Simon Brett - A Comedian Dies

For once people seemed to take notice of him, or at least his words had the effect of breaking the rather eerie mood Chox had created. ‘Come along, gents, got to be closing soon,’ said the manager.

‘Yeah, I’d better go and get my gear together.’ Chox disappeared behind the curtain that led to the boxroom and lavatory.

‘Now anyone fancy coming back to my place in town for a quick nightcap?’ asked Walter Proud heartily. But his forehead was glistening with sweat and Charles could see in his eye the glint of fear. Was it just the fear of being left on his own or was there more to it?

Charles waited to see how the others reacted to the offer before he answered. A little plan was forming in his head, a plan that had absolutely nothing to do with detective work. He had noticed that Virginia Moult had come in her own car.

He also noticed with satisfaction that she declined Walter’s invitation. And, with growing satisfaction, that Miffy Turtle, Paul Royce and Steve Clinton accepted it. He looked at Lennie Barber, urging acceptance on him.

‘I may come, Walter.’ The comedian grimaced. ‘Sorry, got a touch of the old gut. I’ll be back in a min. Just got to go to the khazi.’ He moved with some pain towards the lavatory.

Charles stood in front of Virginia Moult. ‘Where the hell’s Sutton?’ he asked.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, which tube line’s it on? Which rail line? Is it near an airport? How does one get from it to anything like a civilized part of London?’

‘God, I wish I had your subtlety. Yes, all right. I’ll give you a lift.’

‘Thank you very much.’

‘Where do you live?’

‘Bayswaterish.’

‘I live in Chiswick.’

‘That sounds very nice.’ Bless you, Arthur Bell and Sons, for the silver tongue your whisky gives me. Why the hell can’t I chat women up when I’m sober? ‘I couldn’t help noticing,’ he continued while the mood was on him, ‘that you seem to be wearing a wedding ring.’

‘Funny that. Must be because I’m married.’

‘Ah. That would explain it.’

‘Yes. He’s in Rome for a month.’

‘Ah.’

‘Car’s parked just round the back of this place.’

‘Great.’ Then with a sudden access of detective conscience, ‘Must just go and have a quick word with someone. See you out there.’

‘Don’t be long. It’s late.’

As Charles pushed through the curtain to the back of the club, he met Lennie Barber emerging. ‘Better?’

‘Yeah. Bloody guts. Still, can’t complain. My usual trouble’s constipation, so I suppose this is a step in the right direction. Wish it was only a step rather than a bloody trot, though.’

‘You going back to Walter’s?’

‘Yes. Never sleep too good straight after the act.’ How considerately everyone was playing into his hands, Charles thought.

Chox Morton was packing up a small bag of electrical equipment. He jumped like a rabbit when Charles approached. ‘What do you want?’

‘Chox, you know you were talking about Hunstanton.’

‘What about it?’

‘Saying how you discussed electrocution from guitar amplifiers.’

‘So?’

‘Can you remember who actually raised the subject? Who first asked about electrocution?’

‘Here, what is this?’ Chox moved suddenly to get past, but Charles reached out quickly and grabbed the boy’s wrist.

The reaction was incredibly fast. Chox’s free hand shot out and karate-chopped at Charles forearm, numbing it and freeing him.

The roadie nursed his wrist. His thin face was tight with emotion. The sunken eyes glared feverishly. ‘Don’t you ever touch me like that.’

‘What do you mean? I just wanted to ask you a question.’

This seemed to relax him. ‘Yes. Yes, of course. I’m sorry. I. . I over-reacted. I. .’ The boy fought for coherence. ‘I’ve had some trouble in the past, with homos, know what I mean? Sorry, I just don’t like people touching me.’

‘OK. Sorry to grab you like that.’

‘Forget it.’ The roadie turned to leave.

‘All I want you to tell me is, who raised the subject of people being killed by electrocution from guitar amplifiers?’

Chox looked back at Charles, a small smile twisting his thin lips. ‘I can’t remember,’ he said, and left.

Virginia Moult’s cottage in Chiswick was neat and Victorian, like a set for one of those turn-of-the-century television series that sell so well abroad. The bedroom was the largest room, though that didn’t say much. By the time the bed had been fitted in, there wasn’t a lot of space for anything else. Which meant there was little point in standing around. Charles flopped onto the bed.

Virginia moved to the pile of wafer-thin stereo equipment, stacked like filing trays on a walnut table. ‘Do you like Music While You Work?’

‘If it’s good enough for the British Forces Network in Germany, it’s good enough for me,’ replied Charles, remembering the regular announcement on the famous radio programme.

Virginia slammed in a cassette and started to strip off. There were speakers either side of the headboard and the stereo was so good that Elton John was virtually in bed with them.

Virginia lay beside him, naked except for a silver whistle charm on a chain round her neck. That, with her large breasts and tightly prominent bottom, made her look like a gym mistress. And somehow Charles felt he was going to be put through his circuit training.

He reached over to her shoulder and crushed the duly satisfying breasts against his chest.

‘Hey, there’s no hurry,’ she said. ‘Weekend. You are hungry.’

‘Eat when I can.’

‘I, on the other hand, have regular meals.’

‘Come on, you said your husband was in Rome for a month.’

‘Yes, but he only left this morning.’

‘Ah. What do you do it for?’

‘Other men? Fatuous question.’

‘Just fun, you mean?’

‘That and. . He’s meeting his mistress in Rome.’

‘Oh.’

‘He’s a film producer. She’s in the movie. That’s part of the reason. Also I suppose there’s time passing.’

‘Cram as much experience in while you can?’

‘Guess so. Dear God, you’re a fat lot of good. When I want to go to bed with a memento mori, I’ll look for a skeleton. Tonight what I had in mind was a real, live man.’

‘Of course. Apologies for the maudlin turn of the conversation. Let’s start again.’ A pause. ‘Nice music.’

‘Yes, nice music. From my brand new stereo set-up. Very superior. And tax-deductible. Bought on the advice of one of my writers.’

‘I didn’t know writers were stereo buffs.’

‘This one is. Very deeply into it. Actually, I think he’s rather contemptuous of the stuff he recommended for me. He builds his own equipment. That’s what the real experts do. Oh yes, what he doesn’t know about plugs and transistors and amplifiers and leads isn’t worth knowing. I went round to his flat once — only once, he didn’t like people visiting, but I was curious — and, God, the great mound of hi-fl gear he’d got. Don’t know how his girl-friend put up with it — except she wasn’t around much. Off touring. Dancer or something.’

During this long, musing speech. Charles had found himself listening with mounting excitement. He could hardly find his voice to ask, ‘Which one of your writers are you talking about?’

He knew the answer before she spoke. ‘Paul Royce.’

‘You say his girl-friend was a dancer.’

‘Yes, with one of these pop modern lots. Not that I met her. He never brought her anywhere. I think they’ve broken up now, anyway.’

‘Did he ever mention her name?’

Again Virginia didn’t have to say ‘Janine’ before Charles’ thoughts started on a Cresta Run of their own.