Simon Brett - Cast in Order of Disappearance

Other facts followed too. Mrs Sweet was holding out on the police. It was nonsense for her to say no one had a motive for murdering her husband. As Charles had discovered, she knew about the Sally Nash party photographs. All she had to do was to tell the police about her husband’s blackmailing activities and very soon the finger would point at Steen. For reasons of her own, she wasn’t doing that. Probably just didn’t want to lose a profitable business.

But the most chilling deduction from the fact of Bill Sweet’s murder was the immediate danger to Jacqui. If he’d shoot one person who challenged him, Marius Steen would do the same to anyone else he thought represented the same threat. He’d tried to frighten Jacqui off with the telephone messages and vicious note, but if she persisted

… Charles shivered as he thought what might have happened if Jacqui had been in the flat when her ‘visitors’ called that morning. He looked over to the child-like form on his bed and felt a protective instinct so strong he almost wept.

Confrontation with Marius Steen couldn’t wait. Charles must get down to Streatley straight away. If the man was down there… Better ring the Bayswater house to check. But he hadn’t got the number. It seemed a pity to wake Jacqui. He opened her handbag, but the address book revealed nothing.

No help for it. ‘Jacqui.’ He shook her gently. She started like a frightened cat, and looked up at him wide-eyed. ‘Sorry. Listen, I’ve been thinking. I want to get this sorted out, like as soon as possible. There’s no point in your being in this state of terror. I am going to try and see Steen tonight. Get it over with.’

‘But if he’s in Streatley-’

‘That’s all right. I don’t mind.’ He tried to sound casual, as if the new urgency was only a whim. ‘My daughter lives down that way. I wanted to go and visit her anyway.’

‘I didn’t know you’d got a daughter.’

‘Oh yes.’

‘How old?’

‘Twenty-one.’

‘Nearly as old as me.’

‘Yes.’

‘Like me?’

‘Hardly. Safely married at nineteen to a whizz-kid of the insurance world-if that’s not a contradiction in terms. Anyway, the reason I woke you was not just bloody-mindedness. I want to ring Steen’s Bayswater place and check he’s not there. It’s a long way to go if he’s just round the corner.’

Both the phone numbers Jacqui gave were ex-directory. Charles paused for a moment before dialling the Bayswater one, while he decided what character to take on. It had to be someone anonymous, but somebody who would be allowed to speak to the man if he was there, and someone who might conceivably be ringing on a Saturday night.

The phone was picked up at the other end and Charles pressed his two p into the coin box. A discreet, educated voice identified the number-nothing more.

‘Ah, good evening.’ He plumped for the Glaswegian accent he’d used in a Thirty-Minute Theatre (‘Pointless’ — The Times). ‘Is that Mr Marius Steen’s residence?’

‘He does live here, yes, but-’

‘It’s Detective-Sergeant McWhirter from Scotland Yard. I’m sorry to bother you at this time of night. Is it possible to speak to Mr Steen?’

‘I’m afraid not. Mr Steen is at his home in the country. Can I help at all?’

Charles hadn’t planned beyond finding out what he wanted to know and had to think quickly. ‘Ah yes, perhaps you can. It’s only a small thing. Um.’ Playing for time. Then a sudden flash of inspiration. ‘We’re just checking on various Rolls-Royce owners. There’s a number-plate racket going on at the moment. I wonder if you could give me Mr Steen’s registration.’

The discreet voice did so. ‘Thank you very much. That’s all I wanted to know. I’m so sorry to have troubled you. Goodbye.’

As Charles put the phone down, he tried to work out what on earth a number-plate racket might be. It was quite meaningless, but at least he’d got the required information.

He tried the Berkshire number. The phone rang for about thirty seconds, then after a click, a voice gave the number and said, ‘This is Marius Steen speaking on one of these recorded answering contraptions. I am either out at the moment or busy working on some scripts and don’t want to talk right now. If your message is business ring the office-’ he gave the number ‘-on Monday, if it’s really urgent, you can leave a message on this machine, and if you want money, get lost.’ A pause. ‘Hello. Are you still there? Right then, after this whiney noise, tell me what it is.’ Then the tone, then silence.

The voice was striking. Charles felt he must have heard Steen being interviewed at some stage on radio or television, because it was very familiar. And distinctive. The Polish origins had been almost eroded, but not quite; they had been overlaid with heavy Cockney, which, in turn, had been flattened into a classier accent as Steen climbed the social ladder. As an actor, Charles could feel all the elements in the voice and begin to feel something of the man. He dialled the number again, just to hear the voice and find out what else it could tell him.

The message itself was odd. The first reaction to ‘if you want money, get lost’ was that Steen must be referring to potential blackmailers, but then Charles realised how unlikely that was. Any of Steen’s friends might ring him, so the message had to have a more general application. Most likely it was just a joke. After all, Steen was notorious for his success with money. And notoriously tight-fisted. Tight as a bottle-top, as Harry Chiltern had said. For him to make that sort of joke on the recording was in keeping with the impression Charles was beginning to form of his character.

And in spite of everything, that impression was good. Somehow Steen’s voice seemed to confirm Jacqui’s view. It was rich with character and humour. The whole tone of the recording was of a man who was alive in the sense that mattered, the sort of man Charles felt he would like when he met him. And yet this was also the man who had recently shot a blackmailer through the head.

Somehow even that seemed suddenly consistent. A man as big as Steen shouldn’t have to be involved with little second-rate crooks like Bill Sweet. Charles felt more hopeful about his mission, certain that when he actually got to Steen, he’d be able to talk to him and clear Jacqui from his suspicions.

He tried Juliet and Miles’ phone-number in Pangbourne, but there was no reply. No doubt out for the evening talking insurance at some scampi supper. Marius Steen might be out too, but he was bound to return at some stage, and the more Charles thought about the urgency of the situation, the more he was determined to meet the man. He said good-bye to Jacqui. She refused the cold remains of the fish and chips, so he took the whole package out to the dustbin at the front of the house (no need to worry her about the Sweet murder if she didn’t know-and it appeared she didn’t). He caught a train from Paddington to Reading, arrived there to find the last train to Goring and Streatley had gone, and, after a considerable wait, got a minicab.

It was only when he was sitting in the back of the car that he actually thought of the risk he was taking. Because of a mild affection for a tart he now seemed unable even to make love to, he was going to confront a man he knew to be a murderer with copies of the photographs for which a man had been killed. Put like that, it did sound rather silly. Fortunately, there had been time to buy a half bottle of Bell’s on the way to Paddington. Charles took a long pull. And another one.

The car drew up outside a pair of high white gates. The driver charged an enormous amount of money ‘on account of the petrol crisis’ and swore when he wasn’t given a tip to match. As the car’s lights disappeared round the corner, it occurred to Charles that he should perhaps have asked the man to wait. If Steen turned nasty, he’d be glad of a quick getaway. But the thought was too late.