Stephen Leather - Take Two

‘You are shitting me,’ said Terry. ‘You’re pulling my chain, right?’ He was sprawled on one of Carolyn’s sofas holding an oversized glass of red wine.

‘I’m saying it might be him. I’m not a hundred percent sure.’

‘And you’re seeing him for lunch on Friday?’

‘I said I’d give him a tour of the studio. That way I can run him by you, see what you think.’

‘Darling, you’re the one who saw him bashing Cohen’s brains in. What do expect me to do?’

‘I just wanted you to meet him,’ said Carolyn. ‘He’s charming. And very good looking.’

‘But is he the man you saw in the house? That’s the only thing that matters.’

Carolyn sipped her wine thoughtfully. ‘I think so,’ she said. ‘When I saw him walking across the room towards my table, I was certain. But the closer he got, the less certain I was. Then, when he started talking to me…’ She shrugged.

‘He’s charming so he can’t be a killer? Is that it?’

‘He just seemed so nice. And what are the odds that the man I saw committing a murder would be at a charity dinner and would pay to have lunch with me?’

‘Anything’s possible, darling. Look at Elton John’s hair.’

Carolyn laughed. ‘If it was him, why would he want to have lunch with me.’

‘Is there any way he could have seen you at the house?’

‘I don’t think so. As soon as the lights went on I was running for the gate. I’m sure they couldn’t have seen my face.’

‘You left your shoes behind.’

‘Bog standard Prada,’ said Carolyn. ‘It’s not as if I dropped my wallet. There’s no way he could have identified me from the shoes.’ She frowned. ‘What do you think? You think he knows I was there?’

‘If he didn’t see you, then obviously not. In which case it’s a coincidence. Assuming it is him you saw at the house.’

‘Oh, and he drives a Porsche Cayenne, not a Bentley.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘I asked him. Told him I needed to talk to studio security.’

‘You little detective you,’ said Terry, raising his glass in salute. ‘You really have to think this through, Carolyn. Is it him or not? Because if it is him, you need to go to the cops now before it goes any further.’

‘I hear what you’re saying, really. But the more I try to remember, the fuzzier it becomes.’

‘Fuzzier?’

Carolyn sighed. ‘My memory’s never been great,’ she said. ‘I can remember lines but I’m terrible with dates and I really can’t remember faces. I’m forever introducing myself to people I’ve already met. And now when I think back to the house, I see his face but I’m not sure if it’s because I saw him tonight. Do you understand what I’m saying?’

Terry nodded. ‘They say eyewitness evidence is the most unreliable. Forensic or CCTV you can rely on, but if six people witness an accident they’ll each come up with a different version of what happened.’ He grinned. ‘My cop boyfriend told me that.’

‘I just don’t know,’ said Carolyn. ‘And if I’m wrong, I mean, how awful would that be to go to the police and blame someone for a murder if they didn’t do it? And we’re still not sure there’s been a murder.’

‘I rang the office today and Cohen still hasn’t been in,’ said Terry. ‘They were a bit terse when I rang this time.’

‘Terse?’

‘It’s been a week. I asked them if there was something wrong and the girl who I was speaking with said they were starting to get a bit worried.’ He swirled his wine around the glass thoughtfully. ‘You’re playing with fire, you know that?’

‘Only if he’s the one. He might just be a fan who happens to be tall, dark and handsome.’

‘Oh, so now we’ve upgraded him to handsome, have we?’

‘You know what I mean. I might just be jumping at shadows.’ She sipped her wine. ‘I tell you what I’ll do. I’ll get my private eye on the case.’

‘You’re private eye? What are you talking about?’

‘Max Dunbar. The guy who got that stalker off my back. I’ll get him to check Warwick out. He’s got access to all sorts of databases and stuff.’

‘And then what?’

‘Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it,’ said Carolyn. ‘Let’s see what happens next Friday.’

‘Be careful, darling.’

‘I always am, Terry.’

Richards brought his Porsche to a halt in front of the barrier and wound down the window as a uniformed security guard walked over holding a clipboard. ‘Warwick Richards,’ he said. ‘I’m here to see Miss Castle.’ It was Friday, just before noon.

The guard studied a list on his clipboard, nodded, and handed a security badge through the window before showing Richards where to park. ‘If you go to reception, somebody will be waiting for you there,’ said the guard.

Richards parked the car and walked through the double glass doors into the reception area. On the walls were life-size photographs of the show, including one of Carolyn in a little black dress and a string of pearls holding an attache case in one hand and a glass of champagne in the other.

He was about to talk to a receptionist when a good-looking black man in a tight-fitting polo shirt and baggy Versace jeans walked over. ‘Mr Richards? I’m Terry Carter.’ He held out his hand and flashed Richards a beaming smile.

‘Call me Warwick, please,’ said Richards as he shook Terry’s hand. ‘How did you know it was me?’

Terry laughed. ‘Carolyn said you were tall, dark and handsome.’

‘Same as you, then,’ said Richards.

‘Plus security called to say you’d just arrived,’ said Terry. ‘Carolyn’s on the set at the moment. She’s asked me to take you through. Could you do me a favour and switch off your mobile? Nothing annoys a director more than a phone going off.’

‘No problem,’ said Richards. He took out his phone and switched it off. Terry took him through a set of double doors that led to a long corridor. ‘So you’re a fan of the show?’

‘Big time,’ lied Richards. In fact, earlier that week he’d bought a DVD set of the show and spent the weekend watching it. It hadn’t been a pleasant experience and, after the first few hours, he’d opened a bottle of champagne which had helped a bit. The only thing he had enjoyed had been the steady of stream of pretty girls who passed through the show, usually being bedded by one or other of the regular male characters. ‘What is it you do, Terry?’

‘Props master. I supply the bits and bobs that clutter up the sets. And I help out with wardrobe.’

‘Must be fun.’

‘It has its moments,’ said Terry. ‘Carolyn tells me you paid twenty-five grand to have lunch with her.’

‘Twenty-six,’ said Richards. ‘It was for charity. For kids. I bid on Seb, too, but I’m glad I got her and not him. She is fit, isn’t she?’

Terry grinned. ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘As a butcher’s dog.’

They reached the doors to the studio. The red light was on, Terry pointed at it. ‘That shows they’re filming,’ he said. ‘We can go in, but no noise and be careful where you put your feet. There are cables everywhere.’

Richards nodded and Terry opened the door. They slipped inside and Terry closed the door carefully behind them.

Terry took Richards around to the left. They turned a corner and found two dozen people, mainly men, standing around as Carolyn and Seb were talking. They were in the kitchen that Richards recognised from the DVD. Carolyn was holding a champagne glass and was listening to Seb, her head cocked to the side.

Standing a few feet to her left was a man holding a sound boom above her head. As Richards watched the two actors work, he was impressed with the way they were able to focus on each other and ignore the dozens of people who were standing around the set. Seb was accusing Carolyn of not pulling her weight at the company and, when it was her turn to speak, she ripped into him coldly and clinically and finished by throwing the contents of her glass in his face.