Simon Brett - So Much Blood

‘No. But you can’t think of anything he might have done to antagonise anyone in that Derby lot?’

‘I’ve hardly met any of that Derby lot, so I wouldn’t know. Listen, Mr Paris, I can understand your curiosity, but the police have asked me all these questions and so has everyone I’ve met for the past two days. I’m getting rather bored with it, and I’d be grateful if you would stop.’

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Mariello, but I do have a reason for asking.’ And he told her of his encounter with Willy in the Truth Game. At the end he paused dramatically.

She did not seem over-impressed. ‘You say he seemed troubled?’

‘Yes.’

‘Probably some horse he’d backed had been beaten.’

‘No, it was more than that. I’m sure it was. Something that really went deep.’

‘Nothing went very deep with Willy. That Truth Game could have meant anything. What makes you so sure it was something serious?’

He could only supply a lame ‘Instinct’.

To give her her due, Jean Mariello did not actually laugh out loud. ‘Well, instinct tells me, from knowing him pretty well, that the only thing that upset Willy was not getting his own way. He was spoilt. He’d had a lot of success and it went to his head. Used to be just a builder’s labourer, playing guitar in his spare time. Then the group took off and suddenly he was famous. Everyone gave him everything he wanted and he started getting bad-tempered if anything didn’t fail into his lap. If he was upset, it must have been that some girl had slapped his face.’

‘There were a lot of girls?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you know if he’d been particularly involved with anyone recently?’

‘We didn’t discuss it. We went our own ways. Listen, Willy was a slob. All right, I’m sorry he died, but he was no great loss.’

Charles was shocked by her honesty and his face must have betrayed it. Jean laughed. ‘Yes, you’re wondering why I married him. Well, I was only seventeen, I wanted to be a musician and I wanted to get away from my parents. And Willy was different then-it was before he became successful. He was less sure of himself and, as a result, less selfish. We both changed. He became a bastard and I got a lot tougher. In self-defence.’

There was a slight tremor on the last words, the first sign of human feeling that she had shown. The callous attitude to her husband’s death was a protective shell, distancing her from reality. It was true that she had not loved him, but the killing had affected her. Charles changed his approach slightly. ‘When did you last see him?’

‘Last Friday. I went down to Carlisle to start a tour of folk clubs. Then this happened. I’ll be joining the tour again as soon as I’ve got things sorted out.’

‘And Willy didn’t seem upset when you left?’

‘He was exactly as usual.’

‘And you’ve no idea what he was doing over the weekend?’

‘Screwing some bird probably. Decorating here maybe. Rehearsing his bloody show. I don’t know.’

The edge was creeping back into her voice. She wanted Charles to leave. She wanted to be on her own. Maybe so that she could break down and cry her heart out. There was not time for many more questions. ‘Why did he get involved in the show in the first place?’

‘Puce split up. Willy had delusions of grandeur-wanted to get it together as an all-round entertainer. Another Tommy Steele. No big impresario offered him a contract, but Derby University offered him a part in their tatty show. I suppose he saw it as a rung on the ladder to stardom.’ She put an infinity of scorn into that word.

‘Sounds unlikely.’

‘Maybe there was some other reason. Look, Mr Paris-’

‘I’m sorry. I’ll go. Can I just ask you again-was there anyone you can think of, however unlikely, who might have profited by your husband’s death?’

‘First let me ask you-why are you so interested in all this? It’s nothing to do with you.’

‘No, you’re right, it’s just… I was there… I saw it.. ’ He petered out. Tried again. ‘There are people who will feel happier when the facts are known. I mean, there’s so much gossip and speculation and accusation down at Coates Gardens…’ As he spoke, he knew it was not true. In fact there had been surprisingly little discussion among the students. Once they had exhausted the inherent drama of the situation, they all seemed quite happy to accept that it was an accident and get back to the more important drama of the shows they were putting on. ‘No, I’m sorry, I can’t really answer your question.’

‘Hmm. I’ll answer yours. The only person who stood to benefit from Willy’s death was his widow, who would thus get out of an unsatisfactory marriage without the fuss of divorce. In other words, the only person with a motive was me.’ She laughed sharply. ‘Goodbye, Mr Paris.’

He wandered disconsolately along Meadow Lane and looked back at the house. It was in a better state of repair than the others, walls and chimney repointed, missing slates replaced. And inside, was Jean Mariello as tidy and controlled? Or was she crying? He’d never know. All he did know was that she did not kill her husband. Her talk of motives had just been a contemptuous challenge to him. She had not been in Edinburgh at the time of the murder, and in the Truth Game Willy had specified that the person whose secret he had discovered was connected with the Derby group. No progress.

He felt in need of company. As a long shot, he tried the bell of Anna’s flat as he passed. Just after twelve, no reason why she should be there.

She wasn’t. He went into the Highland chic of the Ensign Ewart pub opposite and started drinking whisky. As he drank, the whole business of playing at detectives seemed increasingly pointless. If only there were someone around he could discuss the case with. Maybe some great detectives manage on their own, he thought as he downed the second large Bell’s, but right now I’d give anything for Dr Watson to walk through that door.

But the Doctor did not come and Charles drank too much on his own. The whisky did not make him think any more clearly. He looked round the pub. The office workers of Edinburgh were in huddles with their backs to him. A loud group of American tourists was being ignored at one table. The Festival influx was not welcomed by the residents. Charles tried to get another drink, but could not attract anyone’s attention. Being invisible at a bar is one of the loneliest experiences in life and he felt depressed for the first time since his arrival.

It was the interview with Jean Mariello that had done it. Up until then he had been cheerful, even buoyant after the night with Anna. But Anna was not there and it did not take long for her image to get distorted. He needed her presence to restore reality. But she was as elusive as Dr Watson.

His eyes gave up trying to catch the barman’s attention and wandered over to a notice board on which the grudging management had stuck a few of the dozens of handbills which earnest theatrical groups had thrust on them. They were on a metal clip. Oxford Theatre Group on top. That was inevitable. Their headquarters was opposite the pub and so they had a head-start on that pitch in the popular Fringe game of sticking your poster over everyone else’s.

Beside the Oxford bill was another that looked familiar. Good God, it was one of the greatest DUDS on the Fringe, Charles Paris’ So Much Comic, So Much Blood, opening Monday 19th August at one fifteen p.m. He felt a sense of urgency that amounted almost to panic.

‘Yes, sir, what can I get you?’

‘Nothing. I’ve got to rehearse.’ The barman’s bewildered stare followed him out of the pub.

Outside in the street he realised that he had had an excessive lunch for a working actor and trod with care down the steep steps of Lady Stair’s Close to the Mound. The light seemed very bright. He thought he saw the familiar figure of Martin Warburton ahead. He hurried to catch up. ‘Martin!’