Simon Brett - An Amateur Corpse

Charles prepared his getaway. He thanked Geoffrey and Vee for the meal and made for the exit, hoping that he was seeing the last of the Breckton Backstagers.

As he reached the door, he overheard a lacquered voice commenting, ‘Don’t know who he thinks he is anyway. I’ve never seen him on the television or anything.’

Charles Paris knew who they were talking about.

Hugo opened the front door. His eyes were dull and registered no surprise at the visit. He was still wearing the clothes he had had on the day before and their scruffy appearance suggested he hadn’t been to bed in the interim. The smell of whisky which blasted from him suggested that he hadn’t stopped drinking either.

‘I came round to apologize for going off like that last night.’

‘Apologize,’ Hugo echoed stupidly. He didn’t seem to know what Charles was talking about.

‘Yes. Can I come in?’

‘Sure. Have a drink.’ Hugo led the way, stumbling, into the sitting room. It was a mess. Empty whisky bottles of various brands bore witness to a long session. He must have been working through the collection. Incongruously, the scene was cosily lit by an open fire, heaped with glowing smokeless fuel.

‘Was cold,’ Hugo mumbled by way of explanation. He swayed towards the fire and removed the still burning gas poker. ‘Shouldn’t have left that in.’ He unscrewed the lead with excessive concentration. ‘Whisky?’

‘Thank you.’

Hugo slopped out half a tumbler of Glenlivet and handed it over. ‘Cheers.’ He slumped into an armchair with his own glass.

Charles took a long sip. It was welcome after the idiocies of the Critics’ Circle. ‘Where’s Charlotte?’

‘Huh. Charlotte.’ Hugo spoke without violence but with great bitterness. ‘Charlotte’s finished.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Charlotte — finished. The great love affair, Charlotte and Hugo — over.’

‘You mean she’s left you?’

‘Not here.’ Hugo was almost incoherent.

‘She wasn’t here when you got back last night?’

‘Not here.’

‘Where do you think she’s gone?’

‘I don’t know. To see lover boy.’

‘Is there a lover boy?’

‘I suppose so. That’s the usual story. Pretty young girl. Middle-aged husband. Don’t you read the Sunday papers?’ Hugo spoke in a low, hopeless mumble.

‘Have you been in to work today?’ Hugo shook his head. ‘Just drinking?’ A small nod.

They sat and drank. Charles tried to think of anything he could say that might be helpful. There was nothing. He could only stay, be there.

After a long, long silence, he started to feel cold. The fire was nearly dead. Charles got up briskly. ‘Where’s the coal, Hugo? I’ll go and get some more.

‘You’ll never find it. Let me. Come on, I’ll show you.’ Hugo led the way unsteadily into the kitchen. He picked up a torch and fumbled it on.

They went out of the back door. There was a shed just opposite. ‘In there,’ said Hugo.

Charles opened the door. Hugo shone the torch.

In its beam they saw Charlotte. She was splayed unceremoniously over the coal. A scarf was knotted unnaturally round her neck. She was very dead.

Charles rang the police and stayed beside Hugo in the sitting room until they arrived. Hugo was catatonic with shock. Only once did he speak, murmuring softly to himself, ‘What did I do to her? She was young. What did I do to her?’

When the police arrived, Charles steeled himself to go out once again to the coal shed. The beams of their torches were stronger and made the colour of Charlotte’s cheeks even less natural, like a detail from an over-exposed photograph.

The richness of her perfume, which still hung in the air, was sickly and inappropriate. The staring eyes and untidy spread of limbs were not horrifying; the felling they gave Charles was more one of embarrassment, as if a young girl had been sick at a party. And his impression of callowness was reinforced by the Indian print scarf over the bruised neck, like a teenager’s attempt to hide love-bites.

The bruises were chocolate brown. On one of them the skin had been broken — and a bootlace of dried blood traced its way crazily up towards Charlotte’s mouth.

Hugo remained dull and silent and Charles himself was dazed as they were driven to the police station. They were separated when they arrived and parted without a word. Each was taken into a separate interview room to make a statement.

Charles had to wait for about half an hour before his questioning began. A uniformed constable brought him a cup of tea and apologized for the delay. Everyone was very pleasant, but pleasant with that slight restraint that staff have in hospitals, as if something unpleasant is happening nearby but no one is going to mention it.

Eventually two policemen came in. One was in uniform and carried a sheaf of paper. The other was fair-haired. early thirties, dressed in a brown blazer and blue trousers. He spoke with the vestiges of a South London twang. ‘So sorry to have kept you waiting. Detective-Sergeant Harvey. Mr. Paris, isn’t it?’

Charles nodded.

‘Fine. I must just get a few personal details and then, if I may, I’ll ask a few questions about… what happened. Then Constable Renton will write it down as a statement, which you sign — if you’re happy with it. Okay?’

Charles nodded again.

‘It’s late, and I’m afraid this could take some time. Say if you’d like more tea. Or a sandwich or something.’

‘No, I’m fine, thanks.’

So it started. First, simple information, name, address and so on. Then details of how he came to know Mr. and Mrs Mecken. And then a resume of the last two days.

As he spoke, Charles could feel it going wrong. He told the truth, he told it without bias, and yet he could feel the false picture that his words were building up. Everything he said seemed to incriminate Hugo. The more he tried to defend him, the worse it sounded.

Detective-Sergeant Harvey was a good poker-faced questioner. He didn’t force the pace, he didn’t put words into Charles’s mouth, he just asked for information slowly and unemotionally. And to damning effect.

‘After your lunch on Monday you say that you and Mr. Mecken went on to a drinking club?’

‘Yes, a sort of strip joint in Dean Street.’

‘And what did you drink there?’

‘Hugo ordered a bottle of whisky.’

‘So, by the time you left there, you had both had a considerable amount to drink?’

‘I didn’t drink a great deal in the club.’ Immediately Charles kicked himself for prompting the next question.

‘But Mr. Mecken did?’

‘I suppose he had quite a bit by some people’s standards, but you know how it is with advertising people — they can just drink and drink.’ The attempt at humour didn’t help. It made it sound more and more of a whitewash.

‘Yes. But you then both returned to Breckton and continued drinking at the theatre club. Surely that made it rather a lot of alcohol, even for an advertising man.’

‘Well, yes, I agree, we wouldn’t normally have drunk that much, but you see Hugo was a bit upset and…’ Realizing that once again he had said exactly the wrong thing, Charles left the words hanging in the air.

‘Upset,’ Detective-Sergeant Harvey repeated without excitement. Have you any idea why he should have been upset?’

Charles hedged. ‘Oh, I dare say it was something at work. He was involved in a big campaign to launch a new bedtime drink — that’s what I was working on with him-and I think there may have been some disagreements over that. You know, these advertising people do take it all so seriously.’

‘Yes. Of course.’ The slow response seemed only to highlight the hollowness of Charles’s words. ‘You have no reason to believe that Mr. Mecken was having any domestic troubles?’