“So unless he tripped over the rug, the chances are whoever gave him his bloody nose will be part of the TV set-up.” Diamond sat back and spread his hands. “Simple. Assemble the suspects in the drawing room and do a Miss Marple.”
Gilbert took most of Diamond’s remarks seriously. This time, he could tell it was meant to be amusing, so he played along. “Guv, have you ever watched the names scroll by at the end of a film?”
Diamond saw the point of that and grinned. “You’ll need a large drawing room. Where are they filming?”
“Below Pulteney Bridge.”
Young Gilbert — as Diamond still thought of him — had done all the right things. His earnestness screamed out for a leg-pull, but Diamond wasn’t without mercy. He could see his young self here, transparently keen to impress.
“If you really want to cut your teeth on this one, better make yourself known to them and see what you can dig up on this rigger.”
Gilbert stared at Diamond as if he’d handed him the key of a Porsche. “Do you think it’s worth following up?”
“You’re the IO on this one. Go for it.”
Investigating Officer. You could have fitted the Royal Crescent into Paul Gilbert’s grin. “Right now?”
“If they’re filming, it’s the perfect opportunity. Make yourself known to whoever is running the show and then dive in. I suggest you start with the remaining riggers if any are left alive.”
Opportunities had to be seized by a keen young DC.
A larger crowd than usual lined the balustrade of Grand Parade looking down at the weir, most of them holding up their phones. This is one of the sights of the city and there are always visitors watching the white water cascade down the shallow steps. Unless the Avon is in spate after heavy rain, the flow under Pulteney Bridge is slow until it gets the shock of the descent. Then the movement gives this spectacular show.
Extra action was on view this summer morning. A woman and a man were down there, ankle-deep, crossing the top step of the crescent-shaped weir, the man clearly in pursuit and holding a gun he wouldn’t be able to use with any accuracy while keeping his balance. The chase was being filmed by a cameraman under the trees on the narrow man-made island parallel with the east bank. Others were directing the show from a viewing platform over the sluice gate.
“That’s so dangerous,” Gilbert said to no one in particular. He had just arrived on his moped, parked it behind the Abbey and joined the spectators.
“They’re okay,” one said. “They’re stunt people.”
“I don’t care who they are. I live here and it’s a death trap.”
“They’ll be strong swimmers. They wouldn’t do it if it wasn’t safe. This is their second take.”
“If they slip, they get sucked in by the undertow, however well they swim. Most years somebody is drowned here.”
“Russell Crowe didn’t drown.”
“Russell Crowe is there?”
“Years ago, when they made Les Mis. He jumps off the bridge and commits suicide. Haven’t you seen it? That was filmed here. You see him jump and get dragged in.”
“That wasn’t here,” Gilbert said. “It was Paris. The River Seine.”
“That’s what you were meant to think.”
A guarded okay from Gilbert. He didn’t believe what he was hearing, but he wasn’t going to argue the point.
“It was definitely here,” the man’s wife said in support.
The know-all said, “Russell Crowe didn’t really drown or he couldn’t have made Man of Steel.”
The wife, who seemed to know more about it, said, “Anyhow, he didn’t do the jump. It was a stuntman. And the bridge he jumps off isn’t this one. That was trick photography.”
Gilbert didn’t have time to stay arguing about Les Misérables and he wasn’t liking what he could see of the reckless free show at the weir. He needed to get across the river himself to where the film crew was. He headed up the street past the long line of onlookers and crossed the bridge, thinking that Russell Crowe or his stunt double couldn’t have jumped off unless they leapt from a roof. Pulteney Bridge is Bath’s bijou version of Florence’s Ponte Vecchio, lined either side with shops.
Several sets of steps brought him down to the grassed area under the trees and the place where the Pulteney Cruisers pick up passengers. The TV crew had unloaded their equipment — a lot of it — by the sluice gate that can be lowered to control the flow. A group of them were chatting. He produced his ID and asked who was in charge and was told the director was too busy filming to see anyone, even the police.
Gilbert said he was content to wait. “I wouldn’t want to cause an accident.”
“Is that, like, a joke?” a large man asked. He had snakes tattooed on his arms and muscles that rippled and made them wriggle. The words were spoken in a way that made Gilbert feel there was only one answer and he’d better get it right.
“I’m serious. What they’re doing is bloody dangerous.”
“Don’t you worry about that. They’re stunt people. They do more difficult stuff than running along a weir.”
Gilbert didn’t argue the point. He turned to the group in general, inviting someone else to join in. “I’m here about the missing rigger. Have you heard from him?”
“Jake?” the big man said before any of the others got a word in. “He’ll be fine. You don’t want to believe the papers.”
“So he still hasn’t shown?”
“He’s a grown-up. If he takes a few days off, that’s his lookout.”
“Can you manage without him?”
“What does it look like?”
“Are you in charge?”
“I’m the key grip, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“What’s your name?” One basic thing Gilbert had learned when questioning people was to insist they identified themselves. In a slightly hostile situation it was doubly useful.
“Fergus. Fergus Webster. What’s yours?”
“Weren’t you listening? I’m DC Gilbert. If you’re the senior guy, Fergus, you won’t mind telling me what you know about Jake.”
“Sod all, basically.” Fergus turned to the others. “What do we know about the guy who didn’t last two days?”
One of them said, “You want a description, officer?”
“That would help,” Gilbert said.
“I’d say he was” — long pause — “average.”
Fergus laughed out loud. Clearly he ruled here. They took their cues from him.
“You can do better than that,” Gilbert said.
A look was exchanged between Fergus and the man who had spoken and Fergus gave a nod.
“Average height,” the man said. “Average build. Put it this way. He wouldn’t stand out in a crowd.”
More of them were grinning.
Gilbert didn’t appreciate the joke. “I’m not here to be messed about. What height is he?”
“Five eight... give or take,” the spokesman said.
“Age?”
“Thirty to fifty, I’d say.” This got more belly laughs.
It couldn’t go on. In a move that excluded all the others, Gilbert took a step closer and pointed his finger at the man’s chest. “This is a warning. It’s an offence to obstruct a police officer.”
The message got home. “Forty, then. Dark hair and not much of it, thin as a rake, pasty-faced with a tash, and didn’t have much to say for himself.”
Unsurprising, when Fergus was around.
Gilbert addressed them all. “So none of you believe this story about the jinx?”
Fergus took over again. “It sells papers, don’t it?”
“Someone from your lot took it seriously enough to report Jake missing, or I wouldn’t be here. Do you know who that was?”
“You’re the detective.”