The Dead Side of the Mike

by Simon Brett

  ‘Like . . . that no studios or musicians were ever booked to produce the stuff?’

  ‘Exactly. As I say, it may just have been a random check. However, I think it more likely that your friend Andrea had something to do with it.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. Think of all the things she said about investigative journalism and being on to something big and the truth coming out. You see, I found out from Nita that Andrea actually worked on the Sounds Sympathetic music session which appeared on the Musimotive tape. She recorded it. So what I reckon happened – and this can only be a conjectural reconstruction, unless she actually spoke to anyone about it – was that she heard the tape playing somewhere – could have been anywhere – in a hotel lobby, in a lift, in a restaurant, in a store – and, with her fine musical ear, she recognised it as the session she had recorded. That’s what led her to Musimotive to try and investigate further.

  ‘I assume Fat Otto was as ignorant for her as he was for me, but she did manage to get from him a copy of the tape as evidence and also the dates of Klinger’s most recent trips to this country. Armed with that, she returned here to investigate the BBC end of the business, possibly alerting a lawyer or someone in New York to the situation and suggesting that Musimotive might bear investigation.’

  ‘So then you reckon she came home and confronted her ex-husband with her findings and he –?’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t have thought so. She had no reason to make any connection with Keith. I would think she just saw him on the night of her death and told him about her investigations. You said they were very competitive and she went to the States partly to show she could do anything he could.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it then be in character for her to crow to him about her achievements over there?’

  Steve shook her head sadly. ‘Yes, I’m rather afraid it would.’

  ‘So, as soon as she told him of the connection she was making, Keith realised he had to keep her quiet or it was only a matter of time before the investigation got to him.’

  ‘But just a minute,’ Steve objected, ‘there’s something that doesn’t work in all this.’

  ‘What?’ said Charles, slightly aggrieved to find any obstacle in the course along which he was bowling so happily.

  ‘You say that the first Danny Boy message was in the programme which went out on the night Andrea died?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, that must have taken quite a bit of preparation on Keith’s part. If he only heard about the investigation into Musimotive from Andrea, who got back into the country that day, then surely . . .’

  ‘I agree. That worried me for a bit. And I confess I haven’t got a complete answer to it. I can only assume that Keith heard about the investigation from somebody else, maybe Klinger himself.’

  ‘I suppose he must have done.’

  ‘I admit there are quite a few details which haven’t slotted into position yet, but I’m pretty certain that the outline’s right.’

  ‘It sounds very convincing. Congratulations.’ Charles glowed under her smile. ‘So what do you do next?’

  ‘I think I talk to Keith.’

  ‘Is that wise?’

  ‘I think it’ll be all right, if I do it in the right place. Anyway, I have no choice, really. Though I’m convinced I know what happened, I haven’t a shred of evidence that would stand up to serious scrutiny.’

  ‘No, I suppose not. What about the booby trap in that shed?’

  ‘I don’t think that’d be enough on its own.’

  ‘No.’ She mused. ‘One thing about that . . . why was the package full of cardboard?’

  ‘I think Keith did that to obscure the evidence. He didn’t want to leave real tapes there, only to leave something that looked sufficiently like a package of tapes for Klinger to reach forward and get it. Then if Klinger’s body was found the next morning, the package of cardboard would mean as little to the police as it did to me.’

  She nodded, smiled and stretched like a little cat. ‘Well, don’t do anything silly when you talk to Keith. I don’t like the idea of him killing two of my friends.’

  ‘No.’ Charles rose, warmed by the avowal of friendship. He looked at his watch and hesitated. ‘I must go. It’s late.’

  ‘Yes.’ She rose too.

  He went towards her and put his arms round her. It was very natural. He met no resistance.

  She was tiny without her shoes on. She laid her head against his chest and purred, ‘That’s nice.’ Echoing his thought.

  He felt very gentle and paternal. ‘How are you?’ he asked fatuously.

  ‘Not at all bad,’ she replied. ‘In fact, pretty good. I’m surviving very well.’

  ‘Surviving what?’

  ‘I mentioned a young man called Robin.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He’s been away for a month or so. He’s now been back in this country ten days. And he hasn’t phoned me.’

  ‘And that’s good news?’

  ‘That is wonderful news. You’ve no idea how good that news is.’ She looked up at him. Close to, she was all eyes. Big, brown eyes. ‘Soon,’ she said softly, ‘very soon I think I’ll be leading a normal life again.’

  ‘Good,’ he murmured. He understood her completely. She was saying, no, not now, not yet, just give me a little more time to flush Robin out of my mind. And then . . . there seemed to be a promise in her words too.

  He kissed her gently on the lips. They were soft and giving. They did not draw away from him, but he had understood her message, and kept it as just a gentle kiss.

  ‘I must go,’ he said. And went.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ‘HELLO, CHARLES, IT’S GERALD.’

  ‘Ah, hello.’

  ‘What gives?’

  ‘Gives?’

  ‘I last saw you on Wednesday, after the worst meal ever perpetrated on a human being, and you were about to charge some disc jockey with murder. Have you done so yet?’

  ‘No, Gerald. Things have moved on a bit since then. But I have the feeling they are coming to a head. A confrontation will take place this afternoon. After that, I think everything will be a lot clearer.’

  ‘Can I do anything to help? Or can we meet so that you can fill me in on the details?’

  ‘Meet, certainly.’

  ‘What, a drink this evening?’

  ‘I think I’ll need a good few, yes. If I’m still in one piece.’

  ‘Well, would you like to come to the Garrick and . . .?’

  ‘Yes, fine. Oh shit, no.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I’ve suddenly remembered, I’m booked to do some radio recording this evening. A six-to-nine booking for something called The Showbiz Quiz. I’m the Mystery Voice.’

  ‘Oh, I often wondered who it was. Well, look, why don’t I come along to the recording? You know how keenly I like to follow your career.’

  ‘Ha ha. Okay, if you can stand it, come along. It’s at the Paris Studio in Lower Regent Street. I’ll leave a ticket in your name at Reception.’

  ‘Okay. And by then you’ll have solved both the murders?’

  ‘Yes. Or I’ll be the victim of the third.’

  Charles was beginning to know his way around Broadcasting House very well; soon, he reflected, he’d be calling it BH like a native. The security man on the door seemed happy with the pink pass that Brenda had given him, so he got into the art deco lift and pressed the button for the fifth floor. Steve had been able to consult the SMs’ schedules and give him Keith Nicholls’s bookings for the day.

  They were not without irony. From two-thirty to six he was scheduled to do music editing in the very channel where his wife had died. And from nine till midnight he was booked to route the telephone calls for the Dave Sheridan Late Night Show. Charles received confirmation of the feeling that he had confided to Gerald, that things were coming to a head.

  He felt strangely calm. Although he was about to confront a do
uble murderer, he did not feel afraid. Somehow it’d work out.

  As he walked along the corridor from the old part of Broadcasting House to the Extension, he saw a familiar figure coming towards him. If he hadn’t recognised the face, he would have recognised the unnatural gloss on the toupée.

  ‘Michael Oakley, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ came the mystified reply. The American accent seemed even stronger in the flesh.

  ‘Charles Paris. We talked on the phone yesterday.’

  ‘Oh yes, I’ve just been having a meeting with Dave and his Executive Producer.’

  ‘Ah. I’d really like to take you up on that offer of following Dave around for a day.’ Difficult as it was to think beyond the next hour, Charles supposed at some point he was going to have to get together his Radio Three feature.

  ‘Sure. Whenever you like. Today he’s . . . well, he’s just gone off to the Teen Dreams office to check this week’s column, but of course he’s doing the show tonight. I’ll be along, because I’m bringing a friend who wants to take a look at the programme going out, so come then if you’d like. Studio B15. Or anytime. Give me a buzz.’

  ‘I’ll do that. Thank you.’

  Nothing in the editing channel had changed since the night of Andrea’s death, except that four new carpet tiles made an accusingly aseptic square on the floor.

  Keith was on his own. A script was open on a lectern beside him and he was cutting tape with a razor blade. He looked up as Charles came in, with his customary scowl.

  ‘Hello. Charles Paris. We met on that sit. com. I was doing the other week.’

  Keith nodded. He remembered the incident, but didn’t see its relevance.

  ‘I wanted to have a talk.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Are you busy?’

  Keith shrugged. ‘Just making cuts in these programmes for a shortened repeat. It’s not frantic.’ Then he added with resentment, ‘Notice the bloody producer doesn’t even turn up. Arrived at nearly three with the tapes and marked scripts, asking me to “use my judgment” about the edits. Huh, SMs aren’t paid enough to use their judgment. When I see wankers like that who’ve got producer’s jobs . . .’ He grimaced. What he thought about the subject was too deep for words.

  ‘I want to talk to you about copying tapes,’ Charles said bluntly. It would have been more effective if he’d said ‘I want to talk to you about your wife’s murder’, but he hadn’t quite got the confidence for such a frontal attack. Build up to it slowly.

  The effect of his remark was good enough, anyway. Keith froze for a moment, his razor blade poised in space, and then bent back to his work, saying, with an effort at casualness, ‘Oh yeah.’

  ‘Copying tapes of BBC music sessions and then selling them.’

  ‘Look, who are you? Have you been planted in this place as some sort of copper’s nark?’

  ‘No, I’ll explain my involvement in a minute. Let’s just talk about this tape-copying for a start. You’ve been warned for it before. Do you deny that you’ve been doing it recently?’

  Keith looked at him defiantly, but maybe with a hint of relief. Perhaps for a moment he had feared a more serious accusation. ‘Okay. So I’ve copied a few tapes. It doesn’t do anyone any harm. Good God, on the money they pay us, it’s hardly surprising I try to make a few bob on the side.’

  ‘I’m not talking about a few bob on the side, I’m talking about a highly organised business.’

  Keith looked at him blankly, so Charles gave a nudge. ‘I’m talking about Musimotive.’

  Keith gave a good impression of bewilderment.

  ‘Are you saying you’ve never heard of Musimotive?’

  ‘No, sure I’ve heard of it. I went to their offices when I was over in New York last autumn.’

  ‘Yes. And may I ask why?’

  ‘I’m interested in the music business. I wanted to find out how it all worked in the States. So I got names of contacts from everyone I knew and just looked around. Musimotive was pretty useless from my point of view. Just some kind of muzak outfit. I’m more interested in creative pop.’

  ‘And of course you met Danny Klinger over there.’

  ‘Yes, I think that was the guy’s name. Yes.’

  ‘Oh come on, Keith, I’m not bluffed that easily. You may not have met Danny Klinger too often face to face, but you’ve had rather a lot of indirect contact with him.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Keith Nicholls turned back to the green tape-recorder on which the razor blade that had killed his wife had been fixed. He pressed a button to spool back a reel of tape.

  Charles spoke firmly. ‘I’m talking about the deal which you set up to supply Klinger with music tapes, the sweet profitable little deal that by chance your wife Andrea found out about. Which was why you had to kill her and why you had to kill Danny Klinger.’

  Keith turned, his face red with fury. ‘What the hell are you –’ But he got no further. His words were cut off by a cry of pain. The top of one of the fast spinning ten-inch spools on the tape machine had come loose and shot off towards him, a fatal frisbee with an edge as sharp as the razor blade in his hand. With an involuntary, but life-saving, reflex, he raised his right arm to shield his face. The spinning disc sliced through the flesh on his forearm like a circular saw, was deflected by the bone and continued its career towards Charles. He just had time to duck and heard the whirring metal graze his hair before slicing through the sound-proofing fabric on the wall and falling to the ground with a diminishing clatter.

  Keith looked with horror at the gash on his arm. Its clean line was soon distorted with welling blood, which dripped from his fingers on to the new carpet tiles. ‘Good God,’ he said. ‘If I hadn’t had my arm there, it would have taken my head off.’

  Charles rushed an inadequate handkerchief to the wound. ‘Is there a doctor in this place?’

  ‘Surgery. First Floor,’ Keith replied dully, his face white with shock.

  ‘Can you walk?’

  He nodded.

  They walked along the corridor, a small cortege, dripping blood, attracting looks of amazement. As they waited for the lift, Keith asked, still without intonation, ‘What was all that about me killing Andrea?’

  Shock had stripped off all the layers of cynicism, contempt and anger; his question was simple, childlike.

  Charles pressed his accusation, gently, but firmly.

  ‘I know you did, Keith. You had to. Because she had found out about your deal with Klinger. I also know that you weren’t in the studio that night for the hour before the Dave Sheridan Show.’

  Keith looked at him and the colourless lips smiled. ‘No, I wasn’t. I was moonlighting.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Producing an album session at a studio in Berwick Street, group called Scrap Metal.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Session was from nine to one in the morning. 8, Berwick Street. Check if you like. There are six witnesses in the group and one engineer. The police have already checked it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I told them when they asked. But they agreed to keep it quiet here. Don’t want to get me into trouble. Nice of them.’

  The lift arrived and they got in. They were the only passengers. ‘Anyway,’ Keith continued softly, ‘I wouldn’t have killed Andrea. I . . . I don’t know, I always hoped, in a few years, we’d get back together again.’

  ‘Tell me,’ asked Charles abruptly, ‘have you ever known a spool to come apart like that before?’

  ‘No. I’ve heard of it happening in the old days. But now they’re firmly screwed down.’

  ‘Perhaps you got a faulty one.’

  ‘Unlikely. I’d been spooling it back and forth all afternoon and nothing happened.’

  ‘So what does that mean?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Keith looked very faint, unwilling to pursue thoughts to their logical conclusions.

  ‘That someone unscrewed it?’ Charles suggested softly. Keith
did not reply. The lift stopped. Keith staggered as he stepped out and Charles put an arm round him for support. As they walked along the corridor to the surgery he asked, ‘Did anyone have a chance to tamper with it in the course of the afternoon?’

  Keith answered as if in a trance. Each word had equal emphasis. ‘I went out to get a coffee. When I came back, there was someone in the channel I knew. He said he was looking for Dave Sheridan.’

  ‘Who was it?’ asked Charles, but he knew the answer. There was one other person who had been in Broadcasting House on the night of Andrea’s death, who had been down at Brassie’s for the Opening Nite All-Nite Disco Party, whom Charles had even met leaving the scene of his latest crime.

  Keith’s trembling answer confirmed it. ‘Dave’s agent, Mike Oakley.’

  The new casting had such a powerful effect on his script that Charles virtually reckoned he had a new play. But it was one with a much better chance of West End success than all his previous out-of-town try-outs.

  The more he thought about Michael Oakley in the leading role, the better he seemed to fit it. He had definitely been on hand to commit both murders, and probably on hand with far fewer calls on his time than any of the other suspects.

  And it was not hard to sketch in his motivation. Throughout the case Charles had been looking for someone with an American connection to explain the link with Klinger. Oakley was American by nationality. It was much more likely that he had known Klinger a long time before than that Keith should have set up their elaborate criminal connection in the course of one very brief meeting.

  Desperately Charles thought back over his conversation with Fat Otto, and, as he did so, a breathtakingly exciting new possibility suggested itself.

  Fat Otto had talked about Danny Klinger’s companion in crime back in the days when they worked in the New York radio station. Mike Fergus had been the name.

  Mike Fergus – Michael Oakley. Just a change of surname. Sufficient if you wanted to take on a new identity in a new country, though. If you wanted to hide your past.