‘Good morning. Sorry to have kept you.’
Seen close up, and in her own surroundings, she was strikingly pretty, tiny but perfectly proportioned. Her short hair was the kind of ash blond that melts almost imperceptibly into grey, she had a smooth, clear skin with only a tracery of lines around the eyes, and it was impossible to say what age she was. Anything from thirty to fifty. She was one of those fortunate women on whom time leaves little mark.
She briskly clattered the partition doors back, revealing a tidy office area at the other end of the room. On a red desk stood a word processor and two telephones. Colour-coded files filled one wall of shelves. It was all neatly expensive, like a home office design from a colour supplement.
She came and shook their hands. ‘Sorry, there wasn’t a great deal of opportunity to get to know either of you on the studio day.’ She flopped gracefully on to the dumpy sofa and gestured Charles to sit, too. Turning her shrewd blue eyes on Sydnee, she said, ‘So you think the police have got the wrong murderer, love?’
‘Yes. I’m convinced that Chippy didn’t do it.’
‘Hmm. Is she a friend of yours?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s quite natural that you should disbelieve it. We all get shocked when we hear unwelcome things about our friends. Apart from anything else, it seems to cast doubt on the quality of our own judgement. Pretending the unpalatable news is not true is quite a common reaction. Are you sure you’re not just doing that, love?’
‘Quite sure. We’ve almost got proof Chippy didn’t do it.’
Quickly, Charles explained about his drinking from Barrett Doran’s glass at six-thirty. He slightly edited the truth, saying that he had just wanted to check the rumour going around that the host always had gin on the set, but Joanie’s appraising eyes seemed to see through the subterfuge.
She looked pensive when he’d finished. ‘It never occurred to me to look for any other explanation of the death. . I mean, once I’d heard the girl had been arrested. I suppose we can rule out the possibility of accident. .’
‘The cyanide had to be taken from Studio B, the gin had to be emptied out of the glass and the cyanide put in.’
‘No, you’re right. It could hardly have been accidental. So that means you’re looking for another murderer?’
At that moment Roger Bruton came into the room with the filled coffee-pot, and there was a pause while he filled the four cups and passed them round. When he was seated beside his wife on the sofa, she put her hand on his knee and said, ‘As I told you after the phone-call yesterday, Sydnee and Charles are convinced that the girl who’s been arrested did not kill Barrett Doran.’
‘In that case,’ he asked almost without intonation, ‘what do they think happened?’
‘Perhaps we should ask them,’ said Joanie. ‘Do you have any theories about what really went on?’
‘Only vague theories,’ Charles replied. ‘I mean, obviously someone else murdered Barrett. .’
The couple on the sofa seemed to relax slightly now this statement of the situation had been made.
‘. . and we’ve been checking out the movements of people involved in the show during the relevant time.’
‘During the meal-break, you mean?’ asked Roger.
‘Well, only during a very specific part of it. The cyanide must have been put in the glass after six-thirty.’
‘After six-thirty?’ Roger echoed in surprise.
‘Yes, because I drank from Barrett’s glass at six-thirty and it contained gin.’
‘Gin?’ Another surprised echo.
‘He always had gin when he was doing a show.’
‘Oh. And after you’d drunk from the glass, did you swap it round with one of the others?’
‘No, of course he didn’t,’ Joanie almost interrupted her husband. Then, more gently, she repeated, ‘No, of course he didn’t, love.’ Turning to the others, she asked, ‘So
Charles smiled. ‘Well, you’ll be glad to hear that you two are off the list. You weren’t down in the studio area at the pivotal time, so you’re in the clear.’
Joanie clutched at her throat in mock-panic. ‘What a relief.’
‘Just concentrating on the people who actually appeared on the show, we’ve ruled out all of the four “professions” — that’s except for me, assuming that I would be devious enough deliberately to stir up an investigation into my own guilt. .’
‘I think we’ll give you the benefit of the doubt.’
‘Very gracious. Of the four contestants, the only one who hasn’t got an alibi for the relevant time — or perhaps I should say the only one whose alibi we haven’t heard about — is the lady from Billericay, Trish Osborne. Of the panellists, you’re all in the clear. . except for Bob Garston.’
‘Ah.’ Joanie Bruton did not sound surprised, rather as if the mention of the name confirmed a suspicion.
‘Now, at the moment we are concentrating our investigations on Bob Garston. As I say, he had the opportunity, and he had at least some motive.’
‘Oh?’ Charles got the impression that Joanie knew something, but was biding her time, waiting to see how much of it they knew already.
‘He was considered for the job of hosting
‘So you reckon that was the reason he would want Barrett out of the way?’
Again Charles felt Joanie was holding back, unwilling to volunteer more than she had to.
‘That’s one reason. We’ve a feeling there may also have been something more personal.’
She raised a quizzical eyebrow at him. ‘Like what?’
‘That’s why we’ve come to see you. We thought you might know something about his private life.’
She chuckled. ‘I know a great deal about a great many people’s private lives, love. But one of the reasons why people tell me things, and the reason why I keep my job, is because I respect the confidentiality of such secrets.’
‘Of course.’
While Charles tried to think of the next move, Sydnee came in, typically direct. ‘You were overheard, Roger, talking to Bob. There was a suggestion that Bob Garston’s wife had been having an affair with someone.’
This shook Roger Bruton. ‘Who overheard me? Who was spying on me? Where were they? What did they see?’
Again his wife’s calming hand went on to his knee. ‘It’s all right, love, all right.’ She turned her eyes on Charles. ‘Since you seem to know already, I can’t do any harm by confirming it. Yes. Bob’s wife did have an affair.’
‘With Barrett Doran?’
She nodded. ‘I knew about it, because I was there when they met. On some Thames Television chat-show. I saw them go off together. It was obvious to me what was happening. I do know a bit about the mechanics of sexual attraction.’
‘Was Bob around at the time?’
‘No. He heard about it, though. His wife must have told him herself, because nobody else knew. I gather he took it pretty badly. I talked to him about it when we next met, told him that these things happen, that often a little fling like that needn’t affect the basic stability of the marriage.’ She had dropped into the no-nonsense counselling manner she used to telephone callers on her weekly radio programme.
‘And it wasn’t in the gossip columns or anything? I had understood Barrett liked to make his conquests public.’
‘Not this one. I think she must’ve insisted on keeping it quiet. I never heard it even hinted at by anyone.’
‘Was the affair still going on when Barrett died?’
‘No. Only lasted about a month, I think. Bob and she didn’t split up or anything. I gather they’d more or less got over it, but Bob must have found it difficult suddenly having to be in the same studio as the man who’d cuckolded him.’
‘How difficult, I wonder?’
‘What you mean is, did it make Bob angry enough to decide to kill his rival? Who can say? People react
