A Reconstructed Corpse (6 page)

‘What about him?' A churlishly appealing thought insinuated itself into Charles's mind. ‘Columbia haven't gone off the idea, have they?'

‘Oh no, Hollywood are as keen as ever. Keener if anything.'

‘So?'

‘Malcolm just rang me. Said now his career's taking off, he needs to be with a bigger agency.'

‘Oh.'

‘People who specialise in movies. People who've got “representation on the West Coast”. He said he was grateful to me for all I'd done for him, but he's moving into a very specialised area and he needs to be looked after by specialists.'

‘I see.'

‘God, Charles, I feel a complete failure.'

‘Well, I'm sorry, Maurice. But why on earth did you ring to tell
me
about it?'

‘Because, of everyone I know, you're the one person who I thought'd really
understand
.'

‘Oh,' said Charles Paris, ‘thank you
very
much.'

ONCE, IN A moment of eloquence assisted by Arthur Bell's distillery, Charles Paris had defined the life of an actor as like that of a child's glove puppet, spending most of its life crumpled and forgotten in the corner of a toy cupboard, and only fully alive when a warm hand was inserted into it. At the time the references to inserting warm hands into things had triggered a burst of crude innuendo, but Charles still thought there was something in the image. The hand of course, which animated the actor's personality, was work. Give an actor a job, and suddenly he exists.

Pursuing this image through, it could be said that Charles Paris spent the four days after the first
Public Enemies
programme crumpled up and forgotten in the corner of a toy cupboard. He had made the necessary – or perhaps unnecessary – phone calls, to Maurice and Frances, on the morning after, and didn't feel inclined to ring either of them again. From his agent he would only get more unwittingly dismissive references to his own career and reproachful catalogues of the perfidies of Malcolm Tonbridge.

And from his wife he would get . . . He didn't quite know what he would get, but he didn't relish it. Something basic seemed to have changed in his relationship with Frances. Ever since he'd walked out – and indeed for much of the twelve years before – the marriage had been an on-off affair, but in the past he had always felt confident that any ‘off' would eventually give way to an ‘on'. That core of certainty had now gone. The relationship had descended to a new bleakness, and the cold prospect that they might permanently lose contact had become increasingly feasible. Maybe Frances, finally and irrevocably, had had enough of him. Ringing her again would only increase the pain.

He could have telephoned other friends, suppressed his envy to those who had work, indulged in mutual moaning with those who hadn't. He could even have arranged to meet some of the unsuccessful ones, and continued the moaning over too many drinks somewhere. But it all seemed a lot of effort.

So it was the crumpled glove puppet in the corner of the toy cupboard. He was not completely inert. He made it to the overpriced corner shop to buy the basic necessities for his solitary menu, in which toast, baked beans and breakfast slices figured more prominently than most
chefs de cuisine
would recommend. He also stocked up on the necessary bottles of Bell's.

Once or twice, driven by some childhood Calvinist conviction that drinking on one's own was a bad thing, he adjourned to the pub. But the one he always went to, in Westbourne Grove, was, like the Black Feathers, ‘local' only in geography. The bar staff, Australians who had always started the job that day, had a religious objection to recognising anyone over thirty.

And the older customers, some of whose faces Charles had seen before, evidently came to the pub for a mystic private communion with their drinks. After twenty minutes sitting shrink-wrapped in his own isolation amidst the music and shouts of the young, drinking alone appeared an infinitely more sociable option.

How long this torpor might have continued was impossible to know, because it was interrupted on the Tuesday morning by a dictatorial phone call from Louise Denning. Charles was commanded to attend a briefing meeting at W.E.T. House that afternoon. As usual in the medium, it was assumed that no one would have any more pressing calls on their time than the demands of a television programme. Charles, who of course had no more pressing calls on his time than the demands of a television programme, would nonetheless have preferred the summons be couched as a question rather than an order.

‘Well, I am free as it happens,' he conceded after some invisibly mimed diary-consulting, ‘but I thought I'd finished my bit.'

‘There has been a new development in the case,' Louise Denning announced mysteriously.

‘Am I allowed to know what it is?'

‘No. You'll be given all necessary information at the briefing meeting.'

‘Oh. Does this mean that I'm going to be involved in more filming? That I'm being booked for this week's show too?'

But Louise Denning was too canny to answer the actor's instinctive question. Though the old-fashioned BBC tenet that an offer of work made over the phone was tantamount to a contract had, in harder-nosed commercial times, gone the way of most ‘gentlemen's agreements', incautious words could still pose a risk. ‘I'm afraid I'm unable to answer that, Mr Paris,' the researcher replied primly. ‘But I'm sure everything will be made clear at the meeting this afternoon.'

They're so bloody arrogant, thought Charles, as he put the phone down. They think everyone'll just drop everything to turn up to their bloody meetings. No contract, no talk of payment, and they expect me just to appear on the off chance. I've half a mind not to go.

But, needless to say, the other half of his mind won. He appeared meekly at W.E.T. House in very good time for the three o'clock meeting.

There's something very pervasive about policemen. They quickly colour the ambience of any situation in which they are involved, and the briefing meeting at W.E.T. House that afternoon was a case in point. The television people – almost all the
Public Enemies
production team – easily outnumbered Superintendent Roscoe, DI Noakes and the man called ‘Greg' (who was now identified as Detective Sergeant Marchmont), but the way the three of them sat behind a long table immediately transformed the atmosphere into that of an official police briefing. Even Bob Garston's ego was subservient to the professionals.

Not that the first professional to speak was particularly charismatic. Superintendent Roscoe liked the sound of his own voice, but nobody else appeared that keen on it. The production crew shifted without interest in their seats, and his two colleagues avoided each other's eyes, afraid their superior's long-winded oratory might set them giggling.

‘And,' the superintendent announced, homing in on his subject after some five minutes' preamble, ‘we – that is I – have taken an unusual decision in these changed circumstances. I have decided that the news should be embargoed until Thursday's transmission of
Public Enemies
. This is not done simply to give the programme an exclusive publicity coup . . .'

Though, from the gleeful expression on the face of Roger Parkes, it would certainly do that.

‘. . . It is because I have decided that, in my judgement, a shock announcement of that kind will be the most effective way of advancing our enquiries. The relationship between the police and the media has not always been as smooth as one might wish, but here is an occasion where we can mend a few fences by a bit of mutual back-scratching.
Public Enemies
will benefit from the exclusive we are offering, and we in the police can hopefully also benefit from the new information that will come in as a result of these disclosures. I have decided that this is the best way for us to proceed, and I will stand by my decision in the face of any opposition.'

You didn't have to be a very sophisticated psychologist, Charles reckoned, to conclude that someone who asserted so often a decision had been his own was clearly talking about a decision made by someone else.

Bob Garston had been silent too long.
Public Enemies
was his show, after all, and he couldn't allow anyone else more than a brief appearance centre stage. ‘Of course, Superintendent, the main opposition we're likely to encounter will be from the boys in News.'

‘Of course. This is the kind of information that would normally be broken in a news bulletin, but I have decided it will be more effectively used in your programme. I have no doubt it's the kind of decision that will cause a bit of a furore.'

‘That's an understatement,' said Roger Parkes jubilantly. ‘ITN will be extremely shirty about this – so will the BBC. It'll get all kinds of flak from the press and could even lead to questions in the House. But don't worry, I'm prepared to defend my decision.'

Oh, I see, so it's
your
decision now, thought Charles. Since the previous Thursday Roger Parkes had changed, seeming to have grown in stature. He even appeared less deferential to Bob Garston, as if he had gained a new ascendancy over the presenter. Charles wondered if it was Parkes who had actually broached the idea of the news embargo and
Public Enemies
exclusive to Superintendent Roscoe. That would explain his new chirpiness – and also create something of a precedent in television – an executive producer coming up with a good idea.

Roger Parkes immediately confirmed Charles's conjecture, as he continued, ‘I knew what the stakes were when I first put forward the suggestion, Superintendent.'

Roscoe coloured. He didn't like having the initiative taken away from him in this way. DI Noakes even more studiedly avoided DS Marchmont's eye. The showing-up of their superintendent was clearly regular enough to have become a running joke between them.

‘Still, we'd better move on,' said Roscoe brusquely. ‘Noakes, over to you.'

She was ready, as ever poised and efficient. Immediately, the audience listened. Superintendent Roscoe didn't carry authority; Sam Noakes did. ‘Right, so you've all got the background. What we're dealing with here is extremely secret information. Our approach – embargoing it until it's announced on
Public Enemies
on Thursday – is risky, and it's only going to work if we can guarantee absolute security from everyone involved in the production. You're only here because you're all people who will have to know what's happened in order to do your jobs making the programme.

‘But, if that programme's going to happen as we want it to, you're all virtually going to have to sign an Official Secrets Act. If a murmur of this gets to the press before Thursday, a lot of people are going to be left with a lot of egg on their faces. So I want you all to be aware just how high the stakes are. Don't breathe a word of it to anyone – however close they are to you, however much you trust them. If this scheme's going to work, secrecy has to be total – do you all understand that?'

There were murmurs of assent from around the room. Television people love a good internal drama; and the more that drama relies on restricted information, the more they love it. This one promised to be even more exciting than gossip about who'd lose their job next.

‘Well, OK,' said Geoffrey Ramage, ‘you can rely on all our discretion, no problem about that. We won't tell a soul about the new information, but' – and here he voiced the question of everyone in the room – ‘can you please tell us what that new information is?'

‘Yes,' said Sam Noakes, professionally slowing the pace of her revelation. ‘Of course. We have had a significant breakthrough in our investigations into the disappearance of Martin Earnshaw. Last night in a –'

‘Excuse me,' said Sergeant Marchmont. ‘Sorry to interrupt, Sam, but we agreed to operate this thing on a “need to know” basis.'

‘So?' She was put out at having her narrative interrupted.

‘So . . . there are people in this room who already know all they need to know.'

‘What? Who?'

The detective sergeant consulted a list on a clipboard. ‘The actor Charles Paris.' Charles looked up in amazement as Marchmont continued, ‘He's going to be involved in further filming reconstructing Martin Earnshaw's movements and it's important he understands how secret that is. You do understand that, do you, Mr Paris?'

Greg Marchmont looked round the room to locate the actor.

‘Yes, yes, I understand that,' Charles assured him.

‘No mention to anyone of where you're doing the filming, no mention even that you're doing it at all – OK?'

‘OK. Won't breathe a word to a soul.'

‘Someone on the production team'll let you know where you've got to be tomorrow.'

‘That's right,' Louise Denning agreed, brusquely efficient. ‘You'll get a call at home later on this afternoon.'

‘Fine.'

‘But that's all you need to know, Mr Paris,' said Sam Noakes, happy to regain the initiative from Sergeant Marchmont.

‘You mean I don't get to find out what this new information is?' asked Charles plaintively.

‘Sorry. You'll have to wait till nine o'clock on Thursday – along with the rest of the population.'

‘Oh. Oh.' Charles rose to his feet. ‘So now . . . I just go, do I?'

Sam Noakes flashed him a professional smile. ‘Please.'

Sidling out of the conference room, Charles Paris felt like the boy not picked for either side in playground football. As he opened the door, the unworthy thought of listening at the keyhole crossed his mind, but the presence of a uniformed officer in the corridor put paid to that. The security on this edition of
Public Enemies
was being taken very seriously indeed.

Charles felt extraordinarily frustrated. It was like getting to the end of a thirties detective story and finding the last few pages torn out.