Simon Brett - Cast in Order of Disappearance

The trouble with modern architect-designed houses on estates (what’s the alternative to an architect-designed house-a milkman-designed house? a footballer-designed house?) is that there’s no privacy. The telephone in the Taylersons’ executive home was situated in the middle of the open-plan living area, which had unimpeded access to the kitchen area, the sitting area and the upstairs area. In other words, Juliet and Miles were bound to hear every word of any telephone conversation. But there was no alternative.

The ringing tone stopped. ‘Hello.’

‘Ah, Mrs Sweet. It’s… er… Bill Holroyd.’ The old When We are Married voice.

‘Ah, Mr Holroyd.’ Interest.

‘Yes… er, the reason I’m ringing is… er… I’ve just heard about your husband…’

‘Yes.’ No emotion.

‘I wondered if… er… this changed the situation?’

‘No. You deal with me.’

‘Yes. Er… nasty business.’ No reaction. ‘This doesn’t mean that the… er… police… would… er…’

‘Don’t worry. I haven’t told them a thing.’

‘Oh good.’

‘Yes. You just give me what you owe and you’ll never hear about that particular business again.’

‘Fine. There was… er… something else. One or two of my friends were also at the party…’

‘Yes.’

‘A Mr Phillips, a Mr Cuthbertson, a Mr-’ he tried desperately to think of a name ‘-Taylerson. They… er… wondered if they featured in the photographs.’

‘Yes, I rather think they did. You’d better put them in touch with me.’

‘Yes.’ Charles was getting the information he wanted. Obviously Mrs Sweet hadn’t a clue who any of the people in the photographs were. But best to be sure. ‘Mr Taylerson in particular was anxious. He seemed to think he might feature in some pictures with a blonde girl. And a mask.’ The Steen and Jacqui photographs were the only ones that fitted the description.

‘That’s Mr Taylerson, ah.’ She didn’t know. ‘Perhaps I’d better get in touch with him. Do you know his address?’ Charles resisted the temptation to give Miles’ address, funny though the image of his son-in-law being blackmailed with dirty photographs was. ‘No, I think I’d better put him in touch with you.’

‘Yes, do that. And I’ll see you Wednesday.’

‘Yes.’

‘With the money.’

‘Yes.’

‘And…’ the voice continued with studied casualness, ‘perhaps you’d better double the money…’

‘What?’

‘Mr Holroyd, you remember yesterday afternoon?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, would you believe it, Mr Hoyroyd, there’s a camera trained on that sofa.’

‘Oh.’

‘I’m sure you wouldn’t want your wife and two lovely daughters to-’

‘No.’

‘Ten thousand then, Mr Holroyd, and you’ll have the whole album.’

‘But I-’ The line went dead. Charles felt enormous relief that he wasn’t Bill Holroyd. Bill Holroyd was a man with problems. Still, it explained Mrs Sweet’s sudden change of behaviour. Oh dear, and he’d thought it was his own animal magnetism.

Charles turned to see Miles and Juliet standing open-mouthed in the kitchen doorway. ‘Sorry about that. Talking to an actress friend. Always fool about like that. Putting on voices.

‘Yes,’ said Miles in a very old-fashioned voice. ‘I suppose a lot of that sort of thing goes on with actors and… you know. Perhaps we can go fishing now.’

‘Just one more call. Will be quick, I promise. What’s the code for Streatley from here?’

Again it was a recorded answer. Steen’s voice gave the number. ‘Marius Steen speaking. Not available at the moment. Ring later, or leave a message after this noise.’

Miles had the complete kit. Not only the shining new camouflage clothes, but various shining new containers of tackle. A waterproof khaki bag to hang from one shoulder, a long black leather rod-case to hang from the other, and an assortment of neatly dangling nets, stools and bait-boxes. As he laid out his instruments on squares of cloth like a surgeon, he said, ‘You know, Pop, fishing’s a very good relaxant. Relaxation is important to anyone in an executive position.’

They were sitting on the bank opposite Steen’s house, Miles on a new folding chair of shining chromium tubes, Charles on a relegated wooden stool. He had chosen the location deliberately, assuring Miles that it was a very promising swim, that the swirlings of the current denoted barbel pits and that the overhanging trees were a good lie for large pike. It was all nonsense, but it was in the right language and Miles was impressed.

So Charles had a good view. The bungalow didn’t look so large from the back, just discreetly expensive, a low white outline from which the lawn sloped gently down to a neat concreted waterside. To the left there was a small boat-house whose locked doors gave on to the river.

The bungalow showed no sign of life, and there had not been any when they had driven past on the road. Charles had persuaded Miles to stop and tried ringing the bell on the gate. No reply.

But somebody had been there overnight. Not only was there the evidence of the changed recording on the telephone. The puddles outside the bungalow gates showed fresh tyre-marks. Steen was certainly around somewhere; it was just a question of waiting; and, in the meantime, fishing.

‘I think the thing for these sort of conditions,’ said Miles, ‘is a swimfeeder.’

‘Ah.’

‘Yes. Quite definitely. Filled with a gentle and bread-paste mixture, with a couple of gentles on a number twelve hook, I think it’d be a cert for bream.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Yes. Or roach.’

‘Hm.’

‘Well, that’s what it recommended in this angling magazine I was reading. I reckon these are the sort of conditions it described. More or less.’

‘Yes.’ Charles flipped his line out into the water. He’d been lent an old relegated rod with two mottled bamboo sections and a greenheart tip, a plastic centre-pin reel and a yellowed quill float. He’d put a couple of maggots on a small hook. He sat and watched the quill being borne along by the current and then leaning over as it tugged at the end of the swim.

‘Have you plumbed?’ asked Miles.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Plumbed the depth of the swim. You’ll never catch anything if you don’t do that. You see, what the angler has to do with his bait is to make it imitate as nearly as possible the conditions of nature. In nature things don’t dangle awkwardly in the water. They flow, carried along by the current, a few inches above the bottom. Depending on the season, of course.’

‘Of course.’

‘Would you like a plummet? I’ve got one.’

‘No thanks. I’m trying to give them up.’

Miles was silent, preoccupied with opening his latest piece of equipment. Proudly he stripped off the packaging and screwed a limp length of fibreglass to the end of his sleek fibreglass rod. Charles looked on with an expression of distaste which Miles took for admiration. ‘Swingtip.’

‘Ah.’

‘Best sort of bite-detector for bottom-fishing.’

‘Ah.’ Charles reflected how Miles always talked out of books. His son in-law was the least spontaneous person he’d ever met. Nothing came naturally; it all had to be worked at. Whatever interest he took up, he would begin by a painstaking study of the language and then buy all the correct equipment, before he actually did anything practical. Fishing was the latest accomplishment which Miles thought the young executive should not be without.

Again Charles found himself wondering about Miles and Juliet’s sex-life. Had that been approached in the same meticulous way? ‘Well, here we are on our honeymoon, Juliet darling. What I will do, when we are in bed and an atmosphere of mutual trust and relaxation has been established, is to practise a certain amount of foreplay. This is likely to begin with a kneading or massaging of the breasts in an accelerating stroking motion. This will be followed by manual clitoral stimulation…’ The idea was intriguing. Charles wondered if he was becoming a dirty old man. But it was intriguing. Guiltily, he disguised his interest in a standard father-in-law question. ‘Miles, have you and Juliet thought of having a family?’