‘. .no, sir, it’s too soon to promise an arrest’s on its way to the media, but between you and me: we’re confident. . Yes. . Right. .’
And then the guard was back, holding a pair of ID cards dangling from fluorescent orange lanyards. He handed them through the window. ‘Make sure your pass is visible at all times. Go round the production block, there’s overflow parking in front of Soundstage One. Five miles an hour, tops.’ He leaned into the car again. ‘Not fifteen, not thirty: five.’
‘Just make sure someone knows we’re coming.’
The parking barrier jerked up and Logan eased the pool car over the threshold into tinsel town. Or what passed for it in the north-east of Scotland.
A pair of big grey warehouses sat behind the office block. Logan followed the road around at a glacial five miles per hour.
‘. .aye, sir, you can count on me.’ Steel hung up, then peered out at Soundstage One. It was at least four storeys tall, with a big ‘1’ stencilled up the front in gold paint. ‘You and me are in the wrong business, Laz. Looks like the dirty movies is where the money is.’
‘We’re making substantial progress? ’
A tanned young woman in denim shorts and a cut-off T-shirt flip-flopped past pushing a rail of what looked like nuns’ costumes.
Steel grinned. ‘That’s your global recession for you. Every bugger’s got to cut back on the frivolous stuff like food and heating, but they’ll no’ give up their porn.’
Logan pulled up in one of the bays marked out in yellow paint beside the soundstage door, ignoring the ‘REVERSE PARK ONLY’ notice. ‘The ACC’s going to know it was all bullshit. We’re no nearer finding out who necklaced that poor sod than we were two days ago.’
‘The ACC believes what I tell him to believe.’ She slapped Logan on the chest. ‘Now shut up: you’re harshing my pre-porn tingles.’
A thin young man marched over from the office block, a leather satchel slung across one shoulder. Long hair, knee-length shorts, blue plimsoles, ‘BOD IS MY CO-PILOT’ T-shirt, and thick-rimmed glasses. Half a dozen friendship bracelets dangled tatty braided tails from his left wrist. He reached the car as they climbed out. Grinned at them. Then pulled an iPad in a red leather case from his manbag and fiddled with it. Then nodded. ‘Hi, you’re. . Logan and Roberta, right? Can I see your passes? ’
Logan handed them both over.
‘Right, I actually need you to wear these, OK? And make sure they’re visible. We’ve had a bit of a problem with unauthorized people. .’ He gave the passes back.
As soon as Logan put his on, the young man took a photo of him with the iPad. He did the same with Steel. ‘Cool, all in the system. OK, well, my name’s Jack,’ he jiggled his own pass at them, ‘I’m the go-to guy round here, so if there’s anything you need: let me know. Right, let’s do this.’
Jack turned on his heel and marched off around the side of Soundstage One.
Steel licked her lips, a frown creasing up the terrain of her forehead. ‘Why am I getting a bad feeling about this? ’
They followed him, past a stack of foam and fibreglass bodies, most of which had bits hacked off.
He looked back over his shoulder. ‘I know, creepy right? You should see them when they’re all wired up by the FX guys, it’s totally amazing. Got to hold onto them till we finish pickups, just in case.’
Steel dropped her voice to a hissing whisper. ‘What kind of porno needs a big pile of mangled corpses? ’
Logan stuck his hands in his pockets. ‘Jack, you been here a while? ’
‘Since the very start! It’s been. . an amazing experience. Seriously, what an introduction to the business, right? ’
‘Do you remember an Agnes Garfield? ’
‘Oh, my, God.’ He rolled his eyes, one hand pressed against his chest. ‘Could she have
Steel shrugged. ‘Wouldn’t know.’
‘Right, here we are.’ Jack swept his arms out, encompassing the front of another dirty big warehouse, this one with the number ‘2’ painted in silver all up the front and over the massive sliding doors. If anything it was even larger than the first one. ‘Oh-oh, we’ve got a red light, so we’re going to have to wait here for a minute or two.’
Logan rested his back against the warm metal wall. ‘They had to throw her off the studio lot three times? ’
‘I
Steel puckered her lips. ‘What, stark bollock naked with a stiffy and wee ID card dangling about? ’
Jack’s smile slipped a little. ‘A. . stiffy? ’
‘Aye, between scenes. When they’re no’ humping? ’
His mouth fell open a half-inch. Then clacked shut again, and the insincere smile was back. ‘Well, that’s us got a green light now. Shall we? ’
17
Steel stood in the doorway and stared. Soundstage Two was massive, broken up into different sets. The biggest was a four-storey block of flats in partial cutaway, the rooms full of battered furniture and grubby wallpaper, with what looked like a water tank at the bottom. Three people in dirty coveralls and facemasks were spray- painting stains onto one of the rooms.
Then there was a shanty town at the foot of a cliff, and the inside of what might have been a fishing boat. They all backed onto vast sweeps of green fabric marked with little yellow crosses. But other than a handful of people doing set-dressing, the locations were deserted. All the real activity was taking place around the set in the far corner — a sort of circular House of Commons, with raked green leather bench seating and carved woodwork, arranged around a central island of red carpet and a massive brass lectern.
Half of the set was green-screen, but they’d built a segment of wall with more benches, a couple of balconies, and a curved ceiling painted blue with gold stars.
Two figures walked towards the middle of the round floor. One was wearing a black robe speckled with gold embroidery, his bald patch surrounded by thick grey hair that cascaded down to the middle of his back. The other was. . stunning: long ginger curls, elfin face, little upturned nose, and a perfect bow of a mouth. Nichole Fyfe. Much more impressive in the flesh than she was on the TV yesterday morning. A dark scar jagged down through her pale skin, starting at her left temple, across her big blue eye, and all the way down her cheek, separating the freckles. Black jeans, black leather frock coat, red silk shirt, black leather gloves. A long-handled old-fashioned pipe jutted out between her teeth — just like the one he’d found in Agnes Garfield’s Harry Potter hideaway — puffing smoke signals out in the studio lights.
A camera dolly followed them along the track — its operator sitting on the round stool mounted to the metal framework, fiddling with knobs and buttons, while someone else pushed the thing back into place.
A voice crackled out through speakers, hidden somewhere on the set. ‘
Jack pulled a face, then jerked his head towards a cluster of monitors and cables. ‘Oops, better be quick.’ He hurried over, beckoning Logan and Steel after him.
Enthroned on a folding director’s chair, at the heart of the nest of cables, was a huge man — tall and wide, with a bizarre hairstyle that looked as if he’d attached a lopsided shark’s fin to his head then sprayed it scarlet. The goatee beard was an unnatural shade of Just-For-Men black. His thin rectangular glasses glinted in the reflected light of a little TV screen. ‘OK, everyone, we’re running scene three-sixty-two. .’
