‘WHY IS IT still so warm? So late in the year. It’s like the sun doesn’t want to leave.’ The lacework shadowed her naked body with brocade tattoos, like filigreed wounds.
‘Come away from the window.’ John rolled over in the bed to where she had lain. The thick Irish linen beneath his torso was cool to the touch, as if it had not been able to draw warmth from Ixora’s body. The waning sunlight was suffused by the dust which covered the tall bedroom windows, transforming them into opaque saffron panels. Ixora stretched her arm to touch the glass, as if the moment held a distant memory. Then she let the heavy jade curtain fall back in place, shielding them again from the light.
‘We could always stay in bed.’ She glanced along his body. ‘I don’t suppose we have to go.’
‘We spend all our time in bed. It’ll be good for you to mix with other people. Besides, it’s a big career mistake to miss your own wrap party.’
‘Oh, come on, John. After all the trouble on the set, everyone saying nice things to each other when they’re really praying they’ll never have to work together again?’ She dropped to the edge of the bed, idly trailing her hand across his stirring genitals.
‘I’m still your advisor, Ixora.’
‘But you’re in my bed. It’s not so easy to take you seriously.’ She released a throaty laugh.
‘Why not?’ John tugged the golden quilt over his stomach.
‘You’re just a man in bed. Not so dignified. Freckles on your shoulders. Fat little tummy.’ She reached her hand beneath the quilt and shook his flesh. ‘This is woman’s territory. The bedroom.’
‘I don’t think many feminists would agree with you.’
‘Then they’re fools. This is the easiest way to control your sex. There is nothing more pliable than a man in a state of constant expectation.’
This time their lovemaking was slow and deliberate, their caresses relaxed and light. Their bodies moved in as stately and calm a fashion as a skiff skimming the surface of a lake. By the time they had risen, washed and dressed, the sun had long set, and they were late.
‘Tell me something,’ asked John, knotting his tie in the mottled wardrobe mirror. ‘After your father died, why did you and your mother move here?’
‘Alexandra – my mother – had lived in this house as a child. It belonged to her family. We had no other relatives in Spain, and the house had long been vacant, so we took possession. We were happy here.’
‘I thought you said that you hated having to visit your Spanish relatives every year.’
‘Tell me what you think of this outfit. I borrowed it from a friend of mine in Wardrobe.’
John studied her reflection as she stepped into a black silk dress. She never spoke of her father. John realised that he didn’t even know his name. Then he remembered what Matteo had said. ‘How did your father die, Ixora?’
One foot raised, she momentarily lost her balance. ‘An accident. He’d been drinking. His car left the road.’
‘How old did you say you were?’
‘Did I say?’ She thought for a moment, or pretended to think. ‘Seven, I suppose. Perhaps eight.’
‘But I thought–’
‘It won’t be worth going if we don’t get there soon,’ she cried out suddenly. ‘Zip me up?’
His fingers brushed her shoulder above the dress, leaving bloodless marks behind. Her skin was icy to the touch. He supposed that she would explain her reluctance to discuss her family at a later date. After all, what could be so bad about her past?
‘Let me give you some romantic advice, honey. There are those who love – there are those who wait – and there are those who wait on tables, and that’s what you do, so could you take the fucking ashtrays away and empty them?’ Scott Tyron turned back to the group that clustered before him. ‘Fucking career-waitresses. Where was I? Oh yeah, that was after I did the time travel movie, the bratpack thing. This was at a time when they thought that if you had Michael J. Fox, a flying saucer and a theme tune by ZZ Top you had a sure-fire hit and a bunch of roman numeral sequels. Six fucking months of my life, and if the movie had turned out to be any more of a dog it would have shed on the audience. Amateurs, man.’
John turned his attention back to Ixora. ‘How did you ever manage to kiss that guy in your big scene?’ he asked.
‘I thought of chewing garlic but I just kept my teeth closed. You want some punch?’ They made their way over to the side of the studio, where a bar had been set up on trestle tables.
‘Aren’t you all supposed to exchange little gifts with each other when you leave?’
‘We already did that yesterday. The set designer does needlepoint. Mine’s staying in a drawer. Besides, the ritual seemed a little too cute considering most of the crew have been exchanging body fluids for the last six weeks.’
Studio C looked as inhospitable at night as it did in the day, a timeless place, devoid of outside intrusions, a blank space ready to adopt any character it was given. John felt it was like being inside a vast packing crate, waiting to be filled and turned to use.
By the time they had arrived, the wrap party had already divided into cliques. The director, producer, lighting cameraman and focus puller stood with most of the speaking-part cast on one side while sparks, chippies, extras and ancillary services were on the other. Ambitious trainees hovered between the two sides, accepted by neither. The editor and the composer were in attendance, although their work was just beginning. The film had finished two weeks over schedule and nearly a million dollars over budget. Compared to the director’s last film, this was thrift.
Park Manton, the producer, passed them with half a dozen punch-filled cups between his fingers. ‘Our right-on film school graduate,’ he said, nodding at an earnest young woman who was speaking angrily to one of the crew, ‘has now discovered that Eisenstein theory isn’t always uppermost in the crew’s minds. She’s just been offered a moustache ride by the lighting cameraman. Farley tells me that he’s very pleased with your big romantic scene. He says you have a great deal of potential.’
‘Thanks, but he told me he doesn’t think I’ll ever be much of an actress,’ said Ixora.
‘Women like you have a special ability,’ said Manton. ‘You know what that is? The eerie power to cloud men’s minds.’
‘I suppose I should take that as a compliment. Scott thinks I should have paid him for the privilege of kissing the man worshipped by millions of women.’
‘You should wait until you get as old as me before you start paying them, darling.’ Manton moved off. ‘I’ll catch you later.’ On the far side of the studio someone switched on the sound system, and a jazz tape began to play loudly.
‘I know your profession is all about timing,’ said a voice behind them in what sounded suspiciously like the start of a prepared speech, ‘so I feel I must apologise for my own.’ Sullivan coughed into his hand, embarrassed. ‘Er, timing, that is.’ Ixora threw John a ‘help me’ look.
‘Ixora, this is Detective Sergeant Sullivan, remember? We all met on location the other day.’
‘I’m sorry.’ A look of recognition crossed her face. ‘Of course I remember. It’s been a crazy week. Sergeant, how are you?’ She held out her hand, and for some reason Sullivan kissed it. Perhaps he thought that was what you did with actresses.
‘I wouldn’t disturb you on such a festive occasion were it not for the murder. Another one, that is. Another murder.’ He shuffled awkwardly.
Ixora turned, the smile fading from her face. ‘John, what is he talking about?’
‘I don’t know any more than you. Who’s been murdered?’
‘Mr Dominguez. You do know a Mr Matteo Dominguez?’ He was watching Ixora’s reaction.
‘Matteo is dead?’
‘I’m afraid so. He was stabbed to death late last night. It was kept out of the papers for reasons of security. Perhaps you could answer a few questions?’
Outside, the night had cooled, and dense stars packed the sky. Free of the No Smoking signs, Sullivan hastily lit a cigarette. The backlot was still and silent. The sound of the party’s tape deck could not penetrate the studio doors.
‘Your name was in his telephone book, and there were some photographs.’ He removed an envelope and passed it to Ixora.
‘I thought he had returned them all,’ she said, surprised.
‘They were sealed in a small safe we found in his flat. This is an informal talk, so you don’t have to answer, but what was your relationship to him?’
‘We went out a few times. I hadn’t seen him for quite a while.’
‘Can you remember the exact date when you last saw him?’
‘It would have been a couple of months ago. I suppose I could look it up in my diary.’
She was absently shuffling Matteo’s photographs in her hands. John leaned over and examined them. A few dated black-and-white glossies, Ixora with her arms around friends, nothing more.
‘To be honest,’ said Sullivan, ‘I came to you first because of your connection with the death of Mr Feldman.’ He withdrew an absurdly tiny notebook and folded back the cover, then hunted for a pencil.
Ixora was shaking her head, speaking quickly. ‘Nothing like this has ever happened to me before, and now there are two dead people. Do you think it could be something to do with me?’
‘Please try not to be alarmed,’ said Sullivan hastily, raising his hand, ‘but you are a definite link. I think we’re going to find that both men died by the same hand. I didn’t tell you this, but there’s also an earlier murder which we believe to be connected. Mr Dominguez somehow impaled himself on a railing ten feet high. Also, whoever did this would seem to possess considerable strength, because the murder weapon was found –’
‘Were there fingerprints on it?’
‘– inside his body,’ finished the sergeant. ‘This is a very dangerous person, most likely suffering from severe mental trauma. At this stage I simply need to discover if either of you know of any such person. And for the record, I need to know where you both were last night.’
John paled. Matteo had come to his office and accused Ixora of being some kind of lunatic, for God’s sake. He would have to lie, just as she had omitted to mention her last encounter with him. He cleared his throat. ‘Uh, I worked late.’
‘Did anyone see you leave?’
‘The night security officer hadn’t been at his desk all evening.’
‘Don’t worry. I can check on that.’
‘I took a meeting at my agency . . .’ said Ixora.
‘This would be a model agency?’ Sullivan licked the end of his pencil.
‘Theatrical. I called by Mr Chapel’s office to pick up a cheque. I saw him, his boss was there too, I think. After that I went home.’
Sullivan seemed stumped. He reluctantly closed the notebook and slipped it back into his jacket pocket. ‘I have other questions,’ he said unconvincingly. ‘I’ll want to ask you things later.’
‘Fine.’ Ixora glanced across at John. ‘I don’t think either of us are leaving the country.’
Sullivan sucked his bottom lip. ‘Well,’ he said at last. ‘I’ll be going, then.’
‘What a strange little man,’ said Ixora, as they watched him walk away. ‘Why ever did he go into the police force, do you think? He hasn’t got much sense of authority.’
‘You and I need to talk,’ said John, grabbing her arm.
Ixora shook herself free. ‘What about?’ she asked.
‘He came to me last night.’
‘Who? Matteo? Why would he do that?’
‘To warn me away from you.’
‘John, this is ridiculous! If you could hear yourself . . . you don’t seriously think I had anything to do with his death, do you?’
‘Not directly, no. But you must know more than you’ve told me.’
‘If I do, then it’s because I’m trying to protect you!’ she cried out. Suddenly her face crumpled as her composure broke. ‘I could never allow you to be hurt. Don’t you see, if I wasn’t in love – so infatuated with—’ She pressed her hand against her chest, fighting for breath. ‘There never has been anyone – and none of this—’
‘Ixora, calm down.’ He took her in his arms and rested her face against his lapel. ‘I’ll take you home. Forget about this now.’ He had seen proof that she wasn’t a good enough actress to lie to him convincingly. But if she wasn’t lying, she was certainly omitting to tell him the whole truth. Why, to protect him? From what? Perhaps for now it was better not to ask. Sooner or later he would find a way to make her open her heart to him.