Final Act

ONE

‘Shoot the buggers!’ said Sam Jackson. He spoke without emotion but with utter certainty. He was used to being obeyed.

His deputy sighed inwardly and blanched outwardly. Ernie Clark knew that his role was to exercise caution, to bring a little balance into their activities. ‘I think we need to use a little discretion over that.’

‘Discretion is bollocks. I didn’t become a successful producer through discretion.’ Sam removed the huge cigar from between his teeth and tapped an inch of whitish ash into the ashtray beside him. He didn’t read many books, but he’d read about Hollywood and Samuel Goldwyn at MGM and decided Goldwyn was the man he wished to emulate. Television and not the cinema was Jackson’s world, but his image was that of the movie mogul, and his method was to hire and fire like old Sam and to ensure in every way he could that his word was law around here.

Ernie Clark said, ‘The British like subtlety. They prefer the puzzle of a whodunit to wholesale violence. They don’t relish too many shootings or too much blood on their television.’

‘Screw the British!’ Sam had done quite a lot of that in his time, though he was slowing up a little now. A continual string of nubile girls presented themselves hopefully to him for auditions and the casting couch was one of the Hollywood features he had enthusiastically imported into Britain. But fifty-four years, seventeen stones, an insistently increasing girth and last year’s heart attack had moderated his lubricity. Or, as he put it succinctly, ‘made him use his dick more selectively.’ He waved his cigar in the wide, vague arc which was all too familiar to Ernie Clark. ‘We sell in forty-nine countries, so the British can go screw themselves.’

His deputy sighed again. This was a ritual they went through about once a month. His role was to put the economic arguments, but his boss wasn’t really interested in any debate. Jackson was by no means as stupid as some people thought him, but he felt it necessary for his image to wave his cigar and assert his vulgarity. Clark said patiently, ‘The money which finances the Inspector Loxton series is largely British. The series is set in Britain and our initial target audience is British. It is the audience figures here which help to sell the series around the world.’

‘So give ’em what they really want. Reward them for their loyalty. Let the women drop their knickers and let the men who shag them get blasted to kingdom come. Sex and violence: it’s a universal formula, that; it works anywhere in the world!’ Jackson waved his cigar again and smiled his satisfaction; Sam Goldwyn must surely have said things like that in his heyday.

‘That approach might work in a different series, boss, but not in this one. We have established a rather more sedate kind of mystery and we have a loyal following. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.’ Ernie could bandy clichés with the best of them, when he felt it necessary.

Even Sam Jackson could not ignore the voice of commerce. ‘You reckon? You think we can keep the viewing figures without blood and gore and bare buttocks?’

‘For the Inspector Loxton series, yes. It’s built around puzzles, not blood and tits and bums, Sam. We have our murders, of course, and they can be gory if you want that, but the main interest is the whodunit one. Our audience is interested in how Loxton unravels the mystery, not in him blasting the villains concerned off the face of the earth.’

Jackson nodded the reluctant acceptance he had always planned. He’d still get a few drawers to drop in a more private context, if he hadn’t lost his touch with actresses. But the latest Loxton mystery would unlock itself in the traditional manner. A hardheaded businessman lurked beneath his determined vulgarity. ‘OK, Clarky, on your own head be it. Where we going for this one?’ As producer, Jackson left Clark to determine locations, but took the responsibility to set up everything else necessary for successful filming. He did that with an efficiency which surprised those who saw only his cigars and his coarseness. The success of the series meant that his budget had increased and things were easier now, but he knew that every day saved in the compiling of an episode added many thousands of pounds to the profits.

‘I’ve found us an ideal area in Herefordshire and Gloucestershire. Nice little hamlet which we can cordon off easily for shooting, lots of green English countryside all around to add to the charm. Not too far from where we’ve filmed before but very rural. We shouldn’t be troubled by the crowds of curious spectators who slowed us down in the last series.’

It was one of the penalties of success that interested fans gathered around the shooting locations. An enterprising coach company had even begun tours of ‘Loxton country’ around the original Oxfordshire setting.

Jackson nodded. ‘How’s the casting going?’

Clark knew what was expected of him here. Jackson nowadays employed others to do most of the recruiting, but he retained overall control of casting. He liked to interview females for minor roles himself. One of the perks of power, though no one acknowledged it openly as such. ‘Most of the major roles are ongoing and we continue to use the people we’ve had in them from the start. There’s a publican’s wife and a couple of small waitress roles which we haven’t cast yet. I thought you might be able to help us with those.’

‘Sandra Rokeby, you thought.’ Sam was studiously low-key. Rokeby had begun her career as a curvaceous page three bimbo. She had progressed from that to appearances in low-key British comedies where she usually managed to remove most of her clothes. She was well into her forties now, but she retained the kind of buxom presence which would still bring audience interest in a smallish role.

‘Yes. She’d be another well-known name for us. And rumour has it that she hasn’t been offered very much lately. She might be glad of the exposure we could give her.’

Jackson leered his delight in the double entendre. ‘I’ll see her if you like. Do what I can to recruit her to our gallant enterprise.’

‘That would be useful, boss. See what your persuasive tongue can do for us.’ He stared carefully out of the window on that.

Sam Jackson wrote ‘Sandra Rokeby’ in large careful letters on the pad in front of him.

Ernie Clark waited until he had his boss’s attention again. ‘Nearly everything else is in place. I thought we could call this one something like Horror in Herefordshire. People like a bit of alliteration. We should begin shooting at the end of April. I’m trying to arrange some advance publicity for us. If we get the locals involved we should be able to get some television coverage as we move into the area.’

Three months later, Chief Superintendent John Lambert was waiting to see his chief constable. Not many things made Lambert nervous. He realized now that a chief constable who was thirteen years his junior was one of them.

Even as a chief superintendent, you didn’t meet your chief constable very often. The public demanded nowadays that their senior bureaucrats should be perpetually available to them, ready to comment on whatever might seem to be even vaguely within their province. All aspects of human behaviour seemed nowadays to demand some kind of reaction from chief constables. CCs had to be careful to give due attention to whatever statements they made. One of the consequences was that they weren’t in direct touch with their senior staff as they would have been thirty years ago, when John Lambert was a fresh-faced and eager young detective constable. Gordon Armstrong, chief constable of Gloucester and Herefordshire now for thirteen months, conveyed these thoughts to Lambert as they stirred their coffee and smiled warily at each other.

These were the preliminaries; John Lambert was wondering still why he had been summoned here. Was it for congratulation or for reprimand? He couldn’t recall any recent occasion for either of these. He nibbled his ginger biscuit and waited.

Not for long. Gordon Armstrong had allotted twenty minutes to this meeting in the midst of a crowded day and he needed to get on with it. He hoped Lambert recognized the honour accorded to him by the china crockery and the coffee and biscuits. He summoned a smile and said, ‘You like the theatre, I believe, John.’

‘Christine and I visit the one at Malvern three or four times a year. They provide some interesting productions.’

‘They do indeed. I try to get along there myself, whenever I can make the time for it.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘And now some prominent actors are to be not on the stage and distant but among us. Asking for our assistance, indeed. Have you heard about the latest case of Chief Inspector Loxton?’

Lambert was immediately and instinctively cautious. ‘I’ve read a little in the local press, sir.’

‘The Gloucester Citizen got quite excited about it. And legitimately so, I suppose. The actors and extras and the whole supporting television crew will be bringing employment and a little harmless excitement into our area.’

‘I suppose they will, sir, yes.’ Play a straight defensive bat; don’t risk any shots unless you have to. Let this smooth young bureaucrat make the running. Don’t take the initiative until you know what he’s about.

‘Causing quite a stir among the locals. They’ll be filming in your area, I’m told. Within just a few miles of Oldford.’

‘Will they want roads closed off, sir? Because if they do I’m sure—’

‘Oh, it’s nothing like that, John. We can safely leave the traffic police to cope with all of that, can’t we? This is something altogether more original and more worthy of your talents.’

This must be the googly coming up; John didn’t know which way it was going to turn. He didn’t like the continued use of his first name. In his considerable experience that rarely prefaced good news. ‘My talents are limited and severely concentrated upon CID work, sir. I flatter myself that I’m a good taker of villains, but my career has been narrowly focussed upon serious crime and its perpetrators, sir.’

‘Come, John, you’re too modest, I’m sure! It can’t have escaped your notice that even the national press has taken to calling you the super sleuth. You’re something of a celebrity.’

‘I’m sure that’s an exaggeration. And it’s not my doing; I’ve always shunned publicity rather than courted it. I still do.’

‘I know you do, John. But success brings its own challenges. And I am about to present you with one.’

The bouncer at last. Time to open your shoulders and smite it out of the ground. ‘I don’t want anything to do with the media, sir. I’m not good with the media. We have trained officers to do that.’

‘We have indeed, but they’re not suitable for every occasion. Sometimes the task demands a public figure. And the police service has to consider public relations now more than ever. We get a bad press too often. When we get a chance to remedy that, we have to take it with both hands.’

Just as my attempt to hit this ball out of the ground is being caught with both hands on the boundary, Lambert thought desperately. He became apologetic when he should have been vehement. ‘PR really isn’t my strength, sir.’

‘But they’ve asked for you by name, John. Sometimes our fame seeks us out, whether we wish it or not.’ Armstrong smiled benignly, giving his chief super the impression that he was quite enjoying this.

Lambert sighed. ‘What exactly is the nature of this assignment, sir? It’s possible I could suggest someone more suitable to carry it out.’

‘There can be no one more suitable than our local super sleuth, John.’ Armstrong beamed broadly and his junior was quite certain now that the younger man was enjoying this. ‘The company who are to film this murder mystery on our patch want you to help them. It won’t require much preparation on your part.’

‘I don’t even watch the Inspector Loxton series, sir. Crime fiction on the box irritates me. They make so many mistakes on procedure. They say things and take actions which would never be allowed to us.’

‘I think he’s Chief Inspector Loxton now, John. My wife is a fan of the series. And I suppose it provides harmless amusement for people who might otherwise be making mischief. But I’m glad you feel as you do, because it makes you the ideal man for the job.’

‘What job, sir?’ Lambert asked dully. It was another bad move, but he sensed now that he was beaten. Perhaps he might at least be able to cut his losses if he was quick upon his ageing feet.

Gordon Armstrong smiled as if savouring some private joke. ‘The company making the series wants you to appear with the producer or director, John. To compare and contrast real crime with the way it is portrayed on television – with particular reference to their series, of course.’

‘Of course indeed, sir. Their series is all that concerns them. This is no more than a publicity exercise on their part. Advance notice of the series, with real coppers portrayed as PC Plods compared with their brilliant and intelligent shortcutters.’

‘You’re absolutely right, John, as usual. But we mustn’t be negative. This is an opportunity to put the point of view you just expressed so forcefully. You can talk about the problems of real policing and the way they are airily dismissed in television crime dramas. I can think of no one better qualified to do that.’

‘Bullshit, sir! With all respect.’ He’d never expected to use that word to a chief constable.

‘But the public needs our bullshit, John. Provided of course that we shovel it to them with skill. And when you put your mind to it, I’m confident there is no more efficient shoveller in the service.’

Sir Bradley Morton broke wind. Loudly, lengthily, luxuriantly.

The sound reverberated round the lounge of the guesthouse, then rumbled away like departing thunder. Sir Bradley waited for a reaction from the only other occupant of the room and received none. The younger actor clenched his newspaper a little more firmly and remained resolutely behind it.

The theatre veteran tried not to sound disappointed as he dropped automatically into the words he had uttered hundreds of times before in similar moments of release. ‘Better out than in!’

David Deeney lowered his newspaper now. He stared critically at his senior. The lion of the theatre badly needed a haircut, he decided. The grey hair stretched untidily over his collar at the back. The old rascal was looking older, he decided, and not entirely healthy. His nose was redder and slightly more bulbous than when he had last appeared with him two years earlier. That wouldn’t matter too much for this television enterprise: the make-up girls would handle it. They would need to earn their money where Sir Bradley was concerned, but no doubt they were well used to ageing celebrities and outsize egos.

No doubt his customary over-the-top performance would be well received in Herefordshire Horrors, which now seemed to be the agreed title for the latest episode on the Inspector Loxton series. There had been plenty of deaths in previous episodes, but no one took them too seriously. A rising number of well-known theatrical names had now lent their presence to the series. Sometimes they had to deliver the lamest lines with tongues firmly in well-practised cheeks, but the considerable public who watched them seemed to accept that almost eagerly. The ratings were good enough to ensure high salaries for guest appearances and the repeat fees from around the world provided steady pensions for some eminent names who were now being offered fewer roles.

‘Always better out than in.’ Sir Bradley repeated his observation, as if he were offering a final chance to a lesser actor who had failed to come in on cue.

‘That could be a subject for lively and extended debate,’ said David, making an elaborate show of opening the window and gazing towards the late-afternoon sun over the Malvern Hills. He had a better part than Morton’s cameo role in the latest murder mystery. Nothing could take that away from him, so he would tolerate the old boy. He might even pick up a few theatrical anecdotes for the autobiography he envisaged later in his career, though most of the ones he had heard so far were second-hand and over-rehearsed.

‘One of the classic English dramas begins with a fart,’ said Sir Bradley with a benign smile. It was good to display your knowledge of the stage to the ignorant young. They weren’t steeped in the theatre and its lore, as people had been in his day.

‘The Alchemist, you mean,’ said David loftily. Thy worst – I fart at thee. I’m sure that first line got the audience’s immediate attention in its day, but it’s difficult to shock anyone nowadays. We did our own production of The Alchemist when I was at RADA.’

Morton tried not to look put out. ‘Some people can fart at will. I never mastered that.’

‘For which relief, much thanks,’ David answered.

‘Le Pétomane. That was the chap. Stage name of Joseph Pujol, the noted French flatulist. That doesn’t mean he played the flute, you know.’

‘No. It means he made a living from farting. Used to play well-known tunes – he could do O Sole Mio and the Marseillaise, so he must have been both a romantic and a patriot. He could also blow a candle out from several yards away. Great favourite of Edward VII, apparently, when he was Prince of Wales.’

Sir Bradley was considerably put out, though he strove to conceal it. It was always a bugger when your amusing stage stories were taken over by some upstart who should have more respect for your standing in matters of histrionic history. He said sullenly, ‘Must have put a great strain on the poor sod.’

‘He lived from 1857 to 1945, I believe. Eighty-eight years old when he died, so it couldn’t have done him much harm. Friend of mine did a dissertation upon him. Used to breathe in through his arse and then expel the air again, so I suppose strictly speaking he wasn’t farting. His stage assistant must have been grateful for that.’

‘Lived a little too early, didn’t he? He’d probably get a BAFTA for it nowadays.’

‘Even a knighthood, perhaps, in these enlightened times.’

Sir Bradley stared at him darkly, but failed to catch his eye. ‘No one would raise an eyebrow about farting on stage nowadays. Not with all the kitchen sink stuff your generation is so fond of.’

David Deeney was forty-four. He said firmly, ‘Kitchen sink had been and gone long before I was on the scene.’

Morton nodded slowly. ‘I remember Larry doing Archie Rice in The Entertainer, you know. Caused quite a stir in theatrical circles, that did.’ He’d never spoken to Olivier in his life, but the great man had been dead for many years now and it seemed safe to claim a certain kinship with him. Most people brighten when they think of their youth, and actors more than most. Brad smiled fondly as he said, ‘Rex Harrison used to fart a lot, you know, in My Fair Lady. That was involuntary rather than controlled, though. Julie Andrews told me all about it.’ The famous songstress had actually recounted it in a distant television interview, but Bradley thought it was long enough ago for him to retell it as a personal confidence.

‘I didn’t know that, no.’

‘Oh, yes. Julie as Eliza took great care not to get downwind of him, as you might say.’ He chuckled at the excellence of his wordplay. ‘Her mum and dad were great troupers, you know. Ted and Barbara Andrews. Stalwarts of the music hall and radio in their great days, before the box took over. They introduced Julie to the stage as a teenager. Well before your time, lad.’ It was before Morton’s as well, but sufficiently vague in period for him to embrace hearsay as part of his personal experience.

David said, ‘Television is a more intimate medium. I don’t suppose there’ll be any call for farting in the next few weeks.’

It was an attempt to bring the old man back to present concerns, but Sir Bradley wasn’t ready for that yet. ‘I could never fart at will,’ he said soulfully, wondering if he was admitting to a major theatrical weakness. ‘But I’ve been able to belch