Simon Brett - Cast in Order of Disappearance

Charles felt a great surge of excitement, but Detective-Sergeant McWhirter only said, ‘Ah.’

‘Yes. I’d phoned my father in the evening, and he didn’t sound too well, so I drove down to see how he was.’

‘And how was he?’

‘Fine, fine. We had a few drinks together, chatted. He seemed in very good form. Then I drove back to London.’

‘Still on the Saturday night?’

‘Yes. It’s not far.’

‘No, no, of course not.’ Charles was about to ask about the subterfuge of the full petrol tank, but decided that Detective-Sergeant McWhirter might not be in possession of all the relevant facts for that deduction. As it happened, Nigel continued defensively without needing further questions.

‘You’re probably wondering why I didn’t mention this fact before. Well, to tell you the truth, your boys asked me when had I last seen my father alive and I said Friday instinctively, and then by the time I’d realised my mistake, it was all written down, and, you know, I thought if I changed it, that’d only create trouble.’

It sounded pretty implausible to Charles, but Detective-Sergeant McWhirter gave a reassuring nod. ‘Yes, of course, sir. And you’re quite sure that while the car was down in Streatley, the thieves who I’m after wouldn’t have had a chance to take it and use it for their break-in?’

‘No, that would be quite impossible. I put the car in the garage and I’m sure I’d have heard it being driven off. Anyway, I wasn’t down there very long.’

‘No. Oh well, fine, Mr Steen. Thank you very much.’ Detective-Sergeant McWhirter rose to leave. ‘I think I’d better start looking for another yellow Datsun.’

‘Yes. And… er… Detective-Sergeant…’

‘Yes?’

‘Will you have to mention the discrepancy in my story-you know, my confusion about when I last saw my father-?’

‘Good Lord, no. That’s quite an understandable mistake in a moment of emotion, sir. So long as an account’s written down somewhere, no one’s going to fuss about the details. After all, there wasn’t anything unusual about your father’s death. If there had been any grounds for suspicion, it’d be a different case.’ And Detective-Sergeant McWhirter laughed.

Nigel Steen laughed too, Charles thought a bit too heartily. But perhaps he was being hypersensitive and letting his suspicions race like Jacqui’s.

‘Anyway,’ the Detective-Sergeant continued, ‘I don’t have anything to do with your father’s death. Different department, you know.’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Well, goodbye, Mr Steen. And thank you again for your help. If only more members of the public were as co-operative as you have been, our life would be a lot easier. They shook hands. Nigel’s felt like a damp face cloth.

Detective-Sergeant McWhirter went through into Miss Menzies’ anteroom. ‘All sorted out now?’ she asked brightly.

‘Yes, thank you, Miss Menzies.’

‘Hmm. We’ve seen quite a lot of you lately.’

‘Yes,’ said the Detective-Sergeant casually, unprepared for what happened next.

Miss Menzies suddenly stood up, looked him straight in the eyes and said, ‘Do you know it’s a very serious offence to impersonate a police officer?’

‘Yes,’ said Detective-Sergeant McWhirter slowly, waiting to see what came next.

‘I rang up Scotland Yard to tell you something this morning, and they’d never heard of you.’

‘Ah.’

‘And from the start I thought your accent was a bit phoney. I know a lot of people who come from Glasgow.’

‘Yes.’ There was a pause. Then Charles continued, still in his discredited Glaswegian. ‘Well, what was it you rang up the Yard to tell me?’

Joanne Menzies looked at him coolly. ‘You’ve got a nerve. But I think you’re probably doing something I’d sympathise with, so I’ll tell you. I checked with Morrison, the chauffeur at Orme Gardens, and he was suspicious that the Datsun may have been used on the Saturday night.’

‘Yes, I know. I’ve just got that from Mr Nigel Steen.’

‘Ah.’ She sounded disappointed that her information was redundant. ‘You’re suspicious of him too, aren’t you?’

‘Maybe.’

‘No maybe,’ she said, ‘you are. Incidentally, “Detective Sergeant”, what’s your real name?’

‘Charles Paris.’

‘Ah.’ Her eyes widened and she nodded slowly. ‘Very good.’ It was a warming compliment, from someone who knew about the theatre. ‘Well, Charles, if there’s anything else I can tell you, or I can find out for you, let me know.’

‘Thanks.’ As he was leaving, he turned and looked at her. ‘You hate Nigel Steen, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ she said simply.

Christmas intervened and the business of investigation was suspended. Charles told Jacqui the new information he’d gleaned, but met with little luck in following it up. When he rang Joanne to check Nigel’s movements in the week before Steen’s death, a strange female voice answered and informed him that Miss Menzies had already gone up to Scotland for her Christmas holidays. Gerald Venables was getting a very slow response from Cohn, Jarvis, Cohn and Stickley on the matter of the new will, and also seemed preoccupied with family arrangements and Christmas drink parties. His enthusiasm for the cloak-and-dagger business of detection seemed to have waned.

Charles felt his own sense of urgency ebbing too. Though he got excited at each new development in his investigations, he soon became disillusioned again. And Joanne’s seeing through his disguise made him a bit wary. He had no particular desire to break the law. Detection was a serious business, and perhaps he should leave it alone. The days of the gifted amateur investigator were over. It was better to leave everything to the police, who with superior training and equipment must stand a greater chance of uncovering crime.

And each time Charles looked at his progress it seemed more negative. Though he had enjoyed his little investigations and masquerades, his only real discovery was that Nigel Steen had tried to disguise the fact of driving down to Streatley on the night of Saturday 8th December. And though the visit could have given him an opportunity to kill his father, and then drive down the next day to discover the body, that was the one crime which every logical motive screamed against. By killing Marius then, Nigel would have been sacrificing a great deal of money. Duties at 80 per cent on an estate of a million, only reduced by 30 per cent, because of the donor’s death before the end of the sixth year (to borrow Gerald Venables’ terminology) would mean that Nigel would be paying more than half a million in estate duty. Whereas if he only waited till the seven years were up, all the given property would be his without any tax. It’s a rare character who commits murder in order to lose half a million pounds.

And the only other fact, hanging around in the background, was Bill Sweet’s death, which, by some fairly dubious reasoning and some circumstantial evidence, could be laid at Marius Steen’s door. But Marius Steen was dead. Why bother him now?

The Montrose was open over Christmas and so, along with a lot of other divorced and debauched actors, Charles Paris spent a week sublimely pissed.

He was feeling distinctly drink-sodden when the phone rang on the morning of the 3rd of January, 1974. He wanted to be picked up and wrung out like a floor cloth to get the stuff out of his system. He lay in bed, hoping the phone would go away or someone would answer it. But the Swedish girls were still in Sweden for the holidays and he was alone in the house. The phone went on ringing.

He stumped savagely downstairs and picked up the receiver. ‘Hello.’ His voice came out as a croak.