Dead Giveaway (19 page)

She had advised him to watch from the area just to the right of the block of audience seating. This was where the stage managers, who shared their power on studio days with the floor managers, and the make-up girls, who were poised to leap on with saving puffs of powder, stood during recordings. The advantage of the position was that it commanded an uninterrupted view of the centre of the set. From any of the audience seats the outlook would be interrupted by cameras and their operators, sound men and floor managers.

The members of the audience entered at various speeds. A party later to be identified as the St Richard’s Church Youth Club scuttered in on a cloud of giggles. A works rugby club, who had met for a few jars in the pub beforehand, thumped noisily down the stairs to their seats. A Senior Citizens’ Day Group wheezed in arthritically with much clattering of sticks. Once seated, they all decided they needed to go to the lavatory before the recording started, and wheezed out again. Some of the rugby club members also went off to lose a few pints.

Charles was only partly aware of these commotions. He kept his eyes firmly on the set. At one point Sydnee flashed round the corner of it. She gave him a quick grin and a thumbs-up before going back to calm the nerves of her shepherd, metallurgist, coach-driver and vicar.

Sharp at half-past seven, when most of the audience were back from the lavatories (though some of the Senior Citizens’ Day Group were still waiting in the queue that had built up in the Ladies), Charlie Hook bounced on stage, picked up a microphone and started to tell them all how lovely they were.

It was a lovely show they were going to see, too, he assured them. Indeed, everything was lovely. He welcomed a few lovely parties, exchanged a few lovely innuendoes with the rugby club and indulged in a little lovely banter with one lovely Senior Citizen making her way back from the Ladies.

Then, on a ‘speed-it-up’ signal from the Floor Manager, he moved on to the introductions. ‘And our host for tonight’s show is a really lovely feller – somebody you all know and love from your television screen as Mr Joe Soap – well, here he is tonight without the Joe – and without the soap either . . . ladies and gentlemen, give a lovely warm round of applause to . . . Mr – Bob – Garston!’

A lovely warm round of applause was duly given, as the show’s new host strode on, oozing common touch from every pore. He grinned ruggedly at the audience and exchanged a few gritty pleasantries with them.

He gave a brief outline of what the game was about, but said it was basically very simple and they’d have no problem picking it up as they went along. Then he distributed accolades to the ‘boffins in the back-room’, without whom the show would not be possible. He praised the humour of Jim Trace-Smith and the organizing skill of John Mantle, before moving on to introduce ‘tonight’s celebrity panel’.

Charles tensed as they came on and sat in their appointed seats. Nick Jeffries shadow-boxed at the audience, much to their delight. Fiona Wakeford simpered at them, which they found equally rewarding. Joanie Bruton marched on, looking sensible, bright, but nonetheless feminine (and many of the female Senior Citizens turned to each other to comment on how sensible, bright, but nonetheless feminine she was). George Birkitt came on grinning and gave a wave, secure in the familiarity of his television face.

Bob Garston then introduced ‘the plucky foursome who, believe it or not, have actually volunteered to take part in this circus’, and the contestants, propelled by the unseen hand of Chita, came blinking on to the set.

In the Gallery, Aaron Greenberg looked at Dirk van Henke, then, accusingly, at John Mantle. ‘About as much “pazazz” as a wet noodle,’ he grumbled.

John Mantle smiled evenly.

It was nearly seven forty-five. The lovely Nikki and the lovely Linzi, after final checks at the straps of their bikinis, took up their positions by the prizes. The Senior Floor Manager stepped forward to tell Bob Garston to wind it up and get ready to record. Charlie Hook instructed the audience to wait for an applause cue from him and to watch the opening credits on the monitors above their heads.

The clock for the beginning of Part One appeared in shot. The one-minute countdown began.

Twenty-five seconds in, Nick Jeffries started waving in distress.

He had gone to have a drink from his red-and-blue-striped glass and discovered it to be empty.

The Senior Floor Manager looked annoyed at the delay. Charlie Hook came forward to reassure the audience that they were still lovely. A hustled-looking Floor Manager came on to the set with a jug on a tray. He poured liquid into the four celebrities’ glasses, then crossed to the lectern and filled Bob Garston’s. The remains of his jugful went into the carafe.

He scurried off and the Senior Floor Manager bustled forward for the restart of the recording. They must get moving, he insisted, they were wasting time. No more breaks, please. Must get on with it.

He got the message that the video-recording was stable, and the clock once again appeared on the monitors. This time it ran the full minute, disappearing just before the animated credits and music began.

Charles Paris stared across at the celebrities’ desk. The concentration made his eyes hurt.

Nick Jeffries, who had been the one who wanted a drink, took a swig from his glass. Charles noted his expression with satisfaction.

Good old Sydnee. She’d done her stuff, all right.

The prizes for the second pilot were a gas-fired barbecue, over which the lovely Nikki draped herself lasciviously, a week’s holiday for two in Eilat, and the Austin Metro (which Tim Dyer reckoned should by rights be his), from which the lovely Linzi once again waved. The audience oohed and aahed and applauded appropriately.

While the credits were running, Joanie Bruton took a sip from her red-and-blue-striped glass. Charles Paris noted her reaction.

Bob Garston introduced the celebrities with suitable jocularity. George Birkitt tried to launch into his joke about a rock-star having a haircut, but was cut short by the smiling host. Disgruntled, the actor took a drink from his glass. Though it was not relevant to his enquiry, Charles Paris noted George Birkitt’s expression.

The shepherd, the metallurgist, the coach-driver and the vicar all came on wearing inappropriate hats. With celebrity help (and, in Aaron Greenberg’s view, with total lack of ‘pazazz’), the contestants changed the hats round. Three of them identified the metallurgist as a vicar. It was all very riotous. At the end of Round One, one contestant was eliminated, but she didn’t go away empty-handed – no, she took with her a lovely
If The Cap Fits
cap!

The lovely Nikki and the lovely Linzi brought on the hat-boxes for Round Two. The three survivors made their guesses, and another member of the public was put out of contention. But of course he had won himself some money – not to mention his
If The Cap Fits
cap!

It was the End of Part One. None of the celebrities left the set while Charlie Hook re-emphasised the loveliness of the audience and explained that the Director would have to take some cutaway shots of the eliminated contestants.

Two celebrities had still to touch their red-and-blue striped glasses.

In Round Three the remaining contestants picked out of the box respectively a Roman helmet and a baseball cap. This meant that they had to answer questions on History and Sport. The first, clearly a man of no judgement but with an eye for a pretty girl, chose Fiona Wakeford to help him on History. The second, slightly shrewder, selected Nick Jeffries as his adviser on Sport.

When her protégé had been eliminated and while he was being told about his
If The Cap Fits
cap, Fiona Wakeford returned to her seat. She sat down and took a drink from her glass. Charles Paris noted her reaction.

There was now only one contestant left and it was time for the Hats In The Ring finale, with a chance to win the Super-Duper prize – a brand-new Austin Metro, complete with tax, insurance and a year’s supply of petrol!

‘Ooh!’ sighed the audience, barely able to contain themselves (in fact, completely unable to contain themselves in the case of two of the Senior Citizens, who once again set off noisily for the Ladies).

The surviving contestant stood in the middle of Sylvian de Beaune’s red wheel, while Bob Garston explained to her what was to happen.

He gave the wheel an enormous pull to set it spinning, and withdrew to his lectern. Once there, while the audience vociferously willed the wheel to stop with the crown overhead, he copied Barrett Doran’s timing and used his red-and-blue-striped glass as a prop to increase the tension of the moment.

He took a long swallow. Charles Paris noted the expression on his face.

The audience sighed in communal disappointment. Above the final contestant’s head had come to rest a fez. It was worth another £200 to add to what she had already won – not forgetting, of course, her
If The Cap Fits
cap!

John Mantle was no fool. After the close call of the first pilot, he had summoned Sylvian de Beaune into his office and ordered the designer to fix the wheel so that any hat but the crown ended up on top.

Charles Paris was unaware of that trickery. Nor, at that moment, would he have been interested to hear about it. His mind was too full.

He knew who the intended victim had been on the previous pilot.

And he knew who the murderer was.

He went out into the corridor that led from the dressing rooms. By the lifts was a small Reception area, with a few uncomfortably low armchairs.

In one of them Roger Bruton was sitting.

He looked up at Charles with no particular pleasure.

‘Oh. Hello. I’m just waiting for Joanie.’ Charles sat down beside him.

‘I think I’ll wait for her too,’ he said.

‘I KNOW WHAT happened,’ said Charles after a long pause.

‘Sorry?’ Roger Bruton seemed miles away. Charles looked at the weak face, whose baby-like roundness was belied, on close inspection, by an elaborate map of tiny lines. Roger was older than one might at first think. Well over fifty, anyway. And his exquisitely-preserved wife was probably about the same age.

‘I know what happened on the last pilot.’

The faded brown eyes turned towards him, but still did not look very interested.

‘Oh?’

‘When Barrett Doran died.’

A minimal flicker of alarm came into the eyes, but the tone was still confident as Roger Bruton said, ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what you’re talking about. What happened?’

‘Do you think he was killed by the girl, Chippy?’

‘As I said when we last discussed it, that is what the police seem to think.’

Charles shook his head. ‘It doesn’t work that way. You know, at the end, after Barrett had fallen down, all the celebrities got up and tipped over their desk.’

‘Yes.’

‘Hard thing to do, overturn that desk.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes. I’ve talked to its designer. It’s got a low centre of gravity.’

‘Nick Jeffries is a strong man.’

‘Hmm. And Joanie quite definitely said that Nick Jeffries was the one who overturned it. But, you see, it’s not strength that matters with that desk. It’s simple physics . . . levers . . . a matter of applying force at the right point.’

‘I’m not with you.’

‘There’s a bar along the back. A good upward pull on that would tip the desk over. And it wouldn’t take a lot of strength. But you’d have to be the right height to do it unobtrusively. Anyone tall – anyone, say, Nick Jeffries’ height – would have to bend right down to the bar.’

Roger Bruton did not react, so Charles spelled it out. ‘Nick Jeffries couldn’t have done it. Even in all that confusion someone would have noticed. The only person who could have done it was Joanie.’

Roger Bruton attempted bluster. ‘So? So Joanie knocked the desk over. So what?’

‘So she had a reason to do it. She wanted to break all the glasses, create confusion, do anything that would disguise the fact that hers contained gin.’

The tired eyes stared hauntedly at Charles, but there were no words.

‘I’ve confirmed that this evening,’ Charles continued. ‘By a simple trick. I arranged that all the water-glasses tonight should contain gin. That’s why they were empty when the recording started. I didn’t want anyone to draw attention to it earlier. Once the show was under way – particularly under way late – I knew that no one would dare stop the recording. They’d all just press on. But I also knew that they’d react. It’s a shock when you pick up a glass which you believe to contain water and find it’s full of gin. No one, however professional a performer, could disguise that initial split-second of shock. No one, that is, who hadn’t been warned . . . no one to whom it hadn’t happened before.’

Roger Bruton remained as still as a corpse.

‘The only person who gave no reaction when she discovered the glass contained gin was your wife.’

‘So . . .’ The man’s lips hardly moved as he spoke. ‘What do you reckon that means?’

‘Joanie’s very quick-witted, isn’t she? Her mind moves fast. Quite fast enough on the first pilot to link the fact that Barrett had been poisoned with the fact that her glass contained gin. She knew he always had gin on the set, so it was a fair assumption that the two glasses had been changed round. She also knew that someone hated her enough to want to murder her. But because that person was someone very close to her, she tried to confuse the evidence, so that the truth would never come out.’

A long silence hung between them.

‘I’m right. Aren’t I, Roger?’

Slowly the tension drained out of him. Muscle by muscle, Roger Bruton’s body relaxed, till he lay slumped back on the low armchair.

With something that sounded like a little laugh, eventually he said, ‘Yes. You’re right.’

‘Why?’

The murderer looked at Charles and slowly, wryly, shook his head. ‘You wouldn’t understand.’

‘No? But Joanie did. Joanie always understood, didn’t she? And that was why you hated her.’

The faded eyes looked at Charles with a new respect. ‘Yes,’ Roger said softly, ‘that’s why.’