Close to the Bone

‘You should’ve spoken to him yesterday. And I don’t appreciate you chatting up my lead actress.’

‘I wasn’t chatting. .’ Every bloody time. ‘Is the writer here? ’

‘Mr Hunter is in conference room two. Try not to piss him off, or he’ll spend the rest of the day hitting the gin and we’ll get nothing decent out of him till tomorrow afternoon.’

‘Can’t promise anything. .’ He craned his neck, scanning the soundstage. ‘Now, have you seen PC Sim? ’

Conference room two was thick with the dark scent of freshly brewed coffee — a percolator gurgling away to itself in one corner of the large rectangular room. A load of desks had been pushed together to make one huge surface, the top nearly invisible beneath piles of different-coloured paper covered in scribbles and highlighter pen. The blinds were down, leaving the room to slump in the unsympathetic glare of fluorescent lighting. One wall was completely plastered in yellow, green, and orange Post-it notes, the opposite one hiding behind what looked like A4 frames from a storyboard.

The room’s only occupant sat in the middle, frowning at the screen of a laptop, a ‘WORLD’S WORST DAD’ mug sitting by his mouse. Mid-forties; curly hair surrounding a high, domed forehead that shone in the overhead lights; goatee beard; glasses obviously bought to look ‘hip’ and ‘with it’, but failing.

Sim grabbed Logan’s sleeve. ‘Eek! That’s him!’

Logan produced his warrant card. ‘Mr Hunter? ’

The man didn’t look up from his screen, just waved a hand at the far corner of the desk. ‘Just put them over there, and tell David I’ve solved his continuity problem with four-fifteen.’

‘Police, Mr Hunter. I’m Detective Inspector McRae, this is PC Sim. We need to ask you a few questions.’

He peered at them over the top of his glasses. ‘You haven’t brought the sandwiches? ’

Logan pulled out a chair and sat. ‘Sim, why don’t you get us all a cup of coffee. I’m sure Mr Hunter would like a refill.’

‘Mmmpnnnn. .? ’ She fidgeted for a moment, blushed, then scurried off to fiddle with the percolator.

Hunter shifted a stack of scripts to one side, and picked up a copy of the Scottish Sun. ‘Let me guess, you’re here about this? ’ The headline, ‘SICKO SATANIC KILLER COPIES FILM MURDER SCENE’ sat above a photo of the house in Kintore, and an artist’s impression of the Ring Knot from Witchfire.

Logan took out his notebook. ‘Do you have a lot of fans, Mr Hunter? ’

‘Why do the police always have to use people’s last names? Is it meant to intimidate us? ’

‘It’s meant to be polite.’

‘Then you can call me William. I hate Will, Willy, Billy, and Bill, so don’t bother.’ He dumped the paper on the table. ‘And yes, I have a lot of fans. Got so many emails I’ve had to employ a young woman to pretend to be me. Which is ironic, it’s normally the other way round on the internet. But all that, “Where do you get your ideas from?” “Who would you cast in a film?” “When’s the next book out?” was driving me mad.’

‘What about. . the more obsessive ones? ’

His mouth stretched out and down. ‘Nutters, you mean? Every writer gets them. People who think the characters are real, people who think they’ve got the right to tell you how to do your job, people who want to be Fingermen, people who want me to write their life story. You name it, I’ve had it.’

Sim plonked a coffee down in front of Logan, her hand shaking hard enough to slop some out over the side and onto the blue pages from a revised script. Then she scurried around to the other side and picked up Hunter’s ‘WORLD’S WORST DAD’ mug and took it round to the percolator.

‘And it’s got worse since they started making the film? ’

‘Pfff. .’ He scratched at the curls fringing his big shiny forehead. ‘Like mushrooms in a damp basement. Still, I suppose it’s a small price to pay. I was fed up of being screwed around by the big Hollywood studios promising the earth, then delivering sod all. Eight times this thing was going to be made, before fizzling out. Eight times.’ He swept his hands out, gesturing at the table and its piles of paper. ‘But this time I get a percentage and a say in the production, so I let them have the rights cheap. Of course, I’m stuck in here, rewriting scenes, but at least the thing’s actually getting made.’ He let his hands fall back to the tabletop. ‘Mind you, soon as they found out, the nutters came out in force.’

‘Did any strike you as particularly odd, or threatening? Anyone speak about necklacing witches, or torturing them? ’

‘I don’t even read most of them. If I did I’d have no time to get any writing done.’

Sim put the mug back on the table, by the laptop, blushing so hard she couldn’t have been far off spontaneously combusting.

Hunter nodded at her. ‘Thanks.’

The blush grew even darker and Sim just stood there, staring at him, not saying anything.

He patted her on the arm. ‘It’s all right, I don’t bite. Would you like a signed book? I’m sure there’s a copy or three knocking about here somewhere.’

‘Eeek. .’

Logan took out his Grampian Police business card and passed it across the tabletop. ‘Your woman who answers the fan mail, can she forward everything suspicious on to us? ’

‘Don’t know if she keeps it, but we can find out. .’ He moved the mouse about and clicked on things for a moment, then his fingers rattled across the laptop’s keyboard like machine-gun fire. ‘Done. She’s in Iowa, so it might take a while. I can never remember how many hours they are behind UK time.’

‘But you’ve not noticed anyone hanging around, behaving suspiciously? ’

Hunter raised an eyebrow. ‘The place is full of actors and film people, Inspector. All they do is behave suspiciously.’

It looked as if Anthony Chung’s parents were actually home this time. An ugly Alfa Romeo four-by-four and a silver Porsche sat on the driveway behind the gates, both of them looking brand new, with custom number plates. Hard to believe that only three people lived in a house that big; a football team would have rattled around in it.

PC Sim pulled up at the kerb and peered out through the rain-flecked windscreen. ‘Not short of a bob or two, then. Probably explains why their kid turned out the way he did. Rich and spoiled.’

‘And dead.’ Logan set his phone on silent, climbed out of the car, and hurried up the path to the front door — huddling under the porch as Sim ambled after him, glancing back over her shoulder every couple of steps at the signed limited edition hardback copy of Witchfire on the dashboard.

She straightened her stab-proof vest. Then reached for the doorbell. Ravel’s Bolero kicked in, followed by the bellowing of the massive Alsatian.

There was a buzz, then a woman’s voice crackled from the intercom, mounted beneath a security camera. ‘Who is it? ’ The accent was posh and English. One of those BBC announcer voices, before they went all regional.

Sim took a step back, looking up into the lens. ‘Mrs Chung? It’s the police.’

Inside, the dog was going mental. Barking and barking and barking.

‘Can I see some identification please? ’

As if the ninja black outfit with stab-proof vest, airwave handset, utility belt, and bowler hat with a chequered band around it wasn’t enough. Sim held her warrant card up to the camera. ‘We need to talk to you about Anthony.’

A pause. Then, ‘Yes. Yes, of course. .’ Click. The intercom went silent.

Sim puffed out her cheeks. ‘How do you want to play this, Guv? ’

‘Rock, paper, scissors? ’

Logan sat on the sofa in an opulent lounge. White walls, oil paintings, life-sized marble statue of a tiger with bronze stripes, deep-red leather furniture, and a cream carpet. The kind of room that probably got dirty if you looked at it.

Mrs Chung stood by the oversized marble fireplace, fidgeting with the heavy gold bracelet on her wrist. She was immaculately dressed in a red silk jacket and blue jeans, long glossy black hair framing a delicately featured face. An Alsatian sitting at her feet like a statue of Anubis. She cleared her throat. ‘Is this. . Should I get you a cup of tea or something? ’

Sim took off her bowler and held it against her chest. ‘Maybe you should have a seat.’

‘Oh no. .’