London Rain

by Nicola Upson

  When a woman came to fetch her she could have cried with relief, but there was no sense of solidarity; if anything her demeanour was even stonier than her colleagues’, and Vivienne didn’t blame her; her own struggles to be taken seriously in the profession she had chosen must surely pale into insignificance compared to those of a female police constable. She allowed herself to be led quietly away down a corridor which seemed to stretch the length of the building, past miles and miles of dove-grey doors and polished wood, until her guide turned apparently at random into a small, airless room with no windows. The only furniture was a desk with two chairs on either side, and Vivienne sat where she was told to, painfully conscious of the chaperone at her shoulder, wishing she could just be left alone. After a long, uncomfortable silence, Penrose joined them, accompanied by another man in uniform, and their presence in the room made its confined space almost unbearably claustrophobic. She smiled, but his response lacked its former warmth and she realised her mistake in regarding him as an ally. He took her meticulously back through everything she had told him, forcing her to relive the horror of every moment, and she was astonished by how much he had remembered without the aid of notes. When they were done, the uniformed man read the statement back to her and she listened, bewildered; the words were hers, of course they were, but she felt as detached from them as if she were listening to a story from a newspaper, sitting in judgement on the irrational behaviour of a woman who had nothing whatsoever to do with her.

  She signed where she was asked to, wondering why Penrose felt the need to thank her for something which she had had no choice but to give. Then he excused himself, and left her in the charge of her mute, inscrutable shadow, back along the corridors, downstairs this time to an area which was much less designed for public view, the province of the unlucky few. The tiled walls smelt of disinfectant and something far less tangible, something like despair, and Vivienne felt as though she were being taken quite literally to the depths of hell. What little courage she had left deserted her completely at the door to the cell. She stopped, horrified, and stared at the toilet in the corner with the scrubbed wooden seat, the iron bedstead and the coarse grey blanket. For a moment she was physically incapable of stepping inside, because to do so would have been to accept her fate, but the hand on her arm – surprisingly gentle, now it was just the two of them – encouraged her to move forward. ‘I’ll leave you to change,’ the policewoman said, and Vivienne saw that her case stood on the floor waiting for her, a parody of a good hotel. ‘Put the clothes you’re wearing to one side and I’ll collect them in a bit.’

  Why on earth did they have to take her clothes, Vivienne wondered. Hadn’t she admitted everything? But she agreed willingly, if only to get a few precious minutes to herself. Already, she knew the hell of prison for her would not be the confinement but the lack of privacy. Unlike her sister, who had lived and died as the soul of the party, Vivienne had always kept people at arm’s length. When she was a child, she put it down to shyness; as an adult, to shame. The intimacy that came with friendship would only have forced her to admit the essential, humiliating failure of her life – her husband’s betrayal – and so she had cultivated a reputation for aloofness that ultimately fooled even her. But here, in this garishly lit room with the square-cut hole in the door, there was nowhere to hide. It came as a surprise to her to realise that she had never truly known helplessness until now. Even with Anthony, in the darkest days of their marriage, there was always something she could do – leave him, change him, kill him – but now she had no choices left to her, no hopes for the future. She sank down on the bed in despair, caring little now who came to stare at her as she opened her mouth and screamed.

  Part Four

  Vile Bodies

  1

  After a long night and a busy day, Josephine was sufficiently tired to let sleep get the better of her. It was already after nine when she woke and she dressed hurriedly, conscious that it would take a braver woman than she was to arrive for breakfast outside the Cowdray Club’s strictly observed mealtimes. Downstairs, the smell of toast and freshly brewed coffee rewarded her efforts and she noticed that she wasn’t alone in enjoying a leisurely start to the day; the dining room was still reasonably full, and the lounge and bar areas buzzed with conversation as people traded their own coronation stories or discussed the coverage in the morning papers. Josephine paused in the entrance hall to see if any messages had been left for her at reception, and tried not to look too disappointed by the answer. In the absence of a note, she picked up a copy of The Times to read over breakfast and headed for the nearest free table, but a headline at the bottom of the front page stopped her in her tracks. She read it again in disbelief, attempting to reconcile the discreet size of the type with the sensational news it conveyed, and realised suddenly that the animated conversations taking place around her were not all about the Coronation.

  Quickly, she scanned the rest of the column and walked back to reception with all thoughts of breakfast gone. ‘I’d like to use the telephone,’ she said, ‘in private, if that’s possible?’ The girl behind the desk nodded and led her through to the club office, panelled in oak and contrasting sharply with the ivory-white enamel that reflected light into the rest of the building. The room smelt of polish and old books, and Josephine sat down at a vast desk, opposite a statue of Florence Nightingale placed in a wooden niche like a saint in a church, a permanent reminder of the club’s nursing origins. She picked up the telephone, longing to speak to Archie but reluctant to make him choose between a lie to her and professional indiscretion; in any case, if the story were true, he would be anywhere but in his office, so she chose the next best thing and asked for Broadcasting House, confident that she could rely on Julian Terry to be as indiscreet as was humanly possible. She waited a long time for a connection, imagining the pressure that the switchboard was under from press and public alike, and had just begun to wonder if the BBC had shut down communications altogether when a voice answered, unusually terse and wary, and she was put grudgingly through to the Director of Drama.

  ‘Josephine, you beat me to it. I was going to call you but I haven’t had a minute. Quite frankly, it’s bloody chaos here this morning.’

  ‘Is it true, then?’

  ‘I’m afraid it must be. None of us has been told anything officially yet, but the top brass are running round like headless chickens and there’s an emergency meeting of the Board of Governors going on as I speak. Beresford’s office has been sealed off, I know that much, and there are police outside to keep the reporters at bay. The whole staff’s been summoned to the Concert Hall at midday to be briefed on, I quote, “studio discipline and relations with the press”. And there’s no work being done, of course. Everyone’s in shock.’

  ‘Yes, I can imagine. It’s much the same out here, and we only thought we knew him. People will be devastated.’

  ‘They are. I can see them all now, gathering in the street outside the Round Church. The response inside the walls is rather more ambivalent, I must say. Most of us are wondering if we should pretend we actually liked the man, or if a professional respect will do.’

  ‘And Vivienne? The paper says a woman from the Kensington area has been taken into custody.’

  Julian paused and Josephine heard the click of a cigarette lighter and a sharp intake of breath; the air in Broadcasting House would be thick with smoke this morning. ‘It must be her, don’t you think? Who else could it be? No one’s confirmed that here but I’ve been phoning her all morning and there’s no answer. I wondered if you’d heard anything from your contacts on the inside?’

  His tone gave the words a tantalising sense of mystery, and under different circumstances Josephine would have smiled. ‘No, I haven’t spoken to Archie. Is that why you were going to phone? To pump me for information?’

  ‘Not exactly, although it would have been rude not to ask. No, it was more about the play.’

  ‘Why? Is it being cancelled?’

  ‘
Good God, no. The golden voice might be lying in the mortuary, but the service of the British Broadcasting Corporation can’t be disrupted. I wanted to talk to you about Lydia.’

  ‘Lydia?’

  ‘Yes. It’s all a bit awkward, but I can’t imagine Millicent Gray putting in a good performance this evening, can you? I wondered how you’d feel if I asked Lydia to step up?’

  Josephine wasn’t proud of the uncharitable thoughts which ran through her head at the prospect of Lydia’s triumph, but it was a sensible suggestion. ‘Have you spoken to Millicent Gray?’ she asked, remembering the expression on the actress’s face when they had met by chance in the cloakroom. Her relationship with Anthony Beresford had obviously had its problems, but they wouldn’t shield her from the guilt, grief and anger caused by his death.

  ‘No, she’s not answering her phone either, but I’m not sure it would be deemed appropriate to have Beresford’s mistress on air, even if she thinks she’s up to it. Anyway, I thought you’d be pleased to have Lydia on board. She knows that part better than anyone.’

  So much for the gulf between stage and microphone, Josephine thought. She could tell by the impatience in Julian’s voice that he hadn’t expected to have to argue the point, and that in itself made her more inclined to be stubborn, but she also felt a great sadness for the two women caught up in Anthony Beresford’s life – far greater than any sadness she felt at his death, no matter how wrong that might be. She knew how she would feel if something happened to Marta and she was forced to keep her own grief hidden, and she refused to stand by while Millicent Gray was sidelined professionally as well as personally. ‘Shouldn’t you at least talk to your current leading lady before you move on to the next one? You told me how dedicated she is, regardless of her private life. Perhaps it might help her to keep working.’

  ‘Do you have to be so bloody decent all the time?’ The objection was half-hearted, but Josephine’s victory was tinged with guilt: decency wasn’t the only motive driving her argument. ‘You’re right, of course,’ Terry admitted. ‘I honestly can’t see Millicent wanting to come in here and face everyone, but we should speak to her first. You’ll have to do it, though.’

  ‘Me?’ Josephine said, horrified. ‘Why on earth would I get involved? I hardly know her and you’re the director.’

  ‘Yes, but I can’t leave the building. There’s no way I can go tramping the streets looking for bereaved actresses when Reith’s about to deliver a three-line whip. Anyway, you’re just round the corner from her and it’ll be better coming from another woman.’

  Julian was being deliberately provocative now, but he was also probably right: for reasons unknown to him, Millicent Gray would no doubt find it easier to talk to Josephine. ‘All right,’ she said reluctantly, wondering if the actress even knew about Beresford’s death yet. ‘What’s the address?’

  ‘Hang on, I’ve got her contract here somewhere.’ He read out the details and she wrote them down in the margin of the newspaper. ‘It’s the basement flat, I believe. And thank you, Josephine – I really appreciate this. Will you let me know what Millicent would like to do, and I’ll speak to Lydia if necessary?’

  ‘Yes, of course. And if you hear anything about Vivienne . . .’

  ‘You’ll be the first to know, I promise. I still can’t believe it, you know. We’ve been friends for years, Viv and I, but I never saw this coming.’

  ‘Did she talk to you about her marriage?’

  ‘Not really. He was a shit to her, we all knew that, but she always seemed to rise above that somehow. And she was a different person when she was away from him – funny, clever, and immensely attractive.’ There was a real warmth in his voice as he spoke about his colleague, and Josephine wondered again if there had ever been anything more than friendship between them. ‘I can’t bear to think of what she’ll go through, Josephine. Anthony Beresford was a saint in most people’s eyes, and the press will tear her to pieces. Personally, I think he deserved all he got, but I don’t suppose a jury will see it that way.’

  ‘No,’ said Josephine sadly. ‘I don’t suppose they will.’

  2

  The Director General’s office was on the third floor of Broadcasting House. Penrose followed a page boy and his own Assistant Commissioner down a long, plushly carpeted corridor, noticing that most of the BBC’s senior staff seemed to have rooms in the curved southern prow of the building. Not surprisingly, John Reith’s office was the grandest of all, symbolically placed at the head of the ship, with sweeping views down Regent Street to Oxford Circus, but his status was not marked by location alone. The space was beautiful, tastefully decorated with expensive carpets and drapes that added just the right amount of colour to the restrained oak panelling, and far more like a domestic study than an office. Here and there, Penrose noticed some unexpectedly feminine touches – a suite of furniture upholstered in pink satin, a rug resembling a compass rose, even a flower-decked balcony – and he looked with interest at the only personal photograph on display, a woman pictured with two children, presumably the Director General’s family. The more obvious focal point was an open fire at the back of the room, crowned with a delicate landscape painting which was remarkable only for its blandness.

  Bill Murray was already there, and Reith stood to greet them as his Director of Public Relations made the introductions. He was a dominant figure, tall, with strong, intelligent eyes and an intense gaze, and even in a room full of people Penrose would have known instinctively that he was in charge. The desk was covered in the morning’s newspapers and Murray gestured towards them, cutting straight to the point without any social niceties. ‘We’ve just come from the Governors’ meeting and no one is very happy about this. It’s rather more coverage than we’d hoped for at this stage. Couldn’t you have been more careful?’

  The Assistant Commissioner looked at Penrose, somehow managing to distance himself from anything to do with the Metropolitan Police, and Penrose knew that he was on his own; Rygate hadn’t risen this far up the force without knowing how to make an awkward situation reflect badly on someone else. ‘It would have been impossible to keep this out of the papers altogether, sir,’ he said, addressing Reith directly. ‘Someone was bound to notice all the activity around the broadcast unit in a crowd that size, and, as Mr Murray has pointed out to me, everybody knew who was there. Add to that the BBC’s refusal to comment and the cancellation of a programme in which Anthony Beresford was scheduled to appear, and it’s very easy to put two and two together. As it is, I think we’re fortunate to have kept the information relatively insubstantial.’

  ‘Insubstantial? What’s insubstantial about the murder of our most popular broadcaster? And what about the woman taken into custody? Surely you’re not going to put that little snippet down to the keen eyes of the great British public?’ Murray was right, of course; there was no explanation for that other than a loose tongue on the inside, and Penrose didn’t intend to inflame the situation even further by trying to invent one. ‘Well,’ Murray continued, ‘whatever’s happened up to now it’s time that we took charge of this story and presented it in the way . . .’

  Reith held up his hand and spoke for the first time. ‘Perhaps you could tell us exactly where you are with your investigation, Chief Inspector.’ His voice carried a calm authority, and Penrose could just detect the traces of a Scottish accent, soft and attractive, and not unlike Josephine’s. ‘Then we can decide between us how best to proceed.’ Penrose nodded and gave a succinct account of Vivienne Beresford’s arrest and statement. ‘And there’s no doubt in your mind that Mrs Beresford is telling the truth?’ Reith asked.

  ‘No, none whatsoever. The post-mortem is scheduled for this afternoon, but I’m confident that its findings will be consistent with her story.’

  ‘Well, that’s something, at least,’ Murray said. ‘It makes things much easier for us if there’s a straightforward narrative to work with.’ Penrose opened his mouth to comment, but Murray was too self-absorbed to notice
and Rygate threw him a warning glance. ‘Mr Reith and I would like it to be made very clear in any statement you issue that this is a domestic matter between husband and wife, and nothing whatsoever to do with the BBC.’

  Rygate looked doubtful. ‘We can certainly make every effort to do that,’ he said cautiously, ‘but we have no control over how this is perceived by the press. It’s unfortunate but inevitable that the Corporation will be involved to some extent.’

  ‘To some extent, yes, but Vivienne Beresford was actually employed by the Radio Times, not by the BBC.’

  ‘Is there a difference?’ Penrose asked.

  ‘Technically, yes. Moreover, her position as editor was temporary, and that must be emphasised.’

  ‘But she’s worked here for years,’ Penrose said.