A Reconstructed Corpse (3 page)

Geoffrey Ramage's moody background silhouette had been rejected by Bob Garston first thing in the morning, but since Charles Paris had been called, that meant he'd have to be paid another day's fee. The money was nothing to get excited about – Martin Earnshaw was unfortunately not called upon to speak in the reconstruction of his last known movements, so Charles Paris was being paid as a mere extra – but any money was welcome to his morbidly undernourished bank account.

Because he'd written off the day – and because there was the W.E.T. bar at lunch-time and the prospect of free hospitality later – Charles decided he'd stick around and watch the proceedings. Television studios are always full of so many people with unspecified roles that one more or less ligging around wouldn't provoke comment.

So he had a pleasantish day, watching the
Public Enemies
egos battle it out on the studio floor. Roger Parkes was the self-appointed voice of reason, Geoffrey Ramage the self-appointed
enfant terrible,
but Bob Garston rode roughshod over both of them. It was his show, and he wasn't going to let anyone forget it. With no attempt at tact or even awareness that other people might have opinions, the ‘man of the people' continued on his workaholic course.

And Charles Paris sat benignly in the bunker of an audience seat, watching the flak fly overhead. He liked the atmosphere of a television studio, and he liked it even better when he had no responsibility for anything that was going on in it.

The free hospitality, when it came, was a bit meagre. Commercial television companies used to lay on wall-to-wall food and drink, so that working on a production would ensure Charles didn't have to go near a supermarket for its duration. The ready availability of spirits even slightly diminished his Bell's whisky bill.

But the new austerity which followed the reallocation of their franchises brought ITV companies' generosity down to BBC standards – or even lower. The only foodstuffs on offer in the
Public Enemies
hospitality suite were crisps and nuts. The booze was limited to wine and beer. And, seeing how vigorously the police hangers-on were getting stuck into that, supplies weren't going to last very long.

Charles wondered whether this parsimony came from W.E.T. or from Bob's Your Uncle Productions. Given the way Bob Garston dominated all other aspects of the production, he probably also controlled the hospitality bill. Its niggardly provisions were certainly in character with his teetotal righteousness.

In the circumstances Charles Paris resorted to an old trick. He took a half-pint beer glass, filled it with wine and sat cradling it unobtrusively in the corner.

He needn't have worried about drawing attention to himself. The police contingent were far too caught up in their own banter and camaraderie to take any notice of anyone else.

There were about a dozen of them. Two were silent, though the remainder made noise enough for many more. Only a few were in uniform, but the others had that distinctive rectangular look which always gives away a policeman.

One of the silent ones was a thickset, mournful-looking man in his forties, who wore plain clothes and was tucking into the booze with a single-mindedness Charles could not but respect.

The other wore uniform, with a few extra flourishes on his jacket which presumably betokened higher rank, and sat apart from the rest, nursing a beer. He was an older man, probably round Charles's age, which in police terms must have put him near retirement. The attitude of his colleagues to him mixed a perfunctory deference with covert insolence. At times they seemed almost to be sending him up. From their banter Charles picked up that the man was called Superintendent Roscoe.

The mob reserved their greatest derision, however, for the colleagues who actually appeared on the screen, and here there was no attempt at concealment. The figure who provoked most raucous response was the one introduced by Bob Garston as ‘our resident expert from Scotland Yard – Detective Inspector Sam Noakes'.

‘Yeah, and we all know what she's expert in, don't we?' shouted one of the younger policemen.

‘Will you let me take everything down for you and use it in evidence, Sam?' asked another fruitily.

‘I'm afraid I must ask you to accompany me to the bedroom,' giggled a third, bowled over by his own wit.

The object of their offensive was certainly attractive, but there was about her a toughness which made Charles think they wouldn't have made the sexist remarks to her face. DI Sam Noakes had red hair and those pale blue eyes which the television camera intensifies. Though a detective, she wore uniform, presumably because she looked so good in it. The entertainment element is always paramount in programmes like
Public Enemies,
and there are a good few male viewers out there who are turned on by – and will therefore turn on for – a pretty woman in uniform.

Immediately she started speaking, it was clear that DI Sam Noakes was more than just a pretty face. She had a distinctive voice, deep, with a rasp of efficiency in it, as she enumerated the police successes prompted by the last series, and gave bulletins on the cases that remained unsolved. She was good, and her performance gained an extra glow from the fact that she knew she was good.

Even the sexist banter in the hospitality suite recognised her quality. Through the innuendo ran a thread of respect, at times verging on awe. DI Sam Noakes was already a power to be reckoned with inside the force before television brought her skills to a wider audience.

Public Enemies
was scheduled at prime time, ITV Thursday evening, just after the nine o'clock watershed which in theory protected children from sex and violence – and in fact encouraged them to stay up and watch it.

The programme's format was a magazine. Live updates on cases, reports on stolen goods, reconstructions of crimes and appeals for witnesses were intermingled with more general features. These were mostly consumer advice, presented with that distinctive smugness which characterises all television consumer programmes. The subjects covered might be a report on tests for home security devices, tips on how to recognise forged bank notes, lists of the right antique markets to check out for stolen property, and so on.

But for the first programme of the new series,
Public Enemies
did something different. As Bob Garston put it grittily (he put everything grittily – he was constitutionally incapable of speaking without grit): ‘We've all watched a lot of television detectives, haven't we, and I'm sure we've all got our favourites. But in fictional crime there are two traditions – that of the professional police detective conducting an investigation and that of the gifted amateur doing the business. On the one hand we've got, if you like . . . Morse – and on the other, say, – Poirot. Presumably, Sam,' he continued, turning a gritty smile on DI Noakes, ‘Morse is a bit closer to the real world than Poirot?'

‘Not that much closer, Bob,' she replied with a knowing grin. ‘I still want to know how Morse gets hold of that car. Last time I asked down the car pool for a red Jaguar, they laughed in my face.'

Bob Garston let out a gritty chuckle of complicity. ‘Yes, but come on, Morse conducts his investigations with all the back-up of computer records and forensic laboratories. Surely that's a bit closer to real police methods than relying on “the little grey cells”.'

‘We don't actually call it “relying on the little grey cells”, but if that expression means respecting intuition and responding to sudden lateral thoughts, then it's certainly a very important part of police investigation.'

‘Good, thank you, Sam.' Bob Garston turned smoothly to another camera. ‘Well, here on
Public Enemies,
we like to keep you up to date with everything about crime and its investigation, so we thought it'd be interesting to talk to an amateur sleuth, and maybe compare his methods with those of a professional police investigator. So I'm very glad to welcome to the studio – Ted Faraday.'

The shot opened out to include Sam Noakes and a rugged-looking man in his late forties, casually dressed in jeans and baseball jacket. ‘Evening, Bob.'

This greeting prompted a roar of obscene responses from the hospitality suite.

‘Now, Ted, would you say that your methods as an amateur –?'

‘Sorry, I have to interrupt you there, Bob. That's twice you've referred to me as an “amateur”. I'm not an amateur. I'm a professional private investigator.'

Bob Garston's face clouded. This was not how the item had been planned in pre-programme discussions, and it rather made nonsense of his neat link about Morse and Poirot. He shoehorned a smile on to his face. ‘All right, point taken. Would you say that your methods as a
professional private investigator
differ very much from those used by the real police force?'

Ted Faraday opened his mouth to reply, but before he could say anything, Sam Noakes interposed, ‘I think it should be pointed out that Ted is an ex-copper, so his methods are based on the training he had in the Met, anyway.'

Bob Garston seemed glad of this support against Faraday. ‘You two know each other?'

‘And how!' shouted a raucous voice in the hospitality suite.

‘Yes, we do,' Sam admitted.

Bob Garston turned his attention to the private investigator. ‘Well, Ted, how do you react to what she says?'

‘When I'm allowed to get a word in . . .' Ted Faraday began with lazy charm, ‘I would like to say, yes, I was trained by the Met, and it did teach me some very useful lessons. I would also like to say that, now I'm outside the place, I realise just how rigid it is in its thinking, and how much easier it is to respond rapidly to situations without being strangled by bureaucracy when you're out in the real world.'

The discussion continued. Charles had no means of knowing their past history, but Sam Noakes seemed determined to score points off Ted Faraday. It made for a lively exchange, which climaxed when she coolly announced, ‘I think this is all kind of sour grapes, Ted. You'd actually rather be back in the Met than faffing around on your own . . . assuming you still had the option.'

If ever there was a remark which demanded a follow-up question, that was it, but Bob Garston, concerned about the other items yet to be fitted into the programme, curbed his hard-bitten journalistic instincts and moved on to wrap up the interview.

In the hospitality suite, Charles learned a little more. Faraday was evidently well known to the police contingent and many of his exchanges with Sam Noakes had prompted jokes and barracking. After her last remark one of the policeman shouted, ‘Well, you got to be a PI, haven't you, Ted? Should have realised the golden rule – if you want to stay in the Met, keep on the right side of the right people . . . isn't that right, Superintendent Roscoe . . .?'

The superintendent looked up from his beer, whose level had gone down very little in the previous half-hour, and smiled. It was a complex smile. Within it were unease and caution, but also undeniably triumph.

‘Hey, listen, listen!' shouted one of the policemen and attention returned to what Bob Garston was saying.

‘. . . and we on
Public Enemies
are always trying to find out more about crime on behalf of you, the audience. So we thought we'd hire our own private eye and put him on the Martin Earnshaw case. Are you game to take up the challenge, Ted?'

‘If you're prepared to pay my usual rates – plus expenses . . . you're on, Bob.' Faraday grinned. Clearly this part of the programme had been heavily set up.

Bob Garston turned to the Detective Inspector. ‘And, on behalf of Scotland Yard, are you prepared to take up the challenge?'

Sam Noakes also grinned. ‘Oh yes.'

‘So we'll keep up progress reports here on
Public Enemies
and see whether the real police, with all the resources at their disposal, can be beaten to the solution by the gifted amateur!'

Ted Faraday again winced at the description and would probably have remonstrated, but Bob Garston had already turned to another camera and started reading his next link off the autocue.

The last item on that week's
Public Enemies
was another follow-up on the Martin Earnshaw disappearance. This, needless to say, featured the missing man's wife, currently Britain's favourite sufferer.

Geoffrey Ramage may have been denied the set-dressing of a moody Charles Paris silhouette in the background, but the effect he came up with was still pretty theatrical. Chloe Earnshaw, dressed again in simple black, was shot against a blown-up black-and-white photograph of the Black Feathers. The overhead lighting bleached the colour out of her hair and skin, so that only the deep blueness of her eyes disturbed the monochrome. The light also sparkled off her unshed tears.

What she said was the usual stuff. ‘There must be someone out there who knows something about where Martin is. I appeal to them – I beg them – to tell me where he is or what's happened to him. Even if the news is bad, I want to know it. When I know, I can start to rebuild the rest of my life. Please, please, if anyone knows anything – the smallest, smallest thing about Martin . . . just pick up the phone.'

And all over the country men thought unworthily, ‘I wouldn't mind picking up the phone and asking for her number.'

Charles had an unworthy thought too. There was no doubt that Chloe Earnshaw was one of those people whom, as the showbiz cliché has it, ‘the camera loves'. Charles Paris couldn't help suspecting that the camera's devotion was reciprocated.

DI SAM NOAKES had changed into a figure-hugging red dress after the programme. Its colour had been carefully selected to complement rather than scream at her hair. Out of uniform, she still looked good, but softer, less of the disciplinarian.

Her appearance in the hospitality suite was greeted by a tide of catcalls and innuendo which washed off her unnoticed. The silent, heavy-drinking plain-clothes man turned towards her.