by Simon Brett
‘Dedications. Who chooses which dedications they do?’
‘It’s done by Dave and the producer together.’
‘And who has the final say?’
‘The producer, I suppose.’
‘Hmm.’ Thoughts were orbiting his mind at vast speed. ‘The programme goes out live, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘So it’s not recorded in the building?’
‘I don’t think so. I’m not sure. It may be monitored somewhere, in case of libel, that sort of thing. I know they record some, but I’m not sure where.’
If Brenda didn’t know, then the information was probably not generally available. But even as that idea was knocked down, another rushed in to take its place. ‘Do you know, Brenda, I’ve had a very good idea of where to start with this feature on Dave Sheridan.’
‘Where?’
‘I’ll go and see his Number One fan.’
‘What, you mean Mrs Moxon?’
‘Yes. Do you have her address?’
The address was a surprise. The name and the whole idea of a woman who devoted her life to the worship of a disc jockey had suggested to Charles an impoverished and slightly loopy pensioner in one of the poorer suburbs. Certainly, it hadn’t prepared him for the elegant basement flat in Holland Park, nor for the equally elegant lady who opened its door to him.
Obviously he’d come to the wrong place. ‘I am sorry, I was looking for Mrs Moxon.’
‘I am she.’ The oddity of the expression, and the way the woman held back from the door struck some kind of warning note. A hint of mental instability, perhaps.
‘Oh. Good afternoon. I’ve come to talk about Dave Sheridan. He paused, uncertain how to proceed.
But what he had said was enough. ‘Do come in.’ Mrs Moxon withdrew further into the hall.
He entered and, at a gesture from her, closed the door behind him. She walked ahead into a sitting room, beckoning him to follow.
He was aware of enormous opulence. The carpet was thick and giving under his feet. Pictures in heavy gold frames lined the hall, above each a small light in an arched brass shade. Jade dogs snarled at him from the shelves of tall glass cases.
Seen in the full light of the sitting room, Mrs Moxon was equally opulent. She sat down in a high-backed silk-covered chair and arranged her skirts as if posing for a portrait. This room, like the hall, was full of priceless jade and porcelain, displayed on spotless glass shelves. Here, too, the paintings on the wall looked as if they were by people Charles ought to have heard of.
Mrs Moxon was older than she had first appeared in the shadows of the hall, though so much money had been lavished on her appearance that it was hard to say how old. Her figure was trim and erect, though a certain stiffness about it suggested the ministrations of a corsetier. Her hair was neatly set and golden, though again a lack of mobility implied artifice. She was heavily, but skilfully made-up, and her fingernails, long and red, were too perfect to be natural.
She could have been any age between forty and seventy; only the mottling on the backs of her ring-laden hands hinted that she might be nearer the second figure.
She graciously waved Charles into an armchair upholstered in the same silk as her own and said, ‘I have often hoped that someone would visit me on behalf of Mr Sheridan.’ Her voice was highly cultured, the product of the British upper classes, but with a slight exaggeration of the vowels that suggested a period spent abroad. Africa, maybe, India, husband something in the diplomatic service, Charles speculated.
He told her that he had not in fact come on Dave Sheridan’s behalf, and tempered her disappointment by remembering his cover story, that he was compiling a feature programme on the disc jockey.
‘That must be fascinating work. A privilege for you,’ Mrs Moxon said with great intensity.
‘Um, er, yes, of course.’ He wasn’t quite sure whether or not she was completely mad. Still, maybe she could supply him with the information he required. ‘Have you been a fan of Dave’s for long?’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t like the word “fan”; it has rather vulgar overtones. But, in reply to your question, yes, I have been an enthusiast of Mr Sheridan for some time. Since I first heard him on the wireless. That was over two years ago. My charwoman left the wireless on, believing me to be asleep – I was just recovering from . . . had been ill. I awoke to hear Mr Sheridan’s voice.’ She brushed an invisible speck from her knee. ‘Such things are meant.’
‘Yes. Of course.’
‘I discovered subsequently that he had already been broadcasting for some months before that time. I wrote to the BBC, requesting that they send me tape-recordings of the earlier broadcasts, but was told that this was impossible. I took the matter up with the Director-General, but to no avail.’ She sniffed with pained contempt. ‘An organisation of strange priorities, the BBC.’
‘Yes, well, they do have to keep a lot of people happy, don’t they?’ Charles observed platitudinously.
Mrs Moxon looked at him with disdain. ‘I don’t see what relevance that has.’
He had by now decided that she was completely mad, but saw that agreeing with her was most likely to get him what he required. He ignored the rebuff. ‘Yes, I’ve had similar problems with the BBC. Amazing. In fact, mine were over exactly the same issue. Obviously, for this documentary, I need to hear as much of Dave’s work as I can. Yet, when I start to look for examples, I discover that they’ve hardly recorded any of it.’
‘But you do listen to him regularly? Don’t you?’ Mrs Moxon quizzed fiercely, a schoolmistress wanting to know who’d been writing on the blackboard.
‘Oh, of course, whenever possible,’ Charles lied, hoping that he wouldn’t get questions on details.
But Mrs Moxon seemed satisfied for the moment. ‘Yes. They wouldn’t entrust a mission like yours to someone who was not well versed in Mr Sheridan’s work.’
‘No.’ He didn’t give her time for doubts and questions. ‘But it’s in the matter of these tapes that I’ve come to see you. I was told by the Dave Sheridan office that your archive is rather more complete than the BBC one.’
Mrs Moxon nodded, smiling, gratified by the compliment. ‘I keep a recording of every broadcast he makes. Since he has started to perform on the television, I have bought a video-recording machine – what a very unattractive expression that is – and I record all of his television programmes.’
‘That’s very impressive.’
‘It’s the very least I can do.’ Mrs Moxon spoke as if to a rather stupid child.
‘I’m sorry. I don’t understand. What do you mean?’
‘Well, Mr Sheridan is Teddy, after all.’ Her patience with Charles’s incomprehension seemed to be running out.
‘Teddy?’
‘Yes, Teddy. Oh, for goodness’ sake, you can’t be preparing a documentary on Mr Sheridan if you don’t know he’s Teddy.’
‘No,’ said Charles cautiously. He wished he had listened to Dave Sheridan, if only once. Perhaps Teddy was some funny character he had invented for his listeners.
‘Teddy McCleod!’ Mrs Moxon sounded exasperated and cross. ‘Teddy McCleod, whose father was the ambassador. Surely you knew McCleod.’
‘I don’t think I ever had the pleasure . . .’ Charles offered tentatively.
‘But everyone knew Teddy. Everyone in London. And in America. And you must have heard when we got engaged. It was the talk of the season.’
Charles was completely at sea now. But he continued humouring her. ‘Maybe I did hear something about it.’
‘Of course you did. We were to be married at St George’s, Hanover Square during his next leave. And then we heard he had been killed at Verdun.’
‘Verdun? What, you mean during the First World War?’
‘Of course,’ she snapped. Good God, if she was on the verge of marriage at the time of Verdun, that must make her nearer eighty than seventy.
‘And . . .’ Charles tried to piece together some logic, ‘you say
that Dave Sheridan is Teddy?’
‘Yes. Teddy always said he’d come back to me, that he wouldn’t leave me, whatever happened. “Remember, my Glad One,” he said, “nothing’s going to keep me from you.” So I waited. I knew he would come back. Oh, I married General Moxon, but that was nothing. It was never a real marriage, not in the true sense. I was just waiting.’ She gave a little smile. ‘It’s fortunate, really, that poor General Moxon died before Teddy came back.’
‘And you’re sure that Dave Sheridan is the one?’
‘Of course I’m sure.’ Her intonation made Charles feel he was being very tiresome. ‘I would recognise that voice anywhere. The trace of Scots, and the American from the time his father was in Washington, while Teddy was growing up. Of course it’s the same.’
‘But you haven’t told him that you recognise him?’
Mrs Moxon looked profoundly shocked. ‘That would be most improper. He will speak when the time is right. In the meantime I will keep the recordings together, just as I kept all his letters from the Front.’
‘I see.’ Charles decided to get to the matter in hand before he got embroiled in deeper coils of lunacy. ‘I wonder, about the recordings . . . would it be possible for me to borrow one? Just for a brief while. For the documentary.’
Mrs Moxon pondered. ‘Obviously I have to keep my collection intact.’ Then, making up her mind, ‘I will record a copy for you.’
With surprising agility she rose from her chair and opened a large panelled cupboard, behind which was an impressive array of audio equipment, as well as shelf after shelf of cassettes. ‘Were there any particular programmes you wished to hear?’
Charles gave the date of Andrea’s death.
‘Just the one?’ Mrs Moxon was shocked by the shallowness of his research.
‘For the moment, yes. There may be others. I hope you won’t mind if I trouble you again.’
‘No,’ Mrs Moxon replied vaguely. Her concentration was waning. ‘So long as it’s for Teddy.’
With unexpected efficiency, she fiddled with the cassette decks in the cupboard and started copying the programme. They listened in silence, as if they had entered some shrine. Charles, while not a devotee of the religion in question, was prepared to obey its observances. Anyway, it was useful for him to hear the programme. Though he couldn’t work out any real sequence of clues, there were details in it that filled him with wild excitement. Now he knew he was on the right track.
Mrs Moxon listened with the concentration of an early Christian anchoress. Even when she had to turn over the cassettes, she acted as if in a trance.
After the programme’s closing signature tune, she switched off the machine, gave him the cassette and escorted him to the front door.
‘Thank you very much, Mrs Moxon, you have been most helpful.’
‘Of course.’
He lingered for a moment. ‘By the way, have you ever met Dave Sheridan?’
‘No. That too would be most improper.’
‘But I’m sure you could. If you wrote to him. You could go and meet him, see him doing the show at Broadcasting House.’
A frisson ran through her. ‘What, you mean . . . go out?’
‘Yes.’
‘I never go out.’ She slammed the door and shrank back into the recesses of her flat and her mind.
CHAPTER TEN
CHARLES WAS SURPRISED by the colour of Frances’s new car. Yellow.
Vivid daffodil yellow. Presumably that was what the image of a headmistress required, buzzing into the school car park like an avenging slab of butter. Again he felt distant from her. She seemed to be growing away from the person he had known, in so many ways.
He had volunteered the day to sit beside her and help her feel at home in the new car, but he hadn’t revealed his ulterior motive. He would introduce that tactfully, as they went along.
She sat in the driving seat, he beside her, both with their seat belts neatly done up. The interior of the new car smelt of plastic, characterless. ‘Right, where are we going, Frances?’ Make it sound random, then guide her gently the way he wanted to go.
‘I don’t mind. Up to you.’ Playing into his hands.
‘Okay, if you really don’t mind, if this is really just going to be one of those aimless joy-rides which energy conservationists tell us we shouldn’t be taking anymore . . . I do have an idea of where we could go. Let’s drive through town and head South.’
‘Drive through town?’ Frances echoed pallidly.
‘Yes. There’s a theory I want to work out.’
‘But I can’t drive through town.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Charles, I haven’t driven for nearly ten years, just kept my licence up. And you may remember, even when I drove a lot, I’d never drive into town.’
‘But driving through London is only the same as driving anywhere else. Easier. The traffic goes slower.’
‘But there’s more of it. Especially on a Monday.’
‘That’s why it goes slower. You can’t have it both ways.’
‘I’m sorry. I can’t drive through the centre of London. Let’s go out the other way. Towards Barnet or . . .’
No, no, this wouldn’t do at all. They were in danger of getting into a marital row. Not only that, he was in danger of not working out his theory. ‘Okay, Frances. Look, suppose I drive through town, then you start when we get to the other side.’
‘All right.’ She sounded unconvinced . . .
‘Oh come on, you must have tried the car out locally. It’s no different.’
‘No, I haven’t actually.’
‘Haven’t what?’
‘Tried the car out.’
‘Not at all? But you’ve had it all weekend.’
‘Yes, well, I’ve sat in it.’
‘So you know the seats work. That must be a relief.’
‘And I’ve tried the radio. That works. And the cassette.’
‘That is good news.’
He parked outside the Kensington Hilton on Holland Park Avenue. He had got over his irritation with Frances about driving in central London, remembering that that had always been one of the eccentricities in what was otherwise a very balanced and unneurotic personality. He had found the driving a little nerve-racking himself. It was a long time since he had driven anything, and he had never driven a new car. He felt as if he was in a cut-glass dodgem at a fairground.
On the way through the centre he had, if not fully explained the reasons for their trip, at least made clear what they were trying to do.
‘So basically, Charles, we listen to the tape and go where it tells us?’
‘Exactly. It should be a sort of guided Mystery Tour.’
‘I take it this is part of another of your criminal investigations.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘I wish you’d take up golf. Hmm, maybe bowls now.’
‘Thank you.’
The cassette he had got from Mrs Moxon was slotted into the machine. ‘Do you want to drive yet, Frances?’
‘No, wait till we get a bit further out of town.’
‘It is your car. You’ve got to drive it on your own one day.’
‘I know, but not yet.’
‘Right.’
Music blared from the car’s speakers. Charles listened intently. His first hearing of the programme had given some tantalising possibilities; now he wanted to see if his theory was going to work in detail. The signature tune dipped and continued behind, as the confident and distinctive voice began.
‘Good evening, it’s a few seconds after two minutes past ten and for the next two hours you’re in the safe hands of yours truly, Dave Sheridan, with such delights as the Vintage Spot, the Ten for a Tune competition, the Dave Sheridan Bouquet, and, of course . . . Music!’
The signature tune was lost under his voice and on the cue a new musical introduction began at full volume. It was Danny Boy.
‘Why don’t you start the car?’
�
�There’s no clue yet. This is just the introduction. This is just telling Danny that the message is for him.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Lovely relaxed sound to get our evening off to a smooth start. Andy Williams with “Danny Boy”. From the LP of his Greatest Hits – Volume Two. Well, there’s lots more good music on tonight’s show and a lot of it is thanks to one particular lady, the lady who’s chosen tonight’s musical bouquet. Yes, she’s sent us a list of her ten favourite records and we like her choice so much that we’re going to feature them on tonight’s show. And, by way of thank you, we’re sending a great big bouquet of flowers winging their way to her. Yes, tonight’s bouquet is for Mrs Joy Carter of Cockfosters . . .’
‘Joylene Carter,’ Charles murmured with satisfaction.
‘And here’s the first of Mrs Carter’s bouquet – and it’s also been requested by a family from Shepherd’s Bush by the name of Smith – “If I Had a Hammer” – here’s Trini Lopez!’
Charles started the engine.
‘Is that a clue?’
‘Certainly is.’
‘What?’
‘Make for Shepherd’s Bush.’
‘But we’re virtually at Shepherd’s Bush. Where do we go from there?’
‘Hammer – Smith.’
‘Oh God.’
They had circled the Hammersmith Broadway one-way system three times before Frances asked meekly, ‘Run out of clues so soon?’
‘No, no, just waiting for the next number from Mrs Joy Carter’s Bouquet . . .’
‘And now on with Mrs Carter’s choice – and my, you’ve picked some beauties, Mrs C, maybe there’s a job for you here in the Beeb as a music producer – it’s a number by those furry funny folk who hate litter so much – yes, the Wombles with. . . . “The Wombling Song”!’
‘There’s no clue in that, Charles.’
‘Ssh, it may be in the lyric. There – The Wombles of Wimbledon Common are we. Come on, we take the road for Wimbledon.’
‘And the next pick of the bunch in Mrs Carter’s Bouquet – My, that sounds formal, Joy – I think I’ll call you Joy from now on – lovely name, Joy – the next number’s an oldie, not quite old enough for our Vintage Spot, but still a great favourite. Yes, “On Mother Kelly’s Doorstep” by that great old man of the British Music Hall – Randolph Sutton.’
