Simon Brett - Dead Giveaway

‘With Barrett Doran?’

She nodded. ‘I knew about it, because I was there when they met. On some Thames Television chat-show. I saw them go off together. It was obvious to me what was happening. I do know a bit about the mechanics of sexual attraction.’

‘Was Bob around at the time?’

‘No. He heard about it, though. His wife must have told him herself, because nobody else knew. I gather he took it pretty badly. I talked to him about it when we next met, told him that these things happen, that often a little fling like that needn’t affect the basic stability of the marriage.’ She had dropped into the no-nonsense counselling manner she used to telephone callers on her weekly radio programme.

‘And it wasn’t in the gossip columns or anything? I had understood Barrett liked to make his conquests public.’

‘Not this one. I think she must’ve insisted on keeping it quiet. I never heard it even hinted at by anyone.’

‘Was the affair still going on when Barrett died?’

‘No. Only lasted about a month, I think. Bob and she didn’t split up or anything. I gather they’d more or less got over it, but Bob must have found it difficult suddenly having to be in the same studio as the man who’d cuckolded him.’

‘How difficult, I wonder?’

‘What you mean is, did it make Bob angry enough to decide to kill his rival? Who can say? People react differently to things. With some the trigger to violence is very delicately balanced; others will put up with almost anything.’

‘And what would your professional judgement be of Bob Garston in that respect?’

‘Do I see him as a potential murderer?’

‘Yes.’

‘On balance, no. I can see him getting very angry, and I can see him contemplating violence against someone who he reckoned had wronged him. But I think that violence would be expressed much more openly. I can see him going up to Barrett and punching him on the nose, but this devious business with the cyanide. . no, doesn’t sound his style.’

‘I think you’re probably barking up the wrong tree,’ said Roger Bruton abruptly. ‘The police aren’t fools. They don’t arrest people without good reason. I’m sure the girl they’ve got is the right one.’

‘Yes, Roger,’ his wife agreed soothingly, ‘but you can see why Charles and Sydnee want to try and prove otherwise. It would be terrible if the wrong person did get sentenced for the crime.’

Roger Bruton did not look as if he agreed, but he didn’t pursue the argument further.

‘I know we’re just feeling our way at the moment,’ Charles admitted, ‘but we do definitely think that we’re on to something.’

‘Of course.’ Joanie’s voice was very nearly patronizing as she said the line that had become her catch-phrase. ‘I fully understand, love.’

‘Tell me, as someone who was in the studio all through the show, did you notice anything strange at any point?’

‘Strange?’

‘Did anyone appear to be behaving oddly, anyone on the panel, any of the contestants. .?’

‘Well, no one was behaving very naturally, but then it’s hardly a very natural situation. Everyone was tense, of course, concentrating on their performance. Is that what you mean?’

‘No, I meant more than that. Did you notice anyone doing anything that you thought at the time was out of character?’

‘I don’t think so, love, no.’

‘And, when Barrett drank the poison, did you notice anyone reacting in an unusual way?’

‘Good heavens.’ She chuckled. ‘You ask a lot. It was a moment of terrible shock when he started gasping. We were none of us in any state to start checking each other’s reactions. We just all leapt up to see if we could do anything to help him.’

A new thought came into Charles’s mind. ‘The desk got knocked over when you all stood up.’

‘Yes. That big oaf, Nick Jeffries. There’s a lot of him, you know. The original bull in the china shop.’

‘Hmm. Yes.’ Charles looked across at Sydnee. ‘I think that really covers everything we were going to ask, doesn’t it?’

The researcher nodded.

‘We’re very grateful to you both for giving up your time. As I say, we are still just feeling around. And I know we’ve voiced suspicions which are almost certainly scandalous. .’

‘My mind,’ said Joanie, ‘is the repository of so much scandal that the odd bit more’s not going to hurt. It’s as safe as a numbered Swiss bank account. Lots and lots of secrets locked away in there, aren’t there, love?’

She grinned at her husband, who gave a nervous grin back.

‘So where do you go from here?’ he asked Charles.

‘With our investigations?’

‘Yes. If you persist in thinking there’s anything to investigate,’ he added sceptically.

‘Well, I suppose we try and find out more about Bob Garston’s movements during the meal-break. You saw him. Were you with him for long?’

‘No. I’d just left Joanie in Make-up and I met him outside. We walked along the corridor and parted at the lifts.’

‘Did he get into a lift?’

‘Yes, he did.’

‘Didn’t say where he was going?’

‘No.’

‘And you stayed down waiting for Joanie?’

‘Yes. There’s a sort of Reception area there with chairs. I sat and waited.’

‘I don’t suppose you saw anything odd going on round the studios?’

‘I wondered when you were going to ask me that,’ Roger Bruton announced primly. ‘Yes, I did see something rather odd going on.’

‘What?’ asked Charles.

Joanie Bruton said nothing, but she looked hard at her husband. Her expression was one of surprise mixed with something that could have been alarm.

Roger Bruton relished his moment centre stage. ‘I saw the Trish Osborne person. Looking most unhappy. Crying, in fact.’

‘What was she doing?’

He smiled smugly. ‘Coming out of Barrett Doran’s dressing room.’

‘Frances. It’s me, Charles.’

‘Keeping rather earlier hours than usual.’ Her voice was unruffled, warm without being positively welcoming. If she was surprised to hear from him after three months, she didn’t show it.

‘I wanted to catch you before you went to school.’

‘Well, you have. Just. I have to be in the car in three minutes.’

He visualised her yellow Renault 5 parked outside the house, then remembered he was projecting the wrong image. She had moved out of the Muswell Hill home they had shared and now lived in a flat in Highgate. He had not been there often enough to visualise the Renault outside it.

‘Listen, I wondered if we could meet up. .’

‘Another reconciliation?’ Her voice was wary.

‘Just to see you. I just want to see you.’

‘Well. .’

‘Couldn’t we meet for dinner tonight? Not at the flat. That Italian place in Hampstead. What do you say?’

‘Well. .’

‘Come on. I’ll behave myself. No romantic red roses. No unwelcome attentions. . that is, if they really are unwelcome. .’

‘Watch it. You’re on the verge of the “women always mean yes when they say no” heresy.’

‘No, I didn’t mean that. I’d just like to see you, talk about things. .’ Then with inspiration he added, ‘. . talk about Juliet, talk about our grandchildren. .’

‘Charles, I had just reconciled myself to the idea that I wasn’t going to hear from you again for a long time.’

‘Well, unreconcile yourself.’

‘I’m not sure. You’ve no idea, once the initial hurt and emptiness had worn off, just how restful the thought of not seeing you for a while has become.’

‘Oh.’

She responded to the disappointment in his monosyllable by asking cautiously, ‘You don’t just want to see me because you’re depressed, do you? Because I’m pretty ragged by this stage in the term, and I don’t think I’ve much spare capacity for the old hand-holding “I understand, I understand” routine.’