A Reconstructed Corpse (12 page)

The couple who came and joined him did little to lift his mood. Geoffrey Ramage and his Wardrobe girl were glowing from the effects of a major sexual work-out. The director exuded the satisfaction of proved masculinity. This was all Charles needed.

He did, however, have a small moment of revenge. Geoffrey and the girl were going through a rather coy farewell routine, about how she was going back to London on the train and how he was driving, and how wonderful it had been and how they'd hope to meet up again soon, when Charles said, ‘Oh, hadn't you heard – we might be wanted for more filming today?'

‘What?' Geoffrey Ramage looked shocked.

‘Had a message last night. More information from the public, I imagine. They may want us to do another reconstruction.'

‘Oh,' said the director.

The Wardrobe girl insinuated her hand into his. ‘Might mean we have to do another overnight,' she purred.

‘Yes,' said Geoffrey; and then, justifiably afraid that the word hadn't sounded very enthusiastic, repeated assertively, ‘Yes.'

But his face was a picture, and Charles Paris couldn't help being amused by it. The director was in his late forties. He'd just given his all in a night of sexual passion, secure in the knowledge that, after fond farewells to his bit on the side, he could go home and sleep it off. Now suddenly the spectre had arisen of having to do a repeat performance.

Lunch-time arrived, and there was still no word from W.E.T.. Geoffrey Ramage went to phone Roger Parkes and came back with the news that no decision had yet been made. They were to wait in the hotel for further instructions. But if there was more filming to be done, it would definitely be after dark again.

‘Ooh,' the Wardrobe girl giggled. ‘Sounds promising.'

Geoffrey Ramage curbed his evident irritation and smiled feebly at her. They all went through to the bar.

The eternal but regrettable fact of life was once again proved true – another drink did make Charles feel unbelievably better. Large Bell's to jump-start the system, followed by a pint of beer to irrigate it. The idea of living another day no longer seemed inconceivable.

After a couple, they were joined in the bar by Roscoe and Marchmont. The superintendent's ghastly leisurewear and bonhomous mood were once again in evidence, but the sergeant still seemed edgy in his superior's presence. Marchmont looked rather the worse for wear, but made no reference to the previous evening, perhaps ashamed of having given so much of himself away to a comparative stranger.

Roscoe decided they'd go through to the dining room to eat. Geoffrey Ramage moved to join them.

‘But, Geoff,' whispered the Wardrobe girl, ‘weren't we going to eat on our own?'

‘No, no. No need to be antisocial,' the director replied breezily.

The Wardrobe girl gave him a sour look as they moved through. Greg Marchmont lingered at the bar.

‘Aren't you joining us?' asked Roscoe.

‘No. Don't need a full meal, just a snack. Not a big eater at lunch-time.'

‘Come on, come on, don't worry about the old exes. This one's on me, Greg.'

Reluctantly, but unable to refuse, the sergeant followed his superior through into the dining room.

It wasn't the most convivial meal of all time. As Geoffrey Ramage responded less and less to her innuendoes, the atmosphere between him and the Wardrobe girl became distinctly frosty. Marchmont, cowed by Roscoe's presence or perhaps embarrassed by Charles's, was monosyllabic. Only the superintendent and the actor showed signs of animation. In Charles this was prompted by the simple blessed fact of feeling human again; what lay behind Roscoe's good humour he had no way of knowing; but the two of them certainly did most of the talking. In their conversation Charles was quite content to take the role of feed. Roscoe liked nothing better than expatiating on his work and how skilful he was at it, so Charles obligingly prompted pontification and reminiscence.

‘What always matters . . . in police work . . . anywhere,' the superintendent announced at one point, ‘is having the right person in charge. Leadership is what counts. If you've got the right person directing the skills of others, co-ordinating their talents, then you're going to end up with an efficient operation.'

There was no doubt, from the way he spoke, that Roscoe regarded himself as ‘the right person'.

‘Are you actually in charge of the Earnshaw case?' Charles asked obediently.

‘Well, of course, there's a chain of command, and mine is really no more than a watching brief, but –' The Superintendent winked knowingly ‘– let's say not a lot happens on the case that I don't know about . . .'

Once again, as it had in the car, this boastfulness seemed to make Marchmont uncomfortable. And once again Charles reflected how much less easy a ride Roscoe would be having were any of his other subordinates present. What was the hold the superintendent had over the detective sergeant?

‘And I think you said the whole television involvement in the case was your idea?' Charles prompted.

‘Oh yes. You see, I recognised from the start that in this case we were up against a criminal of exceptional cunning and intelligence . . .'

This was patent nonsense. When the case first arose and
Public Enemies
first became involved, there was not even a definite crime to solve. To speak of profiling the criminal at that point was ridiculous. Still, Charles, blissfully marinating in more restorative beer, was content to let the self-congratulation ramble on.

‘. . . so I thought the more resources there were pitched against him, the better. Television, the best brains at Scotland Yard, everything . . . any criminal who could remain undetected by all that lot was clearly going to be something rather special.'

‘But he
has
actually remained undetected by all that lot, hasn't he?' said Charles, introducing the first contentious note into the conversation.

Superintendent Roscoe was unruffled. He smiled benificiently. ‘So it might appear, but don't worry, everything's in hand.'

‘And you think it'll be the police who get him?'

‘As opposed to who?'

‘As opposed to Ted Faraday.' A shadow passed over Roscoe 's face at the name. ‘I mean, that challenge was put out on
Public Enemies
by Bob Garston, wasn't it? Did you approve of that happening?'

‘Well, I wasn't sure that . . .' The superintendent recovered himself. ‘Yes, of course I approved of it. Nothing goes on that programme without my say-so.'

‘So do you think Faraday's in with a chance of finding out anything useful?'

‘Not a snowball's chance in hell,' Roscoe replied complacently.

Charles remembered the fax he'd seen in the
Public Enemies
outer office. ‘But he's still reporting in to W.E.T.. He says he's gone underground here in Brighton and –'

The superintendent's voice was heavy with contempt. ‘Ted Faraday's idea of going underground is about as subtle as that of an ostrich. We know exactly where he's hidden himself, don't we, Greg?' Marchmont looked more uncomfortable than ever at this appeal for corroboration. ‘If hiding yourself in a rented flat in Trafalgar Lane is going underground –' The irony grew ever weightier ‘– then he's certainly managed to vanish off the face of the earth. And what a master of disguise he is! No one in the entire country has recognised him,
I'm sure
.'

‘So I gather you don't think he's likely to solve the case?'

Superintendent Roscoe laughed heartily. ‘I don't know if you're a betting man, Mr Paris . . .'

‘Very occasionally.'

‘Well, I will bet you any money you care to mention that Ted Faraday will not contribute in any way to the solving of this case.'

They'd reached the end of the meal. Charles Paris felt welcome waves of drowsiness wash over him. He yawned. ‘I'm totally wasted. Let me know if there's any summons from W.E.T.. I'm going up to my bed for an hour.'

‘Ooh, there's a thought,' said the Wardrobe girl winsomely. Geoffrey Ramage's face was a study.

It was dark when Charles woke. His head still throbbed and he felt pretty grisly, but he knew it was a grisliness which would evaporate in half an hour, leaving him restored. Must watch the booze tonight, though, he thought. Don't want to start the whole cycle up again. In fact, really, I shouldn't have another drink today. No, I won't. Well, I'll try not to.

He looked at his watch. After five. Surely there wouldn't be anything from W.E.T. so late. And somebody would have rung through to him if he had been needed.

He looked down at the telephone and, on an impulse, rang Frances's number.

‘Hello?' Her voice sounded furry, as thought he had woken her.

‘Hi. It's me. Charles.'

‘Oh.' A silence. ‘Any particular reason?'

‘No, I just, er . . . I was in Brighton and I was, er, at a loose end . . .'

‘Oh,
thanks
.'

‘Sorry, I didn't mean . . .'

‘It's all right. So what are you doing in Brighton – a dandruff commercial?'

‘No, no. Well, you're close. Another of these reconstruction things.'

‘Ah.'

‘You know he's definitely dead, don't you? And I'm now playing the part of a murder victim.'

‘I do read the papers, Charles.'

‘Yes. Yes, of course. You getting any reflected glory? People at school saying, “Ooh, I saw your husband on telly last night, doing his well-known impression of a dismembered corpse”?'

‘I don't think anyone at school knows you're my husband. Half of them don't even know I've
got
a husband. Anyway, I haven't been in school for the last few days.'

A sudden icicle stabbed at Charles's heart. ‘You are all right, are you, Frances?'

‘Yes, yes. I've just been getting overtired recently. Touch of flu. Lot of it about this time of year.'

‘Mm.' A little silence. ‘You're sure that there's nothing –?'

‘Charles, Charles, I've got a
touch of flu
.'

‘Yes, OK.'

‘You're keeping well, are you?'

‘Well . . . Rather hungover this morning, I'm afraid.'

‘So what else is new?'

Their conversation dwindled into platitudes and soon ended. Charles felt shaken as he put the phone down. Yes, of course she'd just got flu. This time. But one time it wouldn't just be flu and . . . They were neither of them getting any younger. He was shocked by how much the thought upset him.

He needed fresh air. On his way out he asked at Reception whether there had been any message for him.

‘What name was it?' the adenoidal girl asked.

‘Paris. Charles Paris.' She shook her head. ‘I'm with the W.E.T. lot.'

‘What, for the filming?'

‘Yes.'

‘Ooh, there was a message about that.'

‘What? Was it on? Have they gone off to the location?'

‘Erm . . .' With infuriating slowness the girl shuffled through a pile of message slips. ‘Here we are. Message from W.E.T . . . .'

‘Yes?'

‘From the
Public Enemies
office.'

‘Yes . . .'

‘That's that one with Bob Garston, isn't it? I like that. It's the one where –'

‘Yes, what was the message?'

“Ere, you've been on that, haven't you? You're the bloke what got killed down here.'

‘Well, I play the part of that man in the reconstructions, but I'm not –'

‘Fancy that. How spooky.'

‘What was the bloody message!'

‘All right, all right, keep your hair on.' She consulted the slip.

‘“NO MORE FILMING. RETURN TO LONDON.”'

‘And the rest of the crew have all gone?'

‘Checked out over two hours ago.'

‘And no one thought to pass the news on to me?'

‘No.'

The girl had clearly taken a Louise Denning Correspondence Course in Tact and Diplomacy.

‘What about the police – Roscoe and Marchmont – have they gone too?'

‘Those gentlemen are still booked in.'

Charles asked whether his room was booked for another night and heard with no surprise that it wasn't. ‘So I just have to pack my bags and go, is that it?'

‘That's it . . .' the girl assured him cheerfully, as she produced a printed bill, ‘. . . just as soon as you've settled
this
.'

And Charles Paris discovered how much a room-service bottle of whisky really cost. It was not a happy discovery.

He was walking disconsolately up towards the station when the headlights of a passing car illuminated a familiar figure some fifty yards away. It was Greg Marchmont, shoulders hunched, looking neither to left nor right and moving purposefully ahead. Charles could easily have caught up, but instead some instinct made him moderate his pace and trail the detective.

It seemed for a while that their destination was the same, as Marchmont strode along Queen's Road. But when he got close to Brighton Station he veered off down the steep tunnel towards the car park entrance. Charles followed, noting with interest that they were in Trafalgar Road.

Greg Marchmont suddenly turned right and, as Charles did the same, he looked up at the street name. Without surprise he registered that it was Trafalgar Lane.

The detective moved steadily forward through the dim lighting, apparently unsuspicious that he might be being followed. He stopped outside a second-hand clothes shop, whose dusty window suggested that it had long since ceased trading. Charles, who had kept a constant fifty yards between them since first spotting his quarry, slid into a doorway and watched.

Marchmont looked up at the shop's first-floor window, from which a little light spilled through a crack in the curtains. He checked his watch and stood for a moment undecided. Then, seeing the lights of a pub a little way down the road, he set off towards it.