The Dead Side of the Mike (8 page)

‘Right.'

‘Well, the alternative, which might explain the inexplicable, is that she talked to someone, met someone, had a phone call from someone, and whatever they said turned her suicidal.'

‘I'm with you. But who?'

‘It's pure conjecture. It could be anyone . . . Presumably she was just sitting alone in that recording channel and anyone could have gone in and talked to her.'

‘Yes.'

Charles paused, then spoke more slowly. ‘It seemed to me that Mark Lear took rather a long time to get that wine from the club. We know from the geography of Broadcasting House that he could easily have walked past Andrea's channel on his way.' He tried not to make it sound like an accusation, tried to make it sound like one of many hypotheses to be sifted and eliminated, but he still felt slight guilt towards his friend.

Steve nodded slowly. ‘Yes, it's quite possible. I hadn't thought about it before, but Mark must have known she was there. It would be very much in his character to go and assert his continuing existence and shatter any new security she may have built up. He treads always with the sensitivity of a blind elephant.'

Another, more disturbing explanation of Andrea's ‘inexplicable' suicide was taking shape in Charles's unwilling mind, but he dismissed it for the moment and continued, ‘That might make some kind of sense. She feels all revived and changed – actually confronted with the man whom she hoped she had got over, she crumbles and feels as bad as ever – he goes – she thinks, what the hell, it's hopeless, fixes the razor blades in the slot and – geech!' He made a guttural sound and mimed the violent movement of a hand across the blades. Immediately he regretted the gesture. He had forgotten for a moment how close Steve had been to Andrea, and the pause before she replied showed how he had shocked her.

‘Yes, that certainly makes a more convincing explanation than anything else that's been suggested.' She sighed, trying to shrug off the brutal reminder of the reality of her friend's death. ‘Oh well, if that did happen, no doubt the police will get the details out of Mark and tie up the few remaining loose ends in their neatly woven fabric.'

‘They've talked to Mark?'

‘Oh yes.'

‘He was very anxious that they should contact him at the office.'

‘They did. He need not worry about that.' Steve Kennett's brown eyes focused on Charles wryly. ‘So he never told his wife?'

‘No.'

‘I knew it. But, God, even so it makes me sick. The two-faced bastard. Needless to say, a constant theme of Andrea's outpourings to me was how Mark was going to leave his wife, she knew all about it, they were just trying to sort out the timing of the final break.'

‘But every time it was about to happen, one of the children got ill, or . . . that sort of thing.'

Steve nodded. Charles felt satisfaction at having his conjecture confirmed, but he said, ‘I apologise. On behalf of my sex.'

‘You mean you've been through that sort of subterfuge?'

‘Been through it and hated it. It was to avoid going through it again that I left my wife.'

‘But not for someone else?'

‘No. For the idea of all the women who up until that point had seemed unattainable because I was married. And who subsequently proved to be unattainable because they were unattainable.'

‘I see.'

‘I left my wife for an idea of freedom. A cliché of freedom, perhaps. Certainly an accepted stereotype of freedom.'

‘And found . . .?'

‘That I had to redefine my concept of freedom.'

Steve Kennett nodded but said nothing. Charles felt they were nearer to a sexual context than they had been all evening. Equally, he didn't want to pursue any sexual disadvantage, or perhaps to make trial of the existence of any sexual advantage. He wanted to continue to know this girl, not to end their acquaintance on some dislocating rebuff to an ill-timed advance. He was relieved when Steve broke the drift of the conversation by offering him another drink.

‘I'm afraid the answer is yes. As usual. But only if you are sure I'm not keeping you from anything.'

‘Yes and no. You are keeping me from something, but it's something I am not looking forward to, and the idea of having a bit more Dutch courage before I face it is very appealing.'

His expression was only of mild enquiry; if she didn't want to tell him more, that was her privilege. But she supplied the explanation. ‘Andrea's mother is coming down tomorrow to pick up her things. I feel I should go through them before she arrives. It's not a task I relish particularly.'

‘No. I can see that. If it's a task that could more easily be done by two, I'd be more than willing to . . .' He hoped the offer wouldn't be thought of as presumptuous, of him muscling in on a private grief.

She didn't take it that way. ‘Very sweet of you, but it really won't take me long. Just shove all the clothes into a suitcase without looking at them. It's the small things that I'm more worried about. Knick-knacks on the dressing table, oddments in old handbags, that sort of thing. Those are the ones I'm really going to have to look at, and I'm not sure that I feel strong enough for that. I've a feeling it's going to be many breaks for weeping.' She spoke as callously as she could, but she was not relishing the inevitable emotions that this sifting through of her friend's belongings would cause.

‘Well, mine's a good offer . . .'

‘Which I just might accept. Let's finish this drink and I'll see how strong I feel. Maybe two of us, with constant alcoholic fuel, could swan through it unaffected.'

‘Who knows? We might also find an explanation of the inexplicable.'

‘You mean a note or something like that?'

‘It's possible.'

‘I doubt it. We'd be following a path that's already been scrupulously trodden.'

‘The police?'

Steve nodded. ‘They've been through everything. And apparently found no expression of intent. They were very thorough. I gave them the key and they did the lot while I was at work on Monday. And, bless their little hearts, they put everything back exactly where they had found it. If I'd been here, I'd have asked them to leave it all in neat piles to save me the unappealing chore I have to do tonight.'

‘Well, you never know. We may find something. At least looking for it gives us an objective other than maudlin sentiment.'

‘True.' Steve drained her glass. ‘Okay, let's start. In half an hour we'll have a break and reward ourselves with another glass of wine.'

They were finished well within the half-hour. The clothes were packed in a couple of suitcases and the other oddments filled a cardboard box that had once contained cans of ravioli. A whole young life fitted into two suitcases and a cardboard box that had once contained cans of ravioli.

They were both struck by this thought, but both resisted the slide into anger or depression. ‘Thank you,' said Steve. ‘Having you here did make it easier.'

‘My pleasure. I'll get the drinks. Sit down.'

She didn't even make a token remonstrance, but sank into a chair, looking drained. Maybe a few tears would have made the ordeal less painful.

But when he came back into the room, she was on her feet again, rummaging in a cupboard by the front door. ‘Her hand baggage,' she explained. ‘What she carried on the plane. She just threw it in here when we got back from the airport.'

Charles felt a little surge of excitement. ‘Would the police have seen it?'

‘I don't know. It depends how thoroughly they searched. I didn't tell them it was here. I'd forgotten.'

It was one of those black plastic shoulder-bags designed for air travel. One of those with diminishing zip pockets which you have to remember to fill from the outside in or nothing will fit. It still carried the airline labels and seemed more evocative of Andrea's presence than all her other possessions.

The contents implied an unfinished life, a life that was about to be picked up again. There was a library book by Alison Lurie with a bookmark about two-thirds of the way through, an open and crumpled packet of tissues, a half-eaten Hershey Bar, an almost empty Fidji scent spray. They were all signs of a life about to be resumed, not one soon to be deliberately ended.

There was also all the tourist memorabilia. Criss-cross maps of New York, a souvenir programme from Radio City Music Hall, a couple of unused postcards of the Manhattan skyline, a catalogue of the Frick Collection, some theatre programmes, ticket stubs. All expressive of a busy and lively week in one of the busiest and liveliest cities in the world. And all now overcast with an unanswerable sadness.

Steve was very brave, still keeping a studied matter-of-factness in her voice, until she came to a professionally gift-wrapped package, whose accompanying card read, ‘To Steve, With Lots of Love and Thanks for Putting up with Me, Andrea'. She was very white as she undid the ribbons.

The present was a denim bag, made in the shape of a pair of shorts. Its silliness was too much for her. Its choice expressed the reality of her friend's character in a way that all her familiar possessions hadn't. The tears that had been contained all evening burst through. The huge brown eyes filled and spilled. Charles put a gentle arm round her tiny shoulders and led her back to the chair.

She was a strong girl and after a couple of minutes had control of herself again. ‘Is there anything else?' she asked in a business-like voice, dismissing her weakness without apology.

Charles looked down to the bottom of the bag. There was a Macy's carrier which contained a set of table napkins. ‘For her mother, I'm sure,' said Steve.

Then another paper bag full of cassettes. ‘She could never stop herself from buying them. Even though she had access to the BBC library and could have copied anything she wanted on to blanks, she was always buying new ones. All classical, I daresay. Wouldn't pander to my debased tastes and buy anything vaguely pop. She got enough of that at work, anyway.'

Charles sifted through the pile. There were about half a dozen. Yes, all classical. Mozart, Brahms, Vivaldi . . . all but one. ‘Good God, what's this?'

The cassette was in a box marked Musimotive with an address on W44th Street, New York, and beneath that was printed, ‘Neutral Mood, 90 minutes, suit working environment'. Steve came over and looked at it. ‘Some sort of Muzak tape isn't it? Background stuff.'

‘I suppose so.' Charles felt a sudden irrational detective excitement. ‘Unless there's something recorded over it . . . Her suicide message perhaps.'

Steve caught the excitement. ‘Let's put it on.' She went over to a music centre which was ensconced amid the milk crates and fed in the cassette.

Their excitement didn't last long once the music started. It was exactly what the labelled contents had suggested, neutral mood music, that kind of aural candyfloss that trickles out in lifts and bars and hotel lobbies and airports and factories and stores all over the world. Harmless, soulless, dull.

‘You don't think she brought this back for you, Steve? Pandering to your popular taste.'

‘Give me a bit of credit, Charles. My taste isn't this debased. Maybe she brought it back for me as a joke, a reinforcement of her oft-stated view that all pop music sounds the same.'

‘Would that be in character?'

‘Not out of character. Or maybe she brought it over for one of the other SMs. Some technical quality that she knew would interest one of the sound buffs. There are some great specialists among that lot.'

‘Yes, maybe.' Charles sighed. ‘Still, I suppose we'll never know. Anyway, it doesn't sound like an explanation for suicide.'

‘I don't know.' Steve was now sufficiently in possession of herself to make a joke. ‘If I had to listen to that sort of stuff for long, I think I'd pretty soon get suicidal.'

They flipped through the tape, playing little bits to see if it changed, but the same unremitting treacle covered both sides. Charles ejected the cassette and made to put it back in its box.

As he did so, he stopped. There was something on the inside of the paper cover. He pulled it out. It was written just below the address of Musimotive, the firm which had perpetrated the music.

DANNY KLINGER, 4th–11th Nov, 1977. 14th–22nd April 1978 and NOW.

Steve had come to look over his shoulder. ‘Is it her writing?' he asked. She nodded.

‘Then what the hell does it mean?'

‘God knows.'

‘Did she know anyone called Danny Klinger?'

‘Not to my knowledge.'

‘Do you think maybe she met this man, had an affair with him in New York and that's why she suddenly got so depressed when she got back?'

‘All things are possible,' Steve replied drily, showing up the flimsy nature of his conjecture.

‘Yes, and what could the dates mean?'

They discussed the possibilities for another half-hour, but they didn't get anywhere. Andrea's connection with Danny Klinger, whoever he might be, remained as ‘inexplicable' as her suicide.

Shortly after, Charles left. ‘I hope tomorrow's not too bad,' he said as he stood in the doorway. ‘With Andrea's mother.'

‘I'll survive.'

He mused, ‘It's strange. Everything you've said tonight about Andrea makes her seem a less likely candidate for suicide.'

‘I know. If you had asked me a week ago if I thought her likely to do it, I would have said, under no circumstances. But we are all constantly being proved wrong. I mean, she did it, didn't she?'

Charles nodded glumly, but as he walked back to Hereford Road, a little voice in his mind kept saying, ‘Did she?'

WITH THE PASSAGE of time, the suspicions that had been germinating in Charles's mind started to shrivel from lack of nourishment. For the rest of that week he heard nothing more from anyone at the BBC, except, through Maurice, the confirmation of his booking on
Dad's the Word
(and yes, radio fees had gone up a bit, but not that much).