‘Where do you think he might be?’ Branson asked.
‘I talked to a psychologist this afternoon, who’s written extensively on stalkers and celebrity obsessives, a Dr Tara Lester. She said these obsessive fans frequently build themselves an imaginary relationship with the celeb. They know the celeb is just waiting for that right moment to show reciprocation. That the celeb is, secretly, as much in love with them as they are with the celeb. When they get rejected by the celeb, sometimes they can flip. I think we’re dealing with such a situation now. I think he’s going to position himself near her, either at her hotel or the Pavilion.’
Branson nodded.
‘Forget this evening’s briefing, you and I are going down there ourselves right now.’
114
‘Gaia’s left her trailer, she’s on her way,’ Barnaby Katz announced at last to Larry Brooker and Jack Jordan. Then he listened on his earpiece for a moment to the voice of the Third Assistant Director who was accompanying her, before speaking to the producer and director again. ‘Joe’s with her and there’s two police officers escorting her to the door.’
‘Tell ’em to switch their sirens on and shift it,’ Brooker said impatiently.
The black Range Rover, followed by a marked police car, drove the 300 yards across the lawns to the front of the Pavilion. The police officers hurried out of their car and stood a few feet away, as one of her minders held the rear door open, and the icon slowly emerged, carefully ducking her head so as not to knock her mass of hair against the door frame, or snag any of the multiple layers of her dress and high collar on anything.
There was a ragged cheer from the crowd of general public assembled beyond the wall in New Road, and a whole battery of flashes strobed in the grey, early evening light, as Gaia stepped down on to the drive. She walked slowly, seemingly a little uncertainly, following the AD into the building, then right, along the corridor towards the Banqueting Room.
Into a sea of faces.
A distinct sense of relief spread through the room. Several of the actors at the banqueting table turned to look at her. A make-up artist was working her way around their chairs, dabbing shiny noses and foreheads, and one of the hairdressers was making a minor adjustment to Hugh Bonneville’s wig. Suddenly the entire assembly of actors burst into spontaneous applause.
Oh shit, Brooker thought. Oh shit, she is not going to be happy with this.
It wasn’t the applause of a warm greeting, nor the applause for a fine performance. It was a sarcastic demonstration by her thirty fellow actors that they had not been amused to be kept waiting.
Then, to his amazement, Gaia smiled and curtsied. First to the cast at the table. Then to the Director of Photography and his camera crew. Then to the sound crew. To the continuity girl. To the director and to the producer, and to each grip and spark present. She curtsied as if her career depended on it.
She curtsied smiling and proud, totally misreading the situation, as if relishing being the centre of attention, the centre of adulation that was not there.
Brooker frowned. Her behaviour was totally out of character. There was also something else very strange about her.
115
Roy Grace wondered why, whenever Glenn Branson got behind the wheel of a car, he drove it as if he had just hot-wired it although he now had a legitimate reason. Glenn was weaving through the thinning rush hour, on blues and twos, and Grace spent much of the journey fearing for his life, or the life of anyone who stepped into their path. To distract himself, he phoned and updated first the Chief Constable, via his Staff Officer, and then ACC Rigg.
At 6.30 p.m., just seven minutes after leaving Sussex House, they tore into the Pavilion grounds and pulled up behind a black Range Rover. Grace was a little relieved to see that already the police presence here was markedly increased from yesterday.
As they walked up to the front entrance, two uniformed security guards, each wearing earpieces, blocked their path. ‘Sorry, gentlemen,’ said one of them. ‘No one’s allowed in, they’re about to start shooting.’
Grace fished out his warrant card and held it up.
The same guard shook his head. ‘Sir, you don’t understand, they’re about to do a take. There has to be absolute silence. I can’t let you in until they’ve finished this scene.’
‘We’ll be quiet,’ Grace said. ‘This is an emergency.’
‘I’m afraid they’ve already lost almost an hour tonight. Madam’s been in a particularly tricky mood, if you get my drift,’ one guard said. He had a nicotine-stained moustache, a stocky but bolt-upright posture, and exuded the officious, no-nonsense air of a former army Sergeant-Major.
She’s damned lucky to still be alive, if you get mine, Grace nearly retorted. ‘I’m sorry, we need to go in the building.’
‘Phones off?’
‘No, we’re not turning our phones or radios off.’
‘Then I’m afraid you can’t go in until the end of this scene, gentlemen.’
‘How long will that be?’
‘Depends how many takes Madam requires to get her lines right.’ Both officers noted the sarcasm in his voice.
Grace decided not to push the point, turned and walked a few steps away, followed by the DS.
‘Sodding jobsworth!’ Glenn Branson said. ‘I’d love to see some of the filming.’
‘I’d like to see the finished result, knowing that we kept Gaia alive,’ Grace replied grimly.
There were a good 200 members of the public lined up along the wall, watching. He saw Glenn warily scanning their faces. Was Eric Whiteley among them? A man who was prepared to pay more than £27,000 for a suit worn once by his idol. A loner, with nothing in his life but his doomed-to-be-unrequited – and unreciprocated – passion for an icon. A loner who had been spurned by her, probably humiliatingly for him, in the front entrance of The Grand Hotel.
Was he so desperate for anything belonging to his idol, that he had killed and butchered his rival bidder for that suit?
What was next on Whiteley’s agenda, after destroying his entire collection of Gaia memorabilia?
Destroying the icon herself?
Which would, of course, instantly make him almost as famous.
116
Along with Larry Brooker, several of the cast and crew were staring uneasily at Gaia. Jack Jordan frowned, wondering whether his star was on drugs. She was definitely looking very odd this evening, he thought. Her hair was obscuring much of her face, her make-up was far too heavy and her voice sounded strange, as if she had aged overnight; nor did she appear to have remembered anything from their rehearsals over the weekend. Had it been the shock of her son nearly being killed yesterday? Would it have been more sensible to have given her a couple of days off to recover? Too late for that now.
Patiently he repeated the line for her, putting the emphasis where he wanted her to put it. ‘This is not how a queen expects to be treated, my dear Prinny. I have never in my life been so humiliated.’ He paused. ‘Okay? Much more emphatic! In these last few takes you’re almost mumbling. You are saying this loudly to everyone, playing to your audience – all the king’s friends and associates. You must really project! What you are doing is trying to humiliate him publicly.’
Gaia nodded.
He turned to the banqueting table, to King George. ‘Judd, immediately you respond with, “You never were a damned queen. You were just a posh tramp.”’ He turned back to Gaia. ‘That’s your cue to burst into tears and run, wailing, from the room. Are we all clear?’