Simon Brett - An Amateur Corpse

He rooted through the grey-painted cupboard, shoving aside scripts, half-finished plays, empty bottles, socks and crisp packets. All he came up with was a tin of sardines without a key and a tin of curried beans.

The menu was dictated by his antiquated tin-opener, which wouldn’t grip on the sardine tin., He slopped the beans into a saucepan still furred with boiled milk from the previous week and put it on the gas-ring which was hidden discreetly behind a plastic curtain.

The curried beans didn’t improve anything. He took a long swill from the Bell’s bottle as a mouthwash. Except he didn’t spit it out.

Then he addressed his mind to thought. Serious thought. He had been in criminal situations before and he had even, by a mixture of luck and serendipity, solved crimes before. But this one mattered. He had to concentrate, sort it out. He was motivated by his affection for Hugo and his abiding sense of guilt.

His first assumption remained Hugo’s innocence. No logic for this, just a conviction.

If only he could see Hugo face to face, talk to him, ask him. Then he would know, he felt sure.

But how do you get to see a man who has just been arrested for murder? Gerald would know. All action seemed to hinge on speaking to Gerald.

Half past nine. The evening was passing, but slowly. Perhaps another generous Bell’s would speed up the process.

He looked at the floor through the slopping spirit in his glass. The image was refracted and distorted. Like his thought processes.

The obvious solution was that Hugo had killed his wife. In a wild reaction to the collapse of his dreams he had taken the terrible kamikaze course of the disillusioned romantic. ‘Yet each man kills the thing he loves…,’ as Oscar Wilde wrote in his despair.

The only way to escape the obvious, solution was to provide a feasible alternative. Either to prove Hugo was doing something else at the time that Charlotte was killed. Or to prove that someone else did it.

Charles’s brief experience of the Backstagers told him that emotions ran high in the group. Charlotte had antagonized the established stars by her success as Nina. Vee Winter, for one,, felt herself usurped by the newcomer.

But that kind of jealousy wasn’t sufficient motive for murder. A sexual impulse was more likely. A woman as beautiful as Charlotte was bound to cause reverberations wherever she went and no doubt her appearance among the Backstagers had let to the snapping-off of a few middle-aged husbands’ heads by middle-aged wives who saw eyes lingering with too much interest. Indeed, Charles had seen evidence of this with the Hobbses.

But that was still not something for which a sane person would kill.

It must be a closer attachment. Clive Steele. Charles thought back over the conversation he had heard in the car park. The young man’s passions had been demonstrably immature, but they had been strong. He was supposed to be away working in Melton Mowbray for the whole week, but it might be worth investigating his movements.

Or then again, why should the murderer have anything to do with the Backstagers? Charlotte did have other contacts. Not many but a few. Diccon Hudson, for instance. He had made some sour reference to having gone around with her before her marriage. Probably nothing there, but anything was worth looking into to save Hugo.

After all, Diccon could have been the mysterious lover of whom Hugo had spoken. Charles didn’t know whether to believe in this personage or not. It could just be a creation of Hugo’s fevered imagination. But if such a person did exist, the possible permutations of violent emotions were considerably increased.

Equally, if he did exist, Hugo’s motive for killing his wife was that much stronger. But Charles put the thought from his mind. He had to start by assuming Hugo’s innocence.

He was full of nervous excitement. He wanted to do something, get started, begin his task of atonement.

He looked at his watch. Twenty-five to eleven. Thank God, he could try Gerald again. The need to do something was now almost unbearable.

Kate, Gerald’s wife, sounded disgruntled. No, he wasn’t home yet. Yes, Charles could try again in half an hour if it was important, but not much later because she was going to bed.

Charles stood by the phone, seething with energy. There must be something else he could do. He could start piecing together Hugo’s movements from the time he left the Back Room on Monday night. Someone must have seen him leave, someone might even have walked him home. Details like that could be vital.

The only Backstager’s number he had was Geoffrey and Vee’s. Geoffrey answered.

‘Have you heard about Hugo?’

‘Yes, Charles. Horrible, isn’t it?’

‘Horrible. Look, I’m trying to find out what he did when he left the bar on Monday night.’

‘Amateur sleuth work.’

‘I don’t know. Maybe. Thing is, you’d know — who are the real barflies up at that place? Who was guaranteed to have been there at closing time and seen him go?’

‘Well, Bob Chubb’s the obvious one. He was on the bar, wasn’t he?’

‘Do you have his number?’

‘Yes, sure. I’ll get it. I — what’s that love?’ Vee’s voice was asking something in the background. ‘Just twiddle the aerial round to the right. Sorry, Charles, our television’s on the blink. Extremely unwilling to get a decent picture on BBC2. Comes of buying cheap junk. Ah, here it is.’ He gave Charles Robert Chubb’s number. ‘I only hope it bears fruit. It seems incredible, doesn’t it? The idea that Hugo… I keep thinking that it’ll all turn out to be a mistake and all be cleared up somehow.’

‘It depends what you mean by cleared up. Charlotte will still be dead.’

‘Yes.’

Robert Chubb answered the phone. His voice was bland and elocuted. When it heard who was calling, it took on a colder note. And when it heard what Charles wanted to know, it became positively snappish.

‘As I have already told the police, Mr. Mecken left the bar at about ten-thirty. On his own. I don’t really know why I should waste my time repeating this to you. I know everyone likes to see themselves as a private eye, but I really do suggest, Mr. Parrish, that you should leave criminal investigation to the professionals.’

‘And I really do suggest, Mr. Chubb, that you should do the same with the theatre.’ Charles slammed the phone down.

He was beginning to run out of small change. He rested his penultimate 10p on the slot and dialled the Gerald’s number again,

The solicitor answered, sounding formal, even pettish. ‘Oh, hello, Charles, Kate said you’d rung. Look, could you ring me later on tomorrow? I’m dog-tired. I’ve just got in and I’m sure whatever you’ve got to say will keep.

‘Gerald, it’s about Hugo.’

‘Oh. Oh yes, of course, you were with him when he found the body — or claimed to find it.’

‘Yes. How’s it going?’

‘What do you mean — how’s it going?’

‘With Hugo.’

‘Charles, I’m sorry.’ Gerald sounded exasperated and professional. ‘I know you are a friend and we are talking about a mutual friend, but I’m afraid, as a solicitor, I can’t discuss my clients’ affairs.’

‘You can tell me where he is, can’t you? Is he in prison — or where?’

‘He’ll be spending tonight in the cells at Breckton Police Station.’

‘And then what?’

Gerald sighed with annoyance. ‘Tomorrow morning he’ll appear at Breckton Magistrates’ Court where he’ll be remanded in custody. Which means Brixton. Then he’ll be remanded again every week until the trial.’

‘Hmm. When can I get to see him?’

‘See him — what do you mean?’

‘You know, see him. I want to ask him some questions.’