writes books or has got any other nice little earner going for her.’
‘No.’ Charles thought about it. ‘And Joanie is of course ideally placed as a blackmailer. As she said, she’s a repository for a great many secrets.’
‘Exactly.’
There was a new excitement in Sydnee’s pale-blue eyes. Charles gave her a wry smile. ‘I can see what you’re doing. You’re just trying to get me interested in the case again, aren’t you?’
‘So what’s wrong with that?’
‘What’s wrong with that is that I have so far spent a fortnight getting precisely nowhere, while what I should have done was to go to the police straight away.’
‘Don’t you like a challenge, Charles?’
‘I have been challenged and I have shown myself unequal to the challenge.’
‘Doesn’t that frustrate you?’
‘Of course it bloody does!’ he snapped.
‘It certainly frustrates me.’ This was a new Sydnee, her surface poise giving way to a girlish stubbornness. ‘I’m a researcher, and the aim of research is to get to the bottom of things, to get to the truth. Nothing pisses me off more than failing in that quest. Go on, you must feel the same. If you don’t find out who the murderer is, you’re going to be really pissed off, aren’t you?’
Charles couldn’t deny it.
‘Then let’s bloody find out who it is. Look, we’ve already got a motive for Bob to want to kill Joanie. Let’s see if we can get any motivations for the rest of them.’
Charles was thoroughly hooked again by now.
‘Well, the new entrant into the suspect stakes is of course Nick Jeffries. He didn’t seem to have a particularly benevolent nature, but I’m not sure I see him as a murderer. Still, let’s try and think who he might want to murder.’
‘Fiona, for refusing his advances?’
‘Seems extreme.’
‘Very sensitive plant, the male ego.’
‘You don’t have to tell me,’ said Charles ruefully. ‘On the other hand, I don’t really see poison as Nick Jeffries’ style. I can see him thumping someone, but. . Still, I suppose it’s possible.’ He shook his head in frustration. ‘Oh, I’d just like to see them all together again. I’m sure I’d get some feeling of what they felt for each other if I did.’
‘You’ll have the chance tomorrow.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s the second pilot. You may see something.’
‘Yes, I suppose I may. I must say I’d rather see the first one again. I don’t mean the tape. I mean the whole thing. I’m sure if I could see their reactions to the drink or who knocked the desk over, I’d be able to. .’
He stopped. Sydnee looked at him curiously. She was even more curious when she saw the beatific smile which had spread across his features.
‘What on earth is it?’
‘Sydnee,’ he said with a new, calm confidence, ‘I have had an idea.’
Chapter Thirteen
The day of preparation for the second pilot of
As a result, three Conference Rooms had been booked, so that the ‘professions’ did not have to spend the afternoon pondering Sydnee’s ‘Ugly Wall’. (On this occasion the researchers had assembled a shepherd, a metallurgist, a coach-driver and a vicar, the last of whom thought, mistakenly, that his appearance on the programme would help to make the Church seem more accessible to ordinary people.) The hide-and-seek game of keeping the various participant groups apart was better orchestrated, so that there were fewer sudden rushes for cover.
An acrimonious confrontation between John Mantle and the Head of Wardrobe had resulted in the hats being ready when required (though the sullen expressions on the faces of the staff who produced them suggested that they still did not think it was their job). However, arguments could not be avoided on the subject of what sort of hats metallurgists wore and whether a Church of England vicar could really be properly identified by a biretta.
Sydnee had had a long session with Make-up and finally organised a schedule that would get everyone done without transgressing the sacred and expensive lines of the meal break.
The new contestants spent the afternoon in the same state of nervous tension as their predecessors. The extrovert personalities for which they had been selected seemed to desert them once on the set, leading Aaron Greenberg and Dirk van Henke, who had just returned from a long lunch at Inigo Jones with John Mantle, to turn on him and object that this bunch had even less ‘pazazz’ than the last lot.
They were also suspicious of Bob Garston’s ‘pazazz’-rating. His gritty Northern approach to the job of host contrasted unfavourably with the more flamboyant style of ‘Eddie back in the States’, and John Mantle had to endure a further barrage of talk about killing Golden Geese stone-dead and screwing up something which could mean ‘someone making a pot’. As ever, he trimmed and shifted, full of magnanimous concessions which gave away nothing. He could see the end in sight. The next day, come what might, the Americans would be on Concorde on their way back home. The massive accumulations of their bill at the Savoy and the charges on his Gold Card would be at an end, and John Mantle would at last have some time to himself.
He felt confident that, by the time that magic moment arrived, he would also have the makings of a very successful game-show series which would run for years. As Sydnee had suggested, for him, having to do a second pilot had been like a gift from heaven. It had given him the opportunity to adjust the format, to regulate the pace of the show and give the whole package an additional gloss. Good housekeeper to the end, he was even confident that his budget would not suffer too much. Whereas there had been almost no possibility (even without Barrett Doran’s murder) of the first pilot being transmitted, there was a good chance that the second could be, probably not as the first of the series, but safely tucked away four or five into the run. All in all, John Mantle was very pleased with the way things had turned out. Barrett Doran’s death couldn’t have come at a better time for him.
It was a subject that was not mentioned in the celebrity Conference Room. The foursome reverted to the required laid-back approach to the proceedings. The three who had played the game before had good reason to take it lightly; they now knew the format so well there was no need even to pretend to be doing any homework on it. Joanie and Roger Bruton muttered their way through a file of correspondence. Fiona Wakeford painted her fingernails with studious concentration. Nick Jeffries, whom this studious concentration was intended to exclude, sat around restlessly looking at a newspaper and resorting too often to the hip-flask in his pocket.
The newcomer, brought in to fill the gap on the panel left by Bob Garston’s promotion, was George Birkitt. He was an actor with whom Charles Paris had worked on numerous occasions. Of moderate talent, he had been elevated by appearances in various television series to celebrity status. Since he was devoid of personality, he had no inner star quality, but was content to assume the mannerisms and behaviour of authentic stars he had met. The act was successful, in that the television audience seemed unable to distinguish him from the genuine article.
George Birkitt joined in the occasional, insouciant banter of the Conference Room, saying things like, ‘Never sure about these damned game shows myself. Still, the agent says they’re good, keep the old face in front of the public, show there’s a man behind the actor. So I suppose I should take his advice. After all, that’s what I pay the old sod such a large chunk of my income for. .’
He did, however, refer to his copy of the show’s format rather more often than was strictly proper for someone of his celebrity status.
Between the Conference Rooms Jeremy Fowler flitted, a lost soul trying to shed his burden of wacky one- liners about shepherds, metallurgists, coach-drivers, vicars and hats. He found few takers, though George Birkitt, who recognised that he had the imaginative faculty of a bar of soap, did scribble down an old joke about a rock- star’s school cap being discovered when he had a haircut.
