Cherringham--Playing Dead (3 page)

“Ah,” said Jack. “So if Ambrose is a little … flaky … I guess that’s why you’ve got the celebrity director on the case — Jez Kramer?”

“Hmmph,” said Helen. “It was the Board’s decision. In my opinion, the less said about him the better.”

“Ambrose and Jez don’t quite see eye to eye,” said Sarah.

“The man’s poisoned the whole production,” said Helen. “Him, and his ego. And he can be positively nasty, too!”

“Some of the cast have even walked out,” said Sarah.

“Those who’ve been well enough,” said her mother. “And the rest are at each other’s throats as a result.”

No fans of Jez Kramer here then,
thought Jack.

“But anyway — he can’t possibly be responsible,” said Helen.

“No?”

“Well, it’s hardly in his interest, is it?” said Helen. “He’s being well-paid for his star-turn as director.”

“Okay. So let’s go back to the property guy — Andy Parkes. You think he could be sabotaging the show so the Players fail and he can get the building back?”

He watched Helen look pleadingly at Sarah. She clearly didn’t want to say the words.

“I think Mum believes — it’s possible,” said Sarah.

“Not that I have any evidence. Still…” Helen said.

“Okay,” said Jack. “Well, it’s a theory. A motive — if nothing else.”

“You think?” said Sarah.

“Sure.”

“So what happens now?” said Helen.

Jack shrugged: “I like this little theatre. As a relatively new resident in Cherringham, I want it to succeed.”

Helen beamed.

“Thank you.”

“To start: we look for a modus operandi. Why don’t you tell me exactly what happened — and show me how that lighting rig works?”

And Jack got up from his oh-so-comfy chair and walked into the wings.

*

Sarah sat on the sofa and worked on her laptop while Jack investigated backstage.

She’d spent all of yesterday afternoon getting feedback from a client on a website she’d built, and now she had to try and make sense of it all.

Plus — she’d never had a head for heights and she had no intention of climbing up the little ladder into the lighting rig with Jack.

Once she’d made sure he was safety-clipped properly, she was happy to leave him to his devices.

For the last half hour she’d been able to hear him backstage, tapping away at metal, going up and down the ladder, moving chains around.

Had he ever investigated a crime in a Broadway theatre, on — what did they call it? — The Great White Way?

He certainly seemed comfortable in the theatre.

But apart from Jack’s banging around, checking things, the building was silent. A haven. Her mother had been called home too, so in fact now — sitting in the middle of Lord and Lady Blake’s faux drawing room — she felt quite at home.

I should come here more often,
she thought.
Like working in Downton Abbey.

She heard Jack coming down the ladder again and she watched as he emerged on to the stage wiping his hands with an old cloth.

“You find anything?” she said.

“Maybe,” he said.

Sarah had learned to be patient when Jack was slowly working things out, but it did test her when he seemed to do it on purpose.

Almost teasing…

She watched as he stood in the middle of the stage and peered up into the darkness above.

“Yep, should work,” he said, as if to himself.

Then he turned to her.

“Here’s the thing. I want to try something out.”

Sarah waited.

“And it could be dangerous. I might have got it wrong. I could cause a lot of damage. God — it might cost a thousand bucks. Maybe more. An experiment that might tell us something.”

“Then let’s do it,” she said. “Whatever it is you want to do.”

“Such trust! Terrific,” he said. “Now what I need you to do is hop off the stage now and head over there into the seats, just a few rows back.”

“You’re not kidding, Jack, are you?”

“Nope.”

She went down the little steps at the front of the stage, walked up to row D then turned and faced him.

“Now — don’t move. And if anyone comes into the theatre — shout out. Loud. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Because we don’t want any more accidents.”

She watched Jack disappear backstage for a few seconds then emerge again in the wings. He stood with his arms folded.

“Okay…” he said, speaking very slowly. “What I want you to do now is tell me exactly when you’d like one of those heavy lights to fall on to the stage.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“You sure?”

“Sure.”

Now she understood why he’d wanted her to stand in the stalls. But how could he make this work?

“How about…” Sarah waited, “Now!”

And as she said it, a huge sandbag dropped like a stone from above and landed with a massive thud on the stage.

It was like magic.

She looked at Jack. He hadn’t moved an inch. He looked pretty satisfied with himself.

“Wow,” she said.

“Pretty good, huh?”

“What happened to the light?” she said. “That would have been fun.”

“I was just kidding about the light,” said Jack. “I was going to use a sandbag all along. Just as effective for a demonstration.”

She climbed back up on to the stage and stood over the sandbag. She watched Jack as he joined her.

“All right, so tell me Mr. Houdini — just how did you do that?”

“Same way the killer did,” said Jack, holding up a thin line of cord in one hand. “Unscrewed all the safety clips. Replaced the chain with this — on a slip knot. Hooked it somewhere backstage.”

“So — he could just choose the moment — then pull the cord and the light would fall?”

“Yep. And nobody would even see him do it.”

“No evidence left behind, either.”

“Clever, huh?”

“But Jack. Hang on … you said — killer. Graham Jones didn’t die.”

“But that’s it. If I’m right, I think maybe he was meant to. They got the timing wrong — or something. But whoever did it is playing hardball. And we’d better find them.”

“Before someone does die?” said Sarah.

“Exactly,” said Jack.

Sarah pulled her SUV into the narrow driveway of the cottage that had been rented for Jez Kramer.

Barely enough room for the vehicle to squeeze through.

Backing out was going to be interesting.

Jez had eagerly agreed to meet Sarah, especially when she said she wanted to feature a profile of him for the next Cherringham newsletter.

Her real motive in meeting would — she hoped — not be too transparent.

She parked her car, pulling up close to a small garage at the back. The cottage looked perfectly maintained; beautiful paving for the driveway, warm Cotswold stone leading up to a slate roof.

She saw a pair of metal boxes attached to the side of the house. Air conditioning, no less. In Cherringham!

Not a bad cottage for the visiting celeb.

She walked to the back door and knocked, but Jez was already there, sipping from a teacup. He flashed a broad smile. She could feel his sharp eyes probing her.

He might have an ego; he might be pompous. But as an accomplished director, he could probably read people.

Jez Kramer took her all in.

“Sar-ah, good to see you. Come in…”

Sarah followed him through the open back door. State-of-the-art kitchen, marble countertops, all the appliances … shiny stainless steel. A professional-looking Aga dwarfed the room.

No expense spared indeed.

She had to wonder if Kramer had demanded such amenities.

Air-con. Aga. Were there yellow and green M&Ms in a bowl in each room too?

Sarah realised that — since working with Jack — she had become more attentive to
seeing
things.

Then trying to interpret what they meant.

Like knowing that Kramer
didn’t
have tea in his cup, but more likely whatever Winston Churchill used to have for his mid-day constitutional.

The expensive leather loafers, perfectly polished and smart. Savile Row for sure.

The shirt, from Pinks most likely. Beige, with subtle maroon stripes. Grey chinos, sharply pressed.

Altogether — Kramer very much looked the part.

Which is something he would be good at doing.

But Sarah had done her research. Kramer’s career hadn’t exactly been flourishing lately. Directing gigs like this were clearly tiding him over while the plum BBC drama projects went elsewhere.

“Come into the sitting room, Sarah. Rather a nice set up.”

And he was right about that. Matching leather sofa and armchair; a dark wood floor that gleamed; two tear-shaped end-tables; a scattering of magazines on them, all part of the perfectly designed interior.

The fireplace — gigantic. You could roast a pig in it.

She sat on the sofa.

“Get you a drink … tea?” he tilted his own cup, with a wry smile. “Something stronger?”

She smiled. “No, I’m fine thanks, Mr. Kramer.”

“
Jez
, please. Feel like I’m part of the Cherringham family, working with the locals, your charming mother.”

She had the feeling that Jez Kramer didn’t feel part of any Cherringham family.

Time for the interview.

She took out her pad and started asking some questions, all perfectly innocent and straightforward. To begin with, at least.

*

“Well, yes, those were golden days at the Beeb. Had my pick of projects, and the people I worked with? Absolutely the best.”

“All different now?’

Kramer grunted. “You could say that — in
spades
. Controllers who wouldn’t know a denouement from a divan. These young writers who don’t give a damn about plot, or—”

He caught himself.

Then, the director quickly forced a smile onto his face, making his tanned, leathery skin criss-cross with wrinkles.

“Things change,” he said, calming himself.

Decidedly unpleasant personality,
Sarah thought.

Time to get closer to what she really wanted to talk about.

“And you too will take a role in the production?”

“Oh, yes, I mean the theatre board practically insisted!”

Sarah would have to check that with her mother, and see which way the “insisting” went.

“You’ll be…?”

“Lieutenant Henry Collins. The dashing lover.”

“Young lover?” Sarah said.

She just couldn’t resist.

“Suppose. But it’s not a terribly demanding role, so I can still direct. And for such a creaky piece of theatre as this, why not a bit of ‘ham’ to spice things up, hmm?”

She smiled at that.

Kramer looked away. “Besides, it’s good to model for all the amateurs what it really looks like, this acting, taking control of the stage, eh?”

“Couldn’t agree more.”

Sarah flipped over a notebook page, as if moving on to another topic.

“Can I ask you about all these … accidents?”

Kramer was in mid-sip when he froze. A rather dramatic freeze, eyes narrowed, cup suspended in space.

“Why would you want to discuss any of …
that
in your newsletter? Doesn’t sound like profile material to me at all!”

He was coming at her hard.

But then, with Sarah’s recent experience dealing with crime and Cherringham, she could — with a deep breath — take it in her stride.

“I’m sure that all our fans of the Little Theatre, and of the upcoming production — and your fans too — would love to be reassured that all is well.”

Kramer nodded, thinking it over.

“My bobby is in the hospital, I’ve had the maid quit muttering about the theatre being dangerous after food poisoning … and we are just
weeks
away from opening night. So, how do you think I feel about all those accidents?”

Sarah nodded. Then her eye caught a small bureau in the corner, and a battered old trunk overflowing with papers and what she assumed were scripts. On a table beside it was a laptop and some gold and silver plaques.

Even from here, she could see they were citations … awards of some kind.

He travels with his awards.

Then back to the director — who she was sure was about to give her the heave-ho.

“No theory on the food poisoning, or the light that hit Graham?”

“Things happen, Sarah. We’re all being extra vigilant now. Trust me; there will be no more accidents. And yes, that’s exactly what they were.”

She nodded as if Kramer’s assurances were enough.

Then she pointed to the array of plaques.

“You have won some major awards. Mind if I…?”

She stood up.

This new direction clearly suited Kramer. “Oh, just a few things. To remind me of how high the quality bar can — and should be — held.”

Sarah walked over to the bureau and picked up one plaque.

“A BAFTA?”

“Yes, for directing that series the
The Fading Light
. The one about the returning soldier, Indian Army story, remember…?

“Gosh I certainly do. At school it was all we talked about. I think mum had a crush on the star — what’s his name?”

“Hmm, well ‘what’s his name’ is in his sixties now. You know, I still get fan mail about it, decades later. And—”

Kramer’s phone trilled and he dug it out of his pocket. “Hel-lo? Tim? Good man. Was expecting your call, and … oh. I see. But I would still love to — oh, right. The producer’s not in yet. Got it. Right. LA, sure.”

Kramer nodded at Sarah a single finger in the air indicating that she need not rush.

After all, they were discussing Jez Kramer’s brilliant achievements.

“I know. Traffic is crazy. Right I, well, I’ll be here. Maybe this afternoon … oh, okay. Whenever, then. ‘All ears’, as they say. By-e!”

He quickly explained the significance of the call.

“New project for BBC America. Operating out of Los Angeles, can you imagine that? They could use a steady, experienced hand like mine at the tiller. So, yes—”

He did a good job of dissembling and hiding his disappointment at the visit that had obviously been deferred.