The chippie was not far off, in Church Walk, and regularly won the “Best in Wiltshire” competition. The Codfather, a name that made people smile, groan, or do both, had been found by the riggers before the first day of shooting and quickly become popular with others in the Swift crowd. Tonight Greg wouldn’t have been surprised to find one or two already in there. As it happened, three people he didn’t know were ahead of him. His turn didn’t take long. “Two plaice in batter, please, and one portion of chips. No salt or vinegar.” They always added their own at home.
Everyone chatted while the frying was going on. The locals already knew about the filming at Milroy Court. They didn’t say so, but they were clearly disappointed he wasn’t a familiar face. If you’re looking for appreciation, it’s better to be an actor than the producer.
He was on the road again in ten minutes. There was no fast road if you wanted to avoid the centre of Bath. He had a route along unlit roads and lanes that kept well south, by way of Wellow and Combe Hay. The worst of the evening traffic was over.
His relationship with Natalie had soon become more than a business one. After two weeks, she had invited him for an evening meal and he’d stayed over. The sex was the best he’d experienced. Next day she’d suggested he move into one of the empty rooms in the farmhouse. He didn’t hesitate. He was still struggling financially and she didn’t ask him to pay rent, and of course there was a saving in petrol. Even better, she continued paying him for delivering the pots. He drove back to Bristol, told his landlord he was leaving, stacked his few worldly possessions into the van, including his lucky blue vase, and made the move.
When Saltus offered him the chance of being a runner at Bottle Yard, he couldn’t turn it down. At the beginning, he had tried doing both jobs, making Natalie’s deliveries on his day off, but she soon saw it was too much for him, so she suggested hiring a new driver. Greg stayed on as Natalie’s live-in lover and that was no hardship. She was amused when he’d started using the “luvvie” talk of the showbiz crowd. He’d always been responsive to language, quickly picking up accents and new phrases. So Natalie got used to being called “love of my life” and “sweetheart” even though they both knew it wasn’t quite true. What they had was a friendly relationship with good sex that pleased them both.
Greg worked hard at the TV job and got promoted to assistant producer after Candida left. So his spectacular rise continued.
It was during this purple patch that Natalie had experienced her first symptoms of the multiple sclerosis: blurred vision, dizziness and numbness down one side of her body. She thought it was some flu virus. Nothing like it occurred again for several months. The onset was slow and there were long periods when she felt normal. She didn’t go for tests until nearly a year later, after being unable to move from bed one day. She was devastated when told that the illness was progressive and not curable even though it could be treated. She most feared losing the sensation in her hands and being unable to work as a potter.
Greg helped her through the shock and was a strong support. For a time, there were no lasting symptoms except that her sex drive became less active, which was understandable. She lost some of her confidence, knowing the control of her body could be taken away from her at any time. There is no certainty, no way of knowing how long you have got. Her hands and arms were spared, but in one terrible week she lost the use of both legs. This time it was permanent.
Greg became her caretaker and morale booster. He found her a wheelchair-accessible potter’s wheel and she managed to continue with the contract jobs, but it was just about impossible to work on the large pieces that were her joy. He researched chairs and found one she could raise a metre higher by the touch of a button, enabling her to get the height she needed. He shopped, cooked, cleaned, helped her to dress and shower and did the heavy work in the pottery, loading and emptying the kiln. Between them, they kept the business going. “You rescued me from dire straits at the beginning, my love,” he told her, “and now I can give something back.”
Somewhere beyond the small village of Combe Hay, deep in a valley, the road became a lane and the lane became little more than a farm track before reverting to tarmac again and continuing west. This was where visitors in search of the pottery had their confidence tested. There was no signposting and precious few landmarks. Greg knew it well, and even he had to concentrate hard on a moonless night. He was using his Range Rover. A four-wheel drive was essential for anyone living in an area where you sometimes got snowed in.
He was little more than a mile from home when he spotted a light ahead, white, like a flashlight, moving as if it was being swung as some kind of signal. He slowed and flicked off his main beam so as not to dazzle the person holding it. Closer still, he could make out a figure wearing a yellow reflective jacket, pointing with the left arm and beckoning to him to turn right with the other. If you’re a driver and someone in high-visibility gear is diverting traffic, you don’t argue.
A gap in the hedgerow was now revealed, an open gate.
Greg put the headlights back on to make the turn off the lane, up a slight hump and into a field, which was grassed.
He swung the Range Rover through a tight circle and halted facing the lane for an easy exit, leaving enough room for another vehicle to drive in, even though it was highly unlikely anyone else would come that way.
He turned off his headlights and waited with only the sidelights still on. Parked there with the engine running, he could smell the fish and chips in their paper wrapper on the passenger seat. All he could see through the windscreen was the open gateway and the hedge on the opposite side.
He partly unwrapped the packet and took out a chip.
When it became obvious no one had followed him into the field to tell him what was happening, he opened the door and stepped out.
He hadn’t taken more than two steps when he sensed a movement nearby. The car’s sidelights picked up a fast-moving shape. Something or somebody charged at him out of the darkness. Greg barely had time to register he was under attack. Instinctively he turned, swayed backwards and in that split second saw the glint of a knife blade. His back thumped against the Range Rover. Trapped on the bonnet of his own car, he could do nothing to defend himself.
19
Diamond waited until ten next morning before phoning Earnshaw, the dive supervisor. The exchange was more civil than the morning before even if the basic message hadn’t changed.
“I didn’t come by last evening. Thought you’d be in touch if you found anything useful.”
“Good decision, sir. Don’t want to waste your time. I’ve hired a skip for all the scrap we fished out. We’ll charge that to your budget. That’s the way it works.”
No point in arguing. The reckoning would come later when Georgina found out the cost.
“You haven’t finished?”
“God, no.”
“How much of the marina have you searched?”
“Nearly all the clear water. We’ll start looking between the moored boats before the end of today — that is, if the boat owners don’t object.”
“You don’t need their permission, do you?”
“Their cooperation would be nice.”
“Are they giving you abuse?”
“I wouldn’t call it that. By now they all know what we’re looking for and some of them aren’t comfortable with it. What’s more, they don’t like press photographers crawling over their homes to get good shots. Have you seen the Bristol Post this morning?”
“I can guess,” Diamond said. “I have better things to do.”