A Reconstructed Corpse (9 page)

Charles was left alone, wishing he'd thought to bring his
Times
, so that he could have a crack at the crossword. But he hadn't. He looked around the office for other reading matter. There weren't even any programme files. The conspiratorial secrecy which surrounded
Public Enemies
ensured that all its records were kept under lock and key in an inner office.

Nope, he could see nothing that contained words except for the telephone directories and, compulsive reader though he was, Charles Paris wasn't about to start reading them.

He tried to find something else of interest in the room, but without success. Characterless grey walls and white ceiling; grey desk and typing chair; two low grey armchairs, on one of which he sat; grey telephones, photocopier and fax machine. It was the kind of decor that would have confirmed Kafka's worst fears.

Just as he was thinking that time and life were frozen, that nothing in the world would ever move again, he was surprised by a click. A slight whirring followed, as the fax machine burst into action.

For maybe a minute Charles convinced himself that he would be virtuous and not give in to curiosity. But he was alone in the office, and he was human. He moved casually across to the fax machine and squinted down at the emerging sheet.

The originating fax number began ‘0273', which Charles had dialled often enough to identify as Brighton, and the ident read ‘PRINTSERVE'. Presumably some public fax bureau.

The typed message was short.

GOING UNDERCOVER IN BRIGHTON. FOLLOWING UP VERY PROMISING NEW LEADS. TELL SAM I'M WAY AHEAD OF HER. REPORT AGAIN SOON. T.F.'

Charles didn't think it would be leaping to conclusions to assume that the fax came from Ted Faraday. So, even though the missing persons case had now developed into a murder hunt, the
Public Enemies
contest between the amateur and professional detectives was still on.

A door opened and Charles moved guiltily away from the fax, fascinated suddenly by some detail on the wall calendar. ‘Come through,' commanded Louise Denning, never for a second contemplating any apology for keeping him waiting.

The customary level of television manners was maintained inside the room. Bob Garston and Roger Parkes did not even look up when Charles entered, but continued their latest squabble about programme content.

‘Well, I still think,' the executive producer was insisting, ‘that child abuse is exactly the kind of subject
Public Enemies
should be tackling.'

‘Oh yes,' the presenter countered. ‘If it's the right sort of child abuse.'

‘What do you mean – the right sort? Surely child abuse is child abuse?'

‘No, I mean, if we're going to have child abuse on a programme I'm involved in, then it's got to be sexy.'

‘But, Bob, for heaven's sake – child abuse is sexy by definition.'

‘No, it isn't. It's
sexual
by definition. I'm talking sexy.
Public Enemies
doesn't want to show yet another kid, shot in silhouette or with the face electronically scrambled, moaning on about how her stepfather touched her up. The public's sick to death of it – they can get all that at home.'

‘But child abuse is a criminal offence, and it's a major contemporary social problem.'

‘Leave major contemporary social problems to BBC2 and Channel Four – we're talking mainstream television here. Through this Martin Earnshaw thing we've got
Public Enemies
into a ratings position other factual programmes would kill for, and I'm not going to have that threatened by your mimsy-pimsy
Guardian
-reading conscience.'

‘It is not just my conscience, Bob, it's –'

‘Anyway, there are other programmes that have cornered the market in child abuse. God, I don't want to go into the ring with Esther Rantzen. I do have some standards.'

That final assertion was arguable, Charles Paris reflected, as Roger Parkes picked up the argument again. ‘You take my word for it – research shows that child abuse is something the viewers are really concerned about.'

‘I don't want them bloody concerned! I want them fascinated, I want them frightened, I want them hooked! While I'm on the screen, I want them to keep watching, I want them to keep their hands off the bloody remote control, for Christ's sake!'

‘But –'

‘And they're not going to keep watching yet another hushed-voice account of some kid's suffering at the hands of the family pervert. I tell you, nowadays child-abuse victims are as much of a turn-off as . . . fly-blown babies starving in Africa. Nothing's going to get the viewing public excited about child abuse victims . . .' Bob Garston paused as a new thought came into his mind ‘. . . unless of course we reconstructed some of the actual acts of abuse . . .'

‘But no, we couldn't do that,' he concluded regretfully. ‘Might look as if we were being exploitative.'

‘But couldn't we –?'

Bob Garston signalled the end of the conversation by looking up at Charles. If he ever had known the actor's name, he'd certainly forgotten it. ‘Right, you're going to be needed for more filming this week.'

Charles managed to bite back the instinctive reaction, ‘Oh, good.' Instead, he asked, ‘Why, have you got new information through from the public?'

Bob Garston wrinkled his nose without enthusiasm. ‘Not that much. Plenty of calls, of course, but all pretty bloody vague. No detailed stuff or positive sightings.'

‘So there isn't much else you can do with me, is there . . .?'

‘Don't you believe it. We're on to a winner here. We're getting some pretty positive research from your appearances on the show.'

‘Oh, thank you,' said Charles, flattered – as any actor would be – by a commendation of his performance.

Bob Garston's next words, however, took some of the shine off the compliment. ‘No, apparently the viewers get quite a charge from having a reconstruction of someone who's actually been dismembered.'

‘Oh,' said Charles Paris.

A wistful longing came into Bob Garston's eyes. ‘Wouldn't it be great if another bit of the body gets discovered in time for this week's programme . . .'

‘Mm,' Charles agreed with a chuckle. ‘Maybe the murderer will have the good sense to feed the remaining joints out gradually over the next four weeks – so that you'd have one for each programme . . .'

‘Yes . . .' The presenter of
Public Enemies
was far too absorbed by this delicious fantasy to realise it had been proposed as a joke. A dreamlike quality came into his voice. ‘Yes, wouldn't that be just perfect . . .'

Roger Parkes decided it was time to assert himself. ‘So, about this week's filming, Mr Paris . . .'

Bob Garston, fearful of any challenge to his command, snapped out of his reverie. ‘Yes, about this week's filming. Though we've done Martin Earnshaw in the pub, and we've done him leaving the pub, we still haven't done him leaving home and getting to the pub.'

‘Ah. Right. So that's what I'll be doing, is it?'

‘Yes. Good thing is we can get Chloe in this one too.'

‘Oh?'

‘Well, the research on her is still very positive. Getting stronger every week.' Garston looked thoughtful. ‘She really has got something, you know . . . I'd like Bob's Your Uncle to set up another project with her when this lot's finished . . .'

Charles was incredulous. ‘Her own series, you mean?'

‘Mm.'

‘But wouldn't that require her having a different husband murdered every week?'

Bob Garston looked up sharply, touchy about the possibility of being sent up. ‘Look, you just do your work as a bloody extra! Keep your wisecracks to yourself!'

‘No, I didn't mean –'

‘Another thing . . .' Roger Parkes chipped in, maintaining the admonitory tone of the conversation. ‘The security on this show is getting more and more important. You mustn't breathe a word to a soul about what you're up to.'

‘I haven't. I wouldn't.'

‘Not even to a wife, girlfriend. No pillow talk – OK?'

‘It's all right. I live alone.'

‘Oh, that's a blessing.'

Depends on your point of view, thought Charles wistfully. Bob Garston once again hijacked the conversation from his executive producer. ‘Right, so we're pretty sure we're going to get very positive viewer reaction from having you in a reconstruction with Chloe.'

‘But aren't you in danger of blurring the distinction between fantasy and reality?'

‘Exactly.' Garston nodded vigorously. ‘That's one of the main aims of programmes like
Public Enemies
.'

AN UNMARKED police car arrived at Hereford Road the following morning to take Charles back to Brighton. It was larger than the previous one, almost a limousine. While I was just a missing person, he thought wryly, I didn't qualify for this. Now I'm officially a murder victim, nothing's too good for me.

But he was quickly disillusioned of the idea that the special treatment was just for him. In the back of the car, separated from the driver by a glass panel, sat Superintendent Roscoe and Greg Marchmont. The detective sergeant looked ill at ease, subdued perhaps in the presence of his superior, but Roscoe was almost excessively affable.

He wasn't in uniform, but quickly explained his pale trousers and diamond-patterned pullover. ‘Mixing business and pleasure for a couple of days. Keep an eye on the television lot and maybe fit in a bit of golf. Got my clubs in the back, you know. Get ready for retirement, eh? Just think about it, Marchmont, in a few months I'll be able to do this every day . . . while you lot are still grinding away at the coalface.'

He chuckled. This was a new Superintendent Roscoe, different from the touchy and ignored figure seen before. Charles got the feeling it was Greg Marchmont's presence that had made the change. With Ted Faraday or Sam Noakes and most of the other police, the superintendent had seemed awkward, aware of their contempt. Detective Sergeant Marchmont apparently didn't have that power. In their relationship, Roscoe called the shots.

Certainly the junior officer remained awkwardly silent for most of the journey, only speaking when politeness left him no alternative.

Superintendent Roscoe, on the other hand, was in expansive mood. ‘I think this case is going to be my last triumph before I go, you know,' he announced.

Marchmont said nothing, so Charles filled in the silence. ‘The Earnshaw case, you mean?'

‘Yes. I've a feeling we're very close to the perpetrator.'

‘Really? And is that thanks to the television programmes?'

‘Well, they don't do any harm, but when this case is finally solved, it'll be down to good old traditional police methods.'

Marchmont stirred a little uneasily at this. Roscoe responded immediately to the unspoken criticism. ‘No, I'm fully aware of all the new technology and that – very clever stuff. Genetic fingerprinting, offender profiling, new techniques in forensic pathology, computers, computers and more computers – all very helpful in their proper place. But they're no substitute for the instincts of an experienced copper.'

From the way he said it, Superintendent Roscoe clearly put himself into this category. ‘Young sparks like Noakes and her mates,' he continued, ‘are very talented. In a few years they'll be excellent coppers, no question, but right now I'd back someone like me against them every time. They'll start to make real progress when they twig that science can only do so much. There's got to be an intuitive mind working with all that science.'

‘But Sam Noakes said as much,' Charles objected. ‘On the first programme, when Bob Garston was talking about “the little grey cells”, she said the police had to respect intuition.'

‘She may have said it, but she doesn't put it into practice. At times when I've passed on my hunches to her, she's been downright rude about them.'

Greg Marchmont again shifted his considerable bulk. Charles surmised that it was the nature of Superintendent Roscoe's ‘hunches' rather than the principle of respecting intuition that Sam Noakes didn't like. He also got the feeling that, if she'd been there, Roscoe's defence of his old-fashioned methods wouldn't have got such an easy ride.

‘You can have too much science,' the superintendent went on. ‘When something's obvious, you don't need to go on wasting valuable resources to produce scientific proof that it's obvious.'

Again Marchmont's body language suggested that, in different circumstances, he would have contested this assertion.

Roscoe continued, relishing the docility of his audience. ‘I mean, take the arms that were found at Colmer . . . OK, you do the basic checks – blood group, that kind of thing – but the most important identification is always going to come from Chloe Earnshaw recognising that they belonged to her husband. Once you've got that, then that's all you need to know.'

Charles thought it was perhaps time to stem the flow of generalisations. ‘But surely there's other information that forensic tests can establish? Not just the identity of the victim, but the manner of his death, clues to where it may have taken place, how the body was dismembered, all that kind of stuff . . .?'

Superintendent Roscoe shrugged. ‘Oh yes, fibres from a carpet made in Taiwan and only fitted into a limited edition of thirty-four 1978 Cortinas – that what you mean?'

‘Well, there have been famous examples of criminals getting caught on just that sort of evidence.'

‘And there have been a darned sight more
less
famous examples of criminals getting caught because an experienced copper has used a bit of gumption.'

‘How would you define “gumption”?'

‘Common sense. You look at the available information – the broad outlines, not the molecular structure of every speck of dust found on the corpse – and you start to get a feeling of the kind of mind you're up against.'