‘Instinct.’
‘Not always very reliable, I’m afraid, instinct. The police aren’t fools. On the whole, they don’t make an arrest until they’ve got a pretty good case worked out.’
Sydnee did not answer this objection. ‘I’d like to talk about it,’ she persisted.
‘Okay. When do you want to meet?’
‘Could you make it for a drink this evening after work?’
Charles was again reminded of how most people’s lives were defined by the boundaries of work, while at times the only structure in his own seemed to be imposed by licensing hours, but he didn’t comment. ‘Sure.’
‘Say. . half-past six?’
‘Fine. Where, down at W.E.T.?’
‘No. Better off the premises. Too many people with their own theories down here. Do you know Harry Cockers?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Cocktail bar. Covent Garden. Just off Floral Street.’
‘I’m sure I could find it. What, there at six-thirty?’
‘Yes.’
‘One thing, Sydnee. .’
‘Yes?’
‘Why did you get in touch with me?’
‘One of the Stage Managers here mentioned you. Mort Verdon. . you remember him?’
‘Sure.’
‘He said you’d sorted a few things out when those murders happened on the
Charles felt childishly pleased as he put the phone down. He was amused by the idea that, while his acting career remained undistinguished, his reputation as an amateur detective was spreading.
The venue currently called Harry Cockers had been through many identities in the previous decade, as various kinds of bars and restaurants became fashionable. Its latest manifestation was very Thirties, with bright jagged lines along every surface, and wall-panels showing geometrically-stylised silhouettes of dancing figures in evening- dress. Overhead large fans swished.
It was full at that hour, and as he gazed at the clientele crowding the long bar, Charles felt infinitely old. The variegated flying-suits, the strident colours of fabrics and hair, the lurid make-up which would have been condemned at Drama School as ‘horribly over the top’, all seemed to point up the incongruity of his crumpled figure in its loyal sports jacket.
He needn’t have worried. The bright young things at the bar were far too involved in themselves and each other to notice him as he peered from flying-suit to flying-suit, trying to identify Sydnee.
She wasn’t there. At least, she wasn’t there unless she had dyed her hair another colour (which was of course not impossible). He sat at an empty table on the outskirts of the action. If she was there, she could find him. He knew his own appearance hadn’t changed in the last few days (or probably the last few decades).
He was gratified to discover that his invisibility did not extend to the staff. He had hardly sat down before a waiter, whose tail-coat and white tie seemed at odds with the yellow-and-green-striped hair and the Christmas Tree decoration dangling from the ear-lobe, materialised to take his order. He drew Charles’s attention to the infinite list of highly-priced cocktails on the card in front of him.
‘Er, just a large whisky, please.’
‘On the rocks?’
‘Please.’
The waiter vanished, very quickly to return with a tall glass so full of ice that the whisky had paled almost to invisibility, and a large bill.
Charles sipped his drink, while mortifying thoughts about how old and out of touch he was ran through his head.
Sydnee’s hair was still the same copper-beech colour when she appeared a few minutes later. Her flying-suit this time was electric blue.
‘Hi,’ she said, offering no apology for her lateness. Television time, Charles remembered, except for the unshakable rigidity of studio schedules, is always approximate.
‘Can I, er. .?’ He looked round for the waiter.
But she had already snapped her fingers to summon one, ordered herself a Screwdriver and ‘another of the same’ for him. Charles wasn’t used to being with these thoroughly emancipated women.
Sydnee didn’t bother with small talk, but went straight to the point. ‘I’m convinced Chippy didn’t kill Barrett, but I want you to prove that she didn’t.’
‘Is she a close friend of yours?’
‘Fairly close, yes. We’ve worked on a lot of shows together. Been off on a few long locations. You get to know people pretty well stuck for a wet six weeks in a hotel in Scotland.’
Charles nodded. There were people he had got to know pretty well in similar circumstances.
‘And, from what you know of her character, you don’t see her as a murderer?’
‘No way.’
‘What is she like?’
‘Well, she’s dramatic and she’s neurotic. Started as an actress before she went into stage management, so she tends to make a big production of everything. Also, looking like she does, she always has plenty of men after her. .
‘But she’s one of those girls who always ends up falling for the ones who are complete shits.’
‘Right.’ Sydnee looked at him appraisingly, but with approval, respecting his judgement. As he had on the day of the recording, Charles caught a momentary glimpse of the real person beneath the surface efficiency.
‘And Barrett Doran was the latest in this long line of shits?’
Sydnee nodded.
‘How long had it been going on?’
‘Maybe six months on and off. They met on another W.E.T. series. Another game show, actually. Chippy was A.S.M. on that.’
‘They didn’t move in together?’
‘No. He’d just turn up at her flat every now and then. Usually not when he said he would. She spent a lot of those evenings sitting waiting with the dinner slowly drying up in the cooker. Then another night he’d turn up at one in the morning with no warning at all.’
‘How to win friends and influence people.’
‘Oh, Chippy lapped it up. There was always a kamikaze element in her relationships. She asked for it.’
‘And she got it.’
‘Yes.’
‘Barrett presumably had other fish to fry?’
‘You bet. He was the worst sort of celebrity. Reckoned, because he was a famous face, he could get off with anyone. And usually he could.’
‘Did Chippy mind that?’
‘At first I think she did. Then she realised that either she would have to accept all the others or forget it, so she stopped complaining. I think it kind of fuelled her masochism.’
‘Was Barrett married?’
‘Not significantly. I think there probably was a wife somewhere in the background, but it didn’t inhibit his activities.’
‘And, if Chippy was prepared to put up with all that, why was she suddenly reckoned to be capable of murdering him?’
‘Because he broke it off. Didn’t just stop turning up at her flat, didn’t just stop ringing her. . he actually told her: Forget it, it’s all over.’
‘Any idea why?’
‘I think he was probably just bored with her. The sex, from her account, was pretty good, but then he could
