by Roger Busby
There was a minor hiccup when the electrician pointed out something that had all overlooked and that was the very real possibility that the film would be blacked because none of the participants were Equity members and an inter-union agreement was in force. After a huddle they agreed that although the sequence might be technically construed as acting, the clause on news film reconstruction was sufficient for them to squeeze through if the point was ever challenged. With the problem solved the continuity girl handed round chocolate éclairs.
Dirk Lombard took a walk by himself to get the theme clear in his mind. He was gone for fifteen minutes during which time the crew hung about swapping yarns, lubricated with tea and iced Chelsea buns from the ever-bountiful chuck wagon and then the director presented each of them with an autographed copy of his slim paperback entitled: Beekeeping made easy.
Bob Bishop found himself impressed by his first insight into the lonely creativity of the TV business. When Lombard returned he looked even more agonised and called for mint imperials before bringing everyone together for an impromptu conference out of the wind in the cavernous foyer of one of the blocks of flats.
Rubbing his hands together to generate enthusiasm Dirk Lombard said: “Now we’re going to shoot a nice tight movie, bags of actuality and gritty realism. I want to do this how-it-could-have-happened, rather than harden it up too much otherwise we’ll get hassle from the legal eagles.” There was a murmur of agreement on this vital piece of strategy.
“So we’re going to shoot it from the roof of these flats with a long panoramic mean-streets-of-the-city scene setter to establish the piece and then we’ll zoom in tight and there’s the girl, she’s walking down the street in high heels, click-clack-click-clack, maybe five six seconds of walking to ramp up the tension.”
“You’ll want wild track on that, Dirk,” chipped in the soundman.
“Bags of wild track, soak it up, ” Lombard said, “then the car comes into shot, just out of focus to give it a sinister feel. He’s kerb crawling, crawl-crawl-crawl, two or three second, maybe, get the viewers really wound up.”
“That’s a long time to hold the shot, Dirk,” opined the first cameraman, “might help if we come out and blitz it a couple of times.”
“Let’s see how it goes,” Lombard said. He slapped a fist into his open palm and they all jumped. “Then bang,” he exclaimed, “we hit the action. The guy’s out of the car and he grabs her, they struggle, let that run as long as we can, just fuzzy enough to keep the sinister theme going. He drags her into the car and away. POV follows the car then cuts back to the empty street.” He looked around at their nodding heads, “Could me magic, solid gold.”
The soundman scratched his ear. “We’re going to need radio mikes, then?”
“Oh yeah,” Lombard said, “all the way.”
“We’ll need the walkie-talkies for the cues,” chipped in the continuity girl noting everything on her clipboard.
“Sure,” Lombard said, “Whatever works best.”
He turned to Bob Bishop: “How about your people, any problems Bob?”
The minder said: “Well we’ve got a girl who’s a friend of the MISPER and we’ve got her in identical clothing only her parents say they don’t want her to do it so…”
“No worries, I’ll talk to them,” Dirk Lombard interrupted, “put their minds at rest.”
“I’ve got the ugliest DC I could find to play the villain and we’ve got a banger from the pound with the number plates obscured so we don’t get a blizzard of calls from eagle eyed viewers.”
Bishop paused wondering if he should mention the slightly disturbing aspect that the abduction theory was just that, one possibility hanging on the all too shaky statements of non-to reliable over excited alleged witnesses, but decided it would be churlish to throw a spanner into the works at this juncture.
Instead he said, “That’s about it, Dirk, we’re ready to roll.”
“Magic Bob,” Dirk Lombard said, “pure gold.” He looked around for any further queries. There were none. He rubbed his hands together even more vigorously, suddenly elated, and exclaimed: “OK – let’s do it.”
The girl was a typical Eastgate scrubber who thrust out her chest and wiggled her bottom provocatively when they explained her role in the reconstruction. Her parents’ objections had been so effortlessly overcome that Bob Bishop had a strong suspicion money must have changed hands. When everyone was fully briefed he went up to the roof of the tower block with the crew and helped lug the equipment from the lift up the last two flights of grimy concrete stairs. It was blowing like hell on the roof, the wind whistling through the aerials and wire contraptions strung across the flat deck. Dirk Lombard paced around peering over the parapet and decided to set up in a corner, which provided the best view of Eastgate Drive. The cameraman practiced panning whilst his mate worked the lens and when he was happy he checked the counter on the camera and told Lombard: “Not much left on this mag, Dirk, d’you want a change.”
“Yeah, change the mag,” Lombard said, “I want to get this in one good squirt.”
Leaning on the parapet he used his walkie-talkie to converse with the director and the police party in the street far below. The soundman was picking up the radio mikes full strength. Only the electrician, his jaws moving methodically over a wad of gum, looked bored.
“Is everybody ready to rock?” Dirk Lombard shouted to the crew and into the handheld once the new magazine was in place. There were nods and murmurs of assent and the second cameraman leaned out with his board.
“Running,” said the first cameraman.
“Mark the shot,” Lombard said and into the radio: “Cue the girl.”
The camera traverse began with a shot of the distant gas works, panned through a hundred and eighty degrees winging over rooftops, sweeping the facades of the high rise towers, zeroing in on the street below going in tight on the girl walking down the pavement. Without raising his head from the eyepiece the cameraman said: “The kid’s waving, Dirk.”
Lombard hurled himself at the parapet and peered down. In disbelief he saw the girl pause and wave cheerfully.
“For Christ’s sake keep the kid walking,” he shouted into the radio, and then instructed the camera crew: “Keep running.”
“The kid’s running Dirk,” the cameraman informed him laconically, his eye still screwed to the viewfinder.
“Not the girl you fool,” Lombard yelled into the radio and then muttered in anguished tone: “Bloody kid, knew I should’ve used a midget.”
“It’s OK, Dirk,” the cameraman relayed the picture from his lens, “she’s walking again, did you want her to swing her hips like that.”
Lombard groaned and then the continuity girl who was reading off the stopwatch said: “Six seconds – mark!”
“Cue the car,” Lombard yelled into the radio.
A squeal of tyres drifted up to them and Lombard leaped to the parapet again in time to see the beat up banger burning rubber as it raced after the girl.
“What’s that lead foot think he’s doing!” Lombard wailed, “he’s supposed to crawl, CRAWL!!”
“The girl’s running again, Dirk,” said the cameraman, “Ahh, here comes the car.”
The soundman winced and raised his headphones. “The girl’s screaming blue murder, Dirk.”
“Hey this is good,” said the cameraman suddenly animated, “terrific action! She’s fighting with our guy now – yes, yes, he’s dragging her into the car…” His voice shot up an octave: “Jesus Christ – will you look at that!!”
They made the parapet in one bound. A beer truck had turned into Eastgate Drive and several burly draymen spotting a damsel in distress had hurled themselves to the rescue. They were making mincemeat of the DC who was spread-eagled over the bonnet of the car. Before their eyes, Jack the Zipper appeared sprinting down the street waving his arms, expensive overcoat flapping about him as he dashed in to save his man from further punishment. One of the draymen, built like the tru
ck he drove turned and floored the DI with a right uppercut.
On the roof Dirk Lombard turned to Bob Bishop, his eyes shining with excitement. “Oh wow, that’s magic, Bob, what a have-a-go-hero story. A whole new angle, fresh, vital, what a movie – pure gold!”
The minder blinked and then smiled as Lombard capered around slapping everyone on the shoulder and whooping with delight. The continuity girl gave him a chocolate éclair.
The misper turned up the day Crimewatch broadcast the appeal when the night porter at an Old Kent Road flea pit recognised her as the young lady who had been entertaining a party of visiting soft furnishings salesmen, and put the bubble in. Just for effect, the crime squad hit the place mob handed and turned the rescue into a big production for the telly. Waxing lyrical, the fifth floor hailed the result as a triumph for the burgeoning relationship with the news media. Jack Rivers received a Commendation and Bob Bishop, pioneer media minder was on his way.
Now, ensconced in his eerie at The Yard, Deputy Assistant Commissioner Bishop felt the tug of the years jerk him back to the present. Out on the streets the new breed was busy with the
