Dead Giveaway (18 page)

‘No.’ Charles thought about it. ‘And Joanie is of course ideally placed as a blackmailer. As she said, she’s a repository for a great many secrets.’

‘Exactly.’

There was a new excitement in Sydnee’s pale-blue eyes. Charles gave her a wry smile. ‘I can see what you’re doing. You’re just trying to get me interested in the case again, aren’t you?’

‘So what’s wrong with that?’

‘What’s wrong with that is that I have so far spent a fortnight getting precisely nowhere, while what I should have done was to go to the police straight away.’

‘Don’t you like a challenge, Charles?’

‘I have been challenged and I have shown myself unequal to the challenge.’

‘Doesn’t that frustrate you?’

‘Of course it bloody does!’ he snapped.

‘It certainly frustrates me.’ This was a new Sydnee, her surface poise giving way to a girlish stubbornness. ‘I’m a researcher, and the aim of research is to get to the bottom of things, to get to the truth. Nothing pisses me off more than failing in that quest. Go on, you must feel the same. If you don’t find out who the murderer is, you’re going to be really pissed off, aren’t you?’

Charles couldn’t deny it.

‘Then let’s bloody find out who it is. Look, we’ve already got a motive for Bob to want to kill Joanie. Let’s see if we can get any motivations for the rest of them.’

Charles was thoroughly hooked again by now.

‘Well, the new entrant into the suspect stakes is of course Nick Jeffries. He didn’t seem to have a particularly benevolent nature, but I’m not sure I see him as a murderer. Still, let’s try and think who he might want to murder.’

‘Fiona, for refusing his advances?’

‘Seems extreme.’

‘Very sensitive plant, the male ego.’

‘You don’t have to tell me,’ said Charles ruefully. ‘On the other hand, I don’t really see poison as Nick Jeffries’ style. I can see him thumping someone, but . . . Still, I suppose it’s possible.’ He shook his head in frustration. ‘Oh, I’d just like to see them all together again. I’m sure I’d get some feeling of what they felt for each other if I did.’

‘You’ll have the chance tomorrow.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s the second pilot. You may see something.’

‘Yes, I suppose I may. I must say I’d rather see the first one again. I don’t mean the tape. I mean the whole thing. I’m sure if I could see their reactions to the drink or who knocked the desk over, I’d be able to . . .’

He stopped. Sydnee looked at him curiously. She was even more curious when she saw the beatific smile which had spread across his features.

‘What on earth is it?’

‘Sydnee,’ he said with a new, calm confidence, ‘I have had an idea.’

THE DAY OF preparation for the second pilot of
If The Cap Fits
closely followed the pattern of the first, though generally everything was more efficient. John Mantle had gathered an experienced game-show team around him and they had learned from the shortcomings of the previous pilot.

As a result, three Conference Rooms had been booked, so that the ‘professions’ did not have to spend the afternoon pondering Sydnee’s ‘Ugly Wall’. (On this occasion the researchers had assembled a shepherd, a metallurgist, a coach-driver and a vicar, the last of whom thought, mistakenly, that his appearance on the programme would help to make the Church seem more accessible to ordinary people.) The hide-and-seek game of keeping the various participant groups apart was better orchestrated, so that there were fewer sudden rushes for cover.

An acrimonious confrontation between John Mantle and the Head of Wardrobe had resulted in the hats being ready when required (though the sullen expressions on the faces of the staff who produced them suggested that they still did not think it was their job). However, arguments could not be avoided on the subject of what sort of hats metallurgists wore and whether a Church of England vicar could really be properly identified by a biretta.

Sydnee had had a long session with Make-up and finally organised a schedule that would get everyone done without transgressing the sacred and expensive lines of the meal break.

The new contestants spent the afternoon in the same state of nervous tension as their predecessors. The extrovert personalities for which they had been selected seemed to desert them once on the set, leading Aaron Greenberg and Dirk van Henke, who had just returned from a long lunch at Inigo Jones with John Mantle, to turn on him and object that this bunch had even less ‘pazazz’ than the last lot.

They were also suspicious of Bob Garston’s ‘pazazz’-rating. His gritty Northern approach to the job of host contrasted unfavourably with the more flamboyant style of ‘Eddie back in the States’, and John Mantle had to endure a further barrage of talk about killing Golden Geese stone-dead and screwing up something which could mean ‘someone making a pot’. As ever, he trimmed and shifted, full of magnanimous concessions which gave away nothing. He could see the end in sight. The next day, come what might, the Americans would be on Concorde on their way back home. The massive accumulations of their bill at the Savoy and the charges on his Gold Card would be at an end, and John Mantle would at last have some time to himself.

He felt confident that, by the time that magic moment arrived, he would also have the makings of a very successful game-show series which would run for years. As Sydnee had suggested, for him, having to do a second pilot had been like a gift from heaven. It had given him the opportunity to adjust the format, to regulate the pace of the show and give the whole package an additional gloss. Good housekeeper to the end, he was even confident that his budget would not suffer too much. Whereas there had been almost no possibility (even without Barrett Doran’s murder) of the first pilot being transmitted, there was a good chance that the second could be, probably not as the first of the series, but safely tucked away four or five into the run. All in all, John Mantle was very pleased with the way things had turned out. Barrett Doran’s death couldn’t have come at a better time for him.

It was a subject that was not mentioned in the celebrity Conference Room. The foursome reverted to the required laid-back approach to the proceedings. The three who had played the game before had good reason to take it lightly; they now knew the format so well there was no need even to pretend to be doing any homework on it. Joanie and Roger Bruton muttered their way through a file of correspondence. Fiona Wakeford painted her fingernails with studious concentration. Nick Jeffries, whom this studious concentration was intended to exclude, sat around restlessly looking at a newspaper and resorting too often to the hip-flask in his pocket.

The newcomer, brought in to fill the gap on the panel left by Bob Garston’s promotion, was George Birkitt. He was an actor with whom Charles Paris had worked on numerous occasions. Of moderate talent, he had been elevated by appearances in various television series to celebrity status. Since he was devoid of personality, he had no inner star quality, but was content to assume the mannerisms and behaviour of authentic stars he had met. The act was successful, in that the television audience seemed unable to distinguish him from the genuine article.

George Birkitt joined in the occasional, insouciant banter of the Conference Room, saying things like, ‘Never sure about these damned game shows myself. Still, the agent says they’re good, keep the old face in front of the public, show there’s a man behind the actor. So I suppose I should take his advice. After all, that’s what I pay the old sod such a large chunk of my income for . . .’

He did, however, refer to his copy of the show’s format rather more often than was strictly proper for someone of his celebrity status.

Between the Conference Rooms Jeremy Fowler flitted, a lost soul trying to shed his burden of wacky one-liners about shepherds, metallurgists, coach-drivers, vicars and hats. He found few takers, though George Birkitt, who recognised that he had the imaginative faculty of a bar of soap, did scribble down an old joke about a rock-star’s school cap being discovered when he had a haircut.

And all the while Bob Garston dashed about the place, expending enormous energy and charm. He was determined to show not only that he could host the show a damned sight better than Barrett Doran, but also that he could be lovable with it. The effort he put into his affability was almost physically painful.

In Studio A rehearsal wound on its dilatory way. Jim Trace-Smith exhorted the participants to bravura performances with all the damp aplomb of fruit juice soaking through a paper bag.

And Sylvian de Beaune, dressed for the occasion in a leopard-skin T-shirt and gold lame trousers, fussed around his set and wondered why Sydnee had asked him to meet Charles Paris for a chat in the bar at half-past six.

For Charles it was a day of nerves. Not terrified, panicky nerves, but nerves of anticipation, that jumpy surging twitchiness which precedes a first night, the feeling that a great many different strands are coming together and that if one can only keep going a little longer, everything will be all right.

This state covered the whole spectrum of emotion and included moments of great confidence. In one of these, he rang Maurice Skellern, assertively demanding what there was coming up on the work front.

The fact that his agent gave the predictable reply, ‘Nothing. Very quiet at the moment, Charles’, did not instantly deflate his mood, so he made another audacious phone-call. He rang the number of Frances’s school and asked to speak to the headmistress.

‘What on earth is it?’ Her voice was tight with anxiety. ‘Something to do with Juliet or the boys?’

It was predictable that her first thought should be for their daughter and grandchildren, though why she should think he might know anything of Juliet’s troubles Charles could not imagine. If there were anything wrong, Juliet would have got straight on to Frances. Experience had not encouraged her to rely on her father.

‘No, Frances. It’s just me ringing to say hello.’

‘You know I’m at work.’

‘I told you never to ring me at the office,’ hissed Charles in the voice he’d used as a panicked adulterer in a tired bedroom farce at Blackpool (‘If it’s laughter you’re after, stay at home and watch television.’ –
Liverpool Daily Post
).

‘I’ve got someone with me,’ she said in the frosty voice of reprimand which was much imitated by her fourth-formers.

‘I want to see you.’

‘We met a couple of weeks ago.’

‘I know. It’s habit-forming. I want to see you again. Another dinner?’

‘Well . . .’

‘Name a date. Any evening you like. Except tonight.’

‘Next Wednesday. The Italian place.’

‘I’ll book.’

‘You certainly will. Eight-thirty. On the dot. Or forget it.’

The headmistress put the phone down on him, but that didn’t extinguish the little spark of excitement inside. If he and Frances really could get together again . . . He was in his fifties, too old for self-dramatizing actresses, too old for desperate housewives in Billericay. Maybe this time it really would work again with Frances . . . Why not, after all? They were both mature human beings, both knew the score. The separation had enriched their relationship in some ways. If he was patient, if he was sensible, he was sure it could work . . .

He went from the payphone on the landing into his bedsitter. He made a pretence at reading and resisted the temptation to have a drink. No, need all his wits about him later.

There was nothing he could do until the evening. He just hoped that Sydnee had done her stuff.

SYDNEE HAD DONE the first bit of her stuff, anyway. When Charles arrived at the Reception of W.E.T. House and identified himself, the girl, the same one as on his previous visit, immediately handed him an envelope which contained a ticket to that night’s recording of a brand-new big-prize game show,
If The Cap Fits,
together with a Visitor’s Security Pass, stamped for that day only.

This latter document meant that, rather than joining the queue of Townswomen’s Guild, insurance company social club and amateur dramatic society members round the back of the building, he could go inside to the bar.

It was a little before six-thirty. He bought himself a large Bell’s and stood alone sipping it, a sore thumb amidst the tight fists of programme groups. Flying-suits giggled and gesticulated, disparaging rival productions, reliving location disasters, calculating overtime payments, repeating the day’s insults.

Sylvian arrived promptly. He was not wearing make-up for the day in the studio, so the shiny pallor of his face was his own. His eyes flickered about the bar. He refused the offer of a drink.

Charles reminded the designer of something he had said in his silver Dockland flat. Sylvian, expecting a completely different line of questioning, readily answered Charles’s query about the celebrities’ blue desk on the set of
If The Cap Fits
.

Their conversation lasted less than two minutes. The ice in Charles’s glass had not had time to melt before he drained the whisky and went down to Studio A.

It was about quarter to seven. The studio was empty and still. No one yet had come back from their meal-break. The red, blue and silver set gleamed under working lights. The cameras were pointed at cards on caption-stands, ready for the half-hour’s line-up time, due to start at seven. Air-conditioning hummed slightly, and gave the atmosphere a surprising chill, before the full lighting and crowds of people would warm it up.

Charles walked on to the familiar set, but he did not go to the side where he had stood two weeks before with the hamburger chef, the surgeon and the stockbroker. He walked round the back of the long blue desk where the celebrities would sit, and looked under it. It was exactly as Sylvian had said.

Next he inspected the four blue-and-red-striped glasses, which stood on the desk in front of each red chair.

He also looked at the other glass and the carafe on the host’s lectern.

All were empty.

Good. Sydnee was continuing to do her stuff.