Showstopper

17

Candida stepped on deck next morning with the idea of calling at the marina office to collect the mail. A fine, clear morning, the sheet of water still as a mirror except for some ducks patterning the surface as they glided closer, making their case for an early feed. She had Bart in her arms. He could walk perfectly well but needed help getting from the narrowboat on to the wooden jetty. Generally it was quiet at this time of day. Not this morning.

On the far side, some men in black were grouped on the plank walkway bordering the perimeter. They were staring down at the water and she recognised one of them, the only one wearing a suit. Overweight and overbearing in the way he stood with arms folded, the detective, Peter Diamond, wasn’t directing the action, but he wanted no one to doubt that he was the senior man.

She now saw that two of the others were in wetsuits and holding masks and snorkels and a moment later there was a disturbance in the water in front of them and a diver surfaced. He held up a traffic cone, emptied the water from it and slung it on to a heap of finds on the walkway. There was some amusement that Candida couldn’t hear.

She wasn’t at all amused. Heart thumping, she set Bart on his feet, held his hand and marched along the jetty past her neighbours’ boats towards the end and then around the water’s edge to where the unwelcome visitors had set up. She came straight to the point with Diamond. “You’re wasting your time, you know.”

“Morning, Candida, and morning, Bart,” he said as if he had been expecting them. “You could be right, but it’s one of those jobs that has to be done. The underwater search unit are busy people and I’m lucky to get them when I can. The lady in the office knows what’s going on.”

“What did you tell her?”

“Don’t worry, I was the soul of discretion. Your name wasn’t mentioned and neither was Fergus’s. I told her we’re looking for things of interest that might have been dumped here. A place like this could be irresistible to ne’er-do-wells wanting to get rid of incriminating objects.”

Bart headed for the mud-covered rubbish. Candida dashed after him and scooped him up. “No, you don’t.” He let out yells of protest until distracted by the sight of the man in the water. Peace was restored.

“He must have noticed the little scooter in the heap,” Diamond said. “It might clean up and be usable. None of this stuff is of any interest to me and you’re welcome to help yourself, but I wouldn’t let him touch anything yet. The water’s not the purest.”

The man making the search pulled the mask over his face and submerged again. He was linked by a safety line to one of the others on the walkway.

“They tell me it’s deeper than it looks,” Diamond said. “There could be a crashed aircraft in here for all I know.”

Candida said nothing.

“It’s going to take days. These guys will tell you there’s nil visibility. They’re groping through the muck at the bottom and stirring it up as they go. It’s not a job I’d do myself.”

She didn’t even look at him while he was speaking. She was watching the movement of the yellow line in the water.

“I expected them to start on your side where the boats are moored,” Diamond went on. “All kinds of stuff could be trapped under the jetty or between the boats. But they have their own way of working. They want to check the stretch of open water first.”

Candida shook her head at the folly of it all. Presently she let Bart down and took out her phone. She put it to her ear, turned and walked off, speaking quietly, with Bart close behind.

Diamond had followed them closely along the duck-board walk and when she pocketed the phone she heard him call out, “Tipping off Fergus?”

On the point of denial, she thought better of it and said over her shoulder, “This is our home. He has a right to know.”

“No argument with that. Is he on his way?”

“He’s filming.”

“Of course, he is. The key grip. He’ll come as soon as he can. Does he drive? I suppose he has to, in that job. They all drive the trucks from time to time.”

“He has a motorbike,” she called back.

“Useful.”

Inside himself, Diamond was less laidback than he was showing. A motorcycle was something he hadn’t factored in. “Does he ever have the use of the trucks overnight?”

“They belong to Gripmasters,” Candida said without answering the question.

“I don’t suppose they’d mind if he borrowed one.”

She turned to glare at him.

“Say if he had a removal job to do, like picking up a piece of second-hand furniture. They wouldn’t need to know, would they?”

“We don’t need furniture. The boat was furnished when we moved in. We can hardly move as it is.”

“Bart’s things, I meant,” he said. “High chair, playpen, cot. A baby needs extras you can’t cart home on the back of a motorbike.”

“They were delivered,” she said. “They weren’t secondhand. I don’t want my child using things someone else has thrown out. And he won’t be given that filthy scooter or anything else from the scrap heap.” She’d come as far as the marina office and she went in, leaving Diamond outside to ponder that parting shot. The term “scrap heap” couldn’t have been intended to strike at his insecurity, but it did. It went deep.

He returned to the search party and checked the heap for any new finds. “Is there any way you can speed this up?” he asked the dive supervisor. “You’ve got two others in their wetsuits doing nothing.”

“Are you telling me my job, sir?”

“No, just enquiring. What’s your name?”

The man pointed to a name tag sewn on to his jacket saying Earnshaw.

Diamond grinned sheepishly. “Didn’t spot it.”

“It’s no picnic down there. Each diver does a shift and then needs a break. If you want more men in the water, you’d better speak to my boss.”

“Have you done missing-person searches before?”

For that dumb question he was rewarded with a cold stare. “We do more of them than anything else.”

“Do you really need to bring up all this debris?”

“If you want a proper search, yes,” Earnshaw said. “The body could be covered in clutter.”

“The most recent one won’t be. That was a matter of days ago.”

“We were told there may be one from four years back.”

“You’re right,” he said. “There may be.” He sounded a more cordial note. “Incidentally, when people ask what you’re looking for — as they’re sure to — I’d be glad if you’d avoid mentioning corpses.”

Another look.

“Obviously I don’t need to tell you guys anything. I’ll leave you to get on with your work.”

He’d spotted Candida leaving the office, so he took the opportunity to go inside and speak to the woman on duty. He admitted straight away that he was the senior detective who had authorised the search. “We may be a few days,” he told her. “These things can’t be hurried.”

“What exactly are you hoping to find?”

“If I knew the answer to that, I’d be a happy man. Nothing is exact about this. But it would help me to know whether you’ve had any strangers coming and going in the last couple of weeks.”

“On the water, you mean?”

“Or by land, driving up in cars or trucks.”

“No one, to my knowledge. And we don’t miss much. We’re serious about security. The only people I’ve seen are known to us — the boat owners we meet every day.”

He drove straight to Milroy Court. The schedule told him they were filming interiors there. But on entering the mansion and showing his ID he was asked to wait in the kitchen downstairs because the bedroom where the shoot was underway was a closed set, meaning people not essential to the filming were barred.

He didn’t take it personally. He could understand actors wanting some kind of privacy for sex scenes. Apart from that, he’d seen how many people were needed for the sound and lighting, let alone the camera. With all their equipment inside a bedroom they’d be hard pressed to squeeze in the actors.

The kitchen was busy. Fergus and a few of the riggers were grouped by the window. Diamond had noticed before that they didn’t mingle. Then he spotted Sabine, or thought he did until she turned round, coffee in hand. She had the same hairstyle and was wearing the black Swift costume. Her resemblance to the star performer was remarkable except for the mouth, which was wider, with fuller lips.

He worked his way through the crush to get face-to-face. “I was sure you were Sabine,” he said. “You must be her double. I expect it happens all the time.”

She nodded and made clear with her voice that the mistake was common and annoying. “Sorry to disappoint you.” She’d probably said the same thing dozens of times before. She started to move on.

“You’re Ann, right?”

At the mention of her own name, Ann Bugg gave him a second look.

“Mind if we talk?” he said. “I don’t know anyone else here.”

She reddened and said nothing, so he went on, “My name’s Peter.” Everyone used first names in television, but he still had a duty to make clear why he was here. “I’m with the police, trying to make sense of that jinx thing.”

He got the caught-in-the-headlights stare he was used to getting whenever he admitted he was a cop, but her reaction was more, unmistakably more. She wasn’t merely shocked. She was alarmed. She looked right and left as if hoping someone would come to the rescue. She hadn’t even confirmed her name yet.

“I’m not mistaken, am I? You are Ann Bugg?”

A nod.

This would be like chiselling granite.

He tried showing he wasn’t totally ignorant about what was going on. “I should have guessed Sabine will be in front of the camera upstairs. Or in her motorhome if she’s on a break.” To lighten the mood, he said, “She won’t be drinking her coffee out of a paper cup.”

She didn’t rise to that, so he asked, “Do we help ourselves here?”

“I’m not stopping you,” she said, eyes darting, wanting to be anywhere but here.

He found a cup, spooned in some instant and tried to be affable while the kettle came to the boil. “One thing I’m learning about TV production is how good the catering is.” He reached for a chocolate chip muffin. “These are tempting. Want one?”

She shook her head.

“Shall we move into the other room,” he said when he’d poured his coffee. “I saw people in there as I came past.”

Like a shepherd controlling a wilful sheep, he held both arms out, at risk of spilling his drink, and guided her into a sitting room almost as crowded as the kitchen.

“Are you filming a scene today?” he asked after he’d backed her into a corner.

“Maybe.”

“Dumb question. You wouldn’t be here otherwise. You do the stunts, don’t you?”

“Sometimes.”

“Is one lined up for later? I’d love to see it.”

“No.”

“Didn’t you just say...”

“Sometimes they want me for long shots.”

“I heard about you losing your footing at the weir the other day and getting swept over the edge. Nasty moment for you.”

“I’ve had worse.”

“No injuries?”

“Some bruising, that’s all.”

“How did it happen, exactly?”

If he’d hoped for the full account, he didn’t get it. “I slipped.”

“Can’t blame the jinx, then?”

She rolled her eyes and didn’t answer. He could have been talking to a stroppy teenager, except that she was at least twenty-five.

Am I really too old for this? he asked himself. His self-confidence had taken one knock at the marina and now it was challenged again. Maybe flattery would loosen her tongue. “You’re a true professional. Back next day to film all over again.”

“That’s my job.”

“You do all the dangerous stuff, jumping from roof to roof and driving fast cars and most of the viewers think it’s Sabine.”

“That’s what they’re supposed to think. She doesn’t take risks and I don’t speak lines and that’s all there is to it.” The most she’d said so far, only it sounded ominously like an exit line. She edged sideways.

Diamond had once played rugby for the Met. He took a sidestep and barred her way. She had the prospect of getting coffee spilled on her Swift costume.

He said, “Do tell me more.” But more didn’t come, so he laid it on thick again. “Let’s be clear. The reason most people watch the show is down to you. The action. They get a thrill from the stunts.”

“It’s all done in the editing,” she said. “I don’t often get in real danger.”

“I’m sure that can’t be true. You’re far too modest. I wouldn’t do your job for love nor money. But I don’t look much like Sabine, so I won’t get the offer.”

She actually gave a tight little smile at that, encouraging him to say, “Has anyone asked you about the jinx?”

“It’s newspaper talk.”

“Doesn’t bother you?”

“I’m not interested.”

“But I am, just in case someone is pulling the strings. Most of it is nonsense, but people going missing have to be taken seriously. Were you in the cast when Dave Tudor went missing?”

She hesitated, as if sensing a trap. “I’ve been part of the show since the first series.”

“I should have realised. You would have got the job soon after Sabine got hers. Did you double for her in the past, in other shows?”

She shook her head.

“They were lucky to find someone who looked like her and could do the stunts. Stunt people aren’t necessarily stand-ins as well, are they?”

She shrugged. He was getting more of the silent treatment.

“You should get a double fee.”

She made clear with a sigh that this had gone on long enough.

“Do you get on with Sabine?”

“I don’t need to.”

He smiled. “She can be difficult at times, I’m told.”

She looked away. He’d get none of the lowdown from Ann Bugg.

There was movement at the end of the room and several people came in together carrying coffees. He recognised the camera supervisor and two of his team. They must have taken a break from filming. This was confirmed when two actors, male and female, in white dressing gowns, appeared in the doorway. Behind them came Greg Deans with the director, George Spode. They seemed to be looking for a space to occupy and then Deans spotted Diamond and came over.

“Didn’t expect to see you again so soon, sunshine. You’ve found Ann, I see, our all-action lady, and I mean that in the nicest way. You’re our secret star, aren’t you, gorgeous?” he said, linking a hand inside Ann Bugg’s arm and standing as close to her as she would allow. She looked even more uncomfortable now. “I don’t know if this gent has introduced himself. He’s a very senior detective, a superintendent, no less.”

“Ann knows who I am,” Diamond said. “We met in the kitchen.”

“You really should give us advance warning of your visits, old sport. I was upstairs filming.”

“No problem. I’m not here to see you.”

“I should hope not. We covered everything I can think of when you last came.” He turned to Ann. “Would you mind, darling? The detective may have something confidential to tell me about his investigation.”

Would she mind? She was only too pleased of the chance to escape. She slipped her arm clear of Deans’s and made a beeline for the door.

“That’s a nervous young lady,” Diamond said. “Has she ever been in trouble with the police?”

“Not to my knowledge,” Deans said. “That’s not nice, if I may say so. In this business it isn’t done to enquire into each other’s police records. It’s highly unlikely she has one, I would say, knowing Ann as we do. She drinks in moderation and has a modest lifestyle.”

“A saint, in other words.”

Deans laughed. “She’d better speak for herself.”

“Not to me she won’t. Is she difficult to bring out in conversation, or is it me?”

More amusement. “You, I expect. Ann is as tough as they come. She’ll cheerfully run through a burning building or jump out of a moving car, but she doesn’t have much to say, I admit. What were you hoping to get from her — if that isn’t an indiscreet question?”

“Her thoughts on the newspaper story. She’s a professional risk-taker and she’s been here from the start, almost. She must remember every one of the incidents listed by the Post. Until I saw her just now I hadn’t thought of speaking to her. She’s easy to overlook.”

“Ah, there speaks a whodunit expert. Find the most unlikely suspect and that’s your perpetrator.”

“I don’t read the things,” Diamond said. “I’m only interested in true crime and then it’s generally obvious who did it.”

“Obvious to a top detective, but not the man in the street like me.”

Deans as the man in the street was a stretch of the imagination Diamond couldn’t make. “Did you come over to tell me something?”

“Not especially, but I might as well ask the question everyone wants to know and doesn’t dare ask. What else have you learned about the great jinx mystery?”

“Nothing worth passing on. We’re working on several lines of inquiry.”

“You definitely believe there’s something sinister afoot?”

“Definitely, no. But the Assistant Chief Constable ordered me to investigate and that’s what I’m doing.”

“For how long? No offence, but my actors feel uncomfortable rubbing shoulders with you and your officers. They’re sensitive creatures, like racehorses, easily unsettled.”

“No need, if they’ve done nothing wrong.”

Deans laughed. “Everyone in this room has done something wrong. I’ve got three penalty points on my driving licence, but it doesn’t make me a serial killer.”

“Is that what you think we’re dealing with?”

“Quite the opposite, love. I used the expression to show you how events get twisted out of proportion. TV production is a minefield and I treat you as a UID. Do you know what that is?”

“Go on. Tell me.”

“An unexploded incendiary device.”

Diamond had been called some things in his time, and at least this was new. “I’d say that’s out of proportion, too.”

“Maybe it was slightly OTT. I’ll put it another way. As executive producer, I have a vested interest in continuity. My job is dealing with the nasties when they occur and making sure the show goes on.”

“Are you calling me a nasty now?”

“Figure of speech, darling. Nothing personal. You know what I’m saying.”

Actually, Diamond felt more comfortable as a nasty than Greg Deans’s darling. He couldn’t get used to the endearments. “Is Sabine herself on your call sheet for today?”

“Sabine? She’s come and gone. She was first up this morning. All she had to do was open the door and catch the other two in bed — an in-joke you won’t understand unless you watch the series.”

“The handyman panics, climbs out of the window and is seen bare-arsed on the wisteria. I was here yesterday.”

“Ha — so you were.”

“I thought today you must have moved on from there.”

“We don’t film in sequence, sweetie.”

Sweetie? Diamond tried to let it wash over him. Thank God none of his team were here.

“That’s all sorted out in post-production,” Deans explained. “This bedroom scene is taking far too long.”

“Perhaps the actors are enjoying themselves.”

“No, no. They hate it. Ask any actor. Anyway, the sex is tame stuff, being a family show. The problem is that George the director thought he’d save time and money by using a real bedroom here with a genuine four-poster rather than build a set at the studio, but we have to be so careful with the furnishings. We can’t climb on the dressing table or back the cameraman into the wardrobe for fear of damaging a priceless Chippendale piece. It’s taking longer than anyone thought.” He sighed. “We’ll be running late tonight.”

“Like the night Jake Nicol was last seen alive?”

“Here we go again. You’re not very subtle, are you?”

“About that evening up at the airfield. What time did you leave?”

“I remember I was late home and got in trouble with Natalie, my partner. She relies on me for her main meal. We finished filming about eight. Everyone left except the grips.”

“By everyone, you mean all the actors and crew?”

“Absolutely. Charmy Down isn’t a place you want to spend your evening in.”

“Everyone including you?”

“I called a wrap and left immediately.”

“How about Sabine? She was still there, surely?”

“In a sense, yes. She went straight into her motorhome.”

“I heard it was still parked there when the riggers left.”

“You’d have to ask her. I’d gone.” He gulped the last of his coffee. “Listen, honey, I must round everyone up and get back upstairs for yet another take of the tumble in the four-poster.”

In the more sobering surroundings of the incident room that afternoon, Diamond updated himself on all that had come in, and there wasn’t much. Ingeborg had been in touch with the Bristol Post to see if they’d had much feedback from their readers. Several had sent tweets about their own experience with jinxes.

“No use to us, guv,” she said. “All it tells us is some people are deeply superstitious even in the twenty-first century.”

“Gullible is the word I’d use. Anything else?”

“A comment from a Swift fan saying Caitlin Swift must be causing all the trouble and won’t get caught because she’s always too smart for the police.”

“That’s the kind of horseshit shows like this give rise to.”

She raised an eyebrow. “There are too many shows where the police come out on top. It’s a breath of fresh air to have a master-criminal as the star.”

“You watch it, do you? So we have a mole in the murder squad.”

She gave a slight smile. “I’ve streamed a few episodes since we started on the case. It’s rather well done.”

“Traitor.”

The remark was meant in fun, but Ingeborg wasn’t amused. “Get real, guv. I’m allowed to watch television without being called disloyal.”

He crossed the room to Paul Gilbert’s desk. “What’s the latest on the Jake Nicol mystery?”

“Nothing much, guv. I’ve spent a lot of time checking with rigging companies and I found one in London that once had him on their books.”

“What did you learn?”

“He was reliable and didn’t mind late hours. No family.”

“A ladies’ man?”

Gilbert’s eyes widened. “No one said so. Why do you ask?”

He wasn’t going to reveal that Paloma had put the idea in his head. “I keep thinking of the tash.”

Obviously a new word to Gilbert. He frowned. “Tash? The rapper?”

“The Clark Gable moustache.”

Gilbert still looked lost. He hadn’t heard of Clark Gable either. The generation gap was a gulf.

“It’s two pencil-thin strips above the lips that don’t meet in the middle. A miracle of shaving. I’ve never enquired how it’s done. Maybe a barber trimmed it for him. What I’m saying is that if Nicol went to all that trouble, he probably fancied his chances as a stud.”

“And made a play for one of the women? That’s a new angle.”

“Sabine was up at the airfield that afternoon and so was her double, Ann Bugg.”

“I can see where this is going. Stunning women, both of them, but strong enough to look after themselves in a fight.”

“Hold on, Paul,” Diamond said. “I’m not suggesting either of them stabbed him, but if one of the crew witnessed him forcing himself on one of them, he could have seen red and pulled a knife.”

“Wow — that is a possibility. Someone who felt protective. Does either of them have a boyfriend?”

“Don’t know. I met Ann Bugg at Milroy Court this morning and got the clear impression she has things to hide. She could hardly wait to get away from me.”

Across the room, Ingeborg winked at Jean Sharp.

Gilbert was gripped. This was his case. “Do you think she’s protecting the killer? Jake got heavy with her and this guy rescued her. She knows who and no way will she shop him.”

“It might explain a few things. Food for thought, that’s all.” Already he was going off the idea. He still felt the deaths of Tudor and Nicol were connected — and possibly Mary Wroxeter’s as well — and he couldn’t see how the earlier murders — if that was what they were — linked up with a killing done in the heat of the moment.

He left Paul mulling over the matter.

Another line of enquiry was on his mind. He checked with John Leaman, who as office manager dealt with the flow of information to the incident room. “Anything new from the marina?”

“No. Total silence.”

“They’ll have a mountain of scrap by now.”

“Do you want me to text them?”

“Better not. They don’t like being nagged. The guy in charge will call if they find anything.”

“Like a body?”

“Right now, John, I’d settle for a coat button if it ends all the mights and maybes.”