When the Devil Drives

by Christopher Brookmyre

  ‘What do you remember of her?’

  ‘I remember thinking we had unearthed a gem. Quite simply, the woman could act. I know that sounds rather trite, but it was as true then as it is now that a young girl with a pretty face can have a lot of stage presence, often concealing a lack of true talent. The same goes for beautiful young men. Tessa was not classically good looking. She was far from unattractive, but it wasn’t her face that drew so much notice. She had real craft. As a result, she was incomparably adept at playing women older than herself.’

  Dorothy smiled wryly at a memory, casting her eyes to the apron as though Tessa Garrion was standing there.

  ‘She was Lysistrata. Quite brilliant. She could convey the sense of a young woman wise beyond her years, and she could truly convince as an older woman; which is not to say she couldn’t play a giddy young thing when required. But you have to understand that the wisdom and maturity were all in the performance. In person, there was probably more of the giddy young thing about her than the wise old head on young shoulders; though perhaps my impression was skewed by the maturity of her work, which tended to make one forget she was only in her early twenties. I don’t wish to imply that she was particularly giddy or impulsive; just that one noticed it more in contrast to her professional conduct.’

  ‘And what about her personal life?’ Jasmine asked. ‘Do you remember anything about that? Did she have anyone significant in her orbit at that time?’

  ‘I’m afraid I have less of a facility for recalling such details, unless they impacted professionally. She didn’t want for male attention, I remember that much, and she enjoyed it. Not in any kind of coquettish manner; she enjoyed male company. She held her own around men. She was the kind of young woman that men wished to impress, and by that I mean that first and foremost they wanted her to respect them, as opposed to merely wishing to possess her. What is your interest, incidentally?’

  ‘I’m trying to locate her for a relative. They lost touch some time ago and I’m having difficulty tracking her down. In fact, the last time they spoke, Tessa was still working here, so I’m trying to work out what she did after that.’

  ‘I regret to say I won’t be able to assist. I haven’t heard from her or indeed of her since she left us after the spring season in 1981. The Merchant of Venice,’ she added with a troubled frown. ‘She was Jessica. It wasn’t the best use of her talents. Not a very memorable production, in fact. End of the season. We were potless, so we engaged the standard tactic: put on some Shakespeare and hope the audience interprets a Spartan set as minimalist mise-en-scène rather than an indication that there wasn’t enough left in the budget to buy a tin of paint.’

  ‘Or a few drapes,’ Jasmine replied with a glance to the stage, eliciting a knowing smile.

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘So when Tessa left the company, what were the circumstances?’

  Though it was thirty years ago, Jasmine found it indelicate to ask Dorothy outright whether Tessa was dropped. Theatre folk could be enduringly sensitive about these things, no matter on which side of a decision they had found themselves. She was trying to understand why Tessa would give up, and Dorothy thus far hadn’t painted a picture of an actress whose ability was in doubt. It certainly sounded like money had been tight, so the company might have been forced to contract. It could have been last in, first out, but surely Tessa would have understood the realpolitik.

  ‘I mean, was there bad feeling?’ Jasmine added.

  ‘In theatre there’s always bad feeling at a parting of the ways. Artists tend to feel a little more keenly than the average. Nobody likes being on the end of rejection, even when they understand that realistically it couldn’t be another way.’

  ‘So do you remember if Tessa reacted particularly badly to being let go?’

  Dorothy looked at her so intently that Jasmine feared her question had been interpreted as an accusation. It was, in fact, a combination of confusion and incredulity, with a little remembered exasperation sprinkled on top.

  ‘Good God, girl, we didn’t “let her go”. We couldn’t hold on to her.’

  ‘She left of her own volition?’

  ‘Of course. She was too good to serve much more than an apprenticeship at a regional rep. She knew it … and we knew it. Didn’t stop a few huffs and tantrums, but one could interpret those as back-handed compliments. She was always going to spread her wings. I think she had several auditions lined up in London. West End, I’m assuming, though I do recall someone mentioning film or television.’

  Dorothy must have read Jasmine’s confounded expression.

  ‘Is this at odds with whatever else you’ve learned?’

  ‘More than a little. What would you say if I told you Tessa Garrion never acted again. Not professionally, anyway.’

  ‘I’d be flabbergasted. And I’d ask you how you could know this.’

  ‘I’ve investigated her tax records. She never had another job in the theatre. After leaving the Pantechnicon, her only work of any description was in a shoe shop.’

  ‘A shoe shop? Are you quite sure?’

  ‘I got it from HMRC. Death and taxes, nothing surer. She left the Pantechnicon, then there was a gap – presumably her London auditions – after which her only paycheque came from the Glass Shoe Company. That’s from before my time, and I don’t think they’re trading any more.’

  Dorothy fixed her with a strange look.

  ‘Glass Shoe?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  There was a twinkle of amused curiosity in Dorothy’s eyes.

  ‘I don’t think it was a shoe shop, my dear.’

  Jasmine was about to reply that her contact at HMRC categorised the job as being in ‘retail footwear’, when she remembered that her contact at HMRC was the rather dull and literal-minded Polly Seaton. When Polly said that, she may not have been quoting from records, merely drawing an inference.

  ‘Actually …’ she stumbled.

  ‘Because this couldn’t possibly be a coincidence.’

  ‘What couldn’t?’

  ‘The fact that there was, around the time you’re talking about, a rather ambitious young man with designs on starting a new theatre company. He had trod these very boards – he was with us for three seasons, in fact – but with the self-confidence bordering on delusion that only aristocratic lineage can inculcate, he fancied himself as actor-director of his own troupe. He wasn’t good enough at either, to be honest; time proved that. A competent enough actor, for sure, but nothing more. He did, however, have one genuine gift in abundance, one that many people in this business tend to undervalue: he may not have been a great talent himself, but he had a fine eye for recognising it in others. He knew what elements might work together to produce something magical, but he only really succeeded once he had accepted that he needed to leave it to experts to fine-tune the chemistry. Fortunately he became as adept at recognising talent in directors as in cast and crew.’

  ‘So would he have worked with Tessa?’ Jasmine asked impatiently. She could tell Dorothy was holding something back, but the older woman had a rather mischievous look on her face that suggested Jasmine somehow deserved to be thus toyed with.

  ‘Oh yes. Their times here overlapped. They both worked under Peter and Francis, and they both had the nous to appreciate that it was a privilege. Make no mistake, this young chap greatly admired what the Pantechnicon had achieved. It wasn’t so much that he thought he could do better as simply that he’d like to do different. Specifically, he believed the Pantechnicon wasn’t Scottish enough. He felt the Winters, being from Durham, were rather shy of the theatre taking on too overtly Glaswegian an identity, and that this manifested itself in their choice of plays.

  ‘I suspect a few harsh run-ins with reality adjusted his sensibilities. He runs a rather successful little theatrical enterprise these days but, most ironically, his company is London-based and wouldn’t dream of staging anything so parochial as a Scottish play. Nonetheless, its name harks back to his ear
lier ambitions.’

  ‘Glass Shoe?’

  ‘Yes. It’s a little joke, a play on the original Gaelic name from which Glasgow is derived: Glaschu. But what has me curious, and what cannot possibly be a coincidence, is that the aforementioned enterprise is named Glass Shoe Productions.’

  And there it was. It had been staring her in the face for days, and it certainly wasn’t the negligible distinction between Company and Productions that had foxed her: just a classic case of can’t see it for looking at it.

  She understood why Dorothy had been wearing that strange little smile: she couldn’t believe Jasmine hadn’t worked it out and she knew she would kick herself when the penny finally dropped. Jasmine also understood why the name had prompted slightly uncomfortable associations, and they were nothing to do with where she or her mother could afford to shop. It was an unattainable dream: the West End stage.

  Glass Shoe Productions appeared on the posters, in a little strap at the top that nobody paid attention to. Even Jasmine would have had to think for a moment if she’d been asked it as a quiz question. It was an incidental detail. People didn’t associate these shows with the name of a company, but the name of one man.

  The Phoenix and the Ashes

  So. Another dream come true, thought Jasmine, trying not to gag on the irony. First her career had put her on stage at the Pantechnicon and now, a few days later, here she was, treading the boards professionally at the Edinburgh Playhouse and working with Hamish Queen no less.

  It had stung a little, calling in a favour from Charlotte Queen that was in no way directly beneficial to improving her chances of an acting gig, though in the tiny shrine in her heart the keeper of the flame was whispering to her that any kind of face time with the West End’s dream-weaver-in-chief had to count for something. It was a chance to make an impression, at the very least. Presence based on genuine character? Authenticity deriving from true life experience? Stanislavski Method emotional memory? Got it all in spades, darling.

  She’d just have to hope he was philosophical with regard to the fine line between acting and deceit.

  Jasmine had learned the hard way not to tell an interviewee in advance what she really wanted to talk about. Not only did forewarned mean forearmed, it sometimes meant the interview didn’t happen at all. The downside was that people could become very huffy about extending their cooperation under what they retrospectively considered false pretences. The trick was making it appear that the conversation had moved on to sensitive territory by happenstance, and if Jasmine didn’t pull that off today she’d be burning two very big bridges.

  It had taken three calls to Charlotte to secure a meeting with her father, but not because she needed convincing. Charlotte seemed excited that Jasmine was asking, still tripping on that ‘how exciting your job is’ vibe, and had agreed right away. The subsequent calls had been necessary reminders because Charlotte, even when her sentiments and intentions were genuine, was not good at following up on things that weren’t germane to her immediate ambitions. She came through in the end, though Jasmine couldn’t help wondering how many goodwill points she had used up through her persistence.

  Hamish Queen’s PA, Melanie Gilhaus, got in touch on his behalf and, after several more phone calls, they finalised a time and place for a meeting. Initially, Jasmine thought she was going to have to fly to London and had called Mrs Petrie for authorisation regarding the expenses this would incur. Mrs Petrie was back down in Cornwall by this time, which made Jasmine fear the impetus might have dissipated, but rather she was adamant that Jasmine persist. Jasmine was doubly relieved, not only because it was good for business but because she’d have found it very difficult to walk away from this now. She told Mrs Petrie that she was following up a solid lead, but decided to hold back on the fact that it was the only one left, everything else pointing to her sister having been dead for thirty years.

  Before she could book a flight, Melanie called with an update on Hamish’s travel plans. He was flying back from New York a couple of days early because he had decided to personally oversee the arrangements for his new touring production’s opening run in Edinburgh. If she was available, Hamish would be able to squeeze in a meeting at the theatre.

  Melanie was waiting for her at the theatre’s main entrance on Greenside Place, where Leith Street, Queen Street and Leith Walk all converged. She was late twenties, terribly trendy, sunglasses perched on the top of her head even though she was mostly going to be indoors, an affectation all the more pronounced given that the shades were infringing on a haircut that Jasmine suspected cost more than her own suit.

  She had an iPhone clipped to the waistband of her jeans, an iPad clutched in her left hand, a sheaf of script pages and two different-coloured highlighter pens grasped in her right, yet she still looked breezy and calm. Jasmine would have wanted to kill her if her thoughts weren’t largely occupied by pleasant reminiscences of standing on this very concourse with anticipation thrilling through her so intensely that she recalled literally bouncing up and down.

  She loved coming here when she was a wee girl. It was always big, first-class shows at the Playhouse, usually imported from London’s West End. More unashamedly glitzy and commercial than anything at the Lyceum, more polished and cosmopolitan than touring shows at the King’s. Some people were very sniffy about that, and at drama school she remembered feeling it would be wise not to mention how many such productions she had attended here at the Playhouse. She wasn’t confident enough to argue her case back then, but Jasmine didn’t believe that an appreciation of commercial theatre precluded appreciation or enjoyment of work from the other end of the spectrum, or vice versa. There were occasions when you fancied something intimate and avant garde, just as there were occasions when you fancied a meal of intricately arranged, artistically presented, even experimental cooking. But there were other times when you were in the mood for an old-fashioned burger and you knew nothing else would do. Those big West End shows at the Playhouse, the Hamish Queen and the Cameron Mackintosh productions, those burgers came with all the trimmings: a guilty pleasure par excellence.

  Melanie greeted her with a professional smile – ‘You must be Jasmine’ – and led her briskly inside, thumbing something on her iPad as they passed through the foyer. The implication was clear: Melanie was this busy, so just imagine how busy Hamish is.

  The interior of the Playhouse was so plush, so opulent, that it always piqued Jasmine’s incredulity that it was once a regular rock venue. She had heard her mum and her friends reminisce about who had played here during the eighties: U2, Big Country, INXS, REM, The Alarm, Echo and the Bunnymen, Mötley Crüe and even Metallica. From what they said, the shows were as raucous as the roster would suggest, these groups playing Barrowlands one night and this place the next. It was small wonder they opted for a more upmarket repertoire after the Playhouse’s early nineties renovation.

  Jasmine followed Melanie down the side aisle to the right of the stalls. She could see Hamish Queen standing still amid the ferment of movement and activity on stage, talking in animated but seemingly humorous tones to a man in grey overalls. He was dressed casually in jeans and a blue T-shirt under a dark tailored jacket, albeit they were designer jeans, a designer T-shirt and the tailor was probably on Savile Row. His appearance was less flamboyant than his media profile normally suggested, but Jasmine realised this was probably him in his work clothes.

  He noticed Melanie’s ascent to the stage and gave her the most fleeting of gestures, two fingers briefly extended at his waist. Melanie responded with a nod and relayed the information.

  ‘Hamish is just going to be a few minutes. Are you all right here, or would you like to come upstairs for a coffee?’

  Jasmine was happy to wait where she was. It gave her time to take in the sheer scale of what was going on around her. On her way from the car park, she had looked down from a glass-walled footbridge and seen the convoy of Stage Truck juggernauts parked down on Greenside Row. It was very clear nobody
at Glass Shoe Productions was wondering how to design a set to disguise the fact that the budget had all but run out.

  It looked like some administrative glitch had caused the sets for four different productions to have been simultaneously delivered. Jasmine had never seen so many wagons and skids, platforms and parallels, doors and flats, revolves and stairs, while above her head a massive motorised winch system suspended enough battens, drops and drapes for several seasons’ worth of plays at the Pantechnicon. It was no glitch. This was all for one show.

  Her head spun to think of how much money had been spent on this affair, but that was pocket change compared to how much it was likely to bring in. This was the first touring run for the show that had reportedly proven to be Hamish Queen’s most profitable West End production to date. However, despite five years of runaway box-office results, this was one production that he would not be transferring to Broadway. It was a strictly British phenomenon: a stage musical based on the eighties schooldays drama series Grange Hill.

  Satisfied with whatever he’d said to the guy in the overalls, Hamish Queen strode across the stage to where Jasmine was waiting, slaloming scenery and stage-hands with practised grace.

  He greeted her with a grin and a handshake.

  ‘Hello. You must be Yasmin.’

  ‘Jasmine,’ Melanie corrected, before Jasmine could.

  ‘Sorry. Jasmine. Shall we go somewhere a little quieter? Maybe grab a coffee?’

  ‘That would be great.’

  For a guy named Hamish, his accent was as Scottish as cricket and warm beer, but his sense of nationality had evidently always been very pronounced.