“Do the superstitions make much difference when you’re filming?”
Deans rolled his eyes. “Don’t get me started.”
They returned to the outer office, where a photo of Dave Tudor and a paper file were found. The missing assistant producer looked more like a rigger than the rigger had. Thick tattooed neck, buzz cut and the beginnings of a beard. “And he just failed to turn up for work, like Jake Nicol?”
“Except we recruited Dave ourselves, so there was more of a hoo-ha.”
“That would have been in Mary Wroxeter’s time?”
“She took him on, yes. We all got on all right with Dave. He may look like a bruiser in the picture, but he was a sweetie.”
Allowing for luvvie-speak, Diamond took that to mean he caused no trouble. “Was he reported as missing?”
“Officially? No.”
“You said there was a hoo-ha.”
“What I mean is that unlike Mr. Nicol, Dave was on the company payroll and we felt we had a duty to find him. Correction, we were desperate to find him. He was one of us, for pity’s sake, but we had no success at all. To this day, no one knows what happened and I’m afraid he’s almost forgotten now. The television industry works on short contracts. People come and go all the time.”
“But in a long series like Swift there must be some continuity.”
“Of the main talent, yes, unless they fall off the perch like dear old Daisy, bless her, and we’re forced to write them out of the series.”
“How will you do that?”
“The writers are already working on it. The next episode starts after the funeral with Caitlin Swift sorting through her mother’s old letters and photos remembering what a character she was. We use flashbacks from footage made earlier in the series. It’s a kind of tribute.”
“Clever.”
“It’s the best we can think of. We did something similar for Dan Burbage. Let’s face it, any of us are replaceable and we live with that uncertainty. I expect it’s the same in your line of work.”
“I hope not.”
“Ours is a cut-throat business.”
“Even you could be replaced?”
“Even me.” But he smiled as if the prospect was as likely as being hit by debris from outer space. “If Saltus took against me, I’d be history, my dear, believe me.”
“What would Dave Tudor’s duties have been?”
“Legion. An AP can be involved in any and every part of the production from words on the page to what you see on the screen, taking care of all the nuts and bolts issues a producer deals with, booking the studio and locations, distributing scripts and call-sheets, liaising with the crew, the talent, the script editor, costumes, makeup, set design, lighting. Do I need to go on?”
“I’m tired just listening.”
“But it’s the ideal way to learn the business. Oh brother, when I got the job, did I learn fast.”
“Was Tudor up to the job?”
“Fully. He was very experienced.”
“Happy in his work?”
“So far as one can tell.”
Diamond glanced at the few details on the file. “The address here is Kipling Avenue. That’s up at Beechen Cliff. Was he local?”
“Now you’re asking. I haven’t a clue. I expect it was a rented room. Most of us find temporary accommodation if we don’t live here.”
“And his personal file would have been kept here, in the Colonnades?”
A shake of the head. “We’re talking four years ago. The production office was more humble in those days. We were on a trading estate at Saltford, midway between Bath and Bristol.”
“Did he ever say anything about his personal life? Family? A partner?”
“If he did, I never heard of it.”
“Can you think of anyone else who might remember him?”
“All these questions.”
“The actors? Miss San Sebastian?”
The name prompted a sudden raspberry from Deans. “In Sabine’s lofty world, production people are only there on sufferance. She barely passes the time of day to me, so an AP wouldn’t have made any impression whatsoever.”
“Unless their name happened to be John?”
Deans snorted. “That would have got her attention, for sure.”
“Who else? Any other actors?”
“Daisy, but she died, poor darling. And Dan Burbage, who was the sergeant, had the fall in Snowdonia and doesn’t remember his own name.”
“The director?” Diamond wasn’t giving up. He felt sure somebody must remember Dave Tudor.
“Directors change with each episode. I rotate them to keep the series fresh.”
“The one who was making the show when Tudor went missing.”
“I don’t have a computer memory, ducky. I can’t say without looking back through any number of working scripts.”
“Would you do that,” Diamond said through gritted teeth, and it was more of an instruction than a request. All the negativity from Deans was tiresome, bordering on obstructive. “I’ll need a list of everyone Tudor worked with.”
Shaking his head, Deans moved to another filing cabinet. “Do you have any idea how many episodes we’ve made? It’s a new production team each time.”
“Up to the time he went missing.”
Deans started tugging out bulky scripts and slapping them on top of the cabinet. “These are busy people. They’ll be scattered to the four winds.”
“That’s no problem.” Diamond picked one off the stack and saw that the title of the episode and the names of the production team were printed on the front. “What I’m looking for is here on the top sheet.”
“I’ll get photocopies made for you. Are we done? Because I’m running late. We’re filming at a new location tomorrow and there are a million people I need to see.”
“When I’ve got these, and the contact details for Gripmasters, that’ll do... for now.”
5
Paul Gilbert had spent the whole of his life in Bath without ever visiting the village with the uninviting name of Cold Ashton. He’d driven past the sign halfway up the A46 hundreds of times. What he found when he finally made the turn was a street of ancient stone houses along an exposed ridge, some of them rather grand, but no shop, no school and no pub. After riding through on his moped, he decided he hadn’t missed anything except the gorgeous view along the length of St. Catherine’s Valley.
Diamond had told him to visit Gripmasters. A half-mile up the road was a line-up of dark green trucks with the company name on their sides. Almost hidden behind them was a single-storey tin-roofed building that would have fitted better into a trading estate than a village older than the Domesday Book. He parked the moped and went in. The front office was managed by a large woman wearing a tin badge that said Hard of Hearing Please Speak Up.
Gilbert did so, twice. The second time, he seemed to be understood. He showed his ID.
“And I’m Mabel,” the woman said. “The boys call me Able Mabel.”
Don’t go there, he told himself. “I’d like a few words with the manager.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“The manager.”
“That’s me, darling,” she said. “There isn’t anyone else.” Spacing his words, he explained what he needed to know and she looked at her computer screen. “Jake Nicol is new on our books. The job with Swift is the first we’ve given him. He moved down here from London with good references and the National Rigging Certificate, experience with big companies in film and TV. HGV licence. All we could ask for. When Swift and Proud told us they wanted extra muscle we called him up. No reason to think he wouldn’t be reliable.”
“He hasn’t called in to say he’s ill or anything?”