‘I do company audits, mostly.’
The detective was still eyeballing him, without blinking. ‘Would I be correct in saying you carried out the audits this year on Stonery Farm and on the West Sussex Piscatorial Society?’
‘Something fishy about the West Sussex Piscatorial Society, is there, Detective?’ He giggled nervously at his joke.
Neither of them smiled, which made him even more nervous.
‘Nothing fishy at all, Mr Whiteley,’ he replied, levelly. ‘Could you tell us how long you have been auditing these two?’
Whiteley thought for some moments. ‘Well, some years.’ He looked down. He was feeling increasingly intimidated. ‘Yes. Ten years, at least. I can check if you would like? With Stonery Farm I could tell you egg-zactly!’ He giggled again, and was met with stony glares.
‘We’re investigating a murder, Mr Whiteley,’ Glenn Branson said. ‘I’m afraid we don’t quite share your humour on this. Have you ever been to the premises of Stonery Farm, Mr Whiteley?’
‘Every year. I do some of the accounts work on site.’
‘And you’ve been to the West Sussex Piscatorial Society trout lake?’
‘Only once, just to familiarize myself with the location – it’s the club’s main asset. But I carry out the audit work for the club here – it’s very straightforward.’
‘Does anyone else from this firm accompany you when you audit Stonery Farm?’
He shook his head. ‘No, I get on very well with Mr Winter, the owner; it’s a job for one person, really.’ His armpits were damp. He was sweating profusely now and still could not see their faces clearly. He wanted to get back to his office, to his solitude and his lunch and his newspaper. ‘This murder is a terrible thing,’ he went on. ‘I mean, there could be a bad impact on Stonery Farm’s business. I mean, would you want to eat free-range eggs from hens that had been feeding in an area where there was a corpse? I’m not sure I would.’
‘Or eat fish that had been feeding where human body parts were found?’ the woman detective asked.
Whiteley nodded. ‘Very creepy, if you ask me.’ He giggled again, then looked at the two faces glaring at him. At the two bullies. Two unsmiling bullies. ‘I’m very careful what I put in my mouth – what I eat. My body is my temple.’
‘
‘Pardon me?’
‘Dustin Hoffman said that in the movie.’
‘Ah, right.’
There was a brief silence, which Eric Whiteley found increasingly awkward. The two detectives stared at him as if he were a book they were reading. Clearing his throat he said, ‘Um, so how do you feel that I can – you know – assist in your enquiries?’ He grinned again, from nerves.
‘Well,’ Glenn Branson said, ‘it might help if you stopped finding this so funny, Mr Whiteley.’
‘Sorry.’ Eric ran his fingers across his lips. ‘Zipped!’
There was a long silence again. He felt the two detectives just simply staring at him. As if their eyes were full of unasked questions. He squirmed in his chair. He was hungry. He wished he had eaten his sandwich now. And the Twix. But at the same time, his stomach was feeling unsettled. He glanced at his watch. His lunch hour was running out. Ten minutes left.
‘Got a bus to catch?’ Glenn Branson asked. ‘Or a train?’
‘I’m sorry, I’m not with you.’
‘You keep looking at your watch.’
‘Yes, well, I am a bit worried about salmonella. You see, you need to be careful with sandwiches in this heat.’
Once more he clocked the two detectives exchanging a glance. Like some secret code.
Like school bullies.
Branson looked directly at him again, staring into his eyes. ‘Does the name Myles Royce mean anything to you?’
He did not like the bullying stare from the detective and looked down at the table. ‘Myles Royce? No, I don’t think so, why?’
‘You don’t think so?’ Glenn Branson asked. ‘You don’t
The detective’s manner was making him agitated. He was feeling flushed again, his face getting hot. He wanted to be out of this room and back in the sanctuary of his own office. ‘How certain can any of us be of anything in life?’ Eric replied, eyes still fixed on the table. ‘I don’t want to give you a wrong answer. This firm deals with lots of clients and each of them in turn employs lots of people. The name doesn’t mean anything to me today, but I can’t guarantee I’ve never met someone of that name. I wouldn’t want to be accused of misleading you.’
‘I’m not exactly clear,’ Glenn said, speaking very slowly and firmly. ‘Are you saying you’ve never met someone by the name of Myles Royce? Myles Terence Royce?’
Eric closed his eyes for some moments. He was shaking. Then he glared defiantly back at Branson. ‘I will not be bullied. Do I make myself clear?’
80
As Drayton Wheeler clambered down the steps of the coach into the blazing June sunshine, he was perspiring heavily and his wig had become even itchier. A young man, wearing a yellow tabard over a T-shirt and ripped jeans, was bellowing through a megaphone.
‘All extras proceed to the assembly area opposite the front entrance of the Pavilion!’
The street was lined with production trucks and there were heavy-duty cables trailing everywhere. A camera mounted on a dolly sat on a long length of track on the Pavilion lawn. There were gantries of lights high up off the ground; harassed-looking grips and gaffers were working feverishly. The Director of Photography was standing near the camera, taking light measurements and issuing instructions to his crew. To the left, on the tarmac area in front of the Dome, was a cluster of large motorhomes with slide-outs, and it was easy to spot Gaia’s, which was the size of a house, and Judd Halpern’s, only marginally smaller, parked alongside it, power cables and water hoses trailing from each. A huge crowd of onlookers was gathered behind a tape cordon manned by several security guards.
Gathered to watch the filming of scenes he had suggested and which Brooker Brody Productions had stolen.
Oh, they were going to be sorry.
The young man, the third, fourth or fifth Assistant Director, continued to bellow instructions.
Drayton scowled. He shuffled along in the line of extras in their equally hot and uncomfortable costumes.
A hawk-eyed young woman came running up to him, her hair in a messy ponytail, a headset with earpiece and microphone clipped to her head. ‘Sorry,’ she said, holding out her hand. ‘You can’t have that rucksack with you!’
‘I’m a diabetic!’ he snapped back. ‘It has my medication.’
‘I’ll look after it for you – if you need anything in it, just let me know – I’ll be around.’ She reached for the bag and he gripped it tightly.
‘I’m not letting this out of my sight, young lady. Okay?’
‘It’s not okay. People in 1810 did not carry rucksacks!’
Wheeler pointed at the building. ‘Yeah? Let me tell you something. You see that building?’
‘The Pavilion?’
‘Uh huh. You’re telling me rucksacks didn’t exist in 1810?’
‘That’s right!’
‘Yeah, well let me tell you something else. This goddamn fucking Royal Pavilion didn’t exist in 1810 either.’
‘Well,’ she said, smiling, unfazed. ‘This is a movie – we have to cut a little slack here and take some licence with exact dates.’
Gripping his rucksack tightly in his fist he said, ‘Yeah, right. Well, that’s what I’m doing too, I’m cutting a little
