by Simon Brett
To his relief, the answer was that he had just gone back to work. And not returned to the Duke of Kent’s that day.
‘So, anyway, what was it you really wanted to ask me about, Derek?’
‘Well, it’s just … you were working with Liddy for the last few weeks. You probably know more about what she was up to than I do.’
‘I wasn’t working that closely with her. We didn’t have many scenes together. And I didn’t see her at all outside of work.’
‘You were with her in the coffee shop.’ It sounded like an accusation.
‘That was the first time I’d ever gone out to eat with her.’
‘Right.’ The word was spoken grudgingly, as though Derek didn’t really believe him. ‘Listen, I said that for most of the last year Liddy was “with friends”. Have you any idea who those “friends” were?’
With complete honesty, Charles said he hadn’t.
‘I suppose what I really want to know is whether it was “friends” or a “friend”.’
‘You mean – had she shacked up with another man?’
‘That’s exactly what I mean. I’ve been in touch with lots of our mutual friends, and none of them had any idea where she was living. She seemed to have gone to ground. I thought you might have – I don’t know – seen her with some man at the theatre …?’ There was a glint of growing paranoia in Derek Litwood’s eyes.
‘No,’ said Charles. ‘I didn’t see her with anyone.’
‘Did she talk about anyone?’
He decided not to reveal what Liddy had said about having a ‘hot date’. He would keep that to himself for the time being. When he knew who the ‘hot date’ was, then he might share the information with Derek.
Maybe, his mind went on, encouraged by the memory leak he’d had in Liddy’s dressing room, he might in time remember more of what he’d seen in the Duke of Kent’s on the evening of her death.
Charles shrugged apologetically. ‘I’m sorry, I’m not being much help.’
‘No,’ Derek agreed. Then, realizing that might sound rather rude, he went on, ‘I’m just trying to get my head around what’s happened.’
‘I’m sorry. You must be in a very bad state.’
‘More confused than anything, I think. I mean, if Liddy and I had still been together when she died, it’d be totally different. But in the last year, I’ve kind of recognized that the marriage is over … so, in a way, her death lets me off the hook.’
‘How do you mean?’ asked Charles, not sure he could believe what he was hearing.
‘Well, I was in a marriage that wasn’t working. My wife has died in tragic circumstances. That means I don’t have to go through the ghastly process of a divorce. My path ahead is still a lot clearer than it was.’
‘You mean, to meet someone, else? To remarry?’
‘Yes,’ Derek replied calmly. ‘Someone who’ll be content with her role as a wife and mother.’
‘You’ll be lucky to find one of those around these days,’ was Charles’s thought. But he didn’t say it. He was still astonished by the calm, calculating way in which Derek Litwood spoke. He seemed to be suffering no pangs of bereavement. The loss of his wife had in fact proved very convenient for him. Charles wasn’t surprised that Liddy had wanted out of marriage to such a cold-blooded creature.
Inevitably, with the thought of how convenient the death had been for her husband, came the suspicion that Derek might have engineered that death. But it seemed unlikely.
‘What I did want to ask you, Charles,’ the ungrieving widower went on, ‘was whether you saw anything that evening – you know, the night she died.’
‘I wasn’t in the theatre, so I couldn’t have seen anything.’ There was no way he could go back on his lie now.
‘No. As I said, the police won’t tell me anything. Did any of the other members of the company see anything of what happened?’
‘Why don’t you ask them? Or have you already?’
‘I haven’t spoken to anyone else about Liddy. I will, obviously, if any of them have told you that they saw something strange.’
‘Nobody has told me anything like that. I honestly don’t think any other members of the company were in the theatre. We’d all suddenly got the bonus of a free evening, last one we were going to get – except Sundays – for three months. We’d be seeing quite enough of the Duke of Kent’s over that period. Most of the cast wanted to enjoy their last night of freedom.’
‘Except for Liddy.’
‘Yes.’
‘You’ve no idea why she might have stayed in the theatre?’
Charles felt even less inclined to mention the ‘hot date’. ‘No idea at all,’ he said. ‘I think we’ll have to reconcile ourselves to the fact that this is one of those mysteries that can never be solved.’
But that didn’t mean that Charles Paris wasn’t determined to solve it.
It was as he walked up the stairs to his dressing room that Charles thought about the incongruity of the conversation he had just shared. Derek Litwood had singled him out from the rest of the company as a potential source of information. Why? Charles hadn’t been particularly close to Liddy. When she socialized after rehearsal, it tended to be with Justin Grover and Grant Yeoell. Yet, from what Derek had said, he hadn’t questioned either of them. Just Charles Paris.
It came to him suddenly. Not necessarily the truth, but a possible scenario. Derek Litwood had lied about not going back to the Duke of Kent’s on the night his wife died. He had been keeping the place under surveillance, and seen Charles enter with his bottle of whisky soon after seven.
And the reason he’d wanted to question Charles was to find out whether Charles had witnessed what he, Derek, had done in the theatre that evening.
THIRTEEN
‘You going to have that drink tonight then?’
Charles was on his way out after the Tuesday show. He was feeling virtuous about not having had a drink all day. And even more virtuous about his intention to go straight back to Hereford Road, where he no longer had a bottle of Bell’s, and complete the day alcohol-free.
On the other hand, it was Gideon doing the asking, and Charles still felt there was more information he could get out of Gideon.
He said yes.
The stage doorman led him through the warren of streets off Shaftesbury Avenue. It was an hour later. Gideon couldn’t lock up until everyone was out of the Duke of Kent’s. Charles was aware of the man’s heavy breathing as they walked along. Just carrying that enormous weight must be hard work. Gideon wasn’t a healthy man.
He stopped at a rusty metal door round the back of another theatre, and rapped on it with his knuckles.
‘Like a speakeasy,’ Charles murmured.
‘It is a speakeasy,’ said Gideon.
When the door was opened, the first thing that struck Charles was the smell. Undertones of dampness that might have leaked from a sewerage system but – dominating everything – alcohol. The sourness of beer, the vinegar of old wine, the tang of spirits.
The venue had an air of impermanence. It was a cellar, possibly some kind of disused storage facility. Solid brick steps led down from the door. No decoration on the moist brick walls. Lighting from stage lamps clipped to upright scaffolding, probably borrowed or purloined from the local theatres. There was no bar as such, just a table crowded with bottles and cans. The seating was a range of run-down chairs, one or two painted in a way that suggested they might once have been stage props.
The huddle of people inside turned with hostility towards the newcomers, but relaxed when they saw the familiar bulk of Gideon. He was clearly a regular.
‘Let me get you a drink,’ Charles offered.
‘No worries. No money changes hands in here. Like a club it is, for the mutual benefit of its members.’
‘So who pays for the booze?’
‘A very generous theatre management. Now what would you like?’
‘Scotch’d be good,’ Charles replied instinctively.<
br />
‘Any favourite?’
‘Bell’s.’
‘Oh yes, I’d forgotten. Forgive me. Vodka and tonic man myself.’ He poured generous measures for both of them. ‘Water? Ice?’
‘Bit of ice, thanks.’
Both took refreshing swallows. ‘Sorry, Gideon, you said a generous theatre management sponsors this place?’
‘Yes, they do.’ He winked slyly. ‘Mind you, I’m not sure they know that they do. Fact is, couple of the members here run the bars in two of our most prestigious West End theatres. It only takes a little bit of over-ordering, the odd bottle here, the odd bottle there and …’ He raised his glass. ‘A pure example of a theatre management really doing the best for their staff. God bless ’em.’
‘What is this place, Gideon?’
‘Used to be a store-room, used by a good few of the theatres, I believe, for props, lights, what-have-you. Then people forgot it was here and … well … as you see, we found a new use for it.’
‘So how long has this set-up been going?’
‘Yonks. I’ve been coming since I started working at the Duke of Kent’s. And that’s over five years. Supplies a need, this place. Everyone here works in the theatre, you see. Very few actors or directors, some writers come along. That Seamus Milligan – you know, miserable sod who wrote Habit – he’s in here sometimes. But it’s not basically for the artistic lot.’ He loaded the word with a lot of pretension. ‘We’re all techies and ancillary. But we work strange hours. Often don’t get out of the theatre until after the pubs have closed. And, all right, there are plenty of clubs in the West End where you can drink the night away, but we can’t afford their prices. Besides, we don’t want to go somewhere you have to smarten up for. Just hang out with our mates, that’s what we want to do. So, if you know about this place, you can get a drink here right through the night.’
‘Does it actually have opening hours?’
Gideon snorted away the suggestion. ‘Not officially. There are a few people who’ve got keys.’ The arch way this was said suggested he might be one of them. ‘Someone usually opens up tennish, or a bit earlier, now you’ve got so many ninety-minute shows that run through without an interval. And, generally, someone locks up round six in the morning.’
‘And you’ve never had any trouble with the police? About licensing or—?’
‘Never happens. They don’t mess with us, we don’t mess with them.’
‘Well, we do sometimes mess with them.’ The new voice came from a small man in grubby denims. His personal odour was strong enough to assert itself over the predominant smells of the cellar. His eyes had the glaze of the permanently drunk.
‘Hi, Baz,’ said Gideon. ‘Might have known you’d turn up like a bad penny. Baz, this is Charles Paris. He’s in the show we got in the Duke of Kent’s.’
‘Play with all those bloody monks maundering on, and Justin Grover poncing around in a cassock?’
‘That’s the one, right.’ Charles thought it was a pretty fair description. ‘You sound like you’ve seen it.’
Both men roared with laughter, as Gideon explained, ‘Point of honour, Charles. Stage doormen never go and see the shows.’
‘So, are you a stage doorman too, Baz?’
‘Well, I was, like.’ The small man looked embarrassed. ‘Didn’t work out.’
‘Touch of the old “Drunk in Charge of a Theatre”, wasn’t it?’ The flesh around Gideon’s neck wobbled as he roared with laughter.
‘Yeah, something like that.’ It was clear from Baz’s expression that he wished his friend hadn’t brought the matter up. But Charles wondered whether Baz’s example was one of the reasons why Gideon had been so paranoid about the threat posed to his own job by his drinking habit.
‘Actually,’ the small man went on, ‘I’ve been wanting to see you, Gid, because I had a dead funny—’
‘Yeah, we can talk about that later,’ said the stage doorman rather grandly, as he swept off to greet another friend. ‘Hello, Morry …’
The look with which Baz followed Gideon’s departure was so achingly forlorn that Charles realized how much the man felt for his friend. Even Gideon could inspire love. And perhaps toy with the affections of someone who loved him.
Disconsolately, Baz picked up a vodka bottle from the table and took a long pull.
‘So, are you working now?’ asked Charles.
Baz shook his head. ‘No. Nobody will employ me.’ Charles didn’t have to ask why. ‘Still spend my time around the West End. Got a lot of mates in the business who help me out. And I can always find somewhere to kip down here.’
Also, always find plenty of free booze down here too, thought Charles. His glass was empty. The instinct to top it up from the Scotch bottle was very strong. But he decided to resist it.
‘And you’ve known Gideon for a long time?’
‘Since I first started working in the West End. Don’t know how long ago that is. It’s good to have mates.’
‘Certainly is.’ Charles watched as Baz took another swig from the vodka bottle.
‘Yeah,’ Baz agreed. ‘Mates do each other favours. Gid’s always doing favours for people, like people who’re working in the Duke of Kent’s. Always some little job needs doing there. And Gid’s always ready to oblige. Mind you, those jobs he does for money, nice cash in hand. Mates help each other out for free. That’s what mates are for.’
Charles couldn’t argue with the sentiment, but he saw that it opened out a possible line of enquiry. ‘So, have you helped Gideon out sometimes?’
‘Yes, sure. And he’s helped me, and all.’
‘Oh? How’s he helped you?’
‘He sometimes brings me food and stuff. Lets me kip on his floor sometimes.’ This was said with wistfulness.
‘And how have you helped him?’
‘Oh.’ A slyness came into the glazed eyes. ‘I’ve helped him in lots of ways. Recently I helped him from getting into trouble.’
‘Trouble from his employers? From the Duke of Kent’s?’
‘Maybe them. Maybe trouble from the police,’ he added proudly.
‘What do you mean?’
‘There was a problem at the Duke of Kent’s … I can’t remember when … a few weeks ago?’
‘What kind of problem?’
‘Somebody died there.’ Baz seemed to have forgotten Charles’s connection with the theatre. He spoke as if to someone unfamiliar with the news of Liddy’s death.
‘But what’s that got to do with Gideon?’ asked Charles.
‘Well, this day, whenever it was, there was no rehearsal for some reason, and Gideon had nothing to do, so I suggested, like, he come out drinking with me. But he was worried about leaving the stage door unmanned, you know, if someone from the management found he wasn’t there. ’Cause they’ve got those CCTV cameras all round the back of the theatre. So I said I’d sort it.’ There was no doubting the pride with which this assertion was made.
‘What did you do, Baz?’
‘It’s a little trick I’ve got – get asked to do it quite a lot, actually. There’s plenty of people round the West End who sometimes do things they don’t want to have recorded on the old CCTV. If I’m nippy, I can sort it out for them, never get caught. And I make a bit of spending money, or they buy me a drink, or … you know …’
‘I’m sorry, what are you saying, that you manage to switch off CCTV cameras?’
‘Not switch them off, blank them out.’
‘I’m still not with you.’
‘I’ll show you.’ Baz led him across to a corner of the room that the spotlights hardly reached. Against the wall were a couple of rusty leather boxes about the size of old cabin trunks. On top of them was an assortment of cables, props and other theatrical impedimenta, perhaps dating from the time when the cellar had been used as a store-room.
‘This is my kit,’ said Baz proudly, picking up a thin cylinder about eighteen inches long with a series of metal rings sticking out from it.
‘What on earth’s that?’
‘Collapsible fishing rod.’ He pulled at it to show how the staff extended. ‘Use that, bit of sponge on the end, dip it in some dark paint, and Bob’s your uncle! Covers over the lens of a CCTV camera in no time.’
‘Isn’t it risky? I mean, someone might see you doing it.’
‘I choose my moments. Haven’t got caught yet. Anyway, everything we do in life is risky.’ There was a bravado in Baz’s manner. He seemed to be saying: there may be many things I can’t do, but this is one that I can, and I do it very well.
‘But,’ asked Charles, ‘why did you disable the CCTV camera that particular day? Did Gideon ask you to do it?’
‘No, but I knew he had time off, and I wanted him to come drinking with me, but he said he couldn’t leave the theatre, because of the CCTV camera, so I …’ Baz glowed with pride. ‘I sorted it out for him.’
‘And he then did come drinking with you? Here?’
‘Yes. He was afraid, if he went to any of the pubs, someone from the theatre management might see him.’
‘What, so he was with you here all that afternoon and evening? Until he went back to lock up the theatre just before twelve?’
Baz looked uncertain. ‘It’s a long time ago. I can’t remember exactly.’ His eyes shifted across the room. He didn’t like what he saw. Charles followed his look. Gideon was still deep in conversation with the ‘Morry’ whom he’d joined earlier.
‘Baz, it’s important. Did Gideon leave here for the theatre just before midnight, or did he go earlier?’
‘I can’t remember.’
‘Please. Try to focus on that day.’
Baz’s glazed eyes didn’t look as if they could focus on anything. As if in a trance, he moved back to the table with the drinks, picked up the vodka bottle and necked about a quarter of it. He turned back to Charles. ‘Yes, Gid went back to the theatre earlier. Came back here soon after.’
‘And then stayed till near midnight?’
‘No, he wasn’t here long. Just dumped some stuff and left. I remember, because I wanted him to stay. Wanted him to stay with me. But he went. He can be very cruel sometimes, Gid.’ Baz looked across to where the stage doorman had one of his pudgy arms around Morry’s waist. ‘Like he’s being now.’