‘Yes. Anyway, what if he did get suspicious? He doesn’t like Nigel any more than anyone else.’
It seemed to be a feature of the case that no one had a good word to say for Nigel Steen. Not having met the man, and basing his conclusions on other people’s prejudices, Charles decided that young Steen’s main offence was that he was not his father. From all accounts he didn’t sound as if he had the spunk to be a murderer.
‘Where does Nigel live?’
‘I think he’s got a flat near Knightsbridge, but he’s never there. Spends all his time in Orme Gardens or at Streatley.’
‘Father’s boy?’
‘I wouldn’t say that.’
‘How did they get on, Jacqui?’
‘I don’t know. I hardly ever saw them together, and Marius never talked about Nigel. But you’ve seen the letter.’
‘Yes. And did Joanne like him?’
‘Did she like who? She liked Marius.’ Was there a hint of jealousy there?
‘No. Nigel.’
‘I don’t think she liked him.’
‘Hmm. Then I think perhaps she’s due for a visitation.’
Charles was making-up next morning in Hereford Road when the phone rang.
‘Hello. Oh, Maurice, I was just making-up.’
‘What for? You working and not telling me?’
‘No, just for fun. Practice.’
‘Well, I think it’s about time you did some work. You seem to have taken the three-day week to heart too quickly.’
‘Three-day week?’
‘Don’t you read the papers?’
‘I haven’t yet this morning.’
‘Heath’s going to put the whole country on a three-day week. Save power. And stop television at half-past ten in the evening.’
‘Really.’
‘Yes. Think of all the ten per cents of all those series I won’t be getting. Johnny Wilson had a repeat scheduled for late evening. That’ll be off.’
‘I’m afraid I’m not very in touch.’
‘I’ll say. Look, you know that Softly Softly I said might be coming up?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, it hasn’t.’
‘Oh. Thanks.’
‘But there is something. Had a call from the casting director of a new horror film yesterday. They’re looking for someone to play this sort of deformed hunchback, part werewolf, part vampire. I told them you were made for the part.’
‘Thank you very much.’
Silence punctuated with gasps from the other end of the line showed that Maurice was roaring with laughter at his own witticism. He always laughed noiselessly, his jaw snapping up and down as he took in great gulps of air. Charles waited until he’d recovered sufficiently to continue.
‘Sorry, just a little joke. But really, it is that sort of part. They seemed quite keen when I mentioned you. Said “Yes, we like using the old fifties stars everyone’s forgotten.”’
‘Thank you again. What would it involve?’
‘Two weeks’ filming early January-if this three-day week nonsense doesn’t interfere. At some stately home. Forget where exactly, but within reach of London.’
‘Hmm. What’s the film called?’
‘The Zombie Walks!’
‘Oh God. Who’s directing?’
‘Never heard of him. Some name like Rissole. It’s being set up by Steenway Productions.’
‘Oh really. I’ll take it. Check the dates.’
‘Your diary’s not exactly crowded, is it?’
‘Money good?’
‘Goodish. I’ll ask for double.’
‘Good lad. Thanks for that.’
‘My pleasure. If I don’t do things for you, you’re clearly not going to do anything for yourself.’
‘Cheerio, Maurice. Keep smiling.’
‘What, with my worries? Cheerio.’
Work, too. And dressing-up. Charles was beginning to feel unaccountably cheerful. He rather relished the idea of secret investigations. With a jaunty step he went upstairs to his room to continue making-up.
Disguise is a matter of presenting oneself to the person deceived in an unexpected context. Then come tricks of stance and movement. Actual changing of colouring and features are less important. And Charles was quite pleased with his disguise. Certainly Joanne Menzies appeared not to recognise him, although he’d rather regretted choosing the character of Detective-Sergeant McWhirter of Scotland Yard when she revealed that she’d been brought up near the Kyles of Bute. But she seemed to accept the Glaswegian accent and his story of having left Scotland for London in his teens.
He had phoned her at Milton Buildings, saying that he had a routine enquiry to make about the Datsun, would have asked for Mr Marius Steen but, owing to the recent regrettable happening, wondered if she could help. She was efficiently affable, and invited him to come round straight away. So there he was, on the Friday morning, sitting opposite her, in the same chair that, only a week before, Charles Paris had occupied.
Detective-Sergeant McWhirter wore a nondescript brown and green suit, a Marks and Spencer pale yellow shirt and brown knitted tie. His shoes were stout brown brogues, suitable for the tramping from place to place which takes up most of a detective’s time. When he entered the room he had hung up a pale mackintosh and a trilby hat. His hair was dark brown and slicked back with Brylcreem. He had thick horn-rimmed glasses, a heavy shadow and rather bad teeth. On his wedding finger was a worn gold band. He was the sort of man nobody would look at twice. No doubt a conscientious worker; no doubt a good husband and father; but totally unremarkable.
Miss Menzies couldn’t be very helpful about the Datsun, though she answered all his questions very readily. Detective-Sergeant McWhirter explained that he was investigating a robbery in Pangbourne on Saturday night. An eye-witness claimed to have seen a yellow Datsun in the area at the relevant time, and McWhirter was painstakingly investigating all of the local Datsun-owners. The local police had told him that Mr Steen possessed such a vehicle, and he was just making a routine check on the whereabouts of the car at that time.
Miss Menzies felt certain it was in the garage at Mr Steen’s Orme Gardens house all over the weekend. When Mr Steen rang on Friday afternoon to say he wasn’t certain whether or not he was returning to London at the weekend, she had checked the petrol in the car in case he might want it.
‘This was Mr Marius Steen who rang?’
‘No. This was his son Nigel. He rang to say that he was coming up to town that evening…’
‘The Friday?’
‘Yes. But that his father was still deep in his scripts, and wasn’t sure of his movements. So I thought I’d better get some petrol in case Mr Marius Steen did come up to town over the weekend. You know what it’s like getting petrol at the moment.’
Detective-Sergeant McWhirter nodded sagely, imagining his eleven-year-old Morris Traveller and the increasing difficulties of driving the wife and kids around. The foam rubber pads in Charles Paris’ cheeks were beginning to feel acutely uncomfortable.
‘I was lucky,’ Miss Menzies continued. ‘I managed to get a full tank. It’s the garage I always go to.’
‘And the tank still registered full on the Monday?’
‘Yes.’