The Dead Side of the Mike (27 page)

‘Oh, that's right. I sent in a card a few weeks back.'

‘Well, Mr Piggott, you'll be talking to Dave Sheridan in about two minutes, just when this piece of music's finished.'

‘Oh yes.'

‘If you've got your radio on, can I ask you to keep the volume down and keep it away from the telephone? Otherwise we can get technical problems.'

‘Oh, that's all right. My wife's listening in the next room.'

‘Good. Right, if you'd like to hang on for a minute, the next person you speak to will be Dave Sheridan.'

‘Fine.'

Mr Piggott waited. The receiver in his hand was damp with sweat. Anyone looking at him would have thought that the prospect of winning ten pounds for identifying a piece of music meant a great deal to him.

‘Mmm, I love that one from Bobbie Gentry. Very sexy voice, I always think. Right, now it's competition time. Yes, it's. . . .'

TEN FOR A TUNE JINGLE

‘. . . and we should have Mr Piggott from Birmingham on the line. Are you there, Mr Piggott?'

‘Yes, I am, Dave.'

‘Good, good, the boffins in the backroom have got the phones working. Tell me, Mr Piggott – or can I call you Kevin?'

‘Please do, Dave.'

‘Fine. Tell me, Kevin, what sort of a night is it in Birmingham?'

‘Oh, very nice, thank you, Dave.'

‘Good. And let's hope your lucky star's out tonight as you play . . . “Ten for a Tune”.'

‘Let's hope so, Dave.'

‘Right, to have ten pounds winging their way to you tomorrow, all you have to do is to tell me what this piece of music is and who's singing it.'

TAPE OF SCRAMBLED MUSIC

‘Well, there it was, Kevin. A fairly difficult one, but tell me – do you have any idea what it might be?'

‘Yes, Dave, I think I know exactly.'

‘There's confidence for you. Right, what do you think it is?'

‘I think it's
There's an Old Mill by the Stream
and I think it's sung by Danny Klinger.'

The impact was immediate. Sheridan looked as if he'd been kicked in the solar plexus. Hard. He mouthed, incapable of speech.

‘Is that right?' asked Charles inexorably, watching his victim through the slit in the blind.

‘No. No,' Sheridan managed to croak.

‘Oh, what a pity. Well, never mind. I'd like a dedication, please. It's for Andrea Gower and all at Musimotive and the number we'd all like to hear is
Confessin
'.'

‘Well . . . you . . . can't have it.' Sheridan's shaking hands reached forward to the turntable, banged against the pick-up and knocked it jolting into the middle of the disc. Music started with an ugly rasp. He rose to his feet and rushed into the control cubicle as Charles hurried out from his hiding-place.

‘Who – did – that?' Dave Sheridan mouthed incoherently.

‘Is everything okay?' asked his new producer with concern.

‘What's up, Dave?' asked his agent with equal concern.

‘Who did it?' asked Dave Sheridan more firmly.

Keith Nicholls rose from the control panel just as Charles entered the suite. ‘We did it, Dave,' he said softly. ‘Now perhaps you know what it feels like to be really frightened, maybe you know what Andrea felt like when you pulled her wrist across the blade, what Klinger felt like when he smelt the exhaust fumes, what I felt like this afternoon when I saw that spool coming towards me.'

‘You've no proof,' said Sheridan.

‘Oh yes, we have,' Charles lied firmly.

‘Look, what is all this?' asked Michael Oakley.

‘The record's coming up in thirty seconds,' said the new producer feebly.

Dave Sheridan suddenly turned round to his case on the table. When he turned back, he was holding a small automatic pistol. ‘Out of my way, all of you.'

‘You won't get away,' said Charles.

‘Yes, I will. I got away from the last bit of trouble I had, with Danny in the States. And I'll get away with this. Let me pass.'

The gun was held in a very purposeful manner and Charles felt discretion was the better part of valour. He drew back to make a gangway for Sheridan to leave the studio.

But Keith Nicholls was not going to let that happen. ‘No. You're not going to get away with it. Not after what you did to Andrea.' And he launched himself at the disc jockey.

There was a sharp report from the gun. Keith was frozen for a minute in mid-air, then slumped to the ground. By the time the moment of shock was over, Dave Sheridan had left the studio.

‘Good God, what shall I do?' the new producer asked. ‘The record's finished. There'll be silence on the air. Oh my God – silence.' He stopped, appalled at the thought.

‘Ring the duty office,' Keith's voice came weakly from the floor. ‘Tell them there's been a shooting. Tell them to stop Dave Sheridan, not to let anyone leave the building.'

The new producer still hesitated.

‘Come on, surely even you are capable of doing that,' hissed Keith, and passed out.

The producer got on the phone. Charles knelt down beside Keith. The bullet appeared to have hit his stomach. There was a lot of blood. ‘And get a doctor too,' Charles said harshly. ‘Quickly!'

He stood up. Gerald Venables, Michael Oakley and the dolly-bird looked at him in astonishment. ‘Come on Gerald, let's get to the front of the building. There may be explanations necessary.'

Gerald nodded and they started to leave the studio.

‘This is a tragedy,' said Michael Oakley. ‘That guy was going to be very big.'

They met the Duty Officer, the Head of Security and a lot of other security men in the main Reception. The police had been called. Unwilling as the BBC always was to make its troubles public, on this occasion the Duty Officer reckoned there was no way of excluding the police.

And no, Dave Sheridan hadn't gone past them. No, there was no other way he could have got out. All the other exits were firmly locked.

‘Couldn't he have broken a window or a door?'

‘We've been round and checked on the ground floor and first floor. There's no sign of anything.'

‘So you reckon he's still in the building?'

The Head of Security nodded. ‘As soon as the police come we're going to have a thorough search.'

‘Has the doctor arrived?'

‘Yes, he's just gone up to the studio. We'll want to talk to you later. I suggest you go up to the canteen and have coffee or something. We'll find you there.'

‘Okay.' Charles and Gerald got into the lift and pressed the button for the eighth floor.

‘Charles,' asked Gerald, ‘had you really got proof to pin the murders on him?'

‘No, it was complete bluff.'

‘It worked.'

‘Yes, and now there's no question about his having committed a crime. In front of seven witnesses. I just hope to God it's not another murder.'

‘Yes.' The lift slowed down. ‘I wonder where he's gone.' The lift doors opened. ‘Ah, here we are at the top.'

They stepped out. Charles stopped suddenly. ‘Gerald, that book you talked about . . .
Death in Broadcasting House
was it called?'

‘That's right.'

‘How did you say it ended?'

‘In a chase across the roof of the building.'

‘I wonder . . .'

Opposite them was a notice at the foot of a small staircase:

UNAUTHORISED STAFF ARE NOT ALLOWED ON THIS STAIRCASE OR ON THE ROOF WHICH IS STRICTLY OUT OF BOUNDS

‘What was that?' Both froze.

‘It sounded like a door. Along the corridor.' Charles whispered. ‘It must be him. There can't be many people about at this time. I should think he is trying to get to the roof. Must be looking for the staircase.'

They started back along the old corridor towards the canteen. They turned a corner. Both gasped. Dave Sheridan stood in front of them, holding his gun.

A shot sounded, appallingly loud, as they threw themselves back. They heard the bang of a door out of sight.

‘Are you all right, Gerald?'

‘I think so. I felt the wind of it, but I don't think it hit me.'

Charles peered round the corner cautiously. ‘No sign.'

‘Where do you reckon he's gone?'

‘That way leads to the canteen. I wouldn't have thought he's gone there. Or . . .' Charles pointed to a stout pair of double doors.

‘What's in there?'

‘It's a studio. 8A. I've worked there.'

‘What do you reckon?'

‘I reckon we go in and try to find him.'

Gerald took a deep breath. ‘Okay, buddy boy.'

They pushed the studio door open. It made no noise. It had been muffled to prevent its sound from interfering with recording. Inside it was dark and deathly quiet. All sound was muffled. The two of them stood there, trying to accustom their eyes to the darkness, trying to prise its heavy drapes apart. But it was unyielding. They could see nothing.

Charles moved forward. His footstep sounded heavily on wood. Of course, damn it, this was the live end of the studio. The other end, behind a curtain, was carpeted for dead acoustics. This end the bare boards were meant to ring out with steps and voices.

Well, hell, if he was going to be audible whatever he did, there was no point in pussyfooting. Go the whole hog. He jumped forward, landing with a resounding thud on the boards and shouted, ‘All right, Sheridan, you may as well give yourself up. Even if you get up to the roof, you won't get away.'

Fortunately he had taken the precaution of landing in a crouch. The bullet that zinged over his head would have found his heart had he been upright.

‘Aagh,' he said liquidly, as he had in
Richard III
at Guildford (‘Mr Paris perhaps a trifle over-parted' –
Surrey Comet
) and fell to the floor with a thud. Then rolled, he hoped quietly, to one side.

Quietly enough. Another bullet dug into the wooden floor where he would have been if he hadn't moved.

Dave Sheridan's voice came coolly from where the gun had flashed. ‘Right, if the other one of you wants the same, you just try and stop me getting up on the roof.'

Ah, thought Charles comfortingly, he thinks I'm dead.

Gerald, with the discretion which had made him such a success in the legal profession and contributed to the purchase of his Rolls-Royce, kept very quiet.

‘Right. Goodbye,' said Sheridan's voice. Then there was a sound of footsteps running up stone stairs. They reached a level and stopped. Then there was a rattle and clang of at least six different bolts as he fought to open the door. Finally the last one gave, and he leapt forward to the freedom of the roof of Broadcasting House.

At that moment all the lights in the studio came on. Charles, from his vantage point on the floor, looked up to where the sound of the door had come from.

He saw Dave Sheridan clutching at his nose. The door with which he had struggled had opened on to a blank wall. It was a Sound Effects door and all its bolts and latches were only there for the illusions of Saturday Night Theatre.

And the stairs up which he had dashed were Sound Effects stairs. He had run up the stone side. Had he gone up the other side, he would have made the sound of running up wooden stairs.

Dave Sheridan had dropped his gun when he ran into the brick wall. Blood from his nose trickled through his fingers as he turned to face the police.

THE THIRD AND, as it turned out, final full meeting of the Features Action Group was a somewhat muted affair.

A flamboyant touch was provided by the girl with Shredded Wheat hair, who appeared dressed in a man's pin-striped suit, shirt and tie ‘as a protest against the sexist bias of the assembly'.

The young man with wild teeth and hair registered his protest against the lack of blacks in the group by not appearing at all, and rather a lot of members, for one reason or another, followed his example.

The most notable absence was that of John Christie, the scheme's instigator. Following his brief appointment as Co-ordinator, Drama Department (CDD), he had been elevated to a position in Secretariat so important that it didn't even have any initials. He was now involved in liaison with yet another government-sponsored committee which had been appointed to investigate the state of broadcasting.

So he continued his urbane climb up the Management ladder, forgetting none of the people with whom he had made contact during the brief but stimulating experience of the Features Action Group meetings. Oh no, they would all come in useful, their opinions would be quoted at Management meetings, their Christian names would be invoked to demonstrate his common touch, their ideas would be presented as his own. Nothing would be wasted in what he saw as his inexorable climb to Director-General.

He sent a fulsome note of apology, but felt confident that the project was very much alive and that he left the group under the more than able chairmanship of Ronnie Barron.

Ronnie Barron took his new responsibilities seriously, expressing this gravity by talking at half his normal speed. He read out John Christie's note and the apologies of all the other absentees who had bothered to send any. He then got Harry Bassett from Leeds to read out the minutes (now that he was chairman of the group he was above such menial tasks), and asked if he could sign them as a true and accurate record of what took place at the last full meeting.

This suggestion prompted considerable debate, not least from the reader of the minutes. Harry Bassett, with his group member hat on, could not help noticing that, not to put too fine a point on it, not only had his objection at the previous meeting to the lack of minutes of his references to regional broadcasting at the first meeting not been minuted, there was also no mention in the current minutes of certain telling points he made about the vitality of feature ideas in the main regional areas. As it were.