Simon Brett - Situation Tragedy

Charles, in the mellowness of the afternoon’s wine, felt confident that however the traffic was sorted out, the coach would probably he the last to leave, so he didn’t rush into it to sit and wait.

The Bentley went first, its huge power held back to cope with the dangerous curves of the hill. Aurelia turned and waved, while Barton grinned ahead. They looked like something out of a Thirties film. The noise of the engine faded quickly to silence as they passed out of sight. The steep bank cut off sound quickly and ensured that the domestic calm of the great Bernard Walton should not be disturbed by the vulgar sounds of traffic on the main road below.

Bernard himself set off next, the Rolls moving faster than the Bentley, secure in its knowledge of every contour of the steep drive. Once again the powerful engine sound died quickly.

Scott Newton moved over to the side of his Porsche, his face beaming the unrestrainable smile of a father with his first daughter. But once there he hesitated. He wanted to make a departure which would be noticed, or rather by which his car would be noticed, but he wasn’t sure how to time it.

The sight of Peter Lipscombe came to his rescue. The Producer, having checked with everyone that everything was okay, was about to get into his company BMW and return to London. Scott Newton called across to him, ‘Last one back to W.E.T.’s a sissy.’

The producer smiled. I’ll be back before you, Scott.’

‘No chance. Yours doesn’t go as fast as this.’

‘I’m not saying it does. But I know the back ways when we get to Town. You may get there first, but I’ll beat you through the rush hour. I’ve done it back from here within the hour.’

‘Want a bet on it?’

‘Fiver.’

‘You’re on.’

The Producer and Director walked towards each other and shook hands. ‘What’s more,’ said Peter Lipscombe, ‘I’m so confident I’ll beat you, that I’ll let you go first.’

Scott Newton thought for a second, but then decided to take advantage of the offer and make his exit while everyone was still watching. He leapt into the silver Porsche, gunned the engine and shot off in a burst of gravel.

The sound of the engine faded, but just before it disappeared, the note changed to a scream of metal. This was followed by a series of heavy thuds, and then a great boom which seemed to shake the hill on which the house stood.

Charles Paris reached a viewpoint of the accident a little behind the younger men who had rushed down the drive. There was no doubt what had happened.

Round one of the hairpins in the drive, an urn lay in the middle of the gravel, its bright confusion of flowers spilled in the fall. The ridges swept up by the Porsche’s tyres showed how Scott, coming on the obstruction blind and too fast, had swerved to avoid it. And how the car had got out of control.

The scarred flower beds and uprooted shrubs charted its passage down the hill. The jack-knifed TIR lorry from Spain showed what it had met when it reached the main road.

And, because there was nothing else in sight that could be it, the shapeless mass like crumpled kitchen foil must have been the silver Porsche.

West End Television Ltd,

W.E.T. House,

235-9 Lisson Avenue, London NW1 3PQ.

30th May, 1979.

Dear Charles,

Just a note to fill you in on developments on The Strutters front. Obviously we were all very shocked by what happened but we mustn’t let our imaginations run away with us. People are talking about our two misfortunes and saying they must be connected and that it’s a bad luck show and. . All rubbish! The show must go on and the show will go on. There is no danger of anything stopping the advance of this very exciting project.

I am delighted to be able to tell you that we now have a new Director for the series, and even more delighted to say that he’s Bob Tomlinson, whose work I’m sure you know from such hit series as No Kidding, O’Reilly and Truly, Last, But Not Least and, last but not least, that smashing show set in a municipal rubbish dump, Hold Your Nose and Think of England! From that list of credits, I don’t need to tell you that Bob certainly knows his stuff when it comes to sit com!

I can’t think that Bob’s going to want to make major changes to the schedule, but I’m sure you’ll hear in plenty of time if any of your calls are different. I look forward to seeing you at the read-through next Monday, 4th June, and am confident that, after this rather unfortunate start, we are going to have a really exciting and successful series.

With the warmest good wishes,

Yours sincerely,

Peter

Peter Lipscombe

Producer The Strutters

The payphone on the landing at Hereford Road rang the morning Charles received the letter. The various Swedes were out at their various Swedish occupations, so he answered it.

‘Hello, Charles, it’s Walter.’

‘Oh, hello. How are things?’

‘So-so. I hope you don’t mind my ringing, but I want to pick your brains.’

‘You’re welcome to anything you can find there.’

‘It’s a slightly ticklish thing, actually. I read in the paper about that poor boy’s terrible accident. . you know, your Director. Obviously I was terribly shocked, but I couldn’t help thinking, you know, the way one does, that that must leave your series without a Director. So I thought I might give Peter Lipscombe a buzz and see what gives, but I though I’d check with you first, just to make sure nothing’s been sorted out yet.’

Charles didn’t like the drift of the conversation, and said rather shortly, ‘I’ve just heard. We’ve got a new Director.’

‘Oh. Who?’

‘Bob. . Tomlinson I think it was.’

‘Ah, yes. He’s never out of work. Yes, of course. He would be free. He was going to do that series about the dance band called Hands Off My Maracas , but it’s been cancelled because of problems with the Musicians’ Union. Oh well, never mind. . We must meet up for a drink again sometime, maybe.’

‘Sure.’

‘And you will let me know if you hear anything coming up, won’t you?’

‘Yes. Of course.’

Charles went back into his room feeling depressed. Of course Walter had to follow up any job possibility that might emerge, but it was unpleasant to hear him reduced to the role of professional vulture. For a moment suspicion of Walter returned. Certainly he was someone who might hope to gain from Scott Newton’s death, and he’d made no secret of his resentment of the young man’s success.

But there were many arguments against casting Walter in the role of the director’s murderer. The first, and most potent, was that he hadn’t been at the scene of the crime. Short of introducing a conspiracy theory or the use of a hired killer, there was no way he could have toppled the flower urn which had caused Scott’s death.

And why should anyone want Scott dead? He had seemed pleasant enough, not the sort to raise instant antipathy like Sadie. Just an ambitious young television director with money problems.

Mind you, the money problems seemed to have resolved themselves. The new clothes, the new car. . Charles’s mind did a little spurt. Suppose Scott had witnessed the first murder and blackmailed the killer, thus providing a motive for his own death. .? Hmm, there might be something there, but there was a distinct lack of hard evidence.

And, anyway, was there even a murder to investigate? There seemed no real reason to think that the young man was the victim of anything more sinister than an accident. The police, who had made extensive investigations at the scene of his death, seemed satisfied with this solution. And, after all, a young man, flushed with success after a good day’s filming, showing off a powerful and unfamiliar car, was unlikely to be concentrating much on his driving. And the urn of flowers could have fallen of its own accord. Charles knew from having leant against one that they weren’t fixed, just balanced on the wall.