Dead Giveaway

by Brett, Simon

  Charles was again reminded of how most people’s lives were defined by the boundaries of work, while at times the only structure in his own seemed to be imposed by licensing hours, but he didn’t comment. ‘Sure.’

  ‘Say . . . half-past six?’

  ‘Fine. Where, down at W.E.T.?’

  ‘No. Better off the premises. Too many people with their own theories down here. Do you know Harry Cockers?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Cocktail bar. Covent Garden. Just off Floral Street.’

  ‘I’m sure I could find it. What, there at six-thirty?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘One thing, Sydnee . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Why did you get in touch with me?’

  ‘One of the Stage Managers here mentioned you. Mort Verdon . . . you remember him?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘He said you’d sorted a few things out when those murders happened on the Strutters series.’

  Charles felt childishly pleased as he put the phone down. He was amused by the idea that, while his acting career remained undistinguished, his reputation as an amateur detective was spreading.

  The venue currently called Harry Cockers had been through many identities in the previous decade, as various kinds of bars and restaurants became fashionable. Its latest manifestation was very Thirties, with bright jagged lines along every surface, and wall-panels showing geometrically-stylised silhouettes of dancing figures in evening-dress. Overhead large fans swished.

  It was full at that hour, and as he gazed at the clientele crowding the long bar, Charles felt infinitely old. The variegated flying-suits, the strident colours of fabrics and hair, the lurid make-up which would have been condemned at Drama School as ‘horribly over the top’, all seemed to point up the incongruity of his crumpled figure in its loyal sports jacket.

  He needn’t have worried. The bright young things at the bar were far too involved in themselves and each other to notice him as he peered from flying-suit to flying-suit, trying to identify Sydnee.

  She wasn’t there. At least, she wasn’t there unless she had dyed her hair another colour (which was of course not impossible). He sat at an empty table on the outskirts of the action. If she was there, she could find him. He knew his own appearance hadn’t changed in the last few days (or probably the last few decades).

  He was gratified to discover that his invisibility did not extend to the staff. He had hardly sat down before a waiter, whose tail-coat and white tie seemed at odds with the yellow-and-green-striped hair and the Christmas Tree decoration dangling from the ear-lobe, materialised to take his order. He drew Charles’s attention to the infinite list of highly-priced cocktails on the card in front of him.

  ‘Er, just a large whisky, please.’

  ‘On the rocks?’

  ‘Please.’

  The waiter vanished, very quickly to return with a tall glass so full of ice that the whisky had paled almost to invisibility, and a large bill.

  Charles sipped his drink, while mortifying thoughts about how old and out of touch he was ran through his head.

  Sydnee’s hair was still the same copper-beech colour when she appeared a few minutes later. Her flying-suit this time was electric blue.

  ‘Hi,’ she said, offering no apology for her lateness. Television time, Charles remembered, except for the unshakable rigidity of studio schedules, is always approximate.

  ‘Can I, er . . .?’ He looked round for the waiter.

  But she had already snapped her fingers to summon one, ordered herself a Screwdriver and ‘another of the same’ for him. Charles wasn’t used to being with these thoroughly emancipated women.

  Sydnee didn’t bother with small talk, but went straight to the point. ‘I’m convinced Chippy didn’t kill Barrett, but I want you to prove that she didn’t.’

  ‘Is she a close friend of yours?’

  ‘Fairly close, yes. We’ve worked on a lot of shows together. Been off on a few long locations. You get to know people pretty well stuck for a wet six weeks in a hotel in Scotland.’

  Charles nodded. There were people he had got to know pretty well in similar circumstances.

  ‘And, from what you know of her character, you don’t see her as a murderer?’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘What is she like?’

  ‘Well, she’s dramatic and she’s neurotic. Started as an actress before she went into stage management, so she tends to make a big production of everything. Also, looking like she does, she always has plenty of men after her . . .

  ‘But she’s one of those girls who always ends up falling for the ones who are complete shits.’

  ‘Right.’ Sydnee looked at him appraisingly, but with approval, respecting his judgement. As he had on the day of the recording, Charles caught a momentary glimpse of the real person beneath the surface efficiency.

  ‘And Barrett Doran was the latest in this long line of shits?’

  Sydnee nodded.

  ‘How long had it been going on?’

  ‘Maybe six months on and off. They met on another W.E.T. series. Another game show, actually. Chippy was A.S.M. on that.’

  ‘They didn’t move in together?’

  ‘No. He’d just turn up at her flat every now and then. Usually not when he said he would. She spent a lot of those evenings sitting waiting with the dinner slowly drying up in the cooker. Then another night he’d turn up at one in the morning with no warning at all.’

  ‘How to win friends and influence people.’

  ‘Oh, Chippy lapped it up. There was always a kamikaze element in her relationships. She asked for it.’

  ‘And she got it.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Barrett presumably had other fish to fry?’

  ‘You bet. He was the worst sort of celebrity. Reckoned, because he was a famous face, he could get off with anyone. And usually he could.’

  ‘Did Chippy mind that?’

  ‘At first I think she did. Then she realised that either she would have to accept all the others or forget it, so she stopped complaining. I think it kind of fuelled her masochism.’

  ‘Was Barrett married?’

  ‘Not significantly. I think there probably was a wife somewhere in the background, but it didn’t inhibit his activities.’

  ‘And, if Chippy was prepared to put up with all that, why was she suddenly reckoned to be capable of murdering him?’

  ‘Because he broke it off. Didn’t just stop turning up at her flat, didn’t just stop ringing her . . . he actually told her: Forget it, it’s all over.’

  ‘Any idea why?’

  ‘I think he was probably just bored with her. The sex, from her account, was pretty good, but then he could get plenty of sex elsewhere. I think also Chippy was a bit ordinary for him.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Just an Assistant Stage Manager. Little bit of fluff, little bit of nothing. Barrett was getting to that stage of celebrity where he no longer just wanted to screw everything in sight, he only wanted to screw other celebs. You know, he wanted to be seen around with people, wanted to make it to the gossip columns.’

  ‘And Chippy didn’t match up?’

  ‘No. Not famous enough.’

  ‘Hmm. Sounds as if she was well shot of him.’

  ‘Yes, of course she was. I told her it’d be a disaster from the start. Trouble was, Chippy reckoned she had fallen in love with him – no, let’s be fair to her, she had fallen in love with him. I mean, I know she always dramatised things, but this time it was a bit different. I’d seen her in the throes of other affairs, but she had never been like she was with Barrett. She was just totally obsessed with him. She used to tape all his shows and sit at home on her own watching them.’

  ‘What, game shows?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She’d sit and watch game shows for pleasure? My God, it must have been love.’

  Charles stopped short. He remembered that he was talking
to someone whose work was game shows. He mustn’t assume that she shared his cynicism on the subject, and be careful that he didn’t offend her.

  Sydnee’s pale-blue eyes stared at him for a long, uncomfortable moment. Then, slowly, a childlike smile broke across her face.

  ‘It’s all right, Charles. I’m fully aware of the real quality of what I work on. But the work is nothing to do with the end-product. As you know, you can still be satisfied with your own professional contribution to a project that is utter rubbish.’

  He nodded. He had frequently had that experience. There was now more of a bond between them.

  His glass was empty. He looked around vaguely, but again a peremptory gesture from Sydnee produced the waiter and repeated their order.

  ‘Presumably,’ he said, picking up the threads, ‘Chippy’s obsession with Barrett is one of the reasons why the police reckon she killed him?’

  ‘Yes. Oh, she was certainly doing all the classic things a murder suspect should . . . going round saying what a bastard he was, how much she hated him, how much she wished he’d never existed. I mean, none of us could deny that she had issued plenty of threats against him.’

  ‘You were questioned by the police?’

  ‘Oh yes. Everyone who was on the set at the time of the murder.’

  ‘I’m surprised they haven’t been on to me.’

  ‘They’ve got your address and phone number. I just don’t think they needed to spread the net any wider. They reckon they’ve got enough to convict Chippy already.’

  ‘Hmm. Like what?’

  ‘Well, let’s say we’ve sorted out Motive. As I recall from my teenage reading of detective stories, the next point to be checked was always Opportunity.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘So far as Opportunity was concerned, Chippy was uniquely placed. She was working on Method In Their Murders, she knew Melvyn Gasc had insisted on the realism of having all the correct props for the series, so she knew that the bottle of cyanide was around.’

  ‘And she went off to look after Studio B soon after six. I remember.’

  ‘Exactly. So she had a unique opportunity to doctor Barrett’s glass.’

  ‘Which contained gin originally, am I right?’

  ‘Yes. How did you know?’

  Again Charles fudged the truth a little. ‘I worked it out from things Barrett said to you.’

  ‘He always insisted on his glass of gin. Don’t blame him, actually. You need something to keep up that relentless good humour in front of the camera.’

  ‘Hmm. One strange thing that struck me,’ Charles mused, going off at a tangent, ‘was why he didn’t die earlier.’

  ‘Sorry? I’m not with you.’

  ‘Well, if he was that dependent on the gin, why didn’t he take a big swig earlier on in the recording? Why did he wait till the end?’

  ‘Yes, I wondered about that. The only reason I could think was that, under all that brashness, Barrett Doran was very nervous. He was concentrating so hard on getting the new show right that he forgot about the booze.’

  ‘I suppose that’s possible.’

  ‘He did nip off to his dressing room for a big one at the end of Part One.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Also, he played it well. I mean, in terms of drama. He only used the drink when the wheel was spinning, claiming that he couldn’t stand the tension. He was a good showman, Barrett.

  ‘Hmm.’ Charles took a long, pensive swallow of whisky. ‘Did you get a chance to talk to Chippy after the recording?’

  ‘Yes, I did. We went out for a few drinks after the first round of police questioning.’

  ‘What sort of state was she in?’

  ‘Pretty terrible. Kind of numb and totally fatalistic. Like part of her was dead. With Barrett gone, she didn’t reckon she had anything to live for. That’s what worries me. If she’s in that sort of state, she’s not going to fight. I know her. She’ll just accept being accused of the murder. She’ll see it as a kind of punishment, yet another proof that it’s a rotten world and she never had a chance.’

  ‘But she can’t just have been charged on circumstantial evidence. The police must have got a bit more on her.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose they have. You see, she did fiddle around with Barrett’s glass.’

  ‘Did she?’

  ‘Oh yes. She made no bones about it. She told me that evening. And presumably she told the police too.’

  ‘What did she say she did?’

  ‘While she was meant to be looking after Studio B in the meal-break, she was feeling really vindictive towards Barrett – you know, particularly after he’d cut her dead in the bar – and she decided she’d have a small revenge on him. She knew about the gin, knew he always had a glass on the set, so she just thought she’d deprive him of that comfort.

  She said all she was going to do was to change his glass round with one of the others on the celebs’ desk.’

  ‘Did she say whose?’

  ‘No. Anyway, she says she didn’t do it. When she got into the studio, she picked up the glass, then realised how petty she was being and didn’t bother.’

  ‘She just left things as they were?’

  ‘So she said. Well, the police ran fingerprint checks. Needless to say, hers were all over the cyanide bottle – she’d been handling the Studio B props all day. They were also all over Barrett’s glass and decanter – along with a lot of other prints.’

  ‘Oh really?’ said Charles innocently.

  ‘So, given that evidence, and her motive, and the fact that she and Barrett had a shouting match just before the recording . . .’

  ‘Did they?’

  ‘Yes. She went to his dressing room, silly girl. Shouted all kinds of things that a lot of people heard. Said how he wouldn’t get away with the way he’d treated her, how she had planned how to get even with him . . .’

  ‘Direct threats?’

  ‘That’s it, I’m afraid.’

  Charles looked down at the melting ice of his drink. His conclusion was inescapable, but he wanted to phrase it as gently as possible.

  ‘Listen, Sydnee, I know Chippy’s a friend of yours and I can see exactly why you’re doing what you’re doing, why you’re involving me, but I’m afraid it does sound pretty hopeless. I mean, Chippy had every reason to want Barrett dead, and she had the opportunity to kill him. From what you say of her mental state, she sounds to have been quite hysterical enough to have done it. I’m sorry, Sydnee, but I think the police are right. They’ve got their murderer.’

  The pale blue eyes were full of pain. To his surprise, he saw tears gathering at their corners.

  ‘As I say, I’m sorry, but that’s how it must have happened. She went to Barrett’s dressing room, hoping for the final reconciliation. He was as unpleasant to her as ever. She thought, all right, sod the bastard, I’ll get him. She went back to Studio B, got the bottle of cyanide . . . into Studio A and filled his glass. Wouldn’t have taken her more than a minute. And that was it.’

  Sydnee was silent for a moment. Then, softly, she said, ‘Except it wasn’t.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I heard about the argument going on in Barrett’s dressing room, and I went down to get Chippy out of it. I then took her back to the bar and bought her a large drink. So she’s got an alibi from the time she went into Barrett’s dressing room.’

  ‘Okay, so she must have doctored the drink before she went to see him. It doesn’t make a lot of difference to the main outline of the crime. She told him she was going to get him.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Sydnee’s reply was so listless, and she looked so dejected, that Charles felt he must summon up a little more interest.

  ‘Let’s look at the time-scale. When did she say she went into Studio A to switch the glasses?’

  ‘First thing she did when she went down from the bar. And that’s when the police say she put the cyanide in the glass. It was the only chance she had. She was seen going
into Barrett’s dressing room at twenty-five-past six, and I got her out of there about twenty to seven.’

  Charles did the sums in his head. Then, slowly he said, ‘Ah. You know, Sydnee, I think you may have a point, after all.’

  Because, as he knew well (and with a degree of gratitude), at six-thirty the contents of the glass on Barrett Doran’s lectern had been not cyanide, but gin.

  Chapter Six

  IT WAS THE first time Charles had had the privilege of his own research team in investigating a murder. Sydnee had mustered all of the researchers who had worked on If The Cap Fits to go through the events of the day Barrett Doran died. In an unguarded moment, when they had been trying to think of somewhere private to meet, Charles had suggested his bedsitter. He had not taken into account the fact that he had only two chairs. Nor had he thought through the reaction of these television sophisticates to his somewhat approximate view of tidiness.

  None of them was impolite enough to say anything, but he sensed a sniff of disapproval in the air. Their standards were probably different from his. In domestic arrangements, Charles always made a distinction between hygiene and tidiness. And, though he knew he offended against the strict canons of the second, he felt confident that he did not transgress with regard to the first.

  Assuming, of course, that one didn’t regard dust as unhygienic.

  There was a generous cover of dust over every surface. And, since none of these surfaces were flat, but tended to be piles of books, clothes, stationery and scripts, the general effect could be, to the uncharitable eye, seen as a mess.

  This view seemed to be reflected in his visitors’ expressions. Sydnee sat on a chair. The other girl, Chita, who had been responsible for the contestants on the studio day, had the other one. Charles shared the edge of the bed with the rather exquisite young man called Quentin, who had been in charge of the celebrities. Charles had offered whisky and wine; they had all chosen white wine. He had some chilling (a little belatedly – he’d only thought about it ten minutes before they arrived) in his small fridge, and had soon assembled a whisky tumbler, a half-pint tankard and a chipped glass that had been given away with soap powder for his guests. He was left with a pink plastic tooth-mug for his whisky.