by Brett, Simon
‘What about Roger?’
‘He does what she does. No, the more I think about it, the more I’m convinced we should tell them everything. Joanie’s a bright lady, and very understanding. I think she could help us a lot.’
‘Okay. If you’re sure.’
‘I am. Leave it to me, Charles. I’ll set it up.’
The house in Dulwich Village, outside which the MG drew up, was large, probably Edwardian. Its exterior had been recently decorated. A new Volvo was parked on the paved semicircle at the front.
The porch in which they stood as Sydnee pressed the bell-push was wooden-framed with the original windows of coloured glass. The red and white diamond tiles underfoot had been cleaned that morning.
Roger Bruton opened the door. Charles was again struck by his pallor which, combined with the wispy hair around his bald patch, gave him a slightly effete appearance. His voice, soft and precise, did nothing to dispel this impression.
‘Good morning. You’re right on time. I’m afraid Joanie hasn’t quite finished her correspondence, but she’ll be with us very shortly. Come through.’
He led them across the tiled hallway and opened a stripped pine door into a large front room, which could be doubled in size when the folding partition doors were opened. A dumpy sofa and two dumpy armchairs gave a feeling of expensively casual comfort. A window-seat in the bay at the front was littered with apparently random cushions. Books were stacked with careful asymmetry on the shelves either side of the fireplace, in whose grate a Coalite fire glowed scarlet. Invitations and jocular cards were stuck into the frame of the high mirror above the mantelpiece. Everything demonstrated that perfection of cleanliness only to be found in a house without children.
‘Do sit down, please.’ Roger gestured to the armchairs. Charles and Sydnee appropriated one each. They were both aware of a woman’s voice talking rapidly and incisively on the other side of the partition.
Roger explained it immediately. ‘Joanie dictates her letters into a tape-recorder. Then her secretary comes in in the afternoon and types them up. It’s the only way we can keep ahead. I’m afraid, what with the magazine and the radio spot and now the television show, the mail-bag just gets bigger every day.’
‘Actually,’ said Charles, ‘it was you we wanted to talk to, at least initially.’
Roger Bruton looked startled at the suggestion. ‘I think it’d be better if you talked to both of us together. After all, I wasn’t involved in the show at W.E.T., that was Joanie’s bit. I was just sort of hanging around.’
‘Which must have given you an ideal chance to see what was going on.’
‘Oh, no. I’m not observant,’ said Roger Bruton, with a self-depreciating shrug, and then firmly changed the subject. He indicated a low table, on which stood a tray with a china coffee-set on it. Four cups and saucers were neatly laid out. ‘I’ll just fill the pot. Coffee all right for both of you?’
They confirmed that it was, and he hurried out of the room with evident relief. ‘What did I tell you?’ whispered Sydnee.
Charles might have responded to this, but the voice next door stopped, and they heard movement from behind the partition. The central door opened, and Joanie Bruton appeared. Charles rose to his feet.
‘Good morning. Sorry to have kept you.’
Seen close up, and in her own surroundings, she was strikingly pretty, tiny but perfectly proportioned. Her short hair was the kind of ash blond that melts almost imperceptibly into grey, she had a smooth, clear skin with only a tracery of lines around the eyes, and it was impossible to say what age she was. Anything from thirty to fifty. She was one of those fortunate women on whom time leaves little mark.
She briskly clattered the partition doors back, revealing a tidy office area at the other end of the room. On a red desk stood a word processor and two telephones. Colour-coded files filled one wall of shelves. It was all neatly expensive, like a home office design from a colour supplement.
She came and shook their hands. ‘Sorry, there wasn’t a great deal of opportunity to get to know either of you on the studio day.’ She flopped gracefully on to the dumpy sofa and gestured Charles to sit, too. Turning her shrewd blue eyes on Sydnee, she said, ‘So you think the police have got the wrong murderer, love?’
‘Yes. I’m convinced that Chippy didn’t do it.’
‘Hmm. Is she a friend of yours?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s quite natural that you should disbelieve it. We all get shocked when we hear unwelcome things about our friends. Apart from anything else, it seems to cast doubt on the quality of our own judgement. Pretending the unpalatable news is not true is quite a common reaction. Are you sure you’re not just doing that, love?’
‘Quite sure. We’ve almost got proof Chippy didn’t do it.’
Quickly, Charles explained about his drinking from Barrett Doran’s glass at six-thirty. He slightly edited the truth, saying that he had just wanted to check the rumour going around that the host always had gin on the set, but Joanie’s appraising eyes seemed to see through the subterfuge.
She looked pensive when he’d finished. ‘It never occurred to me to look for any other explanation of the death . . . I mean, once I’d heard the girl had been arrested. I suppose we can rule out the possibility of accident . . .’
‘The cyanide had to be taken from Studio B, the gin had to be emptied out of the glass and the cyanide put in.’
‘No, you’re right. It could hardly have been accidental. So that means you’re looking for another murderer?’
At that moment Roger Bruton came into the room with the filled coffee-pot, and there was a pause while he filled the four cups and passed them round. When he was seated beside his wife on the sofa, she put her hand on his knee and said, ‘As I told you after the phone-call yesterday, Sydnee and Charles are convinced that the girl who’s been arrested did not kill Barrett Doran.’
‘In that case,’ he asked almost without intonation, ‘what do they think happened?’
‘Perhaps we should ask them,’ said Joanie. ‘Do you have any theories about what really went on?’
‘Only vague theories,’ Charles replied. ‘I mean, obviously someone else murdered Barrett . . .’
The couple on the sofa seemed to relax slightly now this statement of the situation had been made.
‘. . . and we’ve been checking out the movements of people involved in the show during the relevant time.’
‘During the meal-break, you mean?’ asked Roger.
‘Well, only during a very specific part of it. The cyanide must have been put in the glass after six-thirty.’
‘After six-thirty?’ Roger echoed in surprise.
‘Yes, because I drank from Barrett’s glass at six-thirty and it contained gin.’
‘Gin?’ Another surprised echo.
‘He always had gin when he was doing a show.’
‘Oh. And after you’d drunk from the glass, did you swap it round with one of the others?’
‘No, of course he didn’t,’ Joanie almost interrupted her husband. Then, more gently, she repeated, ‘No, of course he didn’t, love.’ Turning to the others, she asked, ‘So who are your suspects?’
Charles smiled. ‘Well, you’ll be glad to hear that you two are off the list. You weren’t down in the studio area at the pivotal time, so you’re in the clear.’
Joanie clutched at her throat in mock-panic. ‘What a relief.’
‘Just concentrating on the people who actually appeared on the show, we’ve ruled out all of the four “professions” – that’s except for me, assuming that I would be devious enough deliberately to stir up an investigation into my own guilt . . .’
‘I think we’ll give you the benefit of the doubt.’
‘Very gracious. Of the four contestants, the only one who hasn’t got an alibi for the relevant time – or perhaps I should say the only one whose alibi we haven’t heard about – is the lady from Billericay, Trish Osborne. Of the panellists, you’re
all in the clear . . . except for Bob Garston.’
‘Ah.’ Joanie Bruton did not sound surprised, rather as if the mention of the name confirmed a suspicion.
‘Now, at the moment we are concentrating our investigations on Bob Garston. As I say, he had the opportunity, and he had at least some motive.’
‘Oh?’ Charles got the impression that Joanie knew something, but was biding her time, waiting to see how much of it they knew already.
‘He was considered for the job of hosting If The Cap Fits,’ Sydnee explained. ‘In fact, he’s going to do it on the second pilot.’
‘So you reckon that was the reason he would want Barrett out of the way?’
Again Charles felt Joanie was holding back, unwilling to volunteer more than she had to.
‘That’s one reason. We’ve a feeling there may also have been something more personal.’
She raised a quizzical eyebrow at him. ‘Like what?’
‘That’s why we’ve come to see you. We thought you might know something about his private life.’
She chuckled. ‘I know a great deal about a great many people’s private lives, love. But one of the reasons why people tell me things, and the reason why I keep my job, is because I respect the confidentiality of such secrets.’
‘Of course.’
While Charles tried to think of the next move, Sydnee came in, typically direct. ‘You were overheard, Roger, talking to Bob. There was a suggestion that Bob Garston’s wife had been having an affair with someone.’
This shook Roger Bruton. ‘Who overheard me? Who was spying on me? Where were they? What did they see?’
Again his wife’s calming hand went on to his knee. ‘It’s all right, love, all right.’ She turned her eyes on Charles. ‘Since you seem to know already, I can’t do any harm by confirming it. Yes. Bob’s wife did have an affair.’
‘With Barrett Doran?’
She nodded. ‘I knew about it, because I was there when they met. On some Thames Television chat-show. I saw them go off together. It was obvious to me what was happening. I do know a bit about the mechanics of sexual attraction.’
‘Was Bob around at the time?’
‘No. He heard about it, though. His wife must have told him herself, because nobody else knew. I gather he took it pretty badly. I talked to him about it when we next met, told him that these things happen, that often a little fling like that needn’t affect the basic stability of the marriage.’ She had dropped into the no-nonsense counselling manner she used to telephone callers on her weekly radio programme.
‘And it wasn’t in the gossip columns or anything? I had understood Barrett liked to make his conquests public.’
‘Not this one. I think she must’ve insisted on keeping it quiet. I never heard it even hinted at by anyone.’
‘Was the affair still going on when Barrett died?’
‘No. Only lasted about a month, I think. Bob and she didn’t split up or anything. I gather they’d more or less got over it, but Bob must have found it difficult suddenly having to be in the same studio as the man who’d cuckolded him.’
‘How difficult, I wonder?’
‘What you mean is, did it make Bob angry enough to decide to kill his rival? Who can say? People react differently to things. With some the trigger to violence is very delicately balanced; others will put up with almost anything.’
‘And what would your professional judgement be of Bob Garston in that respect?’
‘Do I see him as a potential murderer?’
‘Yes.’
‘On balance, no. I can see him getting very angry, and I can see him contemplating violence against someone who he reckoned had wronged him. But I think that violence would be expressed much more openly. I can see him going up to Barrett and punching him on the nose, but this devious business with the cyanide . . . no, doesn’t sound his style.’
‘I think you’re probably barking up the wrong tree,’ said Roger Bruton abruptly. ‘The police aren’t fools. They don’t arrest people without good reason. I’m sure the girl they’ve got is the right one.’
‘Yes, Roger,’ his wife agreed soothingly, ‘but you can see why Charles and Sydnee want to try and prove otherwise. It would be terrible if the wrong person did get sentenced for the crime.’
Roger Bruton did not look as if he agreed, but he didn’t pursue the argument further.
‘I know we’re just feeling our way at the moment,’ Charles admitted, ‘but we do definitely think that we’re on to something.’
‘Of course.’ Joanie’s voice was very nearly patronizing as she said the line that had become her catch-phrase. ‘I fully understand, love.’
‘Tell me, as someone who was in the studio all through the show, did you notice anything strange at any point?’
‘Strange?’
‘Did anyone appear to be behaving oddly, anyone on the panel, any of the contestants . . .?’
‘Well, no one was behaving very naturally, but then it’s hardly a very natural situation. Everyone was tense, of course, concentrating on their performance. Is that what you mean?’
‘No, I meant more than that. Did you notice anyone doing anything that you thought at the time was out of character?’
‘I don’t think so, love, no.’
‘And, when Barrett drank the poison, did you notice anyone reacting in an unusual way?’
‘Good heavens.’ She chuckled. ‘You ask a lot. It was a moment of terrible shock when he started gasping. We were none of us in any state to start checking each other’s reactions. We just all leapt up to see if we could do anything to help him.’
A new thought came into Charles’s mind. ‘The desk got knocked over when you all stood up.’
‘Yes. That big oaf, Nick Jeffries. There’s a lot of him, you know. The original bull in the china shop.’
‘Hmm. Yes.’ Charles looked across at Sydnee. ‘I think that really covers everything we were going to ask, doesn’t it?’
The researcher nodded.
‘We’re very grateful to you both for giving up your time. As I say, we are still just feeling around. And I know we’ve voiced suspicions which are almost certainly scandalous . . .’
‘My mind,’ said Joanie, ‘is the repository of so much scandal that the odd bit more’s not going to hurt. It’s as safe as a numbered Swiss bank account. Lots and lots of secrets locked away in there, aren’t there, love?’
She grinned at her husband, who gave a nervous grin back.
‘So where do you go from here?’ he asked Charles.
‘With our investigations?’
‘Yes. If you persist in thinking there’s anything to investigate,’ he added sceptically.
‘Well, I suppose we try and find out more about Bob Garston’s movements during the meal-break. You saw him. Were you with him for long?’
‘No. I’d just left Joanie in Make-up and I met him outside. We walked along the corridor and parted at the lifts.’
‘Did he get into a lift?’
‘Yes, he did.’
‘Didn’t say where he was going?’
‘No.’
‘And you stayed down waiting for Joanie?’
‘Yes. There’s a sort of Reception area there with chairs. I sat and waited.’
‘I don’t suppose you saw anything odd going on round the studios?’
‘I wondered when you were going to ask me that,’ Roger Bruton announced primly. ‘Yes, I did see something rather odd going on.’
‘What?’ asked Charles.
Joanie Bruton said nothing, but she looked hard at her husband. Her expression was one of surprise mixed with something that could have been alarm.
Roger Bruton relished his moment centre stage. ‘I saw the Trish Osborne person. Looking most unhappy. Crying, in fact.’
‘What was she doing?’
He smiled smugly. ‘Coming out of Barrett Doran’s dressing room.’
Chapter Nine
‘FRANCES. IT’S ME, Charles.’
‘Keeping rather earlier hours than usual.’ Her voice was unruffled, warm without being positively welcoming. If she was surprised to hear from him after three months, she didn’t show it.
‘I wanted to catch you before you went to school.’
‘Well, you have. Just. I have to be in the car in three minutes.’
He visualised her yellow Renault 5 parked outside the house, then remembered he was projecting the wrong image. She had moved out of the Muswell Hill home they had shared and now lived in a flat in Highgate. He had not been there often enough to visualise the Renault outside it.
‘Listen, I wondered if we could meet up . . .’
‘Another reconciliation?’ Her voice was wary.
‘Just to see you. I just want to see you.’
‘Well . . .’
‘Couldn’t we meet for dinner tonight? Not at the flat. That Italian place in Hampstead. What do you say?’
‘Well . . .’
‘Come on. I’ll behave myself. No romantic red roses. No unwelcome attentions . . . that is, if they really are unwelcome . . .’
‘Watch it. You’re on the verge of the “women always mean yes when they say no” heresy.’
‘No, I didn’t mean that. I’d just like to see you, talk about things . . .’ Then with inspiration he added, ‘. . . talk about Juliet, talk about our grandchildren . . .’
‘Charles, I had just reconciled myself to the idea that I wasn’t going to hear from you again for a long time.’
‘Well, unreconcile yourself.’
‘I’m not sure. You’ve no idea, once the initial hurt and emptiness had worn off, just how restful the thought of not seeing you for a while has become.’
‘Oh.’
She responded to the disappointment in his monosyllable by asking cautiously, ‘You don’t just want to see me because you’re depressed, do you? Because I’m pretty ragged by this stage in the term, and I don’t think I’ve much spare capacity for the old hand-holding “I understand, I understand” routine.’
‘I’m not depressed. Not more than usual.’
