Not Dead Yet

there. I need you to watch the cameras on the streets around the Pavilion for any sign of Eric Whiteley – or Anna Galicia.’

‘Sure – now?’

‘Yes, right away, we have to find him, and fast.’ He looked around. ‘Bella, I want you to blue-light him down there, then meet me at the front of the Pavilion. Okay? Go!’

Bella Moy and Haydn Kelly both stood up hurriedly and headed towards the door. Grace addressed the rest of the team. ‘We all know what Whiteley looks like in both guises – I want as many as possible of us down there looking out for him. I can’t be sure he’s going to turn up, but I’ll be surprised if he doesn’t, and we can’t take the risk of missing him.’

He checked the calls log on his phone, found the numbers corresponding to the time he rang Larry Brooker last night and the time the producer returned the call and rang it again.

‘Brooker.’ He did not sound in a sunny mood.

‘It’s Detective Superintendent Grace, Mr Brooker.’

‘This is not a good moment,’ Brooker said. ‘We’re about to start shooting a major scene. Can I call you back later?’

‘No!’ Grace said emphatically. ‘Is Gaia on set?’

‘She goddamn well isn’t – we’re waiting for her.’

‘Mr Brooker, I need a big favour from you. We believe her life may be in real and present danger. I want to take her under police guard back to her hotel room and keep her there until the threat is over. Is there any filming you could do tonight without involving her?’

‘Detective Grace, she’s already delayed us enough. You have to get real. Stars get threats from crazies regularly. She’s got her own goddamn security, we’ve got the Pavilion’s security, the film unit’s security and we’ve got the whole of your police force. This location is more secure than Fort Knox. A mouse isn’t getting in here without ID. This is the safest place in Brighton right now.’

‘So in which case, how come the chandelier came crashing down yesterday?’

‘Everyone’s tightened up since then. We’ve battened down the hatches. The whole place has been searched. She’ll be totally safe on set – if we can ever get her out of her goddamn trailer.’

Grace hung up, exasperated.

‘What’s happened, chief?’ Glenn Branson asked.

‘Sorry, thought you’d been told. They’ve found Myles Royce’s head.’

Branson looked at him. ‘They have? Where?’

‘In Eric Whiteley’s freezer.’

‘Ohhhhh shit.’

‘Yes, and I have a bad feeling his next intended trophy is Gaia’s. Judging by the state of his house, he’s lost it. He ripped all his Gaia memorabilia to shreds, daubed his walls in anti-Gaia hate slogans and disappeared.’

‘Where do you think he might be?’ Branson asked.

‘I talked to a psychologist this afternoon, who’s written extensively on stalkers and celebrity obsessives, a Dr Tara Lester. She said these obsessive fans frequently build themselves an imaginary relationship with the celeb. They know the celeb is just waiting for that right moment to show reciprocation. That the celeb is, secretly, as much in love with them as they are with the celeb. When they get rejected by the celeb, sometimes they can flip. I think we’re dealing with such a situation now. I think he’s going to position himself near her, either at her hotel or the Pavilion.’

Branson nodded.

‘Forget this evening’s briefing, you and I are going down there ourselves right now.’

114

‘Gaia’s left her trailer, she’s on her way,’ Barnaby Katz announced at last to Larry Brooker and Jack Jordan. Then he listened on his earpiece for a moment to the voice of the Third Assistant Director who was accompanying her, before speaking to the producer and director again. ‘Joe’s with her and there’s two police officers escorting her to the door.’

‘Tell ’em to switch their sirens on and shift it,’ Brooker said impatiently.

The black Range Rover, followed by a marked police car, drove the 300 yards across the lawns to the front of the Pavilion. The police officers hurried out of their car and stood a few feet away, as one of her minders held the rear door open, and the icon slowly emerged, carefully ducking her head so as not to knock her mass of hair against the door frame, or snag any of the multiple layers of her dress and high collar on anything.

There was a ragged cheer from the crowd of general public assembled beyond the wall in New Road, and a whole battery of flashes strobed in the grey, early evening light, as Gaia stepped down on to the drive. She walked slowly, seemingly a little uncertainly, following the AD into the building, then right, along the corridor towards the Banqueting Room.

Into a sea of faces.

A distinct sense of relief spread through the room. Several of the actors at the banqueting table turned to look at her. A make-up artist was working her way around their chairs, dabbing shiny noses and foreheads, and one of the hairdressers was making a minor adjustment to Hugh Bonneville’s wig. Suddenly the entire assembly of actors burst into spontaneous applause.

Oh shit, Brooker thought. Oh shit, she is not going to be happy with this.

It wasn’t the applause of a warm greeting, nor the applause for a fine performance. It was a sarcastic demonstration by her thirty fellow actors that they had not been amused to be kept waiting.

Then, to his amazement, Gaia smiled and curtsied. First to the cast at the table. Then to the Director of Photography and his camera crew. Then to the sound crew. To the continuity girl. To the director and to the producer, and to each grip and spark present. She curtsied as if her career depended on it.

She curtsied smiling and proud, totally misreading the situation, as if relishing being the centre of attention, the centre of adulation that was not there.

Brooker frowned. Her behaviour was totally out of character. There was also something else very strange about her.

115

Roy Grace wondered why, whenever Glenn Branson got behind the wheel of a car, he drove it as if he had just hot-wired it although he now had a legitimate reason. Glenn was weaving through the thinning rush hour, on blues and twos, and Grace spent much of the journey fearing for his life, or the life of anyone who stepped into their path. To distract himself, he phoned and updated first the Chief Constable, via his Staff Officer, and then ACC Rigg.

At 6.30 p.m., just seven minutes after leaving Sussex House, they tore into the Pavilion grounds and pulled up behind a black Range Rover. Grace was a little relieved to see that already the police presence here was markedly increased from yesterday.

As they walked up to the front entrance, two uniformed security guards, each wearing earpieces, blocked their path. ‘Sorry, gentlemen,’ said one of them. ‘No one’s allowed in, they’re about to start shooting.’

Grace fished out his warrant card and held it up.

The same guard shook his head. ‘Sir, you don’t understand, they’re about to do a take. There has to be absolute silence. I can’t let you in until they’ve finished this scene.’

‘We’ll be quiet,’ Grace said. ‘This is an emergency.’

‘I’m afraid they’ve already lost almost an hour tonight. Madam’s been in a particularly tricky mood, if you get my drift,’ one guard said. He had a nicotine-stained moustache, a stocky but bolt-upright posture, and exuded the officious, no-nonsense air of a former army Sergeant-Major.