6
Oscar found a note the next morning: “Sorry, I fell asleep. Catch you later? D x”
Oh, you bet! Oscar propped the note on the ornamental fireplace. He showered and shaved and, with a spring in his step, tripped down to the lobby to wait for his car. He was full of ‘good mornings’ for everyone in his path. His movie star smile was all the more dazzling because it was genuine.
He danced with the ladies in Wardrobe and sang songs in the make-up chair much to the faux-annoyance of the girl who was trying to apply cuts and bruises to that handsome fizzog.
“Oh, give it a rest, chicken,” said a voice from the adjacent chair. Oscar looked more closely at the mirror in front of him. He’d assumed the seat was occupied only by a heap of used towels but... no! Apparently there was a tiny husk of a woman in there somewhere. He could make out her hair, in large plastic rollers and, as the make-up artist worked her magic, a face began to appear among all the crumpled fabric. Eyes like raisins met his in the reflection.
“Call me Bunny,” she smiled.
“Oscar Buzz,” the actor nodded.
“You’re the totty.” The grin was so broad the dentures almost fell out.
The American was not familiar with the term but he decided right away that he liked the old bird.
“You’re the star,” he grinned in return. “Excuse me, but do you happen to know which scene we’re doing this morning?”
“Not done your homework?” Bunny teased.
“I prefer things to be a surprise. Keeps me fresh. That’s my approach.”
“What a load of bollocks, dear! Let me give you a tip. I’ve been in the business so long Noah hired me as his on-board cabaret. Just learn the words and don’t bump into the furniture. All of this... ” her finger flicked up and down to indicate his famous face, “... do as little as possible. The audience will read the performance they want to see on your face. That’s why critics are such arseholes. They turn up because they have to so they’re already in a bad mood. We don’t stand a chance. Arseholes to a man! Now, your paying public - bless their hearts, where would we be without them? - they turn up because they want to. They fork over their hard-earned wonga because they want a good time; they want to be taken out of themselves - that’s half the battle. And you’re very easy on the eye, my love; you don’t need to bother yourself with things like characterisation.”
Oscar nodded, absorbing the wisdom of the veteran. “So... what scene is it?”
Bunny asked the make-up girl.
“Oh, yes! That’s right. I’m patching you up after you’ve been in a punch-up. Nurse Whoozit’s ex has set about you in the canteen. And I’m being all disapproving of your sneaking around but secretly I’ve a soft spot for you, deep down - wild horses couldn’t drag it out of me. We did a storyline just like this back in 1964 but of course, that time I was the brazen young nurse.”
Dabney Dorridge’s p.a. Jessica burst in; her eyes were wide and frantic.
“Morning, Oscar. Morning, Bunny darling. Have you seen Dabney anywhere?”
“Oh dear! Lost the director, have you, darling?” Bunny thought it was hilarious.
“Um, no,” Oscar answered Jessica’s question.
“Oh, dear... ” Jessica chewed her biro. “He was working late last night and was going to email me the revisions.”
“Perhaps the ghosts have got him,” said Bunny, enjoying herself.
“Ghosts!” said Oscar.
“Stuff and nonsense,” said Jessica. “Don’t listen to a word she says. Look, if Dabney does show his face... ”
“We’ll tell him you’re insane with worry,” Bunny squeezed the young woman’s hand. Jessica rushed out again, her eyes brimming with tears.
“Gee... ” Oscar sat back. “First the writer goes AWOL, then the A.D... well, you know... and now Dabney?”
“Oh, he’ll turn up,” said Bunny Slippers. “Worse than actors, your directors.”
“What was that about a ghost?”
“This place is haunted, love. Haven’t you heard?”
Bunny Slippers settled back in her chair and filled him in with the disused hospital’s chequered history.
***
Chief Inspector Wheeler projected an image of an unshaven man with large bags under his eyes onto the white board in the briefing room.
“Bernard Brody,” she announced. “The writer.” She clicked a button and the photograph was replaced by one of Simon Popper. “The assistant director.” She clicked a third time and Dabney Dorridge’s head shot appeared complete with his trademark deerstalker hat. “And, I’ve just had a call from his p.a. the director. Missing, dead, and presumed missing. What the bloody blue fuck is going on at that hospital?”
She glared at her assembled team. They couldn’t return her gaze and stared blankly at the screen behind her.
“I put you in there to prevent crime. What the fuck are you doing? Promoting it? ‘Here, help yourselves to any member of the crew who takes your fancy?’ Shit on a stick! Or have you forgotten you’m coppers? Are you so far in fucking character you really think you’re a trio of performing chimps in a fucking tea bag advert?”
“Um... ” Miller raised a wary hand.
“What?” Wheeler roared. She hated being interrupted mid-rant.
“Um... it’s just that... can we go back again, though? Our cover’s blown, isn’t it? I mean Oscar Buzz knows we’re coppers now.”
Wheeler was astonished: Miller had made a good point.
“No,” she decided, “you go back in and do your bit. But keep your fucking ears peeled. I think our friend Oscar fucking Buzz will be reassured there is a police presence to protect his precious arse. And, if he isn’t, well, that’s tough tits. I’m not entirely convinced he’s not involved in this in some way. After all, he is a fucking actor. Remember that! They’m not to be trusted.”
Harry Henry scribbled a frantic note of that last statement.
“Well, I don’t know what you’m all doing still sat sitting there,” Wheeler’s patience with the team had run out. She jerked her thumb towards the exit. “Go on,” she snarled. “Fuck off.”
Harry Henry and Stevens shuffled out like good boys but there was some argy-bargy in the doorway between Miller and Pattimore.
“You ask her,” said Miller.
“No, you,” said Pattimore.
“No, you!”
“Better from you: yours is work-related.” He bobbed out his tongue and dodged past her and into the corridor.
Miller approached the Chief Inspector who was trying to shut down the projector. “Chief?”
“Fucking bastard bullshit.”
“Chief, could I have a word?”
“Shit arse! There, that’s a word. Or is it two? Have them both.” She was about to launch the remote control at the projector’s unblinking eye. Miller took the gadget from her and aimed it casually at the machine. The beam of light went out and the fan slowed its whirr to silence.
“Pile of wank,” was Wheeler’s assessment. “Now, what is it, Miller? Can’t have you late for your close-up.”
“Er... ” Miller shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “It’s D. I. Brough... ”
“What about him?”
“Have you heard?”
“Have I heard what? Has something happened? What have you heard?”
“Nothing! That’s just it!” Miller wrung her hands - if the remote control had been a hamster she would have throttled it by now. “Not a sausage. Can you at least tell me - tell us - when he’s coming back?”
Wheeler looked at the detective sergeant’s face: the face of a child asking why it’s still so long until Christmas. She gave a philosophical shrug. “How long is a piece of cheese?” was her enigmatic response.
Miller groaned with frustration.
“Oh, calm your tits, Melanie,” Wheeler advised. “You know as well as I do, when he saw you were out of danger with your Beaver Fever, he came to me to ask for a period of extended leave.”
“Yes, but -”
“He’s been through a lot, Miller. I couldn’t tell him to fuck off, could I?”
“But how long did you extend it for?”
“I beg your pardon! Oh! You mean his leave. Indefinitely. He’ll be back when he’s back.”
“Fucking Confucius has got nothing to worry about,” Miller muttered.
“You mind your fucking language. Listen, Mel. I know you want him to come back. We all do. Christ knows he couldn’t do any worse than the rest of you at the moment. But I’m sure he’s okay. Trust me.”
She patted Miller’s upper arm.
“Thanks, Chief.”
“Now fuck off.”
***
The producers were displeased - to put it mildly. Someone had leaked pictures of the scene between Oscar Buzz and Bunny Slippers onto the internet. The reactions were, by and large, unfavourable and, inevitably, more than one gossip site was linking the romantic (i.e. sexual) coupling.
The producers summoned the newly-appointed Julian Farrow, the replacement assistant director, into the production office and told him it would have to be a closed set from now on. No one was to have a cell phone, camera, or even a pencil and paper. Everyone would have to sign stringent confidentiality contracts under threat of the full force of the law.
“Fair dos,” said Julian Farrow. “Any word on who’s taking over from Dabney?”
The producers glanced at each other.
“Well,” said one.
“Strictly entre nous,” said the other, “We’re hoping he’ll turn up. It’s disastrous for a flick to change director during principal photography.”
“So,” the first one resumed, “we’d like you to take the helm. For now.”
“With a raise, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Blimey,” Julian Farrow was stunned but only for a moment. He shook the producers by the hand with vigorous gratitude and swore he would not let them down.
“Good,” said one.
“We’re pleased,” said the other. “We haven’t even seen the rushes but we’re feeling a change of approach is necessary.”
“Just what the doctor ordered, eh?” Julian Farrow laughed. Two blank faces stared at him.
“We’re thinking a siege.”
“With hostages.”
“A shoot-out. Perhaps on the roof.”
“Smashing!” said Julian Farrow. “When can I see the sides?”
“As soon as Monty faxes them over from L.A.”
It was Julian Farrow’s turn to stare back. “You don’t mean Monty... ”
The producers grinned. “We do indeed. Quite a coup, isn’t it?”
“Well, it’s certainly a surprise; I’ll give you that. But has he even seen the show?”
“Show?”
“Has he ever seen Hospital Corners? Does he know what it’s about?”
“Julian, Julian, Julian,” said one.
“That’s immaterial,” said the other. “Nobody’s seen the show.”
“There’s clips on YouTube,” Julian offered.
“Probably.” The producers suddenly became engrossed in some papers on the desk. Julian got the feeling he had been dismissed.
“Er - thanks again - for the gig,” he backed towards the door. They ignored him.
He went straight to find Dabney Dorridge’s p.a. Jessica. He grabbed her by the wrist and took her to one side.
“We’ve got trouble,” he said.
***
Most of the cast were given the day off but told to stand by their phones (which they were no longer permitted to bring to the set) for word of the newly revised shooting schedule.
Julian chose to fill the time rehearsing a punch-up between Doctor Kilmore (Oscar Buzz) and the head terrorist (played by meaty stalwart of many a British flick, Paddy Loughran - a slab of meat with a heart as big as all Dedley and a killer recipe for cupcakes). As Oscar’s stand-in, Dan was also required to be present and to engage in the more physically demanding parts of the sequence.
It was fun learning the choreography slowly, move by painstaking move, and then gradually running the scene faster and faster.
“There’ll be sugar glass,” Julian promised. “Oscar, love, you’ll be thrown through it - or rather, you will, Dan.”
“I’ll show you how to fall,” said Paddy Loughran, wiping sweat from his shaved head. “In my trailer... ”
Oscar stepped protectively between his stand-in and the man-mountain. “I think Dan knows what he’s doing,” he said coldly.
Dan blushed. He thanked Paddy for the offer - although he wasn’t entirely sure what he’d been offered.
“Good work, gentlemen,” Julian looked pleased, “We’ll run it again tomorrow before we shoot it.”
“Er - ‘Julian’ is it?”
“Yes, Oscar?”
“Why am I fighting a man twice my size? What’s the conflict here? What’s his grievance?”
“Hospital parking charges,” said Dan. No one laughed.
Julian put his arm around Oscar. “It doesn’t matter. Not at this stage. I’m sure Monty will provide the back story very soon.”
“Wait! Monty?”
“Uh-huh.”
Oscar brightened immediately. “Oh, well, we’re in safe hands if Monty’s writing this puppy. Between you and me, I was worried it was a bit - you know - small, but now Monty’s on board, whew!”
“Whew indeed,” said Julian.
“Um,” Dan interrupted, “Who’s Monty?”
Oscar, Julian and Paddy looked at him in utter stupefaction.
***
“Calm down, sis!” Rob pinned Jessica’s arms to her sides. “This Julian bloke - let’s give him a chance, eh?”
Although Jessica worked in the movie business she didn’t want to make a scene. She suggested they get off the public street and into a nearby coffee shop.
Rob ordered his usual Queequeg’s skinny ‘Biggo’ with cinnamon dust and a marshmallow stick.
Jessica had tap water.
“Listen,” Rob tried to calm her down. “He’s English, right? He’ll know the show.”
“Dabney was English,” she pointed out, “is English,” she corrected herself quickly.
Rob was dismissive of Dabney Dorridge’s entire and extensive oeuvre. “Corsets and bustles and repressed emotion. The opposite of Hospital Corners.”
“Julian’s in the lap of the Yankee producers. He’s so tickled pink to get the gig, he’ll bend over forwards and stick whatever they ask up his sycophantic arse.”
Rob silenced his sister with a raised finger. “One sec... ” His thumb was a blur on his smart phone. “Just tweeting... Fans hopeful that new helmer Julian Farrow will keep the Hospital Corners spirit alive... ”
“Helmer?” muttered Jessica. “Helmet more like. The man’s a tool, Rob. I left him talking excitedly to some pyrotechnics boffin.”
“A tool we can use... ” Rob slipped his phone into his pocket.
“How do you mean?”
“Think about it... ”
“I am doing.”
“The current delays are because you’re all waiting for updates to the screenplay, no?”
“Yes.”
“And how will those updates arrive?”
“By fax. Why?”
“And who operates the fax machine?”
“Well, I do, but -” she stopped herself.
Rob grinned. There had always been a special understanding between him and his sister. “You intercept the sides as they come in from the States. Meanwhile, I’ll be faxing you pages from... ”
“No!” she was grinning too.
“Oh, yes!”
“Hospital Corners - a film by Robert and Jessica Bean!” they said in perfect unison. “After all these years, sis! It’s finally going to happen. You remember how we used to sit up all night perfecting every detail.”
Jessica clapped her hands excitedly.
“Just make sure you give Julian the copy with the cover sheet from the USA. He won’t know any different.”
“It’s brilliant! We’ll get - the fans will get - the Hospital Corners film they’ve always longed for.” Her smile faltered. “But it won’t be our name on the credits, will it?”
“What does that matter?” Rob dunked his marshmallow stick into his Biggo. “We’re doing this for the greater good, not for personal gain or acclaim. We’re doing this for posterity. We’re doing this for the world!”
They lifted their drinks to toast their endeavour. Jessica eyed a nearby menu board.
“Think I’ll have a muffin to celebrate,” she said. “Oh yes, I could murder a muffin.”
***
Oscar invited Dan back to the hotel with the promise of dinner and ‘a chance to get to know each other better’. Dan, of course, had said yes.
“It’ll be room service,” Oscar warned. “I can’t handle the restaurant. All those people.”
“You don’t like your fans?” Dan chewed his thumbnail.
“Oh, I love my fans!” Oscar adopted a mock PR enthusiasm. “No, I mean I am grateful they’ve given me this life and kept me at the top for all these years - my whole life, in fact. There aren’t many child stars whose careers continue into adulthood, you know. Drugs, prison terms and what-not. Many of them don’t survive... ”
“I know,” said Dan. “Your brother... ”
Oscar looked as if he’d been slapped in the face. “What did you say?”
“I was just -”
Oscar stood. “You never mention him in my presence again. Or out of my presence for that matter! Do you understand me?”
“Um, yes, I’m sorry, I - Oscar, please. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
Oscar made visible efforts to calm his breathing.
“Hey, I’m sorry for blowing my top like that - Hey!” he laughed. “That’d be a great title for a gay porno, Blowing My Top. Ha ha! Luckily I’ve never had to release a sex tape to boost my flagging profile.”
“I bet millions would love to see that,” said Dan. “I know I would.”
“When you’ve got the real deal right in front of you? Lookit: you play your cards right, Dan-Daniel-Danny, and I might just throw myself at you. After dinner, of course.”
“Of course!” said Dan.
He couldn’t believe his luck.
But that luck was soon to run out.
Their pre-dinner drinks were interrupted by an insistent knocking at the door. Oscar and Dan looked at each other: they had yet to place their order.
“See who it is, would you?” Oscar lay back on the sofa. “If it’s another fucking chambermaid after another fucking selfie with me, tell her to go and fuck herself with her hoover.”
Laughing, Dan opened the door.
A slender figure with bouffant platinum blonde hair and a perfectly groomed pencil moustache glowered at him from the corridor. Mascaraed eyes flashed up and down.
“Who the fuck are you?” said Pinkie Green.
***
Miller was flagged down by Bunny Slippers. The aged actress waved a bright chiffon scarf and called coo-ee until the younger woman approached.
“Finished for the day, have you, dear? I don’t think this shower know what’s what. Come in for this, they say. So you come in and they say they’re not doing this, they’re doing that. And they send you away again. And they keep changing the blooming script. Now, it’s no hardship for me; I was used to learning three hours of drama a week. Live, we used to do it, when we first started. But even when they started recording us, we had to do it ‘as live’ - there was no time to go back and do it again, you see. So of course I can cope with the pressure, love, and the lines. It’s the younger ones I worry about. That American. Pretty as a picture but I don’t think he’s got two brain cells to rub together.”
“Yes,” said Miller, finally able to answer Bunny’s initial question.
“Yes what?”
“I’ve finished for the day.”
“Me too. Let’s go to lunch, shall we? That’s a good idea. Let’s do lunch!” She linked her arm in Miller’s, taking the detective by surprise. “Unless you have somewhere else you’d rather be?”
“Oh, no,” said Miller. “Lunch will be lovely.”
There was nowhere else she would rather be in the whole world.
***
Harry Henry was in Serious, pounding the keyboards to find out everything he could about Hollywood actor Oscar Buzz. Most of it was salacious gossip. A lot of it was all lovelorn girls begging him to follow them on Twitter. There were filmographies, reviews and endless photographs of Buzz attending glittering red carpet events. There were newspaper articles documenting a ‘bad boy’ lifestyle of excess and high glamour. It was everything one would expect to find. Harry Henry felt as though he could have been reading about just about any film star he could think of.
Buzz had been a child star - Harry Henry had been unaware of this. As a toddler, Buzz had appeared in television commercials. By school age, he was the cute kid in a wise-cracking sitcom on the Disney Channel. By his teens, he was a heartthrob with a short-lived career as a pop singer already behind him.
There were no periods of unemployment. At every age, Oscar Buzz had found work. By his twenties he was a staple of made-for-TV movies in just about every genre. When he hit thirty, he got his first leading cinematic role. The hits had kept coming. As well as Pretzels From Space and Warriors of Thunder, critically panned by everyone, there had been some successes in low-budget independent films. I Was Addicted To Bubble Wrap had earned him his first Emmy nomination.
Again, Harry could find nothing atypical. Scandals were small potatoes: showing up at a film premiere with George Clooney’s girlfriend on his arm - that kind of thing. There was nothing to single out Oscar Buzz as either paragon or antithesis of virtue.
But then, none of us is that, Harry reflected.
Even the rumours of Buzz’s homosexuality were nothing special. Every major star swept those along in their wake. Buzz himself remained tight-lipped on the subject, thereby fuelling the fire.
Harry rubbed his eyelids behind his glasses.
If Brough was around, he’d know if Buzz was gay or not. I miss David, Harry Henry realised. We all do.
Wherever he is, I hope he’s all right.
He scrolled through yet another Facebook fan page in the vain hope of finding something new, something that might trigger a light bulb moment - or, as Wheeler called the, “a fucking buggery bollocks management-fucking-speak moment”.
Harry felt it was all a complete waste of his time
***
Stevens and Pattimore went around the crew who had not gone home early and set about asking questions about the missing and quite probably dead writer and director and the not-missing but definitely dead assistant director. Whoever they asked gave them a similar answer.
Principal photography had only just begun. The cast and crew weren’t knitted as a family yet. No one person was sure of everyone else’s names. Some of them had worked with others of them on previous projects. But no one knew the writer at all. They’d all at least heard of Dabney Dorridge - who hadn’t? - and some of them would have recognised Simon Popper by sight.
No one had any pertinent information.
“Let’s piss off to the boozer,” Stevens suggested.
“Might as well,” said Pattimore. “In a bit. There’s someone we haven’t spoken to yet.”
He nodded across the disused hospital car park. A young woman, her arms full of folders, bags and other paraphernalia was struggling to get her car keys from her mouth and into the lock.
“Hold up, Miss,” Pattimore jogged over.
“Yes?” Jessica looked the young man up and down. She smiled. Oh yes...
He flashed her his i.d. Her face fell. She dropped the folders, bags and other encumbrances. Of course, a nice young man like that would only take a professional interest in her.
“It’s about Dabney Dorridge,” the young man sounded sympathetic.
“And the rest,” his taller, older and coarser companion scowled from behind the most disgusting moustache Jessica had ever seen.
“I haven’t seen him,” she sounded flustered. “Is it bad news?”
“What news?” frowned Stevens.
“You tell me,” said Jessica Bean.
Pattimore cut through the confusion. “Just tell us the last contact you had with him, Miss Bean. And anything - however trivial - that might prove useful. Was he in the habit of staying late? Did he have a favourite boozer?”
“You’re talking about him in the past tense,” Jessica observed.
“Am I? Do you know different?”
“I just don’t want to think of him as gone, that’s all.”
Stevens leered at her, a little too close for comfort. “We need to see texts and emails, between you and Dobbin Doolally or whatever his name was. Is.”
“Uh, yes, of course. I’ll print them off.”
“Cheers, darling.”
Jessica shrank from Stevens’s cheese and onion breath.
“Thank you, Miss Bean,” said Pattimore with a look that acknowledged his partner was a pervert.
She led them back to the production office. Stevens ogled her buttocks and made grabbing gestures behind her behind. Pattimore slapped his arm.
The detectives waited while the p.a. busied herself with her phone and a computer. A printer churned out sheets of paper. Stevens nudged Pattimore.
“I’d flick that Bean,” he whispered.
Pattimore shuddered. And missed Detective Inspector David Brough even more.