by Simon Brett
‘You know why. Because we’ve already got two-thirds of an episode in the can with a different actress playing Christina.’
‘A rather dreadful actress, I may say.’
‘That, Russell, is a matter of opinion. All I know is that W.E.T. can’t afford to write off what we’ve already done on the first episode.’
‘Well, I think they should.’
Charles had been aware of considerable muttering between the two Railton sisters during this exchange but was surprised when W. T. Wintergreen’s voice was suddenly heard, firmly announcing, ‘I couldn’t agree more.’
The Producer turned wearily to the crime writer.
‘Look, W.T. . . . Miss Wintergreen . . . Miss Railton.’ He was always at a loss as to how to address her. ‘I know it would be very nice if we could just scrap the last two weeks’ work, but I’m afraid it’s a matter of economics.’
‘No, it’s not. It’s a matter of what the public expect from a series called Stanislas Braid. My readers are already going to be deeply distressed and disappointed by the number of gratuitous changes which have been made to my books, but when it comes to changing the names of one of the major characters, one of the best-loved characters indeed, the character of Christina . . . well, I just don’t think they’ll stand for it.’
‘Think yourself lucky they haven’t changed her sex and made her black,’ Will Parton muttered to no one in particular.
‘Miss Railton,’ Ben Docherty began, homing in on the name with infinite patience, ‘I’m rather afraid you may flatter yourself about the power of your readers. You say they won’t stand for it. . . . Well, how do you suppose they’re going to express the fact that they don’t stand for it? Anyway, Miss Railton, we’re not talking about books. As I’ve told you many times before, we’re talking about television. A whole different ball game. Do you realise that one showing of one of the episodes of this series will be seen by more people than all the readers of all your books put together? Most of the viewers, I’m afraid, will never have heard of W. T. Wintergreen. A large number of them probably never read books, anyway. So, for them, whether a character is called Christina or Elvira will not make the blindest bit of difference.’
‘But it makes all the difference in the world!’ This outburst came from Louisa Railton, so incensed by what was being said that she forgot her customary shyness.
Russell Bentley renewed his attack on the beleaguered Producer. ‘Listen, Ben, I have a reputation in television. When members of the public see my name on a credit in the T.V. Times or whatever, they know what kind of thing to expect.’
Yes, your inimitable impersonation of Russell Bentley, thought Charles mischievously.
‘In other words, what I’m saying is, I’ve got my own standards. And I don’t feel that anything we recorded last week was up to those standards.’
‘But we did all that filming,’ Ben Docherty wailed. ‘I mean, the costs if we do write it off are just terrifying.’
‘Not as terrifying as putting that rubbish out. I mean, since when has W.E.T. been in the business of putting out substandard productions?’
‘Since the company was formed,’ Will Parton mouthed silently to Charles, who tried not to giggle.
‘Anyway, we didn’t get the whole episode recorded,’ Russell Bentley continued. ‘You’re going to have to extend the schedule to pick up the extra scenes, and since you’ve got to rebook everyone for that, you might as well just remake the episode.’
‘Not necessarily.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He means,’ Will Parton suddenly interposed, ‘that he might not have to rebook everyone.’
Russell Bentley looked at the Producer, who was gazing with hatred at the writer. ‘That was a private conversation we had, Will.’
‘Well, we may as well make it public, because I’m afraid your little idea isn’t going to work, Ben. I’m prepared to go through quite a few contortions as a writer, but this time you’re just asking too much.’
‘What “little idea” is this we’re talking about?’ asked Russell Bentley quietly.
‘There’s no need to tell him,’ the Producer snapped. ‘Come on, we should be getting on with this read-through.’
But Will Parton, having decided on his course, was not going to be deflected from it. ‘Ben’s idea,’ he said coolly, ‘was that I should do a major rewrite on the episode – a major salvage operation – a major evisceration, if you like. That I should somehow incorporate the scenes that are in the can and rewrite the rest of the story in a way that only involved rebooking two artistes.’
‘Only two!’ said Russell Bentley.
‘But that would make nonsense of my story,’ objected W. T. Wintergreen, appalled by the perfidy of the suggestion.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Will ironically, ‘it’d make nonsense of the story. It’d make a dreadful television programme that I’d be ashamed to have my credit on . . . that all of us would be ashamed to have our credits on. Oh, yes, but think of the money it’d save.’
There was a silence. All eyes were fixed on Ben Docherty.
But the Producer’s eyes were fixed on Will Parton. Fixed with an expression of deep loathing.
Chapter Eight
AFTER THIS confrontation the read-through continued, but the ‘atmosphere’ it had engendered remained in the St. John Chrysostom Mission for Vagrants Lesser Hall. As soon as they had reached the end of the script, Russell Bentley turned straight back to Ben Docherty and reiterated, ‘It’s going to make a lot more sense if we do just change the girl’s name back to Christina. Cut all that heavy-handed garbage in the first scene about finishing schools. It’ll make the whole thing flow much more smoothly.’
‘But that will mean committing myself to scrapping last week’s work. So long as we change the name, we have at least got the option. See what kind of magic Will can work on the script.’
‘I can’t do magic,’ the writer announced flatly. ‘I can manage the occasional conjuring trick, but magic – forget it.’
‘Well . . .’
‘Mr. Docherty,’ said W. T. Wintergreen, ‘you really must call the character Christina. You’ve just no idea how important it is. So much depends on the characters having the right names.’
‘A lot may depend from your readers’ point of view,’ the Producer conceded, deciding that W. T. Wintergreen was an easier target to hit back at than Russell Bentley, ‘but so far as I’m concerned, a name is just a name.’
‘Then you’ve clearly never written anything,’ the old girl responded spiritedly.
‘He’s rewritten a good few things,’ Will Parton muttered.
‘If you had,’ W. T. Wintergreen continued, ‘you would know the care that must go into the selection of the proper name for a character. Sometimes I spend whole weeks before I start a book getting the names right.’
‘I don’t think the viewing public are as hypersensitive about it as you are.’
‘I’m not concerned with the viewing public.’
‘Well, I am. In fact, it’s my sole concern. It’s my job to be concerned about the viewing public.’
‘The fact remains that the character of Christina is a “Christina” and not an “Elvira”.’
‘Yes, come on, let’s just call her Christina and be done with it,’ said Russell Bentley.
‘No, I’m sorry, Russell. I’ll have to give this some thought.’
‘Look, Ben, if you were reckoning just to pick up the odd scene over the next two and a half months so that you can cobble together a first episode, forget it.’
‘But we can’t afford to extend the schedule.’
‘I’m afraid I can never take it that seriously when a commercial television company pleads poverty, Ben.’
‘It’s true. Then there are problems with booking studios. And you’re not available after the end of this contract.’
‘I will make myself available,’ Russell Bentley announced grandly. ‘If that is the only problem in the way
of remaking the first episode, I will guarantee to make myself available.’
‘Oh, well . . .’ For the first time Ben Docherty’s resolve appeared to weaken. ‘I’ll have to check the feasibility of it with Contracts and studio and Outside Broadcast facilities.’
Russell Bentley beamed. Once again he appeared to be achieving what gave him the greatest satisfaction in life – getting his own way. ‘Everything’s possible, Ben, even in television.’
The Producer chewed his lip unhappily. Then the new Director chipped in, demonstrating once again that whatever his skills in framing artistic camera shots, he had a few things to learn in the diplomacy department. ‘But you’re going to have to give us a decision very soon. I mean, I’m the Director of this show, and I can’t fart around with script changes at this point.’
‘I’ll have to check a lot of things out,’ said Ben Docherty, too dispirited even to notice the insubordination.
‘Well, you’d better do it bloody quickly. If we’re going to cut the finishing-school crap, we may have to add something to make up the time.’
‘Oh, I’m sure you won’t need to,’ Will Parton drawled. ‘Most directors can easily make up time with a few artistic shots that slow down the pace and add nothing to the story.’
He spoke with the bitter experience of a writer who had seen too many of his favourite lines cut to make way for directorial self-indulgence, but the new director’s keenness to get on with rehearsal prevented the outbreak of another argument.
‘As I say, I’ll think about it,’ Ben Docherty confirmed. Then he looked at his watch. ‘I’d better get back to the office.’
Charles Paris felt certain that the producer’s route back to his office would take in some convenient pub.
‘Right.’ Russell Bentley turned to the new director the minute Ben Docherty was out of the room. ‘Let’s take that as read then. We cut all the finishing-school garbage, and you, my dear – What was your name again?’
‘Joanne.’
‘Of course, Joanne. Well, you, Joanne, will be referred to as Christina throughout.’
Everyone in the St. John Chrysostom Mission for Vagrants Lesser Hall seemed very happy with this hijacking of their producer’s authority. For some, like W. T. Wintergreen and Louisa Railton, the satisfaction derived from artistic considerations. For others, like Charles Paris, its roots were more basic. If the schedule for making the Stanislas Braid series was to be extended, that meant not only that unemployment would be staved off by another couple of weeks but also that he would receive yet another healthy W.E.T. fee.
Yes, it was very satisfactory all around. The production could continue as if Sippy Stokes had never existed. And it would be a much better production for her absence. So everyone, with the possible exception of Ben Docherty, had benefited from her death.
But had anyone actually benefited enough to justify their murdering her?
‘Here we are, boofle. Schedules.’ Mort Verdon bustled up to him, a sheaf of photocopied sheets draped over his arm. ‘Going on your travels, Charles.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Filming for the next episode. Actually going away.’
‘What – you mean locations farther than half a mile from W.E.T. House?’
His question only slightly exaggerated the situation. Like most television companies, W.E.T. had its little repertoire of favourite locations, and the reason for their popularity was their proximity to the company headquarters. Because W.E.T. House was situated in Lisson Avenue, NW 1, a disproportionate amount of the action in W.E.T. series seemed to be located in that area. Television car chases took place on the Westway. Television crooks lived in Maida Vale mansion blocks. Television drug pushers haunted Church Street Market. Television lovers entwined at London Zoo or on the towpath of Regent’s Park Canal. And Regent’s Park itself was transformed into an incredible variety of television exteriors, from the Dust Bowl of the American Midwest to the steaming jungles of Borneo.
Mort Verdon nodded in reply to Charles’s question. ‘Oh, yes, boofle. And you’d better pack your bucket and spade. You’re going to the seaside.’
‘How exciting. Where to? How long for?’
‘You’re going to the Isle of Purbeck.’
‘Oh.’ Charles looked blank. ‘Remind me.’
‘Dorset. It’s not a real island. At least not for a few millennia. More sort of peninsula than insular these days.’
‘Name some towns.’
‘Swanage, Studland, Corfe Castle.’
‘Oh, right. I know where you mean. Just didn’t know it was called the Isle of Purbeck.’
‘Learn a little something every day, boofle.’
‘I certainly try to. When is this?’
‘Ep. three. Rick’s next production. Week’s rehearsal starting fortnight today and travel down the following Sunday to start filming Monday morning. Travel back Tuesday evening, rest day Wednesday, studio Thurs and Fri.’
‘Terrific.’ Though he found the actual process of filming deeply boring, the prospect of forty-eight hours of hotels and location catering was very appealing. ‘W.E.T. really pushing the boat out.’
‘Hard to avoid it with an episode called “The Seashore Murder”,’ said Mort Verdon dryly.
‘Hmm. Why is it I never get involved in episodes called “The Barbados Murder” or “The Acapulco Murder” or “The Seychelles Murder”?’
‘Don’t be greedy, Charles. You’ll have a lovely time in Swanage.’
‘Oh, I’m sure I will. Nice hotel?’
‘Of course.’
‘Great.’
‘All the facilities you might require – bar, restaurant, another bar, sauna, yet another bar. Ideal bed-hopping territory.’
‘Oh, I think I’m a bit old for that sort of thing.’
‘Not what I’ve heard, Charles Paris.’
Charles chuckled, as if to dismiss the idea. Mind you, he was rather flattered by it. Even slightly excited.
‘Anyway, boofle . . .’ Mort Verdon leaned forward in mock-seriousness and laid his hand on Charles’s. ‘If you want to hop into my bed, all I can advise is, book early to avoid the crowds.’
‘Okay.’ Charles grinned back. ‘Thanks. I’ll bear that in mind.’
The rehearsal schedule for the next three days was confirmed, and Charles was not called again till Wednesday morning. So, as W. T. Wintergreen had told him, he would be free on Tuesday afternoon.
Before the new Director started blocking Russell Bentley and Joanne Rhymer’s first scene, there was a break, during which the girls from Wardrobe went around, checking measurements with the cast members only appearing in that episode and discussing choice of costumes with the regular performers. Since Sergeant Clump never appeared in anything other than his uniform – though Will Parton had threatened to get a wacky scene of the village bobby in his underwear into the last episode – Charles was free to do whatever he wanted to do.
What he did want to do was, unsurprisingly, to go and have a drink, and he looked around the St. John Chrysostom Mission for Vagrants Lesser Hall for a suitable accomplice in this enterprise. If there wasn’t anyone around, Charles would not revise his plans in any major way; but drinking with someone else always did give him a spurious feeling of righteousness.
Jimmy Sheet had also been released from rehearsal for the rest of the day, and since Blodd, like Sergeant Clump, was rarely seen in anything other than his uniform, he did not need any discussions with Wardrobe either.
‘Fancy a drink?’ Charles asked diffidently.
‘Where?’ asked the former pop star.
‘There’s a pub just down the road. Pretty grotty, but the beer’s okay.’
Jimmy Sheet grimaced. ‘Don’t like pubs, really, these days. Don’t get no privacy; people keep recognising me.’
‘Oh.’ This was one of the hazards of show business that Charles’s career had not yet had to negotiate. Still, maybe when Sergeant Clump was a familiar face in the nation’s living rooms, al
l that would change. Somehow he doubted it.
‘Tell you what, though,’ said Jimmy Sheet. ‘We could go to this club I know. Have a quick snifter there.’
‘Well, fine, if that’s all right. Where is it?’
‘Not far. We’ll go in the motor.’ His cockney glottal stop completely removed the ‘t’ from the word. He pronounced it ‘mo-ah.’
The ‘mo-ah’ turned out to be a two-seater silver Mercedes. It had a personalised ‘JS’ number plate. Not for the first time, Charles reflected on the contradiction he had encountered in the personality of many ‘celebrities’, who, while constantly asserting their desperate desire for privacy, drove everywhere in vehicles that advertised their presence.
The car was parked athwart double yellow lines opposite the St. John Chrysostom Mission for Vagrants. Jimmy Sheet wasn’t going to put his ‘mo-ah’ at risk from the swinging lorries of the cement works or the timber yard. And the risk of traffic wardens clearly didn’t worry him. Without comment, he removed the ticket from the windscreen and shoved it into the glove compartment to join a pile of others.
As soon as they were under way, Jimmy Sheet picked up the car phone and punched out a number from the memory. ‘Won’t be a sec., Charles. Oh, hello, love, it’s me. How’s things? Yeah, great. No, I’m not called again till tomorrow. Sure. Yes, well, I’ll be back round four, I reckon. Four, half past. No, just going off for a drink at the club with one of the cast. No, love, of course not. He’s a bloke. Charles Paris. No, well, he – You might recognise the face. Of course I am. Say hello, Charles.’
Charles looked in amazement at the telephone thrust in front of him.
‘It’s the wife,’ Jimmy Sheet said, as if that explained everything. ‘Sharon. Go on, say hello.’
‘Oh, hello, Sharon,’ Charles obeyed, though he felt somewhat bewildered.
Jimmy Sheet took the phone back. ‘See? Told you. Okay, then, see you later, love. Love you. ‘Bye.’
He returned the phone to its rest and made no comment on the bizarre incident that had just taken place.
