“Oh ar,” he told the detective. “I done my rounds. I saw there was a light on in one of the trailers and I knew that was Oscar Buzz’s, like, so I left it alone. He doesn’t like being disturbed, you see. You know what actors is like. Always doing their methods. And a few other things and all, if you get my meaning.” He tapped the side of his nose. “Only he must have been so off his tits when he left he left the lights on. I could have gone over to switch them off, I suppose, but, well, it was end of my shift, wasn’t it? And they’d all be turning up for work any minute, so... ”
He trailed off. He knew he’d been remiss in his duties.
“Wait a minute,” Harry Henry pushed his glasses up his nose. “When who left?”
“Oscar! That is to say, Mr Buzz.”
“And you saw him?”
“Who?”
“Mr Buzz.”
“Oh, ar. He come right past my post, he did. And I says to him, I says, morning Oscar, and he don’t say nothing. He didn’t look at me. He was walking all hunched up, like, and kept his eyes down. But it was him all right. Well, who could mistake him? His mush is on the side of every bus.”
“And you’re sure?”
“Ar!”
“And what time would this be?”
“About three-ish. Or four. Yes, three-ish. Cause I always put the kettle on at three. And it was just coming to the boil when I sid him.”
Harry Henry made hurried notes. He thanked the night-watchman and warned him against leaving town.
“Really?” the man blinked. Now he looked worried.
“No,” said Harry Henry. “Sorry; I’ve just always wanted to say that.”
***
The team reconvened at Serious to pool what they had learned.
“Where’s Buzz now?” Wheeler asked.
“Still on ice,” said Stevens.
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“He’s in the interview room,” said Pattimore. “We thought we’d better hold on to him until you said so.”
“Let him go,” said Wheeler.
“Chief?” Stevens was confused. “You heard what Harry said the night-watchman said. We’ve got him, bang to rights. We should lock him up proper.”
“There’s no evidence,” said Wheeler. “Besides I’m not convinced he’s our man. Miller?”
“Of course we let him go, Chief,” she looked pleased with herself. “We can’t set a trap to catch the killer if we’ve already got the killer behind bars.”
“So, we’re letting him go to catch him again? What a load of bollocks.”
“If he’s the killer, we’ll catch him,” said Wheeler. “If he’s not, well, we’ll catch the fucking killer, won’t we, you arsehole?”
“Suppose,” said Stevens. “Should we put a tail on him?”
“You’re the fucking donkey.”
Stevens grinned and wiggled his eyebrows. “Thanks for noticing, boss.” He gyrated his crotch.
Wheeler thrust her hand towards the exit. “Fuck off,” she said.
***
On the steps of the Serious building, Oscar Buzz made a call to the producers, demanding they despatch a car to collect him. He promised not to wander off. He lurked in the doorway, in case any passing member of the public recognised him or - worse - a paparazzo.
He turned up his collar and kept his eyes on his phone. Again he tried to contact Dan. To apologise again. And to warn him.
Still, there was no answer. Either Dan was ignoring the texts and emails and instant messages, or he hadn’t received them.
After twenty minutes of waiting, the car pulled up. Oscar thanked fuck and got in. He was driven to the set where the producers were keen to see he was still on board.
“Sure I’m on board,” he grinned. “We don’t give up just because some whack-job has murdered a couple of people. No, we carry on. To honour those people. Or else what are we doing this for?”
The producers applauded.
“We’re sorry about your friend,” said one.
“Who?”
“Pinkie Green.”
“Oh, he was more of a business associate. There was nothing - between us.”
The producers glanced at each other. “And Miss Cartwright?”
“She sure was hot,” said Oscar. “Now I guess she always will be.”
“This is gold, Oscar,” one of the producers scribbled notes on a pad. “What was that bit about honouring the dead?”
“We have to issue a statement to the world’s press,” said Oscar. “I’ll be happy to do it.”
“Thanks. But we’re under strict instructions from that scary British cop lady to keep a tin lid on all of this until further notice.”
“What?”
“Exactly. We think publicity of this kind is invaluable. And will save us millions in promotions. But this Wheeler bitch says we can’t breathe a word until she says so.”
“Oh.” Oscar sat down. “I’ve met her. I wouldn’t like to get her mad.”
“But,” one of the producers smirked, “sometimes these things get leaked... ”
“Yes,” said Oscar. “Yes, they do.”
***
Miller collected Bunny Slippers from Superintendent Ball’s office, where she had been royally entertained by one of her most ardent admirers. Ball was loath to let her go. He waved a warning finger at Miller and, by extension, the whole of the Serious team. “If anything happens - if you put Bunny in danger in any way... ”
“Oh, nonsense, Kevin,” Bunny slapped his finger away. “Melanie will look after me as if I was her own mother. Won’t you, Melanie?”
Miller blushed. A pang of guilt reminder her she’d bunged her own mother in the Dorothy Beaumont retirement home - and look how that had turned out!
“Now, Bunny’s filled me in on her, shall we say unusual plan. I remember the episode vividly. I believe it can work. I believe it must work.”
Bunny squeezed his arm. “You’re a sweetheart, Kevin. But you don’t have to worry about me. I won’t be there.”
This, apparently, was news to Ball and Miller.
“I’m far too long in the tooth for that kind of thing,” her laughter was punctuated by the clicking of her dentures. “Melanie here can stand in for me. Can’t you, Melanie?”
“Um... ”
Bunny patted her hand. “They can work miracles with make-up these days. They’ll have you looking beautiful in no time. Oh, dear! That was a backhanded compliment, wasn’t it? Now, Superintendent,” she gave him a cheeky wink, “is there anything else you wish me to autograph?”
***
Harry Henry double-checked his lists, of all the people involved in the production and all the people he, or another member of the team, had questioned. The names all tallied but something didn’t quite gel. There was something he was overlooking and it was driving him mad being unable to put his finger on it.
He scanned the names again. The famous ones were at the top. The crew, people you wouldn’t know if you fell over them, were just ordinary folks with glamorous jobs. The gaffer. The key grip. The costume fitter. The fight choreographer. The stunt double...
Harry’s head jerked upright so fast his glasses fell off.
He rifled through all his notes. What was the name of Oscar Buzz’s stand-in? Why didn’t he appear on the lists? Why had no one questioned him yet?
Harry dashed to the producers’ office.
“Stand-in?” frowned one.
“We have hired no stand-ins,” said the other. “Although with the increased number of action sequences, perhaps we should... ”
Harry Henry left them discussing the best agencies to contact for stuntmen. He pulled out his phone and called Wheeler.
“I know who it
is,” he said.
“Excellent,” said Wheeler. “Now, don’t do anything rash. If Bunny fucking Slippers’s little plan works out, the bastard will come to us.”
14
The Clement Attlee shopping precinct was built in the 1960s in honour of one of the country’s greatest Prime Ministers. It had featured in the opening titles of Hospital Corners and had cropped up during rare outside broadcasts. On one memorable occasion, Bunny Slippers in her role as Matron was staging a public protest against cuts to the health service. It had been one of those occasions when the programme had attracted acclaim and criticism in equal measure, for tackling social issues. A large proportion of the audience were motivated to stage similar protests in real life across the country. “Soap has no part in politics” said the right wing press, who were of course in favour of all the cuts and more.
Now, with protests still sadly relevant, Matron was going to re-stage the scene, ostensibly for the film version. It was all a ploy to bring out into the open the love-struck widower who had been obsessing over the woman who had tended his dying wife. His attentions had grown from thank-you notes and boxes of chocolates to following her back to the nurses’ quarters and jumping out at her from the shadows. When he sent a pig’s heart in a gift-wrapped box, Matron decided to take matters into her own hands. She sent him word of where she would be and when and hoped that he would join her in the fight for proper health care for the people of Dedley.
The plan had worked. The police were waiting in the crowd. Matron had called him forward and the cops had pounced. The widower never bothered Matron again.
Miller, having downloaded the episode, was now dressed as Bunny Slippers as Matron. She was nervous. She always was when she went undercover. But this time there was extra pressure. She wanted to do good by Bunny by doing a good impersonation of Bunny.
Wheeler assured her that there would be plenty of support, plenty of other officers in plain clothes, peppered around the precinct. No harm would come to her. The bastard wouldn’t get close enough to fart at her.
“Will he even show up?” Miller asked. “Won’t he know it’s a trap? Isn’t it all a bit public?”
“We’ve seeded a rumour,” Wheeler replied. “If this scene doesn’t go well, the entire film will be shut down. The cast and crew will be disbanded. As far as he knows, this is our man’s last chance. He’ll make a move all right.”
Miller wasn’t so sure. She was certain the killer would see through the ruse. It would anger him. He would try something else. Something they weren’t expecting. Something a little more private... Like the previous killings...
Bunny!
Miller spoke to the microphone concealed in her starched costume. “Chief, it’s Bunny.”
Wheeler’s voice crackled in her earpiece. “Fuck me, Miller; I’ve heard of getting into character.”
“No, the target! The target is Bunny. He’ll go for her. While we’re all pissing about in the precinct.”
“Bunny’s safe,” said Wheeler. “We stick to the plan. Just you focus on getting your lines right and don’t fall off the platform.”
“Hah! That’s what Bunny always says... ”
But Wheeler had gone.
Miller took her position on the hastily-constructed rostrum beneath the broad stained-glass representation of Clement Attlee.
A small crowd was gathering. A production assistant was rounding up passing shoppers and getting them to sign release forms. Not many could resist the chance to appear in a film.
A runner signalled to Miller from beside a camera. It was time to begin.
“People of Dedley!” Miller began. “They want to close down our hospital. Our hospital! They say they can’t afford it but they are lying to us. People of Dedley! That man there,” she gestured grandly to the colourful character above them, “would be turning in his grave if he knew. If he could step down from that window and walk among us, he would put those pen-pushers in their place. He would crunch their numbers for them. Health care free to all at the point of need. It’s the greatest British principle. It has supported us all through our lives and now we must lend it our support. Are you with me?”
“Uhh... ” came a murmur from the crowd.
“Cut!” said a runner in the guise of second unit director. She addressed the group through a megaphone. “Wakey, wakey, people! This is your health service she’s talking about. The bad guys want to take it away from you. They want to profit from your misfortune. Are you going to allow that?”
“Hmmm,” said the crowd.
“Jesus wept. I said, Are you going to allow that?”
“NO!” the crowd at last showed some signs of life.
“Good. That’s better. Now when Matron here asks you if you’re with her, what are you going to say?”
“Er... ” a hand went up.
“Yes?”
“Which side is she on?”
“Yours!” said the runner. “She wants to save the hospital not sell it off.”
“Oh,” the hand went down. “Thank you.”
“Right. From the top, Matron.” The runner jumped from the platform and returned to the camera, which wasn’t even switched on.
“Er... ” Miller needed prompting for her first line. She repeated the speech and it flowed a little better this time. And this time the crowd were with her. Some even tossed their baseball caps in the air. Miller beckoned to the runner. “I’d like to try it once more,” she whispered. “I think I’ve got more in me.”
The runner rolled her eyes. “We’re not really filming this, you know.”
“Well, yes,” said Miller, “but it’ll give our man more chance to make a move, won’t it?”
The runner announced they were going for another take. The crowd put their hats back on and shuffled into silence, waiting for their cue.
As Miller went through the speech again, her eyes scanned the faces before her. It looked as though Matron was appealing to each one in turn but really the detective sergeant was on the lookout for the killer.
It could be any one of them. That was true of every case she’d worked on, but right there and then, it hit home. Any one of these people could be a murderer, just walking around among the public, just like anyone else. There were no obvious clues. The eyebrows didn’t meet in the middle. The skull wasn’t a particular shape or size. There was no blood dripping from their hands.
It could be anyone.
But there, in the corner of her eye, hovering near the back of the crowd - a flash of blond hair.
Oscar!
Was it him?
She gestured towards the glass Prime Minister. The blond hair was gone - No! There he was. A little closer this time. Miller scanned the crowd for the officers in plain clothes, trying to signal to them with her eyes. The blond head was moving among the crowd.
“Are you with me?” Miller cried. The crowd erupted into a tumult, waving and cheering. Miller lost sight of the blond hair completely. Panicked, she looked towards the camera, gesturing to the runner to call CUT.
A hand grabbed her. Miller screamed.
It was Harry Henry. “Come on, Mel,” he urged. “We’ve got him.”
***
“Who is it?” said Miller, looking at the interview room on screen. The man at the table was most definitely not Hollywood icon Oscar Buzz. He was very like him - the hair was not quite the right shade but everything else seemed to be the right shape and in the right place.
“Dan something,” said Harry Henry at her side. “That’s all we know. The producers have never heard of him. They say they never employed him.”
“The stand-in,” said Miller. “Why would he... ”
“Beats me,” said Harry Henry. “People become obsessed, don’t they? They want to look like their idols, do what they do. Apparently this
one has been in contact with Oscar Buzz for at least a year. Chatting with him online. Getting his confidence. All so he could work his way into Oscar’s life.”
Miller shuddered. “There’s a lot of weirdoes out there,” she said. “You think Dedley’s bad enough, but on the internet - it doesn’t bear thinking about.”
“He must have thought all his Christmases had come at once, when his hero came to England to make a film.”
“But why was he killing people? I don’t get it.”
“Well, we’ll have to ask him, won’t we?” said Harry Henry. “That is our job, after all.”
“Nobody likes a smart arse, Harry,” said Miller.
Chief Inspector Wheeler came in. She jerked her thumb at the screen. “Who’s this wanker?”
“Dan something,” said Miller. “Oscar Buzz’s stand-in.”
“Oh, really?” said Wheeler. “How’d you get this thing to zoom in?”
Harry Henry showed her how to operate the zoom remotely. Wheeler made the face of the suspect fill the monitor.
She pressed a button and spoke directly to the interview room.
“Show them,” she barked.
The man in the chair nodded. He reached up to his face and took out his contact lenses. Bright blue eyes were replaced by brown. He clawed at his jaw line, pulling away clumps of latex.
“No!” said Miller, leaning on the table for support.
The man in the chair looked directly into the camera and with a little wave, smiled.
“Hello, Miller; hello, Harry,” said Detective Inspector David Brough.
15
“You absolute bastard! You absolute bloody shit arse.”
“It’s good to see you too, Miller.” Brough was glad of the canteen table between him and Miller; it was quite possibly the only thing preventing the detective sergeant from launching herself at him and scratching his eyes out - or worse: showering him with hugs and kisses. “I’m glad you’re all better. Beaver Fever all cleared up?”
Hospital Corners Page 11
