by Simon Brett
Greg Marchmont suddenly turned right and, as Charles did the same, he looked up at the street name. Without surprise he registered that it was Trafalgar Lane.
The detective moved steadily forward through the dim lighting, apparently unsuspicious that he might be being followed. He stopped outside a second-hand clothes shop, whose dusty window suggested that it had long since ceased trading. Charles, who had kept a constant fifty yards between them since first spotting his quarry, slid into a doorway and watched.
Marchmont looked up at the shop’s first-floor window, from which a little light spilled through a crack in the curtains. He checked his watch and stood for a moment undecided. Then, seeing the lights of a pub a little way down the road, he set off towards it.
When Marchmont entered the pub, Charles was about level with the second-hand clothes shop. The actor took in the broken bell-push beside a side door, which presumably led to the flat over the shop. Light still showed from the window above.
He hesitated for a moment, before following his quarry into the pub. He wasn’t quite sure what he was doing, or why he was doing it, but felt he was getting close to something significant. The coincidence of Greg Marchmont going to Trafalgar Lane had to have some connection with Ted Faraday.
The pub was scruffy, with fruit machines and Country music blaring from the jukebox. As he entered Charles saw the back view of Greg Marchmont at the bar ordering a drink. That should keep you in here for a little while, he thought, and give me time to investigate the flat up the road.
There was another reason for getting out. As soon as he’d entered the pub, Charles had found himself facing a short, bespectacled grey-haired man, wearing a neat raincoat and nursing a half-pint of lager. The expression of affront and positive hostility which his arrival brought to the man’s face decided Charles to leave the pub as soon as possible.
Outside again, he wasn’t certain what to do next. So, maybe he had discovered where Ted Faraday had gone undercover in Brighton . . . so what? The private investigator wasn’t breaking any laws. What he was doing was not Charles Paris’s business. In fact, the best thing Charles could do would be to walk back to the station and catch the next train to London.
But, even as he reached this decision, the light above the second-hand clothes shop went out. Charles pressed back into the shadows and watched.
Sure enough, after a few seconds, the door beside the shop-front opened, and a tramp-like figure emerged, swaddled in layers of grubby overcoat, with a large woolly hat pulled down over straggly hair. The face was hidden by a ragged scarf.
The tramp was carrying a large package about three feet long, wrapped in dirty opaque polythene and tied with string.
He locked the door, glanced both ways up the street, and set off in the direction of the station. Charles followed.
There was something strange about the way the man moved. A slight limp, but not a regular limp. The sort of limp in fact that would be used by someone unused to limping.
With a little leap of excitement, the actor in Charles Paris recognised what it was. The walk of someone putting on a limp. The man ahead of him was in disguise.
Ted Faraday’s ironic words from the W.E.T. hospitality suite came back to him. ‘I am a master of disguise.’
The tramp seemed deliberately to be taking an erratic course. At the end of Trafalgar Lane, he turned left and left again to walk along the parallel Kemp Street. When this met Gloucester Road, he maintained the zigzag, doubling back down Over Road. It was as if he was trying to confuse any potential pursuer, and yet nothing in his behaviour had indicated he knew that he really was being followed.
Charles’s mind seethed with possibilities – particularly about the contents of the package. It was clearly heavy, because the tramp kept shifting its weight from shoulder to shoulder.
Charles Paris was concentrating so much on what lay ahead of him that he did not think to look behind. He was only aware of his assailant when his arms were suddenly pinioned.
‘You are under arrest,’ announced a voice, very close in his ear. ‘What!’ Charles twisted round in the iron grip sufficiently to see the face of the bespectacled man from the pub. ‘What did you say?’
‘This is a citizen’s arrest,’ said the man in his weedy, jobs-worth’s voice.
‘Do me a favour!’ Charles turned back to see the tramp disappearing out of sight at the end of the road. ‘What on earth do you think you’re arresting me for?’
‘Because I recognised you,’ said the little man self-righteously. ‘I’ve seen you on the telly. You are Martin Earnshaw and I’m arresting you on a charge of wasting police time by pretending you’ve been murdered.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ said Charles Paris.
Chapter Ten
THE LITTLE man had got a firm lock on Charles and proved to be surprisingly strong. ‘I used to be in the Commandos,’ his voice hissed. ‘I know about immobilising an enemy. So don’t try anything. You won’t get away from me.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ said Charles. ‘This is ridiculous. I don’t want to get into a fight. I am not Martin Earnshaw.’
‘Well, you look like him.’
‘Yes, I do look like him. That is the whole point. I am an actor and I got the job of playing Martin Earnshaw in the Public Enemies reconstruction for the very simple reason that I do look like him.’
‘A likely story,’ the little man sneered.
‘Oh, just let me go!’
Charles tried a sudden movement to jerk himself free, but the hold remained firm. Whether he’d learnt it in the Commandos or not, the little man certainly knew how to restrain a captive. Charles gave up struggling. ‘So what are you proposing to do with me then?’
‘I’m going to take you to the police station and turn you over to the proper authorities. I know my duty as a citizen,’ the little man concluded piously.
‘But look, I can prove I’m not Martin Earnshaw. My name is Charles Paris. I’m an actor. I have credit cards in my wallet to prove it.’
‘You could have stolen those.’
‘Why should I?’
‘You might have wanted to disguise your identity, so that the police wouldn’t get on to you.’
‘Look, if I was Martin Earnshaw and was going to disguise my identity, I’d make a darned sight better job of it than this.’
‘Ah, so you admit you are Martin Earnshaw.’
‘No, I don’t!’ God, this was like arguing with a three-year-old. ‘All I’m saying is, if I was Martin Earnshaw, I’d have disguised myself by making my face look different, wouldn’t I, not just by stealing someone’s bloody credit cards!’
‘All criminals make that one little mistake,’ the little man countered with infuriating complacency. ‘And you might have got away with it . . . if you hadn’t had the bad luck to come up against me.’
Who did he think he was, for God’s sake – Superman?
‘Look, could you just for one moment be sensible? Let go of me and I will prove to you that I’m not Martin Earnshaw. I mean, of course I’m not Martin Earnshaw! The man’s dead, apart from anything else!’
‘Apparently dead,’ the little man riposted slyly.
‘Oh . . .!’ Charles made another attempt to break free. This time a sudden lurch sideways caught his captor off balance, and the two of them fell to the pavement. But the wiry arms kept their grip, still immobilising Charles’s own. He tried to roll them both over and use his weight to get the little man – literally – off his back.
It was in the course of this undignified scrabbling that he became aware of a tall figure leaning over them and a ponderous voice asking, ‘What’s going on here then?’
Charles Paris squinted up to see the outline of a uniformed constable. Never had the sight been more welcome. It carried all the nostalgic Dixon of Dock Green reassurance of the good old English bobby on the beat.
‘Thank goodness you’re here, officer. Would you please ask this gentleman to let me go?’
‘He got hold of me for all the wrong reasons. It’s a case of mistaken identity.’
‘Ah, so you admit it!’ the little man’s voice crowed gleefully from somewhere beneath Charles.
‘What is going on here?’ the constable asked wearily.
‘I’ve just made a citizen’s arrest.’
‘Why? What for?’
‘Wasting police time. This man is pretending he’s someone else – and also pretending he’s been murdered.’
‘What? Come on, you’d better get up, both of you.’
They shambled to their feet. It wasn’t easy, as the little man did not for a moment relax his hold. When they were upright, Charles asked politely, ‘Could you ask him to let me go, please?’
‘In a minute,’ the policeman replied slowly. ‘When we know what’s what. Very good hold he’s got on you there, actually.’
Charles could almost feel the little man glow with pride behind him. ‘Yes, well, I was in the Commandos, you know.’
‘Really? My dad was in the Royal Signals – Desert War – flushing out Rommel and his –’
Charles was exasperated. ‘Look, could we please defer the military reminiscences until I’ve been released.’
He knew as he spoke that his tone of voice was wrong, and the beady look the constable cast on him confirmed this. ‘All right, all right. In my experience, people who make citizen’s arrests usually do so for a very good reason. So let’s get a few facts first, shall we?’ In time-honoured fashion, the policeman drew out a notebook. ‘Start with names, eh?’
‘My name’s Kevin Littlejohn,’ said the ex-Commando. Yes, it bloody would be, thought Charles.
‘And yours?’
‘My name is Charles Paris.’
‘No, it isn’t,’ said Kevin Littlejohn. ‘It’s Martin Earnshaw.’
The constable reacted to the name and looked closely into Charles’s face. ‘Yes, you certainly look like him.’
‘I know I look like him. That is the whole reason why –’
Apparently unaware that he was speaking exclusively in clichés, the policeman announced heavily, ‘I think you’d better come along to the station with me, sir.’
‘Look, this is ridiculous!’ Charles repeated yet again to the desk sergeant. ‘My name is Charles Paris, not Martin Earnshaw!’
‘You look very like Martin Earnshaw,’ said the sergeant suspiciously.
‘Yes, of course I look like him. How many more times do I have to say this? I am being employed to look like him. The sole reason I was given the job was because I look like him!’
‘I don’t think this bolshie attitude is helping your cause very much, Mr Earnshaw.’
‘I am not Mr Earnshaw! I am an actor called Charles Paris!’
‘Really?’ The desk sergeant looked sceptical. ‘I’ve never heard of you.’
‘No, all right. Well, maybe I’m that sort of actor. The profession is crowded with actors you’ve probably never heard of. I mean, I dare say you watch a bit of television, but do you ever go to the theatre?’
‘Your tone is getting somewhat offensive, Mr Earnshaw.’
‘For the last time, I am not Mr Earnshaw!’
The desk sergeant tutted. ‘When I think of that poor wife of yours . . . What you’ve put her through . . . it’s . . . well, it’s just unbelievable.’
‘You know nothing about my wife.’
‘Yes, I do. I’ve seen her on the telly. And you’ve allowed that poor young woman to believe that you’ve been murdered and all the time you’ve been hiding away –’
‘I have not. Chloe Earnshaw has nothing to do with me.’
‘I don’t blame her,’ Kevin Littlejohn opined righteously. ‘After the way you’ve treated her.’
God, it was exasperating. The constable who’d brought him into the station had gone back on the beat, but the desk sergeant demonstrated exactly the same bovine incomprehension. And the presence of Kevin Littlejohn didn’t help. The little ex-Commando sat, blinking excitedly behind his spectacles, watching every detail of the interview. This was the most exciting thing that had happened to him since the disappointment of the Second World War ending.
The desk sergeant tried a more conciliatory approach. ‘Do you have any proof that you are who you claim to be, Mr Earnshaw?’
Charles managed to restrain himself from reacting to the name this time, and said, through clenched teeth, ‘I have shown you my wallet. You have seen the credit cards in the name of “Charles Paris”. What other proof do you need?’
‘You could have stolen those,’ Kevin Littlejohn repeated.
‘Yes, you could have stolen those,’ the desk sergeant agreed.
‘Well, what do you want then?’
‘We just want someone who can vouch for you, who can prove you’re who you say you are.’
‘There are thousands of people who can do that!’
‘Like who?’
As ever in such circumstances, Charles’s mind went a complete blank. ‘Well . . . well . . . Chloe Earnshaw!’ he announced dramatically.
‘Chloe Earnshaw? Your wife?’
‘No. Not my wife – that is the whole point! Chloe Earnshaw could take one look at me and tell you categorically that I am not her husband.’
The desk sergeant looked dubious. ‘I don’t know . . . I think you’ve caused her enough suffering already. It’d have to be broken to her very gently that you were actually alive after all this time.’
Charles groaned in frustration. ‘Look, can’t you get it into your thick skull that –?’
‘That is no way to speak to a police officer,’ said the desk sergeant, affronted.
‘No, it’s no way to speak to a police officer,’ Kevin Littlejohn echoed. ‘In my young day people had respect for authority. That sort of talk wouldn’t have been tolerated in the Commandos. We wouldn’t have won the war if people had been allowed to talk like that, would we?’
‘No,’ the desk sergeant agreed.
Suddenly Charles saw a route through this thicket of misunderstanding. Very calmly, he said, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be offensive. But I’ve just thought of someone who can vouch for who I am. He is someone who is actually here in Brighton at the moment, and he’s a senior police officer.’
‘Oh yes?’ The desk sergeant sounded sceptical. ‘Who is he?’
‘His name is Superintendent Roscoe. He is in charge of – or at least connected with – the Martin Earnshaw murder case.’
‘If it is a murder case,’ Kevin Littlejohn interposed doubtfully.
Charles managed to curb his reaction to this, and continued evenly, ‘Superintendent Roscoe is staying at the hotel I’ve been staying at for the last couple of days. If you ring him there, I’m sure he will be able to tell you who I am.’
The desk sergeant still wasn’t totally convinced, but Roscoe’s name had struck some chord and he was prepared at least to call Charles’s bluff. ‘What’s the name of the hotel?’ he asked.
He rang through and it was confirmed that Superintendent Roscoe was staying there.
‘See,’ said Charles, ‘see! How would I have known that if I wasn’t down here for the filming as I said I was?’
While the hotel receptionist tried to make contact with Superintendent Roscoe’s room, the desk sergeant gave Charles a narrow look over the receiver. ‘It is not unknown for criminals of a certain exhibitionist type to follow closely the police investigations into the crimes in which they are implicated.’
Charles threw his eyes to heaven. The desk sergeant reacted to something said at the other end and put the phone down. ‘He’s not there.’
‘Well, ring them back and give them a message for him to ring here as soon as he gets in!’
‘Don’t you order me around, Mr Earnshaw.’
‘For the last bloody time, I am not Mr Earnshaw!’ Charles’s anger was by now almost unco
ntrollable. ‘Listen, is it impossible for your single brain cell to cope with the idea that you might be wrong?’
‘Don’t you be offensive, Mr Earnshaw!’
‘No, don’t you be offensive!’ Kevin Littlejohn parroted.
‘Don’t you start! I don’t care whether you used to be in the Commandos or not, you’re now nothing but an officious little nit-picker!’
The desk sergeant came immediately to Littlejohn’s defence. ‘There’s no need to insult someone just because he has a sense of civic duty. Let me tell you, if more people shared Mr Littlejohn’s attitude to responsibility, our job would be a lot easier. It’s malicious time-wasters like you, Mr Earnshaw, who cause the trouble!’
It was a long time since Charles Paris had been so angry. Maybe the sour, aching residue of his hangover shortened his temper, or maybe it was just the mindless self-righteousness of the two men he was up against that got him going. Whatever the cause, Charles, normally a man to avoid confrontation, found himself shouting back, almost totally out of control. ‘I have never encountered such incredible stupidity! All right, anyone can make a mistake, but now you should recognise it’s a mistake and bloody let me go! Or can’t your Neanderthal mind stretch to take that idea on board!!!’
There was a silence before the desk sergeant said, ‘Neanderthal, eh?’ Another silence. ‘What’s that mean then?’
The storm in Charles had blown itself out. ‘Oh, never mind,’ he sighed wearily.
‘Neanderthal,’ said Kevin Littlejohn smugly, ‘means prehistoric or underdeveloped.’
‘Oh, does it?’ said the desk sergeant, his voice heavy with menace.
Charles Paris wasn’t really surprised to be confined to a cell for the night. He submitted passively to the indignities of having his bag and pocket contents inventoried and his belt and shoelaces removed. The desk sergeant assured him grimly that a message would be left at the hotel for Superintendent Roscoe, but Charles wasn’t convinced.
Oh well, he thought, as he lay down on the thin mattress under the unforgiving nightlight, serves me bloody well right, doesn’t it? Be a long time before I lose my temper again.
