Cut back to Bob Garston in the studio. ‘Well,’ he said with a wolfish grin, rubbing in the joke for those too slow to understand first time round, ‘he said it!’
The audience around Charles again roared sycophantically.
Getting ‘a television person’ on his own is never easy. Programme-making always involves a lot of people and those who work in the medium tend to hunt in packs. To see a single person, or even just a couple, in a television bar is a rarity; instead there are clusters, large groups representing different production teams.
There was a large
Beyond buying her a drink, Bob Garston had made no attempt to include Sydnee in his group. As a television person, she understood this completely. She knew the wild laughter and gesticulation around him was part of that mutual release of tension that came at the end of a long studio day. She knew that all the conversation would be of late cues, shadows from microphone booms, recalcitrant interviewees, references and in-jokes that could have no meaning for those who had not lived through the same day.
Charles had no expectation of being included. His dominant worry remained how to explain himself, how to make sure that he and Sydnee got a chance to talk to Bob alone. He looked around the bar, and saw a couple of actors he knew buying drinks for Light Entertainment producers. He felt the recurrent wave of despair that came over him whenever he thought about his career. He knew actors should keep a high profile, be seen by the people who mattered, the people who controlled that arcane magic of employment. On the rare occasions when his agent ceased to think of him as a lost cause and proffered advice, Maurice Skellem always said, ‘Put yourself about, Charles, get yourself seen. Got to be up front as an actor, you know. Remind people you exist. Actors got to let their light be seen, shine upon producers, dazzle them. Whereas all you seem to do is find thicker and thicker bushels to hide yours under.’
He knew partly it was true. Some of his failure in his chosen career could be attributed to the eternal problem of too many actors chasing too few parts, some perhaps to only an average talent, but within him there was also the fatal flaw of diffidence, a kind of laziness that kept him from hustling as hard as he knew he should.
Sounds of an argument at the bar shook him out of this orbit of self-pity. Time had been called, but one of the Light Entertainment producers was vigorously asserting that he needed another drink. People were starting to look around for abandoned handbags and briefcases. The party was breaking up.
With many good-humoured waves and shoulder-slappings, Bob Garston detached himself from the
‘Sure.’ She indicated her companion. ‘This is Charles Paris.’
‘Oh yes?’ There was no interest and no recognition in his glance.
‘You remember, he was one of the “professions” in the first
Bob gave a nod which recognised this fact without giving it any importance. With a perfunctory grin at Charles, he reached out an arm to Sydnee. ‘Shall we be off then?’
She looked at Charles with an expression that told him he had to get out of this one. ‘Bob,’ he said. ‘We want to talk to you.’
‘Sydnee and I are just going off to talk. I don’t see where you fit in.’
‘We want to talk about Barrett Doran’s murder.’
Bob Garston’s eyes narrowed. The hearty public face slipped away, to be replaced by something more furtive.
‘You’d better come along then,’ he said.
Bob Garston’s car was directly in front of Television Centre, where only the highly privileged were allowed to park. It was a new Jaguar. Bob and Charles sat in the front, Sydnee in the back.
‘Right, what is this?’ The voice was unrecognisable from the confident, insinuating tones of Joe Soap. It was breathier, tighter; and the note of tension could have been fear.
Charles explained evenly, without specifying their reasons, that they didn’t think Chippy had killed Barrett.
‘Are you going to make your suspicions public? Are you going to the police?’
‘We will eventually, yes. We’d rather go with the name of the person who did kill him and some evidence to prove it. But if we can’t get that fairly soon, we’ll just have to go and tell them why we know Chippy’s innocent.’
‘Why is that?’
‘We have our reasons,’ Charles replied infuriatingly.
Bob Garston was silent for a moment. Then he said, ‘You realise that, if the girl’s eliminated, I become the obvious suspect?’
This was too easy. ‘Yes,’ said Charles. ‘That’s the conclusion we were coming to.’
‘I wanted the host job from the start. I never made much secret of the fact. I don’t believe in disguising ambition. I think if you say what you want, you stand a damned sight better chance of getting it.’ The forthright Joe Soap quality came back briefly into his voice. ‘So I suppose that could look like a motive. .’
‘Not the only one,’ said Charles gently.
A light that had not been switched off in an office above them filtered through the windscreen, illuminating one side of Bob Garston’s face. Charles saw bewilderment, then understanding, quickly followed by fury. ‘How the hell did you hear about that?’
Charles protected his source. ‘Let’s just say I heard.’
‘Did my wife tell you?’
‘No. I’ve never met your wife.’
‘Look, if this gets out to the gossip columns I’ll bloody murder you.’ Realisation of what he had said came into Bob Garston’s face. It was followed by a twisted smile. ‘Unfortunate remark perhaps, in the circumstances. So. . you think I killed Barrett. May I ask how I’m supposed to have done it?’
‘Anyone who was round the studio area between six-thirty and six-fifty could have done it. They only needed to take the cyanide from Studio B into Studio A and put it in the glass. Would have taken two minutes, maximum.’
Bob Garston nodded grimly.
‘You were seen at about twenty-five to seven — coming out of Studio A.’
‘Yes.’ He lost his temper. ‘Dammit! Why the hell did I go in there?’
‘You tell me,’ said Charles.
Bob Garston let out a long sigh. ‘I didn’t do it, you know. I didn’t kill Barrett.’
‘No?’
‘No, I bloody didn’t!’
‘Then why are you getting so upset?’
‘Because, as I said, I’m the obvious suspect. The same day you tell the police Chippy didn’t do it, they’re going to be round knocking on my door, asking questions. It’ll be down the station, “helping with enquiries”. . they might even bloody arrest me.’
‘But if you can prove you’re innocent — ’
‘Doesn’t make a blind bit of difference. Look, my career’s at an important stage, could take off quite dramatically in the next couple of months. The last thing I need now is my name over the papers.’
‘But, as I said, if you can prove you’re innocent — ’
‘Listen. If there’s one thing doing my sort of programme has taught me, it’s that mud sticks. I make some allegation on the show, however oblique it is, about some official, and that bloke never lives it down. He’s lost credibility. . his colleagues don’t trust him any more. I know, I’ve got plenty of letters to prove it. I’ve even been sued a few times. Once the allegation’s been made, no amount of public denial can make it go away completely. Look at the newspapers — thousands read the scandalous headline — how many read the little printed apology for getting the facts wrong that comes out the next week?’
