12

It was Oscar himself who raised the alarm. After a long and lonely night of trying to contact Dan via all the online methods at his disposal, Oscar had turned up for work determined to lose himself and his low spirits in the role. Acting did that sometimes - took you out of yourself for a little bit and when you came out of character again, you couldn’t remember what had got you so low to begin with.

The sight that greeted him when he reached his trailer was one of pure horror. The door was ajar - with a flash of guilt, he remembered consigning Pinkie to wait for him there. Oops. I’ll make it up to him. Introduce him to the British delicacy that is the marvellous chocolate digestive biscuit. Yes, I know it’s not macrobiotic but everyone deserves a cheat day, don’t they?

“Pinkie?” he called as he pushed the door. There was something behind it, preventing him from getting in. He poked his head through the gap and gasped in shock.

There was blood everywhere. At first Oscar thought it was a prank - those guys in special effects having a bit of a laugh, as the Brits say. They’d really gone to town; they’d even got the smell...

He looked down. What was blocking the door was Delia Cartwright’s head. Her eyes had been poked out with her stiletto heels. One shoe was still in her eye socket. The actress lay crumpled like a broken puppet. Dead.

The shower was running. Water was flooding the far end of the trailer - something was blocking the drain. Oscar peered closer. A shock of white-blonde hair was visible, poking from the bottom of the stall.

Pinkie!

Also dead.

Oscar withdrew and pulled the door closed. He leaned against the trailer and closed his eyes. He could still see the scene in his mind’s eye.

How could this happen? Why did this happen?

What the hell do I do now?

His heart was pounding and his breath was shallow. On unsteady legs he staggered to the production office, ignoring the greetings and salutations of others as he passed.

“Good morning, Oscar!” said one of the producers.

“How nice to see you!” said the other.

Oscar collapsed into a chair. “My trailer - there’s - he... she... ”

“I’m sure we can find you a bigger trailer, Oscar darling. If you can bear to suffer that one for just one more day.”

Oscar’s eyes widened with terror. “Not going in there! Ever!”

The producers glanced at each other.

“Oscar?” said one.

“Is there a problem?” said the other.

***

“Fuck me up the chutney!” Chief Inspector Wheeler herself attended the scene. Matters had clearly escalated. This was not just silly buggers swapping screenplays and shutting people in cupboards any more. She turned to the SOCO for his initial assessment.

“Two dead. One male, one female. Both show signs of violence. The female was stabbed through the eyes by her own shoes. The male - strangled in the shower.”

“Like our friend Simon Popper!” Wheeler nodded. “Tell me - is it possible the bloke murdered the woman and then topped himself?”

The SOCO pursed his lips. “I wouldn’t like to commit to any scenario at this point, ma’m. There may or may not have been a third party involved. There is no sign of forced entry.”

“To the people or the caravan?”

“To any of them.”

Wheeler thanked him for the information and relayed it to her team. Miller was visibly distraught. She’d always liked Delia Cartwright and had even considered having her hair done like hers.

“What a waste,” said Stevens, sadly. “I was sure she was giving me the glad eye.”

“In your dreams,” said Pattimore.

“I’ll have to take her out of my spank bank,” Stevens was glum. “Bit weird to wank over a dead wench.”

Everyone was thoroughly disgusted with him.

“What? I’m only saying.”

“Moving forward,” said Wheeler. “Harry, check what security systems are in place. There must be something. Cameras. A bloke with a dog. Anything. See what you can find.”

“Yes, Chief.”

“Stevens, Pattimore, you talk to Oscar bloody Buzz and take his statement. Ask him to name names. Who else had access to his trailer? That kind of thing. Try not to cause some kind of international incident.”

“Yes, Chief.”

“No, Chief.”

“Right. I’m shutting this production down. I’ll tell the Yanks myself. It’ll be my fucking pleasure.”

“Um, Chief?”

“Yes, Miller?”

“What shall I do?”

Wheeler’s eyebrows raised. “Honestly, Miller; I should think that was obvious.”

Miller frowned. The penny dropped. “Bunny... ”

“Well done, Miller!” Wheeler stormed off. Miller deflated like a punctured balloon.

It was down to her to tell Bunny Slippers about the murders.