by Moody, Susan
‘Once a policeman, always a policeman,’ he said. ‘It is like priests and doctors. Anyway, give me a description of this bad person and I will telephone round my colleagues at some of the local banks.’
I did so, emphasizing the protruding eyes.
‘The game’s afoot!’ he said cheerfully, and rang off.
THIRTEEN
Thursday. Am-dram night.
I had decided to attend, if for no other reason than to take my mind off Tristan and the other bodies. We’d done some improv exercises. Read through a short play with girls reading the boys’ parts and vice versa. We’d discussed the production the group was going to put on at Christmas in an attempt to stun and amaze any who showed up to watch. Which I guessed would be mostly parents or children of the cast, with the odd Senior Citizen who had nothing better to do thrown in.
‘Considering how close we’re getting to Christmas, have we left ourselves enough time to meet the deadline?’ someone asked.
‘We’ve still got plenty of time,’ said Milo. ‘More than enough to get something worthwhile out there.’
‘Not, please God, a pantomime again,’ someone groaned.
‘Yes,’ agreed someone else. ‘Puh-leeze, anything but a panto.’
Someone piped up, ‘Hang about, you haven’t seen my Buttons …’, a remark which generated the conventional sort of banter.
‘Not undone them yet, darlin’, but I live in hope.’
‘You should be so lucky.’
‘Ooh, you are awful!’
When it was time to leave, Milo Stanton clapped his hands.
‘OK, people, listen up,’ he said. I tried not to raise my eyebrows. Where on earth do people get hold of phrases like that? Off the box, I imagine. Listen up … what’s that supposed to mean? Can you listen down? Was I turning into a grammar-Nazi? I already kept Tippex in my bag in order to sneak around eliminating unnecessary apostrophes from signs outside shops. In my darker moments, I could see the horrible old bat I was going to turn into. I needed to get out more, hence the fact that not only had I joined the drama group, but was also in attendance at this very moment.
‘Now …’ Milo grinned his wolfish grin at us all, ‘… thank God I still have a few contacts in the biz …’ Pause for faint sycophantic cheers. ‘… which means I’ve managed to persuade an old friend of mine to come down next week and give us some hands-on benefit by sharing his considerable expertise with us.’
We looked at each other as though searching for clues as to the identity of this friend, and came up with nothing.
‘Since you won’t be able to guess, I’ll tell you,’ said Milo. ‘None other than … ta-dah!! … Chris Kearns!’
I frowned. Surely I knew that name. Something to do with eggs, I seemed to remember. On the telly. Around me, the other members of the group reacted with predictable delight.
‘Fantastic!’
‘Brilliant!’
‘Well done, Milo!’
‘Aren’t you clever!’
Then it came back to me. Kearns. The leading light of an oh-so-hilarious award-winning series about a chicken farm. A popular sitcom called Hen Pecked, in which he and his termagant screen wife buy a chicken farm in a bid to restore the family fortunes. There’d been a second side-splitting series called Flying The Coop, in which the two of them tried to flog off the chickens to a series of naïve buyers, cue cameo roles from various well-known, if fading, thespians.
And next season he’d be starring, if that was the right word, in an entirely new series to be called Spend A Penny, where he and the termagant would be in charge of a seaside public convenience, with all its attendant uproarious shenigans.
Sometimes I lose the will to live.
Thanks to the tabloids and celeb magazines, we could hardly avoid knowing all about Chris’s personal calamities: the divorce from his childhood sweetheart, the adolescent daughter raped and murdered, the son with HIV, his own battle with alcoholism. The message being that even though his heart was breaking, he still managed to make people laugh, in the time-honoured tradition of clowns and funny men everywhere.
Count me out, I thought. I’m not going to pander to the ego of some up-himself actor who, despite the tragedies in his life, will certainly just happen to bring along thirty copies of his book for us to buy, and at the same time be busy grooming us to tune in to the series about the public lav. I reflected that I must sometimes come across as a miserable old cow. Perhaps I really am one.
‘All right, guys,’ Milo said, staring directly at me. ‘I want all of you to turn up next week come hell or high water. I don’t want Chris to flog all the way down here from London to find that half of you haven’t bothered to come to pick up on any pieces of wisdom on sitcom writing and, more importantly, sitcom acting, that he might be willing to share with us.’
‘How about we try for a mock pilot sitcom for our Christmas show?’ someone suggested.
‘Yeah, with a parody of all our favourite sitcom actors.’
‘Not a bad idea. We’ll see how it goes. What do you think, Alex?’
‘I haven’t got a favourite,’ I mumbled. ‘I don’t watch a lot of TV.’
Murmurs from the others. ‘I’m not trying to be superior,’ I said. ‘I simply don’t have time.’
‘Well anyway, I want all of you to come armed with ideas,’ Milo said, looking put out. ‘We’re really lucky to have a professional like Chris willing to listen to them and give us some pointers.’
As I was leaving, Milo beckoned me over. He sat with one half of his bum on the table at the front of the room, swinging a leg. ‘Alex, a word,’ he said.
I went over. ‘Yes?’
‘I’ve arranged to take Chris out for dinner after our session next week. Thought I’d ask two or three of the group to come along. Are you interested?’
I already knew I would have another engagement. Or invent one. ‘Um …’
‘It won’t be the same without you.’ He had very black eyelashes which lay on his ravaged cheeks like a door-mat when he blinked, softening and enhancing his wolfish good looks.
‘Like I said, I don’t watch television very much,’ I said. And when I do, I thought, but didn’t say, it’s certainly not the likes of Mr Kearns and his idiotic caperings that I switch on for. ‘And I’m hardly the most enthusiastic or experienced member of the group. And in any case, it’s not really my—’
‘Trust me, Alexandra. Chris is a great deal more worthwhile than you’d think from his antics on the small screen.’
‘Hmm …’
‘Go on.’ His voice took on a note of deep sincerity. So did his eyes. ‘I promise you won’t regret it.’
Oh ho! Was it just me, or was he promising something more than dinner? And was I really up for it? Sam Willoughby passed rapidly through my head. ‘Oh, all right,’ I said. Gracious as always.
‘Don’t tell the others. I’m not asking the whole group to come along, just a select few,’ he said. ‘I’ll be in touch to confirm details.’
‘Fine.’
The following week was uneventful. I kept in regular touch with DCI Fairlight, but nothing further came up in the Tristan Huber murder. I’d seen this happen before. Cases often appear to stagnate, even though CID are doing their best, beavering away in the background, pursuing the little intel they have, interviewing possible witnesses, checking alibis, knocking on doors, delving into the circumstances of anyone who might be considered a suspect or, for that matter, have any connection with the deceased. Nonetheless, it was unusual that after three weeks and several leads, there was no movement on the case, let alone any kind of breakthrough.
Nor did I hear anything further from Mr Sook in Hong Kong. Nonetheless, I had a very strong sense that he was down there, ringing colleagues, checking on any bug-eyed bankers who might have been around six years ago.
I’d warned Dimsie that for the moment, I was out of the frame. I had deadlines coming up and needed to get my head down on Eat, Drink and Be Merry. She didn�
��t like it much. Told me I was reneging on my responsibilities. (‘Surely Tristan’s death means everything else should be put on hold?’) I bit back the sharp retort which sprang to mind and repeated several times to myself that she was grieving family.
‘Dimsie,’ I pointed out, ‘I’m an art historian, not a miracle worker, and I’m certainly not a detective any more. And I’m definitely not going to get in the way of an official police investigation. When they have anything relevant to tell you, they’ll do so. You just have to trust them.’
‘But they’re obviously not doing anything,’ she wailed. ‘Or they’d have solved the case by now.’
‘Come on, girl,’ I said. ‘Get a grip.’
Fliss rang one afternoon. ‘Your Mr Huber is proving to be a bit of a mystery man,’ she said.
‘In what way?’
‘We know he travelled abroad quite a bit, but other than that, we can’t find out much about him. And what we have got doesn’t seem to check out.’
‘What about that client list?’
‘In the past three years, as you’ve no doubt ascertained for yourself, his company has taken on twenty-four commissions, situated all over England and the rest of the globe. And guess what …’
‘I hate it when people say that. How can I possibly guess? And how disappointed you’d be if I did.’
She didn’t take a blind bit of notice, just carried on. ‘The interesting thing is that out of those twenty-four so-called clients, more than half don’t even appear to exist.’
I frowned. ‘How the hell does that work?’
‘You ring the number given on the invoice, and discover their phone was disconnected a year ago. Or they’ve moved and not left a forwarding address. Or nobody’s ever heard of them and the address is actually bogus. Garside is having kittens, convinced that he’s stumbled across the Mr Big of the Home Counties.’
‘Murdered by a rival gang boss, is that the theory?’
‘Don’t laugh, Quick. You could be nearer the mark than you think.’
‘I don’t believe this! At least, I don’t think I do. I certainly don’t want to.’ Tristan Huber was turning out to be a whole lot more devious than I had previously given him credit for and I needed to do some serious re-evaluation of the man.
‘Any insights so far? You’ve known him since you emerged from the womb, haven’t you?’
‘We used to share a nappy,’ I said. ‘Look, I’ll have a think about him and what I know – what I think I know – and get back to you if anything springs to mind.’
‘It’s the manner of death, you see. According to Garside, only a gangster-style boss would order that kind of torture to be inflicted on a person.’
‘Yeah, right, and the area is crawling with mobsters, crime lords and racketeers.’
‘You’d be surprised. And don’t forget your friend Tristan also has or had, commissions in Italy, the Middle and Far East, the Czech Republic, Serbia. Let alone in Russian oligarch territory. Also don’t forget that it’s costing me time and patience to screw all this intel out of Garside, or members of his team, since in theory I have nothing to do with them. As you know, he’s mad keen on confidentiality, though he’s not averse to sharing crumbs of information when he deems it appropriate. Here I am, busting a gut for you, when I have urgent cases of my own which I should be getting on with. Such as this Kevin Fuller.’
‘Anything on him yet?’
‘I’ve hardly got time, with all the energy I’m expending on you. But for the moment, I’m stymied. We’ve interviewed the family, of course …’ She sighed heavily. ‘Poor broken people. Got a detailed CV from them, from cradle to – as it were – grave. And just like with Huber, so far there’s really almost nothing tangible to go on. But as you know, we’re a dogged bunch, we’ll get there in the end, as we always do. Trouble is, we literally don’t know where to turn for suspects. We’ve combed through his archive, investigated thoroughly, interviewed known associates, talked to those who live near the scene of crime—’
‘—such as Major Horrocks.’
‘Exactly. But so far we haven’t been able to pinpoint anyone with a motive, or anyone who was around at the time of the murder. Meanwhile, I’m expecting you to make it up to me in a big way.’
‘Anyone for Capri?’
‘Piss off, Quick.’
What Fliss had told me provided food for thought. So did the painting I was staring at, depicting Vertumnus, one of Arcimboldo’s grotesqueries. It wasn’t particularly to my liking but the character he’d created out of fruit and veg – a portrait of Emperor Rudolf II – was certainly edible, and looked pretty merry. While I considered it, I thought again about Tristan. What on earth had he been up to in the weeks before his death? I came up with nothing that I could pinpoint, just vague and nebulous possibilities. Basically, zip.
Fruit and veg … I thought of the giant radish episode to which my mother had alluded. It had sounded farcical, had briefly made me wonder if she and Edred were already skirting the foothills of dementia. But maybe she had been trying to remind me that the guy I’d always had a crush on was in fact, ruthless, and had been even as a boy. I seem to remember that, though at first they had prevented him from damaging the rival radish, he nonetheless managed to destroy it by smashing it to pieces with a spade. Of course he was eliminated at once from the competition, but that way, at least he hadn’t been beaten by a better radish than his own.
The following Thursday evening came around all too quickly. Reluctantly I got into my car and drove up the hill. When I got to the theatre, everyone was on stage, clustered in irritating attitudes of awe and hero-worship round a figure seated on the throne-like chair that the group had used for a production of The King And I, which came from the props department. Fair enough, I suppose. If someone had offered any of them the chance to star in a TV sitcom, they would have jumped at the chance, and if by touching the hem of Chris Kearns’ robe they thought they might achieve that goal, then good luck to them. Personally I found it hard to drum up much enthusiasm for a series about a brick public lavatory or its star, and in any case, Kearns’ manic style of comedy acting didn’t set any flags flying round me. If I wanted laughs I preferred wit and subtlety.
The guy looked pretty much as he appeared on screen, just as fleshily athletic but older and more muted, as though a light bulb had fused somewhere inside him. Milo saw me slip into the room and take a place at the back of the crowd, and raised disappointed eyebrows.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ I mumbled. ‘The car …’
Chris Kearns, meantime, was giving his adoring fans the full Monty: the smile, the familiar gurning, the hands raking through what was left of his hair. But I could tell his heart wasn’t in it. After all, we were just a potty little amateur group, and definitely not important enough. Nonetheless, I listened dutifully, even asked a few questions. We stopped for appalling coffee (instant) halfway through. I noticed Milo, his back to us, pouring a slug of something from a silver hip flask into both his and Chris’s mug. I could have done with some of that myself.
Time passed with tedious slowness. I was about to double up with simulated pain and mutter something about a grumbling appendix when Milo called the troops to order. ‘Let’s focus on the Christmas show, folks,’ he said. ‘Chris says that he’ll be in pantomime in Margate over the Christmas season – his Widow Twankey has to be seen to be believed! – otherwise he would be happy to come over and take part. Since a star of his calibre is what brings in the audience, we can’t expect him to renege on his duties or contract. Nor would we! What a shame.’
Various exclamations of regret and disappointment arose from the group.
‘However,’ Milo continued, ‘he has very kindly offered us some comps to the panto as raffle prizes, plus a drink with him after his show. It’s the kind of thing which will be a big draw for us.’
There was a burst of clapping from the group. Kearns held up his hand. ‘Please. It’s the least I can do for my friend Milo here. I’m o
nly sorry it can’t be more. I’d also be happy to have those who’re interested come over when we start technical run-throughs shortly, just to give you an idea of the mechanics of putting on a professional performance.’
‘Anyway …’ Milo rallied us. ‘Now that we’re all here, let’s talk about the Christmas show, see what Chris thinks of the ideas you’ve brought, summed up in a single sentence, if you please, since we haven’t got all the time in the world.’
We spent the next couple of hours talking through some of the plots people had come up with. I was impressed by the ingenuity that had been shown. Eventually, we voted for two of them, and then went through them in finer detail, Kearns critiquing as we went. He was inspiring, picking out details, showing impossibilities, pointing out places where we were likely to have difficulties with staging or plotting, suggesting ways to enhance a comic moment or introduce a ribald pun.
By the time the session came to an end, we had roughed out an entire routine for our Christmas offering. Even I, unwilling though I had been to listen to a half-assed comedy star, had to admit that I was impressed by the man’s knowledge of stagecraft, what would work, what wouldn’t. I even thought about buying his book, copies of which I could see sitting on one of the seats in the front row.
It took nearly half an hour for people to leave, by the time they’d bought a book, had it signed, and had gushed over Chris. That left Milo, Kearns himself, Charlotte Plimpton, Ricky Hadfield, William Marshall and me to walk along from the theatre to the nearest Indian. Since neither Charlotte nor I were major players, we were hardly representative of the group. Char was blonde and busty, and usually played the comic housekeeper or eccentric next-door neighbour type of role. And I … well, as a new member, I hadn’t yet been asked to give my Second Spear Carrier, let alone my Cordelia or Rosalind.
I couldn’t help noticing that Chris Kearns was eyeing Char appreciatively. So was Ricky Hadfield. When we were eventually seated, however, I had Kearns on one side and Milo on the other. I really couldn’t imagine why I had been invited along.
