Play to the End

by Robert Goddard

  “It’s knocked them for six. Me too, I don’t mind admitting. Another heart attack was always on the cards. You just don’t think it’ll happen, though, do you?”

  “No. You don’t.”

  “When did you last speak to Denis? Face to face, I mean.”

  “We had coffee together yesterday morning.”

  “How did he seem then?”

  “Chirpy as ever.”

  “Sallis said Denis stood in for you the night before.”

  “Yes. I had flu.”

  “That a fact?” There was a hint of scepticism in his tone. His gaze was disconcertingly direct. I was already certain that he suspected me of holding something back. “If you remember anything, Toby, however minor, however…apparently trivial, that could help me…”

  “I”ll let you know straight away.”

  “Denis said you fixed him up with this job.”

  “I put a word in, nothing more. It was the least I could do. Denis was one of the best.”

  “Yeah. He was. That’s why it’s such a crying bloody shame it had to end like this.”

  I couldn’t disagree with that last sentiment. But nor could I share everything I knew with Denis’s brother and aspiring avenger. Derek was in a fragile enough state as it was without having Ian Maple cross-questioning him. As for Roger Colborn, I didn’t rate Ian a match for him. And one favour I did owe Denis was to avoid dragging another member of his family into my troubles. If I could.

  The light was already failing as I trailed back towards the Sea Air. I’d just about concluded that there wasn’t enough time to have another go at Dr. Kilner, when I reached St. James’s Street and spotted a bus bound for Hove bearing down on me. A sprint to the next stop got me aboard with just enough breath to ask the driver if he was going along Cromwell Road. And since he was…I paid my fare and sat down.

  As soon as I’d got my breath back, I phoned Brian.

  “How’d it go with Ian Maple, Toby?”

  “As well as could be expected, given that you’d told him I knew what Denis was mixed up in.”

  “I didn’t have much choice once I’d listened to the tape. Besides, you do know, don’t you? That’s the vibe I’m getting.”

  “Ian’s going to get himself mixed up in it as well if he has his way. I’d like to prevent that.”

  “Can’t help you there, Toby. The guy’s entitled to ask who he likes what he likes. This is really no legitimate concern of Leo S. Gauntlett Productions.”

  “Great.”

  “Sorry, but there it is.”

  “Yeah. Of course. Look—” I was going to ask him for Glenys’s mobile number, but suddenly changed my mind. What was the point now of finding out what Denis did or didn’t say to her last night? I could hardly expect her to keep Ian Maple in the dark on my account. The cards would simply have to lie as they fell. “Never mind. See you later, Brian.”

  The phone was hardly back in my pocket when it rang again. My first thought was that Brian was back on to check I hadn’t taken umbrage on a disastrous scale. I had no stand-in now, after all. But it wasn’t Brian.

  “Hi-de-hi, Tobe. Syd squeaking. Anxious to confirm you got as much as you wanted out of my old school chum, Gav of the omnipresent smile.”

  “Meeting him was a big help, Syd. Thanks for setting it up.”

  “You thinking of paying his sister a call?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Only, if you are, I suspect the encounter might go more smoothly with me riding shotgun for you. Delia and I have what you might call history.”

  “Do you really?”

  “It’s just a thought, Tobe. Could make all the difference.”

  “I’ll certainly bear it in mind.”

  “Just give me a bell whenever.”

  “Will do.” (Or, far more likely, will not do.)

  “One other thing.”

  “Yes.”

  “Aud’s suggestion, actually. But I’m all for it, natch. When are you planning to leave Brighton?”

  “Sunday.”

  “Fancy a spot of lunch before you go? Aud roasts an awesome joint, let me tell you. I could motor you over to her place and deliver you to the station afterwards. Send you off well fed and watered. Know what I mean? Chance to catch up with how the week went.”

  Sunday suddenly felt an impossibly long way off. How will the week have gone? For the moment, I couldn’t have hazarded the remotest of guesses. There seemed, however, no point in arguing. I can easily pull out nearer the time. “OK, Syd. You’re on.”

  “Grrreat.”

  Pennsylvania Court: a bland red-brick five-floor apartment block on the cusp of well-to-do and down-at-heel. I rang the bell for flat 28 and put the odds on a response at eighty-twenty. Where else would a retired academic be on a winter’s late afternoon but at home? I was right.

  “Hello?”

  “Dr. Kilner?”

  “Yes.”

  “I wonder if we could have a word. My name’s Flood.” How to talk my way in was a problem I’d failed to devise a cast-iron solution to. “The thing is—”

  “Toby Flood, the actor?”

  “Well, yes. I—”

  “Come on up.”

  The door-lock release buzzed. Obediently, I pushed and entered.

  Maurice Kilner was a short, stocky, beetle-browed man with greased hair and unfashionably thick-framed glasses. His rumpled cardigan and baggy trousers were hardly homme à la mode either. He ushered me in with a welcoming smile that never made it to his watery grey eyes. The flat was comfortable in a senior-common-room kind of way, but the furniture was generally as threadbare as its owner. There was presumably a good view of the cricket ground, though. And two shelves full of Wisdens in one of the several bookcases suggested that was a feature Kilner might well appreciate.

  Much less apparent was why he’d so readily admitted me. A fan, perhaps? Somehow, I didn’t think so.

  “Roger Colborn warned me to expect a visit from you, Mr. Flood.”

  “Did he?” (Clever old Roger.)

  “This is sooner than I anticipated, though. Do you want a drink? Scotch, perhaps?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Keeping a clear head for this evening’s performance? Very wise. You don’t mind if I have one, do you?”

  “Not at all.”

  He poured himself a large Johnnie Walker. I wondered if he was bolstering his nerves, but reckoned it more likely to be a bachelor’s early-evening habit. “When do you have to be at the theatre?” He sat down and waved me into another chair.

  “Shortly after seven.”

  “I’d better not hold you up, then. You’ve obviously come to talk to me about Colbonite.”

  “Yes. I have.”

  “What have you heard?”

  “That just about anyone who had the bad luck to work in their dyeing shop went down with bladder cancer on account of a carcinogenic curing agent. And that Roger Colborn and his father did nothing to prevent it.”

  “I was merely engaged by Colbonite to do some research for them.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m glad you do. Because that’s all it was. Research. Carried out rigorously and diligently.”

  “Research into what?”

  “The mechanics of carcinogenesis arising from exposure to aromatic amines, specifically methylated chloro-aniline—the infamous curing agent.”

  “Which you gave a clean bill of health?”

  “Of course not. It was identified as a carcinogen nearly forty years ago.”

  “Then why was Colbonite using it?”

  “Because there are no ready substitutes. It’s still in regular use today, Mr. Flood. The issue is the scale of risk. Based on the quantities involved and the working practices put in place, my findings suggested that Colbonite was not exposing its staff to unacceptable levels.”

  “How come they all wound up dead, then?”

  “‘All’ is an exaggeration. And a certain proportion of any cohort is bound t
o develop cancer. For the rest, I’d be inclined to suspect wilful disregard of safety procedures as the cause. People working in dangerous industries are often their own worst enemies, you know. You must have seen road menders operating pneumatic drills without bothering to wear ear defenders.”

  “It was their own fault, then?”

  “It’s one possibility. Another is that Colbonite was routinely using larger quantities of the substance than they declared to me. But I think that unlikely. Sir Walter Colborn was an ethical and responsible employer.”

  “What about his son?”

  “I’d say the same of him.”

  “Perhaps your research was flawed.”

  “Even more unlikely.” Kilner smiled. “Approximation may pass muster in your profession, Mr. Flood. Not in mine.”

  “Let me get this straight. Colbonite’s workers weren’t in any danger other than of their own making?”

  “I didn’t say that. I advanced their inattention to proper safety procedures as a hypothetical explanation for any disproportionate incidence of bladder cancer that medical practitioners may have detected. I say may because it’s certainly never been brought officially to my attention. Mr. Colborn has explained to me your interest in this matter. It can hardly be described as dispassionate, now can it?”

  “Can yours?”

  “By definition.”

  “How much did they pay you? How much is Roger Colborn still paying you?”

  “I was paid an appropriate fee at the time. That’s all.”

  “You don’t expect me to believe that.”

  “I can only state the facts as I know them to be.”

  “Don’t you care about the men who died?”

  “They didn’t die through any negligence on my part.”

  “You have a clear conscience, then?”

  “I do, yes.”

  “Or maybe no conscience at all.”

  Kilner sipped his whisky and smiled tolerantly at me, as if I were a student at a seminar making provocative remarks that he had no intention of being provoked by. “Roger Colborn is a businessman, Mr. Flood,” he said softly. “I recommend you do business with him.”

  I walked down to the sea front after leaving Pennsylvania Court, then headed east towards Brighton and the Sea Air. The evening was turning cold and I was grateful: I needed the chill and the darkness after my encounter with Maurice Kilner. What kind of a deal he’d done with Roger Colborn hardly mattered. He’d done one that suited him and he advised others to follow his example. Derek had suggested he might be a weak spot in Colborn’s defences, but in reality he was rock solid. And all the more contemptible because of it. I wondered if Derek had known exactly what I would find, if he had chosen Kilner as an example to me of the moral bankruptcy to which a man could be led by bargaining with the ever-eager-to-bargain Roger Colborn. It seemed all too likely. Derek had promised to give up his trickery. But maybe he didn’t regard this as trickery. Maybe this was just what came naturally.

  The show must go on. Like so many clichés, it’s horribly true. Denis had been such an amiable and popular man that everybody involved with Lodger in the Throat was depressed this evening. Badinage was absent, leaving an empty space to be filled with doleful exchanges and soulful looks. Fred’s supply of wry one-liners had dried up. Jocasta was puffy-eyed and virtually mute. Even Donohue’s egotism had failed him. But we were present and correct. We were ready to perform.

  Just after the quarter-hour call, I had a visitor to my dressing room: Glenys Williams.

  “I’m really sorry to interrupt, Toby, but I feel I ought to let you know that Ian Maple wants to see me this evening, to discuss…Denis’s state of mind last night.”

  “Did you have supper with Denis?”

  “Yes.”

  “How was he?”

  “Fine, I thought. But, looking back, I suppose he was rather on edge. He mentioned—well, implied, really—that standing in for you the night before had…got him into some trouble. He wouldn’t elaborate. But he did say…you knew all about it.”

  “I see.”

  “Yet his brother said to me on the phone this afternoon that you’d been unable to help him. So, I’m guessing you’d prefer me not to mention Denis’s remark to him.”

  “I would, yes.”

  “But doesn’t Ian have a right to know?”

  “Yes. And I’ll make sure he does know eventually. I can’t ask you to lie, Glenys, but…just for the moment…”

  “You want me to cover for you.”

  I nodded. “How about it?”

  She gave me a grim little smile. “Denis always said you were hard to say no to.”

  We performed, everyone agreed, very well, though without scaling last night’s heights. I was often distracted and fractionally slow to respond. It wasn’t so much that I couldn’t concentrate as that my concentration was elsewhere. The audience was entertained without being entranced.

  At the interval, some instinct, some impression I’d picked up, made me call the box office from my dressing room to check that Derek had collected his complimentary ticket. But no. He hadn’t.

  The second act was even more of a blur than the first, as I tried and failed to stop myself wondering between other people’s lines why he hadn’t shown up. He’d said he would be there. He’d claimed to be looking forward to it. What could have prevented him?

  The box office confirmed after I got off stage that his ticket was still lying unclaimed in its envelope. There were no messages for me. There was no word from Derek Oswin. He hadn’t come. He wasn’t going to.

  I’d arranged to meet him at the stage door twenty minutes after the curtain fell. I waited there until half an hour was up, refusing repeated invitations to adjourn with the rest of the cast to a restaurant. Then I called a taxi and headed for Viaduct Road.

  It was a quieter place late at night. The traffic still came in pulses, regulated by the lights at Preston Circus, but there was less of it. Most of the houses were in darkness. Pedestrians there were none.

  To my surprise, a light was showing at number 77, in the hall. I could see the glimmer of it through the open curtains of the sitting room. The room itself looked to be empty. I knocked at the door and waited. There was no response. Then I put the knocker to longer, heavier duty use. If Derek was asleep in bed, I didn’t mean him to stay that way.

  Still no answer. I stooped and took a squint through the letterbox. It gave me a view of the hall, the lower half of the stairs and the doorway into the unlit kitchen. Then I noticed the bulky hem of Derek’s duffel-coat hanging on its hook. He wouldn’t have gone out without it. He had to be at home.

  But then I noticed something else. Two of the balusters on the staircase were broken, their snapped halves protruding at forty-five degrees, as if they’d been kicked by somebody standing on the stairs. The same somebody, perhaps, who’d rucked up the hall rug. You couldn’t have walked across it without tripping.

  “Derek!” I shouted through the letterbox. But nothing stirred. I moved to the sitting-room window and peered in. Nothing appeared out of place, as far as I could tell, although the fact that the curtains, including the nets, were open was odd in itself. The nets had been open when Derek had slammed the window shut earlier, I remembered. Perhaps—

  He hadn’t flicked the snib back into place. I must have distracted him. And then he must have forgotten about it. The window was unlocked.

  I glanced about. There was no-one within sight. I waited for a wave of traffic to pass, then pushed up the sash. The squeal of the wood sounded loud to me, but was probably nothing unusual. After another glance along the street, I hoisted one leg over the sill and scrambled in, then closed the window behind me.

  The distinctive, indefinable scent of somebody else’s home met me, in a general silence that amplified the ponderous tick of a clock in the kitchen. My eyes adjusted to the half-light as I stood there. Then I saw Derek’s books, strewn on the floor beneath the bookcase. Nothing else in the room had b
een disturbed. But it didn’t need to have been. I knew Derek wouldn’t have done even that. He wouldn’t have creased a single page of his Tintin collection, let alone have them lying higgledy-piggledy on the floor.

  I went out into the hall and looked up the stairs. There were muddy shoe-prints on several of the treads. Derek’s? I didn’t think so. I climbed to the landing, where the light was also on. There was a bathroom and two bedrooms, the front one containing a double bed and dressing table. I guessed it had been where Derek’s parents had slept, kept by him as they’d left it. His room was to the rear, the door half-closed, a light on within.

  I pushed the door fully open. The bed hadn’t been slept in. There was a desk by the window, an ink-spotted blotter neatly positioned dead centre, between an anglepoise lamp and a globe. The drawers of the desk had been pulled open. In the centre of the room a wooden chest lay on its back, the lid open on the floor, the contents spread across the rug in front of the fireplace: a photograph album, old children’s annuals, an ancient much-loved teddy-bear and a slew of paper.

  I stood in the room, staring down at Derek’s scattered keepsakes, trying to reconstruct the events that had left these clues behind. I went back out onto the landing and looked down the stairs. The broken balusters; the rumpled rug: what did they mean? I imagined Derek answering the door to threatening strangers, retreating up the stairs, being overhauled and dragged back down, struggling and kicking. Then I saw a glint of metal on the doormat below me. I padded down the stairs for a closer look.

  It was one of Derek’s Tintin brooches, lying face down. I turned it over and Captain Haddock grinned up at me through his bushy tar-black beard. I stood up with the brooch in my hand and noted the tear in Derek’s duffel-coat where it had obviously been ripped free. The hall was narrow. It had probably happened without anyone noticing, not even Derek.

  There’d been a brief but focused search. That was clear. The bookcase and the bedroom chest and desk had been the targets. Maybe they’d found what they’d been looking for in one of them. The Plastic Men was my guess. The manuscript—and any related documents. That had to be the answer. I looked back at one of the shoe-prints on the stairs. A small, muddy oak-leaf had been trodden into the carpet. Where, I wondered, was the nearest oak tree to Viaduct Road? I didn’t know, of course. I hadn’t a clue. But there were oaks out at Wickhurst. I was sure of that.