Situation Tragedy (8 page)

Charles shrugged. ‘I'm an actor.'

‘Yes, of course, so you know all about it. But at least you've had practice. I find it's a bit late in life for me to learn how to cope with it.'

‘But Sadie,' Charles insisted mildly, ‘couldn't help?'

‘Wouldn't help certainly. Probably couldn't either.' He looked very doleful. ‘Oh, she was probably right.'

‘What did she say?'

‘That I was past it. Past everything, she said. Certainly washed up as a television producer.'

‘Oh, come on. You did some terrific stuff in the past.'

‘In the past, yes. And what have I got to show for it? A few press clippings, some stills, cassettes of the later stuff – though that's ironical; I can't afford to keep up the rental of my video cassette recorder, so that's gone back. So I've got nothing. Not even Angela. She's dying quietly in Datchet and here am I drinking gin I can't afford and . . .'

Walter Proud seemed to be on the verge of tears, which Charles didn't think he could cope with. He wrenched the conversation brutally on to another tack. ‘That evening of the pilot, when you came to see Sadie, when did you arrive?'

‘When did I arrive?' the producer repeated blankly.

‘Yes.'

Suddenly Walter started to laugh. It was a weak and not a jovial sound. ‘Oh, Charles, I don't believe it.'

‘What?'

‘You're off on one of your bloody detective trips, aren't you?'

‘Well . . .'

‘Now you think Sadie was murdered and –'

‘I think there may have been something strange about the death. I mean, she was a grown woman, she hadn't been drinking, why should she suddenly fall off the fire escape?'

‘The railing gave way.'

‘Or was helped to give way.'

‘Oh really.'

‘I'm not the only person who said that.'

‘What, you mean all those self-dramatising fools at West End Television think someone gave her a shove?'

‘Not that, necessarily. She might have done it herself.'

‘Suicide?'

‘Possible.'

‘Not if you knew Sadie.' Realisation dawned on Walter. ‘You mean, you thought she might have . . . because of me? Because we'd broken up, you thought she might . . . oh, Charles. It's so wrong it's almost flattering. No, I'm afraid I didn't rate that highly on her list of priorities. I was a few bouts of sex before she decided I was . . . what was her expression . . . past it? I don't think I was bloody past it, I think anyone would have found the same with her. I really think she was a nymphomaniac. I don't mean the kind of avid partner one dreams of, but the real thing, someone with a pathological and insatiable desire for sex. It's not very pleasant when you encounter it.'

Charles, who never had, agreed uncertainly. And, since any cover he might have had had been thoroughly blown, asked, ‘And you didn't kill her?'

‘No, no, sorry. There were times when it might not have been a bad idea, but I'm afraid I never thought of it.'

‘So what time did you arrive at W.E.T., that evening?'

‘Oh, I see, the full interrogation. I don't get off the hook so easily. Right, I got there about nine. I have cause to remember that, because the doorman wouldn't let me in. Good God, I've produced two or three series for the company, and he wouldn't let me in to the building. Said I had to be vouched for by a member of staff. I got him to page practically every name I could remember ever having met there before I found someone who'd vouch for me and let me in to get a drink. That's the sort of thing that destroys you, Charles. You don't think about it when you've got a job, but, God, it tears you up when you find yourself crawling to doormen like some unwanted alien.'

Charles felt relief. He hadn't wanted to suspect his friend, but he had had to check it. If Walter really had arrived at nine in the evening, and that could be confirmed, then he could not possibly have been the person whose death threat Sadie Wainwright had treated with such contempt. And since those few overheard words were the only real reason why Charles had any suspicions about the accident, Walter seemed effectively to have left the list of suspects.

‘So you saw Sadie after the pilot recording finished at ten?'

‘That's right. I met someone in the bar who told me what she was doing that evening and waylaid her as she came out of the studio. I suggested a drink and got my head bitten off, so I said what I really wanted to ask her and . . .

‘Had your other head bitten off?'

‘Exactly.'

‘So you didn't see her for long?'

‘No, she was very short with me. Said she had other fish to fry. And from the tone of her voice I could have believed she meant it literally. I knew the signs well enough to recognise them. She was spoiling for a row with someone.'

‘You don't know who?'

‘I know where. She didn't even stop to talk to me. I had to tag along by her side while she marched ahead to sort out the next poor sod. She just marched into his dressing room and I heard her say before the door closed, “Right, what is all this, you bastard?”'

‘Who was in the dressing room?'

‘Ah, I don't know.'

‘Which number was it?'

‘Number Three.'

Number Three, the dressing room whose allocation to him had caused such affront to Bernard Walton.

FILMING DAYS ALWAYS start uncomfortably early. Charles had had a make-up call at seven o'clock. A car had been sent to fetch him, which he might have thought was a flattering recognition of his raised status as an actor if he hadn't seen the prodigality with which television companies send out cars to deliver scripts, pick up cassettes or collect take-away meals. Needless to say, at six-thirty in the morning the driver's tattoo on the front door at Hereford Road had failed to wake Charles, but had disturbed the hive of lumpish Swedish girls who occupied the other bedsitters. With their singsong remonstrances and the driver's belligerent complaints at being kept waiting, he had left the house in some confusion.

But as he was made up, he relaxed. He always found it a pleasant experience. In the theatre he was used to doing it himself, and to have someone doing it for him was a great luxury. Besides, make-up girls are by tradition extraordinarily attractive. And to sit half-asleep in a comfortable chair while a sweet-smelling girl caresses your face must be the definition of one sort of minor bliss.

Its only disadvantage is that, like all blisses, it is too short. Only seconds after he had sat down, it seemed, the gentle facial massage stopped, a discreet tap on the shoulder made him open his eyes, he had another second to gaze deeply into the brown eyes of the make-up girl, and then it was time to go and join the rest of the cast in the coach which would take them to the location.
Sic transit gloria mundi
. (So it is that transport brings us from the glorious to the mundane.)

On the coach, Charles saw that George Birkitt had an empty seat beside him and made towards it, but the actor indicated a pile of scripts and said, ‘Sorry, old boy, lot of studying to do. I seem to have a damned lot of lines to learn for this bloody filming.'

So Charles went and sat by Debbi Hartley, the actress who played the Strutters'
au pair
. She was a pretty little blonde of about twenty-five, but he had never fancied her. She was the clone of too many other pretty little actresses of twenty-five, and her self-absorption was so great that it was almost impossible to think of her in a sexual context.

She did not seem to object to his company, and started animatedly into a monologue about the wisdom of having her hair cut short once the
Strutters
series was over. Whereas her agent thought it would make her look younger, certain of her friends were of the opinion that it might make her look older. This was obviously of enormous relevance because when one went up for an interview (Charles had noticed how the new generation of actors never used the word ‘audition'), first impressions were vital and if the director thought of one as too old, one wouldn't stand a chance for ingenue roles, or if he thought of one as too young, then one wouldn't get the sort of
femme fatale
parts, because no one ever realised how versatile one was and it was so difficult to avoid getting typecast, but she, Debbi, thought she was just at the stage in her career to do something a bit different, so showing she could do other things as well as the little-bit-of-fluff parts, what did Charles think?

Since he didn't really think anything, he didn't say anything, but his lack of response did not deflect Debbi from the course of her debate.

Charles looked round. The coach was filling up. Mort Verdon stood at the front, checking names against a clipboard. Janie Lewis entered importantly, carrying piles of bits of paper. He contemplated joining her and exchanging discussion of hair length for that of the relative merits of film and mobile VTR recording, quoted directly from Ernie Franklyn Junior or some other guru of the W.E.T. canteen. There wasn't much to choose in conversation; the only difference was that he did fancy Janie, whereas he didn't fancy Debbi.

On the other hand . . . By the time the coach was on Westway, his eyes had closed. Beside him, Debbi Hartley continued to enumerate her virtues as an actress. It was half an hour before she noticed he was asleep.

Bernard Walton lived in a large house, set on a hill between Cookham and Bourne End. Charles woke up as the coach turned off the main road into his drive. The house was at this point invisible because of the steepness of the incline, but the approach was impressive. A gravel drive zigzagged up through immaculately planted gardens. Neat stone walls bordered it and on these, at intervals, stood tall terracotta urns from which variegated displays of flowers spilled.

As the coach groaned and protested through its lowest gears on the hairpin turns, its occupants could see the view the house commanded. At the foot of the hill, green, flat water-meadows spread to the broad gleam of the Thames. Beyond, woods obscured most signs of human habitation.

Round one last corner and they saw the house itself. It was Thirties Tudor, black and white, not scoring many aesthetic marks, but impressive just for its bulk and position. A tennis court and a service cottage brought right angles to the landscaped curves of the garden. Beyond a neat privet hedge could be seen the polite undulations of a golf course. If the whole location had a manufactured air, it was very fitting for the character of its owner.

Bernard Walton stood in front of the large oak door waving welcome. More than welcome, he was waving possession and condescension. By allowing
The Strutters
to use his home, he had given the series his seal of approval. But he had also diminished it, as if it existed only by his mandate.

Charles caught George Birkitt's eye. ‘Ostentatious bugger,' murmured the star of
The Strutters
.

‘All part of the image,' said Charles lightly.

‘Yes. God, if I had his money, I hope I'd show a little bit more reticence.' But there was a note of wistfulness in George Birkitt's voice. Bernard Walton's house had struck a psychological blow against him. He might be the star of
The Strutters
and he might be about to make a great deal of money. But he hadn't made it yet. Whatever his fantasies, he had still a long way to go to catch up with a real, established star.

Bernard Walton greeted them effusively. ‘Do make yourselves at home. I'm just pottering around today, so ask if there's anything you need. The
Sun
's coming down to do an interview this morning and I'm recording a few links for some radio show this afternoon, but otherwise I'm completely at your disposal. Do remember you're my guests.'

This was pure Bernard Walton and Charles couldn't help admiring it. He felt sure the star had deliberately set up the newspaper and radio bits to coincide with the filming day, so that no one should forget his importance. The pose of the self-denying host was also typical, and it was a gesture that was very easy to make. The usual filming back-up services, location caterers, make-up caravans and so on, already had their transport drawn up on the gravel. Even lavatories were available in the various vehicles, so the demands on Bernard Walton's hospitality would be minimal. And he would certainly have arranged a suitable fee with the Location Manager to cover any mild disruption which the filming might occasion.

Already there were a few signs of activity around the location. Men in blue nylon anoraks moved cables and huge lights on wheeled tripods. Make-up girls checked for any deterioration in their handiwork that the coach trip might have caused. Dressers inspected costumes for invisible flecks. Mort Verdon flounced around checking props. The men whose only function seemed to be to wear lumberjack checked shirts wore their lumberjack checked shirts and discussed overtime rates ominously. Midge Trumper (yes, the Midge Trumper), the cameraman, inspected his camera. Janie Lewis, her neck festooned like a Hawaiian princess s with pens on thongs and stopwatches on thongs, moved about, aimlessly purposeful.

But there seemed no momentum to any of the activity. It wasn't just the slow pace of everything, which is
de rigueur
in television, there was an even greater lack of purpose. It took Charles a minute or two to realise that this was due to the absence of the Director.

Scott Newton had not been in the coach; he had insisted on coming to the location under his own steam.

Even as Charles remembered this, the throaty roar of an engine and a fusillade of gravel announced both Scott Newton's arrival and the nature of the steam under which he was arriving.

A brand-new silver Porsche screeched to a halt beside the coach and the young television director bounced out, looking, in his tinted glasses, his ginger corduroy blouson suit and his white soft-leather French boots, exactly as a young television director should look.