Dead Giveaway

by Brett, Simon

  ‘Great,’ she said with resignation. ‘Have you just come to the end of one of your little affairs?’

  ‘No. Honestly. There hasn’t been anyone on the scene for months . . . nearly a year.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Frances, do have dinner with me. After all, I am your husband.’

  As soon as he’d said it, he knew that this might not be the best argument to put forward, and it received a well-deserved slap-down. ‘Depends very much, I would have said, on your definition of “husband”. . . whether the word is a once-and-for-all title bestowed at marriage or whether it implies a continuing active role, like, say, the word “lover”.’

  ‘I don’t quite see what you’re getting at,’ he said evasively.

  ‘Yes, you do. The word “lover” suggests something’s happening. When the affair’s over, people become “ex-lovers”. It’s not the same with “husband”. Even if the marriage is over, you don’t become an “ex-husband” without getting divorced.’

  ‘Oh, you’re not on about that again. I thought we agreed that there was no point in our getting divorced.’

  ‘You agreed that. I don’t recall my opinion being canvassed.’

  ‘Frances . . .’

  ‘I have to be in the car in twenty seconds.’

  ‘Frances, will you please meet me for dinner in the Italian place at eight o’clock this evening?’

  ‘All right. But, Charles Paris . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Don’t you dare be late.’

  ‘I won’t be, love. You know me.’

  ‘Yes. I do.’

  Sydnee had said she’d ring him once she’d fixed up for them to see Trish Osborne, and she came through about half-past ten.

  ‘She’s set up. Happy to talk. I said we’d be over early afternoon.’

  ‘Did you say what we wanted to talk about?’

  ‘No. Mind you, she didn’t ask. Presumably, like Tim Dyer, she just assumes it’s something to do with the show.’

  ‘Good. Well, look, can you pick me up at the bedsitter? Or will it be easier if I make my way to somewhere more central . . .?’

  ‘Charles, I’ve got problems here. Just after I’d spoken to Trish, John Mantle came in. I’m afraid I’ve got to start out on the contestant trail again.’

  ‘For the second pilot?’

  ‘Yes. They’ve got a studio date now. The schedule’s been rejigged so that the pilot goes into Studio A next Thursday. Which means we’ve got to get a move on getting the contestants.’

  ‘I thought you always had some spares lined up.’

  ‘Yes, but I don’t think they’d be good enough for John. The American copyright-holders have been bending his ear. They say the contestants we had on the first pilot showed about as much life as General Custer after Little Big Horn. They say we’ve got to get a new lot with more “pazazz”.’

  ‘Where do you start looking for “pazazz”?’

  ‘Same places as I looked when ‘pazazz’ wasn’t on the shopping-list. The trouble is, what these Americans don’t realise is that people over here haven’t yet lost their inhibitions about game shows. It’s going to take a few years before the British reserve cracks and you see the kind of hysterical commitment you get in the States. Still, from John Mantle’s point of view, I must be seen to be busy. Four brand-new contestants with “pazazz” must be found.’

  ‘Are the contestants the only changes you’ll make in casting?’

  ‘Well, obviously we’ll need one new celeb now Bob’s moved up to host. Lots of names have been mentioned, but I don’t think it’s been offered to anyone yet. And we’ll have to set up four more “professions”.’

  ‘Oh.’ Charles saw a potential booking disappearing over the horizon.

  ‘Come on, Charles, we couldn’t book you lot again. With three of the same celebs on the panel, they’re going to remember what your real professions were.’

  ‘I doubt it. They didn’t take any notice of us, didn’t see us as people at all. I bet, if I was back on, two of them’d still think I was the hamburger chef.’

  ‘You’re probably right. But we can’t take the risk. People get very uptight about these game shows. Any hint of rigging or cheating or someone being “in the know”, and you can get some very nasty reactions.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Anyway, Chita’s busy setting up four new “professions” – “professions”, of course, who might just conceivably wear hats, which let me tell you, is not as easy as it sounds – and I have got to shoot off to Manchester to interview some punters in the fruitless search for “pazazz”.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘What I’m saying, Charles, is can you go and interview Trish Osborne on your own?’

  ‘But what ever excuse can I give for being there? At least, with you, I’d have some sort of W. E .T. credibility, but on my own . . .’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll think of something, Charles.’

  It took Charles longer than he had expected to get to Billericay, and it was after four when he finally reached the neat dark-red-brick three-bedroomed house where Trish Osborne lived.

  He got a whiff of perfume as she opened the door, and saw that she was wearing a pale-blue flying-suit. She had dressed up for her continuing contact with the media world.

  Though he had had plenty of travelling time during which to work out his excuse for appearing on her doorstep, he hadn’t come up with much. ‘I’m afraid Sydnee suddenly had to go to Manchester,’ he said lamely, ‘so there’s just me.’

  ‘Never mind.’ She ushered him into her living-room. The carpet had a yellow and green zigzag design, whose colours were picked up on the open curtains. White patterned net against the double glazing shut out the darkening world. The mahogany veneer surface of the dining table gleamed, as did the yellow-upholstered chairs marshalled around it. Light refracted through the spotless glass ornaments above the matt silver music centre on the room divider. On the walls, in yellow velvet tasselled frames, were photographs of three children at different ages. In pride of place, on the mantelpiece over the ‘log-effect’ gas fire, lay her red, blue and silver If The Cap Fits cap.

  She gestured to a lime-green three-piece suite with dark wood arm-rests and rigidly plumped yellow cushions. ‘Do sit down. What can I get you? Tea? Coffee? Something stronger?’

  This last was offered with a kind of insouciant daring, Trish demonstrating her freedom from the conventional restraints which might have inhibited someone not accustomed to media circles.

  Charles resisted the temptation. ‘Tea’d be lovely.’

  She must have had the kettle boiling when he arrived, because she appeared in only a couple of minutes with a loaded tray. Charles still hadn’t worked out his line of approach, so, while she poured, he played for time by indicating the photographs. ‘Nice-looking kids.’

  ‘Yes. Taken some time ago. They’re all grown-up now.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Youngest’s twenty.’

  He looked at her. He knew it was going to be a corny line, but it was still true. ‘You don’t look old enough to have children of that age.’

  She coloured very slightly in acknowledgement of the compliment. Her dark hair was even shorter, must have been cut since the recording. It came down to little peaks in front of her small ears. ‘If you start breeding at seventeen, it’s quite possible to have them all off your hands by the time you’re forty.’ She hesitated. ‘And then look around to see if there’s anything left of your life.’

  ‘Lots, I’m sure.’ Charles smiled in meaningless reassurance. ‘Even at my age, one still hopes there are more good bits to come.’

  She didn’t look convinced. Nor did she look at ease, perched on the edge of her lime-green armchair. Charles took a long swallow of tea. He still hadn’t decided how to explain his presence. True, she hadn’t questioned it yet, but the moment must come.

  He made a kind of start. ‘Terrible business at the recording, wasn�
�t it?’

  ‘Yes. The poor girl. I mean, I know men can be bastards, but to be driven to that . . . to kill someone . . .’

  ‘Yes. Poor Chippy.’

  ‘I thought the name was Caroline something.’

  ‘Chippy was her nickname, the name she used at work.’

  ‘I wonder what she’ll get. Surely not life for something like that . . .? I mean it was a crime of passion, wasn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose so. Though that’s not always a category the British Law recognises. She could still get a hefty sentence.’

  ‘But I’d have thought when something’s spur-of-the-moment like that . . .’

  ‘Not completely spur-of-the-moment. Taking the cyanide from one studio to the other must have involved a degree of premeditation.’

  ‘As I said, poor girl . . .’

  Charles decided to take a risk. ‘There has been talk around W.E.T. that maybe she wasn’t the one who did it . . .’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘There have been suggestions that someone else killed Barrett Doran.’

  ‘What!’ She turned her wide brown eyes on him in amazement. Either the idea was a total shock to her, or she was putting up a very skilful front. Charles, who knew a bit about the subject, didn’t think she was a good enough actress to be shamming. He decided it was worth taking another risk. The truth, he had often found, could be a useful surprise tactic.

  ‘In fact, that’s why I’m here. As I say, various people at W.E.T. have had doubts about Chippy’s guilt and I’m just sort of investigating, on their behalf, to see if there’s any other possible explanation for what happened.’

  ‘I see.’ The eyes went down quickly, but not quickly enough to hide their disappointment. ‘And, if Sydnee had been able to come today, is that what she would have been coming about?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Ah.’ The hurt was still there.

  ‘Why, what did you imagine she might –?’

  ‘Nothing, nothing.’

  Charles looked at the bowed dark head in its neat suburban living-room, and suddenly he saw everything. It was just another manifestation of the power of television. Trish Osborne thought she had done well on If The Cap Fits. And indeed she had. She had been a good lively contestant (in spite of what Aaron Greenberg and Dirk van Henke felt). But that was all she had been. She, with that ignorance of scale that always afflicts amateurs, had not recognised the limits of her performance. She had seen it as the start of something. With time on her hands at home for ideas to grow like ginger-beer plants, she had fantasised of directors hailing her as a ‘natural’ for television, of offers of work, of a new impetus to dig her out of her domestic rut, of a career to fill the void left by her departed children. She had thought that Sydnee’s wish to see her would be about the next step on that ladder. It was all very commonplace, very predictable and very sad.

  He knew he was right, but he passed no comment on his findings. ‘So I’m here, really, to ask you to think back over that studio day, think if there was anything suspicious, anything you noticed that seemed out of the ordinary.’

  She laughed, jogging herself out of self-pity. ‘The whole day seemed pretty out of the ordinary to me. I’d never been in a television studio before. It may seem pretty ordinary to you, but let me tell you, being on television is the answer to many a Billericay housewife’s dreams.’ Her face clouded. ‘I suppose, after what happened, I’m not even going to be on television. I mean, there’s no way they can put out that recording, is there?’

  ‘No.’

  She clutched at a straw. ‘They couldn’t sort of edit on another ending . . .?’

  Charles shook his head. ‘Sorry, love.’ (For a moment he wondered, ‘Do I normally say ‘love’ as much as this, or have I picked it up from the infinitely understanding Joanie Bruton?’) ‘Think about it – with a show of that sort, you can’t suddenly change hosts in the middle. You couldn’t even if there had been no publicity about Barrett’s death. As it is . . .’

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry. I was just being silly. Not thinking. Of course they couldn’t use it.’

  Moved again by the disappointment in her eyes, Charles searched for another reassurance. ‘It probably hasn’t made that much difference, actually, love.’ (Doing it again.) ‘With a show like this, they’d be very unlikely to put out the pilot. They’d be almost bound to want to make some changes in the casting or the format before they got into a series.’

  This was not at all the right thing to say. The brown eyes blazed. ‘What, you mean we went through all that for nothing? We were just being used as guinea pigs with no chance of the show actually being on the television? The producer swore it would go out unless there was something terribly wrong.’

  ‘Well,’ said Charles, redirecting the conversation off this sticky patch, ‘there was something terribly wrong, wasn’t there?’

  This brought her up short. ‘Yes,’ she replied softly.

  ‘Barrett Doran’s death. Can we talk about that?’

  ‘If you like.’ She remained subdued, still inwardly boiling at the perfidy of a television company that could put her under such strain on what she regarded as false pretences.

  ‘Starting from the idea that Chippy didn’t kill her former lover . . .’

  ‘Was he? I didn’t know that.’

  ‘Yes. That was presumed to be her motive. ‘Hell hath no fury . . .’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘. . . like a woman scorned.’

  She gave a small shake of her head. The quotation didn’t mean anything to her.

  ‘Anyway, if Chippy didn’t, somebody else did. And the murderer put cyanide in Barrett Doran’s drink at a very specific time. During the meal-break, between six-thirty and ten to seven. Sydnee and I have been going round, checking up on the movements of people connected with the show at that time.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ There was a new reticence in her manner; she didn’t volunteer anything.

  ‘I wondered what you were doing then, Trish . . .’

  She coloured. ‘Oh, you know. This and that. I can’t really remember.’

  ‘You left Chita in the Conference Room at a quarter past six. You were back in there at twenty to seven. You left the room with Tim Dyer. You both said you fancied a steak. Neither of you had one.’

  ‘You have been doing your research.’

  ‘Outside the Conference Room you both got into separate lifts. I want to know what you did for the next twenty-five minutes.

  She now looked very flustered. ‘I said. I can’t really remember. I was very nervous. I just walked about to calm me down.’

  ‘This is important, Trish. I’m talking about the time that the cyanide was put into the glass.’

  The brown eyes widened. ‘But surely you don’t think that I had anything to do with it?’

  ‘I’m just trying to eliminate as many people as possible from suspicion,’ Charles replied stolidly, in a voice he’d used as a Detective-Inspector in an Agatha Christie play (‘About as lively as a Yorkshire pudding that’s still wet in the middle’ – West Sussex Gazette).

  ‘Well, there wasn’t anything suspicious about what I was doing.’

  ‘Trish,’ he said with a little more force, ‘nothing was seen of you from the moment you got into the lift . . . until you came out of Barrett Doran’s dressing room at about twenty-five past six. At which time you were crying.’

  She looked for a second as if she might be about to cry again, but then regained control of herself and appeared to make the decision to tell the truth. ‘All right. I did go to his dressing room.’

  ‘Straight after you came out of the lift in the basement?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why did you go there?’

  ‘He’d invited me for a drink.’ The words were dragged out truculently.

  ‘And you agreed to have a drink with him? Even after the way he had humiliated you in the afternoon?’

  Her blush spread down her neck. Charles’s eyes,
unwillingly following it, were uncomfortably aware, through the thin material of the flying-suit, of the unmentioned subject of their conversation.

  ‘Yes, I suppose he had humiliated me. But I overreacted. I shouldn’t have burst into tears on the set. I know you’ve got to be tough if you’re going to get anywhere in television.’ She repeated this last line devoutly, like an article of faith.

  ‘Presumably, when you agreed to go and have a drink with him, you were aware of Barrett Doran’s reputation as a womaniser?’

  ‘That’s why I agreed,’ she almost snapped at him. Charles gaped. ‘God, have you any idea how boring life is in Billericay? I want my life to start, I want to catch up on all the things I missed while I was having babies and polishing furniture. No, I didn’t like Barrett Doran, he’d upset me a lot during the rehearsal, but I knew that he fancied me. I wasn’t going to miss a chance. I know you have to sleep around if you’re going to get anywhere in television.’

  This again was spoken like part of a creed, received wisdom which she had picked up and was determined to believe. Charles found himself shocked by her strange mixture of outrageousness and naiveté, and a little frightened by the desperation that accompanied it.

  ‘So can I enquire what happened when you got into his dressing room?’

  ‘Don’t see why not.’ Her attempt at brazen insouciance was not coming off. There was something engagingly pathetic about it, like a teenager adding a couple of years to her age at a party. ‘Fairly predictable, really. He poured me a drink, then he put his arms round me and started to kiss me. That was what I had expected, so it wasn’t such a big deal . . .’

  ‘But . . .’ Charles voiced the unspoken conjunction.

  ‘But he was a bit too . . . He rushed me. I wasn’t quite ready for . . . I hadn’t expected him to . . .’ All the skin above her neckline was now deep red. ‘. . . to want to do it so quickly,’ she pronounced finally.

  ‘He hadn’t got long. Only time for a quickie,’ said Charles without much emphasis.

  ‘Anyway, he was scrabbling at my clothes, trying to undress me – not all of me, just the bits he needed, and I was sort of holding him back, but not quite holding him back and . . . and then the door opened.’