Simon Brett - Cast in Order of Disappearance

He had phoned her at Milton Buildings, saying that he had a routine enquiry to make about the Datsun, would have asked for Mr Marius Steen but, owing to the recent regrettable happening, wondered if she could help. She was efficiently affable, and invited him to come round straight away. So there he was, on the Friday morning, sitting opposite her, in the same chair that, only a week before, Charles Paris had occupied.

Detective-Sergeant McWhirter wore a nondescript brown and green suit, a Marks and Spencer pale yellow shirt and brown knitted tie. His shoes were stout brown brogues, suitable for the tramping from place to place which takes up most of a detective’s time. When he entered the room he had hung up a pale mackintosh and a trilby hat. His hair was dark brown and slicked back with Brylcreem. He had thick horn-rimmed glasses, a heavy shadow and rather bad teeth. On his wedding finger was a worn gold band. He was the sort of man nobody would look at twice. No doubt a conscientious worker; no doubt a good husband and father; but totally unremarkable.

Miss Menzies couldn’t be very helpful about the Datsun, though she answered all his questions very readily. Detective-Sergeant McWhirter explained that he was investigating a robbery in Pangbourne on Saturday night. An eye-witness claimed to have seen a yellow Datsun in the area at the relevant time, and McWhirter was painstakingly investigating all of the local Datsun-owners. The local police had told him that Mr Steen possessed such a vehicle, and he was just making a routine check on the whereabouts of the car at that time.

Miss Menzies felt certain it was in the garage at Mr Steen’s Orme Gardens house all over the weekend. When Mr Steen rang on Friday afternoon to say he wasn’t certain whether or not he was returning to London at the weekend, she had checked the petrol in the car in case he might want it.

‘This was Mr Marius Steen who rang?’

‘No. This was his son Nigel. He rang to say that he was coming up to town that evening…’

‘The Friday?’

‘Yes. But that his father was still deep in his scripts, and wasn’t sure of his movements. So I thought I’d better get some petrol in case Mr Marius Steen did come up to town over the weekend. You know what it’s like getting petrol at the moment.’

Detective-Sergeant McWhirter nodded sagely, imagining his eleven-year-old Morris Traveller and the increasing difficulties of driving the wife and kids around. The foam rubber pads in Charles Paris’ cheeks were beginning to feel acutely uncomfortable.

‘I was lucky,’ Miss Menzies continued. ‘I managed to get a full tank. It’s the garage I always go to.’

‘And the tank still registered full on the Monday?’

‘Yes.’

‘And it wouldn’t have done that if it had been driven down to Streatley and back?’

‘Good heavens, no.’ Miss Menzies looked at him as if he was mad.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Detective-Sergeant McWhirter stolidly. ‘I do have to check all the details. Some cars have a petrol gauge that stays on full for a long time. If it’s not properly adjusted.’

‘Yes, of course. I’m sorry. The Datsun’s does actually. It stays on “full” for quite a while and then drops rather fast.’

‘But it wouldn’t stay on full all the way to Streatley and back?’

‘No. It’s pretty good on petrol, but not that good. Might just about make it one way without registering, but certainly not both. Anyway, nobody could have got into the garage at Orme Gardens. It’s always locked.’

‘Of course. Sorry about all this. We have to check. I’m afraid a detective’s life is mostly spent chasing up blind alleys and wasting people’s time.’

‘That’s quite all right.’

‘Good.’ Detective-Sergeant McWhirter rose to leave and then paused. ‘That was very good of you, to look after the petrol. Part of your normal secretarial duties?’

‘I am more of a personal assistant to Mr Steen than a secretary. I mean, I was.’

There was just a slight chink in her armour and he pressed a little further. ‘Yes. A sad loss.’

‘Yes.’ He noticed how strained she was looking, much older than a week before. Though she was still immaculately groomed, there seemed somehow less poise about her, as if appearances remained, but the will had gone.

‘So I suppose it’s all up to the son now.’

‘I suppose so.’ She couldn’t disguise the contempt she felt.

‘Always sad for the family, this sort of thing. Is his wife still

… er…’

‘She died years ago.’

‘Ah. And he never thought of remarrying?’

‘No, he didn’t.’ She pronounced the words with sudden emphasis, and Charles saw clearly the situation which Jacqui’s words-’ She liked Marius’-had hinted at. Joanne Menzies had loved Marius Steen. Whether the love had ever been reciprocated or consummated he didn’t know-though Steen’s reputation made it likely-but the new fact opened interesting avenues of thought. She loved Steen, and she was passionately against his remarriage. The controlled force of her emotion when speaking of it had been frightening. A woman with feelings of that intensity might be capable of any action if she thought the man she loved was seriously in love with someone else. It added a new dimension to the picture.

When Charles got back to Hereford Road, there was a Swedish scrawl on the note pad-JERRY VENERAL RING. After a few moments’ deciphering he rang Gerald Venables’ number.

‘Charles, look, we can’t talk on the phone.’ Gerald was obviously taking all the detective bit to heart, and entering into it with the spirit of a child’s game of Cops and Robbers. ‘Listen, I’ve found out about the “you-know-what”. We must meet somewhere and talk.’

‘OK. Where and when?’

‘Two o’clock. The back bar of the Red Lion in Waverton Street.’

‘Why? Is it quiet there?’

‘No, but you can be overheard in quiet places. The Red Lion’s so noisy, nobody’ll hear a word,’ said Gerald with complete seriousness.

‘All right, Peewit.’

‘What do you mean-Peewit?’

‘Code-name. I’ll be wearing a carnation. What’s the password?’ Charles put the phone down, imagining the expression on Gerald’s face.

He was out of costume and looked like Charles Paris when he arrived in the back bar of the Red Lion. Squeezing past the milling lunch time crowds he found himself pressed closely between Gerald and a rather busty Australian. ‘Who’s she?’ he hissed.

‘No idea. Where’s your carnation?’

‘That was a joke.’

‘Oh.’ Gerald sounded genuinely disappointed.

‘Well, you recognise me, don’t you?’ Gerald was forced to admit he did. ‘So, what gives?’ Charles shouted above the din.

‘Ssh.’

‘What gives?’ Softer.

‘I beg your pardon.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake.’

Eventually, as the lunch time crowds subsided officewards and the pub was left to a few loud tourists, they found a quiet corner and sat down with their drinks. Charles had a pint and Gerald a dry martini (Charles almost expected him to ask for it ‘shaken not stirred’). The solicitor looked round with conspicuous caution.

‘The will is very interesting,’ he hissed. ‘Well, not so much the will as the whole situation. Basically, Nigel gets everything, but he’s got a lot of it already.

‘Marius Steen made over his three houses and about 75 per cent of his other assets to his son some years ago. You know, the old gift inter vivos dodge, to avoid estate duty.’

‘I’m sorry. I don’t know the old gift inter vivos dodge. I’m very stupid about the law.’

‘So’s everyone. That’s what lawyers thrive on. What it basically means is that if someone makes a gift during his lifetime and doesn’t die for a given period, that gift is free of estate duty, or partly free. There’s a sliding scale. If the donor dies more than seven years after the gift, there’s no duty at all payable. If he dies in the seventh year the whole duty is reduced by 6o per cent, if in the sixth by 30 per cent, and in the fifth 15 per cent.’ Gerald was talking very fast and fluently, as he always did on the subject of money, but Charles reckoned he had got the gist. ‘When was the gift made, Gerald?’