A Series of Murders (19 page)

‘It's not about business.'

‘Oh? What is it, then?' Maurice sounded suspicious.

‘I want some information.'

‘What kind of information?'

‘A bit of show-biz gossip.'

‘Dirt?' Maurice's tone had changed. Now he sounded very alert, almost enthusiastic.

‘Dirt,' Charles confirmed.

‘Dirt on who?'

‘There are four people I'd like you to check out.'

‘And what sort of stuff do you want?'

‘Oh, any indiscretions in their past. Criminal . . . or personal . . . The sort of stuff they'd want kept quiet, anyway.'

‘I get you.'

‘Do you think you can do it?'

‘Charles,' his agent said reproachfully, ‘need you ask?'

‘No, of course not. Sorry.'

‘Right,' said Maurice Skellem gleefully. ‘Give me the names.'

With that line of inquiry launched, Charles once again brought his mind to bear on Tony Rees. He tried to recall everything he had seen the A.S.M. do over the previous twenty-four hours and think if there was anything that struck a discordant note.

The first strangeness was the young man's unexpected affability in the pub the night before. After nearly a fortnight of avoiding Charles, suddenly Tony was grasping him by the arm and buying him drinks. There must have been some explanation for the change.

The other thing that hadn't seemed odd at the time but might, in posthumous retrospect, appear slightly strange was Tony's request that lunch-time for Mort Verdon's production schedule. Why should the A.S.M. suddenly want to know what was happening in the next episode when they were in the middle of filming on this one?

Of course, there were any number of innocent answers to that question, but Charles thought it just might be worth checking out. He reached for the phone again and dialled the number of a room in the hotel.

‘Hello?' The voice was not suspicious but guarded.

‘Mort, it's Charles Paris.'

‘Oh, hell
o
.' The voice opened out. ‘Seen the error of your ways at last, have you, boofle? Thought you would. Well, just give me a moment to slip into something casual and then' – the stage manager dropped into a Mae West impersonation – ‘come up and see me.'

‘Ah, sorry to disappoint you.'

‘Story of my life, boofle,' said Mort, and dropped instantly out of their customary masquerade. ‘What
can
I do for you, then, Charles?'

‘It's about schedules.'

‘Hang on a moment while I just control my excitement.
Schedules
, did you say?'

‘Yes.'

‘
Production
schedules?' asked Mort, as if the world could hold no topic more exciting.

‘Yup.'

Mort's voice subsided into flatness. ‘What about them?'

‘You remember that Tony – the late Tony – borrowed your schedule for the next episode at lunch-time today?'

‘I do remember.'

‘Did he give it back to you?'

‘No. No, he didn't. But, quite honestly, I'm not going to hold it against him. I mean, the poor boy's dead, and I'm hardly going to go and get stroppy with his next of kin and demand my schedule back at a moment like this, am I? Mind you, I can't think the details of the next episode's filming and studio are going to be much use to poor Tony where he's gone.'

‘No,' said Charles. ‘It's strange . . .'

‘What?'

‘Well, you know I found his body.'

‘Yes. I'm sorry. Seem to be making rather a habit of that at the moment, don't you?'

‘Mm. Mort, I shouldn't have done this, but before I went to get help, I checked through Tony's pockets.'

‘Macabre thing to do.'

‘Yes, I suppose it was a bit. Anyway, your schedule wasn't there.'

‘Oh, well, as I say, I'm not about to make a great fuss.'

‘No. I also looked through Tony's bag on the coach . . . You know, before the police came to take it away.'

‘Quite the little Sergeant Clump, aren't we?' murmured Mort, echoing Will's words.

‘Yes. Thing is, your schedule wasn't in his bag either.'

‘Well, Charles, boofle, I don't think we have to alert Interpol straightaway, do we? It is, after all, only a few photocopied sheets we're talking about. Tony might have dropped it, he might have shoved it in a litter bin, could be anywhere. Don't worry, I'll get another one before we start rehearsing that episode.'

‘Yes, yes, fine. Well, thanks, Mort.'

‘No problem. And don't forget, Charles, if you wake up in the night feeling a little queer, you've got my room number.'

‘Thanks. I'll bear it in mind.'

Charles put the phone down and looked out pensively into the murk beyond the windowpane.

The telephone trilled, and he picked it up again.

‘It's Will. I've finished the sodding thing. Let's have that drink. Pick me up on the way.

‘Come in. It's on the latch.'

Charles obeyed Will's instructions and went into his room. The writer was scribbling a note on a blank sheet of paper. His portable printer was rattling out the rewritten scene. It stopped. With practised ease, Will Parton tore off the perforated strips on the sheets and shuffled them neatly into order.

‘This one's for Russell, since he's the one who, in theory, has to learn the stuff. I'll do copies for Ben and Rick later. I'm parched.'

With satisfaction he put the note on top of the pile of sheets.

‘DEAR RUSSELL,' Charles read, ‘HERE'S THE REWRITE. YOU CANT COMPLAIN NOW. ALL CLEANED UP. NO ONE COULD IMAGINE IN THEIR WILDEST FANTASIES THAT THERE WAS ANYTHING OUT OF THE ORDINARY IN THE RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN STANISLAS BRAID AND CHRISTINA. YOURS, WILL.'

‘Are you going to give it to him now?'

‘No,' said Will. ‘I'll drop it into his room later. Don't want to get involved in discussions about how the part of Russell Bentley should be played at this precise moment. My first priority is a drink. Come on.' At the door he asked, ‘And you're certain you're not going to be drinking tonight?'

‘Certain,' said Charles.

They stayed in the bar most of the evening. Charles survived one round on Perrier, but then he reasoned that he really did need a large Bell's. That afternoon a sudden death had once again stopped him when he was about to have a drink. And he was in a serious state of shock after finding Tony Rees's body.

There was only one interruption in his evening's drinking. After they had been in the bar for about an hour, he was paged by Reception. There was a telephone call for him.

It was Maurice. Calling back with the dirt. Charles spent ten minutes in the phone booth by Reception scribbling furiously in a notebook. All interesting stuff. Then he went back to continue drinking.

‘Really must get that script to Russell,' said Will at the end of the evening as they tottered toward his room.

He fumbled with the key, but as he leaned against the door, it gave and opened inward. ‘Stupid twit. Must have forgotten to lock it.'

They stumbled into the room. Will looked at the empty table with an expression of puzzlement.

‘That's funny,' he said. ‘Someone's taken my rewrite.'

THE NEXT MORNING the weather seemed little improved, so there was no chance of picking up the summery scenes in Corfe Castle. But since the precedent of a misty seascape had already been established the previous afternoon, the decision was made to shoot as much of the seashore stuff as possible on Durlston Head. The W.E.T. coaches therefore drove through Swanage and up out of the town to the location. Tony Rees's death had put a damper on everyone's spirits; there was no sign of the hilarity of previous coach trips.

The location caterers were already set up in the car park when the coaches arrived, and many of the crew, who had only half an hour before finished large hotel breakfasts, immediately tucked into their first bacon sandwiches of the day.

By this time the weather did look rather more promising. Every now and then the clouds parted to admit a few frames of watery sunshine. The cameraman began to look as optimistic as the lugubrious traditions of his trade allowed.

Ben Docherty urged Rick Landor on to get the morning's filming finished as quickly as possible. If they could have all the Durlston Head stuff in the can before lunch and if the weather continued its promising trend, there would be a reasonable chance of getting the outstanding Corfe Castle scenes done in the afternoon. In spite of deaths and climatic disasters, the Producer was still determined to get his series made in time. The thought of having to spend another day in Dorset was too awful to contemplate. The next day's rest day was obligatory by union rules, so if that got moved on, all the studio bookings would have to be shifted. The cumulative effects over the series didn't bear thinking of. Even overrunning on that day's schedule offered the direful prospect of overtime payments. The Producer tried, unsuccessfully, to disguise his panic as efficiency.

The disappearing rewrite of the night before had not been explained, but fortunately the text was on the memory of Will's lap-top, and he had been just sober enough to get it to print up other copies. Everyone seemed happy with the changes. Russell Bentley, in particular, was effusive in his praise of the writer's efforts. He still couldn't remember Will's name, but he did enthuse, ‘You've done frightfully well, old boy. Must get you writing something else for me.'

The scene that had caused all the fuss was a tense little moment of drama in which Stanislas Braid and Christina appeared to be trapped on a cliff-top ledge with no hope of escape. In the W. T. Wintergreen version they took this as an opportunity to tell the depth of their feelings for each other. Will Parton's rewrite had changed it to something altogether more jokey. The affection was still there, but masked in a kind of flippant bravado.

The new scene, however, was not scheduled for shooting till later in the morning. First, a few laborious moments of Sergeant Clump and Blodd had to be filmed as they wandered in panic along the cliff path, looking for the missing detective and his daughter. These scenes were very short – Blodd rushing into shot and saying something like ‘No sign of them,' then rushing out of shot, to be followed seconds later by a ponderously puffing Sergeant Clump – but there were long pauses between them as Rick Landor and the cameraman tried to find new vantage points and angles along the cliff path.

In one of these breaks Charles took the opportunity of checking Jimmy Sheet's reaction to the death of Tony Rees. ‘Dreadful business yesterday, wasn't it?'

‘What's that, then?' asked the former pop star.

‘Tony.'

‘Oh, yeah.' Jimmy Sheet grinned unpleasantly. ‘Don't think anyone'll miss him.'

‘No, I gather he had his less pleasant qualities,' Charles prompted.

‘Huh. You can say that again. Nasty bit of work. No secret was safe when you got someone like that around.'

‘Oh?'

‘Still, he isn't around, so that's no longer a problem, is it?'

‘Did you find it a problem?'

Jimmy Sheet gave Charles a hard look. ‘What's that to you?'

‘Just wondered.'

‘Well, I'd advise you to stop wondering. Tony Rees is dead, and from my point of view that's the best thing that could have happened to him.'

‘How do you think it did happen?'

Jimmy Sheet looked Charles straight in the eyes with insolent self-assurance. ‘He fell, didn't he?'

They got the searching of the cliff path filmed, and Charles's scenes were finished. Needless to say, Sergeant Clump was not bright enough actually to find the missing detective. No, as ever, he was baffled. It was Stanislas Braid's own ingenuity that got him out of this particular fix. As it did out of every other fix in which he found himself.

But although his work was done, Charles had no alternative but to stay around the location. No transport would be going back into Swanage until the Durlston Head scenes were finished, and he didn't fancy walking five miles.

So he sat on one of the stone benches thoughtfully placed for sightseers to look out over Durlston Bay. The weather was continuing to improve and, although leaden clouds hung like a Roman blind over the horizon, he could get some impression of the beauties of the Isle of Purbeck's coastline.

He looked up to see Ben Docherty approaching. The Producer sat down beside him and said with a nervous grin, ‘All done?'

Charles nodded. He reached into his raincoat pocket and pulled out the half bottle of Bell's. Though its seal had been broken, the contents were still intact. ‘Fancy a drop?'

‘Wouldn't say no,' said Ben. ‘Bit nippy.'

Charles wondered how he could broach the subject of Tony Rees's death but was saved the trouble, because Ben Docherty did it for him. ‘That business yesterday, Charles . . .'

‘What?'

‘The A.S.M..'

‘Oh, yes.'

‘You found him, didn't you?'

‘Uh-huh.'

‘I mean, you
found
him? He was there when you got there? You didn't see him fall?'

‘No, I didn't.'

The answer seemed to please Ben Docherty, who nodded slowly. ‘The police talked to you?'

‘Yes.'

‘You didn't gather from them what they thought had happened?'

‘Police never give much away, do they?'

‘No, no,' the Producer agreed slowly. But his mind was still not at rest. ‘And there's no talk round the cast?' he asked diffidently.

‘Talk about what?'

‘Well, about Tony's death.'

‘Obviously everyone's
talking
about it, but' – time for a bit of tactical obtuseness – ‘I'm sorry, I don't quite understand what you mean.'

‘I just mean, Charles, nobody's sort of suggesting, you know, like maybe the death wasn't an accident?'