Close to the Bone (19 page)

‘Do you remember an Agnes Garfield? ’

‘Oh, my, God.’ He rolled his eyes, one hand pressed against his chest. ‘Could she have
been
any more of a nutbag? It’s creepy when people get obsessed like that, isn’t it? I mean, it’s only a film, right? ’

Steel shrugged. ‘Wouldn’t know.’

‘Right, here we are.’ Jack swept his arms out, encompassing the front of another dirty big warehouse, this one with the number ‘2’ painted in silver all up the front and over the massive sliding doors. If anything it was even larger than the first one. ‘Oh-oh, we’ve got a red light, so we’re going to have to wait here for a minute or two.’

Logan rested his back against the warm metal wall. ‘They had to throw her off the studio lot three times? ’

‘I
know
, and then she broke in! Can you believe it? There’s props missing from the stores and everything.’ A sigh. ‘That’s why we’ve all got to be like super vigilant about passes. Even the actors have to wear them between scenes.’

Steel puckered her lips. ‘What, stark bollock naked with a stiffy and wee ID card dangling about? ’

Jack’s smile slipped a little. ‘A . . . stiffy? ’

‘Aye, between scenes. When they’re no’ humping? ’

His mouth fell open a half-inch. Then clacked shut again, and the insincere smile was back. ‘Well, that’s us got a green light now. Shall we? ’

17

Steel stood in the doorway and stared. Soundstage Two was massive, broken up into different sets. The biggest was a four-storey block of flats in partial cutaway, the rooms full of battered furniture and grubby wallpaper, with what looked like a water tank at the bottom. Three people in dirty coveralls and facemasks were spray-painting stains onto one of the rooms.

Then there was a shanty town at the foot of a cliff, and the inside of what might have been a fishing boat. They all backed onto vast sweeps of green fabric marked with little yellow crosses. But other than a handful of people doing set-dressing, the locations were deserted. All the real activity was taking place around the set in the far corner – a sort of circular House of Commons, with raked green leather bench seating and carved woodwork, arranged around a central island of red carpet and a massive brass lectern.

Half of the set was green-screen, but they’d built a segment of wall with more benches, a couple of balconies, and a curved ceiling painted blue with gold stars.

Two figures walked towards the middle of the round floor. One was wearing a black robe speckled with gold embroidery, his bald patch surrounded by thick grey hair that cascaded down to the middle of his back. The other was . . . stunning: long ginger curls, elfin face, little upturned nose, and a perfect bow of a mouth. Nichole Fyfe. Much more impressive in the flesh than she was on the TV yesterday morning. A dark scar jagged down through her pale skin, starting at her left temple, across her big blue eye, and all the way down her cheek, separating the freckles. Black jeans, black leather frock coat, red silk shirt, black leather gloves. A long-handled old-fashioned pipe jutted out between her teeth – just like the one he’d found in Agnes Garfield’s Harry Potter hideaway – puffing smoke signals out in the studio lights.

A camera dolly followed them along the track – its operator sitting on the round stool mounted to the metal framework, fiddling with knobs and buttons, while someone else pushed the thing back into place.

A voice crackled out through speakers, hidden somewhere on the set. ‘
OK, that was great, but this time, Nichole, can you break in across Charles’s line about the bodies all bearing the devil’s mark? You’re not interested in his superstitious nonsense.
’

Jack pulled a face, then jerked his head towards a cluster of monitors and cables. ‘Oops, better be quick.’ He hurried over, beckoning Logan and Steel after him.

Enthroned on a folding director’s chair, at the heart of the nest of cables, was a huge man – tall and wide, with a bizarre hairstyle that looked as if he’d attached a lopsided shark’s fin to his head then sprayed it scarlet. The goatee beard was an unnatural shade of Just-For-Men black. His thin rectangular glasses glinted in the reflected light of a little TV screen. ‘OK, everyone, we’re running scene three-sixty-two. . .’

‘Excuse me, Zander, sir, you’ve got visitors.’

The big man didn’t look up from the monitor. ‘I’ve told you, Jack, you don’t have to call me “sir”. We’re all artists here. . . Aaaaaaaaaand: action!’

The whole place went silent.

Then a voice crackled through the speakers. ‘
Three-sixty-two, take four.’
Followed by a clack.

Nichole Fyfe looked up at the man in the robes. ‘She has to be stopped.’

A sigh. ‘I understand your concerns, but she’s a good finder. One of the best we have.’

‘She’s a psychopath! A
monster
!’ Nichole’s blue eyes blazed. ‘She’s worse than the people we’re hunting.’

Steel tugged at Logan’s sleeve, then warm stale cigarette breath whispered in his ear. ‘Is the shagging going to start soon? Only I’m no’ looking forward to the old git getting his knob out. Even if he manages to get it up, it’ll be all grey and wrinkly.’

‘You have to understand: we have an
obligation
to uphold the peace.’

‘You can’t do that by murdering people!’ Nichole turned and marched towards the camera as it backed off along the dolly track. ‘I didn’t join the Fingermen for this.’

Steel made a small moaning noise. ‘Mind you, if
she
wants to get her kinky on I’m all for it.’

‘Will you shut up? ’

‘Rowan!’ The man in the robes limped after her. ‘Mrs Shepherd found the Devil’s mark on every one of those—’

‘Of course she did!’ Nichole spun around, hauled the pipe from her mouth and jabbed the man with the end. ‘Look hard enough and you’ll find one on anyone. Give me a knife, a flame, and fifteen minutes, and I’ll find the Devil’s mark on any minister you like.’ Another poke. ‘I’ll find one on
you
.’

Steel licked her lips. ‘Bet she goes like a jackhammer on a sunny day.’

‘Shhhh!’

Nichole Fyfe spun around and marched past the camera, off the set.

‘Rowan. Rowan! COME BACK HERE!’

Silence.

Zander Clark leaned forward and pressed a button on the microphone mounted beside the monitor. ‘Aaaand, cut! That’s a print, everyone, well done.’

A round of applause rippled through the crew.

Jack stepped up and tapped the director on the shoulder. ‘Sorry, Zander, but the police need to see you? ’

A frown crossed the huge face. ‘What do the police. . .’ He stared straight at Logan. ‘Detective Sergeant McRae!’ And the frown turned into a smile. Now he looked exactly like the photo on the pass dangling from his neck. ‘How
nice
to see you again, it’s been too long. And have you brought. . .’ More smiling, and a little clap of the hands. ‘Detective Inspector Steel, how’s your lovely wife? ’

Steel sniffed. ‘How come no one’s got naked yet? ’

Blink. Then the smile turned into a grin. ‘No, no, Inspector, haven’t you heard? Those days are behind me: we’re filming a proper Hollywood blockbuster here.’

‘Oh. . .’ Her shoulders drooped. ‘No bonking at all? ’

‘One nude scene, but it’s very artistic and intrinsic to the plot.’ He leaned forward and keyed the microphone again. ‘Charles, Nichole, you were
superb
. We’re going to set up for three-six-three.’ Then he let go of the button. ‘Now, it’s not that I’m not happy to see you both again, but you wouldn’t
believe
how much something like this costs every minute, so. . .? ’

Logan stepped to one side, letting a woman with a big tray laid out with makeup scuttle by. ‘We need to talk to you about Agnes Garfield.’

The smile disappeared from Zander’s face. He stared up at the lighting rig above their heads for a moment. Then a sigh deflated his huge frame. ‘Give me fifteen minutes, then we can talk while they’re dressing the set for three-sixty-four.’

‘God, she was a
complete
nightmare.’ Zander slouched in his seat, arms draped along the back of the row. The viewing room wasn’t huge – just big enough for fifty or sixty cinema seats arranged in half a dozen rows. A ceiling-mounted projector flickered images onto the screen at the front of the room, where a handful of people murmured down the front, spinning back and forward through footage of people in frocks shouting at one another.

Logan settled into a seat a couple down from the director. ‘So she tried to break in? ’

‘Not to begin with, no.’ A shudder set his jowls wobbling. ‘She was so sweet at the beginning: wanted to study film at Glasgow University, was a huge fan of the books, could we give her a job as a runner so she could get some industry experience? ’

‘According to her dad, she was going to Aberdeen Uni to do accountancy.’

‘She was OK at the start – did what she was told, always showed up on time, and her knowledge of the books was just . . . encyclopaedic. Every time the writer had a problem she’d be right there, polishing his ego and keeping him happy. Even came up with some great local PR exercises: competitions in the papers, cast and crew helping out at a soup kitchen, guided tours of the set for some primary school, dramatizing a real witchcraft trial from the fifteen-hundreds. . .’ Zander sighed. ‘Then everything changed: she started arguing with the designers and the chippies and the painters about the sets not being
exactly
like the book. Then she had a go at the script team for making changes to the story and the dialogue – as if it’d even be possible to do the book line-for-line on the screen.’

DCI Steel slumped into the row of seats in front of Logan, clutching a wax-paper cup in one hand and a Danish pastry in the other. ‘Can’t believe there’s no shagging. . .’

‘Every time she did it I’d sit her down, and we’d have a talk, and she’d apologize and promise she’d do better, and beg for another chance. And like the big softy I am, I’d agree.’

‘Have you no’ got any archive footage or something we could look at? You know, for old time’s sake? ’

‘But in the end, she was haranguing the actors about how they were interpreting the characters, or speaking their lines, and I had to ask her to leave.’

Steel peeled the plastic lid off her cup and dark bitter tendrils of coffee coiled out into the cinema. ‘Doesn’t even have to be that hardcore, just a bit of girl-on-girl slippery. . . What? ’

Logan glared at her. ‘Could you give your libido a rest for five minutes? You can download some porn when you get home, OK? ’

‘Anyway, after we asked her to leave she started hanging about outside the studio, following people home, making a nuisance of herself. She snuck in a couple of times and had to be evicted. Then she did it in the dead of night and sprayed “thieves and liars” all over the Assembly set, slashed up some of the costumes too.’

Steel’s face curdled, arms folded beneath her boobs. ‘Was only asking.’

‘We’re not even doing the Thieves And Liars scene: it’s a huge book, we had to get rid of something. So I made a formal complaint.’ He brought his chin up, bringing a big swell of neck with it. ‘I know it was mean of me, but this is a multi-million pound production, I can’t have some hormonal teenager
sabotaging
it.’

‘Zander? ’ A tall gaunt man with hollow eyes and a tight-fitting polo shirt stood in the aisle a couple of rows down. The projector’s light glittered back from his shiny bald head, as if he’d been polishing it. His voice had the deep rumble of grinding icebergs, and as he spoke the saggy skin around his chin and neck rippled. As if he’d once been a lot bigger, but someone had let all the air out. ‘Do you have a minute to look at the cut for one-twenty-nine? ’

Zander took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘David: I was just telling them about Agnes Garfield.’

The gaunt man grimaced. ‘We should’ve pressed charges. People like that don’t deserve. . .’ He frowned at the back of Steel’s head, then stood and stared at Logan. ‘Anyway, one-twenty-nine.’

He turned and walked back to the front of the room, fiddled with a remote control, and the screen filled with black. Then a bleep. Then a dramatic shot of a woman in Grim-Reaper cloak, rich with black embroidery, on over a red leather jumpsuit. She threw the hood back. Bright scarlet hair tumbled about her face, teeth bared. . . It was the other actress – the one who’d been on the TV with Nichole Fyfe, making naughty with the camera.

What was her name, Mary? Maureen? No:
Morgan
.

There was something . . . not right about her slate-green eyes, something dangerous and unhinged.

Zander patted Logan on the arm and pointed at the screen. ‘She’s magnificent, isn’t she?
Terrific
actress.’

The camera pulled out. Morgan was standing over someone kneeling on the ground, hands behind his back, a tyre wedged over his chest, head and one arm forced through the hole in the middle.

‘
Thomas Leis, you have been found
guilty
of witchcraft—
’

Logan stood, the seat clacking back upright. ‘You’re necklacing him? ’

‘
I’m not a witch, it’s a mistake!’
Tears and snot glistened on his face, eyes wide, mouth twisted.

‘
—condemned to burn at the stake until you be dead.
’

Zander sat forward, squinting at the screen. ‘Shh. . .’

‘
I didn’t do anything!
’

‘
Coward
.’ She pulled out a book of matches – close up on her hands as she struck one, then twisted the book so they all caught fire – then a low angle, looking up past the terrified man at her standing there.

‘
PLEASE!
’

‘We found a dead body, Saturday evening,’ Logan pointed at the screen, ‘just like that!
Exactly
like that.’

‘
Burn. Like you’ll burn in hell
.’ A vicious smile. ‘
It’ll be good practice for you
.’ The blazing matchbook tumbled through the air, hit the tyre, and blue and yellow flames leapt up, cracking around the rim of the rubber.