Game set and match to Oz? Not quite. As the chopper rose into the air, Dawn would spot an emergency pack on the deck, complete with loaded flare gun. Her one wild shot would get lucky and smash into the cabin. Goodbye me, in a huge fireball, courtesy of the special effects team.
Given recent events, I might have been forgiven if the ending had given me the creeps, but within my bubble of unreality, the vision of Susie’s blazing car didn’t enter my head, not once.
We rehearsed those sequences all day, not that I really had to take off in the Jet Ranger; the second unit had shot that a few days earlier on the real rig, using the stunt team. No, the hardest part for me was carrying the two guys up two flights of stairs. I could have had a standin if I had insisted, but Miles was keen that I should do it myself if possible, so that I could be seen in close-up.
I managed okay, thanks to Mark Kravitz; he showed me the best way to pick up a dead weight, and how to balance while I was carrying it. I didn’t ask him where he learned the techniques; I had a feeling that I’d rather not know.
Fortunately neither of the two ‘bodies’ were giants. Miles is well built, but a bit smaller than me; as for Nelson Reed. If you’ve ever seen any of his movies you wouldn’t believe how small he is; he’s Alan Ladd-sized, honest. It’s amazing what a good cameraman can do to disguise vertical deprivation.
I must have lugged those guys up those stairs at least half a dozen times before we moved on to the scenes in the studio deck. That wasn’t too easy either, because those chains weren’t the pretend sort, like the chairs they use in the GWA to bash each other over the head. They were the real thing, and heavy enough to weigh down a couple of bodies for burial at sea.
For most of the day Dawn’s role was largely inactive, so when her big moment came, she was determined to get it right. She fired three or four dummy flares before she declared herself satisfied.
‘Okay,’ said Miles, finally, having returned from the dead. ‘That’s it. Tomorrow we shoot for real, and after all this rehearsal, I’ll be looking for first-take wraps, every time.’ He turned to his wife. ‘Honey, you and Geraldine take Nelson back to the mansion. I’ve got plans for Oz and Mark.’
‘Such as?’ I asked. After all that heavy lifting, I fancied nothing more than a long, hot bath.
‘I fancy a game of squash, mate. I’ve been sat on my arse all day, and I need to loosen off.’
‘You’re not serious.’
‘Too right. I’ve booked a court in Farnham, and Gerrie’s been out to buy us gear, so no excuses.’
I’m no great shakes as a squash player, but on my worst day, I can still beat Miles Grayson. He’s ten years older than me, and although he’s pretty fit for his age, his hand-eye co-ordination is lousy. I believe him when he says that as a cricketer, he couldn’t bat for toffee. I suspect that the guys he plays with in LA let him win most of the time. However, Mac the Dentist only taught me to play one way.
The big problem Miles has is that he doesn’t know that he’s crap. He’s Aussie-born, and he was raised playing games where the basic requirement is a willingness to run through walls. Fortunately for his acting career, a dislocated shoulder finished him for rugby when he was only seventeen, otherwise he wouldn’t have grown up nearly so good-looking. Sadly for his squash game, he brings his field sports tactics on to court, where there really are walls and they don’t give.
He’s keen though; he never gives up. If his persistence wore his opponents down it wouldn’t be so bad, but it doesn’t. It’s always him who ends up as an oil slick on the floor after an hour or so; and that’s how it finished that evening in Farnham. Mark Kravitz watched us through the glass back wall. Miles offered him a game too, but he refused, insisting that he had to keep his mind on the job. I was quite pleased by that; he did look as if he could handle a racquet.
On the way home, Miles insisted on stopping at a roadside pub to top up his fluid level, so it was past eight o’clock when we made it back to the mansion. We headed straight for the drawing room for the ritual of pre-dinner drinks. Scott, Weir, Nelson and Gerrie were waiting for us, three Tio Pepes and one Lagavulin in hand.
‘Well?’ Reed asked. ‘Who won the battle?’
‘Youth had its day,’ Miles drawled. ‘Where’s Dawn?’
‘She hasn’t come down yet,’ Geraldine told him. ‘Want me to go and fetch her?’
He grinned and shook his head. ‘Nah. She’ll be playing with her hair. I’ll go get her when dinner’s served.’
‘That could be a while yet,’ Gerrie warned. ‘The chef held everything back until he was sure that you three had arrived back.’
‘No matter. If Dawn’s passing up on a gin and tonic, she must have a good reason.’ He reached for two Budweisers from an ice-bucket on the sideboard, uncapped them and handed one to me.
We had killed two more when Mr Jones, the butler, arrived to call us through to the dining room; still there was no sign of Dawn. ‘I guess I’d better fetch her,’ said Miles, at last.
‘That’s all right,’ said his assistant. ‘I’ll go.’
We followed the butler through for dinner, and took our usual places. The starters — calcots; which I recognised as a Catalan delicacy — were set out for us, but no one made a move to begin before Geraldine and Dawn joined us.
Yet when Gerrie did come into the dining room, she was alone. ‘Miles,’ she began, hesitantly, ‘did Dawn say anything to you about going out tonight?’
‘No,’ he replied, frowning. ‘Ain’t she there?’
‘No, there’s not a sign of her in your room.’
‘She’s probably gone for a walk. It’s a nice evening.’
I felt a cold hand gripping the pit of my stomach. ‘Still,’ I said, pushing my chair back and rising from the table. I walked out of the room in search of the butler.
I found him in the kitchen. ‘Mr Jones,’ I called to him. ‘Did you see Mrs Grayson leave the house?’
‘No sir,’ he replied. He turned to the chef and the under-waiter, with an enquiring look, but they shook their heads.
‘Did she say anything about going out? For a walk, maybe?’
‘No, sir.’
I almost asked him if he was sure, but stopped myself. Mr Jones looked the type who was always sure. Instead, I marched back towards the dining room.
Mark Kravitz was waiting for me in the hall. ‘Something up, boss?’ he asked quietly.
‘Could be. Come on.’ As we took the stairs two at a time, I was vaguely aware that Miles was following us. As Geraldine had said, the master bedroom was empty. We looked around; there were no discarded clothes or shoes to be seen, but Dawn’s handbag lay on the bed. Mark walked across, picked it up, and took a look inside.
‘Her purse is still here,’ he announced, ‘and her cellphone.’
‘Fuck it!’ My anxiety was now shared by Miles. He stepped into the bathroom. ‘She’s had a shower,’ he called out to us. ‘And all the clothes she was wearing today are in the laundry basket.’
‘What’s missing?’ Mark asked.
Miles looked around the room. He pointed to the dressing table. ‘Her make-up case is still there.’ As he spoke he walked to the wardrobes which ran along one wall, threw them open and looked inside. ‘I reckon there’s a pair of denims gone, and a cream sweater. And a new pair of shoes: I don’t see them either.’
‘What type of shoes?’
‘Clark’s. Trainers, sort of.’
Kravitz crossed to the window and checked their catches. ‘These are all secure. Come on.’ We followed him out of the room. Naturally, he knew the layout of the house like the back of his hand; he led us along a corridor then turned left, until we stood before a half-glazed double door that I had never seen before.