warm round of applause to. . Mr — Bob — Garston!’
A lovely warm round of applause was duly given, as the show’s new host strode on, oozing common touch from every pore. He grinned ruggedly at the audience and exchanged a few gritty pleasantries with them.
He gave a brief outline of what the game was about, but said it was basically very simple and they’d have no problem picking it up as they went along. Then he distributed accolades to the ‘boffins in the back-room’, without whom the show would not be possible. He praised the humour of Jim Trace-Smith and the organizing skill of John Mantle, before moving on to introduce ‘tonight’s celebrity panel’.
Charles tensed as they came on and sat in their appointed seats. Nick Jeffries shadow-boxed at the audience, much to their delight. Fiona Wakeford simpered at them, which they found equally rewarding. Joanie Bruton marched on, looking sensible, bright, but nonetheless feminine (and many of the female Senior Citizens turned to each other to comment on how sensible, bright, but nonetheless feminine she was). George Birkitt came on grinning and gave a wave, secure in the familiarity of his television face.
Bob Garston then introduced ‘the plucky foursome who, believe it or not, have actually volunteered to take part in this circus’, and the contestants, propelled by the unseen hand of Chita, came blinking on to the set.
In the Gallery, Aaron Greenberg looked at Dirk van Henke, then, accusingly, at John Mantle. ‘About as much “pazazz” as a wet noodle,’ he grumbled.
John Mantle smiled evenly.
It was nearly seven forty-five. The lovely Nikki and the lovely Linzi, after final checks at the straps of their bikinis, took up their positions by the prizes. The Senior Floor Manager stepped forward to tell Bob Garston to wind it up and get ready to record. Charlie Hook instructed the audience to wait for an applause cue from him and to watch the opening credits on the monitors above their heads.
The clock for the beginning of Part One appeared in shot. The one-minute countdown began.
Twenty-five seconds in, Nick Jeffries started waving in distress.
He had gone to have a drink from his red-and-blue-striped glass and discovered it to be empty.
The Senior Floor Manager looked annoyed at the delay. Charlie Hook came forward to reassure the audience that they were still lovely. A hustled-looking Floor Manager came on to the set with a jug on a tray. He poured liquid into the four celebrities’ glasses, then crossed to the lectern and filled Bob Garston’s. The remains of his jugful went into the carafe.
He scurried off and the Senior Floor Manager bustled forward for the restart of the recording. They must get moving, he insisted, they were wasting time. No more breaks, please. Must get on with it.
He got the message that the video-recording was stable, and the clock once again appeared on the monitors. This time it ran the full minute, disappearing just before the animated credits and music began.
Charles Paris stared across at the celebrities’ desk. The concentration made his eyes hurt.
Nick Jeffries, who had been the one who wanted a drink, took a swig from his glass. Charles noted his expression with satisfaction.
Good old Sydnee. She’d done her stuff, all right.
The prizes for the second pilot were a gas-fired barbecue, over which the lovely Nikki draped herself lasciviously, a week’s holiday for two in Eilat, and the Austin Metro (which Tim Dyer reckoned should by rights be his), from which the lovely Linzi once again waved. The audience oohed and aahed and applauded appropriately.
While the credits were running, Joanie Bruton took a sip from her red-and-blue-striped glass. Charles Paris noted her reaction.
Bob Garston introduced the celebrities with suitable jocularity. George Birkitt tried to launch into his joke about a rock-star having a haircut, but was cut short by the smiling host. Disgruntled, the actor took a drink from his glass. Though it was not relevant to his enquiry, Charles Paris noted George Birkitt’s expression.
The shepherd, the metallurgist, the coach-driver and the vicar all came on wearing inappropriate hats. With celebrity help (and, in Aaron Greenberg’s view, with total lack of ‘pazazz’), the contestants changed the hats round. Three of them identified the metallurgist as a vicar. It was all very riotous. At the end of Round One, one contestant was eliminated, but she didn’t go away empty-handed — no, she took with her a lovely
The lovely Nikki and the lovely Linzi brought on the hat-boxes for Round Two. The three survivors made their guesses, and another member of the public was put out of contention. But of course he had won himself some money — not to mention his
It was the End of Part One. None of the celebrities left the set while Charlie Hook re-emphasised the loveliness of the audience and explained that the Director would have to take some cutaway shots of the eliminated contestants.
Two celebrities had still to touch their red-and-blue striped glasses.
In Round Three the remaining contestants picked out of the box respectively a Roman helmet and a baseball cap. This meant that they had to answer questions on History and Sport. The first, clearly a man of no judgement but with an eye for a pretty girl, chose Fiona Wakeford to help him on History. The second, slightly shrewder, selected Nick Jeffries as his adviser on Sport.
When her protege had been eliminated and while he was being told about his
There was now only one contestant left and it was time for the Hats In The Ring finale, with a chance to win the Super-Duper prize — a brand-new Austin Metro, complete with tax, insurance and a year’s supply of petrol!
‘Ooh!’ sighed the audience, barely able to contain themselves (in fact, completely unable to contain themselves in the case of two of the Senior Citizens, who once again set off noisily for the Ladies).
The surviving contestant stood in the middle of Sylvian de Beaune’s red wheel, while Bob Garston explained to her what was to happen.
He gave the wheel an enormous pull to set it spinning, and withdrew to his lectern. Once there, while the audience vociferously willed the wheel to stop with the crown overhead, he copied Barrett Doran’s timing and used his red-and-blue-striped glass as a prop to increase the tension of the moment.
He took a long swallow. Charles Paris noted the expression on his face.
The audience sighed in communal disappointment. Above the final contestant’s head had come to rest a fez. It was worth another?200 to add to what she had already won — not forgetting, of course, her
John Mantle was no fool. After the close call of the first pilot, he had summoned Sylvian de Beaune into his office and ordered the designer to fix the wheel so that any hat but the crown ended up on top.
Charles Paris was unaware of that trickery. Nor, at that moment, would he have been interested to hear about it. His mind was too full.
He knew who the intended victim had been on the previous pilot.
And he knew who the murderer was.
He went out into the corridor that led from the dressing rooms. By the lifts was a small Reception area, with a few uncomfortably low armchairs.
In one of them Roger Bruton was sitting.
He looked up at Charles with no particular pleasure.
‘Oh. Hello. I’m just waiting for Joanie.’ Charles sat down beside him.
‘I think I’ll wait for her too,’ he said.
Chapter Fifteen
‘I know what happened,’ said Charles after a long pause.
‘Sorry?’ Roger Bruton seemed miles away. Charles looked at the weak face, whose baby-like roundness was belied, on close inspection, by an elaborate map of tiny lines. Roger was older than one might at first think. Well over fifty, anyway. And his exquisitely-preserved wife was probably about the same age.
