by Simon Brett
Tony Copeland was unruffled; there was little intonation in his voice. Off-screen he was totally unlike the waspish critic of StarHunt. Once again he wore his uniform of pinstriped suit, tie and rimless glasses, looking more than ever like an accountant. And accountancy, the management and manipulation of money, was, of course, a large part of his job as a theatre producer. Whether arranging accidents to befall his stars was another part of the job description Charles Paris could only, for the time being, conjecture.
The one thing he did know for sure was that Tony Copeland had an agenda. He hadn’t invited a minor actor from his production of Hamlet into his room and supplied him with a bottle of whisky purely out of the goodness of his heart.
‘All right,’ said Charles. ‘I can understand why you don’t want to admit responsibility for Doug’s actions, but do you at least know why he attacked me?’
‘He attacked you,’ came the cool reply, ‘because he didn’t want you spreading rumours in the company about Jared Root’s accident.’
‘Like the rumour that it wasn’t an accident?’
‘Maybe.’ The producer shrugged.
‘You don’t seem that bothered.’
‘I’m not. I have too many important responsibilities to worry about backstage gossip.’
‘And what if it were more than gossip?’
‘What do you mean, Charles?’
‘I’m pretty sure Jared’s injuries were caused deliberately.’
‘Oh? And what do you base that on?’
So Charles related to him the conversation he’d overheard between Doug Haye and Bazza in The Pessimist’s Arms.
At the end of his account Tony Copeland looked singularly underwhelmed. ‘There’s more than one interpretation to what you heard.’
‘Oh, come on.’
‘And even if it’s true, that Doug did pay Bazza to cause the accident, the charge would never stand up in a court of law.’
‘Maybe not, but from the way Bazza reacted when I talked about it this evening, I know it is true.’
That merited no more than another shrug. ‘And what would Doug’s motive have been in taking that rather extreme step of causing an injury to Jared Root?’
‘Look, Tony, it was clear to everyone in the company that Jared, however popular he may be as a singer, couldn’t act to save his life. With him playing the part, it really was “Hamlet without the Prince”.’
‘The box office advance was very good, just on the strength of his name.’
‘Yes, but once people started seeing the show, once the reviews came out—’
‘The age group who’re interested in Jared Root don’t read reviews.’
‘It doesn’t change my point. Word of mouth would have got around. So long as Jared stayed in the title role, this Hamlet was dead in the water.’
‘And Doug worked all this out for himself, did he? And out of the goodness of his heart he made arrangements with Bazza to solve the production’s central problem?’
‘I’m not suggesting Doug worked it out for himself. I’m suggesting he was following instructions.’
‘Really?’ Still not a flutter in the producer’s calm demeanour.
‘I’m suggesting that Jared had served his purpose. Once he’d generated far more publicity than you’re ever going to get for your average production of Hamlet, he was surplus to requirements. But obviously this play of all plays needs someone bloody good in the name part. You’d seen Sam Newton-Reid give a stunning performance in a pub theatre in Battersea. You saw a way of getting even more publicity, as well as a Hamlet who could turn the production into a very good one. And you saw in Sam a talent that you could nurture.’
‘I see, so it’s me now? Not Doug acting off his own bat, but me giving him instructions?’
‘Yes.’
‘Hm. You do have a vivid imagination, Charles.’ Tony Copeland’s words were insufferably patronizing. ‘Not to mention a lack of inhibition about accusing me of deliberately injuring a member of my company.’
Charles Paris looked straight into the producer’s cold blue eyes. ‘I’m convinced that’s what happened, Tony.’
The eye contact was held. Charles was the first to turn away.
‘Well,’ said Tony Copeland, ‘suppose you were right …? Suppose I did engineer this rather complicated crime you’re accusing me of? What would you do about it?’
‘Well, I—’
‘I would remind you, of course, that the management of the Grand Theatre have conducted a full enquiry into what happened. The insurance assessors have checked the place out too. No evidence of foul play was found.’
‘Bazza would know how to cover his tracks.’
‘Whether or not he had tracks to cover I have no idea. I go back to my previous question, Charles. If your conjecture did turn out to be true, what would you do about it?’
‘Well …’ He wasn’t quite sure of the next step. Having got Tony Copeland virtually to admit involvement in the crime, he must find a way of capitalizing on the moment. ‘I could go to the police,’ he said defiantly.
‘Ooh yes, they’d really love to hear the theories of a precious luvvie of an actor, wouldn’t they?’
Tony was right. There had been previous occasions when Charles had tried to convince the police of someone’s wrongdoing, and his treatment had never been less than patronizing.
‘Quite honestly,’ the producer resumed, ‘you can do what you like. It won’t get you anywhere. You go to the police, they’ll laugh you out of court. And talking of courts, if your accusation ever got that far – which it wouldn’t – you’d be blown away there too, Charles. You have no idea of the quality of lawyers that Tony Copeland Productions can afford.’
Charles knew he was losing ground and made one more desperate sally. ‘Suppose I went to court about Doug Haye’s attacking me in the alley?’
The producer smiled blandly. ‘Did Doug Haye attack you in an alley?’
‘Yes, of course he did. With a knuckleduster.’
‘Ah, well, if he used a knuckleduster, no doubt you have some dramatic bruising to show for it?’
‘As you know, you stopped him before he actually hit me.’
‘Did I? I don’t recall.’
‘You were a witness.’
‘Yes, I was a witness, and I don’t recall seeing anything untoward. You and Doug were having a chat in the alleyway. I joined you, then you came back to my room for a drink … Do top your glass up, by the way, Charles.’ Another bland smile as Charles couldn’t resist doing as he was told. ‘And that is my recollection of what happened between us this evening.’
‘I see. And when I walk out of this hotel am I likely to be attacked again by Doug Haye?’
‘What’s this “again”? You haven’t been attacked by him once.’
Charles was getting frustrated by all this blandness. ‘So you’re saying I’m not at risk from Doug Haye?’
‘Of course not.’
‘You’ve called off the Rottweiler, have you?’
‘What a very strange expression to use in describing one of my most trusted employees.’
There was only one ploy left to get a reaction out of the man. ‘Of course,’ Charles announced, ‘what happened to Jared Root would be relatively unimportant if it wasn’t connected to what happened to Katrina Selsey.’
The eyelids flickered twice behind the rimless glasses. By Tony Copeland’s standards, that was a big reaction. ‘Do you know that the two incidents are connected?’ he asked.
‘It would be strange if they weren’t.’
‘What do you mean? Do you know something?’ Clearly, these questions mattered more than anything else Tony Copeland had asked that evening.
‘Well, look at the similarities. Both of the victims were inexperienced actors who’d come into this production by winning television talent shows. Both have been replaced by better actors.’
‘You think Milly Henryson is better than Katrina Selsey?’ asked the producer sharply.<
br />
‘She’s certainly more experienced. She has a more natural way of dealing with Shakespeare’s language.’
Tony nodded, then looked a little wistful. ‘I thought Katrina was a genuine talent. Yes, inexperienced – and she had a lot to learn about backstage manners – but I think she could have gone a long way.’ He stopped for a moment as a new thought came to him. ‘Charles when you say the accidents are connected … and you’ve just accused me of deliberately sabotaging Jared Root … are you putting me in the frame for the accident to Katrina Selsey as well?’
Time to brazen it out, thought Charles as he said, ‘Yes.’
‘Oh,’ said the producer with the hint of a smile. ‘Nice to know what my employees think of me.’
‘The two must be connected. There are too many coincidences for them not to be.’
‘I can see the way your mind’s working, Charles, but you’re completely wrong.’ Tony Copeland tapped his chin hard as he pieced his thoughts together. ‘Jared Root was a problem. As rehearsals went on it was clear he was never going to reach the standard required … so either I would have had to pull the plug on the show … or something had to be done there.’
He spoke pragmatically, virtually admitting the crime, but with no anxiety. He knew Charles had no power to get him convicted.
‘And I saw ways that I could use Jared’s accident to my advantage from the publicity point of view. Tweeting bulletins about his injuries and his recovery, I could keep the interest running for a long time.’
‘So it was you who sent out all the tweets on Jared’s behalf?’
‘Of course,’ said Tony Copeland without emotion. ‘But Katrina,’ he went on, ‘I had no motive to want her out of the show. Indeed, with Jared out, she was the only contact I had with the young demographic who’d followed her through StarHunt. With her in place and by building a bit of A Star Is Born-type publicity around Sam, I reckoned I could make the production profitable. So no, her death was a total body-blow to me. Last thing I wanted.’ He looked straight at Charles. ‘You really can remove my name from your list of suspects there.’
The actor grinned wryly. ‘Of course, that’s what you’d say if you had murdered her, isn’t it?’
Another double eyelash-flicker registered the shock. ‘Murder? Are people backstage talking about murder?’ He sounded as if this genuinely was the first time he’d considered the possibility.
‘You know what actors are like,’ said Charles.
‘Don’t I just? And so who is being cast by the backstage community in the role of murderer? Is it me – or are you the only person who sees me in that light?’
‘There are a lot of theories about.’
‘I’m sure there are.’ There was a silence. Then Tony Copeland asked, ‘Do you remember a television director called Rick Landor?’
The name was foggily familiar. Oh yes, it came back to him. ‘He directed some episodes of a creaky whodunnit series I was in. Stanislas Braid, that’s right. Starring that pompous oaf Russell Bentley in the title role. I was, as I recall, a baffled village bobby, though I can’t remember what I was called. Anyway, why do you ask about him?’
‘He was Executive Producer on a show I was involved in some time back and I remember him talking about some unexplained deaths during the filming of that Stanislas Braid series.’
‘Yes, there were a few.’
‘And he mentioned you, Charles. Said you were particularly keen to find out what had been going on.’
‘Well …’
‘Rick even described you as a bit of an amateur sleuth.’
‘Hardly.’
‘You can’t deny it, Charles. Seems to me you’re showing more than a casual interest in Katrina Selsey’s death.’
‘Maybe I just—’
‘I am as desperate as you are to find out exactly how that poor girl lost her life.’ For the first time ever Charles heard something approaching genuine emotion in the producer’s voice. ‘Do let me know anything you find out.’
It was after one when he left the hotel. Tony Copeland had insisted he took the remains of the whisky bottle, which made him feel rather patronized, as if he was being given a tip.
But it had been a strange encounter, in the course of which Tony had not only virtually admitted to arranging Jared Root’s exit from the production of Hamlet, but also appointed Charles Paris as his personal investigator into Katrina Selsey’s death.
EIGHTEEN
It had been a late night and Charles slept late the following morning. He would have slept even later, had he not been woken by his mobile ringing.
‘Hello?’ he said a little blearily.
‘Charles?’
‘Yes.’
He just had time to register the foreign accent before the caller identified himself. ‘It’s Tibor Pincus.’
‘Good to hear you. Gosh, is this more work? Do you want me to do a single-handed re-enactment of the Battle of the Somme, playing the part of all the casualties?’
‘No, I’m sorry, Charles, it’s not work. It might be fun, though.’
‘Oh?’
‘Listen, you remember when we did the Battle of Naseby?’
‘Etched on my memory. How could I ever forget?’
‘And that day we were talking about Portie …?’
‘“Portie”?’
‘Yes, you remember. The actor, Portie.’
It came back. ‘The one who went to the States. Made a packet over there.’
‘I’m not sure how big the packet he made was. But, anyway, he’s over in London at the moment and he gave me a call.’
‘Right.’
‘Basically, I’m meeting him for lunch at Joe Allen tomorrow and he asked if I could get “any of the old drinking crowd out” to join us … and I immediately thought of you, Charles.’
‘Sounds like my reputation goes before me.’
‘It certainly does. Well, could you make it? No doubt you’re just lounging round London, resting as usual.’
‘I’ll have you know,’ said Charles with mock-hauteur, ‘I am currently in gainful employment.’
‘Really? What’s gone wrong?’
‘Ha bloody ha. Nothing’s gone wrong. I am currently giving my Ghost of Hamlet’s Father and First Gravedigger in a Tony Copeland production of Hamlet at the Grand Theatre, Marlborough.’
‘Oh, Lord. Is that the one where that poor kid died?’
‘The very same.’
‘Ah. Well, if you’re down in Marlborough I suppose lunch tomorrow at Joe Allen would be out of the question.’
Charles thought about it. A boozy lunch with a couple of friends in the business was not without its appeal. And he remembered Portie as being something of a larger-than-life character. Other company members who’d made the trip up to London said it didn’t take long. Cab to Swindon and the train from there to Paddington, whole journey only round an hour and a half. Quite possible to do there and back inside the day and still be in Marlborough to do an evening performance in Hamlet.
‘By no means out of the question,’ said Charles Paris.
His conversation with Tony Copeland the previous night had strengthened Charles’s interest in finding out the truth about Katrina Selsey’s death. He felt as if he had been given a mission by the producer to investigate on his behalf. And he trusted what Tony had said about calling off his Rottweiler Doug Haye. Nor did he anticipate any trouble from Bazza the stagehand.
So after a modest lunch (steak and ale pie, two glasses of Merlot and The Times crossword) at the pub he’d been to with Geraldine Romelle, it seemed natural to Charles that his steps should take him back to the Grand Theatre. The scene of the crime. He might find some clue there that had hitherto been missed, or some company member who would vouchsafe him a precious piece of information.
The Stage Doorkeeper wasn’t in his cubbyhole and Charles didn’t see anyone around, though distant clunking noises suggested that someone was in the stage area doing something technical – possibl
y brain surgery on the cranium set. So he decided to go up and have another look at the star dressing room.
He fully expected it still to be locked and sealed, as it had been since Katrina’s death. But there was no sign of crime scene tape. The police must have been in that morning to open it up again, because the door gave to his hand. Which suggested that whatever investigations they had been doing were now complete. The police had reached a conclusion about how Katrina had died. Charles found it very frustrating how little likelihood there was of their ever sharing their findings with him. Maybe he’d read something about the case in a newspaper at some later date, maybe never hear any more about it.
He wondered what would happen with the star dressing room now. Surely Sam Newton-Reid would reclaim it as his rightful place? But actors are a superstitious lot. Entirely possible that the young man might feel spooked using a space that had been the scene of such a tragedy.
It was now far too tidy to be a dressing room. Everything had been scrubbed so clean that it looked as if no one had ever spread their costumes and make-up and bottles and good luck cards over its walls and tables and mirrors. Charles’s optimism about finding some undiscovered clue there quickly melted away.
But actually being in the place focused his mind on his last visit. He tried to reconstruct the scene he’d encountered in the interval of Hamlet’s First Night. The upturned chair. Katrina Selsey lying on the stone floor, the blood pooling under her blonde hair.
And her red eye. The eye that looked as if she’d rubbed at it hard. Charles remembered Peri Maitland’s words: ‘It was like the mascara stung her eye.’ Though he’d never used the stuff himself he’d been around enough women to know how mascara worked. There was a thin brush and a thin tube of sticky black stuff. You put the brush in the tube, then brought it out and applied it to your lashes.
But if something caustic had been introduced into the tube … Acid …? Some kind of household cleaner …? Bleach might do the trick. If that got on to the eyeball … Well, there probably wouldn’t be enough of it to cause any permanent damage. But it would certainly hurt. Certainly give the receiver a nasty shock. Quite enough to make them jump backwards, fall over a chair and …
