Show Business Is Murder (35 page)

The TV life is an enjoyable one; drugs, food, and alcohol (sex, too, no doubt, if that is one's preference) are all freely available, and available free. I indulged carefully. It's always best to be careful.

Every now and then—and constantly, at the back of my mind—I wondered what Annabelle might have meant when she said she'd seen me working. I didn't ask her. If she didn't want to say, I wasn't going to ask. You have to know when to smile.

I was confident she couldn't have been one of my victims; she was quite the wrong sort for me. Besides, I have a good memory for faces. I can remember them all. Not the features, as such, but there was a particular look I used to scan
for when I was working as a robber, something of the woman's spirit displayed on her face, and that look always stayed in my mind.

She could've been a witness, it was possible, but if so how had she tracked me down? I am a fast worker, and a fast mover. Just chance, maybe—she remembered me, and then saw me again some time when I wasn't working. Possible. London's a big city, but the West End is a small town. It could be coincidence. Or doggedness, or professional assistance.

At one point, after we had been working together for a few weeks, Annabelle asked me if I was still working. I pretended not to know what she meant, and tried to change the subject. We were in the studio canteen, speaking quietly.

“Doesn't bother me if you are,” she said. “As long as it doesn't interfere with the show.”

The way she spoke it seemed almost as if she was encouraging me to continue in my old trade. I thought that perhaps she found the idea of it exciting, in an indecent way. There are such women.

ONE BRIGHT DAY,
the traces of makeup sticky on my face, I was exiting the studios in the direction of the Underground—my work as a Bus Conductor Who Converses with Dead Passengers done for the day—when I felt an unsought and unwelcome female touch on my elbow.

“George? Or whatever your name is. Can I have a word? It's about money.”

I turned, to greet an ordinary-looking young woman of the sort who makes a great effort with herself which doesn't quite come off. I was about to smile at her, when I realised that I knew her face. I frowned. I had to hope that a frown, and the sunglasses, would be enough to save me.

“I'm in a hurry,” I said. “I have another appointment.”

“OK, sure, I'll make it fast. My name's Miranda—hi.” She put her hand out for shaking. I didn't take it. She took a few nervous breaths and stuck her snubbed paw in her back pocket. “You're in a hurry, I know. Sorry. Here it is: I admire your work, and I—”

“My work?”

“You
own
the screen. I'm not kidding. And at the same time, you're so versatile that a casual viewer wouldn't recognise you from one part to another. I, obviously, am not a casual viewer.”

How much could I trust the sunglasses? How much would the frown protect me? “I have to go.”

She scrabbled at her handbag—a small thing, chic or childish depending on your viewpoint, its strap looped sensibly over her right shoulder and under her left armpit—and pulled out a business card. “Give me a call. Okay? I think we could do good business together. But don't tell Annabelle, whatever you do! She'll kill me—probably kill you, too.”

She got in her car and drove off, and had hardly vanished around the corner before Annabelle was upon me. Her face was blotched red and white, her teeth were exposed, and her hair frizzed as if before a storm.

“What the hell were you doing talking to that bitch?”

“
She
approached
me,
” I said, my voice considerably quieter than Annabelle's. “Apparently she knows you.”

“You're telling me you didn't know who she was?”

I shrugged. “Miranda something, that's all I know.”

“Miranda something! Miranda
Denny
. She's one of the best known talent spotters in TV. Or used to be. She's been off sick for the last year, with depression or something. You're saying you didn't recognise her?”

“I swear to you I have never seen her before in my life.” I crossed my heart and kept my face straight.

“Well, all right.” Annabelle seemed calmer now. “Fair enough. What did she want?”

“I think she wants to employ me.”

“Oh, does she?” Annabelle put her hands on her hips. She stared through me, and bit repeatedly at her bottom lip. “Does she, the bitch? I'll bet she does! Oh yes, that's Miranda's style, right enough. The
bitch
.”

“Well, you don't have to worry, I'm not—”

“Do you know what I think I'll do?” She stopped fidgeting, looked right into my face, her eyes glowing. “I think I'll get you to kill her.”

I was aware that people in show business take their rivalries as seriously as Mafiosi take theirs, but even so I was somewhat taken aback. “Really?”

She nodded. “Yes. Yes, I think I will.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes,” she said. “My mind is made up. You're to kill her, Jez.”

I took off my sunglasses and wiped the sweat from my eyes. “Why would I do such a thing? Annabelle, our relationship is based on business, not friendship. I owe you no favors, I am not under any obligation to you. What makes you think I would do you such an extraordinary service?”

Annabelle smiled. “Due to blackmail. If you don't do it, I'll tell the police what you do for a living.”

Did
for a living, I thought, but didn't say. “Any crime I may or may not have committed in the past has certainly been a lot further down the scale than murder. Even supposing you had something to blackmail me about, and even supposing you told the police, I would sooner be given community service for a lamb, than jailed for life for a sheep.”

“Do this for me, and you won't have to do either.”

“I'm not a killer,” I said. “I've never killed, I never will kill.”

“We'll see,” she said over her shoulder, as she left me standing alone by the back door.

“We
won't,
” I called after her. And I meant it.

On the other hand, and there was no gain in denying this to myself, Miranda's death would be convenient and reassuring, should it happen suddenly and soon. She hadn't recognised me today, I was sure of that, but if she saw me in the unadorned flesh for any length of time she certainly would. If she saw my eyes, and my smile.

I had no direct evidence to support my fear. I had never actually been recognised, on a tube train or in a pub, by a shop assistant or a tourist, but I was convinced I was right: Surely, no woman I had robbed could easily forget the slap, or the smile. Or really, I mean, the both of them together.

Even now, perhaps, Miranda's memory was tickling her, whistling at her, trying to attract her attention. If so, eventually she would turn me in. If not, then she would pursue me, for professional reasons, and
then
she would remember me . . . and turn me in. And if she didn't, it seemed now, Annabelle was quite willing to do so, the moment she feared she was losing control of me. Really—ideally—I could do with being rid of both of them. I felt it was time for me to move on, in any case. I was already thinking of sidestepping from people shows into, maybe, commercials. An actor must constantly seek to stretch his craft.

I couldn't kill, though. Killing people is morally indefensible. Still, if Annabelle hated Miranda so much, perhaps I wouldn't have to.

“I'LL DO IT.
But I'm going to need two things. First—money. A lot of money.”

“That's no problem,” said Annabelle. “Say, five thousand?”

“Say ten.” I sipped my beer. She hadn't touched her G&T. If the tonic was as flat as the beer, I didn't blame her. The pub we were in was a filthy dump, not the sort of place either of us would normally frequent. Which was why we'd chosen it, of course. “In advance.”

“Ten. Okay. Sure, I can go to ten.”

“And the other thing,” I said. “The other thing I need. You've got to come with me. When I do it, I want you there.”

She grinned. “What, the big, brave ladykiller needs Mummy to hold his hand?”

I wondered again what she knew about me, and how. “I need
Mummy
to be in it with me. In as deep as I am. I'm being frank with you here, Annabelle. When this is done, we'll never meet again, and whatever it is you think you have over me will be cancelled out by what we'll
both
have over each other. You understand?”

She picked up her glass, fished out the slimy slice of lemon and put it in an ashtray. She put the glass down again. “I understand. That's no problem, either. In fact—yes, in fact, that'll be fine.”

More than fine, by her tone. “What is it?” I said. “What is it, that makes you so keen to see Miranda die?”

With her finger, she pushed the piece of lemon around the ashtray, as if cleaning it. “We used to be close friends.” She looked up at me. “Very close friends.”

“I see.” Such matters, though disgusting, were none of my business. “So you know where she lives.”

“Better than that. I have a key.”

“All right.” I finished my beer, unappetising though it was. “How are we going to do this, have you thought about that? Fire, maybe?”

Annabelle shuddered. “God, no!”

I thought of making a joke about old flames, but decided it might be considered tasteless. “I understand, you don't want her to suffer. That's admirable.”

“Admirable?”
She laughed, in an unattractive manner.

“What do you have in mind, then?”

“A gun,” she said.

“I see. Do you have a gun?”

“No. But I suppose
you
can get one, easily enough.”

I thought about that. Yes, I probably could. Easily enough, and safely enough. “All right,” I said, and it was decided.

Less than a week later, we sat in Annabelle's car outside the Bloomsbury mansion block which contained Miranda's flat. The gun was in the pocket of Annabelle's raincoat. She'd suggested that she keep hold of it until we were inside, in case I needed both hands free to prevent Miranda from fleeing. I'd agreed to that—though only after what I hoped was a convincing show of reluctance.

I was confident that once the action was underway, Annabelle herself would do the shooting—and do it with pleasure. Whenever she spoke to me of Miranda, her ugly face burned with anger. Despite what she'd said in the pub, it was clear to me that
she
was the one who needed the reassurance of company on this outing.

I had told her that I had plans for disposing of the body which it would be better for her not to know about. In fact, the thing being done, I planned to leave the scene with all the considerable speed I could muster. Afterwards, Annabelle either would or wouldn't be arrested. An ex-lover would, no doubt, be an obvious suspect. If she was, she wouldn't tell the police about my part in the business since that could only serve to upgrade a case of manslaughter between lovers to one of conspiracy to commit murder. To be on the safe side, I would disappear for a while, until it seemed prudent to emerge, during which time I thought I might indulge in a little plastic surgery. Nothing major, a small nose job, which I hoped would enhance my employability as well as my anonymity.

If she wasn't arrested, then so much the better. I'd still be free of her, since I could in theory turn her in at any time. Either way, I'd be free of Miranda.

We paused on the landing outside Miranda's door. Annabelle handed me a large envelope containing my money. I checked it quickly, and nodded my acceptance. She
inserted the key in the lock, more noisily than I had hoped. Before turning it, she said: “Here goes. Give us a smile for luck, Jez.”

Miranda Denny stood before us, in the center of her hallway, completely naked.

“Grab her!” said Annabelle, closing the door behind us.

I did so, overcoming my natural revulsion. She didn't struggle. I heard Annabelle breathing heavily as she came up the hallway towards us. “Get ready,” I said, and I threw Miranda away from me with all my force, so that she bounced off a closed door and slumped onto the carpet.

I saw a flash of light in front of me, and then a nauseous pain colonised the back of my head and everything I had ever held to be true gushed out of my nose and down my shirt and onto the floor.

“YOU GAINED ACCESS
to the flat by means of a door key which you had stolen from Ms. Inwood's handbag when you visited her office earlier in the day,” said the detective chief inspector sitting opposite me in the little interview room. “Surprising the two occupants of the flat in bed, you became irate and irrational, ranting and saying that you were in love with Ms. Denny.” He put a finger on his notebook to mark his place, and glanced up at me. “Do you deny any of this, Mr. Becker?”

I said nothing. I had said nothing since waking up in the hospital, two days previously.