The Death of an Actor (The Bentley Hill Players Book 3) Page 8

  "Oh hello, Chris," said Zoe, coming over to them. "Mnnh," she said to Sophie.

  Sophie grunted in response.

  "What're you doing? Bit of shoe shopping?" asked Chris.

  "No, wish I was. My dad was interviewed by the news earlier, and he's disappeared. Nobody knows where he is, and he's not answering his phone. I'm getting quite worried, he was in a really bad mood. I've been going round the shops asking if anyone saw him."

  "Oh no!" said Chris. "We should help you find him!"

  "Er, no," said Sophie. "Zoe's a big girl, she can look for him herself. C'mon, we've got shoes to buy."

  "But he did look really upset on the news."

  "You saw it?" asked Zoe. "That's not what he's really like..."

  "No, he's far worse," said Sophie. "He's the sort that would try and have a community hall demolished, and kill a parrot."

  "That's not true!" said Zoe.

  "No, it's not!" agreed Chris.

  Sophie looked at Chris incredulously. "You were there when he was trying to get rid of the hall!"

  "Well, yes. But that doesn't mean he would kill a parrot!"

  "It doesn't mean he wouldn't either!"

  "Look, it doesn't matter," said Zoe. "I'll find him on my own."

  "No, I'll help," said Chris.

  "You'll help look for the man you were calling a loony half an hour ago?"

  "Yes."

  "You called my dad a loony?" asked Zoe.

  "Er...maybe. A little bit. But even if he is a loony, you're still kind and compassionate, very pretty, and always nice to me."

  Sophie crossed her arms and tilted her head to one side. She stuck her chin out, and one of her hips.

  "She's pretty, is she?"

  "Er..yes. I mean, no. I mean, er, oh, er. Hmm. Oh, look at that! They're selling hot dogs over there!"

  Both girls looked, and Chris ran off down the street.

  "I'll deal with you later, Crumple!" Sophie shouted after him.

  "You want to watch him, Sophie. A nice boy like that. I could take him away from you anytime I wanted..."

  Which was the last thing Zoe remembered saying before finding herself on the floor with a sore chin, and a view of Sophie chasing Chris down the street.

  ***

  Harry's front door burst open.

  "Oi! Did you ever think of knock..."

  "SHE'S GONNA KILL ME!"

  "Who?"

  "SOPHIE! QUICK, HIDE ME UNDER THE TABLE!"

  Chris crawled under the small coffee table and curled up. The coffee table's feet no longer touched the floor, as the table now rested on his back.

  "What did you do?"

  "I told Zoe I thought she was pretty."

  "So?"

  "Sophie was standing next to me."

  "You're a dead man, mate. Shall I ring the priest? You need the last rites and all that?"

  Sophie charged in through the still open door.

  "WHERE IS HE? Oh, never mind. I can see him. Hi, Harry, sorry for barging in..."

  "Oh, it's quite all right. There's nothing on the telly at the moment."

  "COME OUT FROM UNDER THERE YOU LITTLE WORM!"

  "I'm sorry!" said Chris.

  "TOO LATE!"

  "No, you misunderstand. I'm sorry, there eez no Chreez here. Eez only man from Spain. I 'ere on 'oliday."

  Sophie bit her lip and tried not to laugh. She caught Harry's eye and they both started giggling.

  "Really?" said Harry. "What's the weather like?"

  "Eez not what I ham used to. Eez rern."

  "Is what?" asked Sophie.

  "Rern."

  "Rern?"

  "Rern. From clerds. In the sker."

  "I think he's having some sort of attack," said Harry. "ARE YOU OK UNDER THERE, MR SPANISH MAN?"

  "Mah name is Luigi!"

  "Is that right?" asked Sophie. "You're a Spanish man, hiding under a table, with an Italian name?"

  "Eez correct. 'Cept eez not table, eez caravan."

  "No, it's definitely a table."

  "No, eez not. Anyways, nice talking to you, I gotta go. I leff the gas on."

  "OK, bye then. I'm going too," said Sophie. She stamped her feet a few times and shut the front door.

  "Phew! That was close, Harry," said Chris coming out from under the table. "I think she bought it. It's not like I think Zoe's pretty. Sophie's pretty. No, gorgeous. Maybe Zoe is a bit pretty, but Sophie's absolutely gorgeous. I love her. Sophie, I mean. And nothing will change that. Except that she might kill me. Harry? Oh, bugger. Hi Sophie."

  "You're a complete idiot," she said, hugging him tightly.

  Chapter 14

  Lillian opened the door a little, keeping the chain on. She peered out through the crack.

  "What do you want me to do?"

  "I want you," hissed Tom, "To get yourself on the TV news, and tell the world that I didn't murder that blasted parrot!"

  "I don't think they broadcast the local news to the world..."

  "It doesn't matter! People round here will think I'm a loon, and I'm clearly not!"

  Lillian looked him up and down. During his walk from the marketplace, his shirt had become untucked, his hair had blown in every direction, he had somehow managed to get mud on his trousers, ripped his shirt, and lost one of his shoes. And now he stood outside the house of an old woman, asking for her help in proving he didn't murder a parrot.

  "No, Tom, clearly you aren't a loon."

  "I went to see Jim, and he said the parrot was probably ill when you got it. It's either that, or you murdered it, because I had nothing to do with it!"

  "Well I'm not going on the tellybox to say I did it! And the viewers won't believe a frail old woman like me, especially if I say it was a poorly bird to start with."

  "You're the only one who can get me out of this mess. You are the evidence I need."

  "That's not necessarily true."

  "No, it's spot on, I'm telling you..."

  "No, no, no. You see, I got the parrot from up the road. From Mr Cornhen. Maybe, and this is just the intuition of an old woman, maybe Mr Conehead knows something. See, he said the parrot was too loud, and I agree that it was. But he did seem quite keen to get rid of it. I think that parrot might not even have been his. Wait! It wasn't! He got it from a man with another bird that could look after itself! He knew! He knew! He knew it was ill! He gave it to me so that when it died, I'd get the blame! And now you've got the blame! But really, Mr Coldmen did it!"

  "You honestly expect me to believe the man up the street did it?"

  "No, he didn't do it. The bird just died. But he knew it was ill...and didn't want to deal with it. If you can get him to admit it, you'll be in the clear. But be careful."

  "Careful? Why?"

  "I think he might have knives. He's opening a butcher's, you see."

  ***

  Evening started to fall as Tom walked up the street towards the front door that Lillian had indicated. He stood outside, preparing himself to knock, and inhaled deeply. An obnoxious stench filled his nostrils, and caused him to have a coughing fit.

  "If anywhere needs police intervention," he said to himself, "this is it. The drug dogs would have a field day."

  He coughed again, steadied himself, and knocked three times on the door.

  There was no answer.

  He was just about to knock again when he heard the sound of heavy footsteps approaching. A series of clicks and rattles followed, and the door opened a crack.

  "Not again..." muttered Tom.

  "Who is it?" asked a thin, reedy voice.

  "Tom McLean," said Tom, puffing out his chest. "Local businessman, entrepreneur, member of the Magic Circle, regular giver to charity, actor and..."

  "Bog off!" said the voice, and the door slammed shut.

  The skin below Tom's right eye twitched. In his position as local businessman, entrepreneur and so on, he was not used to having doors slammed on him. In fact, his very name often opened doors for him.

 
He knocked again.

  The door opened a crack again.

  "Who is it?"

  "It's still Tom McLean, local..."

  "I thought I told you to bog off?"

  "You did, but I have something I need to discuss with you. About a potential murder."

  The door closed. It opened a crack again a moment later.

  "Are you with the police?"

  "No, I am here alone."

  "No mate, I meant, do you work for the police?"

  "No. As a matter of fact, they seem to think I was involved with the murder."

  The door closed gently, and there was a rattle. This time, the door opened fully, and there stood Anthony Cohen, all messy hair, spectacles, old clothes and dirty feet. Tom took one look at him, and his face started to redden with anger.

  "Alright mate, why do they fink you're involved? What did you do?"

  "IT'S YOU!"

  "It is me. I know, coz I looked in the mirror before I opened the door..."

  "NO! IT'S YOU!"

  "What you on about?"

  "What's your name, sunshine?"

  "Anthony Zimbabwe Cohen, but what's..."

  "YOU THIEVING GIT!"

  "Beg pardon?"

  "YOU USED TO WORK FOR ME! IN THE FACTORY AT WESTLAKE! MAKING ARTIFICIAL TREES!"

  "Oh right, I remember! We used to have a laugh there! What a laugh! We used to nick money from the till in the factory shop every night on the way home! Best paid job ever! Were you in Leaves or Trunks?"

  "I WAS THE BOSS, YOU IDIOT!"

  Tom took a swing at Anthony, but failed to make contact as Anthony stepped backwards, and Tom was only tall enough to reach his armpit. The momentum carried Tom over the threshold and into the hallway.

  "Steady on mate! That was ages ago!"

  "BUT I NEVER GOT THE MONEY BACK!"

  He swung again, but this time ended up punching the wall.

  "Oi! Mind me wallpaper!"

  "MIND YOUR WALLPAPER? THE POLICE THINK I MURDERED A PARROT AND YOU'RE BOTHERED ABOUT YOUR WALLPAPER?"

  "A parrot?"

  "Yes, a parrot. YOUR parrot. And now I feel like murdering you!"

  "Let me tell you something, Tim."

  "Tom."

  "Tim."

  "Tom."

  "Whatever. That parrot was a nuisance, and it had to go. And now the police are looking for you because of that parrot. And that parrot has brought you back to me, so how long before the police come looking for me? You shouldn't have come here, Tim, you shouldn't have come here."

  "WHY CAN'T YOU GET MY NAME RIGHT? IT'S TIM!"

  "Is it?"

  "NO! IT'S TOM!"

  "Right. Shut up," said Anthony, as he threw a straight right that connected with Tom's face, right between the eyes. Tom staggered backwards and collapsed to the floor, out cold.

  "Coming round here, getting the police involved. I don't know...accusing me of murdering a parrot. Any murdering I do isn't going to be wasted on a parrot."

  ***

  "So if Tom's show has been cancelled by the police, does that mean we're going to get a big audience tonight?" asked Anne.

  "I honestly don't know," said Jim. "After last night, we might as well have cancelled our show ourselves. And whatever happens, I bet that parrot is going to blow up again."

  "Harry's worked really hard to try and stop it from happening. It's just...complicated. But I'm sure he'll fix it."

  "You said that last night. And at every single rehearsal."

  "I know. Harry always seems to know what to do. Even if it doesn't work out too well in the end."

  "I suppose I'd better ring round everyone, make sure they're all coming tonight. I mean, I can quite expect them not to want to bother."

  "Ring Lillian first. Make sure she's OK."

  "Why wouldn't she be?"

  "Because Tom was very angry, and he said he was going to see her!"

  "I don't think he would have actually gone over there though..."

  "Just ring her."

  Jim shook his head and picked up the phone. He dialled Lillian's number from memory - she'd had the same number since 1981 - and listened to the noise coming down the line indicating the phone on the other end was ringing.

  One ring. Two rings. Three. Then a click.

  "Helloooo?"

  "Lil? It's Jim. Are you OK?"

  "Oh, hello. Yes, I'm fine thanks. Just had a visitor!"

  "Really?" asked Jim, looking worried. "Who?"

  "Only Tom McLean, rambling on about murdering a parrot. I sent him off to the drug dealer up the road."

  "You have a drug dealer on your road?"

  "Yes, but he's going to become a butcher. Don't tell Emily he's a drug dealer, I don't want her to know. She's too young for that kind of thing."

  "And he's going to be a butcher?"

  "Yes, yes. I overheard him talking to someone. Something about a chequebook, and using a knife to do the job."

  "He's a drug dealer, and he's going to use a knife to do the job?"

  "Yes."

  "Doesn't that sound a bit...dodgy...to you?"

  "Not if he's going to be a butcher."

  "Right, right. Look, just stay safe Lil, that's all. Now, are you up for tonight's show? We're hoping we get more in tonight as Tom's show has been shut down."

  "Oh yes! Looking forward to it. As long as that parrot doesn't explode again."

  "Well, we'll have to see what Harry can do..."

  Chapter 15

  Tom became aware of a dull throb in the back of his head. It was complemented by the soreness of his jaw. His eyes were closed, and he didn't feel like opening them. He tried to touch his face to see if it was all in one piece, but found his hands were in his lap and he couldn't move them. He opened his eyes, and it remained dark. He tried to shout for help, but something was in his mouth, preventing him from forming words. All he could manage was a few little grunts.

  Tom began to panic. Maybe he'd had some kind of seizure, and was now in a coma, and this was all in his head. Maybe he was paralysed, unable to move as he was. Maybe he'd gone blind.

  There was a loud bang to his left, which made him jump and make several more grunting noises.

  "You back with us, then?" a muffled voice asked. "I can hear you shuffling round."

  Tom grunted as loudly as he could.

  "What's that? You can't talk? That must be awful for a man like you. Here's the deal. I'm gonna have a nice cup of tea, maybe a crumpet or two, and then we'll take a nice drive out in to the woods where I'll bury you under the earth and no-one will ever see you again. Sound good?"

  Tom grunted loudly.

  "Oh no, I'm not going to kill you. Just bury you. Let nature take her course."

  Tom tried to scream, but only succeeded in giving himself a coughing fit.

  "You see, Tom, if I let you live, you'll bring the police right to my front door. Now, it might seem to you that I'm lowlife scum. A drug dealer, perhaps. A parrot murderer. But that's not all, Tom, and I don't need the police involved. I'm a lot like you. I have...financial dealings. I lend money to people. Desperate people. Stupid people. And sometimes they pay it back, with interest of course. And sometimes they don't. And sometimes, they come and see me, and tell me they don't have the money, and want to fight. And sometimes, I have to kill them."

  Tom was suddenly very short of breath. Panic was starting to set in.

  "See, this one guy borrowed a substantial sum from me. And he gambled it away. He comes round to tell me he can't pay me back, and I think he's going to pull a knife on me. So I shot him."

  Even in the dark, Tom was starting to see flashes of pink and blue light before his eyes.

  "Bernard Holmes, he was. Mechanic. Amateur actor. There was nothing else. One shot, and he dropped to the floor. I looked at him, I smiled, and I said to him, bye bye, Bernie. He didn't answer me, of course, and a couple of plastic bags and a run round with the mop, no-one would have known quite how it happened. There was a suicide note, you s
ee, and a spare gun, and a pleasant clearing to ditch him in."

  Tom could see yellow lights now. They pulsed in time with every word his captor said.

  "But I overlooked one thing. After disposing of the body, I came back here, and realized there was a witness. A witness who kept replaying the whole incident - BANG BANG, BYE BYE BERNIE, that's what he'd said. Goodbye Bernie Holmes. The witness was a parrot who had come from an...incident...the previous week. Now men are one thing, but I couldn't stand there and shoot a parrot. I'm not a monster."

  The lights had stopped now. Tom was in darkness, and his whole body was shaking.

  "Worse still, he started to name me as the culprit. TONY KONY DID IT, he'd say. Tony Cohen did it. But as good luck would have it, that daft old woman down the road came up and complained about the noise. I told her she could take the parrot, and see if she could train it to say something different. Something quiet. That would cover my tracks, but to make doubly sure, I gave her some poisoned parrot food. Turns out I can kill a parrot if I don't have to watch it die."

  Tom was still shaking, and felt something fall out of the top pocket of his shirt. It landed in his upturned hands.

  "Well, the parrot died, you seem to have got the blame for it, and now you're leading the police back to me. You're a loose end Tom. And loose ends need tying up. And then they need finishing off."

  It was his iPhone.

  "So here's how it's going down. I'm getting my cuppa and a crumpet, and I'm leaving you to stew in the dark for a bit..."

  Tom moved his thumbs over the phone, pressed a button, slid his finger across, and unlocked the screen.

  "...and then, we'll go out for a little drive. I'll take a spade..."

  He entered the text messaging app, clumsily, as his hands were still tied together, and he was still shaking - although now, it was partially with excitement.

  "...and I'll dig a little hole..."

  NEW MESSAGE TO: ZOE MCLEAN

  "...and you'll get to see it from the inside! Ha ha!"

  Tom heard Anthony Cohen walk off down the hall to get his cup of tea.

  HELP BEEN KIDNAPPED ASK LILLIAN MURDER

  SEND

  ACT III

  Chapter 16