by Simon Brett
‘And wants to?’
‘You bet. You wouldn’t begin to believe that woman’s ambition. I used to think she was joking, some of the things she said she wanted to achieve, but now I know it’s all for real. It’d give her a bloody orgasm to be first woman Commissioner of Scotland Yard.’
‘Regardless of who gets trampled on the way . . .?’
‘Yup.’ Tears welled up in the detective’s eyes. ‘Wish I’d never met the cow. Should’ve stayed with Maureen and the kids. Now I’ve lost them, I’m permanently bloody broke, I’m put under intolerable pressure to do a whole load of stuff I don’t want to do, I’m –’
‘What kind of stuff?’
‘Oh, nothing. Doesn’t matter.’
‘And what do you feel for Sam now?’ There was a silence. ‘I mean, if she’d have you back, what would you –?’
‘Oh, I’d jump. Like a bloody rabbit. Straight back for more humiliation. When you’ve had a woman like that . . . you’re ruined. I’m still totally obsessed with her. Do anything she asks me, even if . . .’ Marchmont sighed. ‘I’m just totally fucked up.’ He brushed the back of his hand savagely against his face. ‘Come on, pour us another one.’
Charles half filled the glass and the detective downed its contents in one angry swallow.
‘When Sam walked out on you . . .’ Charles began tentatively, ‘did she walk straight in with someone else?’
‘Oh yes,’ Marchmont replied bitterly. ‘As if I needed it bloody rubbed in.’
‘Who did she move in with?’ asked Charles, feeling pretty certain he knew the answer.
He was right. ‘Ted bloody Faraday,’ said Greg Marchmont.
Chapter Nine
CHARLES’s hangover the next morning felt like he’d had a face-lift without benefit of anaesthetic. It was as if all the skin had been scoured back and twisted into a little knot of pain at the point where his spine met his skull. So tight had it been pulled that it compressed the brain agonisingly inside his cranium. His head had to be kept at a constant level and moved infinitely gently, like a conjuror’s magic ball supported on the edge of a scarf.
The knowledge that DS Greg Marchmont ought to be feeling at least as bad was small comfort. Probably he wasn’t, anyway. No doubt a whisky session like that was routine for a hard-bitten copper.
There were certain kill-or-cure options available to Charles, one of which – readily available in a hotel – was a Full English Breakfast. If he could actually get that down him, he knew it would ultimately help. But the dry nausea in his throat cast doubt on whether he could manage that pivotal first mouthful without throwing up.
So he just lay prone, sticky under the sheets, hoping for a blessed return to sleep. He’d woken at five, and deep down he knew that was it for the night. Maybe get a zizz in the afternoon if he had a few drinks at lunch-time.
That was of course another kill-or-cure option – the old ‘hair of the dog’. And it was an option that he had been resorting to too often recently. Charles felt grimly virtuous that he and Marchmont had drained the previous night’s bottle to its last bead of condensation. Otherwise he knew he’d have been straight at it again.
Anyway, he needed to sober up, not extend the binge. He was, after all, potentially working that day. Although impersonating Martin Earnshaw was not the most complex role he’d ever attempted, playing the dead man drunk might have led to serious misidentifications from the viewing public. And one of Charles Paris’s residual professional rules was not to get pissed when he was working. Well, try not to.
The thought of work prompted him to attempt getting up. Further instructions about the day’s filming, Charles told himself, might be waiting at Reception. Of course he knew that if W.E.T. really needed him they would have rung through to his room, but he did need some motivation for the potentially hazardous transition from horizontal to vertical.
It took him about an hour and it wasn’t easy. Shaving was the real killer. He finished with half a dozen cuts, his head looking, he reflected ghoulishly, rather too much like Martin Earnshaw’s might when it was finally discovered. Still, if he was required for filming that day, Make-Up could no doubt patch him up.
It was after half past ten when he got downstairs and they’d stopped serving breakfast; at least he was spared the decision about that option. There was no message for him at Reception, so presumably he’d just have to wait around the hotel until he heard something.
Charles moved through to the lounge and ordered a pot of coffee. He’d try to be strong and put off the first drink of the day as long as possible. The coffee scalded his tongue and he sat there in miserable isolation with the mortifying knowledge that he could blame no one but himself for his condition.
There was no sign of his drinking partner. Greg Marchmont had probably been on duty first thing in the morning, shaking off the night’s alcohol like the hard man he was. Oh God, thought Charles, nourishing his self-pity, I can’t even hold my liquor like other men.
The couple who came and joined him did little to lift his mood. Geoffrey Ramage and his Wardrobe girl were glowing from the effects of a major sexual work-out. The director exuded the satisfaction of proved masculinity. This was all Charles needed.
He did, however, have a small moment of revenge. Geoffrey and the girl were going through a rather coy farewell routine, about how she was going back to London on the train and how he was driving, and how wonderful it had been and how they’d hope to meet up again soon, when Charles said, ‘Oh, hadn’t you heard – we might be wanted for more filming today?’
‘What?’ Geoffrey Ramage looked shocked.
‘Had a message last night. More information from the public, I imagine. They may want us to do another reconstruction.’
‘Oh,’ said the director.
The Wardrobe girl insinuated her hand into his. ‘Might mean we have to do another overnight,’ she purred.
‘Yes,’ said Geoffrey; and then, justifiably afraid that the word hadn’t sounded very enthusiastic, repeated assertively, ‘Yes.’
But his face was a picture, and Charles Paris couldn’t help being amused by it. The director was in his late forties. He’d just given his all in a night of sexual passion, secure in the knowledge that, after fond farewells to his bit on the side, he could go home and sleep it off. Now suddenly the spectre had arisen of having to do a repeat performance.
Lunch-time arrived, and there was still no word from W.E.T.. Geoffrey Ramage went to phone Roger Parkes and came back with the news that no decision had yet been made. They were to wait in the hotel for further instructions. But if there was more filming to be done, it would definitely be after dark again.
‘Ooh,’ the Wardrobe girl giggled. ‘Sounds promising.’
Geoffrey Ramage curbed his evident irritation and smiled feebly at her. They all went through to the bar.
The eternal but regrettable fact of life was once again proved true – another drink did make Charles feel unbelievably better. Large Bell’s to jump-start the system, followed by a pint of beer to irrigate it. The idea of living another day no longer seemed inconceivable.
After a couple, they were joined in the bar by Roscoe and Marchmont. The superintendent’s ghastly leisurewear and bonhomous mood were once again in evidence, but the sergeant still seemed edgy in his superior’s presence. Marchmont looked rather the worse for wear, but made no reference to the previous evening, perhaps ashamed of having given so much of himself away to a comparative stranger.
Roscoe decided they’d go through to the dining room to eat. Geoffrey Ramage moved to join them.
‘But, Geoff,’ whispered the Wardrobe girl, ‘weren’t we going to eat on our own?’
‘No, no. No need to be antisocial,’ the director replied breezily.
The Wardrobe girl gave him a sour look as they moved through. Greg Marchmont lingered at the bar.
‘Aren’t you joining us?’ asked Roscoe.
‘No. Don’t need a full meal, just a snack. Not a big eater a
t lunch-time.’
‘Come on, come on, don’t worry about the old exes. This one’s on me, Greg.’
Reluctantly, but unable to refuse, the sergeant followed his superior through into the dining room.
It wasn’t the most convivial meal of all time. As Geoffrey Ramage responded less and less to her innuendoes, the atmosphere between him and the Wardrobe girl became distinctly frosty. Marchmont, cowed by Roscoe’s presence or perhaps embarrassed by Charles’s, was monosyllabic. Only the superintendent and the actor showed signs of animation. In Charles this was prompted by the simple blessed fact of feeling human again; what lay behind Roscoe’s good humour he had no way of knowing; but the two of them certainly did most of the talking. In their conversation Charles was quite content to take the role of feed. Roscoe liked nothing better than expatiating on his work and how skilful he was at it, so Charles obligingly prompted pontification and reminiscence.
‘What always matters . . . in police work . . . anywhere,’ the superintendent announced at one point, ‘is having the right person in charge. Leadership is what counts. If you’ve got the right person directing the skills of others, co-ordinating their talents, then you’re going to end up with an efficient operation.’
There was no doubt, from the way he spoke, that Roscoe regarded himself as ‘the right person’.
‘Are you actually in charge of the Earnshaw case?’ Charles asked obediently.
‘Well, of course, there’s a chain of command, and mine is really no more than a watching brief, but –’ The Superintendent winked knowingly ‘– let’s say not a lot happens on the case that I don’t know about . . .’
Once again, as it had in the car, this boastfulness seemed to make Marchmont uncomfortable. And once again Charles reflected how much less easy a ride Roscoe would be having were any of his other subordinates present. What was the hold the superintendent had over the detective sergeant?
‘And I think you said the whole television involvement in the case was your idea?’ Charles prompted.
‘Oh yes. You see, I recognised from the start that in this case we were up against a criminal of exceptional cunning and intelligence . . .’
This was patent nonsense. When the case first arose and Public Enemies first became involved, there was not even a definite crime to solve. To speak of profiling the criminal at that point was ridiculous. Still, Charles, blissfully marinating in more restorative beer, was content to let the self-congratulation ramble on.
‘. . . so I thought the more resources there were pitched against him, the better. Television, the best brains at Scotland Yard, everything . . . any criminal who could remain undetected by all that lot was clearly going to be something rather special.’
‘But he has actually remained undetected by all that lot, hasn’t he?’ said Charles, introducing the first contentious note into the conversation.
Superintendent Roscoe was unruffled. He smiled benificiently. ‘So it might appear, but don’t worry, everything’s in hand.’
‘And you think it’ll be the police who get him?’
‘As opposed to who?’
‘As opposed to Ted Faraday.’ A shadow passed over Roscoe ’s face at the name. ‘I mean, that challenge was put out on Public Enemies by Bob Garston, wasn’t it? Did you approve of that happening?’
‘Well, I wasn’t sure that . . .’ The superintendent recovered himself. ‘Yes, of course I approved of it. Nothing goes on that programme without my say-so.’
‘So do you think Faraday’s in with a chance of finding out anything useful?’
‘Not a snowball’s chance in hell,’ Roscoe replied complacently.
Charles remembered the fax he’d seen in the Public Enemies outer office. ‘But he’s still reporting in to W.E.T.. He says he’s gone underground here in Brighton and –’
The superintendent’s voice was heavy with contempt. ‘Ted Faraday’s idea of going underground is about as subtle as that of an ostrich. We know exactly where he’s hidden himself, don’t we, Greg?’ Marchmont looked more uncomfortable than ever at this appeal for corroboration. ‘If hiding yourself in a rented flat in Trafalgar Lane is going underground –’ The irony grew ever weightier ‘– then he’s certainly managed to vanish off the face of the earth. And what a master of disguise he is! No one in the entire country has recognised him, I’m sure.’
‘So I gather you don’t think he’s likely to solve the case?’
Superintendent Roscoe laughed heartily. ‘I don’t know if you’re a betting man, Mr Paris . . .’
‘Very occasionally.’
‘Well, I will bet you any money you care to mention that Ted Faraday will not contribute in any way to the solving of this case.’
They’d reached the end of the meal. Charles Paris felt welcome waves of drowsiness wash over him. He yawned. ‘I’m totally wasted. Let me know if there’s any summons from W.E.T.. I’m going up to my bed for an hour.’
‘Ooh, there’s a thought,’ said the Wardrobe girl winsomely. Geoffrey Ramage’s face was a study.
It was dark when Charles woke. His head still throbbed and he felt pretty grisly, but he knew it was a grisliness which would evaporate in half an hour, leaving him restored. Must watch the booze tonight, though, he thought. Don’t want to start the whole cycle up again. In fact, really, I shouldn’t have another drink today. No, I won’t. Well, I’ll try not to.
He looked at his watch. After five. Surely there wouldn’t be anything from W.E.T. so late. And somebody would have rung through to him if he had been needed.
He looked down at the telephone and, on an impulse, rang Frances’s number.
‘Hello?’ Her voice sounded furry, as thought he had woken her.
‘Hi. It’s me. Charles.’
‘Oh.’ A silence. ‘Any particular reason?’
‘No, I just, er . . . I was in Brighton and I was, er, at a loose end . . .’
‘Oh, thanks.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean . . .’
‘It’s all right. So what are you doing in Brighton – a dandruff commercial?’
‘No, no. Well, you’re close. Another of these reconstruction things.’
‘Ah.’
‘You know he’s definitely dead, don’t you? And I’m now playing the part of a murder victim.’
‘I do read the papers, Charles.’
‘Yes. Yes, of course. You getting any reflected glory? People at school saying, “Ooh, I saw your husband on telly last night, doing his well-known impression of a dismembered corpse”?’
‘I don’t think anyone at school knows you’re my husband. Half of them don’t even know I’ve got a husband. Anyway, I haven’t been in school for the last few days.’
A sudden icicle stabbed at Charles’s heart. ‘You are all right, are you, Frances?’
‘Yes, yes. I’ve just been getting overtired recently. Touch of flu. Lot of it about this time of year.’
‘Mm.’ A little silence. ‘You’re sure that there’s nothing –?’
‘Charles, Charles, I’ve got a touch of flu.’
‘Yes, OK.’
‘You’re keeping well, are you?’
‘Well . . . Rather hungover this morning, I’m afraid.’
‘So what else is new?’
Their conversation dwindled into platitudes and soon ended. Charles felt shaken as he put the phone down. Yes, of course she’d just got flu. This time. But one time it wouldn’t just be flu and . . . They were neither of them getting any younger. He was shocked by how much the thought upset him.
He needed fresh air. On his way out he asked at Reception whether there had been any message for him.
‘What name was it?’ the adenoidal girl asked.
‘Paris. Charles Paris.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m with the W.E.T. lot.’
‘What, for the filming?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ooh, there was a message about that.’
‘What? Was it on? Have they gone off to the location?’
/> ‘Erm . . .’ With infuriating slowness the girl shuffled through a pile of message slips. ‘Here we are. Message from W.E.T . . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘From the Public Enemies office.’
‘Yes . . .’
‘That’s that one with Bob Garston, isn’t it? I like that. It’s the one where –’
‘Yes, what was the message?’
“Ere, you’ve been on that, haven’t you? You’re the bloke what got killed down here.’
‘Well, I play the part of that man in the reconstructions, but I’m not –’
‘Fancy that. How spooky.’
‘What was the bloody message!’
‘All right, all right, keep your hair on.’ She consulted the slip.
‘“NO MORE FILMING. RETURN TO LONDON.”’
‘And the rest of the crew have all gone?’
‘Checked out over two hours ago.’
‘And no one thought to pass the news on to me?’
‘No.’
The girl had clearly taken a Louise Denning Correspondence Course in Tact and Diplomacy.
‘What about the police – Roscoe and Marchmont – have they gone too?’
‘Those gentlemen are still booked in.’
Charles asked whether his room was booked for another night and heard with no surprise that it wasn’t. ‘So I just have to pack my bags and go, is that it?’
‘That’s it . . .’ the girl assured him cheerfully, as she produced a printed bill, ‘. . . just as soon as you’ve settled this.’
And Charles Paris discovered how much a room-service bottle of whisky really cost. It was not a happy discovery.
He was walking disconsolately up towards the station when the headlights of a passing car illuminated a familiar figure some fifty yards away. It was Greg Marchmont, shoulders hunched, looking neither to left nor right and moving purposefully ahead. Charles could easily have caught up, but instead some instinct made him moderate his pace and trail the detective.
It seemed for a while that their destination was the same, as Marchmont strode along Queen’s Road. But when he got close to Brighton Station he veered off down the steep tunnel towards the car park entrance. Charles followed, noting with interest that they were in Trafalgar Road.