An Amateur Corpse (16 page)

Charles knew he had to play her gently. She was highly strung and information would have to be wheedled out of her. He hoped Geoffrey had been discreet and not mentioned their meeting earlier in the day. He did not want her to be on her guard.

Starting with flattery seemed the best approach with someone as self-absorbed as she was. He asked her about her acting career at Breckton, regretting that he had never had the pleasure of seeing her in a production.

She needed no second invitation. He had in his time met a good few professional actors and actresses who assumed that everyone shared their own consuming interest in their theatrical doings, but never one as voluble as Vee Winter. Perhaps living with another king-size ego who also liked to talk about his acting, she didn't often get the chance to let rip in this way.

He got it all – the early aptitude for mimicry noted by loving parents, the success in elocution exams, the outstanding ability remarked upon by an English teacher, commendations at local festivals, the agonizing decision of the late teens as to whether to try for drama school and take it up professionally, then parental pressure and the final regrettable resolution to deprive the greater public of her talents.

At this point a pause was left for Charles to murmur some suitable insincerity about tragic waste.

‘And then of course I married and decided that it would be wrong for me to do something that would take me away from Geoffrey for long periods of time. He is a complex character and can be a full-time job. I often think it's as well that we don't have children, because he needs so much of my attention that they might not get a look-in.'

In this speech Charles could hear two threads of oft-repeated self justification. First, the very common suburban housewife's explanation of why she never did anything more with her life, how the cares of marriage cut off in its bloom a career of unbelievable promise. In some cases – like, he reflected, that of Charlotte Mecken – it's true, but in most, where only moderate talent is involved, it's no more than a comforting fiction.

There was also the second well-rehearsed self-justification, for her childlessness. It was sad that this was felt necessary, but there was a defensive quality to her remarks about Geoffrey's demands on her time. Ironic to Charles, with his knowledge of the other women among whom Geoffrey spread those needs.

But she gave him a cue to find some purely practical information. ‘You talk about Geoffrey being a full-time job. Do you actually have a real one?'

‘Job? Yes. I teach Speech and Drama at a local private school.'

‘Oh.'

This again seemed to need justification. ‘It's very close and convenient. I get home for lunch. And of course I think one can give a lot to young minds. If you've got an enthusiasm for the theatre, it does communicate and stimulate their interest.'

‘Oh, certainly.'

‘Also the little extra money comes in handy.'

Knowing what he did about Geoffrey's business affairs, Charles felt sure it did. He would imagine they must have been living more or less exclusively on Vee's income for some time. Perhaps Geoffrey even conducted his affair with Charlotte on a grant from his wife.

But this digression on Vee's work did not divert her long from the main subject of her dramatic triumphs. She started to list the shows she had been in through a few more drinks, and Charles's attention was wavering when he suddenly heard himself being asked back to the house to see some of her scrapbooks.'

Instinctively he said yes, not certain whether scrapbooks were the latest form of etchings as a seduction bait. The more time he could spend with Vee, the more relaxed she became, the easier it was going to be to ask the questions he wanted to.

It might also be useful to get inside the Winters' house again. If Vee Winter did kill Charlotte, he was going to need some tangible proof of it to convince the police.

Vee made their exit from the Back Room pointed, with loud goodbyes to everyone and messages that she'd see Geoffrey later. Again Charles felt the overtones of sexual intrigue. Vee wanted to be seen leaving with him, possibly to stimulate gossip among the Backbiters. But that was all; she seemed to want the aura of an illicit liaison rather than any illicit action. Or at least that was the impression he got.

He would presumably find out if he was right when they got back to the house.

As they walked back along the path to the main road, Charles looked covertly at his companion. If she had murdered Charlotte as he suspected, then this was the route she must have taken on the Monday night. But her face betrayed nothing.

The air was full of explosions and the sudden screams of rockets. Of course, fireworks. November the Fifth. His birthday. He recalled the old family joke that his mother had been frightened into delivery by a wayward jumping cracker.

On the common the celebrations were under way round the huge bonfire. Presumably there had been an effigy of Guy Fawkes hoisted on top of the pile, but now all was consumed in the tall rippling flags of flame.

To one side of the bonfire, in a roped-off area, some responsible fathers were donating Roman candles and Catherine wheels. Charles knew that this was the new approved policy; for greater safety, families were encouraged to pool their fireworks into this kind of communal party. To him it seemed to take away the excitement and make the exercise rather pointless. Like drinking non-alcoholic beer in motorway service cafés.

And in this case it didn't even seem to be particularly safe. The leaping flames spat up lumps of burning debris, some of which had landed in a nearby tree and kindled the branches. The conflagration was in danger of getting out of hand.

Still, there were lots of responsible fathers to deal with the problem. Lots of over-insured men in their early forties who no doubt drove Volvos with the side-lights on in the daytime. As Charles and Vee passed, there seemed to be an argument among them as to whether they should call the fire brigade or not.

To his amusement, Charles saw that the organising spirit in the pro-fire brigade lobby was sour Reggie from the Backstagers. Taking his role as professional wet blanket literally this time. He scurried about issuing orders, followed by two small children of one sex or the other whose faces were as sour as their father's. It was strange to see the niggling committee man in another context.

Vee waved at Reggie, but he didn't see her. Once again she seemed to be drawing attention to her being with Charles, to set tongues wagging.

A group of over-excited children rushed towards them, involved in some inexplicable, but evidently very funny, game. Vee moved aside to let them pass. As she did so, the flames suddenly threw a spotlight on her face. The expression was one of infinite pain and bitterness.

They walked in silence down the paved path to the main road. There Vee stopped outside an off-licence. ‘No drink in the house, I'm afraid.'

She selected a cheapish bottle of Italian red wine. Charles insisted on paying for it and she didn't argue. His new knowledge of the Winters' financial plight made sense of such details.

As Vee put her key in the front door, they heard the distant siren of a fire engine. Sour Reggie had triumphed. For the firework party-goers the evening's entertainment was ending.

But, as Vee Winter laid her arm on his shoulder and ushered him into the house, Charles Paris felt that perhaps his evening's entertainment was only beginning.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHARLES SIPPED HIS
wine and tried not to look too downcast when Vee came in loaded with her theatrical memorabilia. Scrapbooks, programs, a box of photographs and – most daunting of all – the cassette recorder that he had seen Geoffrey using. Oh dear, it looked as if he was going to get an Action Replay of her entire dramatic career.

He settled down to be bored out of his mind. Vee, he knew, was inflicting this on him because he was a professional actor. She wanted his commendation, she wanted him to say how impoverished the British theatre had been by her decision to turn her back on it. Maybe she even wanted to gain his praise so that she would compare favourably with those whom he had condemned at the Critics' Circle.

He found her exhibitionism sad. The fact that she needed this bolstering. It showed that Geoffrey had too simple an interpretation of his wife's character. Her insecurity spoke in every nervous action. To think that she would not be jealous of another woman was totally wrong.

The overtones of sexuality which she gave to the proceedings also revealed her insecurity. She needed attention, she needed Charles to be aware that the two of them together was a potentially sexual scenario, but he felt that was all she needed. If he had made a pass at her, he would have got a considerate rebuff. She wouldn't have minded – in fact, she would rather have welcomed it as a boost to her ego and as something else to feel martyred about. She liked to think of herself as a tragic queen, resisting all blandishments from other men, because of her devotion to one man who was not really worthy of her.

Charles had not realized this vein of contempt which ran through Vee's feelings for her husband until the subject of children came up again. It was prompted by a photograph of Vee with another girl in Elizabethan dress who, apparently, had been a terribly good actress, but had given it all up when she started to have children. ‘Four I believe she's got now. Four. I suppose that could have been me, if things had turned out differently.' She responded to Charles's quizzical look. ‘I mean, if I had married someone else.'

‘Oh.' He sounded slightly embarrassed, as if he ought not to inquire further, knowing that this was the sure way to make her continue.

‘Yes, with another man, no doubt I would be surrounded with the little brats, spending all my days at coffee parties and tea parties, talking about nappies and nursery schools.' The edge she put into the words showed how much she was an outsider in the great incubator of Breckton. All the thoughts he'd had about Charlotte being ostracized by her childlessness applied even more strongly to Vee.

He continued his embarrassed act. ‘Well . . . I understood that nowadays there were things that could be done about infertility and . . . er . . . clinics and so on.'

Vee smiled a martyred smile. ‘Maybe, but I don't think you'd ever get Geoffrey along to one of those. He couldn't admit to himself that . . . male pride in virility or . . . I'm sure you know all about that.'

Again the remark was sexually loaded. Not quite a come-on, but a reminder that they were a man and woman alone together.

Charles thought quickly as he worked through the file of meaningless photographs. Vee's conviction that Geoffrey was to blame for their lack of family was obviously one of the supports of their marriage. She believed it, because it gave her superiority over him. She could watch with indulgence his philandering with other women, knowing his secret. And she' was not afraid to divulge it.

Charlotte's pregnancy must have threatened the entire fabric of that illusion and Charlotte had had to be removed so that Vee could remain protected in her cocoon of fiction.

He knew he was right. All he needed was proof. It was time he got down to the details of his investigation.

In broaching the subject he was helped by the photographs. There was a picture of Vee surrounded by adolescent youths in togas with laundry marks.

‘Portia in
Julius Caesar
at school,' she supplied.

‘Ah, real
I, Claudius
stuff,' he commented, grateful for the cue.

She laughed.

‘Have you been watching it, Vee?' he asked casually.

‘Oh yes. Seen every one. That was the big advantage of not doing
The Seagull
. Meant I could make it a regular date.'

‘Every Wednesday.'

‘No, I watch it on Mondays.'

Charles took a risk. What he had to say next was going to sound more like interrogation than casual conversation. He hoped she wouldn't notice. ‘That's strange. I rang Geoffrey on Wednesday and I could have sworn he said you were watching it then.'

He played it very light, but still threw her. She looked at him, flustered and bewildered. ‘Oh . . . oh yes, I did watch it on Wednesday this week.'

He didn't volunteer any comment. Just left her to explain.

She did a goad performance as someone sorting through her memory. ‘Oh, of course. My mother rang on Monday just after it had started. She always natters on so, the show was practically over by the time I got off the phone.'

Charles joked, as if the information meant nothing to him, ‘I think everyone's mother's like that.' But he felt sure she was lying.

‘Yes, mine always rings at inconvenient times. Still, I suppose 1 shouldn't grumble, if the odd phone call keeps her happy. Better than continually traipsing up to Lytham St. Anne's to see her.'

That was very helpful. He knew Vee's maiden name was le Carpentier. There shouldn't be too many old ladies of that name in Lytham St. Anne's with whom to check her alibi.

Eventually (and it seemed to take for ever) they came to the end of the photographs. ‘Fascinating,' Charles lied.

Vee looked disappointed, as if she had expected more. What did she want him to do, for God's sake, say that she was the greatest actress to tread the boards on the evidence of a load of amateur snapshots?

But it seemed there was more evidence about to be offered. Vee was now turning her attention to the cassette player and the black plastic-covered box of cassettes. ‘Actually,' she said with elaborate casualness, ‘I've got recordings here for some of the stuff I've done.'

‘Oh, really?' Charles gave the last dreg of his supply of simulated interest. ‘What, recorded off stage?'

‘Some of them. Some I've just done at home – really just for my own benefit, so that I can get a kind of objective view of what I'm doing.'