Classic Calls the Shots (25 page)

T
he day brightened, as Louise and I looked forward to a peaceable afternoon. I left her chatting to Zoe while Rob and I went back to the car display where judging was in progress. I hadn't sought his company but Zoe thought it would be a good idea. Enough said. Anyway, I wanted to see whether my secret hopes of the Lagonda winning the Best in Show award were fulfilled. Len had crawled over it before I left Frogs Hill and I tried to give it the final spit and polish that the judges love. Whether it won or not, however, it was a good place to keep an eye on friend Nigel.

At last I might have the link I needed. Nigel had bought his way into Shotsworth Security and the probability was therefore that Mark Shotsworth had not been a stranger to him. As Nigel bounced up to me during the judging process, I was beginning to feel guilty for even suspecting him of any criminal activities, let alone murder. His rosy-cheeked beam hardly sat easily with a possible role in organized crime. But with the news of his co-ownership of Shotsworth Security, he was fitting that profile all too well. He might just need nailing down, although that was hard to contemplate on a day such as this when elderly friends were being wheeled out for a day's pleasure, golden lads and lasses sported in the sunshine and their elders chatted about the really important things of life, namely classic cars.

Oblivious to my suspicions, Nigel beamed at me. ‘Hoping for the Best in Show, are you?'

‘That'll be the day,' I said modestly. ‘There are some good examples of
concours
cars here.'

He took up the theme with relish, and while he chatted on about Bentleys and Alvises, I wondered whether any of the cars he mentioned were destined to feature in some future list of Dave's missing classics.

‘Clarissa said you'd bought into Shotsworth Security – is that right?' I asked when he ground to a halt.

‘Bang on,' said Nigel enthusiastically. ‘Great chap, Mark. Know him?'

‘Not personally.' I was aware that my ribs were still aching from my encounter with his heavies.

‘He's around somewhere.' Nigel looked vaguely around. ‘Over there.' He pointed to a group of men huddling round an Austin Healey. ‘The chap in grey cords.'

I'm not sure why I expected Mark Shotsworth to be a heavyweight macho guy, but I was wrong. He was tall, slightly built and looked as urbane as your average city gent.

‘Want to meet him?' Nigel asked.

‘Why not?' I was all for meeting ‘great chaps'.

Nigel took me over to the group admiring the Austin Healey and detached Mr Grey Cords. ‘Jack Colby, Marcus. Frogs Hill.'

‘Of course.' Keen blue eyes with more than a hint of ice summed me up. ‘Dave Jennings mentioned you,' he added.

He made me feel as though I was the villain while he himself was great chums with Dave. I put him down as the slippery sort that doesn't allow you a handle to find your way in. As no doubt he intended. We chatted briefly of Clarissa, of Harry Prince, and of Dave Jennings, and then he cut to the chase.

‘You found that Auburn in Gladden.' He shook his head as in disbelief that such wickedness as stealing cars could still take place in this day and age. ‘Bad deal that,' he continued. ‘Pity we can't control who comes in and out of our car parks. On the stolen lists or not, there are so many clones and false IDs around nowadays, that there's no checking them all.'

‘I'll have a word with Dave about improving the situation,' I assured him, taking pleasure in the way those icy blue eyes were flickering in annoyance. I could well imagine his urbanity giving way to macho ruthlessness.

‘Good to meet you, Jack.' His tone suggested it wasn't as good as all that.

‘And you.' I meant it. My brew was thickening nicely. With Nigel tied into Mark's operation, at least I had something to report to Dave, even if its place in Brandon's murder cases remained an open question. Satisfied, I returned to the Lagonda, where Louise and Zoe were now struggling to strap on the picnic basket. There was no sign of a Best in Show award. Some people have no taste.

And then there was Bill. Were my services still required on Angie's death? Not that I was going to give up, even if they weren't. Monday saw me back at Stour Studios and despite my best efforts I felt a metaphorical prison door clang behind me. There was little sign of life, although I knew filming must be proceeding in one of the studios – which meant Bill would be there and not amenable to discussions. At reception's direction, I went to the ops room in the studio building to double-check. I found no Bill, but to my relief Tom was back at his post, busily guarding the storyboards. No sign of digital influence anywhere. At least something was normal.

‘They threw the book at me,' he told me gloomily, ‘but released me without charge because they couldn't find enough evidence. And that's because,' he thumped the table viciously, ‘I didn't kill either of them. You know what hurt me most of all, Jack? That anyone, even a flat-footed copper, could think I would harm a hair of Joan's head. After Bill, she was my dearest friend.'

‘They might have thought you killed Angie and that Joan's death followed from that.'

He snorted. ‘If everyone took a hammer to those they didn't like we wouldn't have a world food shortage. And as for killing Joan – do you think that's really likely?'

‘No. That call you had, plus your second trip to the temple, were unfortunate though.'

‘So what if I thought Bill was up there? Think I set out to kill them both, do you? Or that the idea of killing Joan just popped into my head when I found Bill wasn't there?'

He was red in the face with anger, not against me, but at the sheer lunacy of the idea, and I was in full agreement.

‘You've been through a rough time, Tom.' I knew through bitter experience what a grilling by Brandon was like.

He relaxed a little. ‘I tell you, Jack, they're not easily going to find out who did this, and so I might still be dragged back by the scruff of my neck.'

‘Unlikely,' I said firmly. ‘Look at it this way. Firstly, there's a cold-blooded murderer out there who killed two people; secondly there's the joker who poisons dogs and sends filthy anonymous notes, and thirdly the Auburn gets pinched. They must all link somehow but I can't see you being involved with all of them, so therefore it's none.'

‘Thanks.' Tom's eyes strayed to the storyboards, perhaps as reassurance that a saner world was still to be found.

I abandoned Nigel at least temporarily as a suspect and went back to square one. ‘Is there
anything
about Margot Croft or
Running Tides
that I need to know?'

I realized it was an impossible question when he looked at me helplessly. Give it one more spin, I thought. ‘Who might still want revenge from those days, Tom, and for what? Margot's suicide?' I added.

Silence. Genuine bewilderment, I thought.

I tried to help out. ‘Her family – her husband? He wasn't an actor but he could be here as an extra for
Dark Harvest.
'

A stirring of interest. ‘Geoff Manning?'

The idea began to grow on me. I remembered what Joan had said about strong emotions festering.

‘Did you meet him?'

‘Sure. He was a nice chap.'

‘How old would he be now?' I was busy calculating how much mileage there might be in this.

‘He was older than Margot,' Tom said. ‘Could have been mid-forties then – fifties now. But Bill knew him. He'd have recognized him.'

‘There are an awful lot of extras and crew coming and going,' I pointed out. ‘In costume and with different styles of hair and clothes, he might have escaped notice.' He could have retired or been forcibly retired, I thought feverishly. Maybe he lost his job.

At least it was a line to follow up. I'd look at the extras lists for a start, even though with evil intentions he could well be using a different name. The more I prodded at the theory the more possible it became. Why would Margot's husband want to kill Angie? Because, he might reason, Bill had been responsible for Margot's death, so he would kill Angie.

‘Would there be a photo of Geoff around?' A long shot, but worth asking.

‘Doubt it,' Tom grunted. ‘Try the old celeb mags if you can get hold of them. Maisie might have some and she might have photos too.'

‘Good idea.' I went straight over to the DOP's office and asked to see the pass lists. Frustratingly they showed nothing under Manning or Croft although there were one or two Geoffreys, which I noted down without much hope. Still, it was a beginning. Then I went to Roger's office to ask if Maisie was around. She wasn't, and when I explained what I was after, Roger didn't look convinced. Granted he must have other things on his mind – such as a film falling to pieces around him and a business that might soon be following suit.

‘Check the pass lists,' he suggested.

‘I've done so. No obvious lead. Do you think you would recognize him?'

‘I guess not. I only met him a couple of times.'

‘Would your wife have any photos of him?'

‘I'll check that out.' Roger was looking more interested now.

‘Did you keep in touch with Manning after the film?'

‘Only to ask him to the premiere. Offer rejected as far as I recall, but I met him at the funeral.'

As yet anyway, my theory was holding water. Unfortunately I was outdone. When I reached the car park, there was the Queen of Theories herself.

‘I've been thrown out again,' Pen told me cheerfully. ‘Thought I'd wait here to net a couple of fish. You'll do.'

‘Thanks. Why did you get ejected? Did you by any chance mention to Bill that he might have killed his wife?'

She looked hurt. ‘Not yet. Joan Burton's death has thrown a spanner in the works. I've got to deal with that.'

So would her family and friends, I thought sadly. ‘Are you planning to fit Bill up for Joan's murder too?'

‘I like to do thorough research first,' she said primly. ‘You know that. I'm doing some scuffling around on Joan.'

‘And what have you dug up?'

‘Not a lot. Divorced. No children. Husband beat her up.'

‘No secret love affair with Bill? Or one with Roger perhaps?'

‘I hadn't thought of that angle,' she said seriously. ‘You're right. That's possible. Roger and Bill at daggers drawn over her.'

I groaned, hoping I hadn't played into her hands. She looked highly pleased with herself.

‘How's Louise?' she asked.

‘Staggering on without your kind attentions.'

‘She's all right, is Louise.'

‘I think so too.'

She looked at me pityingly. ‘Careful, Jack. They're a world to themselves, these film and theatre folk. Step outside their magic circle and they can't cope with the big wide world.'

‘Which of us can?'

She considered this light comment carefully. ‘
I
can.'

‘Tell me your secret.'

‘No secret about it. You know what Billy Shakespeare said? All the world's a blinking stage. Just build your own and invite suitable guests for the play of the moment.'

‘Am I invited?'

She grinned. ‘Any time, Jack.'

It took two days before I saw the photos. In the meantime I had tried my theory out on Louise and she had agreed it might hold water, given some backup. I was champing at the bit to get it moving, but the Internet and other sources had not yet produced anything on Geoffrey Manning's life after Margot.

‘I've asked Graham and Chris if they can recall this Geoff Manning,' Louise told me, ‘but Graham said they hardly knew him. He rarely came to the set and didn't socialize with them anyway. Chris asked around but no one heard from him after the funeral. They all moved on, naturally enough.'

Moved on. Geoff Manning may not have been able to do that, I thought. I had another burst of hope when Maisie brought the photos but they weren't good. She had also kept a scrapbook of the filming of
Running Tides
but Geoff had not figured in more than a couple of the photos included. The face was blurred and rang no bells with me or Louise. Nor unfortunately with the casting department. ‘Might be one of ours,' I was told. ‘Can't say for certain. It's an old photo.'

Which left Bill.

He bearded me in the canteen. ‘I hear you've been busy,' he said accusingly. ‘Geoff Manning, Roger tells me.'

‘A possible line. Would you recognize him now if he was one of the extras here?'

‘I would.'

That was something, I supposed.

‘If,' he continued, ‘I
saw
him. But you know how many of my extras I actually
see
? One in a hundred. I look at the shape of the group, the height, the girth, the clothes, the movement, but the faces? Rarely. They're there for a purpose, that's all.
Background
. Louise, now –' he passed a hand over his face – ‘I see her as a character. Same with Ellie and Justin. Even Brian Tegg. But the other extras – even those playing silent characters, the Prince of Wales, von Ribbentrop, Mrs Simpson – I don't
see
them. Sorry, Jack, but that's the way it is.'

‘You still want me to carry on?' I asked. ‘The situation has altered since Joan's death.' I had to bear in mind that Bill himself must have been investigated by Brandon.

‘Let me tell you something. I want this ugly business over,' Bill told me. The chances are one in a hundred you'll turn up anything, but because of that one, I won't take the risk. If you contribute anything at all, it will be worth every cent.'

‘Even if it leads nowhere – as this Geoff Manning theory might?'

He thought for a moment. ‘You know why I go to twenty takes sometimes? Because sometimes that's what it needs to get there. Nothing you can do about it. Just get there, Jack.'