Dead Room Farce (26 page)

He stopped at the door and, looking back sardonically at Charles Paris, said, ‘Still be very interested to know how you propose to prove the allegations you've just made.' He grinned infuriatingly and, with a brisk shake of his shoulders, spelled out the reason why he had murdered Mark Lear. ‘Can't hang about, though. The show must go on, love.'

CHARLES Paris's frustration was intense. He knew he was right. Tony Delaunay had virtually admitted he was right. And yet, as the company manager had so enjoyed telling him, Charles had no proof.

The unattractive prospect loomed of two more months touring
not on your wife!
, with Tony Delaunay's impudent smile constantly reminding him of his powerlessness. Throughout the Birmingham week Charles fumed. Apart from anything else, he felt such a sense of anti-climax. He had psyched himself up for the encounter, had had his confrontation with the murderer, and yet at the end of it seemed no further advanced. The whole situation was infuriating.

Charles's fury did not, however, arise from a righteous sense of justice cheated. Mark Lear's death seemed less shocking with the passage of time, even perhaps – given the direction in which his friend had seemed to be heading – a merciful release. It was hard to imagine Mark undergoing the kind of total character change which would have been needed for him to start enjoying life again.

But, whatever his victim's prospects had been, Tony Delaunay was still a murderer. And some atavistic instinct in Charles Paris told him that murderers shouldn't be allowed to get away with their crimes.

All through the Birmingham week, one thought dominated Charles's mind. There must be some way of nailing the bastard.

An idea came to him on the Sunday between Birmingham and Brighton. Back at Hereford Road, he had been greeted by his accumulated post, piled carelessly on a hall shelf by the various Amazonian Swedish girls who occupied the other flats.

There wasn't much of interest. There was very rarely much of interest in Charles Paris's post. He was a lax correspondent, and there's a basic rule that, if you don't send out many letters, you don't get many replies. Nor was his career sufficiently busy to generate a great deal of professional correspondence.

So most of what Charles did get was junk mail. Finance companies, apparently ignorant of his appalling repayment record, kept trying to issue him with new credit cards. Book clubs attempted to lure him into their webs with offers of 50p hardbacks. Insurance companies earnestly asked him, ‘What would happen if you were suddenly unable to work?' Since Charles's answer to this was: ‘It would be par for the course, my career's always been like that', all such communications tended to get filed in his wastepaper basket.

And then of course there were the bills. Charles Paris had a system with bills. He would pile them up on the mantelpiece of his room until the majority were red, then suddenly indulge in a cathartic orgy of payment, closing his mind to the cheques' combined and simultaneous impact on his beleaguered bank account.

It was a bill, however, which suggested another approach to the problem of Tony Delaunay. It was Charles Paris's telephone bill.

Telephone bills still had a slight air of novelty for him. For many years Charles's sole means of communication with the outside world had been the payphone on the landing at Hereford Road. But that had vanished in the refurbishment which had turned a houseful of ‘bedsitters' into a houseful of ‘studio flats'. So, along with facing considerably increased rent demands, Charles had also been forced into organising himself a phone line. An answering machine quickly followed, and he was no longer reliant on the erratic message service of the Swedish girls. Charles Paris had at last put a tentative toe into the waters of modern technology, and he was repeatedly astonished at how he'd ever managed to conduct his life without it.

He didn't reckon he used the phone that much, but every time a bill arrived it was still a nasty shock. On this occasion, however, the size of the sum owing wasn't what struck him. It was the fact that his bill was itemised.

There is no defence against that list of figures. The total demanded may seem outrageous, but when one sees every transaction laid out in such detail, argument becomes impossible.

Itemised bills, Charles had decided, must have had a profound influence on the nation's morals. Together with the ‘last number redial' facility and the ‘1471' method of monitoring the most recent incoming call, itemised bills must have severely clipped the wings of the average adulterer.

But it wasn't moral considerations that were uppermost in Charles's mind at that moment. He realised that an itemised phone bill might help him to reconstruct Mark Lear's last hours.

Charles looked at his watch. It was early on the Sunday afternoon. Though he had spent a night at her flat, Lisa Wilson had never volunteered her home phone number to him, but Charles thought it was worth trying the studio. Lisa seemed prepared to work every hour there was to get her business up and running.

Sure enough, she was there, doing some tape editing. She didn't sound particularly surprised to hear from him – or indeed particularly interested.

Charles leapt straight in. ‘Lisa, I've been thinking about the phone . . .'

‘What?'

‘The phone calls Mark made on the afternoon he died.'

There was a sudden change in her tone. ‘How did you know?' she asked sharply.

Charles was bewildered. ‘What?'

‘How did you work it out?'

‘Well,' he floundered, ‘it just seemed kind of logical . . . that we know he used the phone and . . .'

‘And do you think I should tell the police?'

‘Erm . . .'

‘I mean, if I didn't tell them that the doors were locked, I can't really tell them about the phone either.'

‘What about the phone?' he asked helplessly.

But Lisa Wilson was so caught up in her own thoughts, she imagined Charles knew more than he did. ‘The fact that I found the cordless phone in the little dead room with him.'

‘And you moved it?'

‘I had to.'

‘Why?'

‘The redial button.'

‘Mm?'

‘I pressed the redial button on the phone.' A sob came into her voice. ‘And I found out that the last number Mark had dialled . . . probably when he was dying . . . was the number of the married man who . . .'

‘The one you spent the night with?'

‘Yes.' Her voice was taut with pain. ‘I'd told him all about this guy . . . you know, when Mark and I started going out together . . . so he knew the name. I didn't know he'd got the phone number. He must've copied it out of my address book . . . and when he was dying, that was the last number . . . He must've known I was deceiving him . . . He must've been trying to contact me . . .'

She was too upset to say any more. Charles asked gently, ‘And did he get through? Did he talk to . . . your friend?'

‘No. The guy's a writer. The number's the office where he works. He wasn't there. Mark must've got the answering machine.'

‘But, so far as you know, he didn't leave a message?'

‘No. I'd have heard.'

‘Hm. So you took the phone out of the studio, and put it back on its base, so that the police wouldn't get on to . . . your friend?'

‘Yes. And I dialled another number, so that the redial button wouldn't give it away.'

‘But the police would still be able to find out what calls he made. It's all logged somewhere.'

‘I know. I wasn't thinking very clearly. I'd just found Mark dead. I was feeling so guilty . . .'

‘And the calls'd be on your itemised phone bill, anyway.'

‘Right. Of course they would.'

‘Have you had a phone bill recently? I mean, a phone bill that covers the day Mark died?'

‘Yes. One came last week. I didn't check it. I didn't think . . .'

‘Have you got it there? Look for calls after three-thirty.'

‘Mm.' There was a rustling of papers. ‘I never thought of looking at this.' After a moment's silence, she announced, ‘He only made three calls after three-thirty that day.'

‘And the last one was to your friend?'

‘Yes. That was at 17:02. For under a minute. He must've just listened to the ansaphone message and hung up.'

‘When were the other calls?'

‘One at 15:42.'

‘And that was presumably to . . .' Charles reeled off Lavinia Bradshaw's number.

‘Yes. That lasted six minutes, twelve seconds . . .'

‘And was interrupted by the murderer coming into the studio.'

‘Was it? Charles, how do you know –?'

‘Don't worry, I'll explain in a moment. What was the third call?'

‘That was at 16:37. It lasted twelve minutes, nine seconds.'

‘And what was the number?'

‘It was the same one.'

‘What, you mean – your friend?'

‘No, Charles. It was another call to his ex-wife.'

‘Really?' said Charles Paris.

The Bradshaws' house was in Blackheath, large and imposing. Lavinia's second husband also had money. Pooling their resources had made for a very lavish life-style indeed. The husband was away on business that weekend, but Lavinia was quite happy for Charles Paris to come round. ‘Anything that's going to help get this wretched insurance business sorted out,' she said when he rang her. But no, she hadn't yet got round to talking to Lisa Wilson. It was clearly not a task she relished, though her greed would probably not allow it to be deferred for ever.

The sitting room into which she ushered him demonstrated the impersonal luxury that only an interior designer can bring to a house. It seemed to be for demonstration purposes only, too neat ever to be lived in by real human beings. The curtains billowed too lavishly; the cushions were scattered too artlessly; the gas flames licked too politely around the unchanging ceramic lumps of coal.

It was late afternoon. Lavinia Bradshaw offered him tea or coffee, but nothing stronger. Charles declined.

‘I want to check about the phone calls Mark made the afternoon he died.'

‘Well, I told you. He rang me, and maundered on as usual. All that self-pitying nonsense.'

‘And then he was interrupted by the arrival of Tony Delaunay.'

‘Tony somebody, certainly. He definitely said “Tony”. Perhaps you should talk to this Tony.'

‘I have talked to him.'

‘And did he say anything that proved it wasn't suicide?'

‘Erm . . . Well . . .' Charles had to remind himself that Lavinia knew nothing of the suspicions of murder. He would have to edit what he said carefully. ‘Before we go on to that, could I just check about the phone calls?'

‘Phone calls? There was only one. I had to go out to the hairdresser's. I had an appointment at four.'

‘Mark called this number again at four thirty-seven.'

‘Well, I wasn't here. He certainly didn't talk to me again.

‘He talked to somebody for twelve minutes and nine seconds.'

The line of Lavinia Bradshaw's mouth hardened. ‘Oh, did he?' She rose briskly from the sofa, ‘I'll go and get her.'

The girl looked ghastly. The loose print dress, worn undoubtedly on her mother's orders to obscure the precise outlines of her body, perversely had the opposite effect. It drew attention to the matchstick thinness of her legs, the disproportionate swellings of her joints. In the same way, the thick Alice band, intended to cover her hair, simply drew attention to its sparseness.

‘This is Claudia.'

‘Hello. I'm Charles Paris.'

The girl looked at him without interest. She seemed preoccupied. Her eyes were unfocused, but had a glint of deviousness in them.

‘Claudia darling, sit down.'

She obeyed, placing herself gingerly on the edge of an armchair, as if her skin was not thick enough to cushion her against the hardness of its upholstery.

‘Claudia, did you talk to Daddy on the phone the afternoon he died?'

The girl moved her head round slowly to look at her mother, but said nothing.

‘Claudia, I asked you a question.' Still silence. ‘Come on, darling, this is important. Important for you. It might affect whether or not you get the money from Daddy's insurance.'

The girl's gaunt face took on a slight sneer at the mention of money. Her mother was predictably stung by the reaction. ‘Claudia! I've had enough of this nonsense! I've been very tolerant over the last months, let you do your own thing, indulge all your silly faddishness . . . but this is something important. You must tell us whether or not you spoke to Daddy on the afternoon he died!'

‘It really would help if you could tell us,' said Charles, more softly.

The skull-like face turned from its mother towards Charles Paris, and fixed the same look of challenging contempt on him.

Lavinia Bradshaw rose to her feet in fury. ‘Claudia! Will you please do as you're told!'

The girl raised thin arms to wrap around her body, but it was not a gesture of fear. The sleeve on her dress slipped down to reveal the narrow straight line of her forearm and the ugly knob of an elbow.

‘Claudia!'

‘Do you think perhaps I could speak to her on her own?' asked Charles Paris gently.

‘Why didn't you tell her, Claudia?'

‘Because she's not interested. She didn't care about Daddy at all.'

From the moment that Lavinia had stomped huffily out of the room, the girl had made no difficulty about answering Charles's questions. Her silence – and probably her anorexia too – was a weapon in a private battle with her mother. She didn't need to deploy it against anyone else.

‘Some people might take the view . . .' Charles started cautiously, ‘that her attitude was justified . . . that your father didn't treat your mother very well.'