Simon Brett - Cast in Order of Disappearance

‘Of course.’ Gerald was affronted. ‘I am a solicitor.’

‘That’s what I mean. All right, I accept your offer.’

‘So there is a crime?’

‘Maybe.’

‘All right, give me the dirt.’ Gerald made no pretence of maturity now. He was an eager child. Charles remembered that Gerald had always been like that. It was the same quality that made his fascination with money so inoffensive. Not for the first time Charles reflected that growing-up is a myth; getting older is just an intenser form of childhood. ‘I’ll give you the dirt,’ he said, denying the child his treat, ‘when you tell me about the will.’

‘You bugger,’ said Gerald. But he agreed to the deal.

When the bill was brought to Charles, it was enormous. It was a long time since he’d eaten out in this style and he was shocked by the escalation of prices and VAT.

‘Think yourself lucky,’ said Gerald, as Charles counted out the notes. ‘If we hadn’t come to an agreement, you d be paying for my time as well.’

Charles didn’t tell Jacqui about their new ally in investigation when they met up that evening to report progress. He just said he’d met his solicitor friend who reckoned he could find out the details of the will.

Jacqui was in quite a state. She’d been down to Goring for Marius’ funeral, (having found out the time by ringing Morrison at Orme Gardens). At the church she’d ended up in the cliche situation of being frozen out by Marius’ relatives. It was the stereotyped picture beloved of cartoonists-the family (Nigel and a few cousins), trim in their black on one side of the grave, and the floosie (Jacqui), in an unsuitable black cocktail dress and purple fur-collared coat, weeping on the other. The burial had been a small affair. Marius was against cremation; he wanted to lie in an English grave with a marble headstone. A memorial service in St George’s, Hanover Square, was to follow, for Steen’s theatrical and business acquaintances. No one spoke to Jacqui or even acknowledged her, except for Morrison. By the end of the ceremony she was so upset that she hadn’t the nerve to go to the house with the small party of mourners, and caught a train straight back to London.

However, she had managed to have a few brief words with Morrison and questioned him about Nigel’s movements over the weekend of his father’s death. (She assured Charles she had been subtle in her questioning, but he dreaded to think what she meant by subtlety. If there were any alarms to start, he had no doubt she’d set them jangling.) From Morrison she had found out a significant fact, which would have deterred anyone less prejudiced in their conviction of Nigel Steen’s guilt. The young man’s car, a Jensen Interceptor was out of action at the relevant time. It had had brake trouble and Morrison, who was an expert mechanic, had offered to mend it over the weekend. He’d attended to the brakes on the Saturday, but then, feeling unhappy with the alignment of the wheels, had started work on them. He was a perfectionist, and the job took a long time. When he left the vehicle on the Saturday evening, all four wheels were off, and they were in that state when he returned to the job on the Sunday morning. He didn’t finish work until the evening, and it was then that Nigel drove off down to Berkshire, and found his father dead. In reply to the question as to whether Nigel could have used the Datsun, Morrison couldn’t say. Miss Menzies had filled it with petrol on the Friday afternoon and used it on the Monday morning. No doubt she would have noticed if it had been used in the interim.

‘Who’s Miss Menzies?’ asked Charles.

‘Joanne. Marius’ secretary.’

‘Oh yes. I’ve met her. Hmm. And you actually managed to get all that information without Morrison getting at all suspicious?’

‘Yes. Anyway, what if he did get suspicious? He doesn’t like Nigel any more than anyone else.’

It seemed to be a feature of the case that no one had a good word to say for Nigel Steen. Not having met the man, and basing his conclusions on other people’s prejudices, Charles decided that young Steen’s main offence was that he was not his father. From all accounts he didn’t sound as if he had the spunk to be a murderer.

‘Where does Nigel live?’

‘I think he’s got a flat near Knightsbridge, but he’s never there. Spends all his time in Orme Gardens or at Streatley.’

‘Father’s boy?’

‘I wouldn’t say that.’

‘How did they get on, Jacqui?’

‘I don’t know. I hardly ever saw them together, and Marius never talked about Nigel. But you’ve seen the letter.’

‘Yes. And did Joanne like him?’

‘Did she like who? She liked Marius.’ Was there a hint of jealousy there?

‘No. Nigel.’

‘I don’t think she liked him.’

‘Hmm. Then I think perhaps she’s due for a visitation.’

Charles was making-up next morning in Hereford Road when the phone rang.

‘Hello. Oh, Maurice, I was just making-up.’

‘What for? You working and not telling me?’

‘No, just for fun. Practice.’

‘Well, I think it’s about time you did some work. You seem to have taken the three-day week to heart too quickly.’

‘Three-day week?’

‘Don’t you read the papers?’

‘I haven’t yet this morning.’

‘Heath’s going to put the whole country on a three-day week. Save power. And stop television at half-past ten in the evening.’

‘Really.’

‘Yes. Think of all the ten per cents of all those series I won’t be getting. Johnny Wilson had a repeat scheduled for late evening. That’ll be off.’

‘I’m afraid I’m not very in touch.’

‘I’ll say. Look, you know that Softly Softly I said might be coming up?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, it hasn’t.’

‘Oh. Thanks.’

‘But there is something. Had a call from the casting director of a new horror film yesterday. They’re looking for someone to play this sort of deformed hunchback, part werewolf, part vampire. I told them you were made for the part.’

‘Thank you very much.’

Silence punctuated with gasps from the other end of the line showed that Maurice was roaring with laughter at his own witticism. He always laughed noiselessly, his jaw snapping up and down as he took in great gulps of air. Charles waited until he’d recovered sufficiently to continue.

‘Sorry, just a little joke. But really, it is that sort of part. They seemed quite keen when I mentioned you. Said “Yes, we like using the old fifties stars everyone’s forgotten.”’

‘Thank you again. What would it involve?’

‘Two weeks’ filming early January-if this three-day week nonsense doesn’t interfere. At some stately home. Forget where exactly, but within reach of London.’

‘Hmm. What’s the film called?’

‘The Zombie Walks!’

‘Oh God. Who’s directing?’

‘Never heard of him. Some name like Rissole. It’s being set up by Steenway Productions.’

‘Oh really. I’ll take it. Check the dates.’

‘Your diary’s not exactly crowded, is it?’

‘Money good?’

‘Goodish. I’ll ask for double.’

‘Good lad. Thanks for that.’

‘My pleasure. If I don’t do things for you, you’re clearly not going to do anything for yourself.’

‘Cheerio, Maurice. Keep smiling.’

‘What, with my worries? Cheerio.’

Work, too. And dressing-up. Charles was beginning to feel unaccountably cheerful. He rather relished the idea of secret investigations. With a jaunty step he went upstairs to his room to continue making-up.

Disguise is a matter of presenting oneself to the person deceived in an unexpected context. Then come tricks of stance and movement. Actual changing of colouring and features are less important. And Charles was quite pleased with his disguise. Certainly Joanne Menzies appeared not to recognise him, although he’d rather regretted choosing the character of Detective-Sergeant McWhirter of Scotland Yard when she revealed that she’d been brought up near the Kyles of Bute. But she seemed to accept the Glaswegian accent and his story of having left Scotland for London in his teens.