Simon Brett - An Amateur Corpse

Charles decided that, considering how low his stock stood with the Breckton police, any alternative murder solution he took to them was going to have to be backed up by absolutely incontrovertible evidence.

There was no sign of Clive Steele in the Back Room, nor of anyone else Charles knew until Denis Hobbs came in at about half-past six. He was his usual boisterous self, though there was a slight strain beneath the bonhomie.

He had come in for a quick one on his way home from work. Charles wondered if he needed his regular drink to fortify him to face the redoubtable Mary.

They got talking naturally and Charles bought drinks. Denis had a pint, Charles a large Bell’s. After some social chit-chat, Charles said, ‘So you’ve got your man.’

Denis recoiled. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Your burglar.’

The builder’s eyes narrowed. ‘What do you know about it?’

‘I know who’s been arrested.’

Denis Hobbs looked at him steadily for a moment and then downed the remaining half of his beer. ‘We can’t talk here. Come round to my place for a drink.’

Inside, the Hobbses’ house was, decoratively, exactly what the mock-Tudor exterior with its brash stone lions would lead one to expect. The tone was set before you entered. A china plaque by the doorbell showed a little girl in a crinoline and a boy in a tasselled cap leaning forward to kiss over the legend ‘Denis and Mary live here’.

It must have been Mary’s taste. The same eyes which had chosen her turquoise trouser suit and rainbow-coloured lame slippers had certainly picked the jungle wallpaper. And the Raspberry Ripple carpet. And the green leather three-piece suite. And the miniature cluster of swords and axes tastefully set behind a red shield on the wall. And the three-foot-high china pony pulling a barrel. And the wrought iron drinks trolley with the frosted glass top and gold wheels. Denis was content to let her make decisions about such things. After all, she was the artistic one.

It was to the drinks trolley Denis went first. He poured a pink gin for his wife, a Scotch for Charles and got out a can of beer for himself. When he had poured it into his glass, he crushed the can in his huge paw. The metal flattened like tinfoil.

Mary’s greeting to Charles was distinctly frosty. She had not forgotten his reservations about her Madame Arkadina.

But Denis cut through the atmosphere by saying, ‘He knows.’

‘What?’

‘About the burglary.’

‘Oh.’ Mary looked downcast, as if rehearsing for a tragedy.

‘How did you find out?’ asked Denis.

‘I spoke to Vee on the phone this morning. She told me.’

‘Damn. I hope she’s not telling everyone.’

‘Why? What does it matter? Presumably everyone’ll know when it comes up in court.’

‘If it does come up in court. I’m trying to see that it doesn’t.’

‘I wouldn’t have thought you stood much chance. I mean, if the police picked him up, they’re going to bring charges.’

‘I don’t know. I’m going to ask them not to proceed. I’m going to stand bail for him and try to keep it as quiet as possible.’

‘But why? I mean, there’s no question as to whether he did it or not.’

‘No, he’s’ admitted it.’

‘Then why shouldn’t he pay the price of his actions?’

‘Well, he’s…’ Denis was having difficulty in framing his thoughts (or his wife’s thoughts) into words. ‘He’s a friend.’

Mary took over. ‘It’s terribly embarrassing. I mean, he’s been in and out of our house so often. This place becomes a sort of Backstagers’ annex when the Back Room closes — particularly when we’ve got a show on. Geoffrey’s a very close friend.’

‘I can see it’s embarrassing, but the fact remains that he has stolen your property.’

‘Yes, but people are so materialistic, Mr. Parrish. What’s a bit of jewellery?’ Mary sat surrounded by the fruits of middle class affluence as she posed this ingenuous query.

‘The thing is,’ Denis contributed, ‘we didn’t realize the financial state he was in. We could have helped, lent him some money or something, not driven him to this.’

‘Hardly driven. He did it of his own free will, presumably to get himself out of a spot.’ Charles was bewildered by their reactions. Instead of being affronted and disgusted by Geoffrey’s betrayal of their friendship, they were trying to justify his actions.

Mary gave Charles the patronizing smile of sainthood. ‘It may be difficult for you to understand, but we feel an enormous loyalty to Geoffrey. He is a wonderfully talented person and we just didn’t understand the terrible time he had been going through. To steal from us was a terrible lapse, which I’m sure he’s regretted bitterly, but it’s only an expression of the dark side of his impulsive artistic temperament.’

Now Charles had heard it all. That old fallacy about artists being answerable to a different code of morality from the rest of society. It was a view he had never subscribed to in the cases of the extremely talented writers and actors of his acquaintance who had tried it on, but for it to be used in the context of a moderately talented amateur was ridiculous.

Denis Hobbs nodded as his wife continued to expound her views. Charles was saddened by the sight of a man so emasculated by marriage. He wanted to get Denis on his own again and find out what the man really thought, not just hear him echoing Mary’s opinions.

‘You see, Mr. Parrish,’ she continued, ‘it’s often difficult to explain to people that we don’t just believe in materialistic values, that we have an appreciation of art — the theatre, poetry, painting.’ She gestured vaguely in the direction of a Hawaiian sunset scene luminously painted on black velvet.

‘We’ve been lucky, we’ve made a lot of money…’

Charles thought it was magnanimous of her to include Denis in this statement. She spoke of money as if it were an unfortunate skin condition. He was surprised Denis didn’t get up and knock her block off. But her husband’s brainwashing had been completed too long ago for him even to notice the slight.

‘So what we feel is, Mr. Parrish, that it’s our duty — being of limited artistic talent ourselves — ’ She simpered in expectation of some complimentary remonstrance, but then remembered Charles’s expressed view of her acting abilities and moved hurriedly on. ‘- to share some of our good fortune with more artistic people. That’s why we make this room a second Back Room and provide lots of drinks and things…’ (she couldn’t resist quantifying their altruistic generosity.) ‘… so that we can do our bit for the spread of cultural ideas, stimulate lively conversation, discussion of the arts and so forth.’

Charles began to understand her cock-eyed reasoning. Mary Hobbs saw herself as the leader of an artistic salon, the Madame de Stael of Breckton. Geoffrey Winter’s crime was just the errant behaviour of one of the young geniuses she was nurturing. In fact, it was a challenge to her values, an opportunity for her to show how far above material considerations she was.

He wondered to what extent Geoffrey had anticipated this reaction. If he had known that the theft, if it ever came out, rather than ruining him socially, might increase his stock among the Backstagers and build up his mildly roue image as a man above conventional morality, then it was not such a risk as it might have appeared.

‘Oh dear.’ Mary Hobbs gave a tragedienne’s sigh. ‘I wonder if the police will be persuaded to drop the charges against him.’

This abstraction seemed to be directed at Denis. ‘I don’t know, dear. I doubt it. But perhaps Willy will be able to get him off lightly. Our solicitor’s looking after Geoffrey,’ he explained for Charles’s benefit.