Simon Brett - Situation Tragedy

‘It’s self-indulgent crap. Totally wrong for this show. Don’t ever forget, what we’re making here is just a second-rate sit com, not bloody Ingmar Bergman.’

And so — not that there had ever been any doubt that he would — Bob Tomlinson won the day. All of the people who had been present at Scott Newton’s death were to be reassembled at the scene of the crime.

Charles wondered if Bernard Walton would also be there.

In the Birthday Honours, announced the next day, Aurelia Howarth was made a Dame of the British Empire. This caused considerable excitement at the Paddington Jewish Boys’ Club, which was invaded by newspaper reporters, and even had a sycophantic royal visit from Nigel Frisch.

His legs once again encased in Reg the golf club barman’s alien trousers, Charles Paris went through his second day’s filming at Bernard Walton’s house. If doing it once had been boring, doing it twice was excruciating. The only improvement on the previous occasion was that Bob Tomlinson moved a lot faster than Scott Newton. While the younger man had spent hours composing every shot, the older one just got the camera lined up and went ahead. He had a cameraman with a comparably prosaic approach to the job. The inestimable Midge Trumper had shared Scott Newton’s concern to make every frame a Rembrandt; the new man’s only worry seemed to be making sure that there was film in the camera.

The result was that the men in lumberjack checked shirts’ prospects of going into overtime faded fast. By the time they broke for lunch (pate de foie gras, steak au poivre and raspberries with — thanks to the intervention of the Union representative — a rather good 1973 Mouton Cadet), only four set-ups and a couple of establishing shots remained to be done. All Dame Aurelia Howarth’s scenes had been completed, and she and Barton Rivers had already set off in the Bentley back to London. She still looked very tired and would no doubt benefit from a half-day’s rest. The excitements of all the congratulations on her award must have added to her exhaustion.

But, though the progress of the filming was rapid and efficient, Charles made little or no progress in the business of criminal investigation. He did wander down the drive to the point where Scott’s Porsche had skidded off, but the scene of the accident told him nothing new.

Bernard Walton must have had efficient staff, because most traces of the car’s descent had been erased. Walls had been repaired, broken shrubs replaced, and scarred lawn returfed. Only the difference in colour between the old grass and the new bore witness to the spectacle of the previous week.

Charles once again weighed one of the urns in his hands. Their centre of gravity was high, so it wouldn’t take much of a nudge to shift them, but, even so, they were heavy and it would require more than a gust of wind to do the job.

He looked around the area. Maybe some vital clue remained, maybe the vital stub of a cigarette only available from a small shop in Burlington Arcade, maybe the unmistakable outline of a shoe with callipers, maybe the return half of a railway ticket to Auchtermuchty. . But he was not optimistic of finding anything. People on the whole rarely leave clues to where they have been. And, if there had been any, he felt sure the police’s more professional searches would have revealed them.

No, there was only one line of investigation open to him. And he was prevented from pursuing that by the absence of his chief suspect. Bernard Walton wasn’t there.

He arrived just as the day’s filming was finished, at about three o’clock. The Rolls scrunched to a halt on the gravel. Bernard’s powder blue leisurewear and the gleaming leather bag of clubs he removed from the back of the car revealed that he had been on the golf course. His breath revealed that he had also been in the bar.

He greeted Charles warmly. ‘Is Dame Dob around?’ he asked.

‘No. Her bits were finished early. She went off about lunchtime.’

‘Ah.’ Bernard Walton hesitated. He had had a hospitable urge, but now he knew Aurelia and Barton weren’t there, didn’t know what to do with it. ‘Are you through, too?’

‘Yes. It’s all done. The magic words, “It’s a wrap,” have been spoken.’

‘Uh-huh.’ Bernard was still undecided. But only for a moment. ‘Look, would you like to come in and have a drink?’

‘That’s very kind, but I think the coach’ll be going back shortly and. .’

‘Don’t worry about that. I’ve got to drive up to Town later. Got to go on some radio chat show. Live at ten o’clock — ugh. Bloody inconvenient, but I’d better do it.’

‘Well, in that case. .’ A snag. ‘But I’m in costume.’

‘Oh tell them you’ll take it in tomorrow.’

‘They won’t like it.’

They didn’t, but Charles was too determined to grab his chance of talking to Bernard to worry about the affronted flouncing of a dresser.

They sat by the window of Bernard’s sitting room with glasses of brandy and watched the cavalcade of buses and cars depart.

‘How’s it going?’ asked the star of What’ll the Neighbours Say? .

‘Hard to judge, really. I’m not very good at assessing comedy, least of all this sort of stuff.’

‘I think it’ll probably be very successful,’ Bernard condescended.

‘Hmm. Of course, it’s got off to rather a disturbed start. .’

But the opportunity to talk about Scott’s death was ignored. ‘You’ve heard they’re not going to proceed with What’ll the Neighbours . .’

Charles nodded. ‘Still, nice big pay-off, I gather.’

‘Yes.’ Bernard’s tone did not suggest that the money was a great comfort. ‘Oh well, maybe I should go back to the theatre. Might get a job in rep. at Cardiff,’ he suggested ruefully.

This reference to their first meeting released a variety of reminiscences. Charles played along. He wanted to bring the conversation round to the deaths of Sadie and Scott, but he had to do it gently. Also, there was something about Bernard’s manner, the way he had buttonholed Charles and insisted on his staying, that suggested he might want to unburden himself of some confidence. But it mustn’t be hurried.

It was about half-past five when Bernard suggested they should leave for Town. ‘I have a call to make on the way. It won’t take long. I hope you don’t mind.’

Charles didn’t. His social calendar was as empty as ever. Whether he arrived back at Hereford Road at seven or midnight or indeed three a.m. made little difference. He had had a vague intention to ring Frances that evening, but it’d keep.

The call Bernard had to make proved to be at a home for spastics. Charles said, no, he didn’t mind coming in with him.

It was a strange experience, prompting mixed reactions. On one level, Charles knew that it was a carefully engineered public relations exercise. He felt sure that Bernard had made his call before in other more eminent company. After all, there was little point in impressing Charles Paris with the great star’s big-heartedness. They had known each other too long. Charles knew the kind of calculation that went into everything Bernard did, and had a shrewd suspicion Bernard knew he knew.

On the other hand, it was undeniable that, whatever his motive, the star was doing good. The expressions on the distorted faces of the children he addressed spoke their welcome. And his familiarity with names and interests vouched for the regularity of such visits. As did the gratitude of the nursing staff.

Charles was brought back to a conclusion that he had often reached before: that a good action remains a good action, whatever its motivation. The fact that Bernard was making capital out of his work with the handicapped, the fact that he was very deliberately supplying a lack of natural humanity, that he was consciously building up an image of caring, and quite possibly scoring points to be recognised in some future Honours List, did not detract from the pleasure that he brought to the objects of his manufactured concern.