Fatal Act (11 page)

‘Anna was two years ahead of me here, but I’m – I was – a year older than her. We got together in her last year. It was great. She was just lovely.’ He sighed. ‘We kind of drifted apart when she left.’

His face reddened slightly.

‘Did you meet someone else?’

‘Well, yes, there was – there is – someone else, as it happens.’

Geraldine couldn’t imagine Dirk ever went for long without a girl in tow.

‘And anyway she hooked up with her casting director soon after she graduated, which was lucky for me, because Trevelyan’s a big cheese.’

‘Why was that lucky for you?’

He looked surprised.

‘Anna asked him to take a look at me.’

D
espite all his studies and travels, there was only one topic that interested Dirk. He brought everything back to himself. He glanced at his phone and Geraldine pressed on, aware that she might not have much time.

‘Where were you on Friday night between two and three in the morning?’

‘What is all this? I mean, I know Anna’s dead, but it was an accident, wasn’t it? Why are you so interested all of a sudden? I mean, would you mind telling me what the hell’s going on?’

H
e looked genuinely surprised when Geraldine explained that they were trying to establish the identity of the other driver involved in the accident.

‘Can’t you people tell that from the car registration? I’d like to help you get to the bottom of it, of course I would, but I really should be in a rehearsal right now. Other people depend on me to be there,’ he added with conscious self-importance.

‘We’ll get done a lot faster if you just answer my questions. Where were you on Friday night between two and three in the morning?’

‘Oh Jesus,’ he broke off, frowning, as though it was an effort to remember. ‘I was with my girlfriend, Megan. We’d had a busy day, so we went back to the flat, watched a film, went through my lines together, and crashed. I was with Megan all night.’

H
e gazed at Geraldine with a wide-eyed expression of innocence on his handsome face. Geraldine wrote down the name of his girl friend. She started to ask him about his friendship with Anna after she left the drama school, but just then a harassed-looking girl entered the bar and scanned the room. She was slightly plump, with long red hair. Her frown deepened when she saw them and she hurried over to tell Dirk everyone was waiting for him, and Wendel was going mental.

‘He said ten minutes,’ she reminded him plaintively.

Dirk looked at Geraldine anxiously. Then he turned back to the redhead.

‘You go back up. Go on. Tell him I’m right behind you.’

The girl hesitated.

‘Go!’

The girl obediently spun round and ran off.

D
irk sprang to his feet, towering over Geraldine as she sat at the table.

‘I’ve got to get back to rehearsal. No one messes with Wendel. I’m in enough trouble as it is!’

‘I’ll see you again,’ Geraldine muttered under her breath, as he hurried away.

T
HE
ENVELOPE
HAD
BEEN
delivered to the drama school by hand, addressed simply to Zak Trevelyan. With a burst of adrenaline he tore it open, trying to control his excitement. It was bound to be junk but, like all his fellow students, he was waiting for a lucky break. Although most of them didn’t manage to find work until after they graduated, if at all, there were exceptions. Stories were passed around of students who were talent spotted and offered paid jobs before they had even completed their training. Some of the stories were true. He slipped a single sheet of paper out of the envelope and scanned it quickly. Like the envelope, the letter was typed. It was very short.

Z
ak wasn’t sure whether to feel pleased or disappointed after reading it. He had always known that he had an uncle, but his father never talked about him and Zak had never asked. Reading the letter, he was curious to meet him. Besides, his uncle had offered to buy him dinner. It would be churlish to refuse. It wouldn’t do any harm to meet the guy in a restaurant and find out what he was like. Plus he might talk about Zak’s mother who had died when he was a baby. All Zak knew about her was that she had been beautiful and she had drowned. His father had been vague when questioned about her. Once Zak had pressed him, claiming he had a right to know. His father had snapped that he didn’t want to talk about her.

T
he thin high-pitched voice that answered the phone could have belonged to a man or a woman.

‘Hello?’

Zak hesitated. It might be his uncle on the line, but it could equally be a wife or girlfriend.

‘I’d like to speak to Darius.’

‘This is Darius. That must be Zak?’

‘Yes. How did you know?’

‘You sound like your mother.’

Zak was surprised. His mother had died seventeen years ago. A motorbike revved past on its way up the street and he missed what his uncle said next.

‘What?’

‘Can I take you out for dinner?’

‘That would be great.’

T
hey met at Garfunkel’s in Tottenham Court Road. It wasn’t very smart, but it was convenient. When Darius had asked him to suggest somewhere, Zak hadn’t been able to think of anywhere else on the spur of the moment. It was just five minutes’ walk from the college, and a safe choice as he didn’t know his uncle. All the same, he was disappointed when his uncle agreed. But if the restaurant was second rate, the meeting wasn’t. Zak recognised his uncle straight away. It came as a shock, because they were so alike, with identical straight black hair, dark eyes and olive skin, the same neat square chin and small mouth, and a similar lithe physique, like a Mediterranean James Bond. It was like looking at himself in twenty years’ time, with short hair.

Z
ak was fond of his father, and grateful for his generosity, but Piers liked to talk, and he only had one subject: himself. Darius asked about Zak and seemed genuinely interested in hearing all about his nephew.

‘I think what I’d really like to do, eventually, is direct,’ he heard himself say, emboldened by his uncle’s attention, and the wine that his uncle kept pouring.

‘Then I’m sure that’s what you’ll do,’ Darius said easily. ‘You’re clearly a very gifted young man. I can see that, and I’ve only just met you.’

Zak grinned. He was rather drunk, and his uncle’s faith in him made him feel light headed. He wondered what he might achieve, if only his father would show the same confidence in his talent, but his father was always wrapped up in his own affairs. Zak felt an instant rapport with his uncle. After they parted, he found himself wondering if his mother had been anything like her brother.

T
he next time they met, Darius took him to a Turkish restaurant near Oxford Circus. They sat in a dimly lit corner of the large room and ate mezze and mixed grilled meats with salad. Zak drank far too much. He felt as though he had known his uncle all his life. He didn’t mean to complain about his father, but Darius was so easy to talk to, he couldn’t stop himself.

‘It’s not that he doesn’t support me,’ he qualified his grousing. ‘I mean, he pays for me to be here, the rent and the fees and all that, so obviously he supports me. And he pays me a monthly allowance on top of all that.’

Darius nodded his approval. ‘And so he should. You’ve got to eat.’

‘But he makes me feel –’

He struggled to find the right word. Darius waited patiently.

‘He makes me feel inferior.’

‘Inferior?’

‘Do you know what he said to me once? He said that when he was my age he was working on professional shows, and he learned his trade in the real world. It wasn’t an accusation, or anything like that, but –’

‘How insensitive.’

‘He’s not mean, or anything. It’s just that he only ever thinks about himself.’

T
hey ate in silence for a moment.

‘Didn’t you know my father? I mean, when they were married, when my mother was alive.’

‘I met him, yes. He works in theatre, doesn’t he?’

‘Yes, and sometimes TV. He’s a casting director.’

‘Is he? I remembered he was involved in the industry somehow.’

‘He’s Piers Trevelyan.’

‘Yes, I know his name. I just couldn’t remember what he did.’

Zak was surprised. He thought everyone had heard of his father.

‘He’s very well known.’

‘Oh, is he?’

Darius was offhand, clearly more interested in Zak than his father. Zak drained his glass of wine, feeling more and more relaxed and somehow optimistic. Darius was right. His father was insensitive. He wasn’t that famous either, he just told everyone he was, and Zak had believed him.

Z
ak talked happily about his own work, his successes and disappointments, and his vision for the production he was currently designing, which was far and away his most ambitious project to date. He became very animated talking about it, and his uncle seemed to share his enthusiasm.

‘That sounds brilliant. Someone’s going to snap you up, once you graduate. With your talent and training you’ll be in demand before long, I’m sure.’

A
s his uncle was paying the bill, Zak asked outright why Darius had waited so long before contacting him. A pained expression crossed his uncle’s face.

‘I should have been in touch sooner. I thought about you often, but I wasn’t sure where you were living. You know how it is. Then I read in the paper about Piers’ award – what was it?’

‘The lifetime achievement award for his contribution to the British film industry? That one?’

‘Yes, that’s it. That reminded me of you, and then I read about that poor girl who died.’

‘Anna Porter.’

‘Yes. When I read about that in the papers, and saw your father’s name again, I thought I really must get in touch and see that you were all right. I thought I owed it to Ella.’

‘What was she like?’

‘Oh, Ella was wonderful. An angel. A dark-haired angel. I don’t suppose your father ever recovered from her loss. He never remarried, I suppose?’

‘Well, yes, he did, actually. He’s been married three times in all, and had more girlfriends than you could possibly imagine.’ Zak gave an apologetic shrug. ‘I guess he just loves women.’

‘Or hates them,’ his uncle added softly.

G
ERALDINE
CHECKED
THE
NAME
of Dirk’s girlfriend in her notebook before wandering over to a wall of the bar where a series of black and white head shots were displayed. She browsed through them. All of the photographs were of young adults, most of them exceptionally good looking. The majority were smiling but a few wore expressions that were probably intended to look intriguing. There was only one student called Megan. Looking at heavily made-up eyes staring out of a round face, at first Geraldine didn’t recognise the girl who had recalled Dirk to his rehearsal. Full cheeks and a snub nose gave her a childlike appearance, an impression highlighted by the anxious expression in her dark eyes. It was a pleasant face, nowhere near as pretty as most of the other girls, and lacking their confidence in front of the camera. Dirk Goodbody was on the wall too, grinning seductively. His expression was intimate and a trifle guilty, as though he had been caught out flirting with the photographer.

G
eraldine returned to the foyer and asked the girl on reception about Dirk’s girl friend, Megan Barron.

‘Megan? You just missed her. She was here a minute ago but she’s gone back to rehearsal. Can’t it wait? Only they’ve already been disrupted once, and Wendel’s in a real temper. Believe me, you wouldn’t want to be around him when he’s in a bad mood. He’s a tyrant at the best of times, but a brilliant director. The students sweat blood in his productions. He gets the best out of them –’

‘Can you tell me where Megan lives?’

The receptionist stiffened. Her tone became frosty.

‘I’m not allowed to give out that kind of information.’

‘That’s OK, I shouldn’t have put you on the spot like that.’

The girl smiled warily.

‘It’s not important, and you’ve been really helpful,’ Geraldine added untruthfully.

T
he girl relaxed a little.

‘If there’s anything else you need to know –’

‘No, that’s fine.’ Geraldine glanced around. ‘It’s a lovely place here. You wouldn’t think it was so smart from the outside.’

They fell into chatting about the expensively kitted out site and the girl recommended that Geraldine take a walk around to the back of the building and see the entrance to the theatre.

‘It’s beautiful,’ she said. ‘All glass and white paintwork. Most other drama schools are run on a shoe string, and it shows. But some of our alumni are huge in the business.’

She reeled off a list of names, from serious Shakespearian actors to popular stars of film and television.

A
fter a few minutes’ chatting, Geraldine turned to leave.

‘There is just one other thing,’ she said, returning to the desk.

The girl grinned. ‘I knew it, you’re doing a Columbo on me.’

‘A Columbo?’

‘Yes. You know, that detective on the telly. My gran used to love him. First he lulled people into a sense of false security and then, when their guard was down, he’d slip in the real question, the one he’d been planning to ask all along.’

Geraldine laughed. ‘I’m not that calculating,’ she lied.

‘Go on, then, try me.’

‘I was only going to ask if it’s true that Megan is living with Dirk Goodbody.’

‘Oh yes.’

Clearly the girl wasn’t averse to a little gossip. Geraldine leaned forward and listened intently, using all her skill at drawing information out of people without them realising. To begin with she didn’t learn anything that she hadn’t already known, but it was always useful to have her suspicions confirmed.