Gerald’s eyes were sparkling with excitement. ‘And tomorrow?’
‘You take her out for lunch. I’ll fill you in on what to ask her.’
‘O.K. And that’s the conversation you want recorded?’
Charles nodded. ‘If it can be done.’
‘No sweat.’ The colloquialism again seemed to run counter to the Prince of Wales check. ‘Do you think I should use a pseudonym?’
‘Don’t see why you shouldn’t use your own name. If you don’t mind.’
‘No, of course not.’ He was a little crestfallen at losing this dramatic element, but brightened again immediately. ‘Is this girl Anna Duncan your Number One Suspect?’
Charles could not bring himself to answer that question, even in his own mind. ‘I wouldn’t say that. Just need some information from her, that’s all. But it’s difficult for me to get it myself.’
‘Aren’t you going to give me all the details of the case so far?’
‘Tomorrow. There’s no time now. You’ve got to get to the revue.’
They made a rendezvous for the next morning and Charles went back to the Aberdour Guest House. A half- bottle of Bell’s did not go far enough and he spent a long miserable night with patches of sleep.
Daylight did not speed time up much, and Gerald’s arrival at Dublin Street at half-past ten added another delay to the programme. Anna had a tight rehearsal schedule for Mary and would not have much of a break for lunch. The assignation had therefore become a dinner date, which extended the agony of waiting by eight hours. Apart from that, all had gone well the previous evening.
Charles then gave Gerald an edited version of the events surrounding Willy Mariello’s death and indicated the information he required, with some hints as to what he considered the most effective way of doing it. He hoped that he was judging Anna’s character right, and that she would respond in the way he anticipated. But all the time he felt increasingly despicable for the elaborate deception.
At one fifteen he did a performance of So Much Comic, So Much Blood without thinking about it. The audience had swelled to nearly eighty and seemed appreciative, but he hardly noticed. He even had a discussion with some dreary Welsh academic about whether Hood’s work contained High Moral Seriousness, but only the reflexes of his mind were working. The rest of it was churning with guilt and anxiety.
In the afternoon he tried to pull himself together and entertain thoughts of the other possibilities of the case. What he should really do was to retrace Martin Warburton’s visit to Holyrood and see if it prompted any ideas. But even as he thought of it, he knew he could not be bothered. All his thoughts centred on Anna.
As he meandered through the city, he met Frances sitting on a bench in Princes Street Gardens. She had managed to lose Candy and Jane on a sightseeing coach tour of Edinburgh, and was appreciating the break. Charles knew she could tell he was upset, but he refused to unburden himself to her. He knew she would be understanding and reassuring. That was her most infuriating quality, the way she understood him. It was an option he did not want to take. Guilt about Frances joined the mess of unpalatable thoughts in his head.
He hardly listened to what she said. Most of it was about Candy and Jane, the shows they had seen, how exhausting she was finding it, how she’d need a proper holiday after this, how she even thought of staying up in Scotland for a few days to recuperate after the girls had gone. Charles sat, half-hearing and restless. Suddenly he created an appointment and rose. They made vague plans to meet for dinner in the next couple of days when he was clearer about his movements, and he slouched off, not daring to look back at the pain in her eyes.
It was still a long time till the pubs. He approached a cinema, but when he got there changed his mind and continued his aimless perambulation.
At last five o’clock arrived. The whisky did not work. It was as if he had a heavy cold and was numb to its powers. Half past seven came and he thought painfully of Gerald and Anna meeting in the Cosmo Ristorante in North Castle Street. He felt powerless, as if he was watching an accident from too far away to prevent it.
It was nearly ten o’clock when Mrs Butt grudgingly admitted Gerald Venables to the Aberdour Guest House. He was flushed with excitement or wine and carrying a briefcase which contained his cassette recorder. ‘Got a specially long tape. I don’t know what the quality will be like. I could only put the case on the table and hope for the best.’
Charles was not in the mood for talking. ‘Let’s hear it.’
Gerald produced the recorder with all the pride of a schoolboy showing his Cycling Proficiency Certificate. He switched the machine on and wound the tape back. Then, as it started, he fiddled with the dials to get the optimum sound.
The quality was not bad. Gerald’s own voice was distant because the microphone had been pointing away from him, but he filled in where his original questions were inaudible. There was a lot of interference from dishes being delivered and cutlery clattering, but most of Anna’s answers were perfectly clear. Charles got a strange frisson from hearing her voice. It was not attraction exactly, and it was not guilt, but a mixture of emotions he had never encountered before.
The tape started with an amusing dialogue between Gerald and the waiter, who felt certain that Signor would prefer to put his case on the floor. This was followed by the detailed business of ordering. Gerald did not stint himself, and, encouraged by example, nor did Anna. The client in the Actors’ Company was certainly going to pay for advice on his film contract.
After these preliminaries, Gerald started explaining why he was in Edinburgh. As a film producer, he was setting up a new movie, meeting some of the other backers, enjoying the Festival… and possibly even doing a bit of casting.
Anna’s reaction to this was non-committal and Charles began to feel redoubled guilt. If she were innocent what he and Gerald were doing was unforgivable. No aspiring actress should have her hopes manipulated in such a way.
Gerald’s distant voice then started to outline the plot of the film he was setting up, according to their plan. He dropped a few suitably substantial names and spoke airily of the locations in Spain and Finland. In fact, it was not all untrue; it was based closely on the film that he really was setting up. The only bit that was complete fabrication was that one part remained uncast. The part of a young girl, whose lover (a considerable film star was playing the part), a terrible lout, treats her cruelly and is stabbed to death halfway through the film. ‘Of course,’ purred the distant voice, ‘that’s going to be really difficult, that’s the bit that’ll call for real acting. The girl’s got to express this complex emotion when he’s killed. She knows he’s a slob, but… tricky. I think they should go for Diana Rigg or someone of that stature, but the director’s got this crazy idea about finding an unknown. He must’ve read too many film magazines.’
The first course was delivered. Gerald expertly checked the wine and the sound of Niagara Falls showed that Anna’s glass had been adjacent to the microphone. Nothing much happened for a while except for eating and pleasantries. The waiting was purgatory for Charles. Then Gerald’s voice resumed its tactics. ‘I’m sorry. All this talk of people being stabbed. I read in the papers about that terrible accident in your group. I shouldn’t talk about it.’
‘It’s all right.’ Anna’s voice came through, very clear and controlled. But was the control genuine, or was there just a fraction too much, a hint of acting?
Gerald continued apologising. ‘No, I’m sorry. Shouldn’t have mentioned it. It’s just that that kind of thing’s such a shock. You must have all felt that. But think how much more terrible it must be if the person who dies is a lover or someone close. It doesn’t bear thinking of.’
‘No. It’s terrible.’ Charles tried to prise apart the layers of intonation to understand what she meant. Was she rising to the bait? He was torn between the desire to vindicate her and the intellectual satisfaction of having his psychological approach proved right.
Gerald’s voice went on, more subdued than ever. ‘That’s the trouble. Every tragedy leaves someone behind. I suppose this… Mariello, was that his name?… I suppose he had a girl somewhere.. oh, it’s ghastly…’
‘Yes, he had a girl…’ There was no question about the way she said the line. She played it subtly, wasting none of her talent for drama. But its meaning was undeniably clear. Charles Paris understood that meaning and understanding hurt like physical pain.
Gerald’s recorded reactions were unnecessary, but the tape ploughed relentlessly on. ‘You mean… you?’
‘Yes. Willy and I were lovers.’ The voice was very soft, genuinely moving. There was a long intake of breath and a sob. ‘Were… lovers.’
‘I’m so sorry. I had no idea. I wouldn’t have raised the matter if I’d had an inkling…’ Gerald’s lying
