by Simon Brett
There was one person who could help. Johnny Smart, who’d been at Oxford with him and edited one of the university magazines, landed what seemed then an amazing job on the Evening Standard. In the years since he’d sunk into alcoholic indifference in the same job, which at his present age was less amazing. With a murmured excuse to Joanne, Charles rushed to the telephone and rang the paper. Fortunately Johnny was still there-a stroke of luck considering that the pubs were open. In rather breathless fashion, Charles explained that he wanted to find out who researched and wrote an article about the petrol crisis in a late edition on Monday 3rd of December.
Johnny thought he could probably find out. It was bound to be one of the young reporters. Why didn’t Charles come down and join them at Mother Bunch’s? A lot would be down there at this time of night. He’d be there himself except that the newsroom was on sodding tenterhooks waiting to see if Heath would call a sodding snap election and they’d have to bring out a sodding slip edition. He’d be down in half an hour though.
Just as Charles put the phone down, Jacqui returned. She had been to see Enter the Dragon and started to tell him all about the code of kung fu as he hurried her upstairs. Joanne recognised Jacqui the moment the dark glasses came off and Charles felt the room temperature drop as the two women faced each other. Still, he hadn’t time to worry about that. Leaving strict instructions to Joanne to stay there at all costs and to both of them under no account to let anyone in, he hurried to the Cortina and set off for Fleet Street.
Reporters are proverbially heavy drinkers, and it took a few bottles of bonhomie with Johnny Smart before Charles could actually get down to the business for which he had come. He sat in the broad circle of young journalists in Mother Bunch’s Wine House and, with the rest of them, sank glass after glass of red wine. Eventually Johnny drew him to one side with a shock-haired young reporter who sported horn-rimmed glasses and a velvet bow-tie. His name was Keith Battrick-Jones. Charles explained his mission.
‘Bloody hell,’ said Keith Battrick-Jones. ‘Done a lot of stories since then. I don’t know if I can remember that far back. When was it?’
‘Monday 3rd December. Six, seven weeks ago. It was a sort of round-up of people’s reactions to the petrol crisis. Pictures and comments. There was Steen…’ The boy looked blank. ‘… and some footballer…’ Still blank. ‘… and a leggy girl on a bike-’
‘Oh shit. I remember. Yes. Crappy idea, wasn’t it? Somebody thought of it at an editorial conference, and Muggins here had to ring round all these celebrities to get comments. As usual, the interesting people told me to piss off, and I ended up with the same old circle of publicity seekers.’
‘Can you remember phoning Marius Steen?’
‘No, I don’t think I can. If it was Monday morning, I must have had a skinful the night before. No, I… oh, just a minute though. I remember. I rang through and I got some old berk being facetious on an Ansaphone. So I told the machine what it was about, and moved on to a golfer and one of the Black and White minstrels.’
‘But Steen did phone back?’
‘Yes. Made some fatuous comment about using the smaller car. Well, we’d got a library picture of him, so we put it in.’
‘And you are sure it was Marius Steen himself who spoke to you?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve never met the bloke.’
‘Was it the same voice as the one on the Ansaphone?’
‘Oh no. It was much more cultured. And younger.’
Simon Brett
Cast in Order of Disappearance
XVII
The Broker’s Men
CHARLES HAD A lot of wine inside him as he drove along the Strand on his way back, but he was thinking with extraordinary clarity. Suddenly Nigel had two secret trips to Streatley to explain, not one. If he had been at the Sex of One… party, he must have driven down some time between the small hours of the Sunday morning and when he rang Keith Battrick-Jones on the Monday morning. That was, of course, assuming that he had gone down on his own. It was possible that he had been in the Rolls with his father on the Sunday night.
If that were the case, and Charles’ other conjecture was correct, he must have witnessed Marius shooting Bill Sweet on the roadside at Theale. That might well explain the twitchiness which Joanne had noticed during the ensuing week. Possibly Nigel had shot Bill Sweet himself? But no, that was nonsense. He had nothing to do with the Sally Nash affair, and the Sweets represented no threat to him. If anyone had committed murder on the lonely turnoff from the M4, it must have been Marius.
At Hyde Park Corner, a taxi travelling from Knightsbridge suddenly cut across the front of the Cortina and Charles had to slam on all his brakes. The shock jarred every bone in his body and he felt as if he was about to pass out. There was nothing else coming. He swung the car across the yellow line and stopped by the marble colonnade at the roadside. His body was in agony. Slowly the total blinding pain broke down into individual centres of hurt. First there was his arm, with its bone bruised by the bullet. That pain seemed to swell and swamp the others. Then there were the bruises on his knees and elbows that he’d received from the fall over the trip-wire at Jacqui’s. And then, lower down the league of pain, there was the dull ache of an old bruise on his ankle.
Suddenly, he saw in his mind the utility room at Streatley and a scattered pile of boxes. Some words of Gerald Venables reverberated in his head. Dr Lefeuvre’s role came clearly defined into focus, and Charles Paris knew what Nigel Steen’s crime was.
As he walked up the stairs at Hereford Road, he was glowing with the intellectual perfection of it. Not the intellectual perfection of the crime-that was a shabby affair-but the intellectual perfection of his conclusion. Suddenly, given one fact, all the others clicked neatly into position. As he drove back, he had tried each element individually, and none of them broke the pattern. He was looking forward to spelling it all out to Jacqui and Joanne. Actual evidence was still a bit short on the ground (burning the vicious letter to Jacqui and the Sweet photographs had shown a regrettable lack of detective instinct). But he felt sure facts would come, now the basic riddle was solved.
The door of his room was open, the lock plate hanging loose. A cold feeling trickled into his stomach as he went inside. It was dark. He switched on the light. A body lay tied, gagged and struggling on the floor by the bed. Joanne. There was no sign of Jacqui.
He fumbled with the knots of Jacqui’s tights which had been tied cruelly round Joanne’s mouth. She gave a little gasp of pain as he tightened to release them, and then she was free to talk. ‘Two men
… someone must have let them in the front door… they took Jacqui…’
‘Did you see them?’
‘They had stockings over their heads. One was big and burly, the other was smaller…’
‘Yes. I know who they are.’ He cut her other bonds free with a kitchen knife. ‘Come on. We must follow them.’
‘Where to? How do we know where they’ve gone?’
‘I think it’s Streatley. And I pray to God I’m right. For the sake of Jacqui’s baby.’
XVIII
King Rat
They roared down the M4, fifty miles an hour limits contemptuously ignored. They swung off the motor way at Theale, past the scene of Bill Sweet’s death, and on, through the dark roads, past Tidmarsh, Pangbourne, Lower Basildon, towards Streatley. About a mile outside the town, the Cortina suddenly lost power and pop-popped to a stop at the roadside. ‘Sod it. Bloody petrol. The whole case hinges on it, and I forget to fill up.’
‘He might have a spare can,’ said Joanne. But there was nothing in the boot. Miles’ odious efficiency was absent when actually needed. ‘I’ll have to walk the rest.’ Charles started off into the gloom.
‘What shall I do?’ Joanne’s voice floated after him.
‘Get the police.’ He stumbled on, occasionally trying a little jogging run. His body ached all over and the wounded arm felt as if it were dropping off. The strain of the last few days
was beginning to tell, and he knew he hadn’t got much energy left. If it came to violence, he wasn’t going to do too well. He didn’t relish facing Jem and Eric (he felt sure it was they who’d carried Jacqui off).
Sweat trickled down his sides in spite of the cold. His clothes were heavy and awkward. Still the road seemed to stretch onwards endlessly, darkness replacing darkness, as he staggered forward. Occasionally a car would pass, fix him like a moth in its headlights, and then vanish.
Eventually he was at the top of the slope that led down to the little towns of Streatley and Goring, separated, like their respective counties of Berkshire and Oxfordshire, by the River Thames. Revived by the proximity of his goal, Charles hurried painfully onwards along the road to the familiar white gates. It occurred to him that being on foot was probably an advantage; a car drawing up on the gravel would be heard from the house. And in his position he needed advantages.
He opened one gate slowly, trying not to let it scrape on the gravel. Then he moved round on to the flower-bed at the side of the path, to muffle his footsteps. The house looked quiet and the same, except for a strange car parked by the front door. Again, as on the previous occasion, there was a chink of light from Marius Steen’s bedroom. Was it possible that Charles’ previous luck could be repeated and he’d find the door to the utility room open? Keeping to the lawn, he crept silently to the back of the garage. Moved in close to the door, and felt for the handle.
He closed his eyes, uttered a silent prayer and turned the knob. For a moment the door seemed firm, but then, blissfully, it gave.
He sidled into the utility room, treading with remembered caution, and reached for the light switch. The room had been tidied since his last visit. All the tins and boxes were neatly on their shelves, and, thank God, the torch was still in its place. He took it and started to put into action a plan that had half-formed in his mind during the run from the stranded Cortina.
He locked the door by which he had entered and put the key in his pocket. Then he turned his attention to the door that opened into the garage. There was no lock on that one. For a moment he stood, defeated, but then, memory working overtime, he moved into the garage, opened the door of the Rolls, and shone his torch over the dashboard. With a small grim smile of satisfaction, he went back to the utility room and looked at the power switches. He closed his eyes and memorised their positions. Then one by one, with a series of quick movements, he switched them all off. He scurried into the safety of the great car.
There was a murmur of voices from the room above, then the slow sound of people feeling their way downstairs and towards the garage. The faint glow of a match shone through the door from the house. Charles shrank into the deep upholstery of the Rolls’ front seat.
There were two voices, a deep slow one, and a higher London whine. Jem and Eric, as he’d thought. They went into the utility room. Charles heard the scrape of a match, then a muttered curse. With another prayer, he turned the key in the ignition of the Rolls. It started immediately. He found first gear and eased the great machine slowly forward until it hit the utility room door, closed it, and pinned it fast. Then he pulled on the hand-brake and leapt out.
The hammering of Jem and Eric followed him, as he rushed upstairs with the torch to Marius Steen’s bedroom. As he entered it, one of the prisoners found the switches, and the lights came on again.
The scene which they revealed was an ugly one. On the bed, Jacqui lay unconscious. She was on a sheet, naked with her legs spread apart. Another sheet was crumpled over her thighs. On either side of her, blinking in the sudden light, were Nigel Steen and Dr Lefeuvre. Laid out on a cloth on a stool were a row of bright instruments. A scalpel gleamed in the doctor’s long freckled hand.
Nigel was the first to speak. ‘Charles Paris… You are taking a very great risk.’
‘Nothing to some of the risks you’ve taken, Steen.’
There was a silence. Nobody moved. Then came the sound of renewed battering from downstairs. Dr Lefeuvre dropped his scalpel with the other instruments, gathered them up in the cloth and put them in his bag. ‘I’m leaving, Steen.’
Panic flashed into Nigel’s face. ‘You can’t do that. I need your help.’
‘No, Steen. Get out of this one on your own.’
‘You’ve got to help me.’
‘No.’
‘You did the other things for me.’
‘Not for you. For money.’
‘I’ll tell the police what you’ve done.’
‘I think that unlikely. It might involve too much explanation of your own activities. Anyway, I will have left the country by then. I’d planned to go back to Australia when I’d made enough. And, thanks to you’ — he tapped the case-‘that time’s come.’
‘But-’
‘Goodbye, Steen.’ Dr Lefeuvre left the room. Neither Charles nor Nigel spoke as they heard his footsteps on the stairs, the slam of the front door, the gates being opened, and his car departing in a scurry of gravel.
‘What do you want, Paris? Money?’ said Nigel Steen suddenly.
‘No.’
‘I could give you a lot. I’ll pay for silence.’
‘And then set your thugs on me the first time my back’s turned. No, thank you.’
‘Then what do you want?’
‘Just to talk. See if what I think is correct-until the police come.’
‘I see. Come through here.’
Nigel Steen led Charles, with what was meant to be a lordly gesture, into the study next door. He sat behind the desk and offered the older man a plush leather seat. ‘Well now,’ in deliberately even tones, ‘what is all this about the police? Shouldn’t I be calling them to get you, as a common house-breaker?’
‘You could try, but I think they’d find your case more interesting.’
‘Do you? Why? What are you accusing me of? The inquest has already proved I didn’t murder my father.’
‘I know. That’s not what I am accusing you of.’
Nigel’s face went pale. ‘What are you accusing me of then?’
‘I’ll tell you. Stop me if I’m wrong. This is the story as I see it. On Saturday 1st December, your father Marius Steen went to the party on stage at the King’s Theatre to celebrate the one thousandth performance of Sex of One and Half a Dozen of the Other. He enjoyed the party, danced, drank and generally had a whale of a time.
‘The following day, Sunday 2nd December, your father, because of his exertions, suffered a second heart attack, and died. You, with a shrewd sense of your own advantage, realised that you were now liable to pay one hell of a lot of estate duty on your father’s gift to you because of his inconvenient death; but that if he had died a fortnight later it would be six and not five years since the property was made over to you. If you could maintain the illusion that your father was still alive for another fortnight you would be saving-say the property was worth one million-about?240,000. A quarter of a million pounds has been the motive for far worse crimes than the one you contemplated.
‘Obviously you needed help. And it was to hand. Dear Dr Lefeuvre, who had already arranged at least one abortion for you, was always susceptible to bribery, or, if not that, to blackmail. All he had to do was to come round when you called and sign the death certificate with all particulars correct. Except the date.
‘Now there was a problem, of course. The police might want to see the body; the undertaker certainly would. How to preserve it? Why not the good old deep-freeze? Keep the old man in there, get him out in good time to defrost, maybe even put him in a hot bath to remove any traces of his preservation. And there you are.
‘So, late on the Sunday night, with your father’s body propped up in the Rolls, you drive to Streatley, move a few boxes out of the deep-freeze and put your father in. On the Monday, after making one mistake by phoning the Evening Standard-and I can sympathise with your reasons for that mistake; after all, it was a heaven-sent opportunity to assert your father’s continued existence-anyway, after that you get a
train back to London… I’m guessing there, but it’s not important.
‘So it was all set up, and your father’s known habit of shutting himself up with his scripts made the deception all the easier. The only fly in the ointment was Jacqui. If she kept on trying to contact your father, it could be awkward. Still, she was on her own, and not very brave. A little intimidation should keep her quiet. An anonymous letter, and, when that didn’t work, Jem and Eric doing her flat over. Easy.
‘On the Thursday you return to Streatley, to maintain the myth of your father’s continuing business interests; and perhaps to check a few details with Dr Lefeuvre. Or even to put the pressure on him, maybe?
‘Then on the Saturday, something rattles you. You lose your nerve, drive down to Streatley in secret, change the tape in your father’s Ansaphone, prepare the body and move your whole schedule forward a week. That, I must confess, is the bit I don’t understand. By doing that you made the whole crime worthless. You were losing money. No doubt you had your reasons.
‘But when the new will came to light, you were liable to lose even more money. So, seeing the flaw in its hastily drawn up provisions, you started your vendetta against Jacqui’s child, a vendetta that Dr Lefeuvre was about to complete when I arrived. No doubt, before that you used the cruder talents of Jem and Eric. Certainly, when you realised my connection with the case at Bloomwater, they were the bully-boys you turned on to me.
‘Well, I think that sums up most of my conclusions. How am I doing?’
He looked up at Nigel Steen. The man’s face was white and mean and he was pointing an automatic pistol at Charles’ chest. But he still tried to maintain some shreds of panache. ‘Very good,’ he said slowly. ‘How did you know about the boxes in the freezer?’
‘Ah, I must confess I have been in this house before. Just before your dramatic “discovery” of your father’s corpse, I… er… fell over the boxes. They were heavy and had the words “Do not refreeze” written on them, but I didn’t immediately realise the significance of that. Sorry. I was a bit slow on the uptake.’
