by Brett, Simon
‘Did you go on it?’
‘No, sold it through the local paper.’ He indicated a wall of food cans, none of which had any labels. ‘Four different competitions, those were. Canned mange-touts, new instant custard launch, lychees in syrup and chilli con carne. Got a yoghourt-maker, cut-glass decanter set, tennis racket and two hair-dryers. Sold them all.’
‘Why no labels?’
He looked at Charles as if he were dealing with a moron. ‘They’ve got the coupons on. You have to get them off.’
‘Well, how can you tell whether it’s instant custard or chilli con carne?’
‘You can’t. I just open one and hope for the best.’
‘You do eat them?’
‘I’m working through,’ said Tim Dyer, and pointed to a pile of washing-up powder boxes. These had also had coupons removed and powder spilled through the rectangular holes to make little peaks on the carpet. ‘Working through this lot, too. Good, though. Won a BMX bicycle on that. Sold it.’
‘How did you win the Vauxhall Cavalier?’ asked Sydnee, who had been silent for a long time.
Tim Dyer looked at her sharply, realizing that the conversation had come round to something important. ‘Let’s go into the front room.’
When they were sitting, Sydnee persisted, ‘Where did you win the Cavalier?’
‘Doesn’t matter.’
‘I see. Another television show.’
For a moment he looked as if he were about to deny it, but a slow, smug smile crept across his face. ‘Yes. Right. Something For Nothing I won that on.’
‘You’ve done a lot of other tellies.’
He nodded slyly. ‘Oh yes. I’ve done most of them.’
‘Just a minute,’ said Sydnee, remembering something. ‘How did you get on Something For Nothing? That’s a show for married couples.’
‘Yes.’
‘But you said you’re divorced.’
‘I persuaded the wife to come back just for the show.’
‘And you got the car.’
‘Oh, come on. She got the fridge-freezer, the home computer with full range of software, the exercise bicycle plus His and Hers track-suits, the cordless telephone and the crate of vintage champagne.’
‘You still got the best of the deal.’
‘Well, I did the research, didn’t I? And I answered all the questions.’
‘Erm . . .’ Charles asked out of pure curiosity, ‘did appearing on the show together bring you and your wife back together at all?’
‘Good God, no.’ Tim Dyer dismissed that idea and moved on to a subject that interested him more. ‘Now, about this Austin Metro . . .’
‘Yes,’ said Sydnee, mentally girding up her loins for battle.
‘I’ve taken legal advice on this, and my solicitor says it depends on whether the crown was definitely over my head when it stopped. Now I know it was, and that would be visible on the recording of the show that you have. If W.E.T. tries to withhold that tape, my solicitor says he would be able to –’
‘We have also taken legal advice,’ Sydnee quelled him.
‘Our Legal Department has no precedent for this situation, but their view is that the rules of the game constitute a kind of verbal contract. In other words, W.E.T. has agreed to give away certain goods to contestants who fulfil the requirements demanded by the game.’
‘Exactly.’ Tim Dyer grinned hungrily. ‘Which I had done.’
‘However,’ Sydnee continued, ‘it is their view that this situation only lasts as long as the game continues, and they feel that the game cannot be said to continue after the death of the host.’
‘What!’ He was furious. ‘But that’s just cheating. Anyway, the crown had stopped over my head before he died.’
She shook her head. ‘We’ve checked the tape. Barrett Doran definitely stopped moving before the wheel of hats did.’
‘I don’t believe it. I demand to see the tape!’
‘You’re welcome to do so. Your solicitor is also welcome to do so. It won’t change anything. The Austin Metro remains the property of West End Television.’
Tim Dyer let out a terrible howl of frustrated materialism. ‘Cheats! You’re just all cheats! I won that fair and square, and now you’re saying I didn’t! I’ll fight it! I’ll sue you! I’ll get that car!’
‘Try, by all means,’ said Sydnee equably, ‘but let me warn you, you’re going into a very vague area of the law, and, as a general rule, the vaguer the area, the more expensive the law becomes.’
Tim Dyer was silent, his mouth ugly with disappointment. He looked as if he had been winded by a blow to some vital part of his anatomy. And that was not far from the truth. He had just received a serious blow to his greed.
Charles judged it a good moment to move on to the real subject of their visit. ‘You didn’t like Barrett Doran, did you?’
Tim Dyer looked surprised at this change of direction, but was still too much in shock to do anything but tell the truth. ‘No, I didn’t. So?’
‘Why did you dislike him? You’d only met him that afternoon, hadn’t you?’
‘Oh yes. But it doesn’t take long to get the measure of someone like that.’ A glint of paranoia came into Dyer’s eye, as he said, ‘He was out to stop me winning.’
‘What?’
‘Oh yes. That bastard was out to nobble me from the moment we were introduced. He saw that I was the most likely contestant to win, and he was out to stop me.’
‘I don’t think he was bothered with –’
‘Oh, come on. Didn’t you see the way he paired me off with that subnormal actress? It was quite deliberate. He was out to sabotage my chances.’ The paranoia gave way to satisfaction. ‘But I showed the bastard. I still won, didn’t I?’ The paranoia quickly reasserted itself. ‘Or I would have won if I hadn’t been cheated of my car!’
‘Listen . . .’ Sydnee began, but, on a signal from Charles, she stopped.
‘What did you do during the meal-break?’ the actor asked suddenly.
Again he had judged it right. Tim was too surprised by the sudden demand to question why it should be asked. ‘Well, I . . . er . . . what do you mean?’
‘You were in the Conference Room with Chita and the other contestants. You and Trish Osborne left there about quarter past six, and didn’t get back till twenty to seven. You said you were going down to the canteen, but neither of you did. What were you doing?’
‘Well, I wasn’t with her, if that’s what you were thinking,’ Tim replied truculently. ‘If she was getting off with anyone, it wasn’t me. We only left the room together. We got in different lifts.’
‘Both going down?’
‘I think so. Mine was, certainly.’
‘Which floor did you get off at?’
‘I. . . . Look, what is this? Why are you giving me the third degree in my own home? Who the hell do you think you are?’
‘Someone’s been murdered,’ Charles announced with all the chilling authority he had used in Witness For The Prosecution (‘Profoundly unmoving’ – Plays and Players).
‘And someone’s been charged with the murder.’
‘Yes. We happen to believe that the police have got the wrong culprit. Which is why we are checking what everyone was doing during the meal-break.’ By now he had slipped into the voice he had used as a Detective-Inspector (shortly to be killed) in a Softly, Softly (‘A rather routine episode in this generally excellent series’ – New Statesman). ‘So tell me exactly what you did when you left the Conference Room.’
The Detective-Inspector manner had its effect. Tim Dyer spoke unwillingly, but at least he spoke. ‘I went down to the floor where the studios are. I just wanted to have a look round. I was nervous, you know, wanted to get on the set, get the feel of it. I thought it’d calm me down.’
‘And, once in the studio, what did you do?’
‘I . . . well, I just looked round. You know, round the back.’
‘You looked at the displays of prizes?’
&nbs
p; ‘All right. So what if I did? I needed to psych myself up for the show. I needed to sort of get the adrenaline going.’
‘So you went and gazed at the Austin Metro?’
‘Yes,’ the contestant admitted sheepishly.
‘And that’s all you did?’
‘Yes.’ But Tim Dyer would not look into his interrogator’s eyes as he spoke.
‘You were out of the Conference Room for twenty-five minutes. Sounds like a long time to look at a car.’
‘Well, I didn’t go into the studio straight away.’
‘What, not immediately after you left the lift?’
‘No. I was going in there, but I saw one of the celebrities coming along the corridor and I didn’t feel like chatting, so I turned into one of the phone booths along there till he’d gone past.’
‘Who was it?’
‘Bob Garston.’
‘And he was coming from Studio A?’
‘From that direction, certainly.’
‘This was straight after you came out of the lift?’
‘Yes.’
‘So, say, twenty-past six?’
‘Round then.’
‘Was Bob Garston on his own?’
‘No, he was with Joanie Bruton’s husband.’
‘Roger Bruton, eh?’ Charles looked at Sydnee. ‘Who’d presumably just escorted his wife into Make-up.’ She nodded. ‘So, Tim, you just stayed in the phone booth as they walked past?’
‘That’s what I meant to do, but they stopped just outside and talked for a bit.’
‘Did you hear what they said?’
‘Yes. It was strange. Bob Garston was saying, “I didn’t think anyone knew about it. Still, since you obviously do, you’ll understand that I’m finding it pretty difficult to work in the same studio as the bastard.” And Roger Bruton said, “Joanie’s done a lot of counselling on infidelity in marriage. You ought to talk to her about it. She’s very understanding.” And Bob said, yes, perhaps he would.’
‘And that was it?’
‘Yes. Then they walked on.’
‘And you came out of the phone booth and went into Studio A?’
‘Yes.’
‘To look at your car.’ Tim Dyer did not deem this worthy of comment, so Charles went on. ‘Did you see anyone in the studio?’
A twisted smile came to the contestant’s lips. ‘Only you.’
‘Oh.’
‘I saw you swigging from his glass.’
Charles blushed, but pressed on. ‘So you knew that it didn’t contain cyanide at that point.’
‘Never occurred to me that it would. Why should I think that?’
‘Somebody put cyanide in it between six-thirty and seven.’
‘Well, don’t look at me. What do you take me for? I wouldn’t do anything like that.’
‘No, I don’t think you probably would.’ A new thought struck Charles. ‘Just a minute. You say you saw me drinking from Barrett’s glass . . .’
‘Yes.’
‘I didn’t see you.’
‘So?’ Tim Dyer looked uncomfortable.
‘If you’d been behind the curtain round the back of the set, you wouldn’t have been able to see me. If you’d been in the audience seating, I’d have seen you. That means you must have been out of sight, actually on the set.’
‘Well . . .’ Tim Dyer began wretchedly.
‘And the only thing on the set big enough to hide you would have been the spinning wheel.’ Suddenly Charles knew he was right. ‘You were behind that wheel . . . tampering with it.’
‘No, I wasn’t.’ But the denial carried no conviction.
‘Wouldn’t take much, would it? All you needed to do was fix a counterweight on the wheel, directly opposite the crown, and that would guarantee it would always come to rest with the crown overhead. Simple.’
Charles knew from the man’s expression that he had inadvertently hit on the truth. Confidently, he asked one final question. ‘You didn’t see anyone else in the studio after I left?’
Tim Dyer shook his head miserably and whispered, ‘I went out straight after you. Didn’t see anyone else.’
There was a long silence. Then Sydnee rose to her feet. ‘Better be going, I suppose.’
Charles got up too, and they moved towards the hall. Just before they left the room, Sydnee looked back and said, ‘And, if you want to take up that point about cheating over the car, I suggest you get in touch with our Legal Department.’
Tim Dyer did not respond. He stayed crumpled in his chair, looking as comically guilty as a schoolboy with stolen jam on his face.
Chapter Eight
SYDNEE RANG CHARLES the next morning. ‘You were right,’ she said.
‘About what in particular?’
‘Tim Dyer trying to fix the wheel. I spoke to Sylvian this morning.’
‘Who?’
‘Sylvian de Beaune, the designer. I mentioned what we thought might have happened, and he went to check. The set’s in store, you see, waiting for the definite go-ahead on the second pilot. Anyway, there it was – small polythene bag filled with sand, stuck on the back of the wheel with sticky tape, just opposite the crown. As you said.’
‘Quite a feat of improvisation, to sort that out in the studio.’
‘I think Mr Dyer went prepared.’
‘Took the sandbag with him, you mean?’
‘Wouldn’t surprise me. As we know, he’s a very dedicated competitor. He knew the format of the show. He knew about the wheel. I think he planned it in advance.’
‘Bloody nerve. Where’s the traditional British spirit of fair play?’
‘That was invented before game shows.’
‘Yes. I suppose no one could have predicted the day when ritual humiliation would become a participant sport.’ Charles chuckled. ‘God, Tim would have been furious if he’d doctored the wheel and then someone else had got to the final.’
‘He was pretty confident it was going to be him. As he kept saying, there’s a knack to these things. He knew what he was doing.’
‘Hmm. Presumably, if the show had run its course, he would have won his Austin Metro with no questions asked.’
‘Yes. Until you found out about his cheating, there was a possibility that he would have got it, anyway.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. All that guff I quoted from our Legal Department was sheer improvisation. I did consult them, but they were going to look for precedents and come back to me. So, you see, Charles, your quick thinking has saved W.E.T. a few thousand quid.’
‘Good. Not that I think W.E.T. needs the money, but I would really resent the idea of that little wimp Dyer getting it.’
‘I agree. Sylvian, incidentally, was furious.’
‘About what?’
‘The idea of someone tampering with his set. It was his first big one, you see. He’d been assistant on a good few, but this was the first on which he was going to get a sole credit.’
‘I thought he looked rather nervous all day.’
‘He certainly did. Kept fiddling about and rearranging things. Anyway, he really blew his top when he saw what Tim had done. Said it ruined the game. He’s got a strangely puritanical streak, Sylvian. He was particularly annoyed, because he’d already resisted one attempt to fix the result.’
‘What – another of the contestants tried it on?’
‘No, no. It was John Mantle. He asked Sylvian to arrange that the wheel didn’t end up with the crown on top.’
‘Good Lord.’
‘Well, it’s an Executive Producer’s job to keep his costs down. And it was only a pilot. Anyway, as I say, Sylvian refused to do it.’
Charles was not given time to reflect on the perfidy of television producers as Sydnee went on, ‘So, where do we go next?’
‘Which suspect, you mean?’
‘Yes. We’ve still got Trish Osborne and Bob Garston – that is, assuming we’ve found out the full extent of Tim Dyer’s evil-doing.’
‘I’m fairl
y confident we have. Well, of the other two suspects, Bob Garston at the moment seems much the more suspicious. Trish Osborne had very little opportunity to put the cyanide in the glass during the vital twenty minutes, whereas Bob was certainly around the studio area. He also stood to gain directly from Barrett’s death . . .’
‘Has gained from it already. Heard this morning he’s been definitely booked to host the second pilot.’
‘Has he? There was also that strange conversation Tim Dyer overheard . . .’
‘About infidelity . . .’
‘Yes, marital infidelity . . . Could have meant that Bob’s wife had been unfaithful. Has got a wife, has he?’
‘Oh yes. She’s an I.T.N. newscaster. I wonder who she was supposed to have been unfaithful with . . .?
‘Be wonderfully neat if it turned out to be Barrett Doran. Which would also tie in with Bob’s line about “finding it difficult to work with the bastard under the circumstances”.’
‘Yes,’ Sydnee agreed excitedly. ‘And that would give Bob another reason for getting rid of his rival.’
‘All interesting speculation. Well, the person he was talking to, and who obviously knew what he was on about, was Joanie Bruton’s husband. I think we should put Trish Osborne in cold storage for a while, and try and find out more from Roger Bruton.’
‘Probably mean talking to Joanie too. It’s not often they’re seen apart.’
‘That’s fine. She may know even more about it. The question is: How do we make the approach? Do you claim you want to talk about the second pilot? And, if so, how do you explain me away? Tim Dyer was too obsessed about his car to take much notice, but Joanie Bruton’s no fool. I’m afraid she’s likely to be rather more observant.’
‘Yes.’ There was a silence from the other end of the phone, while Sydnee made up her mind. ‘I think the best thing is to tell them the truth.’
‘Tell them that we don’t think Chippy killed Barrett and we’re trying to find out who did?’ Charles asked, amazed.
‘Yes. Why not? After all, they’ve both got rock-solid alibis for the relevant twenty minutes, so there’s no way either of them could have been involved in the crime. Also, as you say, Joanie’s a shrewd lady. I think she’d respect us more for telling her the truth. And we needn’t worry about her discretion. By the nature of her work, she’s used to keeping secrets.’