Simon Brett - A Comedian Dies

He took Paul Royce to the Montrose, a little drinking club round the back of the Haymarket, which was one of his regular haunts. The boy seemed subdued, almost resigned. He hadn’t asked Charles what it was all about, just followed along unquestioning.

They both drank large Scotches. Charles decided to leap in with both feet. ‘Paul, I’ve seen Janine.’

The name prompted only a slight reaction. Paul Royce seemed to be dulled by depression. ‘So?’

‘I know about you and her. I know that you were living together.’

‘So? What are you doing — taking on the role of my Moral Tutor. There’s no law against people living together.’

‘No, but there are laws against beating people up.’

This didn’t produce the shock reaction Charles had hoped for; just a sardonic smile. ‘Listen, Charles, I don’t know what your game is, but why don’t you mind your own bloody business? You know nothing about my relationship with Janine and, if I did beat her up, you can rest assured that I had a damned good reason for doing so.’

‘You mean her affair with Bill Peaky?’

This did shake the writer, but he recovered himself quickly. ‘My, you know everything, don’t you?’

‘I know quite a lot, Paul. I know, for example, that Bill Peaky was electrocuted.’

‘Yes. That’s my idea of poetic justice.’ Royce spoke with enthusiasm. ‘That’s what he deserved, the little sod. Not only did he have the nerve to reject some bloody good material I sent him, he also seduced Janine. Electrocution was too good for him.’

‘You hated him?’ Charles asked gently.

‘You bet I hated him.’

Charles paused, planning how he was going to play the scene. ‘Paul, there’s something else I know too.’

‘What?’

‘That Bill Peaky didn’t die by accident.’

‘You mean that somebody. . did away with him?’

‘Exactly that. Somebody deliberately switched the wires in the cable to his amplifier, so that his guitar would become live. Somebody who hated him very much did that. And he did it during the interval of the show that afternoon.’

Paul Royce looked at Charles blankly. It was impossible to gauge what thoughts lived behind the writer’s sleepy, depressive’s eyes. Charles pressed home his advantage. ‘I also know, Paul, that you are a hi-fi expert and would have had no difficulty in altering the wiring. I know you went backstage at the interval that day in Hunstanton. You’ve just told me how much you hated Peaky and, having seen what you did to Janine, I don’t find it difficult to believe that you are capable of killing.’

There was a long silence before Paul Royce spoke. When he did, his voice was soft, almost amused. ‘I see. So that’s it. Well, I never did. And I mean that literally too. I never did. Sure, I hated Peaky. I was delighted that he was killed. I don’t make any pretence about that. But no, I didn’t kill him.’ He mused for a moment. ‘Funny, it never occurred to me that he might have been murdered. I thought his death was just serendipity, divine intervention to show that, in spite of the bad press He tends to get these days, God still has a sense of justice.

‘However. . since you think I murdered him, I had better produce my alibi, had I not? Yes, I went backstage that afternoon in Hunstanton. I went backstage with Walter Proud, Dickie Peck and Miffy Turtle — dear God, sounds like the Seven Dwarfs. We got to Bill Peaky’s dressing room and he wasn’t there. Miffy and Walter went off to find him. I stayed in the dressing room with Dickie Peck, failing to find any subject in which we were both interested, in fact failing to find any conversation at all. I wasn’t out of his sight, though, for the whole interval. You can check, if you like.’

‘I will,’ asserted Charles vehemently, but the vehemence was reaction against the toppling of yet another of his houses of cards. Paul Royce was an unpleasant young man, he had treated Janine Bentley unforgivably, but he had not killed Bill Peaky.

A new thought suddenly came rushing into the vacuum. ‘Tell me, when Peaky came into the dressing room, were Walter and Miffy with him?’

‘No. Walter came back a few minutes later. He had been to the lavatory. Miffy didn’t come back. I got the impression he was rather. . pardon the pun. . miffed at the presence of Dickie Peck.’

‘I see. Yes, he was Peaky’s manager and just when his client was about to hit the big time. .’

‘The big boys started to move in.’ Paul Royce finished the sentence for him. He rose to his feet and spoke with heavy sarcasm. ‘Well, this has been delightful. Next time you want to accuse me of murder, don’t hesitate to get in touch. I’m afraid I must be going now. If I get into the habit of drinking whisky all afternoon, I’m going to end up as a debauched middle-aged incompetent.’

There was no mistaking the barb in that parting shot, but Charles’ mind was too full to take much notice of the unpleasant young man’s departure. Unfortunately, it wasn’t constructively full, just clogged with conflicting theories and unformed suspicions, Out of the confusion only one image was clear — Carla’s face, wracked with genuine pain. Do let me know.

Maybe another talk to the victim’s widow would clear his mind about the murder.

COMIC: I dreamt about your wife last night.

FEED: Did you?

COMIC: No, she wouldn’t let me.

When he got back to Hereford Road Charles rang Carla’s number. It was engaged. He tried again ten minutes later. With the same result. He kept trying at ten-minute intervals for over an hour. Either she was having a very long phone call or something was wrong.

He dialled the operator and asked for the line to be checked. They rang him back and said that the phone was not in use, but ‘appeared to have been left off the hook’.

Charles started to feel a little quickening of anxiety. He had seen too much of violence and its effects over the last few days. He decided to go out to Chigwell to check that all was well.

It was still a hell of a long way and the evening tubes and buses were interminably slow. As Charles joggled about in them, he tried to focus his mind on his suspicions. But names and details tangled infuriatingly like a board game, little hopeful ladders of logic counteracted by long snakes of conflicting evidence. His only constant impression was one of slight dread.

It was after nine o’clock when he reached the wrought-iron gates of the Peakys’ bungalow. The moon had taken the night off and it was dark. All the curtains at the front of the house were drawn. The distant hum of traffic on a main road served only to accentuate the local silence.

He lifted the metal latch gently and opened the gate with care. Instinctively he trod on tiptoe and left the gate ajar to avoid the slight clang of closing it. He glided up the concrete path to the front door.

There was no light showing through the wrought-iron-framed window in the door. The house seemed locked up in its own silence; nothing offered hope of any life within.

Still, it was worth ringing the doorbell to be sure. But as his finger moved towards the button, he checked it. No, not yet.

He moved back gently from the front door and looked at the. bungalow. Yes, there was a slight blur of light on the lawn to the left-hand side. Still slowly, with his weight poised on the balls of his feet, he moved round to its source.

The shaft of light came from a thin triangle at the bottom of imperfectly closed curtains. Breathing shallowly, Charles moved towards the window. He peered through.

He was looking into what must have been Bill and Carla’s bedroom. It was dominated by an enormous circular bed. But it was what he saw on the bed that snatched his breath away in shock.