In the more sobering surroundings of the incident room that afternoon, Diamond updated himself on all that had come in, and there wasn’t much. Ingeborg had been in touch with the Bristol Post to see if they’d had much feedback from their readers. Several had sent tweets about their own experience with jinxes.
“No use to us, guv,” she said. “All it tells us is some people are deeply superstitious even in the twenty-first century.”
“Gullible is the word I’d use. Anything else?”
“A comment from a Swift fan saying Caitlin Swift must be causing all the trouble and won’t get caught because she’s always too smart for the police.”
“That’s the kind of horseshit shows like this give rise to.”
She raised an eyebrow. “There are too many shows where the police come out on top. It’s a breath of fresh air to have a master-criminal as the star.”
“You watch it, do you? So we have a mole in the murder squad.”
She gave a slight smile. “I’ve streamed a few episodes since we started on the case. It’s rather well done.”
“Traitor.”
The remark was meant in fun, but Ingeborg wasn’t amused. “Get real, guv. I’m allowed to watch television without being called disloyal.”
He crossed the room to Paul Gilbert’s desk. “What’s the latest on the Jake Nicol mystery?”
“Nothing much, guv. I’ve spent a lot of time checking with rigging companies and I found one in London that once had him on their books.”
“What did you learn?”
“He was reliable and didn’t mind late hours. No family.”
“A ladies’ man?”
Gilbert’s eyes widened. “No one said so. Why do you ask?”
He wasn’t going to reveal that Paloma had put the idea in his head. “I keep thinking of the tash.”
Obviously a new word to Gilbert. He frowned. “Tash? The rapper?”
“The Clark Gable moustache.”
Gilbert still looked lost. He hadn’t heard of Clark Gable either. The generation gap was a gulf.
“It’s two pencil-thin strips above the lips that don’t meet in the middle. A miracle of shaving. I’ve never enquired how it’s done. Maybe a barber trimmed it for him. What I’m saying is that if Nicol went to all that trouble, he probably fancied his chances as a stud.”
“And made a play for one of the women? That’s a new angle.”
“Sabine was up at the airfield that afternoon and so was her double, Ann Bugg.”
“I can see where this is going. Stunning women, both of them, but strong enough to look after themselves in a fight.”
“Hold on, Paul,” Diamond said. “I’m not suggesting either of them stabbed him, but if one of the crew witnessed him forcing himself on one of them, he could have seen red and pulled a knife.”
“Wow — that is a possibility. Someone who felt protective. Does either of them have a boyfriend?”
“Don’t know. I met Ann Bugg at Milroy Court this morning and got the clear impression she has things to hide. She could hardly wait to get away from me.”
Across the room, Ingeborg winked at Jean Sharp.
Gilbert was gripped. This was his case. “Do you think she’s protecting the killer? Jake got heavy with her and this guy rescued her. She knows who and no way will she shop him.”
“It might explain a few things. Food for thought, that’s all.” Already he was going off the idea. He still felt the deaths of Tudor and Nicol were connected — and possibly Mary Wroxeter’s as well — and he couldn’t see how the earlier murders — if that was what they were — linked up with a killing done in the heat of the moment.
He left Paul mulling over the matter.
Another line of enquiry was on his mind. He checked with John Leaman, who as office manager dealt with the flow of information to the incident room. “Anything new from the marina?”
“No. Total silence.”
“They’ll have a mountain of scrap by now.”
“Do you want me to text them?”
“Better not. They don’t like being nagged. The guy in charge will call if they find anything.”
“Like a body?”
“Right now, John, I’d settle for a coat button if it ends all the mights and maybes.”
18
It was already dark when Greg Deans finished work at Milroy Court. As he had foreseen, the bedroom scene had put the entire schedule out. He should have been firm with George and insisted on filming it in a studio set at Bottle Yard. Directors come in with fancy ideas and you have to indulge them a bit, but this had been unwise. By the end of the day, they were running two hours over. All work outside contracted hours counts as overtime and plays havoc with the budget, not to mention the extra work for the producer.
Greg’s car was one of the last on the drive. The de-rig was done and nearly everyone had left. Before starting up, he called his partner, Natalie, hoping her hands would be dry enough to pick up her phone.
He waited for her soft, “Yes?”
“Still at Trowbridge, I’m afraid, but just about to leave. I’ll pick up fish and chips on the way home. I hope your day was better than mine.”
“I got through as much as I wanted,” she told him.
“Nice work, love. You must have enough for a firing.”
“Not until next week. Today’s little fellows have to dry properly. How long will you be?”
“Depends if there’s a queue in the chippie. Fifty minutes max.” The pottery was a converted farmhouse on the slopes west of Bath. “Put the oven on in half an hour, would you? The fish and chips will need warming up.”
If he’d been home earlier, he would have cooked. This was their main meal of the day. He never ate much at lunchtime.
He’d first met Natalie before he’d started his career in TV, when he was struggling to find regular work of any kind in Bristol. He’d put a man-with-van card in a newsagent’s window. The van part wasn’t true at the time. His plan was to hire one if anyone came up with a worthwhile offer. Natalie had seen it and phoned him. She already had her ceramics business and was making it pay, with a wholesale contract supplying souvenir mugs, microwave-safe and with a durable glaze that didn’t fade, to various outlets in the area. Her last driver wasn’t reliable and she would pay well for someone who would make several trips a week.
Her location was really remote, up a lane hardly anyone else used. She joked that if he could find the place, he would get the job, so he splashed out, hired a van with a sat nav and drove straight there.
That morning in the pottery she’d made him coffee in one of her Royal Crescent mugs and shown him the address list of her clients. He’d agreed to start right away. Even in her work apron splashed with clay, hair tied up and covered with a scarf, she was enchanting, small, pretty and vivacious. It wasn’t love at first sight, but there was a physical attraction from the beginning — on both sides. He saw the spark of interest in her eyes and was happy to encourage it. She was fully fit when they met, divorced and living alone, working long hours. The first signs of her MS didn’t appear until two years after.
She had her own website that brought in steady sales of the work she really enjoyed, making much larger pieces. He’d spotted a sensational blue vase out in the yard that she’d rejected because of some flaw in the glaze and he knew straight away he must have it for his flat. She’d let him take it for nothing.
They both appreciated the arts and had good conversations about creative people they admired. In addition to the mugs, he’d started delivering what Natalie called her “specials” to some high achievers in big houses in Bath and Bristol who were paying hundreds for them. One was Saltus Steven, the TV executive. It was Saltus who later invited Greg to work at Bottle Yard studios.