Tommy took the call at 10:13. He was still in bed, half asleep and thinking about Jasmine.
He snatched his cell phone up after the third ring and croaked “Hello” into the mouthpiece, barely registering the fact it was his casting agency.
“Tommy?” It was Rhiannon, the main booking agent. Blonde and curvaceous, she was the secret fantasy of all the male supporting artists on the books. And while Tommy quite liked being naked in bed listening to her husky voice tinged with just the slightest lick of Welsh, the fantasy had been pretty much usurped by Jasmine, whose image refused to fade easily now as he tried to shake his thoughts clear.
“Got a few days for you if you’re interested.”
“Uh, yeah. As long as nobody gets skewered or drilled this time…”
“Bad taste, Tommy. Karen wanted me to keep you off jobs for a while—especially after the police paid us a visit requesting to go through our books—but I didn’t think that was fair. Innocent ’til proved guilty and everything.” There was a bland sing-song lilt to her voice, as if she were discussing the weather. Karen was the owner of the South West theatrical agency, and pretty hard-nosed.
“I am innocent! Jesus, Rhi, I’ve been through this with you! But I’m grateful to you anyway. I really need the work right now to take my mind off it all.” And he had been through it all. The agency had called him in after the Arthur incident and grilled him again comprehensively after the What murder. But they soon realized he had nothing to tell them he hadn’t already imparted to the police. But he could understand Karen considering him to be some kind of Jonah.
“That’s okay, lovely. Three days to start with. Possibility of four months work. Wiltshire. It’s a World War One drama to commemorate the centennial this year. Sound good?”
“Sounds great. Do I get to be a Tommy?”
“Don’t think so.” She didn’t get the joke, or was ignoring it. “Set in a field hospital in France. You’ll be a uniformed orderly.”
“Wiltshire’s standing in for France?”
“Yep. Got a lot more to call, Tommy. You in?”
“I’m in. And thanks.”
He lay back in bed, wide awake now. Well, that was a turn up. Three days work might just cover the Gas and Electricity bill that was hanging over him. And without Trish to help now, finding the money was suddenly a major consideration.
He considered phoning Jasmine, and his thumb even hovered over her contact icon, then he sighed and dropped the cell beside the bed and rolled out from under the duvet. The relationship dogma of the twenty-first century rang in his ears: don’t want to be seen as too keen. He was heading for the shower when the doorbell rang.
He considered ignoring it, but the ring came again, insistent. Could be important. Could even be Jasmine. He shrugged into his purple dressing gown, a little (a lot!) turned on by the thought of answering the door to her in just a flimsy gown. The delicious fantasy lasted as long as it took him to open the front door and find the stern faces of Slade and Whitley on the front step.
“Morning, sexy,” Slade quipped, striding in without being invited. His more taciturn companion followed.
“What now?” He resisted the urge to swear. “I was just about to have a shower!”
Slade consulted his watch. “Lazy fucker, aren’t you? The rest of the world’s been up and at it for hours.”
The two coppers were already scouting out the premises, Tommy noticed with a flare of panic. Don’t Go in the Woods… Alone—had Wayne forgotten to take it? What about Driller Killer? He was definitely up shit creek if Wayne had left either of those behind when he collected the stash from the cemetery behind the house and brought it back here to check. Slade wandered into the living room, peering around at the framed pictures. A poster from The Great Rock n’ Roll Swindle seemed to meet with his approval judging from the nod; an original oil from his favourite artist, Rick Melton, of a naked girl in a cemetery, on the other hand, did not. He cursed himself for not taking it down. Slade settled himself on the sofa, again without being invited, and motioned for his lapdog to do the same.
“Coffee,” the detective said. It wasn’t a question.
“There’s nothing m—”
“—more you can tell me. Yeah, I know. If I had a hot whore for every time that’s been said to me, I’d be a very happy man, eh, Trev?”
The DS smiled discreetly.
“Two sugars, dash of the white stuff. One lump for DS Whitley.”
Tommy sighed and walked out into the hall, heading for the kitchen. While he made the coffee, he performed a mental inventory of the house. Had he left anything around that could possibly be construed as incriminating to suspicious police eyes? Any dodgy horror novels, a violent thriller? Everyone had one or two of those lying around, surely? All his video nasties were gone, he was pretty sure of that. He had some horror DVDs, along with a lot of Sci Fi and comedies, but they were pretty innocuous. He hoped so anyway.
He carried the two mugs back into the living room. Slade took his with a wry smile. Tommy sat down in the armchair.
“Those were the days,” he said, staring at the Great Rock n’ Roll Swindle poster. It depicted the Pistols in broad cartoon caricature on their infamous boat trip down the Thames to mark the Silver Jubilee. Steve Jones was vomiting into the river.
“You were too young though. Bet you don’t remember 999 either?”
The question threw Tommy for a moment. He thought of the barely played CD in the rack. “Concrete?” he said after a pause, wondering where this was going.
Slade sat back expansively, giving Whitley a smug grin. “I’m beginning to like this bastard, after all. A little bit, anyway. Where’s the wife today, Tommy? At work?”
Tommy tried not to reveal the stab of bleakness that suddenly ran through him. He looked at his hands. “She’s uh…”
“She’s what, son…?”
He looked up. “She’s left me.” He met Slade’s eyes for a second, then looked away, out of the window at the suburban street beyond. Another grey one. Bin men collecting the rubbish. A small child on a scooter fleeing its anguished mother.
“That so? Any particular reason?”
“No. I mean, not really. We grew apart, that’s all.”
“Grew apart… So where’s she living now?”
“Does this matter?” he snapped. He controlled himself quickly. “She’s staying with a friend. Laura Charles. She lives just around the corner.”
Slade wrote the address down. “Just in case. You never know where our enquiries may take us.” He grinned cheesily. Then the grin left his eyes and he leaned forward again. “Have you heard of a student called Harry Cribb? Media student at UWE?”
The sudden change of tack confounded Tommy. “Uh. No. Should I?”
“He would be the first victim in this case you didn’t know.” The eyes, hard and blue, didn’t budge from Tommy.
“Another one?” He paled. And yet felt a sudden vindication too. After all, if there had been another murder and Tommy wasn’t involved in any way, then surely that could only help his case?
“You sure you don’t know him?” Slade produced a photograph depicting a long-haired, bearded man in his mid twenties. He was giving a doofus smile for the camera and looked happy and relaxed, sitting on a park bench in the sun.
Tommy shook his head.
Slade got up off the sofa, crossed to the bookshelf against one wall. While the top row was dedicated to novels and various bios, the rest of the shelves were taken up with DVDs. Not a VHS in sight, he thought with relief. Slade was scanning the titles. A few Hammer films, couple of Westerns, the Spiderman trilogy, even a few Pixar animations. Nothing extreme. Slade looked disappointed.
“You got any more films?”
“No. That’s all.” And it was. Now that Wayne had cleared him out, bless his northern sockies.
Slade picked out one of the Hammer films. Frankenstein and the Monster from Hell. “Looks gruesome…”
Tommy shifted uncomfortably on his armchair. “Not really.”
Slade replaced the DVD and clicked his finger at Whitley. “You mind if my DS here has a little look about upstairs?”
Tommy frowned. They needed a warrant for that. He’d watched enough films to be quite certain of his rights. But making things difficult for the cops would only prolong their harassment. And besides, he was pretty sure he had nothing left to hide. He shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”
Whitley got up and left the room. Slade sipped his coffee thoughtfully. There was silence between them for a moment or two. Then Slade said, “Got any more work lined up?”
Tommy felt a tightening across his chest. He knew what Slade was insinuating, and the thought had of course crossed his mind already, as it obviously had Karen and Rhiannon’s: would the murders continue? The thought of going to work again tomorrow filled him with a kind of dread. He’d considered stopping altogether, but desperately needed the money. Besides, he’d always loved it before—before the deaths. He nodded weakly, and told Slade about the WWI show.
“Nice,” Slade said. “About time the Great War got a bit of attention. Let’s just hope it doesn’t get the wrong attention, eh?”
Tommy didn’t answer. Slade pushed on. “But you don’t need to worry. I shall be keeping a very close eye on you, sonny.”
“You think…” he found he couldn’t say it.
“Who knows?” Slade finished his coffee and stood up, just as Whitley returned. The DS shook his head at Slade. “Who knows…? But we’re ready for the sick fuck this time. And while the odds seem to be leaning towards the killer targeting productions you and your bessie mate Mark Hamm are involved in, you can relax in the knowledge that there’ll be a police presence on all productions in the area from now on. Will that make you sleep better at night?” He put out a hand to touch the naked painted breasts of the cemetery girl, stroked them thoughtfully with his forefinger. “Incidentally, will Mr. Hamm be joining you tomorrow?”
Tommy said, “I’m sure you know already, don’t you?”
Slade smiled thinly. “Ah, your agency been talking, have they?”
“The answer is, I don’t know. They never tell me who else is booked for jobs. But I’m sure they’ll tell you.”
“Yes. I’m sure they will.” He turned to DS Whitley. “I think we’re done here. Anything else you wanna ask our friend, Trev?”
Before the DS could answer they heard a rattle of keys in the lock and the front door open. Slade gave Tommy an enquiring look. Tommy was too busy wondering how this new situation might complicate things.
Trish entered the living room. She glared at Slade and Whitley without speaking.
“Mrs. Wallace?” Slade stepped towards her. The last two times they had called Trish had been out, although the neighbours made sure they told her about the visits even if Tommy had been reticent about them himself. “DI Slade, DS Whitley.”
“What do you want to know this time? Hasn’t he told you everything?” She stared at them warily.
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Wallace. We won’t keep you very long. Just here making a few more routine enquiries. I’m sure he’s told you all about the case.”
She glared at Tommy. “Not really. We don’t speak much about anything anymore.”
“Indeed. That’s unfortunate. But you are aware of what happened?”
“Of course. I read the newspapers. I watch the TV. They’re calling the case the Video Nasty Killings, I believe.”
Slade winced. “Yes, well. Some papers are calling it that. But while you’re here, Mrs. Wallace, maybe you could give us your impression of the whole situation?”
“I don’t follow. I just came here to collect a few things. I’m not stopping.” She looked at Tommy demonstratively. She brushed a long swathe of brown hair from her eyes. She looked defensive and tired.
“Only take a moment, Mrs. Wallace. Save us chasing you up at your friend’s house.”
She sat down on the sofa vacated by the two policemen. “What do you want to know?”
“Well for a start, is there anyone you know of who might hold a grudge against your husband?”
Tommy started. “Then you do believe I had nothing to do with it?”
Slade stuck his hands in his pockets in a nonchalant manner. “We’re chasing every possibility, Thomas. Mrs. Wallace?”
She glanced over at Tommy again. “Oh, there are maybe one or two extras he moans about. But nobody he’s described to me dislikes him enough to want to hurt him. Is that what this is all about? You think the killer’s really after Tommy?”
“I don’t think anything of the sort, Mrs. Wallace. Just answer the question please.”
Tommy’s hands were beginning to tremble. He had considered the possibility of course, but more from the angle of someone wanting to frame him. But to hear it voiced aloud like this… Was he the actual target then? Had the other two deaths been mistakes, or warnings of some kind? Was he being toyed with? The idea shook him. Then maybe it was time to get out of the TV business. But then, might not this hypothetical enemy track him down whatever line of work he took? If they could kill someone in a secure TV studio with scores of people around…
“No,” she said finally. “Nobody springs to mind. I thought you might be here because of the coincidence of Tommy having…” To Tommy’s horror he realized she was glancing over at the DVDs on the bookshelf, as if searching for the missing video nasties. His heart stammered. He got up quickly.
“Of course it’s a coincidence,” he said abruptly. “And that’s all it is. Me being on set at the time of two different murders, I mean.”
“What else would you mean?” Slade cocked an eyebrow at Trish. “Mrs. Wallace? You mentioned your husband ‘having’ something… What would that be?”
Was she going out of her way to make him look guilty? She shrugged. “Nothing. I meant…what Tommy said. Of course it doesn’t look good what with him being at the scene of the crime both times.” She sighed. “But I’m pretty sure he’s legit. I’ve been married to him for five years. I think I’d know if he was a murderous psychopath by now.” She glanced at him briefly, and there was almost a soft look in her eyes. Tommy gave her a little smile back, and suddenly felt a gush of affection for her, as well as regret.
Trish frowned, checked her watch. “I promised to meet Laura for a drink in five minutes…”
“You sure?” Slade took another step closer to her, took his hands out of his pockets as if ready for action.
She got up. “I’m sure. He’s a good man. Just not the right man.” That was for Tommy’s benefit. He thanked her with another little smile. “Now if you don’t mind, I just need to get a few things from upstairs.” She paused and looked at Tommy. “There is another reason I came round.” She looked uncomfortable. “Are you alright?” She was trying to look contained and cool but her lower lip trembled.
Tommy nearly reached out a hand to her. Nearly, but no cigar. He looked away from her, then at Slade. “I’m fine. Really.” The moment was gone. Another five minutes, and so was she. Slade and Whitley took a little longer taking off, but eventually Tommy was alone again.
He suddenly felt like crying. He pulled his cell out and rested his thumb on Jasmine’s contact icon. Again he resisted calling her. He thought of Trish’s mask of indifference momentarily dropping, and sadness held him close. He switched on the Jeremy Kyle Show and waited for the emptiness to leave him.