Situation Tragedy cp-7

by Simon Brett

  With a loud clang, a penny that had been jammed for some days in a slot in Charles’ brain, dropped.

  ‘I’ve got it!’ he shouted.

  ‘Have you really?’ asked the bookseller, with some surprise at his vehemence. ‘Well, that’s quite rare. Now that’s a very good basis for a collection.’

  But he spoke to an empty shop. The potential collector of R. Q. Wilberforce had shot off down the Charing Cross Road.

  Charles contemplated making up for the job, but reckoned it was too risky. Part of him wanted to appear in the tramp guise he had worn as Estragon in Waiting for Godot at Glasgow (‘Never mind Godot, I spent the entire evening waiting for some distinguished acting’ — The Scotsman). Another part suggested a socially committed researcher, using the earnest Midlands voice he had perfected for some forgotten Play for Today (‘Tried to fit a quart into a pint pot and drowned the unfortunate actors in the resulting spillage’ — Sunday Times).

  But he rejected both of these. His prospective quarry had seen him before, and Charles knew from experience that disguise in such circumstances could all too easily lead to discovery.

  No, he had to go in his own persona, but he had to have a reason to justify his presence. And it had to be something that would disarm the prejudice his appearance was bound to arouse.

  His quarry hadn’t heard him speak, so he could certainly do something with his voice, which might help. Perhaps he could use the Liverpudlian he’d used in The Homecoming at Leatherhead (‘I laughed till I left’ — Leatherhead Herald). Or the non-specific East Anglian he’d developed for a small-time villain in Z Cars (‘As regular as clockwork and about as interesting’ — Evening Standard). Or the Midlands one. .?

  But that wasn’t really the problem. He could choose a voice when he got there. The difficulty was a reason for his appearance. He thought.

  It came in a flash. Of course, nothing is wasted. Everything is meant.

  He went through the contents of his wastepaper basket until he came to the photocopied sheet from the Red Theatre Co-operative.

  And he studied it hard.

  It was strange revisiting the scene of the near-riot and Robin Laughton’s death. The weather was benign, early summer sun washing the old frontages of the condemned terrace and giving them a kind of apologetic grandeur, as if they had somehow regained their youth. In the brightness of the sun he wasn’t so aware of the boarded windows and padlocked doors, the flaking paint and angry graffiti.

  He wasn’t sure what a Red Theatre Co-operative member of his age would wear, because he had never met one. In fact he rather wondered whether there were any members of his age; the ones he had come across were all in their twenties and thirties. They were angry young men — no, he mustn’t say that, the use of the expression dated him — committed young men — that was better — and girls, often with very short hair, tight jeans and leather blousons, who tended to interrupt rehearsals with queries about what the Equity representative intended to do about the rising unemployment figures, or whether Shakespeare was inextricably allied to the capitalist system. Charles had even, briefly, worked with a Red Theatre Co-operative director on a production of King Lear, which saw the play as a socialist parable. To justify this reading, the King had to be seen as a symbol of traditional landowning conservatism and the division of his kingdom as a necessary step towards public ownership. As a result, the political sympathies of the audience had to be with Regan and Goneril in their attempts to reduce the power of the traditional hierarchy and impose a socialist state. Cordelia became a symbol of wishy-washy bourgeois uncommitted apathy, and the entrance of Lear with her dead in his arms showed how non-participation was tantamount to alliance with the corruption of capitalism. The tragedy of the play was the deaths of Cornwall, Regan and Goneril, martyrs to the cause of progress, but the production ended on a note of hope. Albany’s lines in the final scene.

  All friends shall taste

  The wages of their virtue, and all foes

  The cup of their deservings,

  were transposed to the very end of the play, and signified the start of the revolution. They were greeted by a great shout from all the company, dead bodies included, who all sang The Red Flag. The production, in spite of being hailed by Time Out as ‘a milestone in political theatre, showing that traditional plays need not just be commercial bullshit’, played to small houses throughout its short run.

  The same director’s productions of Othello (about a black school-leaver unable to get a job) and Macbeth (an interpretation based on the lines

  No, this my hand will rather

  The multitudinous seas incarnadine,

  Making the green one red)

  also failed to reach more than a minority audience.

  Given the lack of middle-aged models for his chosen role, Charles wore his own clothes. He went first to the house which had been cleared for filming, and summoned the elderly couple who lived there to the door.

  ‘Hello. My name’s Charles Paris. I was involved in the filming that West End Television was doing here the other week.’

  ‘Oh yes.’ The old man did not look unwelcoming. ‘I wondered when you lot would be back.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I said to Rita, they’re bound to be back, didn’t I, Rita?’

  ‘You did, Lionel.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, the way I saw it was, you didn’t get no filming done that night, did you? So I put two and two together and realised that you’d want to do it another night, because you need it for your show.’

  ‘No, in fact — ’

  ‘And before you say anything else, let me say that I’m going to want twice the money you paid last time. The disruption and noise was much more than what you said it would be.’

  It took Charles some time to explain that the filming had been covered in the studio and there wouldn’t be another fat facility fee going into the old couple’s coffers. Once he understood this, the old man was less accommodating. ‘What the bleeding hell d’you want then?’

  ‘I’m looking for someone who was around on the night of the filming. The black youth called John Odange. I wondered if you knew where I might find him.’

  ‘I don’t know nothing about that scum! We’re respectable people. We got a right to live in this house. We ain’t going to move on till the council comes up with what we think’s proper accommodation. Are we, Rita?’

  ‘No, Lionel.’

  ‘We’re quiet, respectable people,’ the old man shouted. ‘This used to be a nice road. Now we’ve got all these bloody squatters, living ten to a house, drinking, taking drugs, playing music! Bloody foreigners, and all! They aren’t even house-trained, a lot of them. They’re all. .’

  He continued in the same vein for some time. Under this splenetic fusillade, Charles retreated and went to ask someone else where he might find John Odange.

  He knocked on one of the doors from which the council’s padlock had been unscrewed and was answered by a pretty and very clean young mum with a baby. Yes, John Odange lived three houses down. She didn’t know whether he was likely to be in, but it was worth trying.

  He was in. His tall frame filled the doorway. He wore a faded mauve T-shirt and black jeans. There was no sign of recognition when he asked what he could do for Charles.

  He sounded wary, but not, as Charles had expected, deliberately aggressive.

  ‘I was involved in that filming which West End Television was doing a couple of weeks back.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Still no overt hostility.

  ‘I was one of the actors in the show and I. . I wanted to talk about it.’ To his annoyance, Charles found he was speaking in his own voice. Also he had difficulty in getting round to his prepared speeches about actors being workers as much as anyone else and the need for education and the vital role of the entertainer in spreading the Marxist message. He was daunted by John Odange, not by the man’s size and vouched militancy, but by the sharp intelligence in his eyes. He was not
going to be easy to fool.

  ‘Come in.’ The tall youth moved to one side and Charles went into the house. Inside it was spotless. The old man up the road wouldn’t have believed how clean and sweet-smelling it was.

  John Odange indicated a room to the right. It was a bedsitter lined with books. It too was immaculately tidy. By the window was a desk piled with more books and files. A portable electric typewriter still hummed, suggesting Charles had interrupted composition.

  ‘Are you a writer?’ he asked.

  The black youth shook his head. ‘Only incidentally. I’m a student really. An unaffiliated student.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means I was at the London School of Economics, and I got involved in certain political activities, and suddenly there was trouble over my grant, and I found I was no longer at the London School of Economics. So I continue my studies here.’

  He spoke without bitterness. There was no doubting his commitment, but the violent resentment which had been evident on the night of the filming had gone.

  ‘You want coffee?’

  ‘Love some.’

  While John Odange went to fill the kettle, Charles wondered how to proceed. Faced with the young man’s quiet sincerity, his pose as a member of the Red Theatre Co-operative diminished to an insulting charade. But he had to get the information somehow.

  John Odange returned, plugged the kettle in, sat down in his typing chair and looked straight at Charles. ‘So, you were an actor in the West End Television filming and you want to talk to me about it.’

  ‘Yes.’ Charles hesitated.

  ‘Hmm. So why would you want to come and talk to me? To tell me I’m a naughty boy to disrupt your precious show? To tell me I should allow other people the right to work? Well, if that’s your line, I can argue it through with you point by point. Okay, the evening degenerated. All that fighting with the food was pretty childish. And the fact that someone got killed, no one wanted that. But the basic point we were making, that remains valid. The filming was set up to make fun of the way we live.’

  ‘I don’t know exactly that that was the — ’

  ‘Now, come on, man. All those Sixties hippies around in the kaftans, they were meant to be funny, right?’

  ‘Well. I suppose so.’

  ‘Right. And the places they live got to be funny too. Okay, let’s find somewhere really run down, somewhere really bad, that’ll get a good laugh.’

  ‘That wasn’t the intention in — ’

  ‘Listen, man, I found a script lying about in the road. I read it, man.’ In that case, there was not much point in Charles continuing his enfeebled defence. It was probably the first time one of Rod Tisdale’s masterpieces had been subjected to serious political scrutiny, and he didn’t think it would have come through the test well.

  ‘It said in the Stage Directions, ‘Film of grotty, condemned street. Establish till audience laughs, then zoom in to shot of Colonel.’ Now, okay, that’s very funny if you don’t happen to live here. If you do, it gets kind of insulting.’

  ‘I can see that. I didn’t actually come here to — ’

  ‘No, no, that’s clear. So why did you come here? Now let me see. Have you come here as a politically-committed actor to say how much you support my actions over stopping the filming and how we’re all brothers working for the same glorious revolutionary cause. .?’

  Here, if ever, was the cue. ‘Well, I — ’

  But John Odange answered his own question. ‘No, you don’t look the sort for that. Under the sloppiness, man, you’re really bourgeois.’

  It wasn’t said offensively, but with a note of pity. And Charles had an uncomfortable feeling that it was probably an accurate assessment of him. He didn’t feel encouraged to proceed with his cover story and start extolling the virtues of solidarity and the coming revolution.

  ‘So what is it?’ mused John Odange. But he still preferred to supply his own answers to his questions. ‘Perhaps your watch disappeared on the night of the filming and you think I stole it. .’

  ‘Good Lord, no. Nothing like that.’

  ‘Don’t sound so surprised, man. That’s what a lot of people would think. And if you went to the local police station, they’d believe you. In fact, they’d welcome you with open arms. They’re just longing to pin something on me, man, and a nice stolen watch could fit the bill nicely.’

  ‘You’ve had a lot of trouble with them?’

  ‘Always hassles. They think I spend all my time here building bombs, you know. Yes, I’ve had more than a bellyfull of the pigs recently.’

  ‘Since that Floor Manager died, you mean?’

  ‘Yes. That was a gift for them. If they could pin that on me — wow! they’d all go home happy. They dragged me in and talked to me for a long time about that. They were very sorry to have to let me go. Unfortunately, every witness they could rustle up said the same thing — I didn’t go near that light at any time during the evening. I didn’t arrive till late and then I made such an exhibition of myself, my every movement was watched. Were they disappointed? Be a long time before they get another chance like that.’

  ‘Actually, it was about — ’

  ‘Oh, I think I get it now.’ The large brown eyes opened wide and a huge grin irradiated the face. ‘You the little amateur detective investigating the crime? You think you’ve got new evidence that can really pin it on me?’

  ‘No. Well, yes and no.’

  ‘Which answer to which question? Kind of important to me, you know.’

  ‘It’s okay. Yes; I am investigating the murder. No, I have no suspicions of you.’

  ‘Nice to hear that, man. And interesting to hear you call it a murder.’

  ‘I meant “death”.’

  ‘Not what you said, man. Classic example of Freudian slip.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Charles grinned. The atmosphere between them had relaxed and he felt he could ask his question. He also felt a bit sheepish about the elaborate charade he had prepared for this interview. Direct questions so often succeed in getting direct answers.

  But John Odange was still conducting the conversation. ‘Okay. I’ll tell you anything I can, man. Though I don’t think there’s much. I didn’t see anything odd. I was too busy pouring cream over the fat cats from television.’

  ‘It’s not something you saw, it’s something you said.’

  John Odange shrugged and smiled disarmingly. ‘I said a lot that night. Man, did I say a lot that night.’

  ‘Yes, what interests me is that at one point you complained about all the film vehicles and cars that were blocking the roads.’

  ‘Perfectly justified complaint, man. It was like there was a Cup Final on.’

  ‘Yes, I agree. But what I want you to remember is exactly what you said. You gave a great list of all the cars there were blocking streets. .’

  ‘All company cars too, I bet.’

  ‘Probably. What I want to know is, was that just a random list you made up, or had you actually seen all the cars you mentioned?’

  ‘What you mean exactly?’

  ‘You said, as I recall, that the streets were full of BMWs, Rovers and Mercs.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Did you actually see all those?’

  ‘Certainly did.’

  ‘You also mentioned Daimlers.

  John Odange smiled wryly. ‘Ah, I think I might have been guilty of a little poetic licence there. I didn’t see a Daimler; it just fitted in the rhythm of my rhetoric.’

  Oh dear. That didn’t augur well for the next question, the important question. ‘You also mentioned Bentleys.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Does that mean you saw a Bentley?’

  ‘Sure did.’ Charles breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Yes, there was a dirty great brute of a Bentley hidden behind an old garage in a side street. I saw it as I walked along here.’

  ‘What colour was it?’

  ‘Green. Great big green bugger. Vintage, I’d say.’

>   There was only one person connected with The Strutters who possessed such a car. And that was a person who was supposed to be at home in bed on the night of the filming, while his wife went to the location in a minicab.

  Charles had got the information he required. He might have felt a little more satisfaction with his detective skills, though, if he had actually interviewed his informant, rather than being interviewed by him.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Barton Rivers had had the opportunity on every occasion. When Sadie Wainwright died, he had been in W.E.T. House and would have had plenty of time to arrange the broken railing and help her on her way. The Bentley had been the last car down before Bernard’s Rolls on the day Scott Newton met his end. There was no reason why Barton shouldn’t have parked for a few moments out of sight by the gates and slipped back after Bernard Walton had passed to topple the flower-urn. A Bentley made a very effective weapon to run over Rod Tisdale, and its presence near the filming location made it quite possible that Barton had slipped out in the confusion to sabotage the light that killed Robin Laughton.

  Four deaths, and he could have done them all. In fact, it made much more sense to suspect Barton than his wife. Charles now felt rather sheepish about his suspicions of Aurelia. Even if her supposed motivation, the protection of her little dog, were not now irrelevant, there was still a strong incongruity of her in the role of murderer. She seemed a remarkably sane woman and, particularly in the case of Rod Tisdale, very unlikely to have been able to commit the crimes, even if she had wished to. So far as Charles knew, she couldn’t drive, and the idea of that wispy beauty deliberately running someone over was ridiculous.

  And yet it had been definitely to her that Sadie had addressed the words which had stimulated thoughts of murder in the first place. That still fitted rather uncomfortably into the new scenario. Charles’s only possible solution was that Aurelia had threatened the PA in a fit of anger, never meaning to carry out her threat, but that Barton, in his unhinged gallantry, had leapt to his wife’s defence and done the deed.