Simon Brett - Situation Tragedy

But he didn’t let it worry him. He didn’t let anything worry him. The Strutters was just another three months of well-paid work, and soon he’d be on to something else. The secret of Bob Tomlinson’s success and his formidable track record in sit com was his ability not to let anything get to him. He was the first person Charles had met in that world who seemed to have an accurate estimate of the value and importance of the product.

He continued to be cheerfully rude to Peter Lipscombe and continued to allow no notes to be given directly from the Producer to the artists. So there were more conversations in which people with a common language talked through an interpreter. But Peter Lipscombe’s role, which under Scott Newton’s inexperienced regime had increased, dwindled back to grinning a lot, asking everyone if everything was okay and buying drinks. Which was, after all, what he did best.

The actual recording of Episode One (or Episode Two, if you counted the pilot) of The Strutters did not go particularly well. This was in no way due to Bob Tomlinson’s direction. There was, after all, only one way to shoot a Rod Tisdale script, and that was the way he did it. All that was wrong with the evening was that the script was slightly inferior, and after all the euphoric generalisations about new eras in comedy which had followed the pilot, anticlimax was inevitable.

After the recording, Charles overheard a conversation between the writer and Director. Rod Tisdale, in a voice that almost betrayed some emotion, asked, ‘How d’you think it went?’

Bob Tomlinson shrugged. ‘All right. How does any sit com go?’

Rod Tisdale shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I reckoned there were sixty-eight jokes in that script. We only got fifty-three laughs.’

‘It’ll look fine after the sound-dub.’

‘You mean you’ll add the laughs?’

‘You bet I will. By the time I’ve finished, you won’t be able to tell the difference between this and a really funny show.’

‘I’ve always resisted having laughs dubbed on to my shows.’

‘Sod what you’ve always resisted, son. I’m directing this show and I’ll do it my way.’

Which was of course the way it would be done.

Charles decided to go up to the bar in the lift. (Though no one actually mentioned it, the fire escape had been used much less since Sadie’s death.) He had changed with his customary rapidity out of his top half (Reg the golf club barman’s legs, after their brief airing on film, had once again retreated to proper obscurity), and reckoned only Peter Lipscombe would have beaten him to the bar. Where he could once again demonstrate his skill in buying drinks.

There was an argument going on outside the lift. A small balding man with glasses, who carried a duffle bag and wore a thin checked sports jacket and a yellow nylon shirt, was being moved on by a uniformed commissionaire.

‘No, I’m sorry, sir, show’s over. I have to clear all the audience out of the building. Now come along, please.’

‘But she will see me, she will. She always does.’

‘No, I’m sorry, sir, I’ve got to clear the building. So, if you don’t mind. . If it’s an autograph you want, you’re welcome to wait outside the main door until the artists come out.’

‘I don’t want her autograph. I’ve got her autograph a thousand times over. I’ve got autographed programmes of every show she’s ever been in. I’ve collected them all.’

‘Sorry, sir, I must — ’

‘No, listen, my name’s Romney Kirkstall. She knows me. Really. You just tell her I’m here and — ’

‘She know you were coming tonight?’

‘No, she didn’t actually, but she’s always glad to see me. I come to all the What’ll the Neighbours . . recordings and — ’

‘If the lady’s not expecting you, sir, I’m afraid I must ask you to — ’

‘No, really, she will want to see me!’

Before the commissionaire could produce further verbal or physical arguments, the truth of Romney Kirkstall’s assertion was proved by the zephyrous arrival of Aurelia Howarth, saying, ‘Romney, darling, how good of you to come!’

‘You’re lucky I’m still here, Dob,’ said the little man. ‘This. . gentleman was doing his best to throw me out.’

‘I’m sorry, Miss Howarth,’ the commissionaire apologised sheepishly. ‘I didn’t know who he was. We get a lot of types wanting to worry the stars and that. I thought he might be some kind of freak.’

The wildness of Kirkstall’s appearance justified that supposition, but Aurelia cooed lightly, ‘No, no, Romney’s my most loyal fan.’

The lift arrived at that moment, so she continued, ‘Come on, darling, let’s go up and have a drink. Sorry about the mix-up.’

Charles went into the lift with them and they all arrived together in the bar. Where, predictably enough, Peter Lipscombe bought them all drinks. And he did do it very well.

Gerald Venables had once again come to the recording and Charles met him in the bar. The actor was becoming suspicious of the solicitor’s constant appearances at West End Television. Though he always claimed disingenuously he had just come to see the show, Gerald was notorious for investing in the lucrative areas of show business, and Charles wouldn’t have been at all surprised to discover he had a stake in the company. He seemed to know everyone altogether too well to be a mere casual visitor. And his constant discussions with W.E.T.’s Head of Contracts suggested more than idle conversation.

But Charles never expected to have his suspicions confirmed. Gerald was masonically secretive about his investments.

‘Still think we’re on to a winner?’ he asked ironically, after Peter Lipscombe had bought Gerald a drink too.

‘Oh yes,’ asserted the solicitor confidently. ‘Minor hiccup tonight, but it’ll be fine. Yes, this series is going to make the autumn schedules look very healthy. What with this and Wragg and Bowen, the BBC’ll be knocked for six.’

Gerald was talking so exactly like Peter Lipscombe that Charles once again suspected him of complicity with the company’s management. He seemed to know altogether too much.

But Gerald’s interest in television was subsidiary to his interest in criminal investigation. He had helped Charles on one or two cases in the past and was evidently avid for more.

‘Well? Two suspicious deaths now. What do you make of it, bud?’

‘A coincidence of two accidents, I think.’

‘Oh, come on, you can do better than that.’

‘I don’t know. I’ve thought it through a lot, but I can’t seem to get any line on it at all. Either there are two totally unrelated crimes, or only one crime and one accident, or no crimes. I can’t get any consistent motivation for anyone.’

And he gave Gerald a summary of his thinking to date. ‘The only person for whom I’ve got even a wisp of motivation,’ he concluded, ‘is dear old Bernard Walton. If he thought the future of his own series was threatened by The Strutters, then he would in theory have a motive to sabotage the show. And, if you think on those lines, it becomes significant that the two people who have died have nothing to do with What’ll the Neighbours Say? I mean, say Aurelia or George had gone, then that might jeopardise the future of the series, but as it is, there’s nothing to stop it going ahead. As indeed — and here’s the one fact that makes the whole theory crumble in ruins about my ears-it is going ahead. I’ll have to think of something else.’

‘I’ve got news for you, Charles,’ Gerald announced portentously.

‘What?’

‘I was just talking to the Head of Contracts. The proposed series of What’ll the Neighbours Say? has been cancelled.’