West End Television Ltd,
W.E.T. House,
235-9 Lisson Avenue, London NW1 3PQ.
30th May, 1979.
Dear Charles,
Just a note to fill you in on developments on The Strutters front. Obviously we were all very shocked by what happened but we mustn’t let our imaginations run away with us. People are talking about our two misfortunes and saying they must be connected and that it’s a bad luck show and. . All rubbish! The show must go on and the show will go on. There is no danger of anything stopping the advance of this very exciting project.
I am delighted to be able to tell you that we now have a new Director for the series, and even more delighted to say that he’s Bob Tomlinson, whose work I’m sure you know from such hit series as No Kidding, O’Reilly and Truly, Last, But Not Least and, last but not least, that smashing show set in a municipal rubbish dump, Hold Your Nose and Think of England! From that list of credits, I don’t need to tell you that Bob certainly knows his stuff when it comes to sit com!
I can’t think that Bob’s going to want to make major changes to the schedule, but I’m sure you’ll hear in plenty of time if any of your calls are different. I look forward to seeing you at the read-through next Monday, 4th June, and am confident that, after this rather unfortunate start, we are going to have a really exciting and successful series.
With the warmest good wishes,
Yours sincerely,
Peter
Peter Lipscombe
Producer The Strutters
The payphone on the landing at Hereford Road rang the morning Charles received the letter. The various Swedes were out at their various Swedish occupations, so he answered it.
‘Hello, Charles, it’s Walter.’
‘Oh, hello. How are things?’
‘So-so. I hope you don’t mind my ringing, but I want to pick your brains.’
‘You’re welcome to anything you can find there.’
‘It’s a slightly ticklish thing, actually. I read in the paper about that poor boy’s terrible accident. . you know, your Director. Obviously I was terribly shocked, but I couldn’t help thinking, you know, the way one does, that that must leave your series without a Director. So I thought I might give Peter Lipscombe a buzz and see what gives, but I though I’d check with you first, just to make sure nothing’s been sorted out yet.’
Charles didn’t like the drift of the conversation, and said rather shortly, ‘I’ve just heard. We’ve got a new Director.’
‘Oh. Who?’
‘Bob. . Tomlinson I think it was.’
‘Ah, yes. He’s never out of work. Yes, of course. He would be free. He was going to do that series about the dance band called Hands Off My Maracas, but it’s been cancelled because of problems with the Musicians’ Union. Oh well, never mind. . We must meet up for a drink again sometime, maybe.’
‘Sure.’
‘And you will let me know if you hear anything coming up, won’t you?’
‘Yes. Of course.’
Charles went back into his room feeling depressed. Of course Walter had to follow up any job possibility that might emerge, but it was unpleasant to hear him reduced to the role of professional vulture. For a moment suspicion of Walter returned. Certainly he was someone who might hope to gain from Scott Newton’s death, and he’d made no secret of his resentment of the young man’s success.
But there were many arguments against casting Walter in the role of the director’s murderer. The first, and most potent, was that he hadn’t been at the scene of the crime. Short of introducing a conspiracy theory or the use of a hired killer, there was no way he could have toppled the flower urn which had caused Scott’s death.
And why should anyone want Scott dead? He had seemed pleasant enough, not the sort to raise instant antipathy like Sadie. Just an ambitious young television director with money problems.
Mind you, the money problems seemed to have resolved themselves. The new clothes, the new car. . Charles’s mind did a little spurt. Suppose Scott had witnessed the first murder and blackmailed the killer, thus providing a motive for his own death. .? Hmm, there might be something there, but there was a distinct lack of hard evidence.
And, anyway, was there even a murder to investigate? There seemed no real reason to think that the young man was the victim of anything more sinister than an accident. The police, who had made extensive investigations at the scene of his death, seemed satisfied with this solution. And, after all, a young man, flushed with success after a good day’s filming, showing off a powerful and unfamiliar car, was unlikely to be concentrating much on his driving. And the urn of flowers could have fallen of its own accord. Charles knew from having leant against one that they weren’t fixed, just balanced on the wall.
Yes, it could have fallen of its own accord. But it was a substantial piece of terracotta and there had been no wind. Perhaps a bird could have flown into it or a rabbit or something brushed against it. . or maybe the vibrations of one of the passing cars had dislodged it, but it all seemed pretty unlikely.
Maybe one of the cars had scraped against the wall and bumped the urn off. . But logic was against that too. Whereas one could imagine that the ancient Barton Rivers, at the wheel of his huge Bentley, might be less than secure on the tight turns of the drive, he and Aurelia had not been the last people to go down it. Bernard Walton had followed them and, apart from the fact that he must have known every curve of the approach to his house perfectly, he was unlikely to scrape the gleaming surface of his precious Rolls. And he wouldn’t have been able to drive over the urn if Barton’s Bentley had dislodged it before him.
So either it just fell, or someone deliberately moved it. And if it had been deliberately moved, it must have happened just after Bernard’s Rolls had driven past.
If it was a murder, and if it had been planned, then the perpetrator was likely to be someone who knew the layout of Bernard’s grounds, someone who had been there before. The list included Bernard himself, obviously, and, from what they had said during the day, Aurelia and Barton and Peter Lipscombe. Presumably the unfortunate Scott had also been down on a recce to check the location, and who knew how many people would have accompanied him? Certainly the Designer, certainly the Location Manager, possibly Janie Lewis, the PA, possibly dozens of other people. That was the trouble with a crime committed in television — there were always so many people about, it was difficult to reduce lists of suspects.
Charles concentrated, and tried to remember where everyone had been at the moment of Bernard Walton’s departure in the Rolls. The conjectural saboteur of the urn need not have been in a car; he, or she, could have walked down the hill and moved it. But the picture didn’t come back to him with any clarity. He just remembered a lot of people milling about, clearing up; he couldn’t place individuals.
No, he came back to one fact: if the urn was moved in order to cause an accident, then the person with the best background knowledge and the best opportunity to do it was Bernard Walton.
And it was also Bernard Walton with whom Sadie Wainwright had had a blazing row just before her death.
But why? Why should a highly successful television and theatre star hazard everything by committing murder? Charles supposed that if The Strutters had been being made at the expense of What’ll the Neighbours Say? then Bernard might be seen to have a motive for sabotaging production of the new series, so that it would have to be cancelled and replaced with the older one. But that motivation didn’t work, because the options on the next series of What’ll the Neighbours Say? had been taken up and, though Bernard didn’t know that at the time of Sadie’s death, he certainly did when Scott died. Nope, it didn’t work.
But, as a theory, it did contain one attractive element, and that was the idea of sabotage to the production. If the violence was directed against the whole series rather than individuals, then the random nature of the murder schemes made more sense. Maybe the saboteur had fixed the railing on the fire escape to injure Sadie Wainwright or anyone else connected with The Strutters pilot. The dislodged urn, too, might have been a random act of violence.
This idea answered a doubt that had been nagging at Charles ever since Scott’s death. Any theory that assumed murder directed specifically at the young director also assumed an enormous amount of luck. There was no guarantee that Scott was going to be the next person down the hill after Bernard. He might well have chosen to leave last of all and demonstrate the powers of his Porsche by overtaking everyone else on the motorway back to London. Even if the murderer could have predicted the bet with Peter Lipscombe, he couldn’t have known that the producer would offer the opportunity for the director to go first. (Unless of course the producer were the murderer. . But no, that was a blind alley; it was Scott who had suggested the race.)
And, as well as having no guarantee who his victim would he, the conjectural murderer had no guarantee that he would murder anyone. A more prudent driver than Scott Newton might have been going slowly enough to stop safely when he saw his path obstructed. And, even given Scott’s precipitous speed, he might well have survived his descent on to the main road. No murderer, however much of a criminal mastermind, could have arranged the simultaneous arrival of a Spanish juggernaut to finish off his victim.
So, if any crimes had been committed, it looked as if they were just random sabotage. And the only person who had ever had a motive for such actions, Bernard Walton, had had his motive removed by the guarantee of a new series of What’ll the Neighbours Say?
Unless, of course, the acts of sabotage were the work of a psychopath. Oh dear, Charles did hope not. Psychopathic crimes offered no prospect of satisfaction; if their motivation was without reason, then no amount of reasoning was going to provide a solution to them.
So what was he left with? Two deaths. Both, according to police findings, accidental. And nothing to make him disagree with those findings except for a few ambiguous overhead words relating to the first one.
All he could do was watch and listen, and wait to see if anything else happened.
On Monday, June 4th, Charles arrived at the Paddington Jewish Boys’ Club for the first Strutters read-through, and found Peter Lipscombe predictably cooing over Aurelia Howarth. She appeared just to have given him a brown paper parcel.
‘Of course I’ll read them, Dob love, of course I will.’
‘I don’t know, I just think there might be something there, darling. They’re old-fashioned, but might adapt into a rather jolly series. Just an instinct I have about them.’
‘And when have your dramatic instincts ever been wrong?’ asked the Producer with a sycophantic laugh.
Charles moved over to sit beside George Birkitt, who was reading the Sun. ‘How’s tricks, as the white rabbit said to the conjuror?’
George brandished the newspaper. ‘Look at this — bloody Bernard Walton all over it.’
Charles glanced at the page. ‘MY FIRST DATE — In our series of the Famous with Two Left Feet, BERNARD WALTON, hilarious star of TV’s What’ll the Neighbours Say? describes the visit to the pictures that went riotously wrong. .’ He didn’t read any further. There was a half-page picture of Bernard, pulling one of the gauche expressions that was a feature of the character he played in the sit com (and indeed of every other character he played; whatever the part, he always gave the same performance).
Charles shrugged. ‘So what?’
‘I don’t know. I just get a bit sick of it,’ George Birkitt complained. ‘I mean, you just can’t get away from him. He’s always doing all these bloody interviews, and popping up on quiz shows and all that rubbish. All the Blankety-Blanks and Star Games and Celebrity Squares when that was around. Or he’s opening supermarkets or being photographed at premieres.’
‘I agree, it must be hell. But that’s the life he’s chosen. One of the penalties of being a star, you have to be on show all of the time.’
‘Yes,’ said George, with a tinge of wistfulness.
‘Surely you don’t want to get involved in all that, do you?’
‘Good Lord, no,’ he protested. ‘No, no, I value my privacy. I’m the last person to want to become a public property. No, no, I was just thinking from the financial point of view. I mean, there is quite a bit of money in all those spin-off things. And I think, you know, if you get the chance to do them, well, you shouldn’t turn them down from high-minded principles about the sanctity of your art. You should take advantage of whatever’s going.’
‘Oh, I agree.’
‘And, if there’s money going for all that sort of rubbish, I don’t see why it should always go to the same circle of boring professional personalities with heads too big for their bodies. Because, to be quite frank, Charles. .’ George Birkitt lowered his voice, ‘I wouldn’t mind a little more money. They’re getting me damned cheap for this series. Okay, I know it’s the first time I’ve had my name above the title — as if I cared about things like that, for God’s sake — but they are still getting me damned cheap. No, if they want to do another series after this lot, I’m afraid they’ll find my agent in more of a negotiating mood. It’s not that one wants a huge amount of money, it’s just that one doesn’t want to be undervalued.’
Further demonstration of George Birkitt’s unwillingness to fall into a star stereotype was prevented by the arrival of The Strutters’ new Director. Bob Tomlinson, the man who certainly knew his stuff when it came to sit com, proved to be a thickset individual in his fifties whose appearance behind a market barrow would have been less remarkable than behind a television control desk. He was dressed in a shiny blue suit and wore an expression of belligerent boredom.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Let’s sit down and read this rubbish.’
‘Bob!’ cried Peter Lipscombe heartily. ‘Sure you’d like to be introduced to everyone, wouldn’t you?’
‘I’ll get to know them soon enough in rehearsal,’ said Bob Tomlinson, and sat down.
‘But you haven’t worked with Dob Howarth, have you?’ Peter Lipscombe persisted.
‘No.’
‘Well, do allow me to introduce you to our lovely leading lady.’
Bob Tomlinson looked up briefly. ‘Hello. Right, PA got the watch ready? Let’s start reading.’
Peter Lipscombe intervened again. ‘Er, yes. Just a moment, Bob. If I could say a few words. .’
‘Why?’
‘Well, er, as Producer, I would like to — ’
‘Oh yeah, I forgot you were Producer. All right, be quick. I’ll get myself a coffee.’ And Bob Tomlinson got up and walked across to the coffee machine, while Peter Lipscombe started his pep-talk.
‘Right, first let me say how nice it is to see you all looking so well. Now we’ve all had a horrible shock and there’s no use pretending what happened didn’t happen, but what we’ve all got to do is to put it behind us and look ahead, just remember what a jolly exciting series this is going to be. Now, because of circumstances, we’ve lost a couple of days’ filming, but we’ll be able to pick them up in the course of our schedule. And, incidentally, I’d like to warn you now that I’ve just received Script Number Six from Rod and that’s going to involve some of you in a night’s filming. We’ll let you know the date as soon as it’s been sorted out, but I thought you’d like to know.
‘So. . here we all are and by this time next week we’ll have recorded the first episode — second, if we include the pilot — of this really exciting new series-The Strutters! Let me tell you, ladies and gentlemen — ’
‘Have you finished?’ asked Bob Tomlinson, returning with his cup of coffee.
‘Well, er, yes, I, er, um. .’
‘Okay, read from the top. Start the watch, girl.’
Maybe it was the inhibiting expression of boredom on the director’s face, or perhaps it was just that the script was inferior to the pilot episode, but the read-through didn’t seem very funny. Peter Lipscombe and Tilly Lake provided their usual sycophantic laughter for the first few pages, but soon faded to silence.
As the pay-off to the episode was spoken, Bob Tomlinson turned to Janie. ‘How long?’
‘Part One: 10–17, Part Two: 9-41,’ she supplied efficiently. ‘Making a total of 19–58.’
‘That’s near enough.’ Bob rose with the enthusiasm of a man about to put three coats of paint on a forty-foot wall. ‘Let’s block it.’
Peter Lipscombe raised a hand to intervene. ‘Um, just a few points before you do that. Debbi, that line you have on 1–7, where you say, “No, I’m not that sort of girl”. . could you — ’
“Ere, what is this?’ asked Bob Tomlinson, with all the anger of a barrow-boy who’d arrived at market to find someone else on his pitch. ‘I’m the Director of this show. I give the bleeding artists notes.’
Peter Lipscombe didn’t want a scene. His voice took on a mollifying tone. ‘Yes, of course, Bob, of course. I wonder if you’d mention to Debbi that I think one way — not by any means the only way, but one way of delivering that line would be to emphasise the ‘that’. ‘I’m not that sort of girl.’ I think it points up the joke.’
‘All right,’ Bob Tomlinson conceded. ‘Which one of you’s Debbi? Right, on that line, could you hit the “that”? Okay, let’s get this bloody show blocked.’
‘I’ve got a point, Bob,’ said the colourless voice of Rod Tisdale.
‘And who the hell are you? Another bloody producer?’
‘No, Bob, this is our writer, Rod Tisdale.’
Bob Tomlinson glowered. ‘I don’t like writers round my rehearsal rooms.’
Rod Tisdale showed no signs of having heard this. ‘It’s Page 3 of Part Two.’
‘Oh, don’t bother me with bloody details on the script. Tell the producer.’
‘Peter,’ said Rod Tisdale obediently, ‘on that page, I think the line, “I can’t stand it any longer” would probably be better as “I can’t stick it out any longer.” You know, probably pick up the laugh on the double meaning.’
‘Yes, nice thinking, Rod. Um, Bob, Rod’s had rather a good idea, I think. On Page 3 of Part Two, wondering if we could change “I can’t stand it any longer” to “I can’t stick it out any longer”?’
‘Change it. See if I care.’
‘No, but I don’t want us to force it on you. We all want to be in agreement on things. So do say what you’d like.’
‘I’d like you and the bloody writer to clear out and let me get on with this rubbish.’
As rehearsals progressed. Charles found his respect for Bob Tomlinson increasing. He realised that the director’s manner was not just rudeness for its own sake, but a way of getting on with the job quickly. And his contempt for the material he was directing (a feeling for which Charles found in himself considerable sympathy) did not seem to make the performances any worse. Nor did it lower the morale of the production; after the agonising of Scott Newton over every comma, the more practical approach was quite a relief. The atmosphere in the rehearsal room was rather jolly.
Bob Tomlinson just got on with the job and didn’t waste time with socialising or toadying to his stars. He was an efficient organiser and ensured that every part of the production came together at the right time. He was a good example of the huge value of competence in television. Flair may have its place, but flair is not always coupled with efficiency and, given the choice between a director with flair and one with competence, many actors would opt for the security of the latter.
Certainly the cast of The Strutters didn’t seem put out by the offhand manner of their new Director. They seemed to respect his lack of obsequiousness. It made them more equal, a group of people who had come together to get on with a job of work. Aurelia Howarth, used to cosseting and cotton-woolling from generations of producers, seemed totally unworried by Bob Tomlinson’s directness and his undisguised lack of interest in the welfare of Cocky.
The atmosphere between Director and Producer remained. The fact was that Bob Tomlinson was not used to working to a Producer. For many years he had combined the roles, and his agent had ensured that the final credit read: ‘Produced and Directed by Bob Tomlinson’. It was only because of the last-minute nature of his booking on The Strutters when his other series was cancelled that he found himself in this unusual position.
But he didn’t let it worry him. He didn’t let anything worry him. The Strutters was just another three months of well-paid work, and soon he’d be on to something else. The secret of Bob Tomlinson’s success and his formidable track record in sit com was his ability not to let anything get to him. He was the first person Charles had met in that world who seemed to have an accurate estimate of the value and importance of the product.
He continued to be cheerfully rude to Peter Lipscombe and continued to allow no notes to be given directly from the Producer to the artists. So there were more conversations in which people with a common language talked through an interpreter. But Peter Lipscombe’s role, which under Scott Newton’s inexperienced regime had increased, dwindled back to grinning a lot, asking everyone if everything was okay and buying drinks. Which was, after all, what he did best.
The actual recording of Episode One (or Episode Two, if you counted the pilot) of The Strutters did not go particularly well. This was in no way due to Bob Tomlinson’s direction. There was, after all, only one way to shoot a Rod Tisdale script, and that was the way he did it. All that was wrong with the evening was that the script was slightly inferior, and after all the euphoric generalisations about new eras in comedy which had followed the pilot, anticlimax was inevitable.
After the recording, Charles overheard a conversation between the writer and Director. Rod Tisdale, in a voice that almost betrayed some emotion, asked, ‘How d’you think it went?’
Bob Tomlinson shrugged. ‘All right. How does any sit com go?’
Rod Tisdale shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I reckoned there were sixty-eight jokes in that script. We only got fifty-three laughs.’
‘It’ll look fine after the sound-dub.’
‘You mean you’ll add the laughs?’
‘You bet I will. By the time I’ve finished, you won’t be able to tell the difference between this and a really funny show.’
‘I’ve always resisted having laughs dubbed on to my shows.’
‘Sod what you’ve always resisted, son. I’m directing this show and I’ll do it my way.’
Which was of course the way it would be done.
Charles decided to go up to the bar in the lift. (Though no one actually mentioned it, the fire escape had been used much less since Sadie’s death.) He had changed with his customary rapidity out of his top half (Reg the golf club barman’s legs, after their brief airing on film, had once again retreated to proper obscurity), and reckoned only Peter Lipscombe would have beaten him to the bar. Where he could once again demonstrate his skill in buying drinks.
There was an argument going on outside the lift. A small balding man with glasses, who carried a duffle bag and wore a thin checked sports jacket and a yellow nylon shirt, was being moved on by a uniformed commissionaire.
‘No, I’m sorry, sir, show’s over. I have to clear all the audience out of the building. Now come along, please.’
‘But she will see me, she will. She always does.’
‘No, I’m sorry, sir, I’ve got to clear the building. So, if you don’t mind. . If it’s an autograph you want, you’re welcome to wait outside the main door until the artists come out.’
‘I don’t want her autograph. I’ve got her autograph a thousand times over. I’ve got autographed programmes of every show she’s ever been in. I’ve collected them all.’
‘Sorry, sir, I must — ’
‘No, listen, my name’s Romney Kirkstall. She knows me. Really. You just tell her I’m here and — ’
‘She know you were coming tonight?’
‘No, she didn’t actually, but she’s always glad to see me. I come to all the What’ll the Neighbours. . recordings and — ’
‘If the lady’s not expecting you, sir, I’m afraid I must ask you to — ’
‘No, really, she will want to see me!’
Before the commissionaire could produce further verbal or physical arguments, the truth of Romney Kirkstall’s assertion was proved by the zephyrous arrival of Aurelia Howarth, saying, ‘Romney, darling, how good of you to come!’
‘You’re lucky I’m still here, Dob,’ said the little man. ‘This. . gentleman was doing his best to throw me out.’
‘I’m sorry, Miss Howarth,’ the commissionaire apologised sheepishly. ‘I didn’t know who he was. We get a lot of types wanting to worry the stars and that. I thought he might be some kind of freak.’
The wildness of Kirkstall’s appearance justified that supposition, but Aurelia cooed lightly, ‘No, no, Romney’s my most loyal fan.’
The lift arrived at that moment, so she continued, ‘Come on, darling, let’s go up and have a drink. Sorry about the mix-up.’
Charles went into the lift with them and they all arrived together in the bar. Where, predictably enough, Peter Lipscombe bought them all drinks. And he did do it very well.
Gerald Venables had once again come to the recording and Charles met him in the bar. The actor was becoming suspicious of the solicitor’s constant appearances at West End Television. Though he always claimed disingenuously he had just come to see the show, Gerald was notorious for investing in the lucrative areas of show business, and Charles wouldn’t have been at all surprised to discover he had a stake in the company. He seemed to know everyone altogether too well to be a mere casual visitor. And his constant discussions with W.E.T.’s Head of Contracts suggested more than idle conversation.
But Charles never expected to have his suspicions confirmed. Gerald was masonically secretive about his investments.
‘Still think we’re on to a winner?’ he asked ironically, after Peter Lipscombe had bought Gerald a drink too.
‘Oh yes,’ asserted the solicitor confidently. ‘Minor hiccup tonight, but it’ll be fine. Yes, this series is going to make the autumn schedules look very healthy. What with this and Wragg and Bowen, the BBC’ll be knocked for six.’
Gerald was talking so exactly like Peter Lipscombe that Charles once again suspected him of complicity with the company’s management. He seemed to know altogether too much.
But Gerald’s interest in television was subsidiary to his interest in criminal investigation. He had helped Charles on one or two cases in the past and was evidently avid for more.
‘Well? Two suspicious deaths now. What do you make of it, bud?’
‘A coincidence of two accidents, I think.’
‘Oh, come on, you can do better than that.’
‘I don’t know. I’ve thought it through a lot, but I can’t seem to get any line on it at all. Either there are two totally unrelated crimes, or only one crime and one accident, or no crimes. I can’t get any consistent motivation for anyone.’
And he gave Gerald a summary of his thinking to date. ‘The only person for whom I’ve got even a wisp of motivation,’ he concluded, ‘is dear old Bernard Walton. If he thought the future of his own series was threatened by The Strutters, then he would in theory have a motive to sabotage the show. And, if you think on those lines, it becomes significant that the two people who have died have nothing to do with What’ll the Neighbours Say? I mean, say Aurelia or George had gone, then that might jeopardise the future of the series, but as it is, there’s nothing to stop it going ahead. As indeed — and here’s the one fact that makes the whole theory crumble in ruins about my ears-it is going ahead. I’ll have to think of something else.’
‘I’ve got news for you, Charles,’ Gerald announced portentously.
‘What?’
‘I was just talking to the Head of Contracts. The proposed series of What’ll the Neighbours Say? has been cancelled.’
‘It can’t have been. The artists’ options have been taken up.’
‘Oh, sure. But they’re all going to be paid off. Head of Contracts has been ringing round the agents today. Were you optioned for the series, by the way?’
‘No. They just did an availability check. Said it wasn’t definite that Reg the golf club barman would be a regular character.’
Gerald grimaced. ‘If your agent was worth his commission, he’d have got some sort of contract out of them. Who is your agent, by the way?’
‘Maurice Skellern.’
‘Oh. Say no more.’
‘But just a minute, Gerald, they wouldn’t just pay everyone off.’
‘Why not? Happens all the time.’
‘But it’s a huge amount of money.’
‘A huge amount of money for the actors involved, maybe. A very nice little pay-off for doing nothing. But, as a percentage of the budget of a major television production, it’s peanuts, really. So long as you actually keep a show out of the studio, you’re still saving money. In fact, there are producers who have built up considerable reputations by keeping shows out of studios.’
Once again Gerald was showing more than a layman’s knowledge of the workings of television, but Charles didn’t comment. Instead, he said. ‘Anyway, even if that has happened, and I still don’t quite see why it has. .’
‘Nigel Frisch has lost confidence in the series. And they need the studio dates for Wragg and Bowen.’
‘Okay, but coming back to our little problem of a murder motivation, we’re no further advanced. If the artists’ agents were only told about the cancellation today — ’
‘Yes, most of them were. But Bernard Walton, because he was the star, was given the honour of knowing the bad news before anyone else. Nigel Frisch, who, whatever else one may say about him, is never one to shirk responsibility, rang Bernard personally.’
‘When?’
‘Last Tuesday.’
The day before Scott Newton’s death.