by Brett, Simon
The atmosphere was not unfriendly, though the three researchers seemed to be suffering mild disbelief at the idea of people actually living in such surroundings. Charles thought it might be only a matter of time before they started making a documentary about him.
Sydnee opened the meeting. ‘Chita and Quentin are fully up-to-date with everything. They’re as concerned as I am to get charges against Chippy dropped.’
‘Have you mentioned to them the idea of going to the police?’ Charles asked formally.
‘Yes. We’re all agreed that we shouldn’t do that until we can point the finger at the person who really killed Barrett.’
‘But surely . . . if all you want is to get Chippy free, all I have to do is go and tell the police that Barrett’s glass still contained gin at half-past six and –’
‘No.’ Sydnee was implacable. ‘Apart from anything else, that’s then going to start the police being suspicious of you. We need your help; we don’t want you shut up in a cell “helping the police with their enquiries”.’
Charles agreed. It was an aspect of the situation he hadn’t considered. So . . . he was committed to the case now. He’d better accept it with good grace.
‘Right, so let’s see where we are. We know that Barrett Doran’s glass contained gin at six-thirty. What time would everyone start coming back from their meal-break? Sharp at seven?’
‘Most people would, yes,’ said Sydnee. ‘Cameras have to line up for half an hour between seven and seven-thirty, so the cameramen would drift back at around five to.’
‘But the P.A. would probably have been in the Gallery before that,’ Quentin contributed. And there might be other people drifting back a bit earlier . . . stage managers, people checking props.
Chita agreed. ‘Yes. It’d be quite a risk to try to do anything criminal after about ten to. Likely to be someone around then.’
‘So we’ve narrowed down the time when the cyanide was put in the glass to the twenty minutes between six-thirty and ten to seven,’ Charles summed up. ‘Now, assuming that the murderer was someone connected with the show, which of your charges were out of your sight during that period?’
‘I’ll start,’ said Sydnee, ‘because my bit’s probably the simplest. After I sent you down to Make-up, Charles, I was intending to send the other “professions” down at five-minute intervals, but then I had a call in the bar from one of the Make-up girls saying they were getting behind and could I hold it. So your three fellow-performers didn’t leave the bar till after seven.’
‘Are you sure? Because you went down to Barrett’s dressing room at twenty to.’
‘I’m sure. I left them in the charge of a friend up in the bar. He confirmed none of them left. He was a bit pissed off, actually . . . found he had to buy them all a round of drinks.’
So that ruled out the hamburger chef, the surgeon and the stockbroker.
‘What about the contestants?’ Charles asked Chita.
‘Most of them stayed up in the Conference Room right through the meal-break. There were sandwiches and drink up there.’
‘When did they go to Make-up?’
‘Not till about ten to seven. They didn’t need much. Just a quick slap of foundation and powder.’
‘You said “most of them” . . .’
‘Yes, a couple went out about quarter past six, but they were both back by twenty to seven.’
‘Which ones?’
The two who got through to the second half. The one who won . . .’
‘Tim Dyer,’ said Sydnee.
‘And the housewife, Trish Osborne . . .’
‘Madame Nipple,’ murmured Quentin.
Charles ignored this. ‘Where did they go to, Chita?’
‘Well, they said they both fancied a steak and went down to the canteen . . .’
‘But we’ve talked to Rose on the Grill Counter,’ Sydnee picked up the story, ‘who’s got about the beadiest eyes in the business, and she’s certain they didn’t go in there.’
‘Ah. Well, there’s two who might be worth investigating. But you’re sure the others stayed put?’
‘I was with them all the time,’ Chita confirmed.
‘Right,’ said Charles. ‘On to the celebrities.’
Quentin let out a languorous sigh. ‘Well, now, what can I tell you? We too were all cosy in our little Conference Room with lavish supplies of W.E.T. booze and W.E.T. sandwiches. There was a bit of toing and froing to dressing rooms . . .’
‘Can you be more specific about this toing and froing?’
‘Well . . . Fiona Wakeford “toed” into her dressing room at about six-fifteen, and Nick Jeffries “toed” into it at about six-sixteen. And she “froed” him out at about six-seventeen.’ Quentin giggled at his little joke. ‘Then she stayed in her dressing room until seven putting her hair in the Carmen rollers.’
‘Are you sure about that?’
‘Pozz. One of my friends is a dresser, and she called him in to help her just after Nick left. For protection, too, I think.’
‘Nick?’
Quentin nodded. ‘He’d been chatting her up quite shamelessly all afternoon. I think when he went into her dressing room and actually put his hand on something, even dear Fiona realised he was after a bit. So she . . . “froed” him out.’ He repeated the joke, maybe hoping for more reaction the second time. He didn’t get it.
‘So, although Fiona’s out of the running, Nick was on the loose from six-twenty-two until . . . when?’
‘Only about six-thirty, I’m afraid. He was back up in the Conference Room by then, downing a large Scotch to soothe his wounded ego. He certainly wasn’t in the studio area for the vital twenty minutes.’
‘Sure?’
‘Pozz.’
‘What about the other two panellists?’
‘Well now . . .’ Another dramatic sigh was emitted. ‘Joanie went down to Make-up at about ten-past six.’
‘With her husband?’
‘Oh yes, the faithful Roger was in tow.’
‘Did he go into Make-up with her?’
‘Apparently not. Perhaps even he thought that would have been taking devotion too far.’
‘So he was on the loose down near the studios. Perhaps he should go on the list . . .’
‘Uh-uh.’ Quentin shook his head. ‘Sorry, like Nick, they were back up in the Conference Room by half-past.’
‘Ah. So that rules both out.’
‘’Fraid so. I had my beady little eyes on the pair of them for every second of the vital twenty minutes. Not a sight I relished, I must confess,’ Quentin admitted with slight petulance. ‘I can only take so much connubial bliss, you know.’
‘What about Bob Garston?’
‘Now he is much more interesting. Or, at least, his movements are much less well-documented. He was out of the Conference Room from about five-past six until twenty to seven. And no sightings, I’m afraid. Except that he was seen going down in the lift towards the basement, where the studios are. So he should certainly go on your little list.’
‘Right. Three names, then. Three who had the opportunity.’ Charles mused. ‘Of course, we’ve limited it enormously. We’ve only dealt with the ones directly concerned with the show. I mean, there are so many people around a television studio. It could have been any of them. Even someone working on a different programme . . .’
‘Like Chippy was . . .’ said Chita.
But Sydnee wasn’t going to let them get depressed by logistics. ‘We’ve got to start somewhere,’ she pronounced. ‘Now, next thing we ought to think about motives.’
‘I’ll tell you who had the biggest motive,’ said Quentin. ‘Those two Americans. You know, the one who kept talking about “making a pot” and his tall, quiet friend. They were convinced that Barrett was ruining their precious show.’
‘Did they have the opportunity?’
Quentin shook his head wistfully. ‘Sorry, Charles. They spent the whole of the meal-break bending John Mantle’s ear in the bar.
Lots of witnesses for that.’
‘What about the other three then, the ones on the list? How’re we doing for motive there?’
Sydnee took over. ‘Well, no one liked Barrett much. We know that. But who disliked him enough to murder him? . . . that’s a different question. What does drive someone to murder? Presumably it varies from person to person. I mean, Barrett really humiliated Trish.’
‘You mean that business about her . . . her blouse?’
‘Yes. He reduced her to tears in front of everyone. And she didn’t seem to me to be the sort who cries easily.’
‘A lot of women would take that pretty hard. Whether hard enough to commit murder . . . I don’t know.’
‘Won’t dismiss it out of hand. What about the other contestant?’
‘Tim Dyer’s different. He was just totally obsessed by winning. And I mean obsessed. He’s been on the phone every day since the recording.’
‘About what?’
‘About the car. What he describes as his bloody car. He maintains that the crown had definitely stopped over his head at the end of the Hats In The Ring finale, and that, regardless of the fact that Barrett Doran was at that moment dying, the Austin Metro should be his. W.E.T., in the person of John Mantle, takes a different view.’
‘I’m not surprised. But do you reckon he had any motive against Barrett?’
‘He was certainly extremely angry when Barrett paired him with Fiona Wakeford for Round One. He didn’t reckon she would be much help to him.’
‘One can see his point,’ Quentin murmured.
‘But whether you’d murder someone for that . . .’
Charles shrugged. ‘As you say, he was obsessed. Depends on the depth of his obsession, I suppose. What about Bob Garston?’
‘I don’t think he liked Barrett,’ Sydnee replied, ‘but then who did? There was also, I suppose, a professional rivalry.’
‘Oh?’
‘Bob was considered for the job.’
‘Hosting the show?’
‘Yes.’
‘And he knew that?’
‘’Fraid so. He shouldn’t have done, but he did. Casting Director was a little indiscreet with his agent when checking availability.’
‘And would he have wanted it?’
‘I think so.’
‘Course he would, Sydnee,’ said Quentin. ‘Just the sort of break he needs. Lose the “reporter” tag. Become a “personality”. A future of infinite chat-shows. He’d love it.’
‘And, of course, he may yet get it,’ said Chita.
‘How do you mean?’
‘There’s a reasonable chance he’ll be booked as host on the second pilot.’
‘Is there going to be a second pilot?’
‘You bet,’ Sydnee replied. ‘W.E.T. shelled out a lot for the rights in that show. They’re not going to let something minor like a murder stop them from capitalising on it.’
Charles bit back the actor’s instinctive question (‘If there is a second pilot, am I likely to be booked again?’), and said, ‘So he stood to gain very directly from Barrett’s death. We should definitely investigate Bob Garston.’
‘Him first?’
‘I’m not sure. I think we should try and see all three of them. Who’s going to be the easiest to get in touch with?’
Sydnee laughed. ‘Tim Dyer. He’s desperate for someone to go and talk to him about his bloody car.’
Charles Paris grinned round at his research team. ‘Then maybe we should start with Tim Dyer.’
Chapter Seven
SYDNEE DROVE AN old red MG Midget, fast. The hood was up, against the autumn weather, and she and Charles travelled in their noisy cocoon out along the A3 towards Petersfield, where their first suspect lived.
‘Are you sure he’s not going to think it odd, me coming along with you?’ asked Charles.
‘I don’t think he’ll give it a second thought. The only thing on his mind is that bloody Austin Metro.’
‘Is that what you said you wanted to talk about when you rang?’
‘No, I didn’t say it, but I think that’s the way he took it. Wouldn’t occur to him that there was anything else to talk about.’
‘Could be the second pilot.’
‘Could be, I suppose. Though, if the truth were known, he’s very unlikely to be involved in that.’
‘Oh?’
‘It’s a matter of research time. It’s difficult getting contestants, but it was more difficult setting up the rest of the programme. Probably be better to leave all that intact and just slot in four new contestants.’
‘What, leave the rest of the show just as it was?’ asked Charles, scenting another booking.
‘Yes. Assuming the powers-that-be don’t want major changes in the format.’
‘Are they likely to?’
‘Who can say? John Mantle and the American copyright holders are watching the tape through today.’
Charles grimaced. ‘Fairly grisly experience.’
‘Only the end. Up to there the show ran as it should. Very few recording breaks, it was fine. John Mantle won’t waste the recording. I mean, for him it’ll be great, having the luxury of a second pilot. Another bite of the cherry, a chance to make sure it’s all dead right.’
Charles winced. ‘Dead right.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Has it been decided yet whether Bob Garston will host it second time around?’
‘Not definitely, no. I think it’s a strong possibility.’
‘Hmm.’ Charles fell silent, his mind circling round the murder, round the possible motives and opportunities of its perpetrator.
They reached the outskirts of Petersfield. ‘Could you reach into my handbag? There’s a sheet of W.E.T. notepaper where I wrote down the directions he gave me on the phone.’
Charles complied and guided Sydnee towards their quarry. ‘What does he do?’ he asked, as they turned into the road where Tim Dyer lived.
‘He said on his form that he was a computer programmer.’
‘You sound sceptical.’
‘Yes. Just something about him sounds warning bells. Also, he said he’d be at home any time I cared to call.’
‘You mean you don’t think he has a job?’
‘Wouldn’t surprise me.’
‘One of the unemployment figures? Made redundant, and too proud to admit it?’
‘Possible.’ She didn’t sound convinced. ‘Except that computers are one of our few boom industries. Wouldn’t imagine there are that many redundant programmers.’
‘So what do you think?’
‘I think he may have slipped through our net. I think he claimed to have a job just to put us off the scent.’
‘I’m still not with you.’
‘I rather suspect that Tim Dyer is one of those characters who all researchers try to spot and weed out. If I’m right, I’ll kick myself for not having recognised it earlier.’
Charles was mystified. ‘What sort of character?’
Sydnee stopped the car outside a neat, Thirties semi. In the drive stood a brand-new, gleaming Vauxhall Cavalier. She looked at Charles with a little grin as she pulled on the handbrake and replied, ‘A professional contestant.’
It was clear as soon as they got inside the small front room that Sydnee had been right. Tim Dyer made no attempt to disguise what he did for a living. Indeed, he exulted in it. Perhaps, having played his part in If The Cap Fits and having, to his mind, won an Austin Metro from W.E.T., he saw no further necessity for secrecy.
He indicated a table, on which papers and open reference books lay between piles of cardboard coupons. ‘Doing another of the soap powder ones,’ he announced airily. ‘Pretty simple General Knowledge. Difficult bit’s always the tie-breaker.’
‘Tie-breaker?’
‘Bit at the end. Always a variation on the old “I LIKE THIS PRODUCT BECAUSE . . . in not more than ten words”. Mind you, there is a knack to them,’ he added smugly.
‘You’ve won in the pa
st?’ asked Charles. As Sydnee had predicted, Tim had registered no surprise, or indeed interest, at his presence.
‘Just a few times.’ Tim Dyer smiled indulgently at the understatement. ‘Out of these I’ve won fifty pounds a week for life, three music centres, a food processor, a sailing dinghy and a fortnight’s holiday for two in Benidorm.’
‘Good God. What do you do with all that lot?’
‘Keep some. Sell a few. Though selling’s always a pity, because you drop a lot on the price, even when it’s brand-new. I prefer barter. I’ve got a good barter deal going with my local electrical shop.’
‘What did you do about the fortnight’s holiday for two in Benidorm?’
‘Oh, I went on that.’
‘Nice break for you and the wife.’
‘I’m divorced,’ said Tim Dyer. ‘No, I went, and sold the other half of the holiday to someone I used to work with. Had to drop the price a bit, but did all right. Trouble is, very few of the companies who put up these prizes are ready to give cash equivalent.’
‘Do you enter for everything?’ asked Charles, bemused.
‘Everything I hear about. And everything where there’s a bit of skill involved. Like I say, there’s a knack to it. The ones where it’s pure lottery, it’s not worth bothering, I’ve got no advantage over anyone else. Don’t do any of those . . . well, except the Sun Bingo and Times Portfolio. Check them first thing every morning before I start on the rest.’
‘And you really find there are enough of them to keep you going?’
‘You bet. In fact, I don’t have time to do them all. I work weekends too, you know,’ Tim Dyer concluded piously.
‘So you just sit here and –’
‘Have to spend a lot of time in the supermarkets, checking the new promotions that are coming up, seeing what the competitions are, getting entry forms, coupons, buying up relevant stock.’
‘Relevant stock?’
‘Come and have a look.’
He led them through into what had presumably been intended as a dining room. But it contained no table and chairs. Instead, it was crammed full like a supermarket warehouse.
Tim Dyer gave them a conducted tour. He pointed to a ceiling-high pile of Cook-in-a-Bag Curry boxes, from each of which a side panel had been neatly cut. ‘Did all right out of that. Won a three-week holiday for two to India.’