Simon Brett - Cast in Order of Disappearance

It was now very cold, the night air sharp and clear. The moon was nearly full and shed a watery light on the scene. It gleamed dully from a puddle outside the gates, which were high and solid, made of interlocking vertical planks. A fluorescent bell-push shone on the stone post to the right. Charles pressed it for a long time. It was now after midnight, Steen might well be in bed.

He pressed the button at intervals for about five minutes, but there was no reaction. His quarry might not be back yet, or perhaps the bell wasn’t working. Charles tried the latch of the gate; he had to push hard but eventually it yielded.

He stood on a gravel path, looking at the house. It was an enormous bungalow, with a central block roofed in green tiles which shone in the moonlight. From this main part smaller wings spread off like the suburbs of a city. To the right there was a ramp down to a double garage on basement level. The whole building was painted the frost white of cake icing and its shine echoed the gleam of the silent Thames behind. No lights showed.

The main door was sheltered by a portico with tall columns, an incongruous touch of Ancient Greece grafted on to the sprawling modern bungalow. The door itself was of dark panelled wood with a brass knocker. Since there was no sign of a bell, Charles raised the enormous ring and let it fall.

The noise shocked him. It boomed as if the whole house was a resonating chamber for the brass instrument on the door. Charles waited, then knocked again. Soon he was hammering on the door, thud after thud, a noise fit to wake the dead. But there was nothing. The rush to Berkshire had been pointless. The photographs still bulged in his inside pocket. Marius Steen was not at home.

‘It would have all been easier, Daddy,’ said Juliet, ‘if you’d had some sort of regular job. I mean, acting’s so unpredictable.’

‘No, no, darling,’ said Miles Taylerson, judiciously, ‘not all acting. I mean there are regular jobs in acting-you know, directors of repertory companies, or in serials like Coronation Street or Crossroads.’

Charles, seated in Miles’ karate-style dressing-gown, gritted his teeth and buttered, or rather battered, a piece of toast.

‘No, but, quite honestly, Daddy, I do worry about you. I mean, you haven’t set anything aside for your old age.’

‘This is my old age, so it’s too late now,’ Charles pronounced with facetious finality.

But unfortunately that was not a conversation-stopper for Miles; it was a cue. ‘Oh I wouldn’t say that, Pop’ — Charles winced-‘I mean, there are insurance plans and pension plans for people of any age. In fact in my company we have rather a good scheme. I know of a fellow of over sixty who took out a policy. Of course, the premiums are high, but it’s linked to a unit trust, so it’s with profits.’

‘I thought unit trusts were doing rather badly,’ Charles tried maliciously, but Miles was unruffled.

‘Oh yes, there haven’t been the spectacular rises of the first few years, but we could guarantee a growth figure which more than copes with inflation. I know a case of a fellow who-’

Charles couldn’t stand the prospect of another text-book example. ‘Miles, I didn’t come down here to talk about insurance.’

‘Sorry, Pop. It’s only because we’re concerned about you. Isn’t that so, darling?’

‘Yes. You see, Daddy, Miles and I do worry. You don’t seem to have any sense of direction since you left Mummy. We’d just feel happier if we’d thought you’d made some provisions for the future.’

‘Exactly, darling. And, Pop, now you’ve got the advantage of someone in insurance actually in the family, it makes it so much easier.’

‘What? You mean it’s easier than having some creep loaded with policies pestering me at my digs-’

‘Yes.’

‘-to have a creep in the family doing exactly the same thing.’

A pause ensued. Miles went very red, muttered something about ‘things to get on with’ and left the room. Charles munched his toast.

‘Daddy, there’s no need to be rude to Miles.’

‘I’m sorry, but it is tempting.’

‘Look, he’s been jolly tolerant. You arriving completely unannounced in the middle of the night, using our house as a hotel. We might have had people staying. As it is, he’s put off his fishing so as to entertain you-’

‘That was entertainment? My God, what’s he like when he’s not making an effort?’

Juliet ignored him. ‘And I think you might show a bit of gratitude. Daddy, I do wish you’d just get yourself sorted out.’

Oh, sharper than the serpent’s tooth it is, to have an ungrateful father. But, Charles reflected, even sharper to have a middle-aged daughter of twenty-one. Where had he gone wrong, as a parent? There must have been a moment when Juliet had shown some spark of individuality which he failed to foster. Some moment when she, as a child, was on the verge of doing something wrong, and he could have fulfilled a father’s role and made her do it. But no, his daughter had always been a model of sobriety, good works and even chastity (a virgin when she married at nineteen. In 1973. So much for the permissive society.) It’s disappointing for a father.

Miles reappeared, incongruously dressed in brand-new green waders, a brand-new camouflage jacket and brand-new shapeless hat. ‘Look, Pop, sorry we got heated.’

‘No one got heated. I was just rather rude to you.

Miles laughed in man-of-the-world style. ‘Jolly good, Pop. That’s what I like. Straight talking. Eh? Look, what I wondered was, would you like to come fishing with me? Got time for a couple of hours, then a quick pint at the local, while Juliet gets the lunch. What do you say?’

‘Well, I should be-’ Charles remembered his mission.

‘We could go into Streatley, there’s a nice pub there.’

‘Oh, all right.’ It was important to get there and a lift in Miles’ odious yellow Cortina was as good a way as any other. He graciously accepted the olive branch.

Charles persuaded a rather grudging Miles that he had time for a quick bath before they left. It was still only half-past nine. Apparently it was Miles’ fishing that got them up so early. Charles wondered. To him, getting up early on a Sunday seemed sacrilegious, particularly if you had a woman around. Some of the best times of his life had been Sunday mornings. Toast, newspapers and a warm body. Not for the first time, he tried to visualise his daughter’s sex-life. It defied imagination. Perhaps a regular weekly deposit with a family protective policy and a bonus of an extra screw at age twenty-five.

As he lay in the marine blue bath (matching the marine blue wash-basin and separate lavatory), laced with Juliet’s bubble bath, Charles thought about the Steen situation. It seemed a long way away and he focused his mind with an effort. Assuming he could see Steen and hand over the photographs, it would soon be over. Now Bill Sweet was dead, there was no one else to put on the pressure. Charles conveniently put the circumstances of Sweet’s death to the back of his mind. He didn’t feel any obligation to see justice done in that matter. If Steen was a murderer, that wasn’t his business. Let the police deal with it. If they really wanted to find a motive for the murder, they should grill Mrs Sweet. She could supply them with a few answers.

But did Mrs Sweet know about Steen? Had she realised who was responsible for her husband’s death? In fact, did she know all the details of his blackmailing activities or was she just cashing in as much as possible? If Mrs Sweet was in the picture, she might continue the pressure on Steen, and that could have unpleasant repercussions for Jacqui. It suddenly became rather urgent to find out how much Mrs Sweet knew.