Peter Lovesey
Showstopper
In appreciation of
Thalia Deanna Proctor (1970–2022)
my lovely editor, mentor and friend
at Sphere for fifteen years
1
The old lady lifted a black velvet bag from her sewing box, loosened the cord and took out a silver Smith and Wesson revolver. With a smile any other old lady would bestow on a new grandchild, she murmured, “Little beauty.” Then, slick as a gunslinger in the Old West, she twirled the weapon twice around her trigger finger, turned at surprising speed, steadied her grip with her free hand and took aim at her reflection in the dressing table mirror. Three explosive bursts came not from the gun, but the corner of her mouth. She held the pose for five more seconds.
“And cut. Well done, Daisy.”
“Is that it?” the old lady enquired.
“That’s it, darling — and a very good ‘it,’ as always.”
“Am I free to go?”
“For you, Daisy, it’s a wrap.”
Daisy Summerfield glanced up at the control room and smiled her thanks. Her contribution to another season of the TV crime series Swift was over. She handed the gun to one of the young people on the crew, who returned it to the bag and stowed it away. They’d done her a huge favour, fitting in her extra scene when the call sheet said she’d be filming again in the morning. The end of each day was supposed to be for re-shooting small mistakes, known as pick-ups. Her scene was a solo one and she had made sure she needed only one take.
She was well pleased. Instead of spending another night in the hotel, she was going home. Richmond, in Surrey, was more than two hours’ drive from the Bottle Yard studios in Bristol. Vicky, the ever-reliable production assistant, would order a car and by the time Daisy had cleaned off the makeup and changed into her own clothes her driver would be waiting.
The gun-twirling trick had taken hours of practice with an imitation weapon they’d given her, a perfect replica of the Smith and Wesson. She had professional pride in getting things right. She hadn’t ever handled a firearm before getting the role of Caitlin Swift’s ex-gangster mother. The casting director had looked at her slightly arthritic fingers and asked if she was willing to take it on. “What’s the problem?” she had said. “I’m a professional. I won’t let you down.”
The first part of her career had been stage work. Only in her late forties had she started in television with a small part in Coronation Street in the days when they still filmed on the back lot at the Granada Studios in Manchester. Experience in Corrie was a badge of honour and she’d scarcely rested since. Never a starring role, but enough speaking parts to make her a familiar face and give her a comfortable lifestyle in a nice house in Surrey stuffed with period furniture. She had a collection of jewellery — the real thing — that helped to make the passing years tolerable.
She was seventy-four now and enjoying her best role ever. Viv Swift wasn’t your stock elderly mum. She was larger than life (about 30 pounds larger), hard-drinking, never without a cigarette and with a deplorable past that brought colour to every episode. Arch-criminals walked in and out of her scenes and treated her as their matriarch. Often she was ahead of her delinquent daughter in planning the next heist. And the viewers loved it. She got fan-mail from scores of elderly ladies who believed she really did know how to rob a bank and wished they had the nerve to do the same.
In real life, Daisy was law-abiding and careful of her health. She just hoped she would be fit for the next series. She hadn’t told anyone about her heart murmur. She wouldn’t have known she had one if Dr. Patel hadn’t insisted on using his stethoscope. He had said the condition wasn’t unusual as one grew more senior and let oneself go a bit (such tact: he was much too refined to use the word “obese”) and some people acquired a murmur in early life, the type of murmur that clinicians called “innocent,” and still lived to a great age. She hoped hers was innocent. However, Dr. Patel had asked her to see a consultant in case it wasn’t, and she was on a waiting list. With luck she would get her appointment and be declared innocent before the next season and no one from Bottle Yard would know.
The private car looked the same as usual, a shiny black limousine with chilled bottles of water and packets of salted peanuts stored in the armrest along with a selection of newspapers and glossy magazines, but Daisy didn’t recognise the driver, who looked rather like one of the grim-featured men she acted with, powerfully built, with damaged skin across much of his face, as if someone had thrown acid at him. He picked up her holdall and said, “I’m Gerald, ma’am. Would you like this on the seat beside you or shall I stow it away?”
The mouth moved strangely when he spoke, but the voice was liquid honey.
She looked straight into his eyes, ignoring his poor face. She wasn’t an actor for nothing. “On the seat will do nicely, thank you.” Out of courtesy she started to introduce herself and was stopped.
“I know who you are, ma’am. I’ve watched the show since it started. I’m quite a fan, in fact — honoured to have you as my passenger. Just to confirm, it’s Richmond, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Richmond upon Thames. The one in Yorkshire would be a long drive.”
His mouth twitched in what may have been a smile. Down the left side his skin couldn’t stretch at all. “It’s quiet on the roads now. I should get you home by midnight.”
She squeezed in, plumped herself into the back seat, emitted a sigh of relief and let him find his way through Bristol’s maze of streets. She hardly ever saw much of the city because most of the location scenes were shot in Bath. When they reached the motorway, Gerald spoke again. “I can make it warmer if you wish, ma’am.”
“Thank you, but it’s just right.”
“Would you care for some music?”
“No thank you,” Daisy said. “I enjoy silence. I’m perfectly happy with no sound at all.” She hoped he got the message. His remark about being a fan had sounded a warning bell. She didn’t want two hours of being quizzed about the show.
She need not have worried. The next thing she was aware of was Gerald’s silky voice saying, “Quite busy here for the time of night, ma’am.” She looked out of the window and they were already off the motorway and across the river and heading down Kew Bridge Road. Her concern about him had been unfounded. She must have slept for the best part of two hours.
She straightened up in the seat and drank some water. “Gerald, did they tell you my address?”
“The Vineyard?”
“That’s correct. I must have dozed off.” Now she was so near home, she felt she owed him something in the way of personal chat. After all, he’d said he was a fan. Speaking to the back of his head was easier than looking into the damaged face. “I tell myself I can cope with the hours they work, but I’m glad of a rest by the end of the day.”
“Aren’t we all?” he said.
“It can be as much as ten to twelve hours on set, six days a week, and that doesn’t include going to makeup. I’m up at the crack of dawn. But I wouldn’t change it for the world. And they treat me wonderfully. They have a word for us actors. They call us the talent, as if no one else has any, but they’re all wonderfully gifted people, directors, cameramen, sound engineers, or they wouldn’t last ten minutes in the job. Goodness, this is my street. You’ll see mine on the left three lampposts away.”
She unzipped her bag and felt for her purse. The company was paying the fare, but she always tipped the drivers herself. Five, at least. Ten for really good service. She took out a ten. “You’re as good as your word. It isn’t midnight yet. You can pull into the drive.”