Murder on Set

Detective Inspector James McCulloch...

I thought he’d come to rescue me. Instead, he’d come to trap me. Force me into confessing I’d killed Helena Hillman. He was clearly well trained in giving nothing away - I’d seen goldfish with more expression.Late 30s or early 40s with a handsome lived-in face and very short almost black hair that stuck straight up on top and was flecked with gray around his ears.

Sharp cut, sharp look, sharp voice. He stood over six feet tall with the kind of broad shoulders you want to lean on. And a deep voice with an unfamiliar accent: East End? Oxford? Either. Or both. If I had met him under different circumstances, I would have thought him attractive. Now he looked as if he’d been woken from a warm bed and his manner suggested he thought it entirely my fault.

I was tempted to point out I wasn’t having a good time either but I didn’t think he’d appreciate it. He was the third police officer I had spoken to so far - if you could call Bill Biggles a police officer that is. Bill and a very young looking constable were the first to arrive. They put the cleaner in one dressing room and led me to another.

It didn’t take me long to cotton on I was a suspect. At first, I panicked and then realised, in this day and age with forensics and DNA testing and fingerprinting and all those other things I’ve seen being used on DCI Banks andWaking the Dead- I’d had a couple of significant parts in both - there was nothing to link me to killing anyone. Forensically speaking I was clean. True, it was in my dressing room Helena had been found but her death had nothing to do with me.

‘I don’t know anything,’ I repeated to Bill and his young friend. ‘And I don’t know why she was in my dressing room.’ I also kept repeating.

I was getting tired of being asked these same questions. They could change the words around as much as they liked but they were still asking me the same thing. Moreover, there was no point in my answering them anymore because when I tried to explain why I was wandering around the studio at 2:15 in the morning, I could see the scepticism in their faces. I think it had something to do with the way they kept glancing at each other, shaking their heads and sucking their teeth. Such terrible overacting. Sheer willpower prevented me rolling my eyes.

At that point, I wasn’t unduly worried or particularly frightened - I knew more about playing a police officer than either Bill or his young colleague - until that is DI James McCulloch arrived. Under his unwavering gaze, I immediately felt guilty of everything.

‘So what were you doing on the premises at that time in the morning?’ He asked in a cold voice.

I sighed. ’Look, I’ve already explained everything to Sergeant Squiggles...’

‘I’d like you to explain it again. To me.’ He interrupted in a voice sharp enough to shave with.

’All right, I had... well to be candid... I had fallen asleep.’

‘In your dressing room?’

’Yes... No. Not really. All right if you must know, it was on the set.’ I could hear myself sounding sulky. I was tired now and frankly, I never enjoyed doing the same scene over and over especially when it was the other characters who were getting it wrong.

He said nothing; just watched me for a while with his dark eyes.

‘On a table,’ I eventually admitted trying not to squirm under his unwavering stare. ’Actually, it was a sort of bed. A hospital bed. Sort of thing… It was... a... ’ I couldn’t stop myself speaking. Anything to break that intimidating silence. I could see it was an effective technique for a Detective Inspector to have. ‘A prop.’ I finished and swallowed.

He lifted an eyebrow: ’And would that be considered your usualbehaviour?’

I thought about this for a minute or two during which time the silence between us got weightier.

‘No, not exactly,’ I finally managed, ’although it would depend, of course, on who was doing the actual considering. Some, I suspect, might consider it usualbehaviourfor me but... ’ I petered out. How could I explain my presence on that bed indicated an exceptionally low point in my career?

Unable to meet his impenetrable eyes, I watched his hands instead. No doubt, that made me look guilty. I noticed, in a distracted way, he had long fingers, which gave his hands an elegant look. No wedding ring I noticed with a little frisson.

God, that was shallow even for me.

‘Then how did you come to be hiding behind the door in your dressing room?’

He sounded distrustful. And something else, I’m not sure what exactly but it wasn’t nice. I immediately felt defensive. Worse, I couldn’t find a decent role to slip into. I needed a character. I needed a script. Oh bollocks, it looked as if I was in this all on my own.

‘I wasn’t! I had merely gone in to find my bag. I needed it because in it was my hotel room key and I didn’t relish the thought of waking someone up to let me in.’ By someone, I meant Jeannie of the pursed lips and orange hair. The landlady of the Time Warp Concentration Camp better known as Herron Bay Country House Hotel though how Trading Standards hadn’t sued her for such a blatant inaccuracy was beyond me.

I continued, reluctantly, ’When I got to my... err... to the dressing room, the light didn’t work and then the cleaner turned up. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to give her a fright. She wouldn’t have seen me in the dark. I wasn’t hiding,’ I insisted and managed to sound indignant. I did it quite well. I wondered which character it was.

He eyed me speculatively, which was a bit intimidating and then abruptly walked out the room leaving me alone for what felt like hours. It was getting light by the time the young constable reappeared. He told me to follow him. I felt unnerved by the way he kept looking back at me as if I was a curiosity. He was young; he had probably never seen a murderer before. Not that he was seeing one now, I quickly reminded myself.

He led me outside to a marked police car. Great! That would do a lot for my reputation. I glanced around quickly to see if any reporters were lurking. Thankfully, there were none in sight. Then I remembered why the police were here and felt guilty at my rather self-absorbed response. I put it down to extreme tiredness, depression at just having lost my job and, naturally, to having just found Helena Hillman battered to death in my dressing room.

I was expecting a long drive to the nearest large town, Seaford where the “local” police station was situated - if a distance of 25 miles could be considered local - but the young constable barely made it out of second gear before he stopped in front of what had once been the town’s local police station before rationalisation when the police stopped being “Bobbies” and became “Officers” and the Force became a Service and, as a result, rather more scary and slightly less friendly. I digress. The old local police station was attached to the side of Bill’s house, which had once been the police house. I expect the rent was extremely low. I couldn’t imagine any other reason for living somewhere so aesthetically unattractive. For some reason, nothing had ever been done with the old station part. It just kind of stayed there, a rather shabby memorial to the past. Now, it would seem, it had been reinstated as the ubiquitous “Incident Room”. I began to feel like a character in Suspects; you know the TV show with the wobbly camera work and staged realism. I had nearly tried out for a part but that sort of unscripted acting isn’t really my thing.

Inside it felt damp and had a musty, sour aroma. I could hear activity behind a closed door. The young constable passed me a white overall and told me to remove all my clothes so they could be tested. I knew forensics would show they were clean. Well, as clean as they could be considering I’d slept in them for several hours. I hoped they smelt all right.

I was placed in a cell for a couple of hours. Thankfully, the door was wide open. I guess it was just somewhere to park me until someone worked out I was innocent and finally sent me on my way with heartfelt apologies for wasting my time and treating me like a criminal. I could see Bill’s wife had been in there. A large vase of plastic flowers had been placed in the corner of the room and the toilet smelt of pine disinfectant. Perhaps they used these old cells as spare rooms for the relatives when they came to visit.

How on earth had I come to this? I wondered as I settled down to wait for whatever came next. I should never have let Pete talk me into taking this job. I should have just ignored him as I usually did. At least then, I wouldn’t be sitting in a police cell, albeit a defunct one but a cell nonetheless, suspected of killing Helena.