Backstabbers - Chapter 18
It Seems He’s Drowned
Backstabbers is my first novel, a 1979-based comedy murder-mystery about aspirations for fame and dreams unfulfilled.
Tony Nedwell was pronounced dead at the quarry. Trapped under a discarded chest freezer, he drowned in little more than a puddle. Tony’s desk at his council office was respectfully emptied by a sorrowful co-worker, along with framed photos of Tony and Paula in happier times.
Stu watched the regional news, which ran with the “suicide” of Tony Nedwell as its main story. A camera crew visited the theatre for reactions from the arts community. Little J and Lena delivered heart-wrenching commentary on Tony’s passing. The story was followed by news of the gas leak and devastation of Big J’s house. Again, Little J and Lena, blackened by the explosion, spouted more sympathetic words.
Stu immediately phoned Lena to check if she was okay. Big J answered the phone, immediately filling in the blanks for Stu. Whilst Stu was lost in the grotesque imagery of Big J and Lena coupling up, Big J’s tone of questioning grew impatient and aggressive. Without a word, Stu hung up. His wounded heart and over-active imagination once more filled in the blanks.
In the theatre foyer, Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Old Oak Tree softly bounced in the background. Stu and Brookes faced off across a table. ‘I presume you saw the news,’ said Brookes. ‘I know you see what I see. This lot here, they’re wrapped up in their own drama. We know, don’t we?’
To Stu, Brookes seemed a changed man. There were no put-downs or self-importance. For possibly the first time in his life, Brookes seemed genuine. ‘It’s time you ‘n me put our ego’s aside before anyone else goes for a Burton.’
Stu supposed so. Teaming up with Brookes felt grubby, but what was the alternative?
‘We both read Wintercoat’s script. What,’ suggested Stu, ‘what if Wintercoat was trying to tell us something? What if his script was more than just an overwrought, over-complicated story about love triangles and old rivalries? What if the identity of the killer is in his script?’ Stu knew that was the case, but he had to keep his promise to Wintercoat.
‘Why would you think that?’ scrutinised Brookes.
‘A hunch.’ Before Brookes could rubbish Stu’s detective work, he spoke forcefully. ‘The whole story could be some sort of metaphorical analogy of what transpired between Hilda Harridan, Hartley Rumbelow, Shepperton and Ivan Stroud.’
Brookes took a moment to chew over Stu’s “guesswork”, and submitted to the idea by ordering a round of drinks to loosen their minds.
They agreed that the story’s narrator was Wintercoat himself. The silent observer. They recalled three male characters and two females. They argued over names, pushing each other to recall the exact information should it contain a clue. Stu jotted down the broad strokes of Wintercoat’s play.
Olive Brown - Early 20’s. Plain actress. Loved Danvers from afar.
Betty Crimble - Talentless starlet, popular, lusted after by Danvers.
Joby Flombay – Playwright with an unrequited love for Hilda.
Danvers Roth – Adonis lead actor, a star in the making, aware of his status.
Sir Dennis Chevron – Ageing theatre director. Lusted after Danvers.
Bamber Cart - Assistant to Sir Dennis, protective; hated Danvers.
The era was the 1930s/40s… the story detailed their love lives and disappointments, indiscretions and miscommunicated intentions. There was a love triangle… no, a love quartet. Lifelong dreams hammered by time. In an attempt to link the story with recent dark events, Brookes leapt to conclusions, tying real-life names to their script alter-egos with little reason.
‘What if Hugh Batey is Danvers? He’s big on himself.’
Stu disagreed. ‘He’s far too young. The play is set in the thirties or forties. If the killer is one of these characters then they must be, what, in their late sixties or seventies.’
‘You don’t get many O.A.P. serial killers,’ said Brookes. ‘Maybe the setting of the play’s a red herring? Maybe this whole thing is a wild goose chase?’
‘I think there’s something to it,’ said Stu.
‘So how does all that crap from thirty, forty years ago have anything to do with Ryan Deutsch being hospitalised? Or Bedford and his Swedish crumpet being knocked out of the picture? Where does Paula Fraygrent fit into this?’ Just doesn’t make sense.’
Stu didn’t have any answers. All he could do was shrug and suggest that none of it made any sense. Did it have to?
‘Yes it bloody does because it’s not consistent.’ said Brookes.
Since when did a solid story bother Brookes Manders, wondered Stu. Brookes clicked his fingers, as another thought came to mind. ‘The pickaxes. Hilda and Elke got one each. Paula didn’t. Nor did Ryan.’
Before Stu could reply, Brookes shot more holes in Stu’s theory. ‘Pru Sloman’s house burnt down. All the competition entries go up in flames, leaving you free to win…’
‘Don’t start all that again. I said sorry, didn’t I?’ said Stu.
‘No. Shut up. My point is, what are the chances? It’s like someone is steering events. I mean, it all worked out well for you.’ said Brookes.
‘Let’s say I sabotaged the writing competition to win. Why would I be sitting here helping you to work out what’s going on?’
‘Double bluff,’ said Brookes, sitting back in his chair; satisfied with his detective work.
‘How do I know you didn’t burn Pru’s house down? You won the competition first. Until we exposed you for—’ Brookes raised a hand to stop Stu from raking over old grievances.
‘If you’re right, if Wintercoat’s play is based on real events then we should speak to someone who was there. Shepperton,’ proposed Brookes.
Stu nominated himself for the task on the grounds of Shepperton’s feverish dislike of Brookes. As Stu set off to find Shepperton, Brookes called out.
‘Just one more thing. Why you? Why did Wintercoat give his script to you?’
‘I wish I knew,’ said Stu. And how he wished Wintercoat had not.
Outside Shepperton’s den, ear to the door, Stu heard no sound from inside. He tapped firmly. Echoing voices triggered Stu into playing it casual… just hanging around… by a door.
‘Dick!’ urged Jackie Jiggins. ‘Fetch a mop and bucket. Someone’s been sick in the bar.’ Dick carried on reading his newspaper. ‘That’s Fred’s job. Not mine, John.’
Jackie explained that it was Fred himself who had been taken ill, so they set off at a pace with a bucket and mop, failing to notice Stu as they passed by.
Dick’s stage door office was open and unguarded. Under a shelf of tatty Biggles books was a hook-board of hanging keys. Stu’s finger ran along the named keys, stopping at THE DEN.
Stu peeked inside Shepperton’s den. The walls and shelves were plastered with framed photos of shows throughout the years. Shepperton with face after face; the unfamous and infamous. A shrine to a life lived and a melancholy ode to broken hearts.
Shepperton had always been handsome. Strong jaw, confident eyes. Such a face should have adorned movie posters. Stu spied a photo of a Shepperton, not much older than seventeen, with his arm around the shoulders of an older, jolly fellow.
The frame bore an inscription: Bosie. Sir Bernard Saucier/Bosie must have been the template for the character of Sir Dennis.
Back in the foyer, disgruntled actors drifted from another dismal rehearsal. Gary stopped to light a cigarette close to where Brookes was seated. ‘Going well, is it?’ asked Brookes.
‘I swear I’ll swing for Celia Landaker,’ said Gary. Brookes leant forward, drawing Gary’s attention closer. ‘Funny how Celia ended up calling the shots, wouldn’t you say?’
Gary thought out loud. ‘Pffft. Like she wouldn’t kill to further her career… Although she would never dirty her fingernails. She’d get one of her minions to do the dirty work.’
‘Her husband,’ suggested Brookes. Taking the bait, Gary took a seat opposite Brookes, who leant conspiratorially towards him. ‘It’s up to people like us to put people like them in their place.’
‘You’re not a vigilante, Brookes,’ said Gary. ‘You’re just a very lonely man.’
Brookes swirled the dregs of his beer. ‘What would you give to bury that Landaker woman?
Back in Shepperton’s Den, Stu freed a dense scrapbook from the archive shelf. Resting it on the cushions, he leafed through glued-in theatre programmes from years gone by. The dates were the mid-1960s. Replacing the tome, he scanned the shelves, selecting a book dated 42-46. Yellowed cast lists and faded photographs. Stu slowed his search, arriving at a photo: Young eager faces, posing for a long-forgotten show.
Ivan Stroud. Richard Shepperton. Hilda Harridan. Hartley Rumbelow.
Two of them were no longer alive. Only Shepperton and Ivan remained. There was a fifth person. A glamorous young woman, all teeth and hair. She could have passed for a film star of the day. Stu carefully removed the photo and replaced the book on the shelf.
A key slotted into the lock. Aghast, Stu buried himself under the bountiful cushions and bean bags. The door opened and shut. With a narrow view, Stu saw Shepperton light a cigarette and fix a generous drink, knocking it back in one before pouring another.
Shepperton held something up to his face. He swung pointedly; his face concealed behind a mask of Comedy. His eye line fixed directly upon Stu as if he could see through the pile of cushions.
‘If you prick us do we not bleed? If you tickle us do we not laugh? If you poison us do we not die? And if you wrong us… shall we not revenge?’
Stu fought the urge to answer. Shepperton bowed to his audience: a photo of Bernard Saucier.
‘Too kind, Bosie. Too kind.’ Shepperton collapsed into the comforting bosom of his sofa.
Stu breathed shallowly, sweating under the mass of covered foam. Within minutes, Shepperton snorted sleepily, out for the count.
Stu removed the cushions one by one, crawling towards the door. The comedy mask had dropped inches from Shepperton’s hand. Overcome by a compulsion, Stu reached for it.
Shepperton snatched the mask. Stu froze rigidly. Shepperton drowsily muttered; eyes closed.
‘Not that. That’s mine.’
In one soundless motion, Stu slunk out of the den.
In the minted suburb of Great Bustard, a mission played out to the original soundtrack to Live and Let Die from Alan’s patched-up car speakers.
Parked on a secluded dirt track, a stone’s throw from the Landaker’s home, Alan grumbled.
‘I don’t see why I have to be here.’
‘You have a car,’ pointed out Gary.
‘There’s a reliable bus service in Falking Hill, so I hear.’
‘They don’t go this far out in the sticks.’
Alan mulled over Gary’s reasoning. ‘Hmmm, ‘n you just forgot to mention the bit about breaking into someone’s house?’
‘I’m not asking you to do it. All you have to do is wait for me to come back,’ said Gary.
‘And what if you get caught? You’ll plea bargain in a blink.’
‘Stop bleating. Brookes said Celia’s got evidence of who the killer is. A manuscript—’
Alan spoke over Gary. ‘And you believe Brookes Manders? He’s having you on. Why would someone write a script containing the identity of… Hang on. Killer? What killer?’ frowned Alan.
‘Oh keep up,’ muttered Gary dismissively.
‘If Brookes is so bothered, why isn’t he here?’ asked Alan.
‘He can’t risk his career.’
‘And I can?’ exclaimed Alan.
Gary huffed. ‘I hate to break this to you, Al. But they’re never gonna promote you to be Mr Whippy.
Alan scrunched his face, hurt by Gary’s wit. ‘Up yours.’
Gary rummaged in a sports bag, handing Alan a brick of a walkie-talkie. ‘I’ve thought of everything.’
‘What if somebody’s home?’ panicked Alan.
‘I’ll case the joint first.’ Gary rummaged around the inside of the car, grabbing a football from the back seat. He shot Alan a smile, getting out of the car. Alan followed; concerned for his ball.
Strolling along the deserted leafy lane, flanked by woodland, Gary bounced the ball a few times before hoofing it over a tall garden fence. Alan stood dumbstruck, gesturing at Gary’s actions.
‘Your ball’s in their garden,’ said Gary. Alan fought back the tears. ‘Oh have a word! Whaddya do that for?’
‘Just go knock on their door whilst I have a butchers.’ Alan muttered ill thoughts like an irate Mutley, striding off towards the Landaker’s house.
Stood outside the Landaker’s dream home, Alan checked for witnesses. Further down the road were three detached houses of similar size and opulence. The sort of properties where people got nicked for stopping to tie their shoelaces. Huffing inevitable doom, Alan approached the front door. The doorbell chime cascaded. Dogs barked from inside.
The door opened. Michael Landaker, reeking quality in his casual wear and well-groomed moustache, stared Alan up and down. Alan cleared his tight throat. ‘Erm… sorry. Hello. Can I have my balls back, please?’ A Freudian slip, but somewhat correct.
‘Absolutely not,’ said Michael, closing the door.
Back in Alan’s car, Gary lived his daydream of being The Professionals on a stakeout. The Doyle to his Bodie - Alan - rested his bored head on the window. Down the road, Michael Landaker skulked to his car, taking a surreptitious glance up and down the road before he got in his car and drove off.
Michael Landaker’s car passed the dirt track when Alan’s car was concealed. Gary slapped Alan in the arm, ordering him to move.
Clutching their walkie-talkies, Gary and Alan cautiously approached the Landaker’s home.
‘Keep ‘em peeled,’ said Gary. ‘Be right back.’ Gary vaulted nimbly over the Landaker’s fence. This wasn’t the first time he’d done this.
Alan’s walkie-talkie crackled loudly, prompting him to turn it down as Gary called to him. ‘Breaker breaker, Big Daddy. Read me, Giant Haystacks? Over.’
Alan begrudgingly replied. ‘What.’
In the flower show of a back garden, Gary rolled his eyes with exasperation. ‘Are you awake, pillock?’ Alan responded, his voice hissing through the walkie-talkie. ‘Don’t call me that.’
Gary’s eyes darted around the immaculate garden and patio area. ‘Coast is clear. Going in.’ Passing a ‘comedy’ sign reading ‘Trespassers will be eaten’, Gary’s mouth gaped at the sight of an inviting swimming pool; information he had to relay to Alan. ‘Sheeeht… They’ve got a swimming pool.’
‘How the other half live, eh?’ came Alan’s droll response.
Keeping low, Gary snuck up to the house. Checking the entrance points, Gary radioed Alan. ‘All the windows and doors are locked.’
‘Well that was a bollocks plan,’ replied Alan. Gary searched for a way in, spying a louvred window up above him. Gary climbed onto the kitchen roof with cat-like prowess. He popped the louvred window, slithering head-first through the narrow opening.
Gary’s arms outstretched into a locking position, saving him from falling head-first into the bathroom toilet. The walkie-talkie unclipped from his belt, landing on the floor, out of reach. Struggling, unable to move backwards or forwards, the blood rushed to Gary’s head.
‘Oh come on…’
Gary wriggled, freeing his legs from the window, and flopped from his handstand onto the bathroom floor.
Composing himself, Gary grabbed his walkie-talkie, radioing Alan. ‘I’m in.’
Gary stepped out onto the thick carpet of the upstairs landing, immediately clocking the Landaker’s two Rottweilers. In one fluid motion, Gary side-stepped back into the bathroom, closing the door as the dogs charged. Trapped inside the bathroom, Gary backed off as the snarling dogs clawed at the door.
Out on the street, Alan heard the panicked voice of Gary Blenny. ‘Al Al! You there?’ Alan replied, eyes anxiously darting around the deserted road. ‘Thought I was Giant Haystacks?’
‘Two ruddy great dogs trying to eat me!’ snarled Gary.
‘Whereabouts are you?’
‘In the upstairs bathroom.’
‘Convenient, given the current situation. Well, have a nice time.’
‘Will you shut up and get me out of here?’
‘I’m not coming in,’ laughed Alan with disbelief.
‘Create a diversion!’ ordered Gary.
‘Oh, it’s a diversion he wants,’ said Alan, talking to himself. He held the walkie-talkie up to his mouth aggressively. ‘What would you like me to do? Ask for my poxy ball back?’
‘Ring the ruddy doorbell or something!’ pleaded Gary.
Alan tip-toed up the Landaker’s driveway; inadvertently looking even more suspicious. He rang the bell.
Inside the house, the dogs charged downstairs. Gary listened out. ‘Al, is it working?’
Alan peered cautiously through the letterbox. The dogs on the other side of the door nearly snatched his finger off. The dogs hurled their fury at the front door. ‘Go go go!’
Gary snooped out of the bathroom, checking each passing room. At the top of the stairs, Gary saw the dogs battering the front door. Senses alerted, their desire to kill trained upon Gary. He ran for the safety of a room at the end of the landing.
Inside the master bedroom, Gary wedged a chair under the door handle as the dogs ferociously barked on the other side. Gary radioed Alan, checking out the room. ‘I’m in their bedroom. Swingers. Lay money on it. The middle classes are all up to it. Whips ‘n chains all over the shop.’
‘Oh man, I knew it!’ replied Alan.
‘Not really, you perv. Keep an eye out. I’m searching the room.’
Gary rummaged through drawers, wardrobes, bed drawers... He paused at the discovery of a ceremonial uniform. Strange symbols adorned the breast of the suit jacket. ‘Well well,’ Gary said in a hushed voice. ‘Mr. Landaker’s a member of the Red Hand Gang.’
Outside, Alan hit the ground, face down behind a flower bed as a car approached. Alan frantically called to Gary down the walkie-talkie. ‘Gary! He’s back! Landaker’s back!’
‘Already?’ came Gary’s incredulous response.
Alan retorted. ‘Want me to ask him to come back later? Get. Out.’
Michael Landaker’s classy BMW pulled up on the driveway, engine switching off.
Gary tidied his search, halting as something caught his eye. A framed photo of Lodge Brethren posing in ceremonial garb. A row of proud faces. Michael Landaker. Dr Bedford Baker. Max Monteith… and Hartley Rumbelow. An inscription read The Knights of the Green Shield.
Out on the driveway, Michael and Celia Landaker stepped from their car. Opening the car boot, they removed potted plants. ‘Oh blast,’ complained Celia. ‘There’s soil all over the boot.’
‘Leave it to me. I’ll take care of it…’ said Michael, pausing to sneeze.
‘You really should do something about your hay fever, Michael…’
As the Landaker’s small talk continued, Alan shuffled along the raised flower bed, commando-style. He saw the Landakers approaching the front door and took his chance to silently flee.
At a safe distance, Alan whispered into his walkie-talkie. ‘Move! They are coming in right now!’
Gary struggled to unlock the double-glazed bedroom window. Voices bellowed at the dogs to calm down as they scraped at the bedroom door. The window opened. Gary clambered out onto the sloping porch roof.
As the Landaker’s front door closed, Gary landed on the driveway. Wincing with pain and swearing, Gary limped into a scrappy run.
Alan fumbled to start his car as Gary flew feet-first through the open passenger window.
‘And all because the lady loves Milk Tray!’ beamed Gary, breathlessly. ‘You’re bloody lucky I left that window open,’ grumbled Alan as the engine revved to life, accelerating away with a squeal of a failing fan belt, flooring it. Michael Landaker jogged from his house, squinting at the distant sight of Alan’s car speeding into the distance. His eyes narrowed with intent. This was not over.
At the counter of Sound & Vision, Hairy Jim gently rocked on a stool as Janis Ian sang At Seventeen. Feeling the emotion of the song, he closed his eyes; lost in the melancholy. On the other side of the counter, a wretched Alan scraped his tormented fingers through his long hair.
‘This is not good. They’re gonna nick me, I know it… That ball had my name on it!’
‘Well I didn’t know,’ replied Gary with a sneer. ‘Why did you write your name on a football?’
‘Because pricks like you are always thieving ‘em!’ glared Alan.
From the backroom, Graham yelled ‘OI!’ at Alan’s increasing volume, muting him. Gary expounded his theory to Stu, both huddled over the stolen Landaker photograph.
‘The Knights of the Green Shield. Bedford Baker, Max Monteith, and Rumbelow: All linked to Michael Landaker in some twisted invite-only club. The sort with funny handshakes and code words. This is why people are dropping like flies and nothing is done about it. The Landakers have got connections. It’s a conspiracy of silence. Trust me. I know this stuff. I’ve been paranoid for years.’
Gary looked to Stu, who was deep in thought. ‘You’re awfully quiet.’ Stu’s eyes flicked in Gary’s direction. ‘Gal. What do you call your dooberries?’ Gary replied, matter-of-fact. ‘Little ‘n Large’.
Stu turned to Alan for an answer. ‘Harry and Ethel. Who’d you think I’ve been talking about all these years?’
‘I dunno. Some distant relatives?’ replied Stu. ‘I was thinking about calling mine Steptoe and Son.’
But that implies some sort of seniority.’
‘You’re more Keith and Orville.’ said Alan.
Gary raised his voice in disbelief. ‘Can we focus, please?’
Stu focused on a man in the centre of the photo. A neatly maintained beard. Slicked back hair.
‘I’ve seen him before,’ said Stu. ‘The one with the bearded jawline of Richard Stilgoe.’
Hairy Jim leaned in for a closer peek. ‘That’s the fella from Dr Who. The Doctor’s arch-enemy.’
Alan agreed, the pieces falling into place. ‘Ha, yeah! The Master!’
‘He was at the sign unveiling,’ said Stu. ‘All pally-pally with The Mayor.’
Gary processed the information, suspicions running wild. ‘There’s been a big push to clean up the town’s reputation. Why? Because there’s money to be made.’
‘Killing people doesn’t improve a town’s rep, generally speaking,’ pointed out Stu.
‘If they created this situation,’ said Gary. ‘If they control it, they can stop it. Claim the victory. It’s all political. The Old Boy’s Network. They want us to believe Tony Nedwell was the masked villain. That the town is safe again. Business as usual. But it’s them. They bumped off Tony!’
Stu wasn’t buying Gary’s delusions. ‘For what, though? Why?’
‘We need to find out who the Knights of the Green Shield are,’ suggest Gary.
Graham leaned out from his backroom office, removing an enormous pair of headphones. ‘Stop squawking and piss off out of my shop! How many more times?’
Gathering up the evidence, the chided trio made for the door. Graham called out to Alan. ‘Not you, doughnut, you work here.’ Realising his error, Alan returned to his position behind the counter.
Healthy specimens of men dived and swim with skill, as Stu bobbed in the deep end of the pool with his thoughts.
Later in the men’s locker room, Stu patted himself down with a towel, wrapping it around his upper body as he sheepishly removed his trunks. Once the coast was clear, he furiously dried himself before anyone could catch him in the nude.
‘You’re a hard man to find these days, little bastard.’ Dressed like George Smiley, Lawrence Wintercoat, stood unperturbed at Stu’s nakedness. Mortified, Stu covered up his modesty as Wintercoat continued. ‘They are burying Tony Nedwell this afternoon. A quick turnaround, wouldn’t you say? Something to do with exotic religious beliefs.’ Wintercoat ceased talking as a swimmer stepped from the shower, curiously regarding them both as he headed for his locker.
As soon as it was safe to talk, Wintercoat asked. ‘Have you retrieved my manuscript?’ Wishing to avoid that question, Stu gestured for Wintercoat to turn around. ‘Do you mind?’
A can of coke clunked from a vending machine. An Aero bar from another. In a small café area which smelled of chips and coffee, Stu produced a photo from his jacket – the one he had taken from Shepperton’s Den. Wintercoat examined it, his stern features softening with nostalgia.
‘I took this photo from Shepperton. It’s him, Rumbelow, Hilda, Ivan. And Bunty.’
Stu pointed to Bunty in the photograph. ‘Who was she?’
‘Trouble,’ replied Wintercoat, not getting into it.
‘These are the people in your script. Rumbelow and Hilda aren’t with us anymore and it’s not down to old age. You said yourself that the killer’s identity is in your script. Meaning it’s one of these people, isn’t it?’ asked Stu. But Wintercoat remained tight-lipped. ‘What is this? Some sort of guessing game? Just tell me,’ said Stu with exasperation.
‘Until the death of Tony Nedwell, I would have agreed with you. It’s rather embarrassing to admit, but I fear it seems I’ve been mistaken. The attacks on Paula Fraygrent, Ryan Deutsch and the Swedish girl indicate a different motive. One which eludes me.’
‘Could it be someone with links to the past?’ asked Stu.
‘Potentially,’ said Wintercoat. ‘Or somebody punishing the here and now for their own inadequacies. Failure is a bitter motivator.’
‘What do you know of The Knights of the Green Shield?’ asked Stu, instantly causing Wintercoat’s already frosty expression to turn arctic.
‘Do not mess with what you cannot comprehend,’ warned Wintercoat, fixing Stu with a lasting glare, before sombrely instructing. ‘I need you to be my eyes and ears at Nedwell’s funeral. Whoever killed Tony will be in attendance, mark my words. I would attend but must remain incognito. They will come for me soon. I’ve made my peace with that fact. Are you prepared?’
Tony Nedwell was buried to the solemn sound of Nigel on trumpet playing Tomorrow from Annie. At a distance, Stu watched the gathering of mourners from behind an oak tree, spying Gary and Alan amongst them, no doubt hoping for a free bar after the sad bit.
Feeling watched, Stu peered across the adjacent headstones. Brookes Manders sat on a concrete slab, resting his back against a black marble monument. He beckoned Stu over. Stu refused with a headshake. Brookes insisted; his face contorted with exasperation.
Keeping low, Stu darted between the headstones to where Brookes was watching the dabbed tears and sorrowful looks. ‘That performance over there. Load of old cods. It’s a put-on,’ said Brookes, looking at Stu. ‘I’ve arranged a meeting between Shepperton and Ivan Stroud.’
‘How did you swing that?’ asked Stu. ‘I thought they hated each other? And you?’
‘Yeah, well, they don’t exactly know they’re both going to be there. If Wintercoat’s play is one of those things you said it was…’
‘A metaphor.’
‘No,’ tutted Brookes. ‘The other word.’
‘An allegory?’
‘That’s the one,’ said Brookes. ‘Either way, I’m gonna get ‘em both in the same room. Get to the bottom of it.’
Across the cemetery, the mourners dispersed. Gary and Alan meandered in conspiratorial conversation until a stern voice called to them. ‘You there! The one who looks like a dapper tramp!’
Puzzled, Alan pointed to himself. Linking the voice to the taut face of Michael Landaker, Alan broke into a comical fast-legged walk. Cottoning on, Gary sped up. Both lads bundled into Alan’s car, speeding off before Michael could catch up. Celia tugged her husband’s arm, quieting him.
Hunched at the back of Big Winkle’s Pie ‘n Mash shop, Stu grimaced at Brookes eating jellied eels like Rod Hull’s Emu on the attack. Showaddywaddy’s Hey Rock N Roll fuzzily played from a gaffer-taped cassette player, competing against steamy cauldrons and hissing pans.
Stu showed the photo to Brookes, pointing at the faces. ‘This means something. This is important.’ Brookes’ eye hovered over the mystery woman in the low-cut dress at the edge of the photo. ‘Who’s Jilly Juggs?’
‘Bunty something,’ said Stu.
Brookes frowned, distracted from his late afternoon snack. ‘Batey? Bunty Batey. Mother of Hugh Batey.’ That’s where Stu had heard the name before. Brookes continued. ‘Hugh’s always banging on about his ‘famous mum’… Just another shag-around wannabe. So what if she ‘ad it off with film stars. Like that makes him better than all of us.’
‘This photo links Hugh to Rumbelow and Hilda Harridan,’ said Stu.
A thought entered Brookes’ mind. He tapped the photo with agitation. ‘Where did you get this?’
‘I took it from Shepperton’s den.’ Brookes cooed with glee, wagging a naughty-naughty finger. Then came a pressing thought. ‘So who told you that was Bunty?’ Reckoning he could trust Brookes with the information, Stu spoke with a hesitant tone. ‘Lawrence Wintercoat.’
Brookes almost spat out his lunch. ‘You’ve seen Wintercoat? Missing local playwright Lawrence Wintercoat?’ Stu silently nodded, regretting his confession. The mood abruptly darkened.
‘Blaaady ‘ell,’ cried Brookes, ‘what else ain’t you telling me, you womble turd? Enough fart-arsing about with secrets. Gimme everything.’
‘Wintercoat made contact with me,’ admitted Stu. ‘We’ve got codenames. He calls me “Little Bastard” and he wants me to call him “Big Bastard”.’ Brookes’ salacious journalistic tendencies took over. ‘He doesn’t ask you to tug his tonky, does he? Does he give you any money?’
Stu’s eyes widened at the suggestion. ‘We don’t get up to anything! We spoke about suspects. Motives. He said something about dark cogs turning, the evil inner machinations of the local powers.’
Brookes couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘And you just took his word for it? Gaw-blimey… The bloke makes up stories for a living!’ Stu fought back. ‘So do you!’ Brookes didn’t take too kindly to that remark, as true as it was. He snatched up the photo and his jellied eels and left before Stu could say another word.
A small gathering was held in memory of Tony Nedwell at the arts centre. A meagre buffet of sandwiches was offered, buttered by the hairy hands of part-time manager Graham Ackhurst. Vernon poked at the offering, unimpressed. ‘Cheese sandwiches? Is that all? Tony Nedwell did a lot for the arts community. I think he deserved—’
Graham pointed a deadly, buttery knife in Vivienne’s direction. ‘It’s all that was left in the kitty, alright? I’m not paying for it.’
The mourners remained dutifully for the acceptable minimum amount of time, until heading over the road to the theatre bar, leaving Graham wishing he hadn’t bothered with the sandwich-making.
Down in the theatre bar, Alan exited the gents’ toilets to find Celia confronting Gary. Alan u-turned, heading straight back into the toilets as Gary stood hypnotised. Celia’s words coiled around his throat. ‘You were at my house. More to the point: Inside my house.’ Gary tried to ride out the accusation, but his heart had stopped. Bowels readied to jump ship. ‘I shan’t be contacting the police, only for the sake of community play. There’s been enough bad press, we don’t need any more. All I ask is that you return the framed photograph you took from my bedroom wall.’
For the first time in his life, Gary was inarticulate. There was one burning question he wanted to ask. ‘Er… am I… y’know…’
‘You want to know if you’re still in the play,’ said Celia. ‘Certainly. I like to keep my enemies close.’ Celia left Gary to mull over what that meant, and what pointy vengeance laid in wait for him further down the line.
‘Celia’s the one,’ spoke Gary. ‘I’m tellin’ ya. She’s the mastermind behind this plot.’
Slouched in a mostly empty cinema, Gary and Stu kept their eyes on the screen. They discussed Gary’s hunch throughout The Sanderson Climate, a low-budget cold war spy movie. On-screen, relentlessly convoluted accusations were hurled back and forth between two wooden actors.
On-Screen Spy 1: Time is running out. Millions of lives are at stake!
Stu poo-pooed Gary’s misbelief. ‘There is no “one”. You would like there to be, but there isn’t.’
On-Screen Spy 2: But where is the evidence for these claims?
‘Anyone who stands in Celia’s way bites the big one,’ said Gary. ‘I’m not saying she’s running around killing people. I’m saying her husband is. And how does he get away with it? My rule is: Whenever things don’t make sense, there’s clandestine shadiness. Mr Landaker’s secret lodge consists of Falking Hill’s influential. The Knights of the Greenshield. That’s how he gets off scot-free. They’re all in it together!’
On-Screen Spy 2: The Agency does not send its operatives on wild goose chases.
Stu struggled to keep his voice down. ‘You broke into their house! You stole from them!’
On-Screen Spy 1: We must discover the identity of the puppet master.
Stu warned Gary in all seriousness. ‘Don’t keep pushing this. Leave it alone.’
On-Screen Spy 2: There is no conspiracy. It’s all in your head, man.
‘There’s more chance of Lena being a serial killer,’ muttered Stu.
‘Oh dear. We really have gone off her, haven’t we?’ larked Gary.
On-Screen Spy 1: She’s a traitor. She must be exposed.
‘She’s a traitor!’ hissed Stu.
‘Lena?’
‘No!’ said Stu, pointing to the screen. ‘Her! Old husky voice.’
A few rows down, an aggravated audience member hissed up at the lads. ‘Will you please be quiet, please?’ Gary pulled a snooty ‘oooooh, la-di-da’ face, wobbling his head. He continued, lowering his voice. ‘There’s some fancy-dress fund-raising do at The Eves Lodge tomorrow night. That’s where the Knights of the Green Shield meet. We need to get inside, pull down the curtain on their goat-worshipping carry-on.’
On-Screen Spy 2: Take this attaché case to Berlin. There you will meet a man wearing an Egyptian Lily in his hat…
Gary slid up out of his seat, squinting at his watch through the half-light. ‘Right. There is where I came in. I’ve got rehearsal in ten minutes. I’m gonna be well late.’
‘So you’re still doing the play? Even after you broke into the director’s house?’ asked Stu.
‘Oh yeah,’ said Gary, like it was all perfectly normal. Stu shook his head, exhausted by Gary’s quest for a bit of leg-over. ‘For the last time: Melody Monteith does not fancy you.’
On-Screen Spy 2: Get ready for war. That’s if you haven’t suffocated under all that sand…
Gary scuttled along the aisle, whispering to the grumbling audience member. ‘He’s the double agent. Enjoy the film.’ Gary patted the man on his shoulders with both hands.
‘Oh bloody ‘ell, thanks a lot, mate…’ barked the man, as Gary scarpered out the exit with a maniacal laugh. The audience member turned to address Stu. ‘Oi. Next time you see your mate, tell him he’s a prat.’ Stu sighed helplessly. ‘He knows.’
Outside Vivienne and Vernon Prebble’s detached rural home, a jovial sign declared “Trespassers will be composted!” Falking Hill did a roaring trade in hilarious warning signs. The Prebbles’ house backed onto a smallholding, where they kept chickens and goats. Remnants of old carts and reusable junk lay in wait for their next lease of life.
Pulling up on the gravel driveway, Vivienne sensed something was wrong. The front door of their house was wide open. ‘Maybe we’re both going daft in our old age?’ Vernon sensed danger, ordering his wife to stay put. ‘No. I’m coming with you,’ said Vivienne.
The Prebbles trod heedfully inside their home. Vernon picked up an old cricket bat. ‘Those bloody kids… always sodding about where they shouldn’t be… They won’t be laughing when my tractor runs ‘em over. And who will get the blame? Me.’
Viv hushed her husband. She pointed upstairs. The couple crept up to the landing. Four open doors to various rooms. Viv held a finger to her lips, instructing her husband not to move.
From above, the loft hatch swung open, delivering a swift blow to the back of Vernon’s head.
‘Bloody hell!’ yelled Vernon, clutching his head in agony.
His wife consoled him. ‘Ooh, darling, you alright?’ Standing straight, Vernon cursed up at the open loft hatch. ‘I said that latch was loose,’ said Vivienne unhelpfully. Her husband gritted his teeth at the ‘told you so’. He pulled the loft ladder down and climbed up. Vivienne took a torch from her bedside cabinet and passed it to Vernon.
Vernon rose through the hatch. Light shone into the dark loft. He panned across the space, illuminating a figure cloaked in a Nun’s habit. A black void where their face should be.
Vernon widened his eyes and gasped, as the figure moved towards him, raising its hand to strike.
The world was upside down. Blood rushed to the top of Stu’s head as he was held backwards over the railing of a small bridge. He could see his parents’ house along the riverbank. Twenty feet below him was the rocky, junk-filled trickling stream that dared to be referred to as a river. Brookes’ hands gripped tight around Stu’s neck.
‘I s’pose you think it’s funny? Making me look a proper tit!’
Stu wheezed, face turning purple as Brookes tightened his grip. ‘Your secret agent mate has been having you on. It’s all in his head!’
Brookes went on to explain what had occurred that morning.
Upstairs at the members-only bowls club, The Sinatra Suite had a plush red carpet, lined with gaudy marble-topped tables and tacky ornate chairs. Brookes looked up from a velvety booth at the arrival of his first guest. ‘Nothing but the finest, I see,’ mocked Ivan Stroud dryly. ‘You stated over the telephone about travel expenses…’
A second voice spoke from the doorway. ‘I see you fell for it too,’ said Richard Shepperton.
Ivan deliberately refused to acknowledge Shepperton’s presence.
‘Oh, he’s grown shy in his old age,’ said Shepperton, lighting a cigar; grandly puffing. Brookes got to the point before a catfight began. ‘Lawrence Wintercoat is dead.’
Shepperton laughed it off as nonsense. ‘What? Since when?’
‘Sir Bernard Saucer – Bosie – died years ago,’ said Brookes. ‘But all of a sudden, years later, Hartley Rumbelow is dead. Hilda Harridan is dead. Wintercoat. That leaves you,’ said Brookes, pointing to Shepperton, then to Ivan, ‘and you… and Bunty Batey. The question is: Who’s next?’
‘Oh do dry up,’ jibed Shepperton.
‘You seem remarkably calm for someone whose closest contemporaries have died in a matter of weeks. Doesn’t give you the willies, no?’ asked Brookes.
‘We know your motivation, Manders. Another fruitcake in another hall,’ said Ivan, siding with Shepperton for the first time. Brookes held up the photo stolen from Shepperton’s den, close for Ivan to see clearly. ‘This is no coincidence. I smell a cover-up.’
‘I smell farty fingers,’ taunted Ivan.
‘We need to contact Bunty Batey,’ said Brookes. ‘She’s in danger.’
Ivan puffed derision at that idea. ‘Good luck with that. She’s been dead for years.’
Shepperton didn’t know this. His eyes flickered; blank. A dumbstruck smirk.
Ivan alluded to Bunty’s fate. ‘When you’ve spent your life harking back to your ten seconds of fame, it sets into the heart like dry rot. It’s one thing to have a dream. Not to attain it is another.’
‘Good,’ said Shepperton with contempt. ‘Her lust for fame burned everybody who came into contact with her.’
Brookes spoke his thoughts out loud, piecing another clue into place. ‘Bunty’s the one in Wintercoat’s play. The starlet who ruined everything…’
Ivan’s face lit up, stupefied. ‘That bloody thing! Don’t tell me that’s what you’re basing these ridiculous allegations upon? It’s a load of old shit. Wintercoat has spent years flogging that dead horse. Nothing but a tedious collection of woe-is-me pity-peddling and unchecked grievances. I warned him to cease and desist, or rather my solicitors did.’
Shepperton agreed. ‘Libellous bilge.’ Ivan looked surprised that Shepperton knew of Wintercoat’s script. ‘Oh yes,’ said Shepperton. ‘I read it, years ago. Nothing but flights of fancy. Wintercoat had the nerve to get upset when I refused to stage it.’
‘So Bunty had an affair with the lead actor...’ Brookes aimed his index finger at Ivan. ‘You’re the lead actor. The one the Director was lusting after. You had the fling with Bunty. Which broke the heart of the director – Bernard Saucier, Bosie, whatever you call him – He was the one who was chasing your arse around with no success.’
‘That hussy may not have kicked the chair away, but she played her part alright,’ said Shepperton, attracting Brookes’ focus. ‘You’re the director’s assistant who hated the starlet. Bunty. Rumbelow was in love with Bunty, but she spurned him for Ivan… Which makes Hilda Harridan the jealous actress. The plain one who never had the spotlight, thanks to Bunty having all the looks. Hilda was the one who had her vengeance by exposing all the affairs.’
Shepperton and Ivan shared a look which seemed to verify this story to Brookes. ‘Blimey, whoever said “life is complicated” had a point, didn’t they?’
‘I don’t know what ominous mystery you think you’ve uncovered…’ said Ivan, ‘but allow me to deliver honest insight into your… compelling atmosphere of intrigue. Lawrence Wintercoat saw Hartley Rumbelow as some sort of mentor. He spent his apprenticeship listening to Rumbelow’s poison. Rumbelow never liked me. I was the star. He was just the writer. Which meant Wintercoat also despised me. Writers are frustrated actors. They create all the clever one-liners and dramatic prose, but they are impotent. Unable to deliver the goods without the likes of me.’
Brookes went in harder. ‘Lawrence Wintercoat wouldn’t lie. He is ex-secret service—’
‘He’s a fantasist!’ laughed Ivan. ‘He’s probably hiding up a tree somewhere, fearing shadowy agents are out to kill him. Wintercoat is a failed writer. I’m a failed actor.’ Ivan looked to Shepperton. ‘He’s a failed Director…’
Shepperton spat smoke. ‘Speak for yourself, darling!’
Ivan continued. ‘… and you’re a failed hack. And still, the world spins.’
Shepperton strode for the door, having heard enough. Brookes called out to him.
‘Why would Wintercoat make all this up?’ Shepperton halted, speaking with his back to the room.
‘If you had resigned to the fact your life was a failure, wouldn’t you?’ came Shepperton’s reply.
Shepperton left Brookes with his broken mystery. The big story had burst.
‘You’ve been sold a lemon, old boy,’ said Ivan with glee.
‘Do you think Shepperton is capable of murder?’ asked Brookes, as Ivan stood to leave. Ivan inhaled deeply, puffing out his droll answer. ‘Only in the delivery, son. Only in the delivery.’
Back at the bridge with his hands clutching at Stu’s collar, Brookes finished his story as he continued throttling Stu.
‘He’s a bullshit artist!’ snarled Brookes. Stu gargled his words, clinging onto the handrail of the bridge for dear life. ‘H… who?’
‘Who do you think? The Spy Who Came in from the Greenhouse! Wintercoat! Tell him from me that if I ever see his withered old face again I will fill it in!’
Stu grabbed the handrail with both hands, clinging on for dear life. ‘I’ll break me bleedin’ neck!’ Desperate thinking led Stu to blurt out another potential suspect. ‘Wait! Landaker! Michael Landaker!’
‘Let me guess,’ said Brookes, ‘he’s Adolf Hitler’s test-tube baby?
‘He’s a member of a secret lodge! The sort that dresses up in weird ceremonial kilts.’
Brookes didn’t buy it, forcing Stu further over the handrail. ‘Enjoy your bath!’
‘Bedford Baker was too!’ spluttered Stu. ‘And Rumbelow! They were all in it!’
The idea of sticking the knife in the Landakers was deeply appealing to Brookes. He hoisted Stu to his feet, raising a finger to Stu’s sweaty, petrified face. ‘If this story’s a non-starter, you’ll have no need for yer football boots ever again. Got it?’
Brookes left Stu slumped on a concrete ledge, his damp back cold against the metal railings. Between gasps, all Stu could think was Do I look like I bloody play football?
Copyright © Andrew Wright 2022