Simon Brett - An Amateur Corpse

The bathroom did not offer much space for secrets. The pale green bath, basin, bidet and lavatory were modem and functional. Fluffy yellow towels hung from the heated rail. Only the mirror-fronted cabinet gave any opportunity for concealment.

The contents were predictable. Make-up, various creams, nail scissors, a tin of throat sweets, shampoo, an unopened box of Tampax, cough medicine, a roll of sticking plaster.

The decor of the bathroom was recent. The walls were olive green and the floor was covered with the same mustardy carpet as the bedroom. It was all very neat, very attractive, like a picture out of Homes and Gardens.

The only blemishes were two small screw-holes above the cabinet. It must have been set too high initially and been moved down to the right level for Charlotte. Maybe it had been moved when Hugo exiled himself to the other bedroom and bathroom.

Now it had been moved down, the cabinet’s bottom edges rested on the top row of white tiles which surrounded the wash-basin. As a result it was tilted slightly and there was a narrow triangle of space between it and the wall.

Charles knew there would be something in there. He didn’t know why. It was part of the understanding he was beginning to feel for Charlotte. She had been so young, so young, almost childlike in some respects. It was in character for her to have a hiding place for her Secret things, like a girl at boarding school making one ‘little corner of total privacy that the teachers would never know about. It was a way of maintaining her identity in a challenging situation.

Charles pressed his face to the wall and squinted along the gap. Then very calmly, he fished in with a pen and slid out a brown envelope. It was not sealed. As he raised it to shake out the contents, the front door-bell rang.

He shoved the envelope in his pocket and swallowed his first impulse to run and hide. After all, he wasn’t doing anything wrong. Hugo had given him the key Without prompting. He wasn’t even trespassing on his friend’s property.

He tried to calm himself with such thoughts as he walked secately downstairs, but he still felt as guilty as a schoolboy caught with an apple in his hand in an orchard.

This mood was intensified when the opened front door revealed a uniformed policeman.

‘Good afternoon, sir,’ said the policeman in a tone that indicated that he was prepared to start quite reasonably, but was ready to get tough when the need arose.

‘Good afternoon,’ Charles echoed foolishly.

‘Might I ask what you’re doing here, sir?’

‘Yes, certainly.’ Charles affected man-of-the-world affability, to which the policeman seemed immune. ‘My name’s Charles Paris. I’m a friend of Hugo Mecken. I’ve stayed here a few times. He gave me a key, actually.’ Charles reached into his pocket as if to demonstrate until he realized the fatuity of the gesture. ‘Said I could drop in any time.’

‘I see, sir.’ The policeman’s tone remained reasonable, but it had a strong undercurrent of disbelief. ‘Rather an unusual time to drop in, sir. Or haven’t you heard what’s been happening here?’

‘Oh yes, I know all about it.’ Charles replied eagerly and, as he said it, recognized his stupidity. If he’d claimed ignorance of the whole affair, he could just have walked away.

‘I see, sir. In fact, we had a call from someone in the road who had seen you go into the house and who thought, under the circumstances, it was rather odd.’

Good God, you couldn’t blow your nose in Breckton without someone seeing. There must be watchers behind every curtain. Time for a tactical lie. ‘In fact, officer, the reason I am here is that, as I say, I stayed with the Meckens a few times and on the last occasion Mrs Mecken was good enough to wash out a couple of shirts for me. Now all this terrible business has happened, I thought I’d better pick them up without delay.’

The policeman seemed to accept this. ‘And have you found them?’

‘Found what? Oh, the shirts — no, I haven’t yet. I’ve been looking around, but I’m not sure where Mrs Mecken would have put them.’

‘Ah. Well. Would you like me to accompany you round the house while you find them?’ It was phrased as a question, but it wasn’t one.

Like Siamese twins they went through the house They looked in the airing cupboard, they looked in the wardrobes. Eventually Charles produced the solution he had been desperately working out for the last few minutes. ‘Do you know, I think Mrs Mecken must have mixed them up with her husband’s clothes and put them away in his drawer.’

‘Well, sir, I dare say you’ll want to be off now.’

Charles didn’t argue.

‘And, sir, I think, if you don’t mind, you’d better give me that key. I’ll see that it gets put with the rest of Mr. Mecken’s belongings. I think, under the circumstances, with the possibility of further police investigations, the less people we have walking around this property, the better. I quite understand why you came in, sir, but if a key like this got into the wrong hands… well, who knows, it might be awkward.’

‘Of course.’ Charles had no alternative but to hand it over.

‘Thank you, sir.’ The policeman ushered him out of the front door and closed it behind them. Then he stood in the middle of the doorstep. ‘Goodbye, sir.’

Charles walked across the gravel and along the road in the direction of the station, conscious of the policeman’s eyes following him. He wasn’t going to get another chance to get inside that house without breaking and entering.

Still, the search had not been fruitless, In his pocket there was an envelope.

‘You realize it’s probably illegal,’ said Gerald grumpily. ‘It’s withholding evidence… or stealing evidence or… I’m sure there’s something they could get you for.’

Gerald was being unhelpful over the whole thing. He didn’t want to hear how Charles had spent the rest of the morning and manifested the minimum of interest in his findings. Also it was clear that he didn’t like having his friend round the Grosvenor Street office. Charles Paris was a reminder of the Mecken case and Gerald didn’t want to be reminded. He wanted to re-immerse himself in his regular work, wrangling over small clauses in film and television contracts, or even sorting out the odd divorce. Having clients charged with murder upset him; he thought it was irresponsible and didn’t want to dwell on it.

‘I don’t care,’ said Charles, ‘I think it’s important. I had a look at the book on the train, but couldn’t make much of it, so I thought two heads might be better than one. You always said you wanted to be included in any of my cases.

‘Charles, there is a difference between what one does professionally and what one does as a hobby.’ Gerald could be insufferably stuffy.

‘Murder’s a funny sort of thing to have as a hobby. Anyway, just give me five minutes of your time to look at this stuff and then I’ll leave you alone.’ Gerald looked dubious. ‘Good God, do I have to pay for your time?’

This at least brought a smile to Gerald’s lips. ‘You’d never be able to afford my rates, Charles.’

He took advantage of the shift of mood to redirect attention to the envelope on the desk. He shook it and out came a thin, blue-covered book and a beige plastic envelope. ‘Let’s concentrate on the diary first.’

He flicked through the pages. Gerald,’ in spite of himself, craned over to look. ‘Not much in it, Charles.’

‘No, that’s what makes it interesting. Why make such a palaver about hiding a book that contains so little information?’

‘Presumably because the little information it does contain is extremely secret.’