by Simon Brett
Gerald parked on the roadside; he wouldn’t drive into the wood for fear of spotting his car’s immaculate paintwork. (‘You’ve no idea how many coats of paint they put on,’ he kept saying.) They got out of the car in silence, their change of mood reflected by the tall trees’ sudden switching off of the sunlight.
‘We don’t really even need to get out,’ said Charles. ‘The fact that the clues brought us here is sufficient proof of my thesis.’
‘Yes, but we might find something, some evidence or . . . I mean, look, those tracks could well have been made by the car he was driving.’ Gerald pulled up the perfect creases of his cream linen trousers as he crouched to point.
‘They could, but even if they were, so what? The police will have been over this whole area with a fine-tooth comb. I think we’re pretty unlikely to find anything they missed.’ Charles shivered slightly. ‘Strange, how cold and damp it is in here. I suppose the sunlight never penetrates through the trees. Must take a long time to dry out.’
‘Yes.’ Gerald spoke briskly to halt the descent into morbidity. ‘So what do you reckon happened here three weeks ago? Klinger followed the instructions and arrived . . . what, just before midnight?’
‘That’d be about it. The last clue was in the closing number of the programme.’
‘And found Keith Nicholls here waiting for him?’
‘Oh, how convenient that would be if it were so . . . But no, it can’t be. Keith Nicholls was producing Dave Sheridan. That means he was in Broadcasting House until midnight. If he leapt straight into a car and drove like a maniac down the M4, there is still no way he could have been here before one.’
‘So what does that mean? He had an accomplice?’
‘Yes, or Klinger just waited for him.’
‘Does that seem likely? Surely, if the set-up in the shed is anything to go by, all Klinger was expecting at the end of his treasure hunt was a parcel full of cardboard.’
‘Let’s say “cardboard or substances unknown”, shall we?’
‘Okay.’
‘But no, Gerald, I think Klinger did wait. I mean, as soon as he got here it would be apparent that there was no obvious place to hide a package – unless he was expected to look behind every tree in the wood. So he may have anticipated a personal approach. Or he may have had some message telling him to expect someone. Anyway, he had ways of whiling away time.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Booze, Gerald. It works very well. I know. I sometimes seem to have whiled away most of my life with a glass in my hand. Certainly the police post mortem on Klinger showed that he had got a lot of the stuff inside him. As Fat Otto said, “Danny sure liked his oil.”’
‘So you reckon he just waited here in the car, drinking.’
‘Yes, and was pretty well insensible by the time Keith Nicholls arrived. Certainly too fuddled to do much about it when Keith fixed up the tube and started feeding carbon monoxide into the car. He was probably asleep by then. A pretty painless death really.’
Gerald look sceptical. ‘It’s all conjecture.’
‘A bit more than conjecture.’
‘How so?’
‘I went down to the Kensington Hilton last night and had a word with a friend of mine down there. Amazing what a fiver will do, even in these inflationary days. I only wish I could afford to get information that way more often. Anyway, I found out that on the evening of his death, a present arrived for Mr Klinger. A bottle of whisky.’
‘Who from?’
‘No card. And, according to the guy on Reception, there wasn’t one inside, because Klinger opened it there and then.’
‘I see. So it was all set up.’
‘Yes. Whoever sent it knew Klinger’s tastes well enough to ensure that if he had to wait around in a dark wood for an hour, at least he would have something there with him for comfort. A bottle of whisky with two Mogadon crushed up in it.’
‘But why didn’t the police find that suspicious? They must have checked the bottle.’
‘Yes, but presumably they came to the conclusion Klinger had put the pills in himself to make his passing easier. After all, they had no reason to think it was anything other than suicide. Klinger had a motive, with his failing business. It’s only because I saw his name on Andrea’s cassette that I started making connections and thinking of murder.’
‘Very good. It’s all coming together nicely, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. Except that it’s all theory. I don’t have a single piece of hard evidence, nothing that ties it directly to Keith Nicholls.’
‘No, but at least you know what you’re looking for. I’m sure it’s easier to find evidence once you know who your culprit is.’
‘I hope you’re right.’
Gerald mused. ‘Death in Broadcasting House . . . You know, I once read a rather good thriller with that title. Set in the Thirties, when radio really was top medium. Written by Val Gielgud, as I recall. The denouement is a dramatic chase across the roof of Broadcasting House.’
‘Hmm. Maybe there’ll be one in this case too. If there is, it’ll be a longer chase. They’ve built an extension to Broadcasting House since the Thirties.’ Then, with a swoop into gloom, ‘Mind you, I’m afraid this case is unlikely ever to reach a dénouement.’
‘Come on, cheer up. Let’s get back into the Rolls and go and have an extraordinarily good lunch as homage to Sir Arnold Fleishman.’
‘You’ve talked me into it.’
Once back in the galleon, Gerald said, ‘What in-flight entertainment can I offer you? You don’t want to listen to the programme again for more clues?’
‘No, thanks. What have you got?’
‘Vivaldi, Mozart, Brahms. Bach, Telemann, Haydn . . . the list goes on for ever – excluding Wagner, of course. What do you fancy?’
‘Well, I – just a minute, no. I’ve got something for you to listen to. Perhaps I do have one piece of hard evidence in this case.’
After the Musimotive tape had been running for a couple of minutes, Charles looked across at Gerald. ‘Does it tell you anything?’
‘Not a thing. Except that I don’t like it. It’s just light music, isn’t it? The sort of stuff the au pair has playing in the house all day long. While Kate and I are not there, I hasten to add. As soon as we get in, the dial goes very firmly back to Radio Three.’
‘Hmm. I wonder if there’s anything in the titles . . . if this tape is a kind of treasure hunt like the others.’
Gerald listened for a minute. ‘Does this sort of music have titles?’
‘All music has titles. If only to its composers.’
‘Does this sort of music have composers?’
‘Now stop being a snob, Gerald. It might be worth finding out what the titles are. It might lead us somewhere.’
‘Since you don’t know the titles and I don’t know the titles, there’s no point in torturing ourselves by playing any more of it. You must know someone who could advise you about that sort of thing.’
‘Yes, I think I do. The lovely Brenda.’
‘Is this another of your paramours, Charles?’
‘Please God, no.’ And then quickly, to avert further censure of his ill-defined relationship with Frances, ‘Where are we going to lunch, Gerald?’
‘I took the precaution of booking at a rather nice place called The Waterside Inn at Bray. Good Food Guide distinction and all that.’
‘Sounds expensive.’
‘My accountant can stand it.’
‘God, look at that place.’ Gerald pointed to a huge roadhouse which appeared to have undergone recent refurbishing. Tiers of garish neon signs proclaimed BRASSIE’S – 3 BARS – RESTAURANT – DISCOTHEQUE.
‘This country’s getting more like America daily.’
‘I didn’t know you’d ever been to America.’
‘Oh really, Gerald. Of course I have.’
The roadhouse was on a roundabout and they had to slow down as they went past. Charles glanced idly out of the window at
its new fascia, a monument to an architectural style possibly known as Tudor Swiss Chalet. On the fence which skirted the car park were rows of posters for forthcoming and past excitements at the Discotheque. Suddenly his eye was caught by a name on a poster.
‘Gerald, stop the car!’
‘What is it?’
‘Reverse into the car park.’
‘What for?’ asked Gerald testily, as he obeyed the instructions.
‘Park just there, in front of that poster.’
The galleon halted with a scrunch of gravel, its gleaming prow inches from the fence. The poster was crude, large black letters printed on luminous orange paper. It was torn and faded. An obscene word had been aerosoled on to it. But what remained was easy to read.
SIE’S OPENING NITE ALL-NITE DISCO PARTY ENTRANCE – £1.50 UNACCOMPANIED GIRLS FREE TILL MIDNITE NON-STOP BOP WITH CAPITAL RADIO’S BUCK REDDY DISCO DANCE COMPETITION, JUDGED BY TIGGI KNUCKLE OF T.V.’S ‘NAUGHTY BITS’ DANCE TROUPE’. AND, AT ONE O’CLOCK, A TWO-HOUR SESSION WITH RADIO TWO’S DAVE SHERIDAN.
‘Coincidence, wouldn’t you call that?’ said Charles. ‘Only ten minutes from where Klinger was murdered.’
‘Maybe. It depends when the Opening Nite All-Nite Disco Party was.’
‘I’m sure we can find that out from somebody in one of the three bars. Come on, let’s go in.’
‘All right,’ Gerald grudged. His detective enthusiasm was succumbing to the imperative of hunger. ‘But not for long. The table’s booked for one. I tell you, they do a duck in green Chartreuse which is out of this world.’
Getting a simple piece of information, like when Brassie’s had opened, proved more difficult than expected. Only one of the three bars, the Balmoral, was open, and the morose youth reading the Sun behind the counter had only started work that Monday. From his tone of voice he gave the impression that he would be unlikely still to be working there the following Monday. No, he didn’t think there was anyone around who would be able to help. Most of the staff were either new or didn’t speak English. The manager wouldn’t be in till about half-past one. Yes, somebody in the restaurant might know, but the restaurant didn’t open until one.
When finally asked for two pints of beer, the barman looked up from his paper with an accusing sigh and pumped fizzy fluid into glasses. Charles thought fondly back to New York, where a concept of service still existed.
They sat down on a prickly tartan bench beneath a plastic spray of dirks and claymores behind a buckler, and put their glasses down on a Formica ‘Monarch of the Glen’ table-top.
‘This is ridiculous, Charles. It’s quarter to one now. We’re never going to make it to the Waterside in time.’
‘Ring through and cancel if it worries you.’
‘I suppose they might be able to hold the table for half an hour.’
‘Look, Gerald, I’m sorry, but the aim of today’s expedition was investigation of a murder, not just gluttony.’
‘Hmm. I’ll ring through and see. Just so long as we don’t have to eat here, that’s all. Anything but that.’
The waitress had obviously been issued with a uniform, but had decided she preferred her own clothes. The uniform was represented by a tiny frilly apron over her black dustbin-liner trousers, a frilly mob cap pinned to the top of her purple-dyed hair and, pinned to her silver lamé T-shirt, a plastic badge meant to look like brass, which bore the legend, BRASSIE’S – JUDE IS HERE TO SERVE YOU.
‘Do you have a menu?’ asked Charles. Gerald was still too pained by the thought of the lunch he was missing to speak.
‘Well, we do,’ said Jude in a young Cockney voice, whose softness was in surprising contrast to her punk appearance, ‘but most of it’s off today, so I better just tell you. Starters we got prawn cocktail, avocado prawn or fruit juice.’
‘With prawn?’ murmured Charles.
‘And then afters there’s steak or chicken in the basket.’
‘And that’s it?’
‘Well, with chips – that is, French fries.’
‘I’ll have prawn cocktail and steak. Rare.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Rare.’
‘Oh.’ Jude nodded to give the illusion that she knew what he meant. ‘And the other gentleman?’
‘Gerald?’
The solicitor groaned. ‘Oh, the same. No, I’ll start with the avocado. And can I have it without the prawns?’
‘I’m not sure about that. I’ll have to ask chef.’
‘Oh, for God’s –’
Charles cut across the outburst. ‘Have you been here since this place opened?’
‘Oh no, I only started last week. Anything to drink?’
‘What have you got?’
‘Beer . . . wine.’ She didn’t sound very sure.
‘What sort of wine?’
‘I know we got red.’
‘We’ll have some of that then.’
‘Here you are – one prawn cocktail and one avocado with prawns.’
‘Without prawns,’ insisted Gerald.
‘No, with prawns. Those are prawns, those pink things.’ Gerald groaned.
Charles tried again. ‘Is the manager in yet?’
‘No, no, he probably won’t be in till this evening now. He says he reckons the place runs itself lunchtimes.’
‘Evidently,’ said Gerald blackly.
‘That’s very inconvenient. There was something I wanted to find out from him. Look, is there anyone else who would know? I’m just trying to find out when this place opened.’
Jude looked blank.
‘You know, when the Opening Nite All-Nite Disco was.’
Her face cleared. ‘Oh, I come to that. It was dead good. That’s why I thought I might like to work here. Mind you, working here’s a bit different from being in a disco, know what I mean? But it was good that night. I went in for the Disco Dancing. Nearly won and all.’
‘But when –’
‘They had Dave Sheridan and all. You know, from the Beeb. He was dead good. I was dead surprised. Thought, you know, Radio Two, going to be a bit old, middle of the road, you know, all rubbish music. But he done some good stuff. Fifties and that. I don’t mind Fifties. I mean, I’m really into Rats and Squeeze, but Fifties is great. He done a lovely long Smooch Session, too. I thought he was good. Course, I’ve seen him on the telly. That helps. But no, I enjoyed it.’
She paused for breath and Charles managed to get his question in again. ‘And when exactly was this?’
‘Oh, it was a Tuesday. I remember that, ’cause me Mum done her perm. About three weeks back. The 11th July it’d be.’
The night that Danny Klinger had died.
Steve Kennett rang through to Hereford Road that evening. ‘I’ve checked out Keith’s movements for the night Andrea died.’
‘What, with the other SMs on the Dave Sheridan Late Night Show?’
‘Yes. Well, with the guy on panel. Bloke called Bill Hewlett. And it rather throws our theories.’
‘Oh.’
‘He said Keith was in the studio all evening. Except for a meal break. And they ate together in the canteen.’
‘And you think he’s telling the truth?’
‘Can’t see why he shouldn’t. I suppose if Keith hadn’t been there, Bill might cover up for him – honour among SMs and all that – but I should think it’s more likely to be the truth.’
‘Hmm. How many work on the show?’
‘Three. One on panel, one tape and grams and one to route the telephone calls. Usually a secretary’d do the telephoning but because it’s so late, one of the SMs does it.’
‘Quite a big operation.’
‘Yes. That’s because of the telephones. Without them the show could be done from one of the self-operating studios in Continuity. As it is, it’s done from B15 in the Basement.’
‘Well, thank you for finding that out.’
‘You don’t sound very upset about it.’
‘Why should I?’
‘For goodness s
ake!’ Steve sounded exasperated. ‘If Keith was in the studio all evening, then he couldn’t have sneaked out and killed Andrea.’
‘No.’
‘And our whole theory depends on that.’
‘Did.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Steve, you know the expression: When one door closes, another door opens?’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHARLES WAS SOMETIMES mildly depressed by how fickle his logic could be. He had had the same experience in the theatre. He would see a production of a play with a central performance of such power that he thought it must be definitive. Then, years later, with another actor in the rôle, he would see the play again and find the new interpretation, though totally different, equally compelling. And, as a strong central performance sometimes can, he would find that it often changed all the performances around it, changed the shape of the whole play, so that he left the theatre feeling he had seen a completely different work.
So it was when he recast the script of Andrea Gower’s and Danny Klinger’s deaths. With Keith Nicholls bowing out and having his part taken by Dave Sheridan, a new play emerged. And all the supporting roles of evidence and logic shifted and changed their emphasis to accommodate the new character.
It clarified many things. Some bits made a lot more sense. The whole elaborate procedure of sending musical clues over the air became much more acceptable if the person who wanted to send them actually did the speaking; from the start he had felt uneasy about the opportunities for error with Keith feeding the clues to an unwitting Sheridan.
What the new play did not offer was any clear motivation. It presented Sheridan with opportunities to do both murders. (He had left the Features Action Group meeting twice on the night of Andrea’s death and his presence ten minutes from the scene of Klinger’s murder on the relevant night had to be more than a coincidence.) But so far Charles had no link between the disc jockey and his two victims. He knew that Sheridan had known Andrea, but had no idea of the nature of their relationship. And he had no proof that Sheridan and Klinger had ever spoken to each other.
Still, such things were investigable, and who was better placed to investigate Dave Sheridan without causing suspicion than someone who was compiling a radio feature on him?
