Gone to Ground by John Harvey Page B

shrugged. "Turn your back? Walk away?"
    "Which is what Bryan did."
    "A mutual decision not to see each other for a while, that's how McKusick described it. Some kind of trial separation."
    "Do we believe that?"
    "Not really."
    "So when shall we talk to McKusick again?"
    "First thing tomorrow?"
    "Let's bring him in here," Will said. "Sit him down for a while. Let him stew. Lean on him a little. See if we can't shake something from the tree."

Chapter 8
    LESLEY CROSSED FLETCHER GATE TOWARD A PHALANX of tall hoardings, behind which yet another hotel or exciting mixed-use retail destination was doubtless under construction, cut down Bottle Lane and into Waterstone's.
    Film books were on the third floor.
    A quick riffle through the three histories of British cinema they had in stock came up with only two references to Stella Leonard, both brief. One listed her, along with Diana Dors, Jane Hylton, Susan Shaw, and others, as a graduate of the J. Arthur Rank Charm School, which had been set up in the nineteen fifties to mould and develop a new generation of British film actresses; the other briefly mentioned several films in which she'd appeared, notably the thriller
Shattered Glass,
released in 1956.
    Not a lot to go on there.
    She scribbled a couple of things in her notebook and headed back up through Hockley toward London Road.
    When she arrived, the news editor was mid-rant. "Actresses, actors, whatever you're supposed to call them nowadays. Make a couple of movies no one bothers to go and see, spread their legs for the lads' magazines, make a name for themselves snorting cocaine off some Premiership player's backside, and they think they're God Almighty."
    At least he's got the gender right, Lesley thought.
    "So here's Natalie Prince," Alan Pike continued, "not so long ago, when all she could get were bit parts on the tele, more tarts in
The Bill
than in Gregg's front window, back then when she wanted all the publicity she could get, who gave her a hand up, more air time than David Blunket in his prime? But now, ask for an interview and anyone'd think you were begging her for a shag in the middle of the Old Market Square."
    Pike slammed his office door, only to open it again moments later, waving a piece of paper in Lesley's direction. "Here. Get yourself out to Langar. Talk to this James Crawford. Reckons he's seen a Yank plane coming in to land, local airport. One of those rendition jobs, he says." Pike shook his head. "Six months back, it'd likely been a UFO. Now every crank and crazy sees phantom CIA flights every time they buckle on their binoculars. But use your wits, see what he has to say. Might be something we can use, get another slow day."
    Lesley took a quick look at entries for CIA ghost flights on the Web before leaving: after skipping down the first few pages, the sheer volume deterred her from going further. Too much detail for a piece that would probably never be aired. And, besides, there were other things on her mind.
     
    The room in which they'd finally put Mark McKusick was small and square, the air used and stale. Since the police had arrived on his doorstep early that morning—McKusick not even properly dressed, a mug of tea barely started, bowl of cereal scarcely touched—he had been moved from one part of the building to another, uniformed officers brushing past him as if he weren't really there, information as to what he was wanted for scant and unclear. Was he there to answer more questions, and, if so, why wasn't that happening? Was he about to be arrested, and, if so, what for? What charge? McKusick looked at his watch, looked at the walls, the ceiling, closed his eyes. No way he could have slept, but when the door opened suddenly, he jumped, as if jerking awake.
    An officer he'd never seen before was standing in the doorway. "Got everything you want?"
    "Yes. I suppose so. But look..."
    "Right, then." The man stepped smartly back outside, and the door was firmly closed.
    McKusick waited. He sat,