An Amateur Corpse

by Simon Brett

  And Geoffrey’s was not a great intellect. He had shown remarkable ineptitude in the execution of his crime, however clever the original conception of the cassette alibi. For a start, there had been his confused exit from the Hobbses’ house when he saw Robert Chubb pass. Leaving his torch behind on the window sill was the real mark of the amateur.

  The way he had been caught had been equally incompetent. Charles had heard it all from Gerald. The thief had gone along the jewellers’ stands in the Portobello Road on the Saturday morning trying to sell his loot. One of the dealers had bought some and then, becoming suspicious, alerted the police. From a description and from some remarks Geoffrey had carelessly let slip to the stall-holder, they had had little difficulty in tracking the culprit down.

  So Geoffrey was relegated to the status of a shabby sneak-thief and Charles had either to concede that Hugo had killed Charlotte or start investigating somebody else.

  The only two people left who seemed to have had any emotional relationship with Charlotte were Clive Steele and Diccon Hudson. Clive was supposed to have been in Melton Mowbray auditing at the time of the murder and no doubt Diccon would have some equally solid alibi. Still, wearily Charles supposed he must try to get interested again and check their movements. But the spark had gone. Any further investigation was going to be just a chore.

  Since he was down in Breckton, he might as well start with Clive Steele at the Backstagers. The Back Room opened at six. Just sit a little longer on the common to kill time.

  ‘Evening, sir. A bit dark to be out here, wouldn’t you think?’

  An Amateur Corpse 163

  He looked up to. see the outline of the same policeman who had found him inside the Meckens’ house the previous week.

  ‘Yes, I suppose it is dark.’ While he had been wrapped up in his thoughts, it had changed from dusk to blackness.

  ‘You intending to sit there all night?’

  ‘No, I wasn’t. I was just going.’

  The policeman held his ground and watched Charles out of sight along the footpath towards the Backstagers. He obviously thought he was watching a potential rapist or, at the very least, a flasher.

  Charles decided that, considering how low his stock stood with the Breckton police, any alternative murder solution he took to them was going to have to be backed up by absolutely incontrovertible evidence.

  There was no sign of Clive Steele in the Back Room, nor of anyone else Charles knew until Denis Hobbs came in at about half-past six. He was his usual boisterous self, though there was a slight strain beneath the bonhomie.

  He had come in for a quick one on his way home from work. Charles wondered if he needed his regular drink to fortify him to face the redoubtable Mary.

  They got talking naturally and Charles bought drinks. Denis had a pint, Charles a large Bell’s. After some social chit-chat, Charles said, ‘So you’ve got your man.’

  Denis recoiled. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Your burglar.’

  The builder’s eyes narrowed. ‘What do you know about it?’

  ‘I know who’s been arrested.’

  Denis Hobbs looked at him steadily for a moment and then downed the remaining half of his beer. ‘We can’t talk here. Come round to my place for a drink.’

  Inside, the Hobbses’ house was, decoratively, exactly what the mock-Tudor exterior with its brash stone lions would lead one to expect. The tone was set before you entered. A china plaque by the doorbell showed a little girl in a crinoline and a boy in a tasselled cap leaning forward to kiss over the legend ‘Denis and Mary live here’.

  It must have been Mary’s taste. The same eyes which had chosen her turquoise trouser suit and rainbow-coloured lamé slippers had certainly picked the jungle wallpaper. And the Raspberry Ripple carpet. And the green leather three-piece suite. And the miniature cluster of swords and axes tastefully set behind a red shield on the wall. And the three-foot-high china pony pulling a barrel. And the wrought iron drinks trolley with the frosted glass top and gold wheels. Denis was content to let her make decisions about such things. After all, she was the artistic one.

  It was to the drinks trolley Denis went first. He poured a pink gin for his wife, a Scotch for Charles and got out a can of beer for himself. When he had poured it into his glass, he crushed the can in his huge paw. The metal flattened like tinfoil.

  Mary’s greeting to Charles was distinctly frosty. She had not forgotten his reservations about her Madame Arkadina.

  But Denis cut through the atmosphere by saying, ‘He knows.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘About the burglary.’

  ‘Oh.’ Mary looked downcast, as if rehearsing for a tragedy.

  ‘How did you find out?’ asked Denis.

  ‘I spoke to Vee on the phone this morning. She told me.’

  ‘Damn. I hope she’s not telling everyone.’

  ‘Why? What does it matter? Presumably everyone’ll know when it comes up in court.’

  ‘If it does come up in court. I’m trying to see that it doesn’t.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought you stood much chance. I mean, if the police picked him up, they’re going to bring charges.’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m going to ask them not to proceed. I’m going to stand bail for him and try to keep it as quiet as possible.’

  ‘But why? I mean, there’s no question as to whether he did it or not.’

  ‘No, he’s’ admitted it.’

  ‘Then why shouldn’t he pay the price of his actions?’

  ‘Well, he’s . . .’ Denis was having difficulty in framing his thoughts (or his wife’s thoughts) into words. ‘He’s a friend.’

  Mary took over. ‘It’s terribly embarrassing. I mean, he’s been in and out of our house so often. This place becomes a sort of Backstagers’ annex when the Back Room closes – particularly when we’ve got a show on. Geoffrey’s a very close friend.’

  ‘I can see it’s embarrassing, but the fact remains that he has stolen your property.’

  ‘Yes, but people are so materialistic, Mr. Parrish. What’s a bit of jewellery?’ Mary sat surrounded by the fruits of middle class affluence as she posed this ingenuous query.

  ‘The thing is,’ Denis contributed, ‘we didn’t realize the financial state he was in. We could have helped, lent him some money or something, not driven him to this.’

  ‘Hardly driven. He did it of his own free will, presumably to get himself out of a spot.’ Charles was bewildered by their reactions. Instead of being affronted and disgusted by Geoffrey’s betrayal of their friendship, they were trying to justify his actions.

  Mary gave Charles the patronizing smile of sainthood. ‘It may be difficult for you to understand, but we feel an enormous loyalty to Geoffrey. He is a wonderfully talented person and we just didn’t understand the terrible time he had been going through. To steal from us was a terrible lapse, which I’m sure he’s regretted bitterly, but it’s only an expression of the dark side of his impulsive artistic temperament.’

  Now Charles had heard it all. That old fallacy about artists being answerable to a different code of morality from the rest of society. It was a view he had never subscribed to in the cases of the extremely talented writers and actors of his acquaintance who had tried it on, but for it to be used in the context of a moderately talented amateur was ridiculous.

  Denis Hobbs nodded as his wife continued to expound her views. Charles was saddened by the sight of a man so emasculated by marriage. He wanted to get Denis on his own again and find out what the man really thought, not just hear him echoing Mary’s opinions.

  ‘You see, Mr. Parrish,’ she continued, ‘it’s often difficult to explain to people that we don’t just believe in materialistic values, that we have an appreciation of art – the theatre, poetry, painting.’ She gestured vaguely in the direction of a Hawaiian sunset scene luminously painted on black velvet.

  ‘We’ve been lucky, we’ve made a lot of money . . .’

  Charles t
hought it was magnanimous of her to include Denis in this statement. She spoke of money as if it were an unfortunate skin condition. He was surprised Denis didn’t get up and knock her block off. But her husband’s brainwashing had been completed too long ago for him even to notice the slight.

  ‘So what we feel is, Mr. Parrish, that it’s our duty – being of limited artistic talent ourselves –’ She simpered in expectation of some complimentary remonstrance, but then remembered Charles’s expressed view of her acting abilities and moved hurriedly on. ‘– to share some of our good fortune with more artistic people. That’s why we make this room a second Back Room and provide lots of drinks and things . . .’ (she couldn’t resist quantifying their altruistic generosity.) ‘. . . so that we can do our bit for the spread of cultural ideas, stimulate lively conversation, discussion of the arts and so forth.’

  Charles began to understand her cock-eyed reasoning. Mary Hobbs saw herself as the leader of an artistic salon, the Madame de Staël of Breckton. Geoffrey Winter’s crime was just the errant behaviour of one of the young geniuses she was nurturing. In fact, it was a challenge to her values, an opportunity for her to show how far above material considerations she was.

  He wondered to what extent Geoffrey had anticipated this reaction. If he had known that the theft, if it ever came out, rather than ruining him socially, might increase his stock among the Backstagers and build up his mildly roué image as a man above conventional morality, then it was not such a risk as it might have appeared.

  ‘Oh dear.’ Mary Hobbs gave a tragedienne’s sigh. ‘I wonder if the police will be persuaded to drop the charges against him.’

  This abstraction seemed to be directed at Denis. ‘I don’t know, dear. I doubt it. But perhaps Willy will be able to get him off lightly. Our solicitor’s looking after Geoffrey,’ he explained for Charles’s benefit.

  Good God. The man broke into their house and stole their property and there they were leaning over backwards to defend him. ‘What’ll happen, Denis? Will he be up before Breckton magistrates in the morning?’

  ‘Yes. My solicitor’s going to ask for bail. We’ll be going down to give moral support. We’ve got to get him free as soon as possible.’

  Mary agreed. ‘Otherwise it’s going to interfere dreadfully with Winter’s Tale rehearsals.’

  Charles kept having to remind himself that these people were real when they came up with remarks like that. ‘And then straight on as before . . . Geoffrey rehearsing, no mention of the theft, coming back here for drinks after the Back Room closes.’

  ‘And why not? Geoffrey’s a friend.’ Mary’s constant repetition of this was like a child’s assertion that someone is ‘my best friend’. In children it is always symptomatic of insecurity and only heard from those who have difficulty in making real friends. And in adults too.

  Charles found something infinitely pathetic about the Hobbs trying to buy friendship with a constant supply of free drinks and afraid to lose a friend even when he abused their trust so disgracefully.

  Denis seemed to think Mary’s view of Geoffrey needed endorsement. ‘Oh, he’s a very lively bloke, Geoffrey. I don’t suppose you’ve ever seen him in full flood. Life and soul of the party. Always full of ideas for games and what-have-you. What was that thing he started here after the first night of The Seagull, love?’

  Mary Hobbs giggled with the memory. ‘Oh yes, it was a great game. One of you goes out of the room and dresses up and then when they come back in, you all have to ask questions to find out who they’re meant to be. You know, you can be politicians or show biz people – or members of the Backstagers, if you like.’ She laughed again, a comfortable ‘in’ laugh. Her Backstagers’ identity was a vital support to her life. ‘Do you remember, I pretended to be. Reggie, the secretary?’

  Denis guffawed at the recollection.

  ‘Actually he wasn’t very pleased, was he, Den?’

  ‘No, can’t take a joke, our Reggie.’

  ‘Did Geoffrey himself have to go?’ asked Charles.

  ‘Oh yes. He was a riot. He did Margaret Thatcher. He found a wig of mine and a smart overcoat and . . . oh, it was hysterical. He’d got the voice just right, hadn’t he, Den?’

  Denis agreed on cue. ‘He was great. Oh, it was a great party, that. Charlotte – she looked really lovely that evening – wore this long check sort of smock thing.’

  ‘Yes, well, she’s dead,’ snapped Mary with unnecessary brutality. Denis recoiled as if struck. Mary hastened to paper over the rift. ‘Oh, it was a marvellous night. We had so much fun. Of course, Charlotte spent most of the evening with young Clive Steele.’

  This seemed to be put in as another rebuff to her husband. His attraction to Charlotte must have been the subject of some marital tiff. She went on. ‘Such a clever boy, Clive. And so good-looking. You know, I think he had rather fallen for Charlotte. He certainly seems very cut up about her death.’

  ‘I suppose he’s only just heard,’ said Charles.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, he was away working all last week in Melton Mowbray, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Oh, no, apparently that was called off. No, Clive was here all last week.’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  THIS TIME CLIVE Steele was at the Back Room bar when Charles went in. The young man greeted him patronizingly and graciously accepted the offer of a drink. ‘Don’t know why I bothered to turn up this evening. I get here to find the rehearsal’s off.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Yes, we were meant to be doing all the Florizel/Perdita scenes tonight. But Vee Winter’s cried off. Apparently not well.’

  Or too upset over her husband’s arrest to face anyone, Charles reflected. ‘You’re playing Florizel?’

  ‘Yes. Terribly drippy part. But I suppose I really am too young for Leontes,’ he conceded as if youth were the only possible bar to his being given the lead. ‘Still, it’s parts like Florizel that need real acting. It takes a bit of talent to make something of that kind of weed, so I suppose it’s quite a challenge.’

  Charles saw a chance to move the conversation his way.

  ‘So, but for recent events, it would have been another Clive Steele/Charlotte Mecken partnership. Florizel and Perdita.’

  ‘Yes.’ Clive looked shaken, childishly near to tears. ‘Oh my God, it was terrible. For her to die – Charlotte who had so much to give – for her just to be strangled by that drunken brute.’

  ‘Hugo?’

  ‘Of course Hugo. You know why it was . . .?’ Clive leaned across to Charles confidingly. ‘Hugo was jealous.’

  ‘Oh yes. Of whom?’

  ‘Of me.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Yes. It’s no secret that Charlotte and I got pretty close over The Seagull. There was a very strong mutual attraction. I think Hugo must have realized and killed her in a fit of jealousy.’

  Charles was almost amused by the young man’s arrogant assurance. Are you saying you were having an affair with Charlotte?’

  ‘Ssh,’ Clive hissed loudly and waved his hand in a rubbing-out movement. ‘Don’t say a word about it here.’ His dramatic behaviour must have drawn the attention of everyone in the bar. Fortunately, for a moment there was no one there.

  ‘Well, were you?’

  ‘Not exactly. I mean, nothing had actually happened. You know, she had a few scruples and I didn’t want to rush things, but it was inevitable the way it would go. Only a matter of time.’

  This seemed very much at odds with the state of the relationship which Charles had gathered from the conversation he overheard in the car park. He had surmised from that that Clive had misinterpreted Charlotte’s natural niceness as a come-on and that she was disillusioning him in no uncertain terms. But Clive seemed to have forgotten that encounter and retained his belief in his irresistible magnetism for her. Maybe, now she was dead, he found that a reassuring fiction to cling to. It flattered his ego and gave him an opportunity to feel tragic.

  He was certa
inly putting on a performance of feeling tragic. ‘And now she’s dead – it’s awful. She was so young, so ripe for loving. I think love is for the young and beautiful.’ This was clearly a category in which he would include himself. ‘I mean, it was disgusting, the idea of Charlotte being groped by an old man. Someone like Hugo.’

  Charles didn’t rise to the implied insult. He was a great believer in letting people ramble on when they were in spate. It was a much easier method than interrogation and often quite as informative.

  ‘Or Denis Hobbs,’ Clive continued.

  ‘Denis? Did he grope Charlotte?’

  ‘Well, he was always putting his arm round her, you know, casually, like it didn’t mean anything, but I got the feeling he was enjoying handling the goods.’

  ‘There was one night I remember – Wednesday before last it was, first night of The Seagull – we all went round to the Hobbses’ place. I think Denis must have been a bit pissed, but he certainly seemed to be after Charlotte.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘We’d all decided we wanted to play silly games and Denis kept saying we ought to play Postman’s Knock (which I should think is about his level), because that meant kissing people – and he made a sort of grab at Charlotte to demonstrate.’

  ‘But you didn’t play Postman’s Knock?’ Charles fed gently.

  ‘No, we played a much better game that Geoff Winter knew. Dressing up sort of thing. But Denis didn’t give up. I went upstairs with Geoff to sort out some dressing-up clothes and then I came down while he was changing – actually he got himself up as Margaret Thatcher, he was bloody marvellous – anyway, when I got down, there was Denis with his arm round Charlotte. He was pretending it was all casual again and she was sort of joking, but 1 don’t think she really liked it. And I’m damned sure Mary Hobbs didn’t like it. She came out into the hall at that moment and you should have seen the look she gave Denis.’

  ‘When did you last see Charlotte?’

  ‘After the cast party.’