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From the acclaimed master of mystery and suspense comes a thrilling novel about the illusion of film--and the reality of murder.
working in the first place, perhaps I could help him find an explosive denouement.’ ‘You’ll have the obituary tomorrow,’ O’Hara promised. ‘Thanks.’ ‘How’s your friend?’ he asked. ‘What friend?’ ‘The one who’s dying.’ ‘Oh.’ I paused. ‘He died during last night.’ ‘Bad luck.’ ‘He was old. Eighty something. A blacksmith turned top racing journalist, grand old character, great unusual life. Pity we can’t make a film of him.’ ‘Films of good people don’t have much appeal.’ ‘Ain’t that the
said. ‘I’ve a lady waiting.’ ‘Good luck.’ He cursed me – ‘You son of a bitch’ – and disconnected. I’d always loved early mornings in racing stables. I’d been down in my grandfather’s yard dawn by dawn for years, half my day lived before the first school bell. I tended, for the film, to make the horses more of a priority in my attention than perhaps I should have, moving about the yard, in close contact with the creatures I’d grown up among, and felt at home with. I’d ridden as an amateur
against the sunrise. I’d have her standing on the shore, and have Ziggy galloping for her on the horse. Insubstantial, Unreal. All in her mind. Pray for a sunrise. ‘Sonia,’ I said. ‘Yvonne,’ O’Hara corrected. ‘We have to call her Yvonne. That’s her name in the book and in the script.’ I nodded. ‘Howard wrote the usual hanging cliche of legs and shoes swaying unsupported, with onlookers displaying shock. But I’ve ideas for that.’ O’Hara was silent. Nash shuddered. ‘Don’t get us an NC-17
together. The lens had been focussed every time on the main subject’s face: people around were present, but not warts and all. ‘We need blow-ups of the crowd,’ O’Hara said. ‘We’re not going to get nice clear views of the Fury.’ Morosely, he agreed, but ordered blow-ups anyway. No more knives appeared, in or out of bodies. We filmed the remaining scenes and shipped out the horses. We made sure the whole place was shipshape, thanked Huntingdon racecourse management for their kindnesses, and
him?’ ‘Yeah, I see what you mean. Gives you a nasty feeling, doesn’t it. some geezer running around with a knife?’ ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It does.’ I stood in the dark street outside Bill Robinson’s garage, with the black-belt at my back facing the crowd that had inevitably collected. There were bright lights inside the garage where Bill Robinson himself stood, dressed in his accustomed black leather and studs and looking self conscious. The monster Harley Davidson stood to one side. Pieces of a