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She had often been angry with Derek, often resented the way he preyed on her, blackmailed her … but she had had a sort of soft spot for him, too. There was something pathetic about him, almost lovable.
Poor man, he had not been the wise, down-to-earth figure he had played in The Force. It was extraordinary, really, the way he had managed to make that imaginary character come to life, made people believe it to be him, but then she had often been bewildered by the confusion in viewers’ minds between the figure on the TV screen and the human being they met in the street.
When you went on long enough you could become confused with the character you played. You could begin to wonder who you really were. Your own identity began to crumble at times; apart from the changing emotions you acted out you had no dimension. You were just a flat image on a flat screen.
That was what had happened to Derek, too. He had been treated by the public and the press as a big name because of his part in the series, but Derek had actually been a man obsessed with failure, a star that had fallen, Lucifer-like, from a great height, after playing the major Shakespearian roles in his youth. He had drunk himself out of that world; you couldn’t drink heavily and go on stage every night to act a demanding role; you began to forget your words, you fell over the furniture, you missed your cues. Derek had gone on drinking, in the end, to forget how far he had fallen. He had been a very flawed human being, but he had had his virtues as well as his failings. He had been charming, when he chose, he had been far more supportive and helpful to other actors than Mike Waterford ever was, and he was often kind, even if he tended to sudden spitting spite.
Now even his death would be written into the script. She knew how it would be – Sean would be ordered to write Derek a dramatic death. Shot on duty. Or killed in a bomb attack, or in a crashed car. Derek wouldn’t be allowed the dignity of private death. He had died in reality – now he would have to have a fictional, dressed-up death.
And meanwhile the police were going to turn over every stone in his life until they found out all his secrets.
There must have been secrets, she thought, frowning. Derek must have been killed for a reason. Who could have killed him? A stranger? Had someone broken into his flat to burgle it? Or had it been someone he knew?
Oh, God. Fear made her spine icy. What if it was someone they all knew?
She closed her eyes and kept very still like an animal in a jungle which wasn’t even sure what was terrifying it. She was too scared even to let herself think about who might have killed Derek.
Billy Grenaby refilled his glass, offered another drink to Harriet, watching the soft curve of her breast as she reached for it. She had changed before joining him for dinner, and was wearing a soft, clinging pink dress which kept giving him glimpses of the half-moon of her breasts. Billy couldn’t stop looking at them. They were fuller than he’d imagined, and had smooth, pale skin that made his mouth go dry, made him think of touching them, letting his fingers slide down over them, to those hidden nipples.
He was used to seeing her in jeans and sweaters, low-heeled shoes or boots. He liked her that way; it amused him, that boyish look, the straight, level way she
looked back at him. Harriet was someone he increasingly trusted and that wasn’t a sensation he had often had. But he liked her this way, too; it excited him to see her mouth full and warm with pink lipstick, her eyes dusted with something glittery, pearl earrings in her ears.
It made it hard to keep his mind on what they were talking about, though, and he needed his wits about him over this business of Derek Fenn’s murder.
He looked away, muttering, ‘If Halifax thinks she may need a good lawyer it probably means he knows she’s in this up to her neck, somehow. How explosive is this going to be, Harriet? Is it going to blow the series sky-high, or are we just in for a few days or weeks of rough weather?’
She shrugged. ‘God knows. My priority is to keep the show on the road. Luckily, we’re shooting in the studio all the next week. No more locations for eight days, then we’re filming at the Stock Exchange and Billingsgate.’
Billy chuckled. ‘Money and a fishy smell, eh? You know, I like the way Halifax thinks. So long as he doesn’t go too far. A little political satire gives the series a kick. Not too much, mind you. We don’t want to scare our audience away, they hate intellectuals.’ He turned serious again. ‘What about Annie? Is she needed on set?’
‘Of course. She’s in every script. We’ll have to rewrite to take Derek out, put someone else in … the other sergeant will have to take over, Bedingfield, the guy Harry Nash is playing.’
‘Nash?’ Billy looked blank, then his face cleared. ‘Oh, I’ve got him; tall, thin, going bald? Hasn’t got the same charisma Fenn had; even though he was on the skids and a hopeless drunk Fenn could still dominate a scene without trying. Nash hasn’t got that.’
‘Well, we don’t need anyone as charismatic as Derek as long as we still have Annie and Mike. The question is, while Sean is rewriting, should he take Annie out for the moment?’
‘No. Absolutely not. Are you crazy? We use her while we have her.’
Harriet frowned, shivered. ‘Don’t talk as if she might be guilty of something! I’m sure she isn’t. I know Annie pretty well and I can’t believe she’s involved in Derek’s murder.’
‘What do any of us know about each other?’ Billy asked cynically. ‘What do I know about you, or you about me?’
Harriet gave him faint, amused glance. ‘Oh, I think I know what makes you tick, Billy.’ She was talking about money, and was surprised to see him blush.
‘That’s what you think,’ he growled, imagining that she had seen him looking down her dress, then hurried on, ‘Anyway, working will keep Annie’s mind off her problems.’ Billy paused, grimaced. ‘I still can’t see it … her and Fenn … She has that untouched look, that’s what the viewers love about her, her obvious goodness. Fenn was known for putting it about, even when he was a star. Annie was different.’
‘Stop talking about her in the past tense!’ muttered Harriet, scowling, and Billy gave her another quick, sharp look.
‘Don’t snap at me, Harry!’
‘And don’t call me Harry!’
‘If you don’t want me to give you a boy’s name, don’t go around looking like a boy!’
She suddenly lowered her eyelids and looked at him through her lashes. Billy watched in something approaching shock.
‘Do I look like a boy tonight?’ she murmured, and his breathing quickened.
