Situation Tragedy

by Simon Brett

  Tilly Lake emoted round the rehearsal room, implying enough sighing heartaches to keep a romantic novelist in business for a decade. Charles, rather cheekily, asked her whether she’d heard from Trevor Howard or Laurence Olivier about playing the part of Colonel Strutter’s friend in Episode Five.

  ‘Both got other commitments,’ she said elegiacally. ‘Otherwise, of course . . . Still, I’m not downhearted. Going to continue to aim high. Such a smashing script, after all, lovely part. I’ve been rereading it and I think the character might be rather younger than I first thought. So I think I might try for an Alan Bates, or a Michael York maybe . . . or a Derek Jacobi. Keep away from the obvious, anyway, the Toby Roots of this life. Nothing against him, but you know what I mean.’

  Charles mumbled some ambivalent response.

  ‘Casting so easily becomes predictable, so one always admires the people in television who don’t do the obvious. I mean, have you heard, on this programme for the elderly, they haven’t gone for the boring competent sort of presenter like Robert Carton. They’ve chosen Ian Reynolds, who’s nearly eighty.’

  ‘Yes, I heard that.’

  ‘Well, isn’t that inventive? And people sometimes say casting isn’t a creative business.’ She laughed tragically, setting up a ripple through the feathers of her hat.

  ‘What does Bob Tomlinson think about your ideas of casting?’

  ‘Oh, he doesn’t care. He just told me to get on with it.’

  That was Bob Tomlinson’s great quality, the ability to get on with it and to delegate. But he wasn’t slapdash. He had his own standards, as was apparent when he clapped his hands for attention.

  ‘Before we start this read-through, got another filming date for your diaries. This Friday, the 15th. We’re meant to be rehearsing here, but if we get our skates on, we can miss a day.’

  ‘Where’s the location?’ asked Debbi Hartley.

  ‘Back at Bernard Walton’s place.’

  ‘But I thought we’d done all that.’

  ‘Got to do it again.’

  ‘Why?’ Peter Lipscombe’s producer’s instinct picked up the implication of extra expense.

  ‘Because I saw the rushes this morning of what was done last week, and it’s all bloody terrible. I wouldn’t have film of that quality in one of my shows.’

  ‘What’s wrong with it?’

  ‘It’s all bloody arty-farty. All shot over people’s shoulders or up their trouser-legs. Every new director’s first day with a film camera. Just bloody wanking. I don’t know what that little tit thought he was up to.’

  Peter Lipscombe still seemed more worried about the prospect of spending money than any disrespect to the dead. ‘Are you sure there isn’t any of it you can use?’

  ‘Bloody certain.’

  ‘Well, look, I’ll have to talk to the Cost Planners about this. And then to Film Department to see if they can find us a day to –’

  ‘I’ve done all that. Don’t you bloody listen? It’s all set up for this Friday.’

  ‘Oh.’ Peter Lipscombe had one more try. ‘I’m sure the film can’t be that bad . . .’

  ‘It’s self-indulgent crap. Totally wrong for this show. Don’t ever forget, what we’re making here is just a second-rate sit com, not bloody Ingmar Bergman.’

  And so – not that there had ever been any doubt that he would – Bob Tomlinson won the day. All of the people who had been present at Scott Newton’s death were to be reassembled at the scene of the crime.

  Charles wondered if Bernard Walton would also be there.

  In the Birthday Honours, announced the next day, Aurelia Howarth was made a Dame of the British Empire. This caused considerable excitement at the Paddington Jewish Boys’ Club, which was invaded by newspaper reporters, and even had a sycophantic royal visit from Nigel Frisch.

  His legs once again encased in Reg the golf club barman’s alien trousers, Charles Paris went through his second day’s filming at Bernard Walton’s house. If doing it once had been boring, doing it twice was excruciating. The only improvement on the previous occasion was that Bob Tomlinson moved a lot faster than Scott Newton. While the younger man had spent hours composing every shot, the older one just got the camera lined up and went ahead. He had a cameraman with a comparably prosaic approach to the job. The inestimable Midge Trumper had shared Scott Newton’s concern to make every frame a Rembrandt; the new man’s only worry seemed to be making sure that there was film in the camera.

  The result was that the men in lumberjack checked shirts’ prospects of going into overtime faded fast. By the time they broke for lunch (pâté de foie gras, steak au poivre and raspberries with – thanks to the intervention of the Union representative – a rather good 1973 Mouton Cadet), only four set-ups and a couple of establishing shots remained to be done. All Dame Aurelia Howarth’s scenes had been completed, and she and Barton Rivers had already set off in the Bentley back to London. She still looked very tired and would no doubt benefit from a half-day’s rest. The excitements of all the congratulations on her award must have added to her exhaustion.

  But, though the progress of the filming was rapid and efficient, Charles made little or no progress in the business of criminal investigation. He did wander down the drive to the point where Scott’s Porsche had skidded off, but the scene of the accident told him nothing new.

  Bernard Walton must have had efficient staff, because most traces of the car’s descent had been erased. Walls had been repaired, broken shrubs replaced, and scarred lawn returfed. Only the difference in colour between the old grass and the new bore witness to the spectacle of the previous week.

  Charles once again weighed one of the urns in his hands. Their centre of gravity was high, so it wouldn’t take much of a nudge to shift them, but, even so, they were heavy and it would require more than a gust of wind to do the job.

  He looked around the area. Maybe some vital clue remained, maybe the vital stub of a cigarette only available from a small shop in Burlington Arcade, maybe the unmistakable outline of a shoe with callipers, maybe the return half of a railway ticket to Auchtermuchty . . . But he was not optimistic of finding anything. People on the whole rarely leave clues to where they have been. And, if there had been any, he felt sure the police’s more professional searches would have revealed them.

  No, there was only one line of investigation open to him. And he was prevented from pursuing that by the absence of his chief suspect. Bernard Walton wasn’t there.

  He arrived just as the day’s filming was finished, at about three o’clock. The Rolls scrunched to a halt on the gravel. Bernard’s powder blue leisurewear and the gleaming leather bag of clubs he removed from the back of the car revealed that he had been on the golf course. His breath revealed that he had also been in the bar.

  He greeted Charles warmly. ‘Is Dame Dob around?’ he asked.

  ‘No. Her bits were finished early. She went off about lunchtime.’

  ‘Ah.’ Bernard Walton hesitated. He had had a hospitable urge, but now he knew Aurelia and Barton weren’t there, didn’t know what to do with it. ‘Are you through, too?’

  ‘Yes. It’s all done. The magic words, “It’s a wrap,” have been spoken.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Bernard was still undecided. But only for a moment. ‘Look, would you like to come in and have a drink?’

  ‘That’s very kind, but I think the coach’ll be going back shortly and . . .’

  ‘Don’t worry about that. I’ve got to drive up to Town later. Got to go on some radio chat show. Live at ten o’clock – ugh. Bloody inconvenient, but I’d better do it.’

  ‘Well, in that case . . .’ A snag. ‘But I’m in costume.’

  ‘Oh tell them you’ll take it in tomorrow.’

  ‘They won’t like it.’

  They didn’t, but Charles was too determined to grab his chance of talking to Bernard to worry about the affronted flouncing of a dresser.

  They sat by the window of Bernard’s sitting room with glasses of brandy an
d watched the cavalcade of buses and cars depart.

  ‘How’s it going?’ asked the star of What’ll the Neighbours Say?.

  ‘Hard to judge, really. I’m not very good at assessing comedy, least of all this sort of stuff.’

  ‘I think it’ll probably be very successful,’ Bernard condescended.

  ‘Hmm. Of course, it’s got off to rather a disturbed start . . .’

  But the opportunity to talk about Scott’s death was ignored. ‘You’ve heard they’re not going to proceed with What’ll the Neighbours . . .’

  Charles nodded. ‘Still, nice big pay-off, I gather.’

  ‘Yes.’ Bernard’s tone did not suggest that the money was a great comfort. ‘Oh well, maybe I should go back to the theatre. Might get a job in rep. at Cardiff,’ he suggested ruefully.

  This reference to their first meeting released a variety of reminiscences. Charles played along. He wanted to bring the conversation round to the deaths of Sadie and Scott, but he had to do it gently. Also, there was something about Bernard’s manner, the way he had buttonholed Charles and insisted on his staying, that suggested he might want to unburden himself of some confidence. But it mustn’t be hurried.

  It was about half-past five when Bernard suggested they should leave for Town. ‘I have a call to make on the way. It won’t take long. I hope you don’t mind.’

  Charles didn’t. His social calendar was as empty as ever. Whether he arrived back at Hereford Road at seven or midnight or indeed three a.m. made little difference. He had had a vague intention to ring Frances that evening, but it’d keep.

  The call Bernard had to make proved to be at a home for spastics. Charles said, no, he didn’t mind coming in with him.

  It was a strange experience, prompting mixed reactions. On one level, Charles knew that it was a carefully engineered public relations exercise. He felt sure that Bernard had made his call before in other more eminent company. After all, there was little point in impressing Charles Paris with the great star’s big-heartedness. They had known each other too long. Charles knew the kind of calculation that went into everything Bernard did, and had a shrewd suspicion Bernard knew he knew.

  On the other hand, it was undeniable that, whatever his motive, the star was doing good. The expressions on the distorted faces of the children he addressed spoke their welcome. And his familiarity with names and interests vouched for the regularity of such visits. As did the gratitude of the nursing staff.

  Charles was brought back to a conclusion that he had often reached before: that a good action remains a good action, whatever its motivation. The fact that Bernard was making capital out of his work with the handicapped, the fact that he was very deliberately supplying a lack of natural humanity, that he was consciously building up an image of caring, and quite possibly scoring points to be recognised in some future Honours List, did not detract from the pleasure that he brought to the objects of his manufactured concern.

  Charles found himself disarmed by this discovery. Having seen Bernard in action on the hospital visit was not going to make it any easier to challenge him over the deaths of Sadie Wainwright and Scott Newton (though he knew that, if Bernard had an inkling of his suspicions, the star was quite capable of deliberately fostering such a mood of doubt).

  The visit only took half an hour. The matron and a few giggling nurses saw them to the main door. ‘Haven’t seen you on the television so much recently, Mr. Walton,’ commented the matron.

  He grinned. ‘Ah no. Have to ration myself. Don’t want the public to get bored with me.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure that wouldn’t happen.’

  ‘All too easily, matron, all too easily.’

  ‘I bet you’ve got another big series coming up soon, haven’t you?’

  Bernard Walton laid his finger slyly along the side of his nose. ‘Big secret, matron, big secret.’

  ‘Ooh, I bet you have got something coming up.’

  ‘All,’ he announced mysteriously, ‘will become clear at the proper time.’

  Back in the car, Charles asked the blunt question, ‘Have you really got a new series coming up?’

  ‘No,’ replied Bernard gloomily, ‘but I can’t tell them that, can I?’

  As they approached London, Bernard asked if he had any plans for the evening. Charles, whose plans rarely aspired beyond a visit to the Montrose, said he hadn’t.

  ‘I’d thought of dining at my club, the Greville. Be delighted if you’d join me.’

  ‘Oh, but I . . .’ Charles instinctively thought of his usual dress (once dignified by Gerald Venables with the description ‘neo-woodcutter’). But no, of course. Reg the barman’s blazer and ungiving trousers were quite suitable for dining in a gentleman’s club.

  So it proved. As they entered the splendid hallway of the Greville, an elderly member, mellowed by alcohol, seized Charles by the hand and confided that he’d always recognise an Old Millingtonian tie and had he heard anything from Stubby Harbottle.

  They dined well in a small, darkly panelled room. It was still early and they were alone. As Charles had suspected, Bernard was now in confiding mood. Not only confiding, but morbidly realistic.

  ‘I don’t need to tell you, Charles, the news about What’ll the Neighbours: . . . was pretty serious for me.’

  ‘Oh, something else’ll come up,’ Charles assured him easily.

  Bernard Walton shook his head. ‘No sign of it. I need a starring vehicle and there just ain’t another one around.’

  ‘Oh, come on. You’re not going to be out of work.’

  ‘No, not out of work, but out of the right sort of work. Okay, I can do a few guest appearances on other people’s shows, I can do panel games, that sort of stuff, but I need the continuity of my own show. Everything else springs from that. You heard that Matron – “Haven’t seen you on the television so much recently, Mr. Walton..” It doesn’t take long for the public to forget a face, you know.’

  ‘And, apart from that, there’s the money. It takes a few bob to maintain the sort of establishment I do.’ Charles could well believe him. ‘It isn’t just the money for the television series that counts, it’s all the other spin-off stuff. You get booked for cabaret or after-dinner speaking or other shows because you’re seen regularly on the box. And now, it seems, I’m not going to be seen regularly on the box.’

  ‘I’m sure some other series’ll come up for you.’

  ‘I hope so. I’ve been talking to a few writers to see if they’ve got ideas. I’m prepared to put up development money. I’m trying to get Rod Tisdale. He’s the best for my sort of comedy, but he’s always got so much work. Still, there’s an idea of his that might work out, but it’s early days yet. I need another property.’

  It was interesting to hear how Bernard thought in properties. He didn’t just want a job, he wanted a personal setting for his own personality. It was an attitude to show business which Charles had never found necessary.

  But as Bernard talked, the precarious nature of his position became clearer. The top-rating series was essential to his operation. Without it, the celebrity bookings would only continue for a short time and he would degenerate into a professional celebrity, a tree without roots, famous for being famous, without any basis of other work to justify his status. The stakes were high and a character with a star complex like Bernard Walton might go to considerable lengths to maintain his position.

  He was surprisingly aware of his limitations. ‘What worries me about it most, Charles, is that I think this is a symptom. Nigel Frisch stopped What’ll the Neighbours., saying that there was nowhere left for the series to go. Rod had worked out every possible permutation of the basic situation. Okay, that’s true enough, but it’s not a reason for cancelling. Almost every sit cam continues long after the basic situation’s been exhausted. No, I’m afraid that what Nigel was saying was that he reckoned the public’s getting sick of me. After all, I do only do one thing, and they may just have had enough of it. If that is the case, then I really ha
ve got problems.’

  There was a pause. They both drank from their glasses of wine. What Bernard said next took Charles completely by surprise. ‘Which is why,’ he pronounced slowly, ‘I need your help.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I need your help. I need someone involved in The Strutters to keep me informed as to how things are going.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Listen, that series is thriving at the expense of my series. The company’s decided they can’t do both. That’s been obvious since the spin-off was first mooted. They can’t give Dob and George Birkitt star billing in one series and then put them back as supports in What’ll the Neighbours. . .’

  ‘So you’ve known from the start that they wouldn’t make any more of yours?’

  ‘No, no, I thought they’d make more with new neighbours. Pay off Dob and George and introduce a new couple. I talked to Rod Tisdale about it and we worked out a few story-lines. But now they’ve cancelled the series flat.’

  Bernard looked at the light through his wine glass before continuing. ‘What’ll the Neighbours Say? will only come back if The Strutters doesn’t get made.’

  Charles nodded, waiting.

  ‘I keep trying to think what could stop it from getting made. The best thing I can think of is if Dob were to die.’

  It was spoken very casually, but Charles felt a cold chill. It seemed incredible that he was with the same man whose philanthropy with the spastics he had witnessed a couple of hours earlier.

  ‘Unfortunately,’ Bernard went on, ‘though she’s the right sort of age to pop off at any moment, she seems remarkably robust. Have to wish for something else. That’s why I’m glad you’re there in the cast, Charles.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, I think you owe me a few favours. I mean, I got you the job, after all.’

  ‘Are you asking me to sabotage the show?’

  ‘No, no, no. Nothing as dramatic as that. I just want you to keep me in touch with the production, how it’s going, you know. There may be something I can use. I mean, how did this week’s recording go, for instance?’