by Simon Brett
Louise Denning swanned imperiously into the room, brandishing some stapled sheets of paper. ‘Got the first audience breakdown on last week’s show.’
Bob Garston seized the report eagerly and pored over it.
‘What’s the general message?’ asked Roger Parkes.
Louise Denning screwed up her face. ‘A lot of people switched over in the middle of the programme. Round twelve and a half minutes in.’
Bob Garston, despite his furious concentration on the report, had heard this. ‘See, Roger. I told you that item on how to make an insurance claim after a burglary was a boring load of shit.’
‘It’s something we get a lot of enquiries about,’ the executive producer replied patiently. It was not the first time they had had this argument.
‘Yes, well, we should write back to them with the information, not put it on the bloody screen! “Insurance” is one of those instant switch-off words on television. Like “Northern Ireland” or “European Community” or “Bosnia”. I’m going to put a total ban on it. No more mentions of bloody “insurance” on Public Enemies – ever!’ Bob Garston buried himself back in the research.
Roger Parkes raised a wearily interrogative eyebrow to Louise Denning. ‘And overall impressions . . .’
‘General view was the punters enjoyed it, but found it a bit the same as last week’s programme. You know, discovery of the arms at the end of one, discovery of the legs at the end of the other. General feeling they’d like the contents varied a bit.’
Roger Parkes grimaced ruefully. ‘Well, we’re really in the hands of the murderer there, aren’t we? I mean, there’s no question about the fact that he’s aware of the programme. He’s an exhibitionist and he gets a charge from the publicity, showing how clever he is and all that. So maybe he’s also aware of the need to keep building the excitement – and the figures.’
Bob Garston pushed the research report aside with a disgruntled gesture. ‘Yes. If only we could contact him and tell him the kind of thing we need . . .’
‘What do you reckon we do need then?’ asked the executive producer.
‘Some kind of twist on the case, something new . . .’ The presenter tapped his teeth impatiently.
‘Well, what’re we hoping for this week? Presumably the discovery of the torso . . .? He’s never going to go straight to the head, is he?’
‘No, no, that’d be like naming an awards winner before you name the nominees – our murderer’s got more sense of theatre than that.’
‘You don’t think,’ Roger Parkes suggested ominously, ‘he’ll have kept the torso and the head together, do you?’
‘No, no, of course he won’t. He’s not a bloody amateur. Anyone who knows the first thing about dismembering is going to take the head off, aren’t they? No, we definitely need the torso this week, but we need a bit of an angle on it.’
‘Like . . .’ ‘Well, like the torso being found in an unusual place . . . Or being found mutilated in some horrible way . . . that’d do. Needs something sexy about it . . .’
‘Hm . . .’ Roger Parkes shook his head thoughtfully. ‘Of course we do have a potential problem, the way he’s feeding us the bits, don’t we?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, if, as we’re assuming, we’ve only got the torso and the head to go . . . and we get those over the next two weeks, it leaves us with a big hole for Programme Six, doesn’t it?’
‘I’d thought of that, yes. About the only thing that’s really going to pay the series off is if we can actually announce the identity of the murderer in the last programme.’
‘Yes, that’d be good,’ Roger Parkes agreed. ‘Real Hercules Poirot stuff. Invite all of the viewers into the library . . . A twirl of the moustaches and . . . “You may wonder why I’ve asked you all here . . .”’
Bob Garston was caught up by the idea. ‘Like it. The budget’d run to a library set, wouldn’t it . . .’
‘If we don’t get carried away over the next couple of weeks, yes.’
‘Hm . . .’ A new thought struck Garston. ‘You don’t think that’d look like trivialising the subject, do you?’
‘Oh, no.’
‘Damn, it’s frustrating, isn’t it? If only we could contact the murderer and tell him what the programme needs . . . that’d make things so much simpler. wouldn’t it?’
Am I really hearing this, Charles Paris asked himself.
He sat ignored in the Public Enemies office until a quarter to one, when he thought sod this, I’m going to get some lunch. He announced his intention to anyone who might be interested, but nobody appeared to be.
Lunch was of course preceded by a visit to the W.E.T. bar. Charles wasn’t particularly hungover that day, so he went straight on to the beer. He sat down with the welcome pint at a table commanding a view over rooftops towards Regent’s Park, and thought about the conversation he had just heard.
What it did bring home to him once again was how high the stakes were in television. For Bob Garston and Roger Parkes Public Enemies’ audience share was the greatest priority – indeed their only priority. So far as they were concerned, Martin Earnshaw’s murder – and his murderer – existed solely to serve that priority. The fact that a human life had been lost was an irrelevant detail.
Charles wondered how far Garston and Parkes would actually go to make their programme successful. The idea that one or both of them was orchestrating the gradual piecing together of the corpse was incongruous, but not totally incongruous.
There remained no doubt that the murderer was aware of his contribution to Public Enemies, and indeed was playing up to the demands of the programme. It would be too much of a coincidence for the timing to be accidental. The murderer was someone who understood television, and knew the impact the reports of his actions had.
So Garston and Parkes could not be ruled out. What would a mere murder signify in their cold-blooded pursuit of ratings? Possibly even Sam Noakes came into the frame too. The unravelling of the murder investigation was certainly doing no harm to her public profile. And if she was as ruthlessly ambitious as Greg Marchmont had maintained, was it ridiculous to think of her controlling events, or of having killed Martin Earnshaw herself?
Charles’s instinctive answer to this question was no, but, moving on from that thought, he wondered whether Greg Marchmont might have committed the crime on her behalf. The sergeant was clearly still besotted. He’d said he’d do anything for her. Could that anything go as far as committing a murder, either at her instigation, or with a view to regaining her favour? Again it seemed incongruous, but Greg Marchmont’s actions did seem suspicious. He had definitely done the cleaning-up job on the Trafalgar Lane flat, and had also sent the fax purporting to have come from Ted Faraday.
The private investigator was someone else whose actions required further investigation. If Faraday had been the ‘tramp’ Charles followed, then they required very close investigation. But Ted Faraday remained a shadowy figure, only encountered that once in the hospitality suite and since then vanished undercover.
Charles Paris felt confused and out of touch. It wasn’t even his investigation, the police presumably had everything in hand, but he was frustrated by the tantalising anomalies and pointers that he had accumulated.
He looked down at his empty glass. Another pint might help. Wouldn’t do any harm, anyway.
While he was waiting at the counter behind a drama producer who’d just finished a play and had a shipping order of drinks for his cast and crew, Charles saw a familiar figure come into the bar and look round for someone. It was Sam Noakes, smartly dressed in beige jacket and trousers.
He caught her eye. She recognised him immediately this time. ‘Can I get you a drink?’ he offered.
‘I’m meeting someone, actually.’
‘Quick one while you’re waiting?’
The barman had just become free. ‘OK,’ said Sam. ‘Dry white wine, please.’
Charles got the drinks and led her across to his table.
‘I’ll have to leave you when he arrives, Mr Paris.’
‘Sure, sure. No problem. Cheers.’ They raised their glasses and looked out towards the treetops of Regent’s Park. ‘So, any dramatic breakthroughs an the case, DI?’ he asked in his best American police series voice.
She smiled. He noticed that she had made herself up with some care that morning. ‘You know, even if there were, I wouldn’t be able to tell you, Mr Paris.’
‘Oh, come on,’ he wheedled, keeping the tone light. ‘I was the one who put you on to the flat in Brighton – don’t I at least get told where that fits into the case?’
Her face darkened. ‘Very well. You get told that it has nothing at all to do with the case.’
‘But –’
‘Mr Paris, the flat has been examined and ruled out as having no relevance to our enquiries.’
‘When you say “examined”, do you mean “forensically examined”? I’m sure those were bloodstains on the –’
‘The flat was given all necessary examination. Forensic resources are expensive and only deployed when there is good reason for them to be deployed.’ A bitterness came into her tone. ‘I would have liked more forensic investigation used in this case – though not into that flat, as it happens . . .’
‘Into the body parts that have been found?’
She nodded. ‘Oh, all the basic stuff’s been done – confirming the arms and legs belonged to the same person, that kind of thing, but I think more detailed examination could be conducted at this stage.’ She shrugged. ‘Others don’t share my opinion, however. There is a view that more useful conclusions can be drawn when all of the body parts have been recovered. I don’t happen to share that view, but –’ She shrugged again ‘– I’m not in charge of the case.’
‘And Superintendent Roscoe is?’
‘He’s in charge of certain aspects of the case.’ She couldn’t keep the contempt out of her voice. ‘At least in name.’
‘And he’s seeing that it’s being conducted in a good, old-fashioned, traditional way?’
Sam Noakes smiled at Charles, and once again he could feel her sexual magnetism. ‘You’re not going to draw me into criticism of a fellow officer, Mr Paris.’
‘Oh . . . spoilsport.’ This prompted a girlish grin, thawing the atmosphere sufficiently for him to probe a little further. ‘So did you actually find out what Greg Marchmont was doing in that flat?’
The temperature immediately dropped again. ‘Sergeant Marchmont has been taken off the case. He’s on sick leave at the moment.’
‘Oh. But what do you think he was doing at –?’
‘Mr Paris, I thought I’d made clear in Brighton what my views are about amateurs getting involved in police investigations.’
‘Yes, but –’
She looked across the bar and rose to her feet. ‘You must excuse me. Thank you for the drink.’
His eyes followed her across the room. To his surprise the person she greeted with a little peck on the cheek was Bob Garston. Together they walked through to the executive dining room.
Of course there were a hundred and one programme-related reasons for the two of them to be having lunch together, but something about their body language suggested a more personal motivation.
And why not? Bob Garston was always so preoccupied with work that Charles had never speculated about his sex life. Presumably he had one, though, and no doubt he brought to it the same kind of single-mindedness he did to everything else.
And for Sam Noakes he probably represented a valuable prize. In spite of her apparent poise, she shared the fascination of her colleagues with show business. To be seen around with Bob Garston wouldn’t do her image in the force any harm at all.
Also, someone controlling the power of Bob’s Your Uncle Productions might be very useful to the burgeoning media career of Detective Inspector Sam Noakes.
Charles took advantage of the W.E.T. subsidised canteen to have roast pork and two veg, followed by treacle roll and custard. With a couple of glasses of red wine. Very civilised.
Then he went back to the Public Enemies suite, wondering without much optimism whether his briefing meeting would ever happen.
The office was unlocked and empty, a most unusual state of affairs. The Public Enemies team made an enormous production out of their security procedures, constantly punching codes into locks and sliding cards with magnetic strips into slots. Possibly now, midway into the series, everyone was getting lax in their vigilance. Or maybe Bob Garston, distracted by the thought of his lunch date, had forgotten to give his customary exhortations about the importance of security.
Still, it was not an opportunity Charles Paris was going to pass up. He moved quickly across to Louise Denning’s desk and started flicking through the card index she kept there. He went straight to ‘Marchmont’, against whose name the words ‘Roscoe’s Gofer’ had been written, and made a note of the address and phone number.
He flicked on to ‘Noakes’, and took down her home and office numbers. Against her name had been written the single word ‘Star’.
Since he was so close alphabetically, he turned up his own card. Beside his name were scrawled the words ‘Corpse Look-alike’. Hm, thought Charles Paris, always nice for an actor to have his artistry appreciated.
He heard a movement in the outside office, closed the index box and sat down. One of the secretaries entered, looking rather guilty, aware that she shouldn’t have left the office unattended.
The rest of the production team came back from lunch over the next half-hour, and all studiously ignored Charles Paris. Eventually, round four, Louise Denning announced to the room at large that they’d decided they weren’t going to do any more reconstruction on the Martin Earnshaw case that week.
‘Does that mean I won’t be needed?’ asked Charles. The researcher looked at him as if he’d just crawled out from underneath something. ‘Well, of course it does.’
‘I was told to come here for a briefing meeting, you see.’
‘Well, if there isn’t going to be any reconstruction, I’d hardly have thought there was going to be any briefing for it, would you?’ she asked, heavily sarcastic.
‘No. It’s just that I’ve been sitting here for the last two hours, you haven’t taken any calls about the reconstruction during that time, so presumably you’ve known for at least two hours that I wouldn’t be needed?’
Louise Denning acknowledged with a shrug that this was indeed the case.
Charles was about to launch into a tirade about common courtesy, but then thought, why bother? She’s probably never heard of the word.
The researcher ungraciously gave him permission to leave. ‘But don’t go away or anything. The situation could change. We might need to contact you.’
As he went out of the Public Enemies office, it occurred to him that Bob Garston hadn’t come back from lunch yet.
There was no reply from Greg Marchmont’s number when Charles tried it from the Hereford Road payphone. He looked at the address he’d scribbled down. Only Ladbroke Groveish . . .
Why not? Not as if he had a lot else to do.
Greg Marchmont had a basement flat in a rather dingy building. Presumably when married with children he’d owned a house somewhere. This was what he had been reduced to by his infatuation with Sam Noakes.
An arrow painted on the wall identified ‘57B’ and pointed down crumbling concrete steps. Charles went down and pressed the discoloured plastic bell-push. It elicited no response. But then he couldn’t hear any ringing, so maybe it wasn’t working.
He banged on the door. Nothing. And again. Still nothing.
He moved from the door to the grubby, barred window. Sun-bleached curtains had been drawn across, but did not quite meet. Charles peered through the uneven slit, trying to make out the room’s murky interior.
It doubled as bedroom and sitting room. A tangle of sheets and tartan blanket lay on the open sofabed. Clothes, newspapers, glasses and coffee cups littered most s
urfaces. An old record player perched on a brassbound pine chest. A battered kettle and stained pressure cooker sat on gas rings.
Charles had to admit, with some shame, that it did all look horribly like home.
But there was no sign of anyone in there. He tapped on the window.
Nothing stirred.
DS Greg Marchmont might be on sick leave, but he certainly wasn’t at home in bed.
Chapter Fourteen
THAT THURSDAY’s Public Enemies began differently from the previous ones. Bob Garston and Roger Parkes had taken to heart the public’s message about predictability, and completely changed the format of the programme.
Throughout the day trailers had done their teasing work, suggesting the imminence of another sensational first for television. But the viewing audience is canny. In a world where every programme is hyped way beyond its possible value, they have learned to take the claims of trailers with a healthy pinch of scepticism.
When that week’s Public Enemies started, though, they were left in no doubt they were in for something different. The continuity announcer gave the kind of lead-in that all such programmes covet. ‘And now it’s time for this week’s Public Enemies which, because of the nature of the subject matter, contains some sequences which certain viewers may find disturbing.’
Faint hearts immediately switched over to the BBC News and Dad’s Army. The majority who remained tuned to ITV, pleasantly titillated by the introductory announcement, were then shocked by the absence of the familiar Public Enemies signature tune and credits. Instead, they saw a close-up of a knotted string against brown paper.
The image shifted slightly as if in motion and, as the camera drew back, the detail was revealed to be part of a paper-wrapped rectangular parcel about four foot high. It was being pushed on a trolley by a uniformed security guard into what Charles Paris – watching through the customary blizzard at Hereford Road – recognised as the Public Enemies office.
During the camera’s pull-back, a sonorous voice-over from Bob Garston began. ‘On tonight’s Public Enemies you can witness live a bizarre and horrible manifestation of the criminal mind in action. Yesterday afternoon, this package was delivered by a commercial courier company to W.E.T. House. Its label [THE CAMERA LINGERED ON THE LABEL.] was addressed to this programme, so it was brought up to our office.
