by Simon Brett
But Louise Denning was too canny to answer the actor’s instinctive question. Though the old-fashioned BBC tenet that an offer of work made over the phone was tantamount to a contract had, in harder-nosed commercial times, gone the way of most ‘gentlemen’s agreements’, incautious words could still pose a risk. ‘I’m afraid I’m unable to answer that, Mr Paris,’ the researcher replied primly. ‘But I’m sure everything will be made clear at the meeting this afternoon.’
They’re so bloody arrogant, thought Charles, as he put the phone down. They think everyone’ll just drop everything to turn up to their bloody meetings. No contract, no talk of payment, and they expect me just to appear on the off chance. I’ve half a mind not to go.
But, needless to say, the other half of his mind won. He appeared meekly at W.E.T. House in very good time for the three o’clock meeting.
There’s something very pervasive about policemen. They quickly colour the ambience of any situation in which they are involved, and the briefing meeting at W.E.T. House that afternoon was a case in point. The television people – almost all the Public Enemies production team – easily outnumbered Superintendent Roscoe, DI Noakes and the man called ‘Greg’ (who was now identified as Detective Sergeant Marchmont), but the way the three of them sat behind a long table immediately transformed the atmosphere into that of an official police briefing. Even Bob Garston’s ego was subservient to the professionals.
Not that the first professional to speak was particularly charismatic. Superintendent Roscoe liked the sound of his own voice, but nobody else appeared that keen on it. The production crew shifted without interest in their seats, and his two colleagues avoided each other’s eyes, afraid their superior’s long-winded oratory might set them giggling.
‘And,’ the superintendent announced, homing in on his subject after some five minutes’ preamble, ‘we – that is I – have taken an unusual decision in these changed circumstances. I have decided that the news should be embargoed until Thursday’s transmission of Public Enemies. This is not done simply to give the programme an exclusive publicity coup . . .’
Though, from the gleeful expression on the face of Roger Parkes, it would certainly do that.
‘. . . It is because I have decided that, in my judgement, a shock announcement of that kind will be the most effective way of advancing our enquiries. The relationship between the police and the media has not always been as smooth as one might wish, but here is an occasion where we can mend a few fences by a bit of mutual back-scratching. Public Enemies will benefit from the exclusive we are offering, and we in the police can hopefully also benefit from the new information that will come in as a result of these disclosures. I have decided that this is the best way for us to proceed, and I will stand by my decision in the face of any opposition.’
You didn’t have to be a very sophisticated psychologist, Charles reckoned, to conclude that someone who asserted so often a decision had been his own was clearly talking about a decision made by someone else.
Bob Garston had been silent too long. Public Enemies was his show, after all, and he couldn’t allow anyone else more than a brief appearance centre stage. ‘Of course, Superintendent, the main opposition we’re likely to encounter will be from the boys in News.’
‘Of course. This is the kind of information that would normally be broken in a news bulletin, but I have decided it will be more effectively used in your programme. I have no doubt it’s the kind of decision that will cause a bit of a furore.’
‘That’s an understatement,’ said Roger Parkes jubilantly. ‘ITN will be extremely shirty about this – so will the BBC. It’ll get all kinds of flak from the press and could even lead to questions in the House. But don’t worry, I’m prepared to defend my decision.’
Oh, I see, so it’s your decision now, thought Charles. Since the previous Thursday Roger Parkes had changed, seeming to have grown in stature. He even appeared less deferential to Bob Garston, as if he had gained a new ascendancy over the presenter. Charles wondered if it was Parkes who had actually broached the idea of the news embargo and Public Enemies exclusive to Superintendent Roscoe. That would explain his new chirpiness – and also create something of a precedent in television – an executive producer coming up with a good idea.
Roger Parkes immediately confirmed Charles’s conjecture, as he continued, ‘I knew what the stakes were when I first put forward the suggestion, Superintendent.’
Roscoe coloured. He didn’t like having the initiative taken away from him in this way. DI Noakes even more studiedly avoided DS Marchmont’s eye. The showing-up of their superintendent was clearly regular enough to have become a running joke between them.
‘Still, we’d better move on,’ said Roscoe brusquely. ‘Noakes, over to you.’
She was ready, as ever poised and efficient. Immediately, the audience listened. Superintendent Roscoe didn’t carry authority; Sam Noakes did. ‘Right, so you’ve all got the background. What we’re dealing with here is extremely secret information. Our approach – embargoing it until it’s announced on Public Enemies on Thursday – is risky, and it’s only going to work if we can guarantee absolute security from everyone involved in the production. You’re only here because you’re all people who will have to know what’s happened in order to do your jobs making the programme.
‘But, if that programme’s going to happen as we want it to, you’re all virtually going to have to sign an Official Secrets Act. If a murmur of this gets to the press before Thursday, a lot of people are going to be left with a lot of egg on their faces. So I want you all to be aware just how high the stakes are. Don’t breathe a word of it to anyone – however close they are to you, however much you trust them. If this scheme’s going to work, secrecy has to be total – do you all understand that?’
There were murmurs of assent from around the room. Television people love a good internal drama; and the more that drama relies on restricted information, the more they love it. This one promised to be even more exciting than gossip about who’d lose their job next.
‘Well, OK,’ said Geoffrey Ramage, ‘you can rely on all our discretion, no problem about that. We won’t tell a soul about the new information, but’ – and here he voiced the question of everyone in the room – ‘can you please tell us what that new information is?’
‘Yes,’ said Sam Noakes, professionally slowing the pace of her revelation. ‘Of course. We have had a significant breakthrough in our investigations into the disappearance of Martin Earnshaw. Last night in a –’
‘Excuse me,’ said Sergeant Marchmont. ‘Sorry to interrupt, Sam, but we agreed to operate this thing on a “need to know” basis.’
‘So?’ She was put out at having her narrative interrupted.
‘So . . . there are people in this room who already know all they need to know.’
‘What? Who?’
The detective sergeant consulted a list on a clipboard. ‘The actor Charles Paris.’ Charles looked up in amazement as Marchmont continued, ‘He’s going to be involved in further filming reconstructing Martin Earnshaw’s movements and it’s important he understands how secret that is. You do understand that, do you, Mr Paris?’
Greg Marchmont looked round the room to locate the actor.
‘Yes, yes, I understand that,’ Charles assured him.
‘No mention to anyone of where you’re doing the filming, no mention even that you’re doing it at all – OK?’
‘OK. Won’t breathe a word to a soul.’
‘Someone on the production team’ll let you know where you’ve got to be tomorrow.’
‘That’s right,’ Louise Denning agreed, brusquely efficient. ‘You’ll get a call at home later on this afternoon.’
‘Fine.’
‘But that’s all you need to know, Mr Paris,’ said Sam Noakes, happy to regain the initiative from Sergeant Marchmont.
‘You mean I don’t get to find out what this new information is?’ asked Charles plaintively.
&nbs
p; ‘Sorry. You’ll have to wait till nine o’clock on Thursday – along with the rest of the population.’
‘Oh. Oh.’ Charles rose to his feet. ‘So now . . . I just go, do I?’
Sam Noakes flashed him a professional smile. ‘Please.’
Sidling out of the conference room, Charles Paris felt like the boy not picked for either side in playground football. As he opened the door, the unworthy thought of listening at the keyhole crossed his mind, but the presence of a uniformed officer in the corridor put paid to that. The security on this edition of Public Enemies was being taken very seriously indeed.
Charles felt extraordinarily frustrated. It was like getting to the end of a thirties detective story and finding the last few pages torn out.
Still, he thought philosophically, there are compensations. First, I will be working again tomorrow. And, second, I have been expressly forbidden to tell anyone I’m working. So maybe I can get away without paying any commission to Maurice Skellern.
The high level of security was maintained during the following day’s filming in Brighton. The substantial police presence which kept the general public away from Charles Paris showed just how seriously they were taking it. Nothing would be allowed to leak before the transmission of Public Enemies the following evening.
Charles’s actual filming was scheduled for after dark, but he was booked for the full day. This he didn’t mind at all, as it meant overtime. At ten a car picked him up from Hereford Road to drive down to Brighton. He had assumed that it was one of the hire cars regularly used by W.E.T., and was surprised to discover the driver was a policeman. Presumably this was another reflection of the high security surrounding the operation.
Once in Brighton, Charles was smuggled into the same hotel as before and put up – though he couldn’t keep the phrase ‘holed up’ out of his mind – in a private suite. Here he met Geoffrey Ramage and other members of the Public Enemies team, as well as even more policemen. Charles got quite a buzz out of the situation, all the cloak-and-dagger secrecy reminding him of a post-Ipcress File espionage movie in which he’d had a small part. It had secured him a memorable notice from the Observer: ‘Charles Paris’s character looked so confused by all the crossing and double-crossing that the bullet which put paid to him on the Berlin Wall must have come as a merciful release.’
A lavish room-service buffet was laid on, but Charles regretfully rationed himself on the free wine. He was, after all, working. The surrounding policemen showed no such inhibitions. It seemed that the line Charles had said in so many stage thrillers, ‘No, thank you, sir, not while I’m on duty’, was yet another fabrication of crime fiction.
After lunch the reason for his early call became apparent. It was not that his portrayal of Martin Earnshaw required greater psychological depth than it had the previous week, simply that on this occasion the character had to walk. Being filmed sitting in a pub drinking called for limited skills of impersonation, whereas movement needed coaching. To this end, Geoffrey Ramage insisted that Charles watch videos of the missing man.
The only available footage dated from Martin Earnshaw’s first marriage, inept wobbly shots of him acting up for the camera on holiday in Majorca. The property developer was then presumably benefiting from the boom of the early eighties. He looked very happy and carefree, anyway, with an almost childlike innocence about his clowning.
Charles wondered idly what had happened to the first marriage. If he had been investigating Martin Earnshaw’s disappearance, that was certainly something he would have looked into. But it was a safe assumption that the combined intellects of the entire police force and Ted Faraday had already made that mental leap and acted on it. Charles, who had in his time been involved in investigating a few crimes, was rather enjoying his current position on the periphery of one but without personal involvement.
Martin Earnshaw seemed to walk like most other people of his age and build, but Charles patiently – and literally – went through his paces for Geoffrey Ramage, making minuscule adjustments to stride length and arm swing as required. After an hour or so, the director was satisfied.
To Charles it all seemed a bit pointless. Given Geoffrey’s tastes in lighting, he knew that on the final print ‘Martin Earnshaw’ would appear as little more than a blur.
The evening’s task, when it was spelled out to him, did not promise to stretch Charles Paris as an artiste. He had to leave the Black Feathers, and walk – in the approved Martin Earnshaw manner – through a few dark alleys and lanes to the sea front. Once there, he had to walk down on to the beach underneath the Palace Pier.
That was it. Hardly King Lear, but, from an actor’s point of view, the part did have a couple of things going for it. First, there were the free meals. And, second, no other actors were involved. It was a one-man show.
Charles was interested to find out the source of the new information about his doppelganger’s movements. So great had been the appeal to the British public of Chloe Earnshaw’s television appearances that her own home telephone had been constantly ringing with offers of new leads. Since many of the potential informants had rung off when answered by a policeman, it had been decided to return Chloe from the ‘secret address’ to her home. Here she was left on her own, though under heavy surveillance, to answer the telephone. All calls were recorded by the police and checked for authenticity.
The details of Martin Earnshaw’s route from the pub to the Palace Pier had come from a woman who refused to give her name. In fact Chloe Earnshaw had been out shopping when the call came through and it was recorded on the answering machine.
The voice quality was muffled, as if the caller had been resorting to the old B-feature cliché of a handkerchief over the receiver. The woman had given no clues to her identity, and police thought it probable that she shouldn’t have been in Brighton at the relevant time. Possibly she’d been with a lover. Perhaps she even had some connection with the people responsible for Martin Earnshaw’s disappearance. Certainly her muffled message gave the police no means of tracking her down.
Her information, though, they took very seriously, which was why Charles Paris was made to retrace the route she outlined. After the filmed insert had been played in on the following night’s Public Enemies, Bob Garston would do another of his impassioned, straight-to-camera pleas.
‘We do need the woman who gave that information to come forward. We will ensure absolute secrecy for her, but there are a few more follow-up questions we need to ask. Please. We know you’re out there somewhere. You’ve already done the public-spirited thing once by giving that information. Please don’t be afraid. Call us again. Who knows, you might be able to tell us that one little, apparently insignificant, detail that enables us to catch these . . . “Public Enemies”!’
For Charles Paris the filming was frustrating. Not because of the actual work – anyone capable of copying Martin Earnshaw’s walk could have done that – but because of the knowledge that all the crew around him knew the details of the revelation to be made on the following evening’s programme.
He tried, with varying degrees of subtlety, to elicit the odd hint from Geoffrey Ramage, from the cameraman, the Make-Up girl, the police who kept the public away from the location. Not one of them cracked. They’d all taken Sam Noakes’s words to heart. The security screen was impenetrable.
Charles Paris, even though he was Martin Earnshaw, would, in common with the rest of the British population, have to wait till nine o’clock on Thursday to find out what had happened to the missing man.
Chapter Six
HE WAS NOT called for the following day, so there was no way that Charles could once again see Public Enemies in the comfort of a W.E.T. hospitality suite. In common with nine million other members of the British public – or more if Roger Parkes’s optimistic prognostication proved correct – he would have to watch in the comfort of his own home.
‘Comfort’ was not a word readily applied to Charles’s Hereford Road bedsitter. He had moved in the
re when he left Frances, and the room still appeared to be in mourning for their marriage. Maybe Charles had once entertained fantasies of a slick interior-designed bachelor pad to which an endless succession of glamorous women could be lured, but if so, reality had quickly quashed such ideas.
He’d never been good at home-making, drifting before his marriage from one anonymous set of digs to another, rarely bothering even to unpack. Frances it was who had brought into his life the concept of a home as more than somewhere to sleep. She had also introduced him to a love of possessions – not for their monetary value but as a cement of memories, mutual purchases marking off the phases and moods of their marriage.
With the marriage, however, all that had ended. The shared mementoes stayed in their Muswell Hill marital home, an unfinished collection frozen reproachfully in time. And when Frances had finally moved out to her flat in Highgate, many of them just disappeared. Reproducing the same acquisitiveness in his own environment, or even making that environment a little less squalid, would have felt to Charles like a further betrayal of his relationship with Frances. Some perverse, self-punishing instinct dictated that as he had made his bed, so must he lie on it. Except that he very rarely did make his bed when he wasn’t changing the sheets. And he didn’t do that as often as he should have done.
The room therefore had never fulfilled its promise as a seducer’s silken lair. Though Charles had not been without female company since the end of his marriage, not many of the encounters had been conducted on his home ground. Few women had actually been inside the bedsitter. Which was probably just as well.
So it remained very much as it had been when he moved in, all those features about which he’d thought ‘that’s the first thing I’ll change’ still unchanged. The grey-painted furniture, the yellow candlewick bedspread bleached now to an unhealthy cream, the sad curtain hiding sink and gas ring, the customary accumulation of glasses and brown-ringed coffee cups – everything gave off a miasma of defeat. It was an appropriate setting for Charles Paris in empty-glove-puppet mode.
