Charles, ‘it means I’ll be able to take some other work. My agent keeps having calls from casting directors offering quite nice stuff, but always has to turn it down, saying, no, sorry, love, he’s under contract to W.E.T.. Exclusive contracts have their advantages, but they do restrict your movement.’
Charles Paris, whose experience of exclusive contracts was small, nodded wisely.
But George was the only one in a sunny mood. Even Aurelia, whose diaphanous charm rarely varied, seemed distracted. Apparently it was something to do with Cocky, who had been sick during the night and had to have the vet summoned. The lack of sleep this disturbance had caused made the actress look slightly less ageless than usual. Charles was more aware of the strains a television series must impose on a woman in her seventies.
And she was obviously worried about the dog. Throughout the read-through, she kept going across to his little basket to check on his welfare. ‘If anything happened to Cocky,’ she said, ‘I don’t know what I’d do.’
Janie Lewis was also less than her beaming efficient self. Dark circles under her eyes suggested she hadn’t had any sleep the night before and a strained atmosphere between her and one of the regular cast, Nick Coxhill, suggested why. Charles once again thought he might continue his desultory pursuit of her, but his first overture was met with the sharp retort that she was henceforth to be known as Jay, and that she was busy.
Tilly Lake emoted round the rehearsal room, implying enough sighing heartaches to keep a romantic novelist in business for a decade. Charles, rather cheekily, asked her whether she’d heard from Trevor Howard or Laurence Olivier about playing the part of Colonel Strutter’s friend in Episode Five.
‘Both got other commitments,’ she said elegiacally. ‘Otherwise, of course. . Still, I’m not downhearted. Going to continue to aim high. Such a smashing script, after all, lovely part. I’ve been rereading it and I think the character might be rather younger than I first thought. So I think I might try for an Alan Bates, or a Michael York maybe. . or a Derek Jacobi. Keep away from the obvious, anyway, the Toby Roots of this life. Nothing against him, but you know what I mean.’
Charles mumbled some ambivalent response.
‘Casting so easily becomes predictable, so one always admires the people in television who don’t do the obvious. I mean, have you heard, on this programme for the elderly, they haven’t gone for the boring competent sort of presenter like Robert Carton. They’ve chosen Ian Reynolds, who’s nearly eighty.’
‘Yes, I heard that.’
‘Well, isn’t that inventive? And people sometimes say casting isn’t a creative business.’ She laughed tragically, setting up a ripple through the feathers of her hat.
‘What does Bob Tomlinson think about your ideas of casting?’
‘Oh, he doesn’t care. He just told me to get on with it.’
That was Bob Tomlinson’s great quality, the ability to get on with it and to delegate. But he wasn’t slapdash. He had his own standards, as was apparent when he clapped his hands for attention.
‘Before we start this read-through, got another filming date for your diaries. This Friday, the 15th. We’re meant to be rehearsing here, but if we get our skates on, we can miss a day.’
‘Where’s the location?’ asked Debbi Hartley.
‘Back at Bernard Walton’s place.’
‘But I thought we’d done all that.’
‘Got to do it again.’
‘Why?’ Peter Lipscombe’s producer’s instinct picked up the implication of extra expense.
‘Because I saw the rushes this morning of what was done last week, and it’s all bloody terrible. I wouldn’t have film of that quality in one of my shows.’
‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘It’s all bloody arty-farty. All shot over people’s shoulders or up their trouser-legs. Every new director’s first day with a film camera. Just bloody wanking. I don’t know what that little tit thought he was up to.’
Peter Lipscombe still seemed more worried about the prospect of spending money than any disrespect to the dead. ‘Are you sure there isn’t any of it you can use?’
‘Bloody certain.’
‘Well, look, I’ll have to talk to the Cost Planners about this. And then to Film Department to see if they can find us a day to — ’
‘I’ve done all that. Don’t you bloody listen? It’s all set up for this Friday.’
‘Oh.’ Peter Lipscombe had one more try. ‘I’m sure the film can’t be that bad. .’
‘It’s self-indulgent crap. Totally wrong for this show. Don’t ever forget, what we’re making here is just a second-rate sit com, not bloody Ingmar Bergman.’
And so — not that there had ever been any doubt that he would — Bob Tomlinson won the day. All of the people who had been present at Scott Newton’s death were to be reassembled at the scene of the crime.
Charles wondered if Bernard Walton would also be there.
In the Birthday Honours, announced the next day, Aurelia Howarth was made a Dame of the British Empire. This caused considerable excitement at the Paddington Jewish Boys’ Club, which was invaded by newspaper reporters, and even had a sycophantic royal visit from Nigel Frisch.
His legs once again encased in Reg the golf club barman’s alien trousers, Charles Paris went through his second day’s filming at Bernard Walton’s house. If doing it once had been boring, doing it twice was excruciating. The only improvement on the previous occasion was that Bob Tomlinson moved a lot faster than Scott Newton. While the younger man had spent hours composing every shot, the older one just got the camera lined up and went ahead. He had a cameraman with a comparably prosaic approach to the job. The inestimable Midge Trumper had shared Scott Newton’s concern to make every frame a Rembrandt; the new man’s only worry seemed to be making sure that there was film in the camera.
The result was that the men in lumberjack checked shirts’ prospects of going into overtime faded fast. By the time they broke for lunch (pate de foie gras, steak au poivre and raspberries with — thanks to the intervention of the Union representative — a rather good 1973 Mouton Cadet), only four set-ups and a couple of establishing shots remained to be done. All Dame Aurelia Howarth’s scenes had been completed, and she and Barton Rivers had already set off in the Bentley back to London. She still looked very tired and would no doubt benefit from a half-day’s rest. The excitements of all the congratulations on her award must have added to her exhaustion.
But, though the progress of the filming was rapid and efficient, Charles made little or no progress in the business of criminal investigation. He did wander down the drive to the point where Scott’s Porsche had skidded off, but the scene of the accident told him nothing new.
Bernard Walton must have had efficient staff, because most traces of the car’s descent had been erased. Walls had been repaired, broken shrubs replaced, and scarred lawn returfed. Only the difference in colour between the old grass and the new bore witness to the spectacle of the previous week.
Charles once again weighed one of the urns in his hands. Their centre of gravity was high, so it wouldn’t take much of a nudge to shift them, but, even so, they were heavy and it would require more than a gust of wind to do the job.
He looked around the area. Maybe some vital clue remained, maybe the vital stub of a cigarette only available from a small shop in Burlington Arcade, maybe the unmistakable outline of a shoe with callipers, maybe the return half of a railway ticket to Auchtermuchty. . But he was not optimistic of finding anything. People on the whole rarely leave clues to where they have been. And, if there had been any, he felt sure the police’s more professional searches would have revealed them.
No, there was only one line of investigation open to him. And he was prevented from pursuing that by the absence of his chief suspect. Bernard Walton wasn’t there.
He arrived just as the day’s filming was finished, at about three o’clock. The Rolls scrunched to a halt on the gravel. Bernard’s powder blue leisurewear and the gleaming leather bag of clubs he removed from the back of the car revealed that he had been on the golf course. His breath revealed that he had also been in the bar.
He greeted Charles warmly. ‘Is Dame Dob around?’ he asked.
‘No. Her bits were finished early. She went off about lunchtime.’
‘Ah.’ Bernard Walton hesitated. He had had a hospitable urge, but now he knew Aurelia and Barton weren’t there, didn’t know what to do with it. ‘Are you through, too?’
‘Yes. It’s all done. The magic words, “It’s a wrap,” have been spoken.’
‘Uh-huh.’ Bernard was still undecided. But only for a moment. ‘Look, would you like to come in and have a drink?’
