by Simon Brett
‘Hm. You remember Damian Grantchester?’
‘Of course I do. Camp as a row of teepees. Responsible for our deathless Rosencrantz and Guildenstern double act.’
‘Yes.’
‘Must be long dead, poor bugger.’
‘As it happens, no.’
‘Oh?’
‘I saw him this morning. In a care home in Dorking.’
‘You must give me the address. I’d love to be in touch with the old queen.’
‘Yes, you might well.’
‘What do you mean by that tone of voice, Charles?’
‘I mean you might like to find a way of buying his silence too.’ Justin did not respond. ‘But you’d be a bit late. Damian has already told me about your … well, I guess the phrase is “inappropriate behaviour”, in Bridport.’
‘What did he say?’ The mask of insouciance was off. Justin wanted to know the answer, wanted to know the level of damage that might need limitation.
Charles told him about the hole drilled through the wall into Ophelia’s dressing room. He told him about the girl’s puzzlement as to Justin’s intimate knowledge of her anatomy.
There was a silence. Then Justin Grover asked, ‘And do you believe any of this?’
‘Yes, I do. And I believe it’s related to Liddy Max’s death.’
‘Hm.’ Justin took his time. ‘When someone gets to my level of fame, notoriety, whatever you want to call it, a lot of nice things happen, and a lot of unpleasant ones too. The press are savage predators, and nowadays ordinary members of the public on social media are even worse. Anything shabby, anything slightly iffy from your past, is dragged up at every opportunity. Everyone wants a piece of you, and if they get that piece by taking you to court, they regard that as part of the fun.
‘So, if some senile old queen in a care home in Dorking claims to recall, through the cobwebs of his memory, that Justin Grover, now known across the world as Sigismund the Strong from Vandals and Visigoths, was a Peeping Tom – well, that’s just the kind of thing to set up a feeding frenzy.’
‘Are you denying his allegation is true?’
‘Of course I am, Charles,’ said Justin wearily. ‘And, what’s more, I know why he made it.’
‘Oh?’
‘It’s quite ironic, really, all this talk of “inappropriate behaviour”. As you probably remember, Damian Grantchester used to come on to anything in trousers. Always had to ensure you didn’t go to have a pee at the same time as he did. He must have made advances to you, surely, Charles?’
‘Well, a bit. Rather half-hearted.’
‘Let me tell you, in my case, they were far from half-hearted. Damian spent that entire production trying to touch me up. He said it wasn’t just sex, he genuinely loved me. I’m surprised you weren’t aware of it, Charles.’
‘I didn’t notice him coming on to you more than he did to anyone else.’
‘Then you must have had your eyes shut for the entire period. Everyone else in the cast saw what was happening. God, if I wanted to bring a case for sexual harassment against Damian Grantchester, I’d have witnesses coming out of my ears. Not that I’d dream of doing anything of the kind … though I am represented by some of the best lawyers in the world. And Hollywood is notorious for the Rottweiler tendencies of its lawyers, as I’m sure you know. No, so far as Damian’s concerned, let the old queen live out his days peacefully in his care home in Dorking. I don’t have a vindictive nature.
‘Anyway, all of this harassment led eventually to a blazing row. I told Damian, in no uncertain terms, to keep his bloody hands to himself. Which he did, though he went into a monumental sulk over the whole business.
‘Charles, you’ve heard the old chestnut about revenge being a dish best served cold. Damian Grantchester has had a good few years to let his resentment cool down, but now he’s decided that his dish of revenge is also going to be a dish of dirt. His motivation is just the spite of a rejected lover. I’m surprised you even thought his accusations worth repeating to me.’
‘Well, I …’
Justin picked up the spy camera from the table, and handed it across. ‘I suggest you take this little gizmo, go back to your dressing room, and prepare for this evening’s performance with your customary half-bottle of Bell’s.’
Charles couldn’t help saying, ‘I’m actually off the Bell’s.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. Not before time.’
That was patronizing again, and Charles wasn’t ready to leave just yet. ‘I’m afraid there are still more questions I want to ask about the spy camera.’
‘Well, don’t bloody ask me about it!’ It was the first time during their conversation that Justin had lost his cool. ‘If you’re really interested in who was spying on Liddy Max, then you’re talking to the wrong man.’
‘So, who should I be talking to?’
‘Someone who loved her. More than loved, was obsessed by her. Someone who was so jealous, he was quite capable of arranging to have a spy camera set up in her dressing room. And quite capable of killing her if he saw her with another man!’
‘Are you talking about her husband, Derek?’
‘I didn’t know she even had a husband.’
‘Then who are you talking about?’
‘God, you’re unobservant, Charles. Didn’t you notice him, right through the rehearsal period, his eyes following her every movement like a devoted puppy?’
‘Who?’
‘Seamus Milligan.’
TWENTY
It was a very abstracted Brother Benedict who walked his way through The Habit of Faith that Saturday night. He’d checked with Kell, who said she wasn’t expecting Seamus Milligan to be in that evening. He was there quite often, kept a close eye on the show. Or maybe he just revelled in seeing his name outside a West End theatre. Kell said Seamus had talked of coming to see it again one day the following week.
Charles could have phoned the writer from his dressing room – the mobile number was on the company contact sheet – but he didn’t want to rush into a confrontation. Apart from anything else, Charles wanted time to assess his recent conversation with Justin. Although the star had dealt very fluently with the potential accusations, Charles was not a hundred per cent convinced of his innocence. For the time being, until he’d thought the situation through, he gave equal weight to Damian Grantchester’s testimony.
Then there was the business of Seamus Milligan’s eyes following Liddy Max’s every movement ‘like a devoted puppy’. Charles knew he could sometimes be unobservant, but his antennae for the complex business of attraction and counter-attraction in a rehearsal room were usually pretty acute.
And the setting up of the spy camera … He still felt certain Gideon had done that. He remembered Baz’s words about his friend doing ‘little jobs’, cash in hand, for ‘people’ at the Duke of Kent’s. Justin Grover had known the stage doorman well from a previous occasion when he’d worked there. Gideon would have liked the idea of doing a secret ‘little job’ for an international star, particularly if there was money involved.
Whereas, Seamus Milligan … Charles had never seen the writer even acknowledge Gideon. The idea of the two of them being complicit in setting up the spy camera didn’t feel right.
And Justin’s talk of being ‘represented by some of the best lawyers in the world’ and their ‘Rottweiler tendencies’ … well, the more he thought about it, the more he identified it as a subtle form of bullying. You mess with me and you’ll regret it.
No, Charles Paris was far from convinced that all the mysteries surrounding Liddy Max’s death had been solved.
He was still troubled and preoccupied when he left the Duke of Kent’s that evening. By chance, Grant Yeoell was only a few paces ahead of him. As Charles emerged from the stage door, he heard the tall actor call out, ‘Night, night, Shell’, before setting off for whatever excitements the night ahead promised him.
Shell. Shelley. Charles recalled an earlier conversation with Grant Yeoell, wh
en the actor had criticized him for referring to his fans as ‘groupies’. He had then spoken of one fan who turned up every night for the entire run of a West End show he was in. She’d been called Shelley. Was it possible …?
He felt an idiot for not having thought of her before. He’d been conscious of the girls outside the stage door every night, but never looked closely at them. Never thought of them as potential witnesses.
The girl was looking disconsolately in the direction that the now invisible Grant Yeoell had taken, as Charles approached her. ‘Big fan of his, are you?’
‘His Number One Fan,’ she asserted. Her voice was very young, with a London twang.
‘Want to talk to me about him?’
Shelley stepped into the light and looked Charles up and down. She was a slight figure, with huge dark eyes set in a very thin face, which was framed by the fur hood of a parka. ‘All right,’ she said.
The pub, the one he’d been to with Gideon, had now been brightened up with some premature Christmas lights. The bar was Saturday night noisy, and it took him a while to get in his drink order. Vodka and Coke for Shelley, sparkling water for him. He was half afraid she’d have slipped away from the cramped corner where he had left her.
But, when he returned, she was still there, resisting the banter of a bunch of rowdy men with football scarves. She took a long sip from her drink as soon as it was handed across. ‘Bloody cold out there,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ Charles agreed. ‘Do you wait for Grant every night?’ She nodded. ‘You certainly must be his Number One Fan.’
‘He’s nice to me.’
‘Nice in what way?’
‘Always calls me by my name. Called me “Shell” tonight. After he first found out my name, he used to call me “Shelley”. Now he knows me better, it’s “Shell”.’
‘When you say he knows you better, how much better does he know you?’
The girl looked puzzled. A wrinkle appeared between the brows of a face that was otherwise wrinkle-free. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Has Grant ever taken you out?’
‘Of course not.’ She giggled at the absurdity of the idea.
‘Have you ever had a long conversation with him?’
‘He chatted quite a bit when he first signed my programme.’
Charles noticed she was still carrying one, crumpled and a bit wrinkled where the damp had got to it. There must have been rain on some of the nights she maintained her vigil outside the stage door.
‘And have you had any long chats with him since?’
‘Sometimes he says a few words.’ She looked earnestly at Charles. ‘I do love him, you know.’
‘I’m sure you do.’
‘I think he’s realizing that, slowly. You know, in time I’m sure he’ll come round to the idea. I bet I’ve watched his movies more times than anyone else does.’
‘You probably have. And have you got a boyfriend?’
‘No. Just Grant. It is true love, you know, Grant and me. He will realize it some time. He’ll marry me in the end.’
‘Right.’ Charles cleared his throat, and couldn’t help himself from saying something terribly old-fashioned. ‘What do your parents think about you being out in the West End every night?’
‘I don’t see my parents. I was in care for a long time.’
‘And now?’
‘I manage.’ But the ‘woman of the world’ air with which she tried to carry this off didn’t quite work. Charles looked at her more closely. Under all that make-up, she really was very young. Fifteen, possibly only fourteen. He remembered Justin and Grant’s banter about checking passports.
‘And when did you first come to the Duke of Kent’s; you know, how soon after The Habit of Faith opened?’
‘I was here from the start.’
‘The Press Night?’
‘I don’t know what you mean. First night I came was the day you started rehearsing here.’
‘The Monday?’
‘Yes.’
‘How did you know we were rehearsing here?’
‘Got a friend who works up the West End. She saw some people going in the stage door. Including Grant. She told me to get round there as soon as I could.’
‘Is she a fan of his too?’
‘Yes, but not, like, not his Number One Fan. I mean, she came, like, for the first few days after the show opened. She hasn’t been for weeks now.’ The words were spoken with a mixture of contempt and satisfaction.
‘Could we go back to that first Monday when you came to the theatre?’
‘OK.’
‘What time did you arrive?’
‘Like, late afternoon. Five o’clock, maybe. I couldn’t get here earlier.’
‘But we’d stopped rehearsing by then.’
‘I know. I was told that.’
‘By whom?’
‘The fat man by the door.’
‘So then did you go home?’
‘No. I thought, like, if this is where Grant’s working, then he might come back.’
‘And did he?’
‘Yes. I saw you first. Round quarter-past six, half-past maybe, I was going to give up, but then you went into the theatre and I thought, well, if Charles Paris is going in, maybe they are rehearsing, and Grant will be along in a minute.’
‘How did you know my name was Charles Paris?’
‘I didn’t then.’ She tapped the programme. ‘But now I know the names of everyone in the cast.’
‘Who else did you see go in that night? After me?’
‘The girl, Liddy Max, she went in. Then, a little after that, Grant appeared. I was so excited, because I hadn’t seen him – like, in the flesh – since the press launch for Vandals and Visigoths 5: Revenge of the Skelegators. But he didn’t see me that evening. He had his coat collar turned up, and a hat down over his eyes, but I knew it was him. I’d recognize Grant Yeoell anywhere.’
‘And did you see him come out of the theatre?’
‘Yes. Like, half an hour later, maybe. And I went forward to, like, say hello, but he blanked me. I felt terrible. He’s been nicer to me since I’ve seen him since, but then I felt, like, Oh my God, it’s so awful!’
‘What happened next? That evening?’
‘I went back.’
‘Home?’
‘Where I’m staying.’ She made the distinction clear.
‘And you didn’t see anything else?’ asked Charles, disappointment and frustration welling up inside him.
‘No.’
‘You didn’t see any of the other actors go in through the stage door?’
‘None of the actors, no.’
‘What do you mean? Somebody else went in?’
‘Yes.’ Shelley opened her programme and, knowing her way well around its contents, opened the relevant page. She pointed to a photograph. ‘He went in.’
It was Seamus Milligan.
‘I can’t thank you enough,’ said Charles.
‘Don’t thank me.’ The girl giggled. ‘I haven’t done anything yet.’
‘What do you mean?’ And then he suddenly did realize what she meant.
‘There’s a room I can use, just round the corner. What it’ll cost, of course, depends on what you want.’
‘I don’t want anything, Shelley.’ He reached into his wallet, pulled out a couple of twenties and thrust them into her hands. ‘There, you take that.’
And he rushed out of the pub.
Charles couldn’t make sense of it, the naiveté of an underage girl who made her living as a prostitute and was sustained by the fantasy that she would end up marrying an international movie star. He tried not to think about Shelley, of how she spent her life, of where she would be going when she left the pub. It was too upsetting.
He was wandering aimlessly. The temptation to have a drink was overpowering. It was only quarter to eleven, nothing to stop him from nipping into one of the many pubs in the West End and downing a quadruple scotch. Nothing to stop him from buying an ov
erpriced bottle of Bell’s at one of the West End’s many convenience stores and going back to Hereford Road to numb himself quietly at home.
But he resisted the temptation. Though the sessions at Gower House had done nothing yet to cure his addiction, they had adjusted the time-clock of his guilt. Now he felt guilty when contemplating having a drink; previously he’d only felt guilty the morning after having had too many of them. Was that a kind of progress?
Suddenly, standing in front of the Christmas-lit frontage of an electrical store on Old Compton Street, Charles had total recall of what he had seen on the night of Liddy Max’s death. The reality was more disappointing than he’d hoped.
He remembered, when he’d woken up in his dressing room, he’d had recollections of actions seen and conversations overheard, but he now knew those were just dreams. He hadn’t been in any mysterious fugue state, simply drunk.
And when it returned, the memory of the one part of the evening that had been wiped away turned out to be surprisingly banal. He had woken at a quarter to eleven, panicked about having stood Frances up, grabbed his bottle of Bell’s, and rushed out of the dressing room.
But he hadn’t gone straight down the two flights of stairs. On the first-floor landing, he had seen Liddy Max’s door open, and gone to investigate. The dressing room was empty, but that was when he had seen its interior. That’s why he recognized it.
He had then continued down the second flight of stairs and found Liddy’s body.
It was nothing, a tiny detail, but it frightened him. If alcohol could erase that memory, it was capable of erasing much more important ones. And erasing recollections of his own actions and behaviour.
Charles couldn’t have said whether it was by coincidence or his own volition that he next found himself standing outside the metal door of the Techie’s Drinking Club, but it was certainly by his own will that he entered the premises.
The place was full, but not as rammed as the Saturday night pubs, so its members found the place a welcome haven.
And Charles felt it was where he should be, too. After his moment of total recall, he had a strange sensation that the events of the rest of the night were preordained.