Cherringham--Scared to Death Page 8

  Which meant finding enough time to get into their costumes.

  (And, once again, Sarah had to question her own final costume choice, still hidden from Jack. A last-minute change of plan. Bit much, she thought? She’d find out soon enough.)

  Jack hadn’t said much on the journey, just peering out of the window as open fields turned to London suburbs.

  When the pieces didn’t fit, she knew he turned quiet, as if somehow — from his past decades of being a detective — waiting for something to pop up.

  A bit of instinct.

  A suspicion that hadn’t reared its head.

  Yet.

  And as Sarah slowed to crawl beside the stream of lorries and vans, she had to admit … a similar feeling.

  Something was here that wasn’t being seen.

  Could this trip to Ealing, a trip to the world of Basil’s past, provide a clue to what that might be?

  Now, with Ealing Broadway minutes away, she hoped that they would find that missing piece.

  Basil was gone.

  But maybe his story wasn’t quite finished.

  *

  They parked as near to the famous Ealing Studios as they could, then headed off on foot. But as they neared the entrance gate, Sarah realised that they hadn’t actually planned how to get in.

  “Uh-oh,” she said. “Looks like we need a badge. Got a bunch of security guards there.”

  Jack touched her elbow.

  “Hang on.” He dug out his phone.

  Then he leaned close. “I’m pretending to talk on the phone so we can think and not look like we’re, um …”

  “Is stymied the word you’re looking for?”

  He smiled. “Yeah. Sprawling film studio … makes sense that there’s tight security.”

  Sarah nodded — but she also looked at the stream of people passing through the gate.

  PAs, grips, technicians, office people — the army that a film production must require.

  Most of them just walked through with a nod to the guards. She watched as one or two stepped up into the small guardhouse, signed in, then reappeared.

  “Any ideas?” Jack said, smile still on his face.

  And now she nodded. “Think … I do. You game to try something?”

  “If it gets us in, why not?”

  Jack slid his prop phone away, and followed Sarah as she walked, as confidently as she could, up to the gate.

  *

  She spoke to the first guard who scanned people’s passes as they passed in.

  “Hi, we’re here to see Tommy Gammon. FX Department. Just need to sign in.”

  The guard responded with the slightest of nods.

  Sarah smiled. “Cheers.”

  And she walked up the steps to the gatehouse, where another guard stood in the doorway. He moved to the side, allowing her in to the small room.

  So far, so good, she thought.

  *

  Once inside the tiny gatehouse, she saw a security guard in his fluorescent yellow jacket, sitting and looking at a quartet of small video screens.

  “Morning. Here to see Tommy Gammon. I usually sign in for both of us — that okay?”

  The guard looked up at her, clearly not recognising her at all — and for a second Sarah thought she’d blown it.

  But then the other guard stuck his head round the door: “Boss — gate.”

  Sarah turned and saw a sleek black limo with tinted windows waiting at the barrier.

  “Sure, just sign,” said the guard to her, leaning over to operate the barrier controls and peering out at the limo.

  Can’t keep one of the stars waiting, she thought.

  A quick signing in: her name, then Jack’s, and the time.

  And that, she guessed, was it.

  As the limo drew away and the barrier closed, she walked down the steps from the gatehouse, ready to join the others streaming into the studio grounds.

  “Let’s grab a coffee, shall we?” she said to Jack, joining the general throng as if it was what she did every morning.

  Jack was quick to fall in line beside her.

  “Nice,” he said.

  “Bit of luck always helps,” she said. “But it’s like those Oxford colleges. Just got to act like you own the place.”

  Jack grinned, and shook his head. “Now to find the FX department. This place looks big.”

  And Sarah kept her pace brisk as if she knew where they were going, until they turned a corner and could stop in the shade of one of the buildings.

  Tommy Gammon was here, somewhere.

  But where?

  *

  Jack took a moment to take all this in.

  The historic Ealing Studios. So many classic British films made here for decades, the thirties, all through the war years, and well into the seventies.

  Jack even remembered catching some of the black and white classics as a kid on TV.

  Now he stood here, where they had been filmed.

  Sarah turned to him.

  “What now?”

  “Well, it’s always an advantage to surprise someone you want to question. But, then, there is always the risk you may not find said target.”

  Jack turned around, and saw — on the wall he faced — an enormous plaque.

  “Hey, look at that. Up there. Year by year. Lists of films made here. The Lavender Hill Mob, 1951. One of the greats. And there? Scott of the Antarctic? Ever see it?”

  “I think they’d retired those chestnuts by the time I came along.”

  “Don’t they teach you kids anything about the movies? Scott. Amazing story. Saw it on TV when I was … nine … ten? Been fascinated with tales of polar exploration ever since.”

  Jack could have stood there, just looking at the years of films, all inscribed with gold lettering on a giant black sign.

  Glory days indeed.

  But Sarah tapped his arm.

  “Jack — look.”

  He turned to see a man in tri-corn hat and Restoration era clothes, breeches and all, come walking out of, well, what appeared to be the men’s toilet.

  “An actor?” she said. “Think maybe he’ll know?”

  A quick nod. “Give it a shot.”

  Sarah hurried to the man, who looked more as if he just emerged from a time machine than a loo, and tapped his shoulder. He turned around.

  “Excuse me,” Sarah said. “We’re looking for the FX department? But we seem to have got lost.”

  The soldier nodded, and, as he did so, he slid a pack of cigarettes out of his back pocket, and lit one.

  Guess he figures if he’s aiding a damsel in distress, Jack thought, he might as well have a smoke.

  “The whole motion capture studio is one big special-effects department. That’s just over there.”

  Jack took a step closer.

  “Think this is more the props and stuff you’d have in a movie. Like the one … you’re doing?”

  “Oh, this? TV series. Good jobbing work but hardly a movie.”

  “And any effects for it would be done …?”

  “Right. Well, the prop and tech departments are all round the back of this stage — down the alley in that big building over there.”

  He took a deep drag of his cigarette and then tossed it to the ground, stamping it out with his shoes, which were each tied with a lacy ribbon. “Ah well. No rest for the wicked — aka the actors.”

  “Thanks,” Sarah said, as the seventeenth-century character strode off to whatever scene awaited.

  Jack pointed in the direction of the building the actor had indicated. In the alleyway, some men stood drinking coffee from plastic cups, enjoying the chilly but bright late-October sun.

  “Okay. Let’s see if we can find Tommy Gammon.”

  *

  Sarah kept her eyes on the building ahead. Large doors stood open, letting the cool air in.

  She headed towards it, Jack at her side.

  But then, immediately, someone stopped them.

  “Yes. Can I help you?”


  A young woman, with big black-framed glasses and clipboard in her hand, blocked their path.

  “Oh, yes,” Sarah said. “We’re looking for Tommy Gammon. Works in FX.”

  The woman’s eyes darted from left to right.

  “This is a closed set, you know. Is he expecting you?”

  The question gave Sarah pause.

  But Jack jumped into the gap.

  “Not really, but we need to talk to him. We’re mates. Got some bad news about an old friend of his. Need to deliver it in person. Know what I mean?”

  Amazing how persuasive he can be, Sarah thought. Just that tone of voice of his.

  Open sesame.

  “And I think he’d want to speak with us.”

  The woman looked down at her clipboard as if it might, Magic 8-ball fashion, reveal her next response.

  She looked up.

  “Okay. He’s through there at the back of the stage. Just mind your step. Lot of gear around.”

  And as Sarah, minding her step, looked at Jack, he was also stepping carefully.

  They walked across the studio, past sections of film set, until they came to a small courtyard surrounded by stores and workshops. A couple of cars were parked — and a dark blue van, with Gammon FX in silver lettering on the side.

  Sarah nodded to Jack, who’d also seen it.

  Next to the van, in front of an open workshop stood a man bent over a realistic looking cannon.

  She stopped.

  The man, straightened up.

  “All set,” he shouted, backing up.

  Getting away from the cannon.

  And instinctively, only metres away herself, Sarah’s hands went to cover her ears.

  13. A Shot in the Dark

  Smoke still hung in the air, as Tommy Gammon looked from Sarah to Jack, and then back to Sarah again.

  “This Basil you’re asking about,” he said. “Basil Fawlty?”

  He laughed at his own joke.

  “No,” Jack said. “Basil Coates. Was once a big actor. Back in your Dad’s day.”

  The man nodded, shrugged.

  “Yeah, all right, I know who you meant, just having a laugh. Basil Coates. The old Anvil guy.”

  Then, eyes narrowing, the smell of the gunpowder adding to the mood inside this workshop.

  “You two coppers then?” A look to Jack. “Didn’t know they was recruiting yanks?” Another laugh. “Not sure we need any of them these days.”

  Sarah could feel Jack tense, then quickly, relax.

  She knew it wasn’t the first time he’d heard what passed for a witticism referring to his home country.

  “Mr Gammon, Jack here, and I, well, we’ve been asked to look into things that have been happening at Basil’s house. Things designed to scare him. Things that only someone who knows the kind of tricks they used to make in movies could do …”

  “Wait a minute. Are you thinking — what — maybe I—?”

  Jack put up his hand.

  “Thinking nothing, Tommy. Just, well, some of these tricks — these special effects — they’re all things that were in Basil’s movies. When your dad worked here.”

  “Yeah,” Tommy said, a bit less defensive. “So?”

  “So. Just want to see that there wasn’t anything we might be missing.”

  “Missing, hmm?”

  “Now that Basil’s dead,” said Jack.

  Sarah saw Tommy suddenly alert — surprised.

  “Dead?”

  Sarah nodded.

  “You’re kidding me?”

  “He died yesterday,” said Sarah. “Suddenly. Heart attack. Possibly brought on by witnessing one of these … special effects.”

  Tommy looked down at his cannon. The smoke now drifted up to the rafters.

  “I didn’t know,” he said. “Been busy here, you know?”

  He paused, as if thinking things through, then: “When exactly did he—?”

  “Around two in the morning,” said Jack. “Just minutes after somebody torched a replica of the old wicker devil on his terrace. Someone who turned up at the house in a small blue van.”

  Sarah saw Tommy wipe his hand over his mouth.

  Jack pressed on: “Basil was sitting just by the window of his sitting room. The burning devil — must have been terrifying to watch. Doubly so for a man with a weak heart. Fact, could be argued that whoever was responsible for that little stunt is responsible for Basil Coates’ death. Imagine that’s how the police will be looking at it—”

  “All right, all right, you don’t need to spell it out,” said Tommy. “I get the picture.”

  “Something you want to tell us, Tommy?” said Sarah.

  But before he could answer — a loud voice came from the dark interior of the workshop.

  “Tommy — can we set another charge? Real quick?”

  Tommy nodded in the direction of the darkness.

  “Work calling. Look. I can’t talk now. Here … tell you what …”

  Sarah waited.

  Interrogating even the most defensive person could sometimes prove useful.

  Even … essential.

  “I’ve got to finish up here. You go talk to my dad. Give me half an hour and I’ll join you? Then you’ll get what you need.”

  “We can speak with him? Now?” Sarah asked, surprised.

  A slow nod. “Yeah. But, he’s real old, you know? Though, spite of that, he can be pretty damn surprising …”

  “And where would we find him?” Jack asked.

  A first smile bloomed on Tommy’s face. “Why, in his ‘office’, of course.”

  “Office?”

  A nod to the outside, a thumb pointing in the general direction of the busy road outside the studios.

  “The pub right across there. Red Lion. It’s where he spends his days. Can’t miss him. Just about the oldest thing in the place.”

  Jack took a step closer. “Thanks, Tommy. And, not to worry, we’ll tread lightly. Just want to get at what might have been happening.”

  “Good. I’ll hold you to that.”

  Another shout from the darkness. “Tommy! Come on, mate! You ready yet?”

  Tommy rolled his eyes.

  “We’d better go,” said Sarah. Then added: “See you in half an hour.”

  And she and Jack backed away as the FX expert began fiddling with the cannon, another blast required.

  *

  Jack stopped as he walked into the pub. Classic. Amazing even: the bar, the wood benches, the bright red towels to absorb the overflow.

  The walls were filled with black-and-white photos.

  Pictures of actors and actresses from decades ago. Some in elaborate costumes, some “all-smiles” publicity shots. Others like the photos he used to see in the windows of the Loew’s Kings movie theatre back in Brooklyn. Always the big, colourful poster, and below, a few black-and-white pictures from the film that usually looked far less exciting.

  “This place … is history,” Jack said.

  “Guess all the Ealing cast and crew used to come over here.”

  Jack looked to the left.

  “Even a garden in the back. Get a good summer’s day during a production … if only these walls could talk.”

  “You’re impressed?”

  “Very.”

  “Well, a party and costumes await us back in Cherringham, so we’d better find Billy Gammon, and see what he knows.”

  He watched Sarah walk up to the young barmaid.

  “Hi, we’re looking for a Billy—”

  The barmaid rolled her eyes.

  “Table back near the fireplace. Fire’s not lit. That’s his regular place.”

  Sarah smiled and made her way to the back. Jack followed.

  A passageway led to the back tables and the garden beyond, but midway, they passed a single table by the stone fireplace, a horseshoe shaped seat girding it, the upholstery tattered and split in spots, revealing white tufts below.

  And Billy.

  Flippin
g through the Daily Mail.

  Jack stood beside Sarah. The man seemed to take no notice of them, looking almost as much a part of the scenery as all the burnished wood and framed photos.

  “Mr Gammon,” Sarah said.

  *

  For long moments he only listened.

  Eyes narrow, hooded with old skin that gave him a wise look, even though he had begun working on a second pint.

  Must be of strong stock, Jack thought, sipping at his own orange and soda.

  At his age, why the hell not have a pint or two before lunch?

  He nodded here and there as Sarah talked of Basil, the so-called pranks, then his death.

  Jack added: “The pranks, Mr Gammon. Designed to scare Basil. But all taken from his films. Hmm? And some, like that bathtub of blood, requiring someone who really knew what they were doing.”

  He paused.

  “Someone who had done it before.”

  Big gamble here, he thought.

  “We’ve already talked to Tommy. Just now — over in the studios. He was pretty upset to hear about Basil. Fact — he’s going to join us any minute. He said you’d talk to us. Tell us the whole story.”

  He thought he saw a bit of a flash in those ancient, rheumy eyes.

  And that is when, after so much silence, Billy Gammon began to talk.

  *

  “First of all, none of this ‘Mr Gammon’ shite, if you will. Always been Billy and it suits me just fine.”

  He took a sip of his beer. Actually, Jack saw, more of a gulp.

  “And as to your enquiries — that what you types call them? — well, you may want to look over your shoulder, to that wall there.”

  And when Jack did, he saw a collection of photos, all clearly from Ealing’s horror movies, at the height of Anvil’s success.

  And — Jack quickly realised — all featuring Basil.

  “See those films? I worked on every damn one of them. And those ‘pranks’, yeah, well, ‘effects’ is the proper name. The blood. That wicker man? Oh, and even that big snake you talked about? All my ideas, not that any damn director or producer would give me credit.”

  Another swig.

  “See that poster there? The Mummy’s Return! They’re remaking it, you know. Not here of course. Oh no, this place, far too small now. Up at Pinewood — they got the big stages up there. Movies all got to be big, big, big these days.”

  Jack nodded as he saw Sarah slip out her small notepad.