Simon Brett - So Much Blood

Charles was eager to leave now. He reached out for the book with muttered thanks, but James Milne kept hold of it and said with a twinkle, ‘If I might quote from the Great Unknown, Sir Walter Scott, “Please return this book; I find that though many of my friends are poor arithmeticians, they are nearly all good bookkeepers.” Not a bad joke, considering the source.’

Charles smiled politely and managed to leave. He was in no mood for swapping literary references. He found a pub in Dundas Street where he was unlikely to meet any of the D.U.D.S. and whiled away the time till Gerald’s arrival with the co-operation of Bell’s Whisky, Ltd.

The solicitor arrived at the terminal immaculate in a Prince of Wales check three-piece suit. He carried an overnight bag that looked like a giant pigskin wallet and obviously contained the neatly pressed shirt and pyjamas of a travel advertisement. ‘Hello, buddy. Wise me up on the gen.’

Charles cringed at the number of thrillers Gerald must have read, and suggested that they talk in a pub.

‘Why not in the hotel bar? Then I can check in and dump the bag.’

‘Which hotel?’

‘The North British.’ It had to be. Typical of Gerald. Polly had managed to fix it, and somehow the client would manage to pay for it.

Posh hotels were not Charles’ usual style, but whisky’s whisky anywhere. They sat in a dark corner and Gerald leant towards him conspiratorially. ‘O.K. Spill the beans,’ he whispered unsuitably.

‘Listen, is your firm engaged in any big film productions at the moment?’

‘We always are. Setting up a colossal Hudson movie out in Spain. Starts filming in September if we get the contracts sorted out.’

‘Have you got a stake in it?’

‘The firm has.’ The answer was discreet. Gerald never admitted his dabbling in film production, though it was common knowledge that he doubled his already considerable income by judicious investment.

‘So it wouldn’t be too difficult for you to pose as a film producer?’

‘It would hardly be a pose,’ he replied smugly, and then realised that this was tantamount to an admission of financial interest in films. ‘That is, I’m sure I could manage.’

‘Right. What I want you to do is to go to a revue called Brown Derby at the Masonic Hall in Lauriston Place. It starts at eleven. Now there’s a girl in that show called Anna Duncan. She’s a good actress, but even if you don’t think so, I want you to go round after the performance, introduce yourself as a film producer, say you’d like to talk to her about various ideas and would it be possible to meet for lunch tomorrow.’ His treachery tasted foul on his tongue, but it was necessary. He had to know.

Gerald’s eyes were sparkling with excitement. ‘And tomorrow?’

‘You take her out for lunch. I’ll fill you in on what to ask her.’

‘O.K. And that’s the conversation you want recorded?’

Charles nodded. ‘If it can be done.’

‘No sweat.’ The colloquialism again seemed to run counter to the Prince of Wales check. ‘Do you think I should use a pseudonym?’

‘Don’t see why you shouldn’t use your own name. If you don’t mind.’

‘No, of course not.’ He was a little crestfallen at losing this dramatic element, but brightened again immediately. ‘Is this girl Anna Duncan your Number One Suspect?’

Charles could not bring himself to answer that question, even in his own mind. ‘I wouldn’t say that. Just need some information from her, that’s all. But it’s difficult for me to get it myself.’

‘Aren’t you going to give me all the details of the case so far?’

‘Tomorrow. There’s no time now. You’ve got to get to the revue.’

They made a rendezvous for the next morning and Charles went back to the Aberdour Guest House. A half-bottle of Bell’s did not go far enough and he spent a long miserable night with patches of sleep.

Daylight did not speed time up much, and Gerald’s arrival at Dublin Street at half-past ten added another delay to the programme. Anna had a tight rehearsal schedule for Mary and would not have much of a break for lunch. The assignation had therefore become a dinner date, which extended the agony of waiting by eight hours. Apart from that, all had gone well the previous evening.

Charles then gave Gerald an edited version of the events surrounding Willy Mariello’s death and indicated the information he required, with some hints as to what he considered the most effective way of doing it. He hoped that he was judging Anna’s character right, and that she would respond in the way he anticipated. But all the time he felt increasingly despicable for the elaborate deception.

At one fifteen he did a performance of So Much Comic, So Much Blood without thinking about it. The audience had swelled to nearly eighty and seemed appreciative, but he hardly noticed. He even had a discussion with some dreary Welsh academic about whether Hood’s work contained High Moral Seriousness, but only the reflexes of his mind were working. The rest of it was churning with guilt and anxiety.

In the afternoon he tried to pull himself together and entertain thoughts of the other possibilities of the case. What he should really do was to retrace Martin Warburton’s visit to Holyrood and see if it prompted any ideas. But even as he thought of it, he knew he could not be bothered. All his thoughts centred on Anna.

As he meandered through the city, he met Frances sitting on a bench in Princes Street Gardens. She had managed to lose Candy and Jane on a sightseeing coach tour of Edinburgh, and was appreciating the break. Charles knew she could tell he was upset, but he refused to unburden himself to her. He knew she would be understanding and reassuring. That was her most infuriating quality, the way she understood him. It was an option he did not want to take. Guilt about Frances joined the mess of unpalatable thoughts in his head.

He hardly listened to what she said. Most of it was about Candy and Jane, the shows they had seen, how exhausting she was finding it, how she’d need a proper holiday after this, how she even thought of staying up in Scotland for a few days to recuperate after the girls had gone. Charles sat, half-hearing and restless. Suddenly he created an appointment and rose. They made vague plans to meet for dinner in the next couple of days when he was clearer about his movements, and he slouched off, not daring to look back at the pain in her eyes.

It was still a long time till the pubs. He approached a cinema, but when he got there changed his mind and continued his aimless perambulation.

At last five o’clock arrived. The whisky did not work. It was as if he had a heavy cold and was numb to its powers. Half past seven came and he thought painfully of Gerald and Anna meeting in the Cosmo Ristorante in North Castle Street. He felt powerless, as if he was watching an accident from too far away to prevent it.

It was nearly ten o’clock when Mrs Butt grudgingly admitted Gerald Venables to the Aberdour Guest House. He was flushed with excitement or wine and carrying a briefcase which contained his cassette recorder. ‘Got a specially long tape. I don’t know what the quality will be like. I could only put the case on the table and hope for the best.’

Charles was not in the mood for talking. ‘Let’s hear it.’

Gerald produced the recorder with all the pride of a schoolboy showing his Cycling Proficiency Certificate. He switched the machine on and wound the tape back. Then, as it started, he fiddled with the dials to get the optimum sound.

The quality was not bad. Gerald’s own voice was distant because the microphone had been pointing away from him, but he filled in where his original questions were inaudible. There was a lot of interference from dishes being delivered and cutlery clattering, but most of Anna’s answers were perfectly clear. Charles got a strange frisson from hearing her voice. It was not attraction exactly, and it was not guilt, but a mixture of emotions he had never encountered before.