Authors: Laura Wilson
The young make-up girl, apparently flustered by the direction of their gaze, looked up, dropping her sponge as she did so. ‘Then why is he doing it?’ asked Diana, turning away slightly to spare the girl’s embarrassment.
‘No choice,’ said Alex. ‘Not if he wants to stay alive, anyway. Although,’ he added sardonically, ‘I’d say that’s debatable at the moment.’
Shocked by this flippancy, but trying not to show it, Diana said, ‘I meant, why is he doing the film?’
‘Last chance saloon. Five other actors turned it down because they’re sick and tired of moustache-twirling parts, and he’s turned down so many things himself that the studio threatened not to renew his contract. They won’t anyway, but …’ Alex shrugged.
‘Poor man.’
‘Poor man who’s wasting everyone’s time and the studio’s money. It’s a pity, because he used to be good.’
‘Who is he?’
‘Anthony Renwick.’
‘
Really?
But he’s …’
‘I know. Taller, slimmer, better looking … Mind you, it’s always odd the first time you see film actors in the flesh, whatever shape they’re in. One’s so used to seeing bits of them vastly enlarged on screens that one imagines they must actually be the size of hills or something. Anyway, mighty fallen, and all that. It’d be a mercy to give him a drink, really – might improve his performance, at any rate.’
‘Excuse me, miss.’ Diana turned to see an electrician behind her with a lamp on wheels.
She stepped smartly backwards, tripped over a length of cable, and would have fallen if Alex hadn’t rescued her.
‘Don’t worry, happens all the time.’ He took her arm. ‘We should
get back a bit,’ he murmured. ‘They’re about to go. That’s the second assistant director, marshalling the extras.’ Diana saw a group of women in ball gowns being herded across the floor by a slight, nervous-looking individual. ‘Oh,’ added Alex,
sotto voce
, ‘and that’s Mr Carleton, sitting under the camera. I’ll introduce you when they break for lunch.’
Following his gaze, Diana saw the profile of a dark-haired man in a grubby open-necked shirt, sleeves rolled up, elbows on knees, staring intently in front of him. At his side was a thin woman in a plain black frock, her expression permanently fixed at surprise by the high arches of her pencilled brows. ‘Who’s that?’ she whispered.
‘Marita Neill. She’s the continuity girl. Makes sure all the shots match up and nobody’s wearing a wristwatch and so forth. You need eyes in the back of your head, and she’s the best in the business. Been here for
ever
.’
Diana jumped as a hugely amplified voice boomed, ‘Quiet, please!’ A sudden silence, so tense that it was almost palpable, filled the studio.
‘That’s the first assistant director,’ Alex muttered in her ear. ‘You’ll meet him later.’
‘Scene Five, Take One,’ said the voice. Mr Carleton and the continuity girl moved away from the camera as the clapper boy dashed forward, snapped his board in front of the camera, and beat a hasty retreat.
Mr Carleton, hands on knees and leaning so far forward that Diana felt he might topple over at any moment, shouted, ‘Action!’
There was a buzz of conversation from the extras, and Anthony Renwick, side by side with another frock-coated man, strolled through them towards the camera, which retreated before them on its tracks. Renwick’s face lacked animation, even when he began to speak, and he was gripping a champagne glass with a white-knuckled immobility that looked actually painful. The exchange of dialogue completed, leaden on Renwick’s part, with desperate
over-compensation in both energy and emphasis by his companion, Mr Carleton shouted, ‘Cut!’
‘Not so much acting as an endurance test,’ Alex muttered into the wave of noise which enveloped them as suddenly as had the silence before. Glancing at his watch, he said, ‘Quarter to one. I’d say we’ve got at least an hour before there’s any hope of lunch, so you might as well see round the rest of the place.’
They returned just in time for the final take. To Diana’s eyes, it seemed no different to the first, but Mr Carleton said, ‘Print that one – it won’t get any better. Reserve, take three.’
As Renwick walked off the set, his head sunk between his shoulders like a tortoise retreating into its shell, Alex murmured, ‘Better than yesterday, at any rate. He had to slap Anne Chalmers – she’s the leading lady, by the way. Took the
entire
afternoon, and she got very fed up. At one point she asked him if he was actually awake.’
They waited while Mr Carleton had a complicated exchange with the continuity girl about playing time and footage. Close to, he seemed to radiate waves of energy, like heat, and when he stood up she saw that he was tall, thin and scruffier than she’d expected. Also younger – thirty-five or -six, perhaps – but anyway, not much older than she was. His face, aquiline, with the beginnings of cragginess, was screwed up in concentration, and the words seemed to rush from his mouth, falling over each other as if he couldn’t quite keep pace with his thoughts. Dismissing the continuity girl, he stared into space for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck, apparently oblivious to their presence until Alex coughed, making him shy like a nervous horse.
‘Mr Carleton, this is Mrs Calthrop,’ said Alex.
Mr Carleton raised his head and looked at Diana. Staring into his muddy brown eyes, she experienced a physical jolt inside that made her catch her breath.
‘She’s come to work for you,’ prompted Alex.
‘Oh … yes. Yes, of course. That’s … yes …’
Diana was aware of opening her mouth, but could think of nothing to say, and closed it again. Her brain seemed to have stalled like an engine refusing to fire up. It was a moment before she realised that Mr Carleton was holding out his hand and then, after staring at it for what seemed like a full minute –
what was wrong with her?
– she took it and felt a tingle shoot up her arm like a small electric shock. ‘James Carleton. Pleased to meet you.’
‘Yes … Diana Calthrop.’
‘Well, Mrs Calthrop—’
‘Diana, please.’
Mr Carleton raised his eyebrows fractionally, and to her horror, Diana felt herself beginning to blush. Why was she behaving like a schoolgirl? Not only would she not be up to the job, whatever it turned out to be, but she was making a fool of herself. Why him, she thought desperately. Why now? Perhaps she should just excuse herself and leave, before she did something really stupid … ‘I feel,’ she began, ‘that I’m here under rather false pretences. Mr Vernon only gave me a job as a favour to a friend, so if you don’t want—’
Mr Carleton held up his hand. ‘But I
do
want,’ he said, seriously. ‘I want very much. If you’ll come with me, I’ll tell you what I want over lunch.’
‘Thank you. It’s very kind—’
‘No it isn’t.’ He put his head on one side and stared at her, intently. ‘Welcome,
Diana
, to the place where nothing is real.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
‘I trust you, Inspector. I don’t trust the others, see? But I trust you.’ Davies’s words echoed in Stratton’s mind as he brushed earth off the parsnips he’d just dug up and laid them down on a sheet of newspaper. It was Saturday afternoon and he’d been at his allotment for over four hours, harvesting carrots and potatoes, preparing earth, tidying up, and then pottering about and making work, even though it was getting too dark to do anything really useful. Although he’d told himself it was because he ought to make the most of his severely limited free time – and it was entirely true that, in the past week, he’d barely been home except to snatch some sleep – he was deliberately stretching things out until darkness fell at teatime because he wanted to be on his own and outside. There were still times when being in a Jenny-less house felt like solitary confinement. And although working on the allotment was a great improvement on sitting in an armchair and staring at the empty one opposite, the fresh air hadn’t blown the thoughts of Davies out of his mind in the way that he’d hoped.
Especially those last few words of his. They’d been uttered in the car, on the return journey from the committal. Staring down at the parsnips – feeble things, not a patch on last year’s crop – he shook his head. Grove was absolutely right – he must not let his emotions get in the way of his work. Davies might have a mental age of twelve, but he’d killed his wife and child and been judged fit to stand trial and that was all there was to it. Hanging him
wouldn’t bring back Muriel or the baby, but justice would be served. And if he, Stratton, wasn’t doing his job to the best of his ability, he might as well give it up and go and be a market gardener or something. Not that he’d be much good at that on the present showing, he thought, fingering one of the pathetic-looking parsnips.
He thought back to the chats he’d had with Davies in the car to and from the committal hearing, of the slight, childish form beside him, hunched inside the overcoat. ‘I want to tell Mam what I done, but I can’t do it, Mr Stratton.’
‘You should tell her the truth. Tell your family, and your legal advisors. It’s the best way.’ Davies had reminded him of Pete when he was younger and caught out over a falsehood or a broken window – right down to the mumbled responses, the chin glued to the chest and the sharp tang of boy sweat. Then the excuses, ‘I was married too young, see? Never had any money, that was my trouble. I could have made a bit of money if I hadn’t married, then I’d have managed all right, see?’ Then he’d talked about what he’d done on occasions when he did have money – football matches and going to the dogs, this with improbable boasts about the quantity and frequency of his winnings, followed by equally improbable – and inappropriate – boasts about his sexual conquests. Stratton could easily imagine him saying these things in a pub and engaging in banter with other men – he’d be able to hold his own in that company, or with his fellow van drivers at work. He had been cheerful and talkative, as Dr Sutherland had said, even to the extent of eliciting from Stratton that he supported Tottenham Hotspur, and teasing him about their recent poor performance. His under-developed mind, Stratton thought, did not allow him to dwell on his predicament for long. When they’d parted, Davies had shaken his hand and asked when they’d meet again. Stratton remembered the little man’s face falling in dismay as he’d explained that it would be on opposite sides of the Court, and how Davies had gripped his hand once more and said that he was sorry …
‘Dad! There you are!’ Stratton looked up to see Monica standing over him in the near-darkness. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Oh … Yes, love.’
‘You were all hunched over, snapping parsnips in half and talking to yourself.’
‘Was I?’
Monica knelt down next to him, and pointed at a heap of broken vegetables. ‘It doesn’t matter – Auntie Doris will only cut them up anyway. Are you going to come back now? It’s gone six.’
‘I lost track of time.’
‘
Are
you all right, Dad?
Really?
’
‘I’m sorry, love. Just feeling a bit blue, that’s all. Nothing to worry about.’
‘I thought I’d better come and fetch you. It’s way past teatime.’
‘I didn’t mean to put you out.’
‘You didn’t. Anyway, I wanted to tell you – I met someone you know.’
‘Did you? Where?’
‘Yesterday, at work.’
‘Work?’ echoed Stratton, trying to imagine what on earth anyone he knew could possibly be doing on a film set.
‘Yesterday. Her name’s Mrs Calthrop.’
Thank God she can’t see my face properly, thought Stratton. ‘Diana Calthrop?’ he asked, in what he hoped was a neutral tone. He hadn’t thought about Diana – well, not much, anyway – for a long time. Not consciously, at least. He’d dreamt about her quite a few times in the years since they’d met and now, in Monica’s presence, the sudden and excruciatingly detailed memory of those dreams made him hot and uncomfortable.
‘That’s right. She said to give you her regards.’
‘What was she doing at the studio?’
‘She’s just started there. She’s working on Mr Carleton’s picture, same as me. She asked if I was any relation to you.’
‘I don’t understand. How did she know who you were?’
‘She said she’d heard someone calling my name.’
Stratton couldn’t remember ever telling Diana about his family, but he supposed that he must have done. Either that or, Diana’s world being what it was – everyone knowing, or knowing
of
, everyone else – she’d simply made an assumption. ‘But why is she there?’ he asked. ‘She lives in Hampshire, and she’s married. She’s got a family.’
‘I don’t know, Dad. I could hardly ask, could I? It would have been rude. It was jolly strange as it was. She said she’d met you in the war, and asked how you were. Then she said it was only her third day so she was still finding her feet.’ Rising, Monica tugged at Stratton’s elbow. ‘Come on, Dad. Your supper’ll be all dried up.’
They walked in silence for some minutes, Stratton cradling his package of vegetables, his mind a whirl of questions. What was Diana doing working at a film studio? Perhaps her husband had died – or she’d left him … but in that case, what about the children? Colonel Forbes-James had definitely said she was starting a family. Perhaps her child was Ventriss’s after all, and she’d run away with him. Not married him, though, or she wouldn’t still be called Mrs Calthrop. Besides, he thought sourly, Claude Ventriss wasn’t the marrying kind, baby or no. She’d had a war job, but that, for her class, was simply doing one’s bit with well-bred courage and county phlegm and all the rest of it – a normal, peacetime job, with connotations of
having
to earn one’s living, was an entirely different kettle of fish. There were a dozen questions he wanted to ask Monica: how did she look, what did they talk about, did she seem happy, was she wearing a wedding ring … But he couldn’t. Not without her getting the wrong impression – an impression as absurd as it was unthinkable. Because it
was
unthinkable. He was just a copper, and Diana was … was … Well, she was
Diana
. She belonged to a different world – not his, and not Monica’s, either. But then, what was she doing working at a film studio?