‘Then perhaps you could give me your own account of the night of the twenty-seventh.’
The vicar ushered Charlie through to his sermon-factory.
‘To get straight down to business: I was up there from about nine, talking to Livia. Lovely person – really loving and supportive of Reggie. I often go up there if I know he’s shooting nights. Anyway, Reggie came in, popped his head round the door, and went off to make a phone call.’
‘When was this?’
‘Round about half past nine, or a bit later.’
‘Did you see him when he popped his head round the door?’
‘No. I was getting myself a drink. But I could tell by the acoustic that he was, briefly, in the room. Then I had a good talk with him when he’d finished the call.’
‘When was this?’
‘About twenty, maybe quarter to ten.’
‘And what did you talk about?’
‘Oh, one of our usual topics: getting Livia involved in church affairs in the village. He thinks it’s too soon, though she goes to church every Sunday, so there’s beginning to be comment that she doesn’t help at bazaars, bring and buy sales, carol services. He thinks her time is taken up with looking after baby Ian. I know she has lots of time on her hands. And so on.’
‘He seems very…protective,’ said Charlie.
‘Ah – you noticed. Frankly there is a reason for this. We are a very tight-knit community. That’s the polite way of putting it. Closed might be more accurate. Or inward-looking. Newcomers take ages to become accepted, if they ever are. Reggie is afraid she will be snubbed – there are a variety of unlovely ways people here do that. He’s afraid she will get hurt, and since he is meditating moving closer to Leeds, for work purposes, he doesn’t want Livia to go through the agony of it. And to be fair to him, they are wonderfully happy together – alone together.’
‘Did you hear what he was talking about to Sir Julian?’
‘Oh yes – or bits of it. Sir Julian is a devotee of Jubilee Terrace. Reggie tells me it’s quite a joke among Northern TV employees. He was bringing him up to date on the plot-lines in the episodes he’d filmed that week. I remember he said “I’ll be glad to get rid of Fawley – he’s poison”. Of course I know that meant he would shortly be finishing filming, when his character died. Then he said he wanted to get a firm contract for as long as possible for an Australian lad – he’d mentioned him to Sir Julian before: the one who plays a curate, very nicely, who can be promoted a bit higher if necessary. He said he was very good, and would make the first clergyman in a soap not to be a namby-pamby, milk-and-water, generally useless piece of furniture. It was rather embarrassing. I had to keep telling myself he was talking about clergymen in soaps, not in real life.’
When Charlie was finished, the Reverend Pedley escorted him to the door. As he was waving goodbye he shouted to Charlie opening his car door:
‘Remember they are in love. Deeply, genuinely, poetically in love. You don’t often see it.’
On the road back to Leeds, Charlie kept looking at Reggie’s alibi from every angle he could think of. As far as Friedman committing the crime was concerned the alibi seemed definitely foolproof. The only possible loophole he could see would be if Reggie had commissioned someone else – someone in the cast of, or connected in some way or another with, Jubilee Terrace to do the killing for him. And for someone who was escaping from one blackmailer to put himself even more completely in the power of another did seem the height of improbability. It wouldn’t pass as a plot-ploy even in a soap.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Night in Question
Charlie sat at his desk in the control room at Millgarth the next morning and distributed sheets of paper to DCs Rani and Hargreaves who were facing him. When he had given them a copy each of nearly a dozen sheets he sat down and looked rather dispiritedly at the first sheet.
‘These are the people who have what you might call basic alibis for the arson attack. They mostly went home when filming finished, and they have some vestiges of corroboration for what they did.’
The three policemen gazed at the details. Typical was Garry Kopps, who played the corner shop owner Arthur Bradley. Filming had finished at 8.50, he thought. He had left the Northern TV studios five minutes later, and had arrived home around 9.15. He had had what he usually called his ‘father-sitter’ waiting for him: he had paid her, they had talked for a few minutes, then she had left and he had been alone with his father. About the time the girl had left the fire was started in Bridge Street, near the centre of Leeds. It would take about twenty minutes in the evening to drive there from his home in Cookridge.
His activities were better attested than most. Susan Fyldes, the jeune premiere, went to her flatlet in Pudsey, near the public library, and her upstairs neighbour said she heard ‘horrible music’ from about ten or quarter past nine.
‘Well, I wouldn’t have expected it would be Charlotte Church or Il Divo,’ said Charlie.
Susan’s opposite number in the young love stakes went straight from the studio to the Lights arcade, where he was well known at the cinema and was given special concessions when he took in all or part of the big film on its last daily showing. This was not because he pleaded indigence but because the cashier was in love with his looks.
‘No regular girlfriend, apparently,’ said Charlie.
‘A bit of a loner then,’ said Hargreaves.
‘Yes. He likes it that way, and it suits the rest of the cast as well.’
Winnie Hey and Marjorie Harcourt-Smith had shared a cab to Winnie’s flat in The Calls, after which it had gone on to drop Marjorie off in Headingley. Marjorie had gone to borrow milk from a neighbouring flat, some time around ten, and Winnie had put on Wagner from Covent Garden on Radio Three.
‘Wagner was on that night,’ said Charlie, ‘but the fact that it was on, and audible to the neighbours (one of them used that same phrase, “horrible music”, to describe it) did not mean that Winnie was in the flat drinking it in. I don’t need to tell you how near The Calls are to Bridge Street,’ he concluded.
‘Five minutes?’ suggested Rani.
‘Seven or eight with all those crossings and with Winnie’s mobility problems,’ said Charlie. ‘I just can’t see her as an arsonist, but that’s beside the point. It was possible.’
‘Neither woman has a car, apparently,’ said Hargreaves. ‘We could trawl the garages to see who had a geriatric lady buying a can of petrol.’
‘They are not geriatric, either of them,’ said Charlie firmly. ‘You’d know that if you’d crossed them. They are both formidable and on the ball, and I’d put my money on them any day. Now, the Kerridges: both family people. Philip Marston apparently got home to his family at ten past nine and Carol Chisholm got home to hers at twenty past. All fine and dandy.’
‘Except that it’s not,’ said Rani. ‘Going by your expression.’
‘No. They’re a bit flimsy. Philip Marston has three children. The oldest – nineteen, from a first marriage – is at Bradford University, and was at Kung Fu classes that evening. The two younger ones, from this present marriage, are five and three, and were in bed. So Marston’s alibi depends on his wife.’
‘Not ideal. What about Chisholm? Nice lady, or so she looks on TV.’
‘So she is, I’ve no doubt,’ said Charlie. ‘However her family consists of one son, out till eleven, and one sixteen-year-old daughter currently going through teenage rebellion at its most obstructionist. She is these days in a constant state of rage with her mother. Refuses to say when her mother got home, says she wasn’t sure but she thought it was nearly ten.’
Hargreaves sighed.
‘Don’t we all know it? You’ll be going through it before long, sir. That girl of yours is a terror in the making.’
‘Was. Past tense. Now that she’s got a small brother she’s a changed character.’
‘Off your back and on to his, I suppose.’
‘Exactly. I’ll have to give him s
ome tuition. Into what not to do, of course. Anyway that’s a pretty shaky alibi too.’
‘What about her husband?’
‘Down at the pub. Supposed to be adolescent-sitting, but was persuaded by the teenage Che Guevara to go down for a quick one. Didn’t get back till ten fifteen.’
They all nodded their heads.
‘Which leaves us,’ said Charlie, riffling his papers, ‘with Les Crosby the newsagent (wife to vouch for him), the two backroom boys Reggie and Melvin, and Stephen Barrymore. Reggie we discussed last night in the canteen: we decided he’s out unless he employed a hit-man or woman.’
‘Difficult to imagine, as you said,’ said Rani.
‘Melvin Settle has about the best of the alibis,’ said Charlie. ‘At home with his wife and a houseful of children and their pals. So we can more or less rule him out—’
‘Except for the same proviso as with Friedman,’ said Hargreaves.
‘He could offer a really good storyline in return for having the job done,’ said Rani.
‘And looking at one or two of the actors they’d be his for a couple of strong scenes,’ said Charlie. ‘Though I don’t know about you but I wouldn’t make actors my first choice if I was recruiting a hit man. OK, though: we’ll keep the possibility in mind.’
‘What about the Merry Divorcee?’ asked Rani. ‘Where was she on the night?’
‘Drinking in an impromptu and probably illegal bar in the Otley Road Guest House (if you don’t know it, you haven’t missed anything). That’s an alibi worth looking at: were there any other guests or friends of the owner there, and was Bet Garrett really there the whole evening as she says, or were there blank periods when she slipped away? Then there’s the new boy, Stephen Barrymore. He’s everybody’s favourite youngster on the set. Good theatrical name too, so Felicity tells me.’
‘I can’t think of any actors called Barrymore,’ said Hargreaves.
‘Before even your time,’ said Charlie. ‘Whole family of them. Best known was John – all the star parts on the American stage between the wars. Sloshed to the eyeballs most of the time. They all seem to be welcoming young Stephen as if he’s going to be a typical Barrymore and double the ratings.’
‘Have you looked at the contract?’ Melvin asked Stephen Barrymore, on the set of Jubilee Terrace, where he was filming a nice scene in which he comforted Winnie Hey in her bereavement.
‘Yes. Went through it last night. Seems fine. Of course I’d need to consider anything else that could be in the offing.’
‘You’re committed to Emmerdale for four weeks’ filming. After that we’d want you here full time.’
‘Of course I understand that. But there’s the question of dosh—’
Melvin waved his hand.
‘Take that up with the financial powers that be. But take my word for it: you won’t get more from them than you will from us. And you get thirty per cent more viewers with us, imprinting your beguiling image on the wall of their brains, “assuming that they’ve got any”.’
‘Still, I need to look at—’
‘Take my advice: start haggling when you have a distinct and likeable image in the public mind to use as your bargaining chip. By the way, I think we’ll have you lodging with Marjorie.’
Stephen looked gobsmacked.
‘But I’ve got a flat in Leeds. In Stanningley – that’s not far. I don’t need to be bloody chaperoned—’
‘Stephen, I’m talking about Jubilee Terrace. Kevin Plunkett the curate will move in with Gladys Porter the lonely widow. There could even be battles over you between her and Lady Wharton. They might be a nice respite from the serious stuff.’
Stephen Barrymore looked shamefaced.
‘Oh, er, right. I get you.’
Actually he looked relieved.
‘You’re already getting the usual disease of actors in soaps,’ said Melvin Settle.
‘Which is?’
‘Not knowing when you are the bloke in the soap and when you are the bloke in the real world.’
‘You ought to do what I do.’
The voice, from behind Melvin’s shoulder, was that of Young Foulmouth.
‘I hardly think so,’ said Stephen, sounding positively archiepiscopal.
‘Keep putting ‘fucking’ and ‘cunt’ into sentences when I’m being myself, not when I’m being Jason Worseley.’
‘Well, well,’ said Stephen. ‘There’s method in your scurrility, is there?’
‘Too right there is, cobber.’
‘Well I’m afraid my parents taught us not to swear or utter blasphemy.’
‘’Bout time you kicked over the fucking traces. When you’re being Stephen you can knee your other self in the balls. When you mention God you can say “if the old bugger exists at all” or “fucking sadist that he is”.’
‘You know, I don’t think I like the idea. I think when I’m being the real me I won’t mention God at all.’
‘That would put you on a par with most of the clergymen I know,’ said Melvin Settle.
* * *
‘After filming,’ said Charlie, ‘Stephen Barrymore went to a party held at the College of Drama and Music, were he’s still officially a student. He was the centre of attention, of course – the girls mad about him, full of admiration at his getting a real acting job in that dramatic way, the boys mad at him because they’re jealous as hell. Stephen lapped it up – the shape of things to come.’
‘He’s a good-looking lad,’ said Hargreaves. ‘I should think he’s pretty used to it already.’
‘Ah but now with money attached,’ said Charlie. ‘As the poet says “How pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho! How pleasant it is to have money”.’
‘Doesn’t sound like any poet I’ve ever read,’ said Hargreaves.
‘You haven’t read any,’ said Charlie.
‘When did he get to the party?’ asked Rani.
‘About half past nine,’ Charlie said, after consulting his sheets of reports. ‘He had a taxi called from Reception at the studio because the rank outside was empty. We haven’t checked with the drivers, but time-wise it all hangs together. We’d have to learn a great deal more about things happening between him and Hamish before he could become a serious suspect… Which brings us to Bill Garrett…’
They all looked at each other.
‘The prime suspect as far as I’m concerned,’ said Hargreaves.
‘And you’ve done a driving experiment,’ prompted Charlie. ‘Tell us.’
‘Right.’ Hargreaves expanded his extensive self in his small chair. ‘The Red Deer – you both know it – it is a pub at the top of Briggate – junction with Merrion Street. There’s a parking area, a municipal one half a minute away, which gets crowded if there’s something popular on at the Grand Theatre, but otherwise is pretty quiet on weekday evenings. If he parked there when he and Liza Croome went for their drink and heart-to-heart he could have left the Red Deer, got into his car, driven up North Street, down Byron Street and into Bridge Street. Matter of three and a half minutes by my calculation. Petrol and newspapers in the boot: out with them, stuff them through the letterbox, set the last one alight. Two minutes. Back in the car and off via Eastgate and Briggate. Under ten minutes.’
He sat back, pleased with himself.
‘Premeditation then,’ said Rani.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Having the newspapers and petrol in the boot.’
Hargreaves considered.
‘Plenty of people have a can of petrol in case of emergencies, and pile up their newspapers in the boot for when they get to a recycling point.’
‘Agreed,’ said Charlie. He shuffled his pile of papers. ‘Who talked to him about his alibi, and who checked it?’
‘Dick Fallon,’ said Hargreaves gloomily.
‘OK. Not the brightest sparkler in the packet. We’ll go and talk to the staff at the Red Deer, then get Bill Garrett in, or go and talk to him. Check if he’s at the studios, Rani, and we’ll assume h
e’s at home if he’s not.’
‘At last, some action,’ said Hargreaves.
‘Do you think the police will come, Dad?’ asked Angela Garrett, home for lunch and unpacking and repacking her school bag for the afternoon.
‘How do I know, darling? They took down what I was doing when the fire started. Perhaps that satisfied them. Liza, the landlord and ten or fifteen others saw me at the pub. It should be enough.’
‘Dad, the chap who talked to you about the alibi was just a junior, the one who did all the donkey work. And he was pretty much of a donkey himself. The top man is the black one. He’s starting to interview the “prime suspects”, so everybody says.’
‘Don’t use silly jargon like “prime suspects”. Leave it to the TV scriptwriters. And “everybody” means the children at school whose parents are in Jubilee Terrace I suppose?’
‘Well, yes. But don’t get all snotty. And we’re not all “children”, us with parents in it.’
‘No. At least you’re not, my darling. You’ve never had the chance to be one.’
Angela, standing at the window, was shaking her head.
‘No sign of a police car.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Angela. Detective Inspector Peace will come in an unmarked car. When he comes, if he comes. Get off to school, my girl.’
‘’Bye, Dad.’
She ran out the door and down the stairs. Bill worried that she hadn’t half enough clothes on for a chilly October day.
‘I talked to your young chap,’ said the landlord of the Red Deer. ‘What’s the matter? Did he make a muddle of it? I didn’t get the impression he was a brain of Britain.’
‘We always try to go over things twice,’ said Charlie patiently. ‘You’d be surprised how many new things people come up with the second time around.’
‘Well, you won’t get any new things from me,’ the landlord said firmly. ‘I’ve gone over it in my own mind since, and all I told that young feller-me-lad was true, and it was everything I noticed about them.’
Killings on Jubilee Terrace Page 18
