Simon Brett - An Amateur Corpse

‘There’s a new permanent company being set up in Cardiff. Might be worth trying for that.’

‘Hardly me, is it — Cardiff? Anyway, if this voice-over business gets under way, I’m going to have to be based in London for a bit. Till I’ve made enough to keep the taxman quiet. No nice convenient little tellies coming up, are there?’

‘Haven’t heard of anything. London Weekend are supposed to be setting up a new series about Queen Victoria’s cooks, but I haven’t heard when.’

‘Then let’s live in hope of the voice-overs. I’d better get along to this place for the test. By the way, did they say what the product was?’

‘Yes. Something for… depopulation, was it?’ ‘For depopulation? You mean, like napalm?’

‘No, no. For removing unsightly hair.’

‘Depilation, Maurice.’

The new depilatory about to be launched on the armpits of the world was called No Fuzz and the selling line was ‘There’s no fuss with No Fuzz.’

Charles used his heavy cold voice again, because that was what they wanted. (If he had to keep grinding it down like that, he was going to ruin his vocal cords.) He dropped into the routine of giving every possible intonation to the new line, waiting for the fatuous notes from the account executive in charge (‘Give it a bit more brio, love’ and ‘Try it with just a smidgeonette of sex in the voice’) and let his mind wander. He couldn’t lose the suspicion that a properly programmed computer could sew up the entire voice-over business.

He was kept for an hour, told he was super and that they’d give him a tinkle. And he had earned another thirty-five pounds.

In the reception of the agency he met Diccon Hudson. Charles saw the other man’s eyes narrow at the sight of a potential rival. Diccon worked hard to maintain all his agency contacts and wouldn’t take kindly to being aced out by a non-specialist. ‘You up for the No Fuzz campaign?’ he asked directly.

‘Yes.’

‘Becoming rivals, aren’t we. First Mr. Bland, now…’

‘I haven’t necessarily got this one.’

‘No.’ Diccon Hudson seemed to gain comfort from the fact. His ferrety face could not conceal what was going through his mind.

Charles recalled suddenly that Diccon was on his list of people to check out in his investigation. ‘You heard about Charlotte?’

The name sent a spasm across Diccon’s over-expressive face. ‘I heard. I was pretty cut up about it.’

Charles nodded. ‘Terrible, yes. I suppose you hadn’t seen her for a long time.’

‘I saw her quite recently actually.’

‘Not on Monday night, I suppose,’ Charles joked, to draw Diccon out.

‘No, not on Monday night. I — ’ Diccon suddenly stopped short, as if he’d thought better of what he was going to say.

‘What were you doing on Monday night then, buddy?’ Charles dropped into a New York cop accent to take the curse off his interrogation.

‘Nothing.’ Diccon hurried on, ‘I last saw Charlotte about a fortnight ago. We used to meet for the odd lunch.’

‘Regularly?’ Charles was beginning to wonder if, in spite of Sally Radford’s recollection of the name ‘Geoff,’ there was any connection between Diccon and the dates in Charlotte’s diary.

But the theory was shattered before it was formed. ‘I was away in Crete for all of August, but I saw her a few times before and after. A few times.’ The repeat was accompanied by a smug smile, enigmatic, but probably meant to be taken as a form of sexual bragging.

‘Did Hugo know?’

Diccon gave a contemptuous shrug; the question wasn’t worth answering.

Now for Geoffrey Winter. Charles was glad that Sally had come up with the name, because it confirmed a conclusion towards which his mind had been moving.

He had decided that, if Charlotte had chosen her lover from the ranks of the Backstagers, then Geoffrey was the only candidate. Perhaps it was The Seagull which had led him to the conclusion. Trigorin. after all, was the older man who seduced Nina. Or maybe it was just that Geoffrey seemed the only one of the Backstagers sufficiently attractive and interesting to be worthy of Charlotte.

He had first got an inkling of something between the two of them at the cast party. Not that they had been together; they had been apart. They had both danced so ostentatiously, both putting on such a show with other people. There had been something studied about the way they had avoided each other. All of the rest of the cast had been constantly reforming and forming in little knots to remember some near disaster or ill-disguised corpse, but Geoffrey and Charlotte had always ended up in different groups.

So Charles liked to think that he would have looked up Geoffrey’s office address in the phone book even if Sally hadn’t mentioned the name.

When he did, the address gave him further confirmation. Listed under Geoffrey Winter Associates, Architects. And an office in Villiers Street, adjacent to Charing Cross Station and just over Hungerford Bridge from Waterloo.

The office was on the top floor. A door with a frosted glass window bore the name on a stainless steel plaque. He tapped on the window, but, getting no response, tried the handle.

The door was opened. He found himself in a small outer office. It was very tidy, box files upright in rows along the shelves, cardboard tubes of plans stacked on brackets on the walls. The colour scheme and the choice of the sparse furniture showed the same discrimination as Geoffrey’s study.

But the outer office gave no feeling of work. It was like the Meckens’ house after it had been tidied by the police — too neat to be functional.

The typewriter on the desk was shrouded in its plastic cover, as if its typist had long gone. There were no coats on the row of aluminium pegs.

But there was someone in the next room. Or presumably more than one person, because Charles could hear a voice. Talking loudly, in a rather stilted way.

He drew close to the connecting door, but couldn’t make out the words. He couldn’t even be sure that they were in English. He tapped on the door, but there was no break in the speech. He turned the handle and pushed the door open.

There was only one person in the room. The first thing Charles saw was the soles of a new pair of shoes resting on the desk. Behind them, a pair of hands holding an Arden edition of The Winter’s Tale. And behind that the surprised face of Geoffrey Winter.

‘Good God. Charles Paris.’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you come to commission me to build a second National Theatre?’

‘No such luck, I’m afraid. It’s not work.’

‘It never is.’

‘Bad at the moment?’

‘Not a good time for the architect on his own. No one’s building anything.’

‘The economic situation.’

‘Yes.’

‘Like everything else. Like why theatres are cutting down on resident companies, why managements are putting on less shows…’

This banter was conducted at a pleasant enough level, but they both knew that it was only a formal observance preceding something more important. Charles decided there was little to be gained by further prevarication. ‘I’ve come to talk about Charlotte Mecken.’

‘Ah.’ Geoffrey Winter tensed fractionally at the name, but he didn’t give anything away. Charles got the same message that he had got from the performance as Trigorin, that here was a man of considerable emotional depth, but with great control over his reactions. He did not let anything emerge until he had fully considered how he wanted to present it.

Charles had hoped for more reaction and was thrown when he didn’t get it. So he blundered on and, after a brief explanation of his belief in Hugo’s innocence, asked point blank if Geoffrey had been Charlotte’s lover.