wants to see you. For all our sakes, give him good news if you can.’

  Fat chance, I thought, as I filled Dave in on my latest Biddington theory. Police stations, like hospitals, march to a different tune from the outside world. Their rules rule, and no arguing. By the time I reached Brandon’s office, under the protection of a PC in case I decided to rob the canteen till en route, I was beginning to feel like a policeman myself. I was glad I wasn’t, even though I had no magic wand of good news to wave at Brandon.

  He nodded anyway, and informed me that it was good to see me. I’d have liked a little more clarity on exactly why. Until recently his sole ambition had been to throw me into a cell and chuck the key away.

  ‘You’ll want to know about Hopkins. We’ll have to charge him soon.’

  ‘Or release him.’

  His eyes gleamed. ‘Any reason why we should?’

  Once I had bitten back my instinctive reply – ‘Any reason why you shouldn’t?’ – he indicated that the initial sparring was over and we could get down to business.

  ‘Dave Jennings tells me you’re following a hunch about Nigel Biddington being deep into car crime.’

  ‘It’s still a possibility.’

  ‘Taking you anywhere?’

  ‘Not far,’ I admitted, ‘but there’s hope. Circumstantial at present.’

  Brandon did not look impressed and I couldn’t blame him. ‘Circumstantial is all we’ve got on Hopkins. He was around at the time of both murders, he had a motive for Angie Wade’s murder and for Joan’s too if she’d cottoned on to his role in the earlier death. Bill Wade denies any plan to meet Joan Burton at this temple place and Hopkins, like several people, knew she was going there. The runners all deny calling him to cancel the manor appointment and so does Bill Wade. What’s more, Hopkins admits he went up to the temple himself not just the first time when filming was still going on, but again after he got the call.’

  That set me back a few notches. This was sounding bad.

  ‘Bill Wade’s story,’ Brandon continued, ‘is that he had a dinner date with Sir John and was expecting to see Hopkins before that. Then he was called to the garage by Security. Denied by them. What we don’t have on Hopkins – yet – is forensic backup.’

  ‘What’s his explanation about going to the temple? Looks as if he really did have a call or why would he go up there?’

  Brandon looked at me in a kindly fashion, and I couldn’t blame him. ‘Because he didn’t have a call and he knew Joan would be on her own. That’s our take. His is that he took this famous call around seven forty-five; it was a woman’s voice and she was one of the runners with a message for him
from Bill Wade. All quite normal, apparently. The message was that Wade was cancelling the meeting because he was meeting Joan Burton at the temple over some lighting problem. Hopkins claims that, not wanting to leave this storyboard question dangling, he went up to the temple half an hour or so later where he expected to find Bill. He wasn’t there, and Joan was, highly annoyed at being kept waiting. Hopkins claims he found her alive and left her the same way. If so, she was dead not long afterwards.’

  That call . . . I remembered the female gardeners whom Angie might have thought were calling her down to the garden. ‘Could there have been two of them in it?’ I suggested. ‘The caller and the murderer?’

  ‘Not likely in a murder case. Hopkins claimed he was in the canteen after he returned from the temple. No one confirms it so far.’

  ‘Short on alibis then.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘So where do I come in?’ There had to be some reason Brandon actually wanted to see me.

  ‘Nigel Biddington, if he’s still in the frame for car crime.’

  ‘It’s wobbly. What worries me though—’

  ‘Is that it’s a big jump from car crime to double murder.’

  ‘Precisely,’ I commented. ‘Glad you think so too.’

  ‘You’re too kind,’ Brandon murmured. ‘If there’s nothing concrete over Biddington, however, it means I’ll have to draw a line under your official collaboration. Anything more though, and you’ll still be under an obligation to tell us.’

  Not exactly surprising news, and nor was Dave’s response when I asked him how his budget was looking.

  ‘Bust,’ he told me. ‘Sorry about that.’

  I believed him but so was I. The mortgage was due. I murmured about my last invoice which was as yet unpaid and he murmured about these things taking time to process. He did kindly add that he’d do his best. Apart from the Pits income (if any) all I had in the way of work was my obligation to Bill, which in the present circumstances can’t have been high on his agenda.

  The prospect of living with Louise, however temporarily, was both delight and torment. It had been a long time since I’d shared living space with anyone. Four years ago crocks and pans had flown across the room as Liz Potter had thrown me out of her house, and I was fearful of something similar happening again. That Saturday evening, however, daily life looked suspiciously easy, and I could grow used to Louise’s help over dealing with dishwashers and conjuring up pastas. It was even easier as regards the romantic side of our relationship. Made in heaven it seemed, and living it was paradise. Too easy? Well, why knock that?

  ‘It’s good to be here,’ Louise said happily. ‘First of all, there’s you. But you here is even better. I felt like I was living in a goldfish bowl at the studios and hotel,’ she confessed. ‘The eyes of the world are on us now, expecting us to be picked off one by one.’

  ‘Not all journalists are like Pen.’

  ‘If we were picked off one by one, no one would turn down a story like that,’ she pointed out mildly, then managed a laugh as she saw my face. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not going to turn into a murdering serial killer or be a victim of one. It doesn’t help that Julia Danby is the villain of Dark Harvest though. I could do with a spot of being whiter than white. Brian feels the same way as the duplicitous Lord Charing. We saw the rushes of our flashback sex scene this afternoon. Torrid stuff. They weren’t good and we both knew it. So does Bill.’

  ‘It’ll be OK in the end,’ I said, without much conviction I fear. ‘You all feel bad, but you’re pros. What comes out will be your best work.’

  ‘I hope you’re right,’ she replied fervently. ‘It’s not just me. Tom’s arrest really was the last straw.’

  I couldn’t tell her the true situation. ‘He might be free by now.’

  ‘Let’s hope. It’s hanging over us like a thunderstorm about to break. It’s as though misfortune were stalking us, giving us little jabs and big jabs alternately, and we can never shake it off. We won’t until it’s too late and we’re all caught in the trap. Does that sound crazy?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I was stalked once, someone who had a grudge against me because I got a part that they wanted.’

  ‘That rings a bell. Some Victorian murderer. Can’t place it.’

  ‘It’ll come back.’

  ‘Like Pen.’

  She laughed. ‘I think we’ve seen her off for a while.’

  ‘Do you?’ I said politely. ‘Ever optimistic, aren’t you?’

  ‘It’s not funny, though,’ she said soberly. ‘We’re none of us giving our best. The audience won’t know that, but Roger does, and so does Bill. And yet they can’t just postpone filming till we all feel better. It would cost the earth to get us all together again, even if it’s practically possible. The end of next week is the absolute limit for me. It’s not just the murders, it’s this horrible feeling that some dark shadow hangs over us all. Whether that comes from the film or from somewhere else, I can’t tell. It’s like being in a cage.’

  This sounded bad. ‘Even at Frogs Hill?’

  ‘No, thankfully.’ She smiled at me.

  ‘We’ve got tomorrow to ourselves.’

  ‘At a car show?’

  Louise had insisted that we take up Zoe’s suggestion – she wanted to beard my fantasy about Nigel, as she called it, in a suitable den. Besides, she liked making up picnics, she told me.

  ‘Classic car enthusiasts only have eyes for cars. They won’t even notice you,’ I assured her.

  She giggled and the real evening began.

  Fun Day at Marsham Hall is an annual event, and probably because of its name, I hadn’t been here before. One look at it and I kicked myself for prejudice. Firstly, classic cars were going to loom large judging by the numbers and quality of those I could see in the parking area. Secondly, the hall itself was a marvel to behold. I’d looked it up on the Internet but nothing prepared me for the real thing.

  It was built by an eccentric artist in the late nineteenth century who not only designed the house but the gardens as well. Fantasy was his line, so turrets, fairy-tale crenellations and towers abounded on the hall’s exterior and the gardens looked an idyllic paradise of waterfalls, streams, and glades mixed with a child’s fantasy world of witch houses, giant mushrooms, and ponds with delightful large frogs painted bright green. It sounds garishly awful, but it had been done with such taste that it wasn’t.

  The hall is now run by a charitable trust, and inside, apart from the private apartments in which the family still lives, is mostly devoted to displaying the eccentric collections of its successive eccentric owners. Events loom large in the trust’s calendar, of which Fun Day is only one. Classic cars were awarded a large field adjacent to the gardens, which was gently sloped so that it could clearly be seen from the gardens if the admiring owners could detach themselves for long enough to join their families picnicking there. If the weather had the ill manners to rain during the day, we were told that visitors could make for the nearest pub or the restaurant in the house – or as third and best choice owners could sit proudly in their beloved cars.

  Luckily for Louise, who did not reap the same pleasure as I did out of car-fancying, it was relatively sunny and would be possible for a welcome few hours to pretend that the world of Nemesis and murder was in some other galaxy.

  Louise had decreed that we would take the picnic of our dreams, which thanks to an early opening supermarket was a dream that didn’t turn into a nightmare. There had only been one awkward moment as we set off to drive here. Louise thought to ask me whether I would have bothered to come if it hadn’t been for my fixation on Nigel.

  ‘I’ve no idea if he’ll be there or not,’ I answered truthfully enough. ‘Zoe could be wrong.’

  She made no comment, but had snapped the lid of the picnic basket shut with considerable force. She and I had decided to drive to Marsham Hall in the Lagonda and Zoe told us vaguely that she would see us there.

  ‘I’ll leave you to y
our twenties replay,’ she said.

  ‘The Lagonda is a 1938.’

  ‘Let’s pretend,’ Louise suggested. ‘The twenties are more romantic, and I’m beginning to be heartily sick of the thirties.’

  We had duly roared in about noon to admiring glances from aficionados. There was a great turn out. Talk was in full flood, with small groups standing admiringly by some cars, others ignored. I took a quick tour around and saw Zoe’s Fiesta. I didn’t expect to see Len. Mrs Len isn’t a car person, but Zoe said he might turn up with his ‘missis’ later. I have rarely met ‘the missis’ or his children, who are now grown up with families of their own. That makes Len a grandfather, but to me his children are the classics he has serviced regularly for more than one generation.

  As I looked around, I felt this was a world away from Stour Studios and despite my ulterior motive in wondering whether Nigel might be here in his possible role of spotter or organizer of a car theft gang, I was determined to enjoy it.

  Picnicking was already under way in the gardens and indeed in the car park area where proud owners often prefer to sit in chairs to talk cars while they eat. My lingering here would hardly be fair on Louise, however, and having polished a tiny bit of dust off the Lagonda in the hope of winning Car of the Show award, I tore myself away from my second beauty in the interests of escorting the first.

  We found a secluded spot by a small artificial stream with a particularly attractive frog, only to find that it wasn’t secluded enough. Hidden by what we thought was a large bush, we found Zoe and Rob munching what looked like cold pizza. I hoped for Zoe’s sake that I was wrong. They greeted me without enthusiasm.

  ‘Hi,’ Zoe said.

  ‘Hi,’ said Rob, just a second short of rudeness, as he decided whether to acknowledge our presence or not. ‘Someone’s looking for you, Jack.’

  ‘Nigel?’ Louise asked sweetly.

  ‘Right. He’s giving Clarissa a day out,’ Rob told me. ‘He knows the owner of this pile and thought she’d enjoy it. Cyril’s a nice old fellow. Chum of my dad’s,’ he added.

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Who wants me?’