Night After Night (19 page)

‘I’ve never denied that. I’ve never been so angry in my life. I was sickened by it. That these obsessives would try to tarnish Chloe’s memory by implying she was sitting on some fucking cloud whispering to some old bat?’

‘Rhiannon said you were screaming so hard at her that the neighbours called the police again.’

‘Which is how it got into the tabloids. I’d still dispute the word screaming, but I’m perfectly happy to expand on that episode in the house. In fact I’m rather looking forward to it. Am I supposed not to know Ozzy Ahmed’s going to be there?’

Grayle says nothing. She’s thinking about what Defford said about some residents being more equal than others. It was always likely these two would learn that the other would be in the house. Defford’s cool with this. Rare to reach transmission without a small amount of internal leakage. What he hopes neither of them knows about is Eloise.

‘We’re mates,’ Sebold says. ‘We have certain things in common, as you know. Not least being exposed to crazy people who happened to be related to our partners.’

‘Um… was Mr Ahmed at your party? I don’t recall.’

‘He would’ve been, if he hadn’t been touring Australia at the time – if I believed in something as ridiculous as astrology, I
might say he’d been born under fortunate stars. And you don’t have to tell either of us to express surprise when we both turn up in the house, we’re not stupid.’

‘That’s… good. And you’re, um, still working for cable TV, is that right?’

‘For the present.’

He’s been doing a twice-weekly two-hour talk show on a shoestring station called
Night Train
which keeps porn-TV hours. It’s no secret he’s looking to get back with the BBC, and the word is that he will. Meantime, how he’s perceived on
Big Other
is bound to impact on that somehow and he’s surely aware of this.

In the phone, she hears his car starting up. The conversation is over. He’s had his say, made it clear to her that she’s dealing with a guy who knows the score. She guesses that next time they talk it’ll be like they’re old friends.

Grayle leans back in her chair, gazing out the window. When she gets through with this, she can’t see herself coming back into TV again, ever. It both amplifies and somehow nullifies reality.

The sky’s turning the colours of a bruised apple. The days are shortening fast now. She walks out, away from all the HGTV buildings to the plateau of ground just above the house’s hollow where Jordan’s created his knot garden out of box trees. Wanders in and out of its green maze, somehow feeling the intensity with which it was designed and nurtured. The little trees are mostly knee-high now.

Jordan did all this for Trinity… or for himself? Doesn’t matter; this is the only part of Knap Hall she’s so far seen that seems to be, if not flourishing, at least holding its own against the entropic haze that seems to hang over the house.

She comes out the other side of the garden next to the smallest barn which, because it’s too far away from the other outbuildings to be part of the Hunter-Gatherer village, is now used as storage for stalls removed from the stables and old bales of hay and straw.

Grayle wanders inside and sits down on a crumbling bale. The anger of Rhys Sebold that perhaps fronts up his inner-anguish hasn’t followed her in here. It feels oddly warm, as if the very last rays of summer have found their way through the knot garden and into this little barn, which is more like a church than the chapel in the walled garden.

In the silence – a rarity at Knap Hall now – she thinks about what Defford’s told her about the strange encounter with Harry Ansell that brought all this about. Wonders if Defford realizes how the house might be changing him, wearing away the boyish enthusiasm she recalls from that first day in March.

Trust me, Grayle, this is going to be the most talked-about television of the winter
.

Sure, but talked about how? In what context?

Apprehension cools the sunlight. Within seconds, the phone’s bleeping, and it’s Defford, and she’s never heard him sounding less happy.

22

Guantanamo

HE WANTS HER
to go where?

‘South Devon,’ Defford says. ‘Will you be free to do that tonight?’

His tone implies that ‘Will you be free?’ translates as you will be free.

He says, ‘Helen Parrish lives there.’

And…?

‘Where are you now, Leo?’

‘I’m in the house. Finalizing some things. If you come over here in half an hour I’ll put you in the picture, but, essentially, it looks as if Parrish might be about to walk away. Which is hardly what we need at this stage.’

‘You said she was just holding out for more money.’

‘More complicated. Her agent’s in talks with ITV about her presenting a daytime holiday programme aimed at the older viewer with cash to unload. Grey pin-up stuff. Good money, free travel, lavish clothing allowance. So that’s why she’s been stalling.’

‘You said she was washed up, hadn’t worked for over a year.’

‘Yes, I know exactly what I said, Grayle.’ Upper middle-class roots showing as his voice tightens. ‘But even I am not always right. She’s apparently convinced she’s lost one job because of the Diana story and won’t risk losing another. And her agent, as expected, is not being supportive as regards us.’

‘You talked to her?’

‘Kate’s talked to her, briefly, to arrange for you to talk to her.’

‘But— Jeez, Leo, what am I supposed to—?’

‘Image factor. Don’t undervalue your guileless charm. Helen needs reassuring that she won’t be considered in any way unbalanced for seeing whatever she saw.’

‘Like, she’s gonna look at me and realize how freaking normal she is?’

This is not what she’s being paid for. Not even what she’s good at.

‘Drive down to her place in Devon. Tonight, because she’s going on holiday at the weekend – she says. Take her to dinner somewhere. Talk her round, talk about her experience—’

‘We don’t really know what that was, do we?’

‘We know that she was very much affected by it at the time, and still in a state of shock when she talked to colleagues in the restaurant. You’ll be both sympathetic and knowledgeable.’

Grayle stares out the window. It’s already gone five p.m., which means she’d be driving down there in the dark. She does not want to do this.

‘What’s wrong with one of the producers?’

‘At the risk of offending you, Grayle, they’re all too bleedin’ young.’

‘Thanks.’

‘And she’s a journalist, and you’re a journalist. And also, you can offer her another hundred K.’

‘Oh, I see…’

‘It’s delicate,’ Defford says, ‘but she hasn’t yet said no. Kate’s drawing up a new contract, which you can take with you.’

‘I just show up?’

‘She’s expecting you, and she is prepared to talk about it.’

It’s like he’s setting her up as the person who’ll carry the can if this woman pulls out. Well, no way.

Makes her want to join Parrish and Driscoll under the exit sign.

When she gets to the house, the whole sky’s salmon-slicked, sunless but shiny. She’s come early. If she doesn’t have this out
with the bastard now, things will only get worse as pre-transmission tension sets in.

The front door’s still kept locked inside its shallow stone porch. You still have to go round the back, through the more modern part, which she doesn’t like, and then – she hasn’t been in here for… must be months – the old part starts playing tricks with your head.

The big room, the chamber, is not so big any more, and its whole shape has altered. A false wall has gone up: distressed panelling, with two mirrors in dark frames. Two-way mirrors, behind which cameramen will prowl, soft-shoed voyeurs. Upstairs, they’ve removed some oak boards for another camera which will show most of the room from above, like the roof’s been taken off a period doll’s house.

It’s like being in a fish tank full of dark water. And now voices are rising, although the room’s empty. She’s startled for a moment before realizing what she’d missed before: the inglenook fireplace is also two-way, one wide stone hearth serving two adjacent rooms. Must always have been like that. Saves on logs.

The other room is reached by a discreet gothic doorway in a corner near the wooden screen. It’s a little brighter and has a long, refectory-type table, where the residents will eat. Two guys are here with Defford: a young carpenter, measuring up, and a grizzled lighting man whom Defford clearly annoys by calling him a sparks. Also his PA, Kate Lyons, a bulky, middle-aged woman with dark red hair in a loose bun. She’s carrying a small stills-camera.

‘…think it’ll probably work, Leo.’ Her voice is ice-pick patrician. ‘If we’re giving them the freedom of the rear hall – which we’ll have to, because of the stairs – then, by leaving just one door unlocked, they’ll also be able to access the walled garden and the chapel without being able to get into the main building. So we’ll need just one more stout door to keep them confined.’

It’s like they’re planning a new Guantanamo Bay. Grayle hovers in the doorway. Nobody acknowledges her.

‘OK, organize it.’ Defford turns to the grizzled sparks. ‘What?’

The sparks is unhappy. He talks about technical stuff, and Defford hears him out.

‘But can you light it like we said?’

‘Leo, that room absorbs light. All I’m saying is we might just need—’

‘No screens, no reflectors!’ Defford smacks two fingers of one hand into the open palm of the other, twice. ‘Off-putting. Screams television. I didn’t say can you light it beautifully, Peter, I said can you fucking light it?’

The sparks looks sullen.

‘As I keep saying and will continue to say,’ Defford tells him, ‘I don’t want to have to use infrared at any stage. I’d rather have candlelight, even if we have to fake some of it. Infrared’s become a cliché.’

‘You said.’

‘Mainly because of two words I don’t ever want to hear in this house.’

The sparks sighs.

‘
Most
and
Haunted
.’

‘Well-remembered.’ Defford beckons the carpenter to follow him through the Gothic doorway into the main chamber, where he shows him the holes in the wall of ship’s timber. ‘What d’you reckon?’

‘No big problem,’ the carpenter says. ‘We’ll just pack it around with wood-filler, paint the filler the colour of the oak, and as long as Peter keeps it in shadow…’

‘He will. And can we conceal those bloody smoke alarms? And make them less… functional?’

This gets him some wary looks. Grayle can’t believe how hands-on practical he suddenly is. She thought all this would’ve been delegated, way back, but maybe it’s all down to programme security, need-to-know. If Hunter-Gatherer doesn’t employ its own tradesmen, has to contract out, he needs to leave as little
time as possible for details to leak. He’s also allowed the word ‘fake’ to creep into his working vocabulary. As time gets short, principles are the first to go.

He notices her at last.

‘Grayle, give me ten. We’re organizing a full rehearsal next week – our people assuming the roles of the residents. Which, hopefully, should show up any flaws in the planning. Ten minutes, OK?’

‘Sure.’

She nods, unsmiling, gets out of his way but not out of the doorway. She’s just realized this must be the doorway where, according to Jeff Pruford, Trinity Ansell was standing in the picture taken by the woman from the Midwest. And behind her, behind where Grayle’s standing right now, was a woman whose eyes – according to Jeff Pruford – were full of white hatred.

She resists the urge to move, and inspects the big chamber. The false wall makes the window look bigger, but nobody seems to have cleaned it recently. Flies have died in the greasy film on some panes, reminding her of Lisa Muir:
Probably some fungal thing… bacteria…

Defford’s evidently sticking to his determination not to recreate Trinity’s Knap Hall. The
Cotsworld
picture was a lovely dream, this is the drab reality of Tudor farmhouse living. Defford has talked about starkness and a level of discomfort; how far will he take this? Will there be dry rushes on the stone flags? She notices the electric light fittings have all gone. Is it really going to be lit by sick-smelling tallow candles?

Grayle walks determinedly out of the haunted doorway, goes out into the passage, turns a corner and finds the stone back stairs facing her. Some of the residents will be sleeping up there – on modern mattresses… or something filled with straw so they won’t get much sleep, inducing headaches and foul moods? What a goddamn scam this could all turn out to be.

The stairs, almost certainly the original farmhouse stairs, are a half-spiral, the stone steps forming a slow curve. Flicking at the wall switches, she walks, for the first time, upstairs, to what remains of the Ansells’ apartment. This could be the nearest she’ll ever get to that marriage.

23

The bed

AT THE TOP
of the half-spiral, a windowless passage is lit by electric sconce-type lamps, the bulbs so old and low-powered you can see the filaments, like rings of thin children holding hands.

She has three options. A narrow wooden staircase, evidently a replacement, continues darkly to a third floor. A right turn takes you to some of the former hotel rooms, where most of the residents will sleep, but there’s a tape across the passage. At the other end, Grayle’s guessing, doors will be fitted to cut off access to the main stairs. One way in, one way out: no exploring. But with TV cameras running and monitored 24/7, Defford’s probably right not to worry about fire spreading in the night.

A fire door to the left has a sign with PRIVATE on it in polite gilt lettering. This has to be the Ansells’ own apartment. The door’s ajar, raw early-evening light flaking out like old plaster.

Outside Trinity’s sanctuary, Grayle hesitates a moment then shrugs.

On the other side of the door, there’s a short landing then a few steps to an open door exposing this large, square, empty room where the panelling is too perfect to be all original. Two Gothic windows overlook bushes at the side of the house and the path to the knot garden. A partly conifered wood obscures the longer view.