Killings on Jubilee Terrace

by Robert Barnard

  ‘OK. I’ve got a minute or two before the press conference opens. Enjoy yourself, Charlie.’

  Detective Constable Omkar Rani went straight to the press room which was already crowded and stuffy. No policemen at the top table. He went and stood outside. Within seconds he saw, at the end of a long corridor, the figure of Superintendent Birnley: his walk showed intense enjoyment of the coming publicity, the set of his shoulders suggested he was about to announce the winning of a war. As he approached, the expression of intense self-satisfaction on his face became nauseatingly apparent to DC Rani, who stepped forward, proffering the paper with Charlie’s message on it.

  ‘Sir, I have an important message from Inspector Peace which he thinks—’

  Birnley snatched the paper, gave an almost imperceptible nod, and marched ahead into the press room. Rani, looking through the still-open door, saw him shoving the message into his trouser pocket.

  ‘Oh well, stuff you,’ he thought, and marched away, determined to let him stew. Too few of his underlings had done this in the course of Superintendent Birnley’s less-than-shining police career.

  The set for the back rooms of the Duke of York’s was one that few of the soap’s actors saw in the course of filming. They were usually sacred to ‘the Worseleys,’ the bar staff, and occasionally the bar staff’s emotional entanglements of the moment.

  Today all the currently being-filmed staff were crowded into them. There was still only one topic of conversation: the death of Hamish and Bet Garrett. It was spoken of as murder, and hardly anyone doubted for a moment that that was what it was. There were slightly different verdicts on each corpse however.

  ‘There’s no doubt whatever that Hamish asked for it,’ said Carol Chisholm, her voice half-way between its natural tones and those of Norma Kerridge. ‘He tried to insult and diminish everyone involved in the show.’

  ‘Except maybe Reggie,’ put in Philip Marston, her Terrace husband.

  ‘He was dependent on Reggie for employment,’ said Carol. ‘However much he stressed he was slumming it, it was work, and a good regular wage. Have you heard of offers to him from the National or the Royal Shakespeare? And we would have… But Bet I don’t feel so sure about. I didn’t know her at all well. OK, she’d married unwisely, and she led Bill a merry dance and invited in anyone who looked in her direction, including more than one who’s here now.’ She looked around, and met with only glances of wide-eyed innocence, a well-practised expression. ‘But to a greater or lesser degree most of us here have been there, done that.’

  ‘Speak for yourself,’ said Marjorie. ‘My husband and I split up because we were fed up with each other. I hated everything he did, his gestures, his expressions, his opinions. And yet in a way we are still good friends. After all, everyone has friends who bore or irritate them. And I certainly never led him a merry dance, whatever that implies.’

  ‘The thing about Bet,’ said Les Crosby, ‘was that she was totally and entirely for herself, and that was allied with a peculiar and usually sadistic sense of humour.’

  They considered this.

  ‘Sounds the ideal mate for Hamish Fawley,’ said Garry Kopps. ‘They could torment each other.’

  ‘You do realise she was supposed to be filming today, don’t you?’ said Marjorie. ‘Another flower-shop scene, for after Cyril’s death. I suppose they could just use anyone, as one of whatever-her-name’s assistants.’

  ‘Rita Somerville, that’s what her name is,’ said Philip Marston. ‘Oh – here’s Stephen. I think he’s been talking to Reggie. Oh God – look. He’s got Young Foulmouth with him.’

  Young Foulmouth had a baptismal name which hardly anyone knew or could remember. In fact it was Theodor Mossby. In the Terrace he played the only child of Bill Garrett and his Terrace wife Liza Coombe. His soap name was Jason, and his antics, cheek and elaborate tricks filled many a vacant five minutes of Terrace time. His unlovely counter-tenor voice (he was fourteen but playing twelve, and was adept at masking the effects of a broken voice) floated across the studio to them.

  ‘’Course I’m not worried about a cunt like him who’s dead. That’s what you get if you fuck around like he did. You get jealous husbands or lovers watching your back, waiting for you to leave off your bullet-proof vest – it’s fucking natural, innit?’

  ‘Hamish Fawley wasn’t shot,’ said Stephen.

  ‘I didn’t say he was, cloth-head,’ said Young Foulmouth. ‘I just said someone would be after him. He had his eyes on a new one yesterday. Fucking gorgeous she was too. I thought I could pop in there and show her how it’s done. She’d be grateful for a good fuck from someone who knows the way after a fucking geriatric like Fawley had been on her. I don’t suppose he’d had time to get her to bed yesterday, though.’ He put on a terrible parody of Eartha Kitt’s voice. ‘An Englishman needs time.’

  ‘Stephen,’ came the most-upper-crust-attainable voice of Winnie Hey.

  ‘Yes, Winnie?’

  ‘You know when there’s swearing on TV before the watershed time they put this funny ‘phut’ sound instead?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Couldn’t you manage the same sort of effect with Young Foulmouth here by shoving one of those rubber plunger things they use to unblock drains down his throat every time you expect an offence against decency?’

  ‘I could give it a try, Winnie. I’d have to run it past Reggie first.’

  ‘You keep your fucking plunger thing to yourself,’ said Theodor. But he made a strategic retreat to a far corner of the studio, and stood nursing his dignity.

  Everyone was looking at Stephen.

  ‘Who was this girl that Hamish had his eye on yesterday?’ Phillip Marston asked.

  ‘Search me.’

  ‘Reggie didn’t mention it?’ asked Winnie.

  ‘No. Why should he? I’m only concerned with Hamish as Cyril, and I won’t be that for much longer. Reggie just wanted to say how good the death scene had been in what was supposed to be a run-through. He says he can use it all, and fake anything else he needs. If he wants more stuff with the hands on the bedclothes he can use any old hands – almost. He said we could have an audition for lookalike hands.’

  ‘Anybody here in filming yesterday?’ asked Philip, looking around.

  ‘There was the evening filming of course,’ said Marjorie. ‘Most of us were there. Earlier there was a big scene between the Worseleys worried their mischievous offspring was getting out of hand. I was in the pub, but most of the scene took place in here, the private quarters. But I think there must have been a flower-shop scene. I saw Bet Garrett hanging around in her shop overall. Was that why you were in, Les?’

  ‘Yes. I was in the shop buying flowers for Cyril’s funeral.’

  It occurred to all of them that Les had been rather backwards in coming forward, but it occurred to none of them to mention it. They were all rather playing down any connections they had with Bet or Hamish.

  ‘Was there anyone else in the scene, anyone new? Another customer, maybe?’

  ‘No, but there was a new girl in the shop, learning to make up wreaths and bouquets. Pretty little thing.’

  ‘But why would Hamish be there? Young Foulmouth saw him. Cyril is dead by then.’

  ‘He could have been there to keep his eye on Bet. Though he was the one who most needed watching over.’

  ‘Oh, come off it, do,’ said Marjorie impatiently. ‘They weren’t watching each other. That engagement was nothing but a con. They weren’t “in love”, whatever that may mean. It was just a means of aggravating Bill.’

  ‘And perhaps the daughters too,’ put in Winnie. ‘I wouldn’t put that past Bet. Not aggravating them, but really worrying them.’

  ‘But nothing you’ve said explains what Hamish’s motives were,’ said Carol Chisholm. ‘Why did he help Bet get a rise out of Bill? Hamish didn’t go around doing good turns. He wasn’t a born-again Boy Scout. Why did he go along with it, Garry?’

  ‘Sheer mischief,’ he said. One of Ga
rry Kopp’s claims to be the Terrace’s intellectual was a two-year course in psychology. ‘Devilry. Delight in causing angst.’

  ‘He just likes fucking people up, you mean,’ said Young Foulmouth, who had edged his way back into the discussion.

  ‘Something like that,’ agreed Les Crosby.

  But the discussion got no further. Everyone suddenly went silent. Coming along the corridor were heard the sound of approaching footsteps. From the vicious clank of the heels one would have thought they were made out of iron castings. Some of those waiting in silence thought they had heard those shoes before, others had pictures in their minds of wedge heels and gold lamé straps.

  The door pushed open.

  ‘What the hell is going on here?’ demanded Bet Garrett. ‘Why is everybody looking at me as if I’ve just returned from the dead?’

  ‘Because you just have, ducky,’ said Garry Kopps.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Actors Born and Made

  There was a dreadful hush for a few seconds, then Marjorie Harcourt-Smith took pity on the new arrival, who was by now looking from face to face.

  ‘Bet, there’s no way of telling you this gently. I’m afraid Hamish has died in a fire at the house he was renting. Someone else died with him, and we thought – and I think the police thought – it must be you.’

  No one had expected anguished sobbing, but since Bet had probably been using Hamish for plans of her own they had not expected total cool. Total cool, however, was what they got.

  ‘Hamish, eh? Well, I suppose he asked for it.’

  ‘Is that all you’ve got to say?’ demanded Winnie, as if she had loved Hamish like a mother.

  ‘Pretty much,’ said Bet, undaunted. ‘We’d more or less split up days ago, though we’d decided not to say anything about it.’

  ‘So Bill wouldn’t know?’ asked Philip Marston, as cool as she was.

  ‘Draw your own bloody conclusions,’ said Bet. ‘Well, I don’t think that this affects me in any way. I’ve got a scene with you, Carol, haven’t I? I’ll be getting along to make-up – see you later.’

  She started off towards the door, but was struck by a thought and turned round.

  ‘You said someone else was killed. You can see it wasn’t me. You can touch me if you like – it wouldn’t be the first time for some of you. So who was the other body?’

  ‘We don’t really know—’ began Stephen.

  ‘Why the embarrassment? Was she a bed partner?’

  ‘It seems likely. Like Winnie said, the fire was at the house Hamish was renting from Northern TV. We doubt he was showing the lady his etchings.’

  ‘Well, go on. Who was it?’

  ‘We don’t know,’ said Winnie. ‘Not know. You have to be careful after a mistake has been made, and we think even the police had decided it was you. But there is an idea – it came from Young Foulmouth, actually – that Hamish had his eye on a young person in the flower shop.’

  Bet raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Oh her. What was her name now? I can’t remember. But Hamish was hanging around the set yesterday. I thought at first he was trying to make things up with me, but beyond a casual greeting he was obviously more interested in the apprentice florist rather than the old hand.’

  She was surprised when a dark face over a natty suit appeared from the shadows of the doorway.

  ‘Was the name Sylvia Cardew?’ asked Charlie Peace.

  ‘That’s it! Bloody boring name if you ask me.’ Bet’s face twisted into a grin. ‘Well, that’s another young career shot down in flames before it even got off the ground. I’m off to make-up.’ She raised her hand. ‘Ciao.’

  ‘Wait!’ said Charlie, catching her by the arm. ‘Can you confirm that you are Bet Garrett?’

  ‘Yes. ’Course I bloody can.’

  She looked around the set, and Charlie’s eyes followed hers. All the cast members assembled there without exception nodded. Bet scurried away, and Charlie retreated to a far part of the large set and took out his mobile phone.

  ‘Cathy? It’s Charlie Peace here. Is the Chief Super available…? Damn. Could you get a message to him…? Right: From DI Peace. I have just seen and spoken to Bet Garrett. If her name has not so far come up in our dealings with the press—’

  ‘It has,’ came Cathy’s voice.

  ‘Double damn. But leave it as it is…“It should not be mentioned. If it has something needs to be done fast.” That’s about it. Could you rephrase it so it doesn’t sound as if I’m teaching the Chief Super his job?’

  ‘He’s used to that from you, Charlie, but I’ll try.’

  Charlie put his phone away and turned back to the cast.

  ‘Now, this is what used to be called a turn-up for the book. Or you might say we’ve fallen – the police have – flat on our faces. All the assumptions we’ve made have been turned upside down.’

  ‘Why did you make them then?’ asked Garry Kopps. They were made, Charlie thought, by an ass called Birnley after a talk with Reggie Friedman. He lodged that thought in the back of his brain but did not give it voice.

  ‘Hamish Fawley and Bet Garrett have been engaged for how long?’ he asked. Philip Marston shrugged and replied.

  ‘About three weeks.’

  ‘And disengaged for how long?’

  ‘You probably heard her say “days ago”.’

  ‘Anybody have any independent confirmation of this, and how long ago it happened?’

  No voice spoke up. Heads were shaken.

  ‘Am I right in thinking there was a general scepticism about this engagement? Whether it was gone into in earnest, and whether it was ever likely to lead to a marriage?’

  This time Marjorie replied.

  ‘No one could see Bet jumping straight from one disastrous marriage into another. And no one could imagine Hamish getting married at all.’

  Charlie thought.

  ‘So there is no reason to assume that a big row led to the break-up of the engagement. They could just have decided that the joke had gone on long enough.’

  ‘Definitely,’ said Philip. ‘I don’t think any of us here heard of any row, but as you say there didn’t need to be one.’

  ‘So who was this joke engagement, if that’s what it was, aimed at? What was the point?’

  ‘It was to drive poor old Bill mental,’ said Les Crosby. ‘Most of what Bet has done in the last few years has been aimed at that. The centrepiece to the recent stuff has been Bet’s demand for custody of the girls.’

  ‘Why would that be a surprise?’ asked Charlie. ‘The mother is usually given custody.’

  ‘If she wants it. Bet was the archetypal negligent mother. Bill had always assumed that the custody would be awarded him by default.’

  Charlie had a distinct impression that some cast members were trying to hush Les Crosby up, but couldn’t pin down who.

  ‘Let’s get this straight. Bill Garrett was convinced that his wife’s attempt to get custody was a serious one, even if the motive was to spite him.’

  He looked around. There were several reluctant nods.

  ‘And Bill Garrett gave no sign that he knew the engagement had been called off – if it was ever on?’

  ‘None of us knew, so far as I’m aware,’ said Philip Marston. ‘We all heard of the break-up for the first time five minutes ago, when you did.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Charlie. He sensed all eyes on him, but said nothing about why he found it interesting. His mind was building up a house of cards in which Bill Garrett came to the conclusion that the move for custody came more from Hamish than from Bet, and that what he had his eyes on was three very attractive girls, all under sixteen. If this was so, a lot could depend on whether Bill had heard of the end of the engagement, in which case Hamish would become much less interesting to him. On the other hand, if the engagement was still on so far as Bill was concerned, the wiping-out of Hamish made good sense, and the assumption that Bet would be included in the package made murder at the very least a possib
ility, almost a likelihood.

  ‘What time was the fire?’

  The voice came from over by the door. Charlie looked round and saw a female face that he recognised.

  ‘I’m sorry, I forget your name. Maybe you didn’t give it to me when we met last time.’

  ‘Liza Croome. Married Terrace-wise to Bob Worseley, the landlord of the Duke of York’s – that’s Bill Garrett. I asked what time the fire was.’

  ‘Yes, I heard you. A neighbour called 999 at 21.18 last night.’

  Liza did not need to think.

  ‘At twenty past nine last night Bill was having a drink with me after evening filming. That was in a pub called the Red Deer in the—’

  ‘I know where the Red Deer is. Well, if that’s confirmed – and you must both be pretty well-known figures around Leeds – that puts you both in the clear. Barring the possibility of time devices to set off the fire of course. Tell me more about this evening filming. Who was involved?’

  Liza thought.

  ‘Bill and I. The Kerridges. Stephen there – the new curate—’

  ‘Me,’ said Winnie. ‘Lady Wharton. And Marjorie, she’s—’

  ‘I know Marjorie. Anyone else?’

  ‘Susan,’ said Philip Marston. ‘Our not so ingenuous ingénue.’

  ‘And Reggie of course,’ said Marjorie. ‘The Bradleys – just a few lines. Lots of extras naturally. That’s usual in the pub scenes. There was a time when the only black face you’d see in the Terrace was one of the extras in the pub scenes.’

  ‘The times they are a-changing,’ said Charlie. ‘Slowly. So what time did filming finish?’

  ‘Oh about nine I’d guess,’ said Philip Marston. But Liza Croome shook her head.

  ‘No. Bill and I were in the Red Deer by a quarter past nine as I said. He and I were among the last to leave. Most people had just shot off, naturally enough. No one likes evening filming. I’d say Reggie called a stop to it about eight-forty-five or fifty.’