An Amateur Corpse cp-4

by Simon Brett

  Gerald was being unhelpful over the whole thing. He didn’t want to hear how Charles had spent the rest of the morning and manifested the minimum of interest in his findings. Also it was clear that he didn’t like having his friend round the Grosvenor Street office. Charles Paris was a reminder of the Mecken case and Gerald didn’t want to be reminded. He wanted to re-immerse himself in his regular work, wrangling over small clauses in film and television contracts, or even sorting out the odd divorce. Having clients charged with murder upset him; he thought it was irresponsible and didn’t want to dwell on it.

  ‘I don’t care,’ said Charles, ‘I think it’s important. I had a look at the book on the train, but couldn’t make much of it, so I thought two heads might be better than one. You always said you wanted to be included in any of my cases.

  ‘Charles, there is a difference between what one does professionally and what one does as a hobby.’ Gerald could be insufferably stuffy.

  ‘Murder’s a funny sort of thing to have as a hobby. Anyway, just give me five minutes of your time to look at this stuff and then I’ll leave you alone.’ Gerald looked dubious. ‘Good God, do I have to pay for your time?’

  This at least brought a smile to Gerald’s lips. ‘You’d never be able to afford my rates, Charles.’

  He took advantage of the shift of mood to redirect attention to the envelope on the desk. He shook it and out came a thin, blue-covered book and a beige plastic envelope. ‘Let’s concentrate on the diary first.’

  He flicked through the pages. Gerald,’ in spite of himself, craned over to look. ‘Not much in it, Charles.’

  ‘No, that’s what makes it interesting. Why make such a palaver about hiding a book that contains so little information?’

  ‘Presumably because the little information it does contain is extremely secret.’

  ‘Yes. In other words, it had to be kept secret from Hugo. I mean, there was no one else in the house to hide things from, was there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The interesting thing is that there’s nothing at all until May. Then we have this entry — Saturday May 23rd, Backstagers’ Party. Now I know that Charlotte hadn’t been a member of the society long, so I reckon that could well have been her first contact.’

  ‘Seems reasonable, but it doesn’t get us far.’

  ‘No. Then we get these four dates in early June — Seagull auditions. That’s self-explanatory. And isn’t it typical of that Backstagers lot to make a big production out of it and have four whole evenings of auditions.

  ‘As we know, Charlotte was successful in the audition, because then in July we start getting rehearsals marked. Okay, that makes sense. She started the diary when she started getting involved in amateur dramatics.’

  ‘Not really something you’d treat as a big secret, is it, Charles?’

  ‘No, the secret bit comes later. But there’s something odd about this diary even from what we’ve seen so far. I mean, I can understand why she enters all the rehearsals — they’re quite complicated and she’d need to make a note of them — but why are there no engagements before the Backstagers’ party? I’m not going to believe that was the first time she went out in the year.’

  ‘No.’ Gerald sounded as if he was losing interest again.

  Charles picked up the pace. ‘I think I know what it was. Not the first time she had gone out, but the first time she had arranged to go out herself., So far as I can tell, it was round that time that she and Hugo ceased to communicate. I think starting this diary was an identity thing for her. All right, if Hugo and I are not having a life together, I’ll damned well make a life of my own. And this little diary was a symbol of that determination, of her separateness. And if that’s why she started the diary, it explains the later entries. The Affair.’ He pronounced it portentously to whet Gerald’s appetite. ‘Look.’

  Starting late August, in the midst of all the Seagull rehearsals, there was a new series of notes. Lunchtimes. 1.0 — Waterloo. 1.0 — Charing Cross. 1.0 — Charing Cross again, then back to Waterloo. A whole sequence of them.

  The last was different. It was for the Tuesday of that week. 1.0 — Victoria. But that was one railway station rendezvous Charlotte Mecken did not make. Because by then she was dead.

  ‘You reckon it was a lover?’

  ‘It would fit rather cosily, wouldn’t it, Gerald?’

  ‘But I thought you were working on the idea that she was having an affair with someone in the Backstagers. Surely that’d be strictly local.’

  ‘Not if they wanted any degree of privacy. To have an affair in a place like Breckton would be like having it off in the middle of Wembley Stadium on Cup Final day.’

  ‘Hmm. So you reckon it was someone who worked in Town.’

  ‘Which would apply to every man in Breckton.’

  ‘Yes. It still seems odd to me that she should write all these things down. Surely it was courting disaster. I mean, if Hugo had found this book…’

  ‘I think that danger was part of the excitement. Anyway, it would have been just as damning if Hugo had found these.’ Charles indicated the small beige plastic envelope.

  Gerald picked it up and slid out a rectangle of foil round the edge of which was a line of transparent blister, some of which contained small white pills. The solicitor looked up blankly. ‘What is it?’

  Charles laughed ‘Oh Gerald, what touching. naivete. Have you never seen these before? Of course, they’re not really of our generation. We and our wives and girl friends did not have such modern conveniences at our disposal.’

  Gerald coloured. ‘You mean these are contraceptive pills?’

  ‘Exactly.’ Charles couldn’t resist a little further tease. ‘I think that’s a very heart-warming comment on your marriage, Gerald. That you shouldn’t even recognize these new-fangled inventions. Fidelity is not dead. If you’d spent as much time as I have hopping in and out of unsuitable young women’s bedrooms, you’d know sure enough what — ’

  Gerald was not amused. ‘I think you’d better put them away, Charles. Polly might come in.’

  ‘You’re beautifully old-fashioned, Gerald. I rather think Polly would recognize them.’

  Gerald took refuge in a look at his watch. ‘Look, I’ve got rather a lot to get on with.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll stop sending you up and be quick. These pills are the final proof that Charlotte was having an affair. Not only because of the way in which they were hidden, but because I happen to know that Hugo was in favour of more primitive methods of contraception.’

  Gerald’s eyes opened wide. ‘How on earth do you know that? It’s hardly the sort of thing you’d talk about.’

  Charles laughed again at his friend’s sedateness. ‘He did mention it actually. But look, that’s not the only thing these pills tell us. There’s something else strange about them. Look.’

  Gerald cast an embarrassed eye over the foil and shrugged. ‘Don’t see anything.’

  ‘The last pill was taken on a Wednesday.’

  ‘So?’ Gerald was looking distinctly uncomfortable. The conversation was straying beyond the boundaries of what he considered suitable masculine subject matter.

  ‘Charlotte was killed on Monday night and yet the last pill was taken on a Wednesday. It wasn’t the end of her cycle because there are still pills left. So it means that she stopped taking the pills at least five days before she died.’

  ‘Maybe she just forgot them.’ Gerald’s interest was beginning to overcome his embarrassment.

  ‘Unlikely. Though I suppose she was very tied up with the play and it’s possible. But you would have thought a married woman in the middle of an affair would be extra careful.’

  ‘Unless the affair had broken up and she no longer had any use for the pills.’

  ‘That’s a thought. That is a thought.’ The existence of a jilted lover opened new vistas of motivation. But there was a snag. ‘On the other hand, if we look back at the diary, there’s that Victoria assignation for the Tuesd
ay, not to mention a Charing Cross one for the Monday. Which rather suggests that the affair was still swinging along. So that can’t be why she stopped taking the pills.’

  The flow of logic had stopped. Charles sighed. He was buzzing round something important, but he hadn’t found it yet. He had got the right pieces, but he wasn’t putting them in the right order. ‘Oh well, I suppose the first thing is to find out who the lover was.’

  ‘I should think, if he exists, the police would know by now.’

  ‘Do you reckon?’

  ‘Of course. They’re not stupid. Maybe you can keep that sort of thing secret from the nosey parkers of Breckton, but the police can go around and question everyone who knew Charlotte, they can talk to the railway staff who saw her travelling up on her assignations, all that sort of thing.’

  ‘Yes. Well, if the police happen to tell you who the lover was — or any other useful snippets of information — you will pass them on, won’t you?’

  ‘If they are the sort of things I think I should pass on, yes.’

  Charles had an urge to punch Gerald right in the middle of his formal solicitor’s face, but he decided it wasn’t worth losing friends that way. ‘Maybe I’d better go.’

  ‘Yes. I am meant to be getting on with my work. I do have clients depending on me, you know.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure we can depend that one of them is paying for your time at the moment.’

  Gerald didn’t rise to the running joke.

  There was a copy of Spotlight in the outer office where Gerald’s secretary Polly sat. Charles picked up Actresses L-Z.

  Sally Radford was under Juvenile and Juvenile Character. The photograph showed a strong face dominated by a largish nose. Straight dark hair parted in the middle and looped back like curtains behind the ears. It was one of those faces which in the flesh would either look very attractive or not quite make it. Depend to some extent on the colouring. Beneath the black and white photograph it said ‘5ft. 6in’ and ‘Blue Eyes.’ The blue eyes were unexpected and promising.

  There was no name and number for an agent. Just ‘C/O Spotlight’ as a contact. That was revealing to Charles as an actor. Probably meant she had not yet got very far in her career and either couldn’t find an agent willing to represent her until she had more experience or had decided that for the moment she was going to do as well finding work for herself. It also probably meant that she was based in London rather than doing a season out at some provincial rep. If she were out of town she’d want an agent as a point of contact for inquiries.

  Polly graciously granted him the use of her phone and he got through. The girl on the Spotlight switchboard said that Sally Radford was likely to be ringing in and could he leave a number where he could be contacted? He explained that that was rather difficult as he wasn’t sure of his movements.

  ‘Is it important?’ asked the girl, meaning ‘Is it work?’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ Charles replied, glad that she’d phrased it in a way that enabled him to reply without lying.

  ‘Okay then, I can give you a number to contact her.’

  ‘Thank you very much.’

  Sally Radford answered straight away. Her voice was husky and well-articulated without being actressy. It confirmed the strength of character implicit in the photograph.

  ‘Hello, my name’s Charles Paris. I got your name through Spotlight.’

  ‘Yes.’

  He heard the catch of excitement in her voice and realized that that was a rotten way to introduce himself to an out-of-work actress. He had better disillusion her quickly. ‘Sorry, it’s not about work.’

  ‘Oh.’ The disappointment could not be disguised.

  ‘No, I’m sorry, it’s a rather awkward thing I’m ringing about. I believe you were a friend of Charlotte Mecken.’

  ‘Yes.’ The voice went serious. Charles began to think that she was probably a talented actress; her inflections on small words were telling. She continued, not playing it tragic queen, just sad, ‘I thought somebody might be in touch. I suppose I was her closest friend — though with Charlotte that did not necessarily mean very close. Are you police?’

  ‘No, I’m not actually. I’m a…’ He resisted the temptation to say ‘private investigator’, which was a bit grandiose for what he was doing and probably an offence under the Trades Descriptions Act ‘… friend of Hugo’s.’

  ‘Ah.’ Again the intonation was informative and reminded him that Hugo and Sally had not got on well.

  ‘As you probably know, Hugo’s been arrested for murder…’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I’m by no means certain that he’s guilty. That’s why I’d like to meet you and talk if I may.’

  ‘Sure. Anything I can do to help.’

  ‘Can we meet soon?’

  ‘Soon as you like, I don’t have a lot happening at the moment.’ The understatement spoke of some weeks of sitting by the telephone.

  Charles arranged to go round to her flat in Maida Vale at six and put the phone down with the small satisfaction of having made a date.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Sally Radford did look better in colour than in monochrome. The strength of the face and its potential hardness were made less daunting by the piercing blue of her eyes. She was dressed in a collarless man’s shirt with a brown stripe, well-cut jeans and cowboy boots. Almost flat-chested, but very feminine. A hint of some musky scent.

  Her flat showed the same kind of style. Obviously rented furnished, but with sufficient touches of her own to take the curse off the Identikit furniture. A Japanese paper kite in the shape of a bird dangled over the fireplace. Tall grasses in the old green bottle balanced the slumped display of books on a low shelf. The decor was minimal, but assured.

  The girl emanated the same confidence. Not the go-getting brashness that Charles had encountered in so many young actresses, but an inner patience, an impression that everything she did was logical and right.

  Charles found her relaxing. Partly because of her directness, but also because she was an actress, a real actress to whom he could talk about the theatre without fearing the stupid or exaggerated responses he had come to expect from the Backstagers. It was only as he talked to her that he realized how long it was since he had been with real actors.

  She sat him down and offered him tea or coffee. He chose tea, which came in a blue and grey earthenware mug. China with lemon. Good.

  ‘Okay, what do you want me to tell you?’ Down to business as soon as the social formalities had been observed.

  ‘Let me fill you in a bit on what I’m doing first. I was with Hugo when he found Charlotte’s body…’ He then filled her in on the background of Hugo’s confession and his reasons for believing that it was not necessarily conclusive.

  Sally was silent for a moment, then made up her mind. ‘Okay, let’s accept your hypothesis for the time being. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Just a few questions about Charlotte. I’m sorry, I know you didn’t like Hugo, but I would like to clear up — ’

  ‘I didn’t dislike him. I don’t think he even disliked me. I think he just resented my friendship with Charlotte. Partly because he was jealous of what he imagined to be our closeness — he was terribly aware of their age difference and was afraid of Charlotte seeing too much of her contemporaries in case they took her away from him — which is ironic, seeing how the marriage turned out. Also I’m an actress and I tended to talk about the theatre. I don’t think Hugo really wanted Charlotte’s career to develop, in case that took her away from him.’

  ‘That’s rather what I thought.’

  ‘So he got very uptight if I started talking about contacts or auditions coming up or prospects for jobs or… Though,’ she added on a personal note of bitterness, ‘I don’t think he need have worried if Charlotte’s success had been anything like mine over the last couple of years.’

  ‘Work not coming?’

  She shook her head wryly. ‘You’re a master of understatement. No, I’
m not exactly fighting the offers away from my door. I’ve had a few radios, one or two close calls on West End auditions, but…’ She straightened up. ‘But you know all that. It’s familiar country.’

  ‘Right.’ There was a pause of great togetherness, of shared experience. ‘I don’t know Charlotte well, Sally. I only really met her through Hugo and, you know, you view your friend’s wives and girl friends through a kind of refracting glass of the friends themselves. What I’ve been trying to do since Charlotte was killed is to see her on her own, to know what her own personality was like, apart from Hugo. What I really want you to do is tell me if I’m on the right lines in understanding her, or if I’m hopelessly wrong.’

  ‘How do you see her?’

  ‘It’s funny, I keep coming back to the image of her as terribly young. I don’t mean just in age. I mean young for her years. Immature even.’

  Sally nodded slowly. ‘That’s quite shrewd. Yes, she was. I knew her right through drama school and she was always very naive, sort of wide-eyed about things. She never looked it. So beautiful, for a start, and she had such superb dress sense that everyone thought she was the ultimate sophisticated woman, but it was only a front — no, not even a front, because she didn’t put it up consciously. It was when I realized this that I first started to like her. Suddenly I saw that she wasn’t a daunting, challenging woman, but just a rather earnest child. I think we’re always drawn to people by knowledge of their weaknesses. It’s so comforting, that moment when you realize that you don’t have to be afraid and competitive any more.

  ‘I think Charlotte had had a very sheltered upbringing. Northern Ireland. Straight-laced, inward-looking family so far as I can gather. Convent education.’

  ‘It seems odd Sally, considering that, that she was allowed to go to drama school. You’d think there would have been family opposition.’

  ‘Yes, it was strange. But she was strong-minded about certain things. And she knew she could act and that that was what she wanted to do. I don’t think anyone could cross her once she’d really made up her mind about something.’