Best Served Cold Page 8

  ‘This harness is starting to pinch,’ Jerry Talbot said.

  ‘Is it?’ Cotton asked. ‘Well, we all have to suffer for our art. Listen, you useless prick, do you still want to play Hieronimo on Monday?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then you’ll have to learn to get it right, won’t you?’ Cotton turned to the stagehand soldiers. ‘Go back up there and haul him in.’

  Cotton made Talbot practice it again – run off the stage, run up the steps, put on the harness, slip the noose around his neck, step off the platform.

  And again – run off the stage, run up the steps, put on the harness, slip the noose around his neck, step off the platform.

  And again – run off the stage, run up the steps, put on the harness, slip the noose around his neck, step off the platform.

  The first time, he was possibly a beat too late, but on his other two attempts he was spot on.

  ‘Again!’ Cotton said.

  ‘Oh, come on, Mark,’ Geoff Turnbull protested. ‘He’s got it right twice, and it’s bloody hard work. It’s unreasonable to expect him to repeat it again, especially since he’s so tired now that he’ll probably miss it.’

  Cotton swung round to face him.

  ‘I think you’ve forgotten who you are and who I am,’ he said angrily. ‘I can have you thrown out of this theatre any time that I feel like it, Geoff. Is that what you want?’

  Turnbull looked down at the stage.

  ‘No, Mark,’ he mumbled.

  ‘I can’t hear you,’ Cotton told him. ‘What was it you said?’

  ‘I said, no, Mark,’ Turnbull repeated, louder this time.

  ‘Then I suggest you keep your mouth shut unless you’ve got something useful to say – and by that, I mean something that I want to hear,’ Cotton said. He turned back to Talbot. ‘Do it again, Jerry.’

  Standing next to one of the cameramen, William Sikes emitted a quiet chuckle.

  ‘Now this is more like it,’ he said in a whisper. ‘The beast unmasked. The bully-boy revealed. That’s real television.’

  There was only one woman in the public bar of the Drum and Monkey when Paniatowski walked in, and it was something of a surprise that, of all the places she could have chosen to sit, she had selected the team’s usual table.

  Paniatowski did not recognize the woman, but then she was not a great watcher of television, nor had she been at the table the previous Wednesday, when Meadows had spotted her and pointed her out to the others.

  The woman stood up and held out her hand.

  ‘Sarah Audley,’ she said. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Chief Inspector – though I don’t imagine the feeling is reciprocated.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’ Paniatowski asked, lowering herself carefully into the chair opposite the other woman.

  Sarah Audley laughed. ‘I should have thought that was obvious. You’re a hard-working police officer and must have a hundred important things you could be doing, but instead of that you’re having to spend time with an actress who will probably misinterpret everything you say, and end up playing someone who shares a few superficial characteristics with you, but is, in fact, a gross travesty of everything you stand for. Have I got that about right?’

  Paniatowski smiled. ‘More or less.’

  ‘I won’t lie to you,’ Sarah Audley said. ‘I’ll be working from a script which I won’t have written, or even have had any say in. And that script will be unlikely to reflect real police work. But what I’d like to do is insert a small kernel of truth into my performance. I’d like to be able to think like a police officer, so that whatever my lines are, the viewers will get a glimmering of the pressure that front line officers are constantly under.’

  ‘I see,’ Paniatowski said.

  Sarah Audley laughed again. ‘No, you don’t,’ she said. ‘To a practical woman like you, it just sounds like airy-fairy gobbledegook. But I hope that if you ever get to see my performance, you’ll be able to recognize that there’s at least a kernel of truth in it.’

  ‘So what do you want to know?’ Paniatowski asked.

  ‘Everything from your childhood memories to where you buy your knickers,’ Sarah Audley said, making an extravagant all-encompassing gesture in the air, with both hands.

  ‘I buy my knickers from whatever department store I happen to be passing when I decide I need some new ones,’ Paniatowski said.

  Sarah Audley grinned. ‘You needn’t worry, you know,’ she said. ‘No one will see my performance and think, “That’s Monika Paniatowski.” It doesn’t work that way.’

  ‘Then how does it work?’

  ‘I won’t have your accent, I won’t have your walk, I won’t even imitate any of your facial expressions. But somewhere deep inside me, I’ll be thinking, “What would Monika think about this?” – and that will add the slight edge of veracity to the performance that can make all the difference.’ She paused. ‘Please tell me some more, and – if you feel you can – please make it a little more personal.’

  Paniatowski told her that her father had been a Polish cavalry officer who had been killed when leading a charge against the invading German tanks. She described the life she and her mother had led in war-torn Europe, constantly in danger of being arrested, constantly on the point of starvation. She talked about her early days in the police, when women officers were regarded as a dangerous experiment, and she had been generally known (after her first promotion) as Sergeant Pantyhose. She outlined her triumphs, too – some of the cases she had worked on with Charlie Woodend, and some of the ones she had handled alone, after he retired.

  She did not tell Sarah Audley that her stepfather had started raping her before she’d even hit her teens, nor that she had once been in love with a married man who had killed himself to protect the reputation of the force. She kept well away from any discussion of that dead man’s daughter, who she had brought up as her own, and loved with all her heart.

  None of that, she’d decided, was any of the other woman’s business.

  When she had finally finished, Sarah Audley let out a gasp of admiration.

  ‘I’m in awe of you,’ she saw. ‘I know that sounds as fake as hell, but it’s true – I really am in awe of you.’

  ‘Well, if you think it’s helped …’ Paniatowski said awkwardly.

  ‘It’s done more than help,’ Sarah Audley told her. ‘It’s given me a whole new perspective on police work, and if I get a BAFTA award for the role – and I’m cocky enough to believe that I will – yours will be the first name I mention.’

  Walking back to her car, Paniatowski quickly replayed the interview in her mind. She had talked more than she’d intended to, but then Sarah Audley had proved to be a very good listener. The one thing that troubled her was that she was not sure whether she did genuinely like Sarah, or had simply been charmed into believing that she liked her.

  They had a full dress rehearsal that afternoon, and when it was all over, Mark Cotton addressed the whole cast.

  ‘Well, children, what can I say? That was splendid, and I’m so proud of you all. To those of you who are going home to be with family for the weekend, I wish a really restful time. However, if you’re staying in Whitebridge, I’d like to invite you to dinner in the Royal Victoria restaurant on Saturday night. You’ll be able to gorge yourselves – and it won’t cost you a penny.’ He looked around him, and gave everyone a smile. ‘That’s it,’ he continued, waving his hand in the air. ‘Fly away, my pretty children.’

  As the cast began to drift off stage, Cotton said, ‘Can you spare me a minute, Sarah?’

  ‘If I must,’ Sarah Audley replied, with a lack of enthusiasm that was truly masterful in its projection.

  ‘I … I think I might have gone a little over the top at the rehearsal this morning,’ Cotton said, looking worried.

  ‘A little over the top!’ Sarah repeated. ‘From what I’ve heard, you were more than a little over the top – you were a complete bloody prick.’

  ‘It slipped
my mind that the BBC was filming, you see,’ Cotton said, chewing one of his fingernails. ‘The cameras have become almost part of the furniture, and I was so wrapped up in directing—’

  ‘In directing! Don’t you mean in bullying the rest of the cast – especially Jerry Talbot?’

  ‘In directing, that I forgot all about them. And now I’m afraid I might have ended up giving the wrong impression.’

  ‘Or the right impression – for once.’

  ‘Anyway, I’d like to show a little of the other side of myself – the gentler, more understanding side.’

  ‘Is there such a side to you?’ Sarah asked.

  He must really be worried about his image if he was prepared to take this much shit, she thought. And it was such fun putting his balls through the ringer – though not anything like as much fun as she planned to be having in about another ten minutes.

  ‘Anyway, I think that the television people want to show the other side of my character, too,’ Mark Cotton said, ignoring the comment because he had no choice in the matter.

  ‘What makes you reach that highly unlikely conclusion, Mark?’ Sarah wondered.

  ‘I suggested that they film the two of us having a natural conversation. We could give them that little scene we rehearsed together – although they won’t know that it’s rehearsed.’

  ‘Of course they’ll know,’ Sarah said. ‘They’re not stupid.’

  ‘Well, maybe they will know – but they’ll include it in the documentary anyway, because nobody likes to get on the wrong side of an actor who’s going places.’

  ‘That scene was a stupid idea in the first place, and the more I think about it, the worse it’s got.’

  ‘Please, Sarah, do it for me,’ Cotton said.

  Sarah sighed. ‘Oh Mark, I’d do anything for you.’ She frowned. ‘Those words sound familiar. When have I said them before?’

  ‘It’s like déjà vu all over again,’ Cotton said, doing his best to divert her with an old joke.

  But Sarah was not about to be diverted.

  ‘Ah yes, I remember now,’ she told him. ‘I said exactly the same words, and in exactly the same tone, twenty years ago – about two days before you chucked me for Lucy Cavendish.’

  ‘I may have behaved badly in the past, but I swear I’ll make it up to you,’ Cotton promised. ‘Please, Sarah, do the scene.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll do it all right …’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘But not to help you get out of the hole you’ve dug yourself into. I’ll do it for my own peculiar ends.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Cotton asked.

  ‘It’s a quote. Iago says it in Othello.’

  ‘I know that. But what does it mean when you say it?’

  Sarah smiled. ‘You’ll soon find out,’ she said enigmatically.

  The camera panned in on Mark and Sarah, who were sitting on the edge of the stage and reading through the section of the play in which Bel-Imperia kills herself. Then, right on cue, Sarah deliberately missed her cue.

  ‘Your mind seems to be somewhere else, this afternoon,’ Mark said, in a kindly, understanding way.

  Sarah sighed, wistfully. ‘I suppose I was thinking back to the time when we first did this play – twenty years ago. I had quite a big crush on you in those days, you know.’

  ‘Did you? I had no idea,’ Cotton replied, sticking to the script. He laughed. ‘But I’m assuming you’ve got over it by now.’

  ‘Oh yes, I’ve quite got over it,’ Sarah agreed. ‘But I still enjoy working with you. In fact, I adore it.’

  ‘Me too,’ Cotton said. ‘And with just a little bit of luck, we may get the chance to work together again.’

  ‘Oh, there’ll be no luck about it,’ Sarah said.

  That line had come completely out of the blue. What the hell was she playing at? Cotton wondered.

  ‘No luck about it?’ he repeated, to buy himself time.

  ‘Well, we’ll be co-starring in the next series of DCI Prince, won’t we?’ Sarah asked.

  Cotton laughed.

  ‘You’re joking, of course,’ he said.

  But it was a pretty poor joke, he thought, and if she’d bothered to ask him, he could have provided her with a much better one.

  A sudden look of concern came to Sarah’s face – and that hadn’t been rehearsed or discussed, either.

  ‘Oh dear,’ she said, ‘I have rather put my foot in it, haven’t I? But you see, I thought they would have told you by now.’

  She was not making this up, he thought – she was not that good an actress. So it had to be horribly, horribly true.

  He wanted to scream that it wasn’t fair – that DCI Prince was his show, and he didn’t want to share it with anybody – and especially not with one of his cast-offs from twenty years ago.

  He wanted to run around smashing things up.

  He wanted to slap Sarah – hard – across her stupid face.

  But the camera was still rolling, and so none of those options were open to him.

  So he reached over, and took her hands in this.

  ‘That’s wonderful news,’ he said. ‘And I’m glad the production company didn’t tell me, because it’s so much nicer hearing it from you.’

  Sarah turned a little away from the camera, and he could see the gleam of malicious triumph in her eyes.

  ‘I’m so glad you’re pleased,’ she said.

  ‘Bloody great!’ Bill Sikes whispered to his cameraman. ‘You couldn’t make this up.’

  SEVEN

  28th March 1977

  The whispers he had sent out – including the one no doubt spread by the old bag who’d so willingly abandoned her poisoned pigeon petition the moment she’d recognized him – had done the trick. Now everyone knew that Mark Cotton – television star nonpareil – had turned his back on the glamour and glitz, and was performing in a humble repertory theatre for the sake of his art.

  To the journalists and members of the theatrical world who had contacted him, he had managed to convey a feeling of bemusement, sprinkled with the slightest hint of outrage, and overlaid with ruefulness that he could ever have been so naive as to think he could get away with it.

  ‘It’s a bit of a disappointment nonetheless,’ he’d said. ‘I’d hoped that for just one week I might be able to get back to my roots and be no more than that backbone of the theatre – a simple jobbing actor.’

  When they’d asked for tickets for the first night, he’d been most willing to supply them.

  ‘I’m so glad you’ve chosen that night,’ he said, ‘because it will give you the opportunity to see my truly marvellous understudy, Jerry Talbot, in the role of Hieronimo.’

  And suddenly, the first night hadn’t been convenient for them at all, and they’d expressed a wish to come on the second or third night, when, unfortunately, they’d miss Talbot’s performance. He’d tried to persuade them, because Jerry really was tremendous in the role, but, as he had expected, it had been to no avail.

  He had his reasons for not playing Hieronimo on that first night. Opening nights had a certain magic about them – yes – but they also tested the cast in ways that even the most realistic dress rehearsal had not prepared them for.

  Mistakes were made on the first night and timing was sometimes slightly off. Lessons were learned from the performance, adjustments were made after it, and – in his opinion – the second night was invariably better. And it was only when it was better – only when it was as good as it could be – that he wanted to put in an appearance.

  The first night had finally arrived.

  It had been stated very clearly that all the tickets had been sold, but there were still so many people calling in for returns that the ticket office had stopped picking up the phone.

  The police had cleared the section of the street nearest the theatre early that afternoon, and had set up barriers immediately beyond that. Now, the only people allowed within fifty yards of the theatre were those who had tickets for the prod
uction or were on some other legitimate – and provable – business.

  A dozen officers manned each barrier, and there were two police horses being held in reserve. There had been no trouble up to that point, but the crowd – which was mainly composed of women from their late teens to their early fifties – was growing by the hour.

  Periodically, a sergeant with a large megaphone would read from a prepared script.

  ‘You will not be allowed beyond this barrier until at least one o’clock tomorrow morning. There is nothing to see, and you would be well-advised to go home.’

  The message was ignored by the Buds and the simply wannabe-Buds. They knew that there was only the slightest – most infinitesimal – chance that Mark Cotton would appear. But if he did appear, and they weren’t there to see him, they would just die.

  Inside the theatre, there was the usual controlled pandemonium and subdued hysteria. Cast members fussed over their make-up or paced out the stage, practising hitting their marks. Stagehands checked the props and tested the lighting. And Geoff Turnbull, who had expected to be at the centre of things, wandered about aimlessly, trying to look as if he was doing something important.

  Jerry Talbot could see that something was wrong the moment Mark Cotton entered the dressing room.

  ‘Why are you wearing make-up?’ he asked.

  ‘There’s been a change of plan,’ Cotton told him, with uncharacteristic nervousness. ‘I’ll be playing Hieronimo tonight.’

  ‘But you said I could do it,’ Talbot exploded.

  ‘And now I’ve changed my mind.’

  ‘You can’t do that!’ Talbot said, in a tone which was roughly halfway between extreme anger and abject begging. ‘Not after what you put me through at Friday’s rehearsal.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, can’t you see there’s no point in arguing with me, Jerry?’ Cotton asked exasperatedly, ‘I simply have to do it tonight, and that’s really all there is to it.’

  ‘Why do you have to do it tonight? Don’t you think I’m entitled to an explanation?’

  ‘I’ve no time to discuss it with you now – I’ve got to get into the right frame of mind for my performance.’