Dead Giveaway (11 page)

Charles was mystified. ‘What sort of character?’

Sydnee stopped the car outside a neat, Thirties semi. In the drive stood a brand-new, gleaming Vauxhall Cavalier. She looked at Charles with a little grin as she pulled on the handbrake and replied, ‘A professional contestant.’

It was clear as soon as they got inside the small front room that Sydnee had been right. Tim Dyer made no attempt to disguise what he did for a living. Indeed, he exulted in it. Perhaps, having played his part in
If The Cap Fits
and having, to his mind, won an Austin Metro from W.E.T., he saw no further necessity for secrecy.

He indicated a table, on which papers and open reference books lay between piles of cardboard coupons. ‘Doing another of the soap powder ones,’ he announced airily. ‘Pretty simple General Knowledge. Difficult bit’s always the tie-breaker.’

‘Tie-breaker?’

‘Bit at the end. Always a variation on the old “I LIKE THIS PRODUCT BECAUSE . . . in not more than ten words”. Mind you, there is a knack to them,’ he added smugly.

‘You’ve won in the past?’ asked Charles. As Sydnee had predicted, Tim had registered no surprise, or indeed interest, at his presence.

‘Just a few times.’ Tim Dyer smiled indulgently at the understatement. ‘Out of these I’ve won fifty pounds a week for life, three music centres, a food processor, a sailing dinghy and a fortnight’s holiday for two in Benidorm.’

‘Good God. What do you do with all that lot?’

‘Keep some. Sell a few. Though selling’s always a pity, because you drop a lot on the price, even when it’s brand-new. I prefer barter. I’ve got a good barter deal going with my local electrical shop.’

‘What did you do about the fortnight’s holiday for two in Benidorm?’

‘Oh, I went on that.’

‘Nice break for you and the wife.’

‘I’m divorced,’ said Tim Dyer. ‘No, I went, and sold the other half of the holiday to someone I used to work with. Had to drop the price a bit, but did all right. Trouble is, very few of the companies who put up these prizes are ready to give cash equivalent.’

‘Do you enter for everything?’ asked Charles, bemused.

‘Everything I hear about. And everything where there’s a bit of skill involved. Like I say, there’s a knack to it. The ones where it’s pure lottery, it’s not worth bothering, I’ve got no advantage over anyone else. Don’t do any of those . . . well, except the
Sun
Bingo and
Times
Portfolio. Check them first thing every morning before I start on the rest.’

‘And you really find there are enough of them to keep you going?’

‘You bet. In fact, I don’t have time to do them all. I work weekends too, you know,’ Tim Dyer concluded piously.

‘So you just sit here and –’

‘Have to spend a lot of time in the supermarkets, checking the new promotions that are coming up, seeing what the competitions are, getting entry forms, coupons, buying up relevant stock.’

‘Relevant stock?’

‘Come and have a look.’

He led them through into what had presumably been intended as a dining room. But it contained no table and chairs. Instead, it was crammed full like a supermarket warehouse.

Tim Dyer gave them a conducted tour. He pointed to a ceiling-high pile of Cook-in-a-Bag Curry boxes, from each of which a side panel had been neatly cut. ‘Did all right out of that. Won a three-week holiday for two to India.’

‘Did you go on it?’

‘No, sold it through the local paper.’ He indicated a wall of food cans, none of which had any labels. ‘Four different competitions, those were. Canned mange-touts, new instant custard launch, lychees in syrup and chilli con carne. Got a yoghourt-maker, cut-glass decanter set, tennis racket and two hair-dryers. Sold them all.’

‘Why no labels?’

He looked at Charles as if he were dealing with a moron. ‘They’ve got the coupons on. You have to get them off.’

‘Well, how can you tell whether it’s instant custard or chilli con carne?’

‘You can’t. I just open one and hope for the best.’

‘You do eat them?’

‘I’m working through,’ said Tim Dyer, and pointed to a pile of washing-up powder boxes. These had also had coupons removed and powder spilled through the rectangular holes to make little peaks on the carpet. ‘Working through this lot, too. Good, though. Won a BMX bicycle on that. Sold it.’

‘How did you win the Vauxhall Cavalier?’ asked Sydnee, who had been silent for a long time.

Tim Dyer looked at her sharply, realizing that the conversation had come round to something important. ‘Let’s go into the front room.’

When they were sitting, Sydnee persisted, ‘Where did you win the Cavalier?’

‘Doesn’t matter.’

‘I see. Another television show.’

For a moment he looked as if he were about to deny it, but a slow, smug smile crept across his face. ‘Yes. Right.
Something For Nothing
I won that on.’

‘You’ve done a lot of other tellies.’

He nodded slyly. ‘Oh yes. I’ve done most of them.’

‘Just a minute,’ said Sydnee, remembering something. ‘How did you get on
Something For Nothing
? That’s a show for married couples.’

‘Yes.’

‘But you said you’re divorced.’

‘I persuaded the wife to come back just for the show.’

‘And
you
got the car.’

‘Oh, come on. She got the fridge-freezer, the home computer with full range of software, the exercise bicycle plus His and Hers track-suits, the cordless telephone and the crate of vintage champagne.’

‘You still got the best of the deal.’

‘Well, I did the research, didn’t I? And I answered all the questions.’

‘Erm . . .’ Charles asked out of pure curiosity, ‘did appearing on the show together bring you and your wife back together at all?’

‘Good God, no.’ Tim Dyer dismissed that idea and moved on to a subject that interested him more. ‘Now, about this Austin Metro . . .’

‘Yes,’ said Sydnee, mentally girding up her loins for battle.

‘I’ve taken legal advice on this, and my solicitor says it depends on whether the crown was definitely over my head when it stopped. Now I know it was, and that would be visible on the recording of the show that you have. If W.E.T. tries to withhold that tape, my solicitor says he would be able to –’

‘We have also taken legal advice,’ Sydnee quelled him.

‘Our Legal Department has no precedent for this situation, but their view is that the rules of the game constitute a kind of verbal contract. In other words, W.E.T. has agreed to give away certain goods to contestants who fulfil the requirements demanded by the game.’

‘Exactly.’ Tim Dyer grinned hungrily. ‘Which I had done.’

‘However,’ Sydnee continued, ‘it is their view that this situation only lasts as long as the game continues, and they feel that the game cannot be said to continue after the death of the host.’

‘What!’ He was furious. ‘But that’s just cheating. Anyway, the crown had stopped over my head before he died.’

She shook her head. ‘We’ve checked the tape. Barrett Doran definitely stopped moving before the wheel of hats did.’

‘I don’t believe it. I demand to see the tape!’

‘You’re welcome to do so. Your solicitor is also welcome to do so. It won’t change anything. The Austin Metro remains the property of West End Television.’

Tim Dyer let out a terrible howl of frustrated materialism. ‘Cheats! You’re just all cheats! I won that fair and square, and now you’re saying I didn’t! I’ll fight it! I’ll sue you! I’ll get that car!’

‘Try, by all means,’ said Sydnee equably, ‘but let me warn you, you’re going into a very vague area of the law, and, as a general rule, the vaguer the area, the more expensive the law becomes.’

Tim Dyer was silent, his mouth ugly with disappointment. He looked as if he had been winded by a blow to some vital part of his anatomy. And that was not far from the truth. He had just received a serious blow to his greed.

Charles judged it a good moment to move on to the real subject of their visit. ‘You didn’t like Barrett Doran, did you?’

Tim Dyer looked surprised at this change of direction, but was still too much in shock to do anything but tell the truth. ‘No, I didn’t. So?’

‘Why did you dislike him? You’d only met him that afternoon, hadn’t you?’

‘Oh yes. But it doesn’t take long to get the measure of someone like that.’ A glint of paranoia came into Dyer’s eye, as he said, ‘He was out to stop me winning.’

‘What?’

‘Oh yes. That bastard was out to nobble me from the moment we were introduced. He saw that I was the most likely contestant to win, and he was out to stop me.’

‘I don’t think he was bothered with –’

‘Oh, come on. Didn’t you see the way he paired me off with that subnormal actress? It was quite deliberate. He was out to sabotage my chances.’ The paranoia gave way to satisfaction. ‘But I showed the bastard. I still won, didn’t I?’ The paranoia quickly reasserted itself. ‘Or I would have won if I hadn’t been cheated of my car!’

‘Listen . . .’ Sydnee began, but, on a signal from Charles, she stopped.

‘What did you do during the meal-break?’ the actor asked suddenly.

Again he had judged it right. Tim was too surprised by the sudden demand to question why it should be asked. ‘Well, I . . . er . . . what do you mean?’

‘You were in the Conference Room with Chita and the other contestants. You and Trish Osborne left there about quarter past six, and didn’t get back till twenty to seven. You said you were going down to the canteen, but neither of you did. What were you doing?’

‘Well, I wasn’t with her, if that’s what you were thinking,’ Tim replied truculently. ‘If she was getting off with anyone, it wasn’t me. We only left the room together. We got in different lifts.’

‘Both going down?’

‘I think so. Mine was, certainly.’

‘Which floor did you get off at?’

‘I. . . . Look, what is this? Why are you giving me the third degree in my own home? Who the hell do you think you are?’

‘Someone’s been murdered,’ Charles announced with all the chilling authority he had used in
Witness For The Prosecution
(‘Profoundly unmoving’ –
Plays and Players
).

‘And someone’s been charged with the murder.’

‘Yes. We happen to believe that the police have got the wrong culprit. Which is why we are checking what everyone was doing during the meal-break.’ By now he had slipped into the voice he had used as a Detective-Inspector (shortly to be killed) in a
Softly, Softly
(‘A rather routine episode in this generally excellent series’ –
New Statesman
). ‘So tell me exactly what you did when you left the Conference Room.’

The Detective-Inspector manner had its effect. Tim Dyer spoke unwillingly, but at least he spoke. ‘I went down to the floor where the studios are. I just wanted to have a look round. I was nervous, you know, wanted to get on the set, get the feel of it. I thought it’d calm me down.’

‘And, once in the studio, what did you do?’

‘I . . . well, I just looked round. You know, round the back.’

‘You looked at the displays of prizes?’

‘All right. So what if I did? I needed to psych myself up for the show. I needed to sort of get the adrenaline going.’

‘So you went and gazed at the Austin Metro?’

‘Yes,’ the contestant admitted sheepishly.

‘And that’s all you did?’

‘Yes.’ But Tim Dyer would not look into his interrogator’s eyes as he spoke.

‘You were out of the Conference Room for twenty-five minutes. Sounds like a long time to look at a car.’

‘Well, I didn’t go into the studio straight away.’

‘What, not immediately after you left the lift?’

‘No. I was going in there, but I saw one of the celebrities coming along the corridor and I didn’t feel like chatting, so I turned into one of the phone booths along there till he’d gone past.’

‘Who was it?’

‘Bob Garston.’

‘And he was coming from Studio A?’

‘From that direction, certainly.’

‘This was straight after you came out of the lift?’

‘Yes.’

‘So, say, twenty-past six?’

‘Round then.’

‘Was Bob Garston on his own?’

‘No, he was with Joanie Bruton’s husband.’

‘Roger Bruton, eh?’ Charles looked at Sydnee. ‘Who’d presumably just escorted his wife into Make-up.’ She nodded. ‘So, Tim, you just stayed in the phone booth as they walked past?’

‘That’s what I meant to do, but they stopped just outside and talked for a bit.’

‘Did you hear what they said?’

‘Yes. It was strange. Bob Garston was saying, “I didn’t think anyone knew about it. Still, since you obviously do, you’ll understand that I’m finding it pretty difficult to work in the same studio as the bastard.” And Roger Bruton said, “Joanie’s done a lot of counselling on infidelity in marriage. You ought to talk to her about it. She’s very understanding.” And Bob said, yes, perhaps he would.’

‘And that was it?’

‘Yes. Then they walked on.’

‘And you came out of the phone booth and went into Studio A?’

‘Yes.’

‘To look at your car.’ Tim Dyer did not deem this worthy of comment, so Charles went on. ‘Did you see anyone in the studio?’

A twisted smile came to the contestant’s lips. ‘Only you.’

‘Oh.’

‘I saw you swigging from his glass.’

Charles blushed, but pressed on. ‘So you knew that it didn’t contain cyanide at that point.’

‘Never occurred to me that it would. Why should I think that?’

‘Somebody put cyanide in it between six-thirty and seven.’

‘Well, don’t look at me. What do you take me for? I wouldn’t do anything like that.’

‘No, I don’t think you probably would.’ A new thought struck Charles. ‘Just a minute. You say you saw me drinking from Barrett’s glass . . .’

‘Yes.’

‘I didn’t see you.’

‘So?’ Tim Dyer looked uncomfortable.

‘If you’d been behind the curtain round the back of the set, you wouldn’t have been able to see me. If you’d been in the audience seating, I’d have seen you. That means you must have been out of sight, actually on the set.’

‘Well . . .’ Tim Dyer began wretchedly.