The Dead Side of the Mike

by Simon Brett

  Frances’s father had died some twenty years previously and her mother married a charming American art dealer called Rob some four years later. They now lived in Summit just outside New York. Charles hadn’t seen them for at least ten years.

  Frances filled in the details. Apparently her mother had suffered a severe heart attack while out in the garden that morning. She was in hospital, still alive, but the doctor was afraid she might have another one. Frances was just waiting further bulletins.

  ‘It’s awful being so far away. I feel there’s something I should be doing and yet . . .’

  ‘There’s nothing you really can do, love.’

  ‘I know. I may have to go over, I don’t know, see how she is. I’m incredibly busy at school with the end of term coming up, so I don’t know if . . . Oh, it’s impossible to plan anything.’

  ‘Yes.’

  They talked further and Charles felt very close to her, as if they were still properly married. In a crisis they were. He felt he needed to be near her, to protect her.

  She sounded calmer, talking to him had helped. She said they’d better get off the line in case Rob was trying to ring through.

  ‘Is there anything I can do, love?’

  ‘No, it’s all right, Charles. Just ring me. Keep in touch.’

  ‘Of course. Are you sure you don’t want me to come up to Muswell Hill and . . .’

  She paused for a moment, and then said firmly, ‘No, no, I’m okay. Just ring me in the morning.’ And she rang off.

  He topped up his whisky level straight from the bottle and went to bed. Rather to his surprise, sleep came. But dreams came too. He was in an American hospital like something out of Dr Kildare. On a stark white bed, with her wrists being systematically bled into huge transfusion bottles, lay Andrea. But her face was Juliet’s.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  HE WAS WOKEN by a Swede thumping on his door. He had slept late. Half past ten. He must have been exhausted.

  ‘Telephone. Telephone,’ sang the voice outside. He staggered out. A lardy Swede in a blue nylon quilted housecoat scurried upstairs, mortally shocked by the sight of his pyjamas.

  He picked up the dangling receiver and said a gravel-voiced ‘Hello’. Always good at Orson Welles impressions first thing in the morning.

  ‘Charles, it’s me, Maurice. How are you, dear boy?’ His agent. The ‘dear boy’ assorted ill with the shabbiness of Maurice Skellern’s outfit.

  ‘Not so bad. What is it?’ It was almost unprecedented for Maurice to ring. It certainly couldn’t be that the agent had actually found a job for him; that never happened; someone must have rung in an enquiry.

  And so it proved. ‘Listen, Charles, something I’ve been hoping for’s come up. Part in a radio thing. Sit. com. called . . .’ A note was consulted. ‘. . . Dad’s the Word. Not a big part, but a nice little cameo. Thought it could be right up your street. I was glad to get the call, because it means my new policy’s paying off.’

  ‘Policy?’ asked Charles drily.

  ‘Yes, you know, I keep mentioning your name around when I hear series are coming up and . . .’

  ‘Sure.’ Charles was used to Maurice’s protestations of how much work he did for his clients. And equally used to the fact that he never did anything at all. This booking was obviously a result of Charles’s meeting with Nick Monckton the night before. Maurice, as usual, had had nothing to do with it. What surprised Charles, though, was the promptness of reaction. Nick must have put the call through as soon as he got in. And of course he’d been going straight in to rehearse an episode of Dad’s the Word. God, maybe somebody hadn’t turned up that morning. ‘Is it for today, Maurice?’

  ‘Today? Good Lord, no. It’s in about ten days. Monday week. I just had a call from the producer, pleasant young man called . . .’

  Charles saved another recourse to the notes. ‘Nick Monckton.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Maurice showed no curiosity as to how Charles knew. ‘I haven’t heard from the booker yet, but he hoped they’d be through within the day. I’m not sure what they’re likely to offer. I know the rates have gone up recently, but it’s some time since you’ve done a radio, so I don’t know what your fee is.’

  ‘Well, I was in doing something yesterday and –’

  ‘What?’ Oh, damn, fatal mistake. He had been determined not to tell Maurice about the Swinburne thing. Since it had been set up privately between him and Mark, he didn’t see why he should give his agent ten per cent of a fairly modest fee for doing absolutely nothing. He always made resolutions that he would only let Maurice get commissions on things that he had personally set up. But if he were to do that, the agent would never get anything. Charles often wondered why he had an agent. But always, as on this occasion, when he heard Maurice’s aggrieved ‘What?’ down the phone, his resolution crumbled.

  ‘Oh, it was a feature on Swinburne. I was going to tell you about it.’

  ‘I see.’ Maurice sounded hurt and, to his fury, Charles felt guilty. Guilty, for God’s sake. ‘Swinburne, Swinburne . . .? That’s where they do all the operas out of doors, isn’t it?’

  ‘No, that’s Glyndebourne. Swinburne was a nineteenth-century poet of considerable lyrical virtuosity and mental confusion.’

  ‘Oh, that Swinburne,’ said Maurice, hearing the name for the first time. ‘So, well, no problem about this thing, is there? Nothing else in the diary for Monday week?’ He didn’t even pause for the answer he knew so well. ‘It’s a nine-thirty call for a lunchtime recording. You’ll be through round two.’

  ‘Only possible thing that might be a problem is that I heard last night Frances’s mother’s pretty ill in the States. I suppose if the worst happens, I might be involved in funerals and things. But can’t really predict about that. Accept, anyway.’

  ‘Right. Shall I be difficult about money?’

  ‘Not too difficult. The BBC hasn’t got any.’

  Having reminded himself of Frances’s mother, he rang the Muswell Hill number. There was no reply, which either suggested that everything was okay and Frances was at school as usual, or that the crisis had worsened and she was already on a plane across the Atlantic.

  So he rang his daughter Juliet down on her executive estate in Pangbourne. She was busy doing something with his two-year-old twin grandsons and sounded more than a little preoccupied. But yes, Mummy had heard again from Rob. It seemed that Granny’s condition had stabilised and the worries of the night before were partially allayed. So Mummy had gone off to school as usual. And yes, they were all fine and he really must come and see them soon and oh God, she’d have to ring off because Damian was about to pour a tin of Golden Syrup over Julian’s head.

  After the panic and dreams of the night before, Charles felt let down to speak to the real Juliet. She sounded as distant as ever.

  And when he spoke to Frances that evening, to confirm that there was no change in her mother’s condition, their closeness of the night before seemed to have dissipated too.

  The Paddington address was not far from Hereford Road, so Charles walked round on the Wednesday evening for his Features Action Group Sub-Committee meeting. He tried to pretend that was the reason for his going, but, self-confronted with his frequently expressed views on committees and the fact that he had never found out what this one had been assembled to discuss, admitted that really he just wanted to see Steve Kennett again.

  And maybe to find out a bit more about Andrea Gower and why a pretty girl of twenty-seven should want to kill herself.

  It was one of those big frontages with Palladian porticoes, built as family houses in more gracious days. Since now only a millionaire family could afford to live in one, they had all been converted into hotels with very British names for German tourists, private nursing homes for Arabs or, like this one, honeycombs of small flats.

  Only the name ‘Kennett’ appeared in the little window by the entry-phone button. Charles wondered for a moment if the ‘Gower’ had been removed as a prompt mark of
respect, but the dust on the plastic suggested that it had been that way for some time. He pressed the button.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘It’s Charles Paris. I’ve come for this sub-committee meeting.’

  ‘Oh.’ There was a reservation in the crackly voice. ‘Oh, well you’d better come up.’ There was a buzz and he quickly put his shoulder against the door.

  Steve was standing on the second landing, holding open the front door of the flat. A heavy white-painted fire door, matching the bareness of the staircase and landings, clean and lifeless. She grinned as she saw him. ‘I’m afraid you’ve had a wasted journey.’

  ‘In what way? Have you managed to create a Features Department without me?’

  ‘No, but I’m afraid our meeting’s been cancelled. Ronnie Barron’s tied up with some farewell party he’d forgotten about and Harry Bassett’s got some emergency in Leeds. So I’m afraid it all got called off. I wanted to contact you, but no one seemed to have your phone number.’

  ‘Mark Lear would have had it.’

  ‘Yes, I didn’t ask him.’ It was said casually enough, but she hesitated and there was a slight edge to her voice.

  ‘Oh. Oh, well, thanks.’ He hesitated momentarily. ‘I’d better be off then.’

  ‘No. At least come in and have a drink, now you’ve dragged yourself all the way over here,’ she said, exactly as she should have done.

  Charles didn’t point out that ‘dragging himself all the way over’ meant a pleasant five-minute stroll, bit back his disappointment at not being able to participate in a Features Action Group Sub-Committee meeting that evening and, almost too readily, said he’d love a drink.

  The drabness of the landing was sharply contrasted by the skilful use of colours inside the flat. The walls were yellowish-brown, which offset the brightness of the multiplicity of hangings on them. Crude rugs from North Africa, bark paintings from Mexico, a blood-red shawl with mirror decoration and two Italian string-puppets in silver armour mixed with a wealth of posters and prints. Old Good Housekeeping covers, a couple of Norman Rockwells from Picture Post, a map of the world, a metal advertisement for Virol: For Anaemic Girls and, over the fireplace, a huge print of Hieronymus Bosch’s Garden of Earthly Delights. On the wall furthest away from the window, orange plastic milk crates had been stacked to make storage units for records, stereo equipment, books, telephone directories and so on. In this structure a desk surface had been cleared. A typewriter nestled there with a half-finished sheet of paper in it.

  On the tiny balcony outside the tall open window was a rich profusion of geraniums. Their dry scent permeated the room.

  The lack of co-ordination amongst the objects in the room should have made for a terrible mess, but they had been disposed with such skill that it worked.

  ‘I’m afraid I can only offer you wine,’ said Steve, picking up a one-and-a-half litre bottle of Frascati. ‘Just come out of the fridge, so it’s still pretty cold.’

  ‘That’s lovely. Thank you.’

  She poured him a healthy measure into a high bell-like glass and topped up her own. Then disappeared to put the bottle back into the fridge. When she came back, she raised her glass. ‘Cheers. Sorry there’s no meeting.’

  ‘I’ll survive. I hope I’m not keeping you from anything.’

  ‘No, I was just doing the odd letter. Nothing important.’

  Charles sipped the cool wine. It was pleasant sitting there with an attractive girl. Oh dear, immature again. He had seen enough of Steve to recognise that she was at ease in a man’s world, that for her being alone with a man would not carry the overtones it had for someone of his generation. A good career girl with a mind uncluttered by old sexual stereotypes. He must try to attain her maturity and not keep thinking in sexual terms. Which was easy enough to do in principle – good God, he had worked with enough women, actresses and so on, for whom he had never had the slightest sexual interest. That was easy. It was only when he fancied them that he got all these immature thoughts. And he did fancy Steve very much.

  Partly to get away from such distractions, he broached the subject of Andrea. They were going to get round to her sooner or later. Why not sooner? ‘I’m still pretty shaken by what happened last week.’

  Steve nodded. ‘So am I. It’s strange not having her around the flat. I mean, we never saw that much of each other, we led completely different social lives, but, you know, she was . . . around. I find when I go to sleep at night, I’m sort of half expecting to hear the door when she comes in. I don’t think I’ve really taken in that she’s dead.’

  ‘It must be very sad.’

  ‘I suppose so. Sad isn’t really the word, though. I haven’t felt sadness, not sort of weepy sadness. Just a strange sort of . . .’ Her hands felt for the word. ‘Disbelief. I keep thinking it didn’t really happen, that I just imagined it. And then something forces me to know, or face the fact that it is true, it did happen. And then I just get furiously angry at the injustice of it, how unnecessary it was. But I don’t feel sad. Yet. I suppose I will in time.’

  ‘How long had you known her?’

  ‘Since university. What, six, seven years. We were both at Cambridge and did lots of journalism there. That’s how we met. Then we both applied for the BBC and I was lucky and she wasn’t.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I went straight into production, got a trainee course, and she became an SM. Just luck really. We had pretty much the same qualifications.’

  ‘I don’t fully understand what you’re saying.’

  ‘Well, round that time, they were saying at the Beeb that if you wanted to get into production, the idea was to get in as an SM and then, after a little while, you’d make the jump to producing.’

  ‘But the jump wasn’t as easy as it sounded.’

  ‘Some people made it. But it was all tied in with the economic situation. The BBC was hard up, had to make economies, even cut down on staff. It meant there was less job movement, so people tended to get stuck with whatever they were doing.’

  ‘So Andrea stuck as an SM, with all the frustrations that entailed.’

  ‘Yes. I mean, she quite enjoyed it. It’s not a bad job and the people are nice, but I think she did get frustrated a lot of the time. She used to be quite ambitious. You know, in journalism. She was very intelligent.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Steve Kennett stretched her small body and blinked her enormous brown eyes. ‘I’m quite glad to talk about her, you know. I mean, just about her. At work everyone is either treading on such discreet tiptoes that they won’t even mention her name, or else gossiping so shamelessly that . . . Hmm. And when the police asked me about her, they didn’t seem to be talking about a real person, just some sort of specimen or courtroom exhibit.’

  ‘Did you have long with the police?’

  ‘I suppose so, yes. They have to, don’t they? Have to find out why. I suppose an apparent suicide could be a murder disguised.’

  ‘Could be. Did they seem to think this one was?’

  ‘Oh no. I think they were just eliminating possibilities.’

  ‘And what about you?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes. What do you think?’

  ‘You mean whether Andrea really did commit suicide or not?’

  ‘Yes.’

  This was a new idea. ‘Well, I’d assumed she did. It seemed pretty inexplicable, but I can’t really see any other explanation. Particularly when you consider the alternative. Andrea wasn’t the sort of girl who made enemies; she made friends. She had a unique ability to make friends. So no one would have had a motive to murder her. Okay, some murders are committed without motive, but they tend to be psychopathic ones and I don’t think a psychopath would have set up such an elaborately disguised crime.’

  ‘Depends on the psychopath. But no, in principle I agree with you.’ They were silent. Steve seemed to be thinking round the possibility.

  Charles continued, ‘One thing you just said interested me.
You said Andrea’s death seemed “inexplicable”.’

  ‘Yes, I meant, knowing her, it seemed very strange. She didn’t really have any reason to do it.’

  ‘The affair with Mark was completely finished, was it?’

  The brown eyes looked at him shrewdly. ‘I didn’t know you knew about that. Did he tell you?’

  Charles nodded. ‘The night she died. I had it all poured out.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure he made a meal of it. He likes doing the poor suffering misunderstood routine at the best of times. Given a real tragedy like that to be upset about, I’m sure he . . .’ She stopped apologetically. ‘I’m sorry. He’s a friend of yours.’

  ‘Yes, but don’t worry. You seem to have a fairly accurate estimate of how he works.’

  ‘Oh, he made me so angry!’ The outburst revealed a long-standing irritation. ‘Needless to say, I saw a lot of him round here while the affair was on. Well, okay, they hadn’t anywhere else to go at first and I didn’t mind. But it went on for over a year. And this flat wasn’t really designed for two, let alone three. I took Andrea in when her marriage broke up, and we got on pretty well, but I hadn’t counted on Mark mooning round trying to look attractive and interesting all the time.’

  ‘I didn’t know Andrea had been married.’

  ‘Oh yes, to Keith. A fellow SM. At least he was. He’s got an attachment.’

  The instant image was of some artificial limb or aid to continence. Charles mumbled that he was sorry to hear it.

  Steve looked at him blankly for a moment and then, when she understood, burst into an unexpectedly childish peal of laughter. ‘No, no, he’s got an attachment as a producer. He’s producing in Radio Two for six months. If it works out he might stand a chance of getting a permanent producer’s job.’

  ‘I see. I’m sorry, I still need an interpreter in BBC matters. How long were they married?’