Best Served Cold Page 3

  McCann made his purpose clear the moment that the waiter had brought them their drinks.

  ‘I hear you’re having second thoughts about going up to Whitebridge for the reunion,’ he said.

  ‘That’s not strictly accurate,’ Talbot replied. ‘What I’m having is my first thought for a second time.’ He took a sip of his drink. ‘None of us should go,’ he continued. ‘It will be a farce – and if it’s not a farce, it will be a tragedy.’

  McCann smiled. ‘Well, it is The Spanish Tragedy,’ he said. His expression grew more sombre. ‘Seriously, why don’t you tell me what you’ve got against a reunion?’

  ‘Do you remember when Ruth Audley came up with the idea? The whole point of it was that we’d all get together, and it would be just like it had been that night in the Green Man.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘But it won’t be like that at all, will it? Mark-bloody-Cotton’s booked the theatre, he’s paying for the lodgings …’

  ‘I seem to remember that back then we also agreed that the more successful ones would subsidize the others,’ McCann pointed out. He sighed. ‘Except that back then, of course, each of us thought he would be the successful one.’

  ‘That’s the point,’ Talbot said. ‘I don’t see why I should travel all the way up to Whitebridge simply to have Mark Cotton lord it over me.’

  ‘He won’t lord it over you,’ McCann said.

  ‘How can you possibly know that?’

  ‘Because he needs you as much as you need him.’

  ‘I don’t need him,’ Talbot said angrily.

  ‘Don’t you?’ McCann asked. ‘Are you telling me that you’re perfectly happy as you are – playing bit parts in soap operas and appearing in the occasional advertisement?’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with doing adverts,’ Talbot mumbled. ‘Some very big stars have done adverts.’

  ‘Yes, but as themselves or the character they’re best known for – not as whistling broccoli or a dancing coffee bean.’

  ‘Listen …’

  ‘I’m not denigrating what you’ve done, Jerry, I’m just pointing out all the advantages that being in the play and the BBC documentary will bring you. I’m right, aren’t I? You could use the publicity.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Talbot admitted.

  ‘Then you do need Mark, because – don’t kid yourself – without a big star like him, none of it would happen.’

  ‘And because he’s such a big star, he’ll want to play Hieronimo every night, and the poor bloody understudy will never get a look-in.’

  ‘That won’t be the case at all. He’ll let you play the lead on two of the six nights. I guarantee that.’

  ‘Why would that selfish bastard—’

  ‘Because he needs the play to be a success, and for that he has to have everybody’s full cooperation. You see, he might have loads of money and the adoration of millions, but what he hasn’t got is the respect of the traditional acting community – and I think he wants that more than anything. This is his shot at being taken seriously – at being spoken of as the new Olivier – and if to achieve that he has to be nice to you and help your career, then he’s perfectly willing to do it.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’

  McCann smiled. ‘Instinct and observation,’ he said. ‘And have you ever known me to be wrong about people?’

  ‘No,’ Talbot said, surprised to hear himself saying it, yet recognizing that what Phil McCann had said was true. ‘No, I haven’t.’

  ‘Then come up to Whitebridge with the rest of us, and milk what you can out of it.’

  ‘Why are you going?’ Talbot asked, suspiciously.

  ‘Me?’ McCann answered evasively. ‘I suppose it’s because my kids would quite like to see me on the telly.’

  ‘That isn’t it,’ Talbot said. ‘Or, at least, it’s not all of it.’

  ‘Then maybe I just want to relive my glorious youth.’

  That wasn’t it either, Talbot thought. But while McCann might be lying about his own motives, what he had said earlier was undoubtedly correct.

  ‘All right,’ Talbot said, ‘I’ll do it.’

  And though McCann did his best to hide his relief, it shone through like a spotlight hitting a darkened stage.

  The meeting was held in the press briefing room, and every officer of chief inspector rank and above had been ordered to attend. Many of the attendees had chosen seats at the front of the room, just to show how keen they were to collaborate with the new order that had been established since George Baxter’s departure, but Paniatowski – deciding that, when you were the size she was, you were entitled to a little more space – had selected a chair at the back.

  When Chief Superintendent Holmes entered the room, he was looking grumpy, but that was hardly surprising since he was one of those men who fondly imagined that grumpiness was a clear indication of intelligence and efficiency.

  Holmes stepped on to the podium and turned to face his audience.

  ‘Has any of you people ever seen this DCI Prince television programme?’ he asked.

  No one moved. Not a hand was raised. Possibly some of them did watch it – and enjoyed it – but having read the expression on Holmes’ face, they were certainly not going to admit it to him.

  ‘I saw it for the first time last night,’ Holmes said, ‘and I consider it a disgrace. Most of the officers are portrayed as hapless idiots, and if it wasn’t for the brilliance of DCI Prince, the cases would never get solved. But we all know it doesn’t work like that, don’t we?’

  Paniatowski shifted position in a vain attempt to get more comfortable. The baby had started kicking recently, and not just in one spot, but – it seemed to her – all over her womb. Indeed, there were times when she thought she was about to give birth to an octopus rather than a child.

  ‘Cotton wants to put on some sort of play in Whitebridge,’ Holmes continued. ‘If I had my way, we’d have nothing to do with him, but the powers-that-be have decided to extend the hand of friendship and cooperation. Their theory, you see, is that it will be good for Whitebridge’s international image. Are there any questions before I go on?’

  One of the CIs raised a hand.

  ‘There is no theatre in Whitebridge. Where’s he going to be putting this play on?’

  ‘In the old Sunshine Bingo hall. It’s being revamped with money from the government, the already-struggling ratepayers of Whitebridge, and Cotton himself. When he’s finished his stupid little play, the theatre will be handed over to Whitebridge council.’

  Louisa would like that, Paniatowski thought. Maybe if it had a theatre, she wouldn’t consider Whitebridge such a dump.

  ‘Now on to the practical details,’ the chief superintendent continued. ‘It will not be publicized that Mark Cotton will be in this particular play. In fact, all it will say on the posters is that it’s being staged by the Whitebridge Players.’

  ‘Why is that?’ asked the CI who’d spoken earlier.

  ‘Why is it?’ Holmes said, and the exasperation was evident in his voice. ‘It’s because we’re dealing with actors here, and actors simply aren’t like normal decent people.’

  ‘It won’t work,’ the CI said.

  ‘Well, of course it won’t work. On the first night, somebody in the audience will be bound to spot Cotton, and by the following morning it will be national news. I’ve told them that, but they won’t listen.’

  Word would get out well before then, Paniatowski thought, because all it would take would be for one of the officers present to tell his mate over a pint, and that mate to tell another mate …

  ‘Once the shit hits the fan, there’ll be absolute chaos,’ Holmes said. ‘We can say goodbye to smooth traffic flows in the centre of town for the whole week. But there’s another problem, and the best person to talk about that is one of Mr Cotton’s own team.’ He nodded to the uniformed constable standing by the door. ‘Ask Mr Gough to come in now.’

  When Sunshine Bingo Ltd. bought the Whitebrid
ge Theatre, its owners’ main aim had been to rake in as much money as they possibly could from their customers, while spending as little of their own as they could get away with.

  One basic economy they could make had been obvious from the start. Their customers, they knew from experience, would not give a hang about how the place looked. All that would matter to them would be their bingo cards – that magic collection of numbers which could bring them both excitement and cash. Thus, as long as the place conformed to the fire regulations, there was a very little that needed to be done to it.

  Sunshine Bingo had not used the boxes in which the wealthier patrons of the theatre had once sat, but neither had it gone to the expense of having them removed. It had left the stage intact, even though only the very centre of it – where the caller and machine were located – had actually been utilized. It had ignored the overhead fly system, it had converted the dressing rooms into offices, and it had treated the prop room as a dumping ground for unwanted rubbish.

  And that attitude, Geoff Turnbull thought, as he stood on the stage and looked out at the auditorium, had been the theatre’s salvation.

  It had not been too expensive to return the theatre to its former glory, but it had taken considerable time and effort. Geoff had agonized over how to re-cover the seats, before selecting a heavy green cotton cloth for the balcony seats and a rich violet one for the stalls. He had scoured the Exchange and Mart – and numerous junk yards – in the search for heavy chandeliers to replace Sunshine Bingo’s more utilitarian lighting. He had had the garishly coloured walls overpainted in gentle pastels.

  And now the results of his efforts lay spread out in front of him.

  It was not a grand theatre, by any means. It could seat no more than four hundred-and-fifty people, and its boxes would never have been considered fit for royalty to plant their backsides in. But for all that, he loved it.

  ‘It looks like it’s going very well, Geoff,’ he heard a voice say.

  He turned, and saw his wife, Joan, who had brought him a flask of tea and some sandwiches.

  ‘Yes, it is going well,’ he agreed. ‘They’ve nearly finished work on the platform. That’s where Hieronimo tries to hang himself, if you remember.’

  Joan smiled. ‘I remember.’

  ‘And do you also remember the moment when he steps off the platform – how it terrified the audience? I directed that perfectly, didn’t I?’

  ‘You directed so many scenes just perfectly,’ Joan said.

  It wasn’t true, she thought. He had been a more-than-competent director back then, but he had never been a great one. Still, he had worked hard, and he had not deserved his fate – twenty years of plodding along in dead-end jobs, while trying to ignore the fact that he had the theatre in his blood. He looked happy now – for the first time since the Whitebridge Theatre closed its doors for the last time – and while she was glad of that, she also worried that he might be heading for another fall, and that this one would be even sharper than the first.

  ‘You shouldn’t set your heart on directing this time, you know,’ she said cautiously.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ Geoff asked, sounding genuinely mystified.

  ‘Mark Cotton hasn’t actually told you that you can direct, has he?’

  ‘He’s no need to tell me. It’s my production – my overall concept – and he knows that better than most people. Besides, if he doesn’t intend me to direct, why contact me in the first place?’

  Because he needed someone to do the donkey work, Joan thought; he needed someone on the ground to handle all the tedious detail that had to be endured before a production could even begin.

  ‘It’s just that he might want to direct himself, especially with the television crew being here,’ she said aloud.

  Geoff laughed. ‘Now that’s hardly likely, is it?’ he asked. ‘Mark’s an actor, not a director. He wouldn’t have the first idea about how to put the play on. But if it will keep him happy, I’ll make him assistant director. He might even manage to pick up a few tips.’

  ‘You shouldn’t …’ Joan began.

  ‘And after the play – after he’s gone back to London – the council are bound to appoint me manager-director at the theatre,’ Geoff enthused. ‘After all, I’m the logical choice.’

  ‘You mustn’t let this mean too much to you,’ Joan said, fighting back the tears.

  ‘Mean too much to me?’ Geoff repeated. ‘What are you talking about? It means everything to me.’

  Mr Gough – he didn’t announce his first name, and nobody asked it – was around thirty-five years old, and though not particularly tall, he had massive shoulders and bulging muscles. Most men – even innocent ones – would have felt slightly uncomfortable about walking into a room of high-ranking police officers, but this one seemed not the least affected by the experience.

  ‘I’m the head of Mr Cotton’s security, and I’m here to tell you about the Cotton Buds,’ he said from the podium.

  ‘The what?’ someone asked.

  ‘The Cotton Buds,’ Gough repeated. ‘That’s the name his fans have given themselves. It’s a sort of play on words, see.’

  Everybody did see.

  ‘Now, we can divide them up into two groups,’ Gough said. ‘The Good Buds and the Bad Buds. The Good Buds are a real pain in the arse. Their whole reason for existing is to get close to Mark, and they’ll do whatever that takes. Bribery, breaking and entering, jerking off the doorman – they’ve tried it all. But, like I said, they’re just a nuisance. Now the Bad Buds are something else entirely. They start out as Good Buds, only they’re even nuttier than the rest of the bunch. They’re convinced that once Mark meets them, he’ll realize what they’ve known all along – that him and her were meant to be together, sailing off into a golden sunset. Except that what Mark sees isn’t his dream girl at all, but some mad little slag with revolving eyes – and, on occasion, he’s not above telling them that. And that’s when the trouble can start, because, as they see it, he’s let them down, and he has to be punished for it.’

  ‘What exactly do you mean by “punished”?’ Superintendent Holmes asked.

  ‘Some of the Bad Buds are happy just to slash his suits or scrape his car, but others want to really hurt him – and they’re as fanatical about that as they once were about loving him. I had to take a knife off one of them once. I broke her arm in the process, and she was so charged up she didn’t notice at first.’

  So that was what this was really all about, Paniatowski thought – not traffic flow or damage to property, but the Bad Buds. The town council was hoping to get some very good publicity out of this visit, and the last thing it wanted was for Mark Cotton to be injured – or even killed – while he was in Whitebridge.

  ‘How many of these … err … Bad Buds are there, Mr Gough?’ CS Holmes asked.

  ‘We don’t know,’ Gough admitted. ‘Most of the Good Buds know each other, but the Bad Buds are loners. I’d guess there’s around ten or fifteen, though there could be a few more or a few less. And the numbers will go up and down. One might get fed up of the whole thing and just give it up, and then, the very next day, Mark will find a way to piss a couple more off.’

  ‘I see,’ Holmes said thoughtfully.

  Gough paused to light up a short thick cigar. Blue smoke rose from it, and instead of drifting, it chose to hover above his head, giving him an almost diabolical air.

  ‘Now most of the time they’re not that much of a problem,’ he continued. ‘They don’t know where Mark lives – we’ve made sure of that – and usually, when he’s not in his house, he’s moving around. But he’s going to be in Whitebridge for two whole weeks, and if it leaks out that he’s here – and I’m pretty sure it will – that’ll give the nutters plenty of time to organize themselves. Now, me and my team can pretty much guarantee security within the theatre, but we can’t do the same for the hotel or any of the public spaces, and that’s where you blokes come in.’

  ‘Where will he be st
aying?’ Holmes asked.

  For a moment, Gough looked as if he were about to spin them a line, then – clearly deciding that honesty was not only the best policy but also the only practical one – he said, ‘The story we’ll be putting out to the press – if we need to put out any story at all – is that this is a grand reunion of old mates, and they’ll all be staying in a theatrical boarding house together, just like they did in days gone by.’

  ‘But, in point of fact, he won’t be staying in the boarding house at all?’ Holmes asked.

  Gough shook his head.

  ‘He’ll go there at night, once the show is over, but it’ll be a case of in through the front door and out through the back. Actually spending the night there would make our job much more difficult, and besides, Mark’s already made it quite plain that his slumming days are over.’

  ‘So where will he be staying?’

  ‘We’ve booked him a suite at what seems, in this town, to pass as a grand hotel. I think it might be called the Royal Victoria.’

  ‘It is called the Royal Victoria,’ Holmes said, as several members of the audience bristled at the idea the Royal only passed as a grand hotel.

  ‘He’ll be registered under the name of Mather,’ Gough said, indifferent to – or perhaps not even noticing – the hostility he’d managed to engender in the room. ‘He’ll enter it and leave it in disguise – he’s an actor, remember – but we can’t guarantee that one of the Bad Buds won’t find out about it – and stopping them getting at him will be partly down to you.’

  Paniatowski shifted position again, and thought about how glad she was that she was no longer in uniform and having to deal with this kind of shit.

  THREE

  16th March 1977

  Maggie Maitland gazed into the mirror above the washbasin in the public toilet. She saw a lovely woman looking back at her – a stunningly beautiful woman – and because she sometimes found it hard to believe that nature had been so kind to her, she smiled at the woman and saw her smile back. Yes, that was her, all right.