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She took a pill, put out the light, and finally drifted off to sleep, but a sleep troubled by dreams she couldn’t remember when her alarm went off next morning.
She showered in luke-warm water, to wake herself up, and dressed quickly in dark green ski pants and a beige shirt topped by an olive-green sweater which had a fleeting resemblance to army combat gear. With her short, blonde hair slicked back and faintly damp, she looked even more like a boy when she saw herself in a mirror, and her mouth twitched ironically. Maybe she had subliminally picked this outfit? No man was going to be turned on if she looked like this!
In fact, Sean was just as pale and red-eyed from lack of sleep as she was; neither of them could face anything but coffee and orange juice.
Before they left for the studio Sean asked her, ‘Where’s that gun you were presented with?’
She gave him a startled look. ‘Upstairs in a drawer.’
‘Get it and carry it in your handbag,’ he ordered in a tone that made her chin come up.
‘I don’t want to carry a gun around with me!’
His teeth met; his voice grated between them, ‘Don’t keep arguing. For God’s sake, Annie, take this situation serious. There’s a crazy guy out there – you should have some protection. Get the gun. I’ll put the bullets in for you.’
When Annie got out of make-up that morning, she heard Harriet complaining loudly that Mike was late again, but that was nothing unusual, Annie took no notice, and although Harriet was irritated she didn’t actually need Mike yet, he wasn’t in the first scene they were to shoot, so she carried on working while her assistant rang him.
Work went well that morning. There were only a few stoppages and nobody forgot their words, or made a wrong move, although Annie had dark shadows under her eyes and was faintly lethargic.
She and Sean had driven in to work together hours ago, barely speaking. She avoided his eye when she saw him around on the set that morning.
They broke at ten, with scene 1 in the can, and had coffee while the set was changed; the next scene was to be shot in the police canteen, which involved the scene-shifters moving a lot of chairs and tables, while the cameras and lighting were switched over to that side of the vast, barnlike studio, with its cavernous, echoing roof, festooned with lighting tracks and cables. A dozen extras in police uniform came on set to sit at some of the tables and provide background noise for the scene; Harriet’s assistant went over to talk to them, remind them what to do and when to move.
Annie slumped in her chair, massaging the back of her neck with one hand while she held her paper cup of coffee in the other and took an occasional sip. When you were working under the hot lights you didn’t notice, but once the lights switched off and you stopped moving you soon began to feel cold.
There was no heating; every time the double doors were opened the wind blew in around them, which was why all the women studio technicians wore woolly leggings under their jeans and several layers of warm clothing on top. What the men wore was anybody’s guess, but they tried to keep moving a lot, and flapped their arms and stamped their feet on very cold days.
Harriet, in her duffle coat, wearing a woolly hat with earmuffs, which made her look like a gnome, perched on a chair beside her, zipping through her words and movements for the next scene.
‘You turn then; close-up; we want a worried look as you realise your back-up hasn’t arrived – OK? Then Mike comes in … where the hell is he? Can’t he ever get here on time?’ Harriet broke off as a couple of policemen in uniform walked over towards them. She gave them a startled look. ‘Now what?’
‘Miss Lang?’ one of them said to Annie. ‘Inspector Chorley has sent us to fetch you – he wants to talk to you again.’
Harriet groaned. ‘Oh, no! Things were going too well. I might have known it was too good to last. Look, can’t this wait? I’ve got a programme to make and I can’t make it if my star keeps being dragged away to answer police questions. This can’t be urgent.’
The constable’s expression was totally wooden. ‘Sorry, miss, but we were told to bring Miss Lang back with us.’
‘Why? What’s happened? Have you caught the murderer?’
The policemen exchanged glances, but before they could answer Billy Grenaby came hurrying towards them, barely avoiding tripping over the snaking cables littering the floor, startling Harriet out of her wits because he rarely appeared on the floor of the studio while they were filming.
For once he was pale, agitated, none of his usual bounce in evidence. He burst out at once before he got to them, ‘Harriet, my God, this is terrible … I can’t believe it … first Derek, now Mike! The series is finished – it can’t go on after this.’
Everyone within earshot froze, listening, staring, the cameramen and sound technicians, the studio manager in his headphones, the other actors, faces startled.
‘Mike? What are you talking about?’ Harriet said, eyes wide and shocked. ‘You don’t mean … Mike’s …’ She turned to stare at the police, her face questioning, incredulous, horrified. ‘Mike’s not …’
A buzz ran round the studio, a gasp of shock and disbelief. Harriet’s assistant dropped the clapperboard and the sound rang like a shot, making everyone jump and stare.
Annie looked at the policemen, too; they were watching her in a way that made her blood run cold. Oh, my God, it’s true, she thought; Mike’s been killed too. She could read it in their quiet, watchful faces, the careful eyes which told her as little as possible, never wavering as they stared at her. She couldn’t believe it was happening; it was like a nightmare, first Derek, now Mike. Had he been killed the same way as Derek? She swallowed a wave of sickness. How horrible … horrible. Then she thought: surely to God the police don’t think I did it? They can’t believe that. They can’t.
But who did? Roger Keats? Why would he kill Mike Waterford? Mike wasn’t seeing Marty. What on earth would be the motive in killing Mike? But there had to be some connection. It couldn’t be coincidence, not when both actors were stars in this series. First Derek, now Mike? What is going on? What is going on?
People were whispering to each other all round the studio, and they were staring at her, now, with changing expressions. The police had come to get her – she could see that everyone was wondering why, asking themselves if she was suspected, what she had done. The only ones who weren’t staring at her like that were Harriet and Billy Grenaby; they were looking at each other, their eyes silently talking. The two of them often did that, they seemed able to talk without words. But what were they saying to each other now? she wondered. Surely they didn’t believe she was involved in these murders?
‘Has there been another murder?’ Harriet asked the policemen.
‘I’m sorry, but we can’t answer questions, miss,’ one said gruffly. ‘Better come along at once, Miss Lang. The inspector’s waiting.’
