by Simon Brett
‘The North British.’ It had to be. Typical of Gerald. Polly had managed to fix it, and somehow the client would manage to pay for it.
Posh hotels were not Charles’ usual style, but whisky’s whisky anywhere. They sat in a dark corner and Gerald leant towards him conspiratorially. ‘O.K. Spill the beans,’ he whispered unsuitably.
‘Listen, is your firm engaged in any big film productions at the moment?’
‘We always are. Setting up a colossal Hudson movie out in Spain. Starts filming in September if we get the contracts sorted out.’
‘Have you got a stake in it?’
‘The firm has.’ The answer was discreet. Gerald never admitted his dabbling in film production, though it was common knowledge that he doubled his already considerable income by judicious investment.
‘So it wouldn’t be too difficult for you to pose as a film producer?’
‘It would hardly be a pose,’ he replied smugly, and then realised that this was tantamount to an admission of financial interest in films. ‘That is, I’m sure I could manage.’
‘Right. What I want you to do is to go to a revue called Brown Derby at the Masonic Hall in Lauriston Place. It starts at eleven. Now there’s a girl in that show called Anna Duncan. She’s a good actress, but even if you don’t think so, I want you to go round after the performance, introduce yourself as a film producer, say you’d like to talk to her about various ideas and would it be possible to meet for lunch tomorrow.’ His treachery tasted foul on his tongue, but it was necessary. He had to know.
Gerald’s eyes were sparkling with excitement. ‘And tomorrow?’
‘You take her out for lunch. I’ll fill you in on what to ask her.’
‘O.K. And that’s the conversation you want recorded?’
Charles nodded. ‘If it can be done.’
‘No sweat.’ The colloquialism again seemed to run counter to the Prince of Wales check. ‘Do you think I should use a pseudonym?’
‘Don’t see why you shouldn’t use your own name. If you don’t mind.’
‘No, of course not.’ He was a little crestfallen at losing this dramatic element, but brightened again immediately. ‘Is this girl Anna Duncan your Number One Suspect?’
Charles could not bring himself to answer that question, even in his own mind. ‘I wouldn’t say that. Just need some information from her, that’s all. But it’s difficult for me to get it myself.’
‘Aren’t you going to give me all the details of the case so far?’
‘Tomorrow. There’s no time now. You’ve got to get to the revue.’
They made a rendezvous for the next morning and Charles went back to the Aberdour Guest House. A half-bottle of Bell’s did not go far enough and he spent a long miserable night with patches of sleep.
Daylight did not speed time up much, and Gerald’s arrival at Dublin Street at half-past ten added another delay to the programme. Anna had a tight rehearsal schedule for Mary and would not have much of a break for lunch. The assignation had therefore become a dinner date, which extended the agony of waiting by eight hours. Apart from that, all had gone well the previous evening.
Charles then gave Gerald an edited version of the events surrounding Willy Mariello’s death and indicated the information he required, with some hints as to what he considered the most effective way of doing it. He hoped that he was judging Anna’s character right, and that she would respond in the way he anticipated. But all the time he felt increasingly despicable for the elaborate deception.
At one fifteen he did a performance of So Much Comic, So Much Blood without thinking about it. The audience had swelled to nearly eighty and seemed appreciative, but he hardly noticed. He even had a discussion with some dreary Welsh academic about whether Hood’s work contained High Moral Seriousness, but only the reflexes of his mind were working. The rest of it was churning with guilt and anxiety.
In the afternoon he tried to pull himself together and entertain thoughts of the other possibilities of the case. What he should really do was to retrace Martin Warburton’s visit to Holyrood and see if it prompted any ideas. But even as he thought of it, he knew he could not be bothered. All his thoughts centred on Anna.
As he meandered through the city, he met Frances sitting on a bench in Princes Street Gardens. She had managed to lose Candy and Jane on a sightseeing coach tour of Edinburgh, and was appreciating the break. Charles knew she could tell he was upset, but he refused to unburden himself to her. He knew she would be understanding and reassuring. That was her most infuriating quality, the way she understood him. It was an option he did not want to take. Guilt about Frances joined the mess of unpalatable thoughts in his head.
He hardly listened to what she said. Most of it was about Candy and Jane, the shows they had seen, how exhausting she was finding it, how she’d need a proper holiday after this, how she even thought of staying up in Scotland for a few days to recuperate after the girls had gone. Charles sat, half-hearing and restless. Suddenly he created an appointment and rose. They made vague plans to meet for dinner in the next couple of days when he was clearer about his movements, and he slouched off, not daring to look back at the pain in her eyes.
It was still a long time till the pubs. He approached a cinema, but when he got there changed his mind and continued his aimless perambulation.
At last five o’clock arrived. The whisky did not work. It was as if he had a heavy cold and was numb to its powers. Half past seven came and he thought painfully of Gerald and Anna meeting in the Cosmo Ristorante in North Castle Street. He felt powerless, as if he was watching an accident from too far away to prevent it.
It was nearly ten o’clock when Mrs Butt grudgingly admitted Gerald Venables to the Aberdour Guest House. He was flushed with excitement or wine and carrying a briefcase which contained his cassette recorder. ‘Got a specially long tape. I don’t know what the quality will be like. I could only put the case on the table and hope for the best.’
Charles was not in the mood for talking. ‘Let’s hear it.’
Gerald produced the recorder with all the pride of a schoolboy showing his Cycling Proficiency Certificate. He switched the machine on and wound the tape back. Then, as it started, he fiddled with the dials to get the optimum sound.
The quality was not bad. Gerald’s own voice was distant because the microphone had been pointing away from him, but he filled in where his original questions were inaudible. There was a lot of interference from dishes being delivered and cutlery clattering, but most of Anna’s answers were perfectly clear. Charles got a strange frisson from hearing her voice. It was not attraction exactly, and it was not guilt, but a mixture of emotions he had never encountered before.
The tape started with an amusing dialogue between Gerald and the waiter, who felt certain that Signor would prefer to put his case on the floor. This was followed by the detailed business of ordering. Gerald did not stint himself, and, encouraged by example, nor did Anna. The client in the Actors’ Company was certainly going to pay for advice on his film contract.
After these preliminaries, Gerald started explaining why he was in Edinburgh. As a film producer, he was setting up a new movie, meeting some of the other backers, enjoying the Festival . . . and possibly even doing a bit of casting.
Anna’s reaction to this was non-committal and Charles began to feel redoubled guilt. If she were innocent what he and Gerald were doing was unforgivable. No aspiring actress should have her hopes manipulated in such a way.
Gerald’s distant voice then started to outline the plot of the film he was setting up, according to their plan. He dropped a few suitably substantial names and spoke airily of the locations in Spain and Finland. In fact, it was not all untrue; it was based closely on the film that he really was setting up. The only bit that was complete fabrication was that one part remained uncast. The part of a young girl, whose lover (a considerable film star was playing the part), a terrible lout, treats her cruelly and is stabbed to death halfway through the
film. ‘Of course,’ purred the distant voice, ‘that’s going to be really difficult, that’s the bit that’ll call for real acting. The girl’s got to express this complex emotion when he’s killed. She knows he’s a slob, but . . . tricky. I think they should go for Diana Rigg or someone of that stature, but the director’s got this crazy idea about finding an unknown. He must’ve read too many film magazines.’
The first course was delivered. Gerald expertly checked the wine and the sound of Niagara Falls showed that Anna’s glass had been adjacent to the microphone. Nothing much happened for a while except for eating and pleasantries. The waiting was purgatory for Charles. Then Gerald’s voice resumed its tactics. ‘I’m sorry. All this talk of people being stabbed. I read in the papers about that terrible accident in your group. I shouldn’t talk about it.’
‘It’s all right.’ Anna’s voice came through, very clear and controlled. But was the control genuine, or was there just a fraction too much, a hint of acting?
Gerald continued apologising. ‘No, I’m sorry. Shouldn’t have mentioned it. It’s just that that kind of thing’s such a shock. You must have all felt that. But think how much more terrible it must be if the person who dies is a lover or someone close. It doesn’t bear thinking of.’
‘No. It’s terrible.’ Charles tried to prise apart the layers of intonation to understand what she meant. Was she rising to the bait? He was torn between the desire to vindicate her and the intellectual satisfaction of having his psychological approach proved right.
Gerald’s voice went on, more subdued than ever. ‘That’s the trouble. Every tragedy leaves someone behind. I suppose this . . . Mariello, was that his name? . . . I suppose he had a girl somewhere . . . oh, it’s ghastly . . .’
‘Yes, he had a girl . . .’ There was no question about the way she said the line. She played it subtly, wasting none of her talent for drama. But its meaning was undeniably clear. Charles Paris understood that meaning and understanding hurt like physical pain.
Gerald’s recorded reactions were unnecessary, but the tape ploughed relentlessly on. ‘You mean . . . you?’
‘Yes. Willy and I were lovers.’ The voice was very soft, genuinely moving. There was a long intake of breath and a sob. ‘Were . . . lovers.’
‘I’m so sorry. I had no idea. I wouldn’t have raised the matter if I’d had an inkling . . .’ Gerald’s lying protestations continued and Anna’s tearful assurances that she had got over it mingled with them. She was playing the scene for all it was worth.
Her unfinished antipasta was taken away and she calmed down sufficiently for the gentle questioning to begin again. ‘That must have been absolutely terrible for you. To be there and.., oh, I’m sorry. And it wasn’t that you had been lovers? I mean, you still were right at the end?’
There was a long pause which Charles interpreted as Anna being thrown by the question and not knowing which way to jump. Eventually, the voice came back, quiet, but well projected. ‘Yes, right at the end.’
‘Good God.’ The shock sounded genuine. Gerald had played his part well too. ‘You’ve been thrown into almost exactly the same situation as the girl in this film. It’s amazing.’ Charles no longer felt guilty about the deceit. Guilt was being forced out of his mind by swelling anger as he listened to Gerald laying the next snare. ‘Bereavement is an awful thing. It’s so difficult to explain to anyone what you really feel, the true nature of your emotions.
‘And of course it’s even more complex for the girl in this film. Her lover is, as I said, not very loving. A real bastard, in fact, keeps doing crazy things, cruel things, criminal things. I think the character’s overdrawn. No woman would stay with a man like that.’
‘I don’t know . . .’ Again just a simple remark infused with all the art her considerable talent could muster.
‘But surely . . .’
‘What, all that not speaking ill of the dead business? Why should I worry? He’s dead, and when he was alive, it was not his goodness I loved him for. I knew his faults. He could be cruel, oh yes, and evil.’ She was warming to her performance. ‘He’d do crazy things. Wicked things, and he’d say he’d done them for me.’
Gerald had only to grunt interest; she needed no prompting. ‘I mean, take an example. Recently, he nearly killed someone for me. Yes.’ She let the drama of it sink in. ‘There was a girl in our group who would have been in the revue. She had the part I’m playing. And one day I must have said to Willy that I envied her. I don’t mean I was jealous; she was a sweet girl, I liked her—but I must have said what a super part she had or something. And do you know what Willy did?’
‘No,’ said Gerald, on cue.
‘He pushed her down some stone steps.’
‘Good God.’
‘Yes. It was so cruel. No, I’m sorry, you were wrong when you said I didn’t know what it was like to love a bastard. I do, to my cost.’
Charles rose suddenly and switched off the machine.
‘She really was very moving,’ said Gerald. ‘Very. And you reckon this is all significant information? Cherchez la femme, that’s what they always say in detective stories. Frailty, thy name is woman. Is it Raymond Chandler who calls them frails?’
‘Is there much more?’ Charles snapped.
‘A couple of courses. She did perk up a bit after that.’
‘After she’d finished her audition.’
‘Yes, I suppose you could say that.’
‘I’ll spool through and see if there’s anything relevant.’
‘No, I’ll do it, Charles,’ said Gerald hastily. ‘Incredibly pretty girl, I must say. Sort of navy blue eyes. Do you know her well?’
‘I thought I did.’
‘Oh.’ Understanding dawned. ‘Oh.’ Gerald busied himself spooling on and playing snatches of the tape. It was mostly general talk about films and the theatre. At one point Charles’ ears pricked up.
‘. . . had a lot of experience acting?’ asked Gerald’s voice.
‘Yes. Only at university level, of course.’
‘But you want to go into the professional theatre?’
‘Oh yes. I’ve had one or two offers.’
‘What sort of thing?’
‘Well, I’ve been asked to play Hedda Gabler at the Haymarket, Leicester . . .’
‘The cow!’ Charles shouted inadequately. With the unquestionable logic of the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle, his own role in the proceedings dropped into place. He was just a prop in the oldest theatrical scene of all—the casting couch.
Gerald spooled on and started playing another extract. ‘Well, as you know, from last night,’ said Anna’s voice, ‘the show comes down about twelve fifteen and—’ He stopped the tape abruptly.
‘What was that?’ asked Charles.
‘Nothing.’
‘Switch the damned thing on!’ Gerald was powerless against this outburst of fury and sheepishly pressed the button. Anna’s voice continued, ‘We could meet after that if you like.’
‘I’m at the North British down on Princes Street. If you meet me in the foyer, say twelve thirty . . .’ Gerald grinned weakly at the sound of his own voice.
‘O.K. See you then.’ Anna’s tone was poisonously familiar.
Charles switched off the recorder and turned to his friend. ‘Ah,’ said Gerald, ‘now don’t get the wrong impression. What I thought was, if you were planning a confrontation with her, you d want to know where she was, and I thought that’d be handy. I mean, for heaven’s sake, you didn’t think that I’d . . .? I mean, I’m a married man. Kate and I have a perfect relationship and . . .’
He was still mumbling apologetically as Charles stormed out of the room.
At first he just walked furiously without noticing where he was going, but eventually calmed down enough to think of what his next step should be. It was midnight and now a confrontation with Anna was unavoidable. All the delicate feelings which had held him back before had been driven out by anger.
He knew her movements well by
now. At twelve fifteen the show came down; he could meet her then at the Masonic Hall. Or he could go back to her flat to wait. But a perverse masochism made him reject both possibilities. At twenty past twelve he took up his position outside the North British Hotel. He leant against the corner of the building, at the top of the steps down to Waverley Station, and prayed she would not come. That at least would spare him the final twist of the knife in his wound. The idea of her deceiving him with Gerald was the most intolerable of all the foul thoughts he was suffering. He would wait till a quarter to one and then go up to the flat.
At twelve thirty she came. He heard the clack of heels and saw the familiar figure walking purposefully along Princes Street towards him. She was wearing the pale yellow shirt with fox-trotting dancers on it and the velvet trousers she had worn when he first took her out to dinner. That made it worse.
As she came close, he shrugged his back off the wall and stepped forward to face her. The pain was too intense for him to find words. He just stood there, rocking on his heels.
Anna did a slight take on seeing him, but when she spoke, her voice was even. ‘Charles. Hello. I thought we’d arranged to meet up at the flat.’
He managed to grunt out, ‘Yes’.
‘It’s just as well I’ve seen you actually, because I won’t be there till later. I’ve got to meet someone in the North British.’
He almost felt respect for the directness of her explanation until the lie followed. ‘It’s an aunt of mine who’s up in Edinburgh very briefly.’
‘You’re visiting your aunt at twelve thirty a.m.?’
‘Yes. I’ve been rehearsing all day, so there hasn’t been another opportunity. I’ll get back to the flat as soon as I can.’ She smiled. It was the same smile, the one he had warmed to all week. He realised suddenly that Anna was a perfectly tuned machine. She had all the charm and skills of a human being and knew how to use them like a human being, but inside, controlling everything, was the cold computer of selfishness. Sex, emotions, other people were nothing but programmes to be fed in to produce correct results quickly. Charles knew that he could never again believe anything she said. She was not governed by ordinary principles of truth, but by the morality of advantage.
