Cherringham--Playing Dead Read Online Free

marble countertops, all the appliances … shiny stainless steel. A professional-looking Aga dwarfed the room.
    No expense spared indeed.
    She had to wonder if Kramer had demanded such amenities.
    Air-con. Aga. Were there yellow and green M&Ms in a bowl in each room too?
    Sarah realised that — since working with Jack — she had become more attentive to seeing things.
    Then trying to interpret what they meant.
    Like knowing that Kramer didn’t have tea in his cup, but more likely whatever Winston Churchill used to have for his mid-day constitutional.
    The expensive leather loafers, perfectly polished and smart. Savile Row for sure.
    The shirt, from Pinks most likely. Beige, with subtle maroon stripes. Grey chinos, sharply pressed.
    Altogether — Kramer very much looked the part.
    Which is something he would be good at doing.
    But Sarah had done her research. Kramer’s career hadn’t exactly been flourishing lately. Directing gigs like this were clearly tiding him over while the plum BBC drama projects went elsewhere.
    “Come into the sitting room, Sarah. Rather a nice set up.”
    And he was right about that. Matching leather sofa and armchair; a dark wood floor that gleamed; two tear-shaped end-tables; a scattering of magazines on them, all part of the perfectly designed interior.
    The fireplace — gigantic. You could roast a pig in it.
    She sat on the sofa.
    “Get you a drink … tea?” he tilted his own cup, with a wry smile. “Something stronger?”
    She smiled. “No, I’m fine thanks, Mr. Kramer.”
    “ Jez , please. Feel like I’m part of the Cherringham family, working with the locals, your charming mother.”
    She had the feeling that Jez Kramer didn’t feel part of any Cherringham family.
    Time for the interview.
    She took out her pad and started asking some questions, all perfectly innocent and straightforward. To begin with, at least.
    *
    “Well, yes, those were golden days at the Beeb. Had my pick of projects, and the people I worked with? Absolutely the best.”
    “All different now?’
    Kramer grunted. “You could say that — in spades . Controllers who wouldn’t know a denouement from a divan. These young writers who don’t give a damn about plot, or—”
    He caught himself.
    Then, the director quickly forced a smile onto his face, making his tanned, leathery skin criss-cross with wrinkles.
    “Things change,” he said, calming himself.
    Decidedly unpleasant personality, Sarah thought.
    Time to get closer to what she really wanted to talk about.
    “And you too will take a role in the production?”
    “Oh, yes, I mean the theatre board practically insisted!”
    Sarah would have to check that with her mother, and see which way the “insisting” went.
    “You’ll be…?”
    “Lieutenant Henry Collins. The dashing lover.”
    “Young lover?” Sarah said.
    She just couldn’t resist.
    “Suppose. But it’s not a terribly demanding role, so I can still direct. And for such a creaky piece of theatre as this, why not a bit of ‘ham’ to spice things up, hmm?”
    She smiled at that.
    Kramer looked away. “Besides, it’s good to model for all the amateurs what it really looks like, this acting, taking control of the stage, eh?”
    “Couldn’t agree more.”
    Sarah flipped over a notebook page, as if moving on to another topic.
    “Can I ask you about all these … accidents?”
    Kramer was in mid-sip when he froze. A rather dramatic freeze, eyes narrowed, cup suspended in space.
    “Why would you want to discuss any of … that in your newsletter? Doesn’t sound like profile material to me at all!”
    He was coming at her hard.
    But then, with Sarah’s recent experience dealing with crime and Cherringham, she could — with a deep breath — take it in her stride.
    “I’m sure that all our fans of the Little Theatre, and of the upcoming production — and your fans too — would love to be reassured that all is well.”
    Kramer nodded, thinking it over.
    “My bobby is in the