Simon Brett - A Comedian Dies

‘I think she’d been having boy-friend trouble,’ supplied the girl called Cookie. ‘Been having a rough time for a few months. I think she left because she wanted a bit of time to get her head together.’

‘Ah.’ Charles wouldn’t liked to have defined exactly what that meant, but he thought he got the gist of it. ‘Any idea how I can contact her?’

‘She’s left the group. Not much point in contacting her, really,’ the tallest boy insisted, seeing the available publicity about to be divided nine ways instead of eight.

‘Sure, but as I say this article’s about how groups are made up. It would be a great help if I could find her and have a chat.’

‘She won’t tell you anything shocking or awful. As I say, there wasn’t any quarrel.’

‘No, no, it’s not a muck-raking article. I’m not after that sort of thing. When did she leave you?’

‘Just after we finished our summer season in Hunstanton, couple of weeks back.’

‘Be a pity if I couldn’t contact her. Talking to an ex-member of the group would add that little something to the article, sort of extra dimension the Editor always wants. Without something different, who knows, he might not give the go-ahead for the series.’

The threat of withdrawal of publicity had the desired effect. Or rather one desired effect, in that the tallest boy gave Janine’s address. Since it was the old one, the effect was also undesired.

And left Charles no further forward. He puzzled as to how he could continue his questioning about Janine and remain in character.

But he was saved by the intervention of the girl called Polly. ‘No, that’s no good. Mike said she had moved from there.’

‘Any idea where she might have gone?’

They all shook their heads blankly.

‘You mentioned a boy-friend. Maybe I could trace her through him.’

‘None of us ever met him. She kept herself to herself. I think it must’ve been one of those very tight neurotic sort of relationships. Just the two of them in the flat, they never seemed to go out together.’

‘Hmm. So you have no other possible contact for her?’

They all shook their heads again. Then the girl called Cookie said, ‘I did once meet her mother. We were doing a date down in Croydon and had a free afternoon, so Janine suggested we went and had a cup of tea with her Mum.’

‘Do you remember the address?’

‘Yes, but I don’t think she’d have gone there now. I got the impression they’ve had a row of some sort. I think it was about the boy-friend. Janine only once mentioned him to me. Said her mother didn’t like him and, if it came to a choice between her mother and her man, it’d have to be the man.’

‘She didn’t say his name?’

‘No.’

‘Well, could you give me her mother’s address? It might be a great help.’

‘I don’t think she’d be there if they didn’t get on.’

‘If she’s broken off with the boy-friend, they might be friends again, she and her Mum.’

‘Possible.’ Cookie gave the address.

The tallest boy and the others were getting restless. ‘Look, what is all this about Janine? I thought your article was meant to be about the group as it is now.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Bob Cherry assured them. ‘Now tell me, what are your ambitions for the group over the next year?’

And, to allay their suspicions, Charles Paris condemned himself to another half-hour of corybantic aspirations.

He caught a bus from East Croydon Station. The investigation was beginning to get rather costly in travel. After paying off a few debts and building up his stock of Bell’s whiskey, the fee for The Alexander Harvey Show was almost gone. Soon he’d have to get some more work. He’d call Maurice. It wouldn’t get him a job, but it would make him feel he was doing something about it.

On the bus he thought about Janine Bentley. Strange how different people’s views of her were. From almost everyone there came this picture of the quiet little girl, possibly rather repressed, living in a claustrophobic and private relationship with the unknown boy-friend. But how did that tally with Carla Pratt’s description of the phone call to her, of this unbalanced ‘spooky’ character? Maybe Janine did have a split personality, her quiet manner hiding the seethings of a sick mind. That would make her motivation for murdering Bill Peaky much more comprehensible.

But Charles still had difficulty in relating this image of her with her appearance. He had only seen her on stage and in the publicity photographs (and had recent cause to remember how much the skills of make-up and hairdressing could falsify in such circumstances), but he had got an impression of a certain honesty in her, something that made a direct appeal to him. Not just a sexual attraction, but a warmth.

He also got the feeling that she was naturally beautiful. Though hairdressing had helped her long blonde hair to its bounce and sparkle, its luxurious abundance owed nothing to artifice. And her large blue eyes could not have been faked; they were God-given.

Yet he was looking for this girl as a murderer. All the evidence and logic pointed towards her guilt. Well, he was too old to be side-tracked by a pretty face.

The face, when he saw it, was not pretty.

He had rung the door chimes of the suburban semi where Mrs. Bentley lived and been greeted by a voice from the other side of the door. A young voice, frightened, strained. ‘What do you want?’

‘Hello, I’ve come to see Mrs. Bentley.’

‘What about?’

‘About her daughter, Janine.’

There was a pause for some reaction which he could not see. Then ‘Mrs. Bentley’s out. What was it about exactly?’

Time for a risk, or at least a shock tactic. ‘It’s about Bill Peaky.’

This time the sound of the reaction was unmistakable. A little whimper of fear.

Another silence, then the door opened a crack. It was held inside with a chain. Charles could not see the face of the person who opened it.

‘I don’t recognize you.’ There was still an undercurrent of fear, but a new note of fatalism flattened the tone.

‘May I come in and talk?’

‘I suppose it was only A matter of time before someone came,’ the voice went on. ‘I couldn’t hope to hide here forever.’

‘May I come in?’

‘Why not? You can’t do any worse.’ The door nearly closed as the chain was released, then opened.

And Charles saw the face.

It was Janine. He could recognize that. But it was a distorted Janine, almost a cartoon version. One cheek bulged sideways, pulling the face out of true. The memorable blue eyes glinted pinkly through the slits which were all the bruised eyelids left to open. The lips, puffy and cut, were slightly parted, stiff with pain, revealing the stump of a broken front tooth. Scratches carved straight roads over the irregular terrain of bruises.

But worst of all was the hair. The splendid opulence he remembered was gone. In some places it was bare to the scalp where it had been pulled out, in others straight edges showed where scissors had been enlisted to complete the destruction.

‘Good God,’ said Charles. ‘Whatever happened to you?’

‘There’s no need to make it worse by pretending you don’t know. Come inside. My mother will be back in half an hour, so you won’t have long.’

Charles stepped inside the door and the girl closed it quickly. Then she stood back. He could not take his eyes off the ruin of her face.

‘All right,’ she said defiantly. ‘Do your worst. I can’t believe that anything can hurt me more than I’ve been hurt already.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He said he would kill me. Is that why you’ve come? If it is, just make it quick.’