Blood On the Wall by Jim Eldridge Page A

twenties, with long, greasy hair and the beginnings of a beard. Or perhaps he just hadn’t shaved for a few days.
    Seward sighed. ‘Look, can we cut all this,’ she said. ‘All we want to do is ask you some questions about a film you’re making. Then we can get out of here.’
    At the mention of his film, Drake sat up in the bed.
    ‘What about my film?’ he demanded.
    ‘First, what did Tamara Armstrong have to do with it?’
    Drake looked puzzled.
    ‘Tamara?’ he asked. ‘You mean the girl who was killed?’
    ‘That’s exactly who we mean,’ said Seward. ‘We understand she was in your film.’
    ‘No way!’ said Drake vehemently. ‘I use proper actors.’
    ‘So what was her part?’ asked Seward. ‘Crew? Background artiste?’
    ‘Yeah.’ Drake nodded. ‘Background artiste. An extra.’ Looking from Seward to Taggart and back again, he appealed: ‘Look, can we do this downstairs so I can get acoffee? I’ve only just woken up.’
    ‘Here is fine,’ said Seward. ‘This way we don’t have an audience. Or, if you prefer, we can do it at the station?’
    Drake shook his head.
    ‘Here is good,’ he agreed with a sigh. ‘What do you want to know?’
    ‘For a start, your movements on the night Tamara was murdered.’
    Drake looked at them, his mouth hanging open in shock.
    ‘You think I’m a
suspect
?’ he said.
    ‘At this moment we’re asking this same question of everyone who knew Tamara to help eliminate them from the enquiry,’ said Taggart. ‘So, could you give us details of your movements on the night in question?’
    ‘When was it?’ asked Drake.
    Seward thought that Drake looked as if he would have difficulty remembering what had happened to him a few hours ago, let alone some days before. But then, that could be a clever ploy. Drake thought for a bit, then he began his story. According to Drake they’d held a party at the house on the night Tamara Armstrong had been murdered. Tamara Armstrong had not been amongst those invited. Taggart took down a list of names that Drake gave them as having been at the party. According to Drake, he hadn’t left the house at all that night; or the next day until about three in the afternoon to go and buy some milk and cigarettes.
    After the practicalities were out of the way, with names, addresses and mobile numbers of the people Drake claimed were his witnesses, Seward switched the subject back to the film.
    ‘What’s it about, this film of yours?’ she asked.
    ‘Pagan sacrifice,’ said Drake.
    ‘What sort of sacrifice?’ asked Taggart. ‘Cutting people’s heads off?’
    Drake shook his head. ‘Being eaten by crows,’ he said.
    ‘Crows?’ echoed Taggart.
    ‘I wanted to do a big burning thing. Like in
The Wicker Man
. But there’s these fascists in Health and Safety who say you need all sorts of licences. So instead I’m going for crows.’
    ‘How does the sacrifice work?’ asked Seward.
    ‘The victim is laid out in the middle of a stone circle. We’re using Castlerigg outside Keswick. You know it?’
    Seward and Taggart nodded.
    ‘The victim has honey and stuff smeared on her eyes and throat, and the crows come down and peck her eyes and throat out. It’s like symbolic.’
    ‘Aren’t crows difficult to train to do that sort of thing?’
    Drake smiled, smugly.
    ‘Tight close-ups. Lots of cutaways,’ he said. ‘No one uses real birds.’
    ‘Hitchcock did,’ said Seward. ‘They drew blood from Tippi Hedren when he was shooting
The Birds
.’
    ‘Yeah, but Hitchcock was a control freak,’ said Drake. ‘He had a thing about tormenting blonde women.’ Taggart gave Seward a look of appeal that said: ‘Can we finish this before he starts giving us a lecture about his favourite film directors, and you join in with him?’
    ‘Have you got a copy of the script?’ asked Seward.
    ‘Why?’ asked Drake. ‘You need it for some sort of evidence? Everything I’ve said is the truth. It’s crows.’
    ‘We’d still like to see