Being back in London was a disappointment. The mad drive up the M4 with pain like barbed hooks turning in his arm had all been for nothing. He had screeched to a halt in the residents’ parking bay in an unimpressed Hereford Road, let himself in, banged on his own door and, keeping his distance, ordered Jacqui to go off to the pictures for the afternoon. Then he’d driven round to the surgery of Drs Singh and Gupta, with whom he was registered, only to find that both were out on their rounds. He rushed to St Mary’s Hospital, Paddington, and, after the hours of waiting that are statutory in hospitals, finally persuaded a callow houseman to examine him and pronounce him clear of German measles. It was evident from the young man’s circumspect excitement that he thought he’d got his first genuine schizophrenic hypochondriac. Charles ended up with a clean bill of health and a parking ticket.
As he sat in his drab room in Hereford Road, it all seemed a bit futile. The dark fears of the morning had subsided into childish fantasies. He felt he should be watching the road from behind the curtains, waiting for the badmen to arrive at High Noon, while in the background a voice intoned ‘Do not forsake me, o my darling’. But since his windows faced the back of the house, it was impossible. And in the familiar banality of his room thoughts of approaching badmen seemed ridiculous. He just felt tired and ill again. The excitements of the day had put him back considerably. Pain throbbed in his arm with agonising regularity. He felt himself drifting asleep.
Suddenly the phone rang. Swedish feet in wooden sandals clumped down the stairs past his door, then up again, paused, knocked, said ‘Telephone’ and continued back to their room.
He went down and picked up the dangling receiver. ‘Hello.’
‘Hello. It’s Joanne Menzies.’
‘Oh. Hi.’
‘Charles, can we meet and talk? About Marius’ death.’
‘Yes, sure. Have you got anything new?’
‘Not really. But I’m just convinced there was something fishy going on.’
‘Yes. There are a lot of things that don’t fit. When do you want to meet? After work?’
‘I’m not at work.’
‘Oh.’
‘I came back after Christmas to the news that my services were no longer required by Mr Nigel Steen. A year’s salary in lieu of notice.’
‘That’s a substantial pay-off.’
‘Yes. Hush-money, no doubt. Where shall we meet?’
‘Do you mind coming round here? I’m not very well.’
‘Fine. What’s the address?’ Charles gave it. ‘I’ll be round straight away.’ He put the phone down and had a moment’s doubt. Was he wise to give Joanne Menzies his address? She seemed straight enough, but her motives weren’t absolutely clear. Oh well, if she told Nigel Steen, fair enough. Charles’ suspicions of Dr Lefeuvre made him think his address was already common knowledge. At least he was here now, and could supervise moving Jacqui to another hide-away. He rang Frances’ number to make his strange request, but there was no reply. It was only five o’clock. No doubt she was supervising the school debating society or another of her public-spirited activities.
Joanne Menzies arrived quickly and they started talking over a glass of whisky. Charles gave the shortest possible explanation of his sling-‘an accident on the film set’. He didn’t want to voice any suspicions until he felt a bit surer of Joanne’s allegiances. ‘So. What do you think is fishy?’
‘No one big thing, Charles. Just a lot of dubious details.’
‘Like…?’
‘Like the way Nigel lied over that Saturday night, all the subterfuge over the petrol in the Datsun. Like the way he’s been behaving since his father’s death-and the week before, come to that-’
‘How’s he been behaving?’
‘Very twitchy. Jumps whenever the phone rings. As if there’s something he’s frightened of.’
‘What else?’
‘The way I’ve been dismissed. All right, I was Marius’ personal assistant and there’s no reason to assume that Nigel would want to take me over in the same role. But it was rather sudden. And a year’s salary is excessive-out of character too for someone as mean as Nigel.’
‘Hmm. So you think that Nigel murdered Marius?’
‘That’s the obvious thing to think.’
‘Except for the findings of the inquest.’
‘Yes.’ Joanne spoke with the same contempt Jacqui had shown for the high achievements of forensic science.
‘And the fact that Nigel had no motive. It was in his interests that his father should live at least until the seven years were up.’ Joanne’s face revealed that she didn’t know about the gift, so Charles gave a brief resume of the legal position. He finished up, ‘You know, we are not the only people who are suspicious of Nigel and would attribute any crime to him. But the fact remains that, in the matter of Marius Steen’s death, we have not a solitary shred of evidence to go on. Just prejudice and dislike.’
‘Yes. I’m sure he’s done something, though.’ Her conviction was reminiscent of Jacqui’s, overriding little details like facts.
‘All right, Joanne, let’s talk through it all again. Actually, one thing you said interested me. You said Nigel was twitchy the week before the murder-I mean, the death.’
‘Yes.’
‘I thought he was in Streatley that week.’
‘Only part of it. He went down on the Thursday to go through some business things with Marius, then came back on the Friday late afternoon-just after you came round about your play. Was that another blind, by the way?’
“Fraid so.’
‘Why?’
‘Too complicated to explain.’ He didn’t want to bring in the Sweets and the implied charge of murder against the dead man. ‘So look, let’s trace through the movements of the two of them. Where were they on the Sunday, that’d be what…?’
‘The 2nd of December.’
‘Right.’
‘I think they were both in Orme Gardens. Then Marius drove to Streatley that night to read the scripts on his own.’
‘Was that unexpected?’
‘No, he’d been talking about it. He’d noticed a slight waning in the receipts on Sex of One… though I think it was just the power crisis and the railways. Anyway, he felt he had to make a decision on the next show for the Kings.’
‘And when he did one of these script-reading sessions, he used to cut himself off completely?’
‘Yes. Just switch on the Ansaphone.’
‘I see. So when did you last speak to him?’
‘Small hours of Sunday morning. At the Sex of One… party.’
‘Oh yes. A thousand performances. Ugh. Let’s continue their movements. Marius is in Streatley. Where’s Nigel, say on the Monday morning? Milton Buildings?’
‘No, he came in after lunch.’
‘Was that unusual?’
‘No. Particularly considering the late night we’d all had on the Saturday.’
‘Right. Incidentally, how was Marius at the party?’
‘In marvellous form-leaping around like a boy of twenty. Dancing with all the girls.’ The pride was evident in her voice.
‘Including you.’
‘Yes.’
‘You loved him, didn’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you know he was contemplating remarriage?’
‘I knew.’
‘Did you mind?’
‘Yes, but if it made him happy… If Marius wanted something there was no point in trying to stop his getting it.’
‘No.’ Her answers sounded perfectly honest. ‘Let’s continue our tracing movements. Which car did Nigel go down in on the Thursday?’
‘His own. The Interceptor. It was after that that he complained about the brakes to Morrison.’
‘Right. And then he goes down again in secret on the Saturday in the Datsun. The Datsun, the Datsun. You know there’s something at the back of my mind about that Datsun and I can’t think what it is.’ He looked round the room for inspiration. It was an untidy mess. Jacqui’s occupation hadn’t improved it; she wasn’t the sort of girl who immediately revolutionised a place and gave it a woman’s touch; she just spread her belongings over the widest possible area. A flouncy negligee and a pair of tights lay over one chair; the tiny television was perched on another; a soggy packet of frozen spinach lay beside the gas-ring; on the crumpled candlewick of the bed an Evening Standard was open at the entertainments’ page so she could decide which film to go and see.
A thought suddenly illuminated Charles’ brain like a flash of lightning. ‘That’s it. The Evening Standard.’
‘What?’ Joanne was left floundering as his mind raced on. Very clearly he saw himself standing in the BBC Club with Sherlock Forster and hearing the name of Marius Steen, the name that had come to dominate his life. When was that? It was a Monday. Yes, Monday the 3rd of December. After that terrible play. And what had the paper said? Something about Marius not using the Rolls, but sticking to the Datsun. Oh, if only he could remember the details.
There was one person who could help. Johnny Smart, who’d been at Oxford with him and edited one of the university magazines, landed what seemed then an amazing job on the Evening Standard. In the years since he’d sunk into alcoholic indifference in the same job, which at his present age was less amazing. With a murmured excuse to Joanne, Charles rushed to the telephone and rang the paper. Fortunately Johnny was still there-a stroke of luck considering that the pubs were open. In rather breathless fashion, Charles explained that he wanted to find out who researched and wrote an article about the petrol crisis in a late edition on Monday 3rd of December.
Johnny thought he could probably find out. It was bound to be one of the young reporters. Why didn’t Charles come down and join them at Mother Bunch’s? A lot would be down there at this time of night. He’d be there himself except that the newsroom was on sodding tenterhooks waiting to see if Heath would call a sodding snap election and they’d have to bring out a sodding slip edition. He’d be down in half an hour though.
Just as Charles put the phone down, Jacqui returned. She had been to see Enter the Dragon and started to tell him all about the code of kung fu as he hurried her upstairs. Joanne recognised Jacqui the moment the dark glasses came off and Charles felt the room temperature drop as the two women faced each other. Still, he hadn’t time to worry about that. Leaving strict instructions to Joanne to stay there at all costs and to both of them under no account to let anyone in, he hurried to the Cortina and set off for Fleet Street.
Reporters are proverbially heavy drinkers, and it took a few bottles of bonhomie with Johnny Smart before Charles could actually get down to the business for which he had come. He sat in the broad circle of young journalists in Mother Bunch’s Wine House and, with the rest of them, sank glass after glass of red wine. Eventually Johnny drew him to one side with a shock-haired young reporter who sported horn-rimmed glasses and a velvet bow-tie. His name was Keith Battrick-Jones. Charles explained his mission.
‘Bloody hell,’ said Keith Battrick-Jones. ‘Done a lot of stories since then. I don’t know if I can remember that far back. When was it?’
‘Monday 3rd December. Six, seven weeks ago. It was a sort of round-up of people’s reactions to the petrol crisis. Pictures and comments. There was Steen…’ The boy looked blank. ‘… and some footballer…’ Still blank. ‘… and a leggy girl on a bike-’
‘Oh shit. I remember. Yes. Crappy idea, wasn’t it? Somebody thought of it at an editorial conference, and Muggins here had to ring round all these celebrities to get comments. As usual, the interesting people told me to piss off, and I ended up with the same old circle of publicity seekers.’
‘Can you remember phoning Marius Steen?’
‘No, I don’t think I can. If it was Monday morning, I must have had a skinful the night before. No, I… oh, just a minute though. I remember. I rang through and I got some old berk being facetious on an Ansaphone. So I told the machine what it was about, and moved on to a golfer and one of the Black and White minstrels.’
‘But Steen did phone back?’
‘Yes. Made some fatuous comment about using the smaller car. Well, we’d got a library picture of him, so we put it in.’
‘And you are sure it was Marius Steen himself who spoke to you?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve never met the bloke.’
‘Was it the same voice as the one on the Ansaphone?’
‘Oh no. It was much more cultured. And younger.’
Simon Brett
Cast in Order of Disappearance