An Amateur Corpse

CHAPTER NINETEEN

This time Clive Steele was at the Back Room bar when Charles went in. The young man greeted him patronizingly and graciously accepted the offer of a drink. ‘Don’t know why I bothered to turn up this evening. I get here to find the rehearsal’s off.’

‘Oh.’

‘Yes, we were meant to be doing all the Florizel/Perdita scenes tonight. But Vee Winter’s cried off. Apparently not well.’

Or too upset over her husband’s arrest to face anyone, Charles reflected. ‘You’re playing Florizel?’

‘Yes. Terribly drippy part. But I suppose I really am too young for Leontes,’ he conceded as if youth were the only possible bar to his being given the lead. ‘Still, it’s parts like Florizel that need real acting. It takes a bit of talent to make something of that kind of weed, so I suppose it’s quite a challenge.’

Charles saw a chance to move the conversation his way.

‘So, but for recent events, it would have been another Clive Steele/Charlotte Mecken partnership. Florizel and Perdita.’

‘Yes.’ Clive looked shaken, childishly near to tears. ‘Oh my God, it was terrible. For her to die — Charlotte who had so much to give — for her just to be strangled by that drunken brute.’

‘Hugo?’

‘Of course Hugo. You know why it was…?’ Clive leaned across to Charles confidingly. ‘Hugo was jealous.’

‘Oh yes. Of whom?’

‘Of me.’

‘You?’

‘Yes. It’s no secret that Charlotte and I got pretty close over The Seagull. There was a very strong mutual attraction. I think Hugo must have realized and killed her in a fit of jealousy.’

Charles was almost amused by the young man’s arrogant assurance. Are you saying you were having an affair with Charlotte?’

‘Ssh,’ Clive hissed loudly and waved his hand in a rubbing-out movement. ‘Don’t say a word about it here.’ His dramatic behaviour must have drawn the attention of everyone in the bar. Fortunately, for a moment there was no one there.

‘Well, were you?’

‘Not exactly. I mean, nothing had actually happened. You know, she had a few scruples and I didn’t want to rush things, but it was inevitable the way it would go. Only a matter of time.’

This seemed very much at odds with the state of the relationship which Charles had gathered from the conversation he overheard in the car park. He had surmised from that that Clive had misinterpreted Charlotte’s natural niceness as a come-on and that she was disillusioning him in no uncertain terms. But Clive seemed to have forgotten that encounter and retained his belief in his irresistible magnetism for her. Maybe, now she was dead, he found that a reassuring fiction to cling to. It flattered his ego and gave him an opportunity to feel tragic.

He was certainly putting on a performance of feeling tragic. ‘And now she’s dead — it’s awful. She was so young, so ripe for loving. I think love is for the young and beautiful.’ This was clearly a category in which he would include himself. ‘I mean, it was disgusting, the idea of Charlotte being groped by an old man. Someone like Hugo.’

Charles didn’t rise to the implied insult. He was a great believer in letting people ramble on when they were in spate. It was a much easier method than interrogation and often quite as informative.

‘Or Denis Hobbs,’ Clive continued.

‘Denis? Did he grope Charlotte?’

‘Well, he was always putting his arm round her, you know, casually, like it didn’t mean anything, but I got the feeling he was enjoying handling the goods.’

‘There was one night I remember — Wednesday before last it was, first night of The Seagull — we all went round to the Hobbses’ place. I think Denis must have been a bit pissed, but he certainly seemed to be after Charlotte.’

‘Oh.’

‘We’d all decided we wanted to play silly games and Denis kept saying we ought to play Postman’s Knock (which I should think is about his level), because that meant kissing people — and he made a sort of grab at Charlotte to demonstrate.’

‘But you didn’t play Postman’s Knock?’ Charles fed gently.

‘No, we played a much better game that Geoff Winter knew. Dressing up sort of thing. But Denis didn’t give up. I went upstairs with Geoff to sort out some dressing-up clothes and then I came down while he was changing — actually he got himself up as Margaret Thatcher, he was bloody marvellous — anyway, when I got down, there was Denis with his arm round Charlotte. He was pretending it was all casual again and she was sort of joking, but 1 don’t think she really liked it. And I’m damned sure Mary Hobbs didn’t like it. She came out into the hall at that moment and you should have seen the look she gave Denis.’

‘When did you last see Charlotte?’

‘After the cast party.’

‘That was the last time? You didn’t talk to her again or anything?’

‘Well, actually I did. I rang her on the Monday afternoon.’

‘The day she died.’

‘Yes.’ Clive seemed poised to launch into another self-dramatizing lament, but fortunately didn’t. ‘I was trying to fix to meet her that evening. The fact is, we hadn’t parted on the best of terms after the cast party…’

Ah, now the truth, thought Charles.

‘Silly thing, really,’ Clive continued. ‘She was talking about leaving Hugo for me and I was saying no, it was too soon, we should let things ride for a bit… you know, the sort of disagreement you get between two people in love.’

Charles couldn’t believe it. Clive’s self-esteem was so great that he actually seemed to have convinced himself that he was talking the truth. Charles was glad that he had heard the real encounter between the two; otherwise he might have found himself taking Clive seriously.

The young man rambled on mournfully. ‘So I wanted to meet for a drink, you know, to chat, sort it all out. But she said she couldn’t, so I got a bit pissed off and went to the flicks with an old girlfriend.’

‘Did Charlotte say why she couldn’t meet you?’

‘She said someone was coming round.’

‘She didn’t say who?’

‘Some friend from drama school.’

Charles took a taxi from Waterloo to Spectrum Studios in Wardour Street. He told the uninterested commissionaire that he wanted to see Diccon Hudson and was directed to the dubbing theatre.

The red light outside was off to indicate that they weren’t recording at that moment, so he went on through the double door. It was a large room, walls covered with newish upholstered sound-proofing. At one end was a screen above a television which displayed a film footage count. On a dais at the other end was the dubbing mixer’s control panel. On a low chair in front of this Ian Compton lolled.

He looked quizzically as Charles entered. Some explanation of his presence was called for.

Charles hadn’t really thought of one and busked. ‘I was in the area and I thought I’d just drop in to find out about tomorrow’s session. Save the phone call.’

Ian Compton looked sceptical and Charles realized it did sound pretty daft. But no comment was made. ‘No, in fact tomorrow’s off, Charles. Farrow’s not happy with the radio copy and I’m afraid it’s all got to be rewritten. Take a few days. I should think we’d be in touch by the end of the week.’

‘Fine.’

‘And don’t worry, you were booked for the session, so you’ll get paid.’

‘Oh thanks.’ Charles’s instinct was to say, ‘Don’t bother about that,’ but he bit it back. He must develop more commercial sense.

Ian Compton looked at him with an expression that signified the conversation was over.

‘Actually, I wanted to have a word with Diccon too.’

A raised eyebrow. ‘Really?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, we’re just about to start doing a few more loops. Then we’ll break in about half an hour when we’ve got to set up a new machine.’

‘May I wait?’

Ian Compton shrugged permission.

The film that was being dubbed appeared to be about a young bronzed man fishing for octopus on a Greek island. Charles need not have worried about Bland work being done behind his back.

Diccon Hudson was working at a table in a box of screens. He wore headphones. The film was cut down into loops of about thirty or forty-five second durations. On each loop a chinagraph pencil line had been scored diagonally, so that it moved across the screen when the film was run. When it reached the right hand side, it was Diccon’s cue to speak, adding his voice to the Music and Effects track.

He worked smoothly and quickly. He needed only one run of each loop and timed the words perfectly each time. A master of all forms of voice work.’

When they had to break, Ian Compton went out to the control room, where the new machine was being set up. Charles went into the box of screens. Diccon Hudson looked up nervously. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure? Coming to get some tips on voice technique?’

‘No.’

‘On dubbing? The great con-trick. Wonderful the things you can perpetrate in dubbing. That bloke on the screen, the diver who does all the talking, is Greek. Talks English like a broken-winded turkey. But by the wonders of dubbing, he can speak with my golden cadences. It’s magic. He does his talking at one time, I add my voice at another and in the cinema, so far as the audience is concerned, it all happened at the same time.’ He had taken this flight of fancy as far as it would go and paused anxiously. ‘But you didn’t come here to talk to me about dubbing.’

Charles shook his head slowly. ‘No, I’ve come to talk about Charlotte Mecken.’

Diccon coloured at the name. ‘Oh yes, what about her?’

‘When we last met, you said you used to see her from time to time. The odd lunch.’

‘So?’

‘I’ve come along to ask if you saw her a week ago today. Last Monday.’

It was a shock. Diccon gaped for a moment before replying. ‘No, of course I didn’t. Why should I? What are you insinuating?’

‘I’m not insinuating anything. I’m just asking you what you were doing last Monday.’

‘I was out.’

‘Out where?’

Diccon hesitated. ‘Out with friends.’

‘Friends who I could check with?’

‘No, I…’ He tailed off in confusion.

‘Did you speak to Charlotte that day?’

‘On the phone, yes. When I got back to my flat after an afternoon session, there was a message on the Ansafone for me to ring her.’

‘Someone else she spoke to that afternoon was told that she had a friend from drama school coming down in the evening.’

‘She wanted me to go down and see her, but I couldn’t.’

‘You went out with friends instead.’

‘Yes. What are you suggesting — that I strangled her?’

Charles shrugged. ‘Well, I don’t think Hugo did.’

‘I didn’t. I swear I didn’t go down there. I went out.’

‘But you won’t tell me where.’

Diccon hesitated and seemed on the verge of saying something. But then, ‘No.’

‘But you did speak to her?’

‘I’ve told you, yes. She wanted my advice.’

‘On what?’

‘She wanted to know if I knew the name of an abortionist.’ This time it was Charles who was put off his stroke for a moment. ‘But she wasn’t pregnant. The police post-mortem showed that.’

‘Well, she thought she was. And she said she’d decided she couldn’t keep the baby.’

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t know. Presumably because Hugo didn’t want children.’

‘You think it was Hugo’s?’

‘Why not?’

‘Not yours?’

‘What?’ His surprise seemed genuine. ‘Good God, no, I never scored with Charlotte, I’m afraid. Though I tried a few times.’

‘Then why did she ask you about the abortionist?’

‘I don’t know. I suppose I was the only person she knew who might have that sort of information. I have been around with quite a few women, you know,’ he added with a touch of self-assertive bravado.

It had the ring of truth. If Charlotte had wanted to get rid of a baby, in her naivete, she wouldn’t have known where to begin. She could only ask a friend. Why not Sally Radford? Perhaps Charlotte knew of the girl’s emotional reaction to her own abortion and didn’t want to upset her by asking.

As to the pregnancy, that must have been a phantom, some freak of Charlotte’s cycle, probably a side-effect of going on the Pill.

But if what Diccon had said was true, why was he being so evasive about the night of the murder? ‘I’d like to believe you, Diccon, but I’d feel happier with an alibi I could check. Where were you at the time Charlotte was strangled?’

‘I… I won’t tell you.’

‘You tell him.’ A new voice came into the room, harsh and electronic. It was Ian Compton on the talkback from the control room. He must have had Diccon’s microphone up and been listening to their conversation for some time.

Diccon turned towards his friend behind the glass screen and shouted, ‘No!’

‘All right then, I’ll tell him.’

‘NO!’ Diccon Hudson rose and ran out of the screens towards the glass as if he could somehow smother Ian’s speech.

But the talkback talked on inexorably. ‘Diccon was with me. We went together to a club called The Cottage, which you may know is a resort of homosexuals or gays as we prefer to call them. We went there because we are both gay.’

‘No,’ muttered Diccon, tears pouring down his face.

‘For some reason, Charles, as you see, Diccon does not like to admit this fact in public. God knows why. He’s only discovered his real nature recently and still tries to put up a straight front. That’s why he lunches all these pretty little actresses, like Charlotte Mecken — to maintain the image of the great stud. Which is in fact far from the truth.’

Diccon Hudson found his voice again. ‘Shut up,’ he said feebly.

Charles decided it was time for him to go. He didn’t want to get into a marital squabble and he didn’t think much more useful information was likely to be forthcoming. ‘I’m sorry to have caused a scene. Thank you for telling me all you have. It’s going to help me clear Hugo.’

‘Clear Hugo?’ Diccon repeated in amazement. ‘You can’t still think that I — ’

‘No, not you.’

But something that Diccon had said had released a block in Charles’s mind and he was now certain who had killed Charlotte and how.

The next day he was going to confront that person.