Sicken and So Die

by Simon Brett

  In different circumstances Charles would have agreed with her and joined in a mutual moan about Alexandru Radulescu’s massacre of Twelfth Night. But this wasn’t the moment.

  ‘You admired Sally very much, didn’t you . . .?’ he probed gently.

  ‘Yes. She was a role model for me. She was the kind of actress I want to be – and will be,’ she added, then went on resentfully, ‘She would have been much better as Viola than Russ will ever be. I would have been much better as Viola than Russ will ever be.’

  Charles was about to ask when she’d first met Sally, but Talya continued on another burst of anger. ‘It’s not fair. I should be playing that part. After everything I’ve done, I should be playing that part!’

  ‘When you say “everything you’ve done” –?’

  But Talya Northcott was too infuriated to listen. ‘It’s ridiculous that Viola should be played by some pathetic male television star with a drug problem!’

  ‘With a drug problem?’ Charles echoed.

  Talya Northcott looked sheepish. She’d said more than she intended. But a what-the-hell defiance came into her face. ‘Yes. Russ Lavery’s into hard drugs. I know.’ A thought came to her. ‘And I’ve half a mind to tell the press about his little habit . . . That’d sort him out, wouldn’t it? Really do something to his “Mr Clean” image.’

  ‘What do you base your knowledge on?’ asked Charles.

  ‘I’ve seen him doing hard drugs.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘The night of the tech. The night Sally died. After his first Sebastian/Antonio scene – Act Two, Scene One – Russ came back into the caravan where I was and he was in a filthy mood – very tense and twitchy.’

  ‘Was it just you in the caravan?’

  ‘No, I was there with Vasile and Chad.’

  ‘And how long did they stay there?’

  ‘What?’ She didn’t like having her narrative interrupted. ‘What does that matter?’

  ‘Please, just tell me.’

  An exasperated sigh. ‘All right, let me think . . . Well, Chad went to do his clown bit in Act Two, Scene Three, and then Vasile was there till Fabian’s first proper entrance – Act Two, Scene Five. You know that – you’re in the scene, for God’s sake!’

  ‘Yes,’ Charles agreed meekly. ‘You were telling me about Russ . . .?’

  ‘Right. Well, as I say, he came in after his scene in an absolutely vile mood, and he twitched around for a little while, and then he stormed out again. And the reason he did that was because he needed a fix.’

  ‘What makes you so sure?’

  ‘Because I saw him. Out of the caravan window. He’d stopped under a tree out of the rain and I saw him pull something out of that pouch he has on his costume.’

  ‘What did he pull out?’

  ‘It was a syringe.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Charles Paris. ‘Was it?’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  THAT NIGHT Sir Toby Belch went through the comic machinations of the first half of Twelfth Night, but the actor playing him was on automatic pilot. Charles Paris remained detached, his mind forging links in a new chain of logic.

  With Gavin’s illness explained, the two remaining crimes had clearly both been aimed at Sally Luther, and Russ Lavery was the one who had benefited most from her death. Alexandru Radulescu, as the current licensed iconoclast of the theatrical establishment, would have got the same reviews if Sally had remained alive. The doubling of Sebastian and Viola was just one more coup in a production full of innovation (or perversity, if you shared the Charles Paris view).

  But for Russ it was a career-making change. Now, to add to the fame and money brought by television, he had the artistic respectability that only a high-profile theatrical performance can give. The value of that is incalculable, and might well make an ambitious actor contemplate all kinds of criminality.

  The more Charles thought about Russ, the more details fitted. He cast his mind back to Gavin Scholes’ production of Macbeth at Warminster. Fresh out of the Webber-Douglas acting school, Russ Lavery had been callow and naive. He had also attached himself with doglike devotion to an older actress, the somewhat precious Felicia Chatterton.

  Was it fanciful to imagine that that was not his first comparable infatuation? At a younger age might not the hypersensitive Russ Lavery have become similarly fixated on Sally Luther?

  Because, as Charles watched Russ on-stage as Viola, he was struck again by how superbly the actor played a woman. It wasn’t just his mannerisms; he seemed to take on the complete female identity. The ease with which he’d done that, from the first experimental moment of role-swapping in rehearsal, suggested that he had practice in cross-dressing.

  And that would explain the incongruity of Sally Luther having been followed by a woman all those months. Surely with stalkers it was a sex thing. In the famous examples of such incidents, the actresses had always been pestered by men.

  Mentally Charles kicked himself. He should have thought of this earlier. After nearly a month of Alexandru Radulescu’s harping on sexual ambivalence, his mind should have made the jump more readily. It was all there in Twelfth Night; the whole plot hinged on the ambiguity of gender.

  Charles had planned to confront Russ Lavery at the end of the show, but two factors made him move his plans forward.

  The first was his own danger. The confirmation that Charles’s half-bottle of Bell’s had been poisoned also confirmed that the murderer saw him as a threat. After one failure, another attempt on his life seemed a certainty. And Sir Toby Belch had an uncomfortable amount of booze-swigging to do throughout the play. To poison the contents of his tankard in the wings would not be difficult. Charles gave himself a mental note under no circumstances to let any of the fluid he was meant to quaff touch his lips.

  The other pressure on his plans was the appearance of Detective Inspector Dewar backstage during the first half of Twelfth Night. Since he was in plain clothes, there was little chance of anyone but Charles knowing his mission. When, however, a message went out during the interval requesting all the company and crew to assemble briefly at the end of the show, Charles reckoned the murderer might become suspicious that someone was on to him.

  There was also pride at stake. Charles Paris had got so far down the road of investigation that, for his own satisfaction, he wanted to have his theory proved correct. The police could then move in and arrest the culprit, but Charles didn’t want them to upstage him by having their denouement first.

  No, he would have his confrontation during the interval.

  That August, the evenings remained warm even after the sun had gone down, and few of the cast chose to spend their interval in the stuffy caravans. They sat outside under the working lights in the al fresco Green Room or lolled on the grass. The long interval was still a bone of contention. It was hard to keep up concentration, and they looked forward to moving on to the studio theatre in Norwich, where the running of Twelfth Night would not be dictated by the demands of picnickers.

  Russ Lavery, who, because of his onerous double role, was more concerned about threats to his concentration than most, had formed the habit of sitting quietly in one of the caravans for the full duration of the interval; and it was there that Charles Paris found him.

  Russ looked up without enthusiasm. He had a glass of mineral water and an open copy of the play in front of him. ‘I’m concentrating. What do you want, Charles?’

  ‘I want to talk about Sally Luther’s death.’

  A sigh. ‘I’d have thought everything to be said on that subject had already been said.’

  ‘The police are investigating it, you know.’

  ‘So? They’d be likely to investigate any unexplained death, wouldn’t they?’

  Russ Lavery sounded very calm, as if he had deliberately damped down his pulse and heart rate to improve his concentration.

  ‘They think it was murder.’ Charles hadn’t actually had that in as many words from DI Dewar, but he thought the implication was
clear.

  ‘Huh. Someone always thinks every unexplained death is murder. But why would anyone want to murder Sally? Was she screwing some other woman’s husband, or what?’

  If this was a pretence of innocence, it was a very convincing one. But then, Charles reminded himself, he was dealing with a consummately good actor.

  ‘There are motives other than sexual jealousy,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sure there are.’ Russ now sounded simply bored.

  ‘Professional jealousy, for example. Or professional advantage.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Russ, when did you first meet Alexandru Radulescu?’

  ‘Hmm? I don’t know. Six months ago . . .’

  ‘And did you talk together about Twelfth Night then?’

  ‘We talked about a lot of plays. Alex has got a lot of exciting ideas.’

  ‘But did the idea of doing Twelfth Night with Sebastian and Viola doubling come up then?’

  ‘I can’t remember. It may have done.’

  ‘Did it?’

  ‘Yes, I think it did. Just as a speculative idea. I certainly never thought it’d happen.’

  ‘But now it has happened . . .’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘. . . thanks to Sally Luther’s death.’

  ‘Yes.’ Russ Lavery was silent for a moment as the idea took root. ‘Good God. You’re not suggesting Alex killed her, are you?’

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘Then I don’t see what you’re talking about, Charles.’ He looked genuinely puzzled.

  ‘Russ, on the evening of Sally’s death, you were seen holding a syringe . . .’

  Up till this point Russ Lavery’s cool had been unchallenged, but Charles’s words really shook him.

  ‘Oh, God,’ he murmured. ‘How did you find out? You didn’t see me.’

  ‘No, somebody else did.’

  ‘Look, Charles, you mustn’t shop me about this.’ Now there was a naked plea in Russ’s voice.

  ‘Why shouldn’t I?’

  ‘Because it’d ruin my career.’

  ‘Yes, I think it probably would,’ Charles agreed evenly.

  ‘But you don’t know the pressures that drive someone to that kind of thing. Oh yes, I’ve been doing well the last few years, and everyone’s jealous and thinks what a lucky fellow Russ Lavery is. But in this business doing well is not good enough. You have to do better all the time, have something new on the horizon, always be moving on.

  ‘So, yes, at the moment they’re still talking of further series for Air-Sea Rescue, but the ratings only have to fall half a million and they’ll pull the plug on it as quick as breathing. Look what happened to Sally’s series – just suddenly, thank you very much, goodbye. And actors who haven’t got something else lined up when that happens can have a very sticky few years.’

  ‘So is that why you did it?’

  ‘Yes. It made me feel better.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘And it still does make me feel better. Look!’

  Suddenly Russ Lavery pulled up the sleeve of his doublet. The reason for his tantrum with the wardrobe mistress was now clear. He didn’t dare to show a forearm that was a wasteland of scars and punctures. ‘I’m ruining my body. I’m putting my life at risk. But it helps – it really helps me! Without this my whole life’s a mess. With it I can just about cope.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Charles Paris. ‘Right. That’s what you used the syringe for?’

  ‘Yes. What else?’

  ‘And Sally Luther?’

  ‘Sally Luther wasn’t into drugs.’ Russ’s bewilderment was so genuine that Charles’s suspicions crumbled away. ‘No, she somehow managed to cope with all the pressure, when it was all happening for her, and during the even more difficult time, when it all started to fall apart. I admired her for that, because I’m afraid . . . when it all goes wrong for me – and it will, it will, it does for everyone – well, I’m worried that I’ll just do more of this.’ He gestured feebly at his ravaged arm.

  Charles Paris looked at the handsome wreck in front of him. Russ Lavery wasn’t a murderer, just an actor paying the price of his celebrity. That was what Sally Luther had done too, though in a different way. She had died because she had inspired too much public affection. Russ Lavery was killing himself because of his fear that the public affection he inspired would one day trickle away.

  There are times, Charles Paris thought, when there’s a lot to be said for being an unsuccessful actor.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  SIR TOBY BELCH had to do his first scene of the second half, Act Three, Scene Two, before Charles Paris could go into action. He found DI Dewar waiting in the administrative office Portakabin. Moira Handley was not there, though another detective was.

  ‘You’re not watching the show?’

  The curt headshake showed exactly what the inspector thought of the theatre.

  ‘Listen,’ said Charles. ‘I’ve got an idea . . .’

  Both detectives looked sceptical, but did at least hear him out.

  ‘I’m very doubtful it’ll work,’ said DI Dewar finally.

  ‘But isn’t it worth trying? It can’t do any harm, can it?’

  The inspector was silent for a moment, then conceded, ‘Well, I suppose not. All right, you can have a go.’

  ‘I mean, who have you talked to so far? Who does actually know why you’re here?’

  ‘Just the company manager.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Charles. ‘If you told him, then probably everyone does know already.’

  But they didn’t seem to. There was genuine surprise from the actors to whom he murmured the reason for their call after the show. Mind you, he only had to mention it to a couple and he knew it’d be round the whole company within minutes.

  “‘A great while ago the world began,

  With hey-ho, the wind and the rain;

  But that’s all one, our play is done,

  And we’ll strive to please you every day.”’

  The sitar-player’s enunciation had improved over the run, and the final moment of Twelfth Night still retained its magic. The Great Wensham audience, having greatly enjoyed their picnics, erupted into applause.

  As the cast came forward to do their curtain calls, Charles counted them. All present and correct. If the murderer was going to make a move, it hadn’t happened yet.

  The cast had been told to get out of their costumes and reassemble on stage as quickly as possible. Charles, as he had arranged with DI Dewar, stayed in his Sir Toby Belch gear and hurried down the side of the auditorium to the box office, a rectangular shed which stood by the gates into the theatre field.

  The inspector was in there, looking out over the mass of Great Wensham folk trooping towards the car-park laden with rugs and garden furniture. Overhead working lights beamed down on the faces as they passed. One or two were talking about Twelfth Night; the majority were discussing their picnics.

  ‘If this doesn’t work, it’s a bloody waste of time,’ he grumbled to Charles. ‘Or if the person we’re looking for has already left.’

  ‘Everyone was at the curtain call.’

  ‘Hmm. Well, we’ll see . . .’

  It was hard to concentrate on the individual faces that streamed past. Charles was tempted by a couple of blond heads, but neither looked quite right. DI Dewar’s grumbling about time-wasting grew more vociferous.

  Charles had almost given up when he saw what he had been hoping to see. The audience flow had dwindled to just a few stragglers. Be-sashed usherettes and festival volunteers in Mutual Reliable anoraks milled around the seating, picking up rubbish, chatting and giggling.

  And someone with their anorak hood up was walking briskly towards the exit. The face was hidden, but a wisp of blond hair escaped the hood.

  ‘There,’ Charles murmured.

  He slipped out of the box office and waited in the shadows beside it. Then, just when the hooded figure was about to pass, he stepped out i
nto its path.

  ‘Good evening,’ said Charles Paris.

  The speed with which his throat was grabbed stunned him. He felt himself pushed back against the counter of the box office, and could feel his assailant fumbling for something in his pocket.

  In the glare of the working light he saw a syringe raised to stab at him.

  ‘You bastard! This time you won’t get away!’ the murderer screamed.

  Charles Paris closed his eyes.

  ‘I’ll have that, thank you very much.’

  It was DI Dewar’s voice. Charles opened his eyes and saw his assailant’s wrist caught in the inspector’s vice-like grip. The two arms swayed in conflict for a moment, as if wrestling.

  Then the inspector’s started to win. It forced the other down towards the box office counter. As it drew close it slammed the loser’s hand against the wood.

  There was a little cry as the syringe dropped, and Charles felt the pressure on his throat slacken.

  He reached across and grabbed the free arm. The murderer was now held by DI Dewar across the box office counter and by Charles from outside. In the struggle, the anorak hood slipped back, pulling the blond wig with it.

  Charles found himself looking into the furious face of Benzo Ritter.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  HIS ATTACK on Charles, witnessed by DI Dewar, was sufficient cause for the police to arrest the boy, and while he was in custody his other crimes were investigated.

  His handwriting was matched to the threatening letters Sally Luther had received at the height of her television fame. Faced with that fact, he confessed to everything.

  Yes, he had been the ‘woman’ who trailed the star. He loved her, he needed to be near her. But, he explained, he’d been very immature at the time. Later he realised that the only way to be with his idol was to earn her respect as an equal.

  That was why he had gone into show business. When she met him as one of her profession rather than an anonymous admirer, he knew she was bound to succumb, to feel as much for him as he did for her.