An Amateur Corpse (13 page)

Charles nodded. It was satisfying to have his diagnosis of the marriage and Charlotte's motivation confirmed. ‘So she joined as a deliberate attempt to assert her own individuality?'

‘Yes. I think she also saw it as a step of getting herself back on the road to the professional theatre. You know how it is in the business – if you don't work for a bit, you lose confidence. I think she had to do something to prove to herself that she could still act.'

‘It's surprising that she started at such a local level, that she didn't just up and leave Hugo and go back to the real theatre world.'

‘I don't think she really wanted to leave him. She had been very much in love when they married. It was only when he withdrew completely into himself that the marriage foundered. I think she still hoped that one day he would come out of his sulk and everything would be all right again. Deep down she had a great belief in the sanctity of marriage. The Catholic background again. She wouldn't have left her husband lightly.'

‘Hmm. But she would have an affair with another man lightly?'

Sally Radford appraised him coolly. ‘You know about that then. In fact, I don't think that was entered into lightly either. Charlotte was a very serious girl – as I said, an earnest child. No, I think the affair was because she just had to do something to get out of her spiral of loneliness. And also because she was very attracted to the man in question.'

‘You don't, by any chance . . .?' Charles hazarded hopefully.

Sally shook her head. “Fraid not. I have this sneaking feeling that she did once mention a man's name to me, but I'm sorry, I can't for the life of me remember what it was.'

‘But she did tell you she was having an affair?'

‘Not directly. But she came to me for practical advice, and I put two and two together.'

‘Practical advice?'

‘Yes. It's back to the naïveté we were talking about. Charlotte had always been a bit backward in sexual matters. I mean, at drama school, where all the rest of us were screwing away like rabbits, she kept herself to herself.'

‘You don't mean she managed to come through drama school a virgin? I thought that was a technical impossibility.'

Sally smiled. ‘I don't know if she was actually a virgin, but I do know that she was pretty inhibited about such things. Needless to say, all the men were panting round her like puppies, but I don't know if any of them got anywhere.'

‘Not even Diccon Hudson?'

‘Ah, you know Mr. Golden Voice. Yes, he certainly tried as hard as any of them, but I just don't know. He made a point of trying to have everything in sight, really put it about. What do they reckon that kind of manic screwing's a sign of? Latent homosexuality? Not in his case, I think.'

‘But did he make it with Charlotte?'

‘I think probably not. And I'm sure if he didn't it made him furious. Great blow to the great pride. No, for Charlotte, Hugo was the first big thing in her life. I think perhaps she found the slower approach of the older man less frightening than the ravenous groping of her contemporaries.'

‘Yes, of course, we old men do slow down quite a bit,' Charles agreed with mock-seriousness.

Sally Radford realized what she had said and giggled. She looked at him and a new awareness came into their conversation. ‘Anyway, Charles, to come up to date . . . Some time in July, Charlotte rang and asked if we could meet for lunch. We did and, after some small talk and embarrassment on her part, she asked me how she should set about getting on the Pill. Since she had got that far into her married life without it and because she was so surreptitious about the inquiry, I reckon that that meant she had started sleeping with someone other than her husband.'

‘Yes, that would fit.' Charles quickly summarized his discovery of the pills in their hiding place in Charlotte's bathroom.

‘Anyway,' Sally continued, ‘for some reason she didn't want to go to her local G.P. So I recommended the Brook Clinic in Totty Court Road. I'd been there myself, they're very helpful.'

‘So we can assume that they fitted her out and the affair continued.'

‘I imagine so. I found it a bit sad that she came to me actually. I mean, not that she was so ignorant, that was just part of her character, but the fact that I was the only person she could talk to. I didn't know her that well, and yet she was in a strange way dependent on me.'

‘Hmm. When did you last see her or hear from her?'

‘We had lunch again quite soon after the time I mentioned. Since then, just the odd phone call.'

‘Did she talk again about the contraception business?'

‘Only once. Otherwise it was as if it had never happened.'

‘And the once?'

‘That was quite recently. I think the last time I heard from her. She must have read some scare article about the Pill in a magazine or something. She asked all kinds of things about the dangers of it. Not straight away, but she manoeuvred the conversation round to it.'

‘What sort of things did she ask?'

‘Practically everything – about the dangers of embolism, could the Pill cause obesity, was it liable to raise the blood pressure, could it harm the foetus if a pregnant woman took it, could it lead to sterility, did it upset the cycle irrevocably – just about every Pill scare that has ever been put out, and a few old wives' tales thrown in for good measure.'

‘Did she sound worried?'

‘She didn't actually sound worried, but she was a good actress and the fact that she raised the subject suggested to me that she must be.'

‘You didn't get any impression which of the particular dangers she was worried about?'

‘'Fraid not. If there was one in particular she was asking about, she managed to put up an effective smoke-screen with all the others. I assumed that the Pill had just affected her cycle. It often does at first. If her periods had always been regular before, it would probably worry her if things suddenly got out of phase.'

Charles was silent, his passivity hiding the speed with which his mind was working. There were other things that could cause an upset in a woman's cycle.

Sally Radford suddenly spoke again, with more emotion than hitherto. ‘God knows why she asked me. That's what I meant by being sad, that there was no one else she could ask, no family, no friendly doctor. As if I were an international expert on contraception.'

The bitterness in the last sentence made Charles look up and he was surprised to see the glint of a tear in her eye.

She dashed it away. ‘I'm sorry. It's just that it seems so inhuman – Charlotte dead and presumably dissected on some police mortuary slab while we meticulously pick through her gynaecological history.'

‘Yes, but there's something else worrying you, isn't there?'

She looked up at him, giving the full benefit of those blue eyes. ‘You're shrewd, Charles Paris. Yes, it was ironical her coming to me with her contraceptive problems. I learned the hard way.'

‘An abortion?'

‘Yes. Sixth form at school.'

‘I'm sorry.' He offered the useless comfort of someone who knew nothing of the circumstances.

‘Oh yes.' She tossed her head back to signify her return to a controlled mood. ‘Yes, it's not really the emotional shock in my case. It's just the fear that, you know, something might have gone wrong, that I might not be able to conceive again as a result. I mean, not that there's anyone around at the moment whose baby I want to have, but . . . I don't know, you just have this fear that if you couldn't have children, it'd warp you in some way. It's all irrational. Forget it.'

Charles changed the subject, but he didn't forget it. ‘Sorry to have dragged you through all this, but I'm very grateful to you for giving me your time and for being so frank. Can I take you out for a drink to say thank you?'

‘Why not?' She consulted her watch. ‘Twenty to eight. Yes, I think we can safely assume that all the major impresarios of London have packed their briefcases for the night and that I can leave the telephone unattended without jeopardizing my chances of becoming a STAR.'

They went to a rather camp Victorian pub in Little Venice and drank large amounts of red wine. Then Charles took Sally to a little Italian restaurant where they drank more red wine. When he saw her back to her flat, there didn't seem to be any question of his leaving.

‘Why are we going to sleep together?' asked Charles with the deep philosophy of the drunk as he hopped round the bedroom trying to get his trousers off.

‘In my case,' Sally replied, pulling her shirt over her head, ‘because I like you and on the whole I do sleep with people I like. Also . . .' she paused profoundly, ‘I'm after experience.'

‘Experience that will one day be seen in a stage performance by the public?'

‘Maybe.'

‘Well, it may surprise you to know that even at my advanced age I'm still after experience.' He mused. ‘Do you know, I'm fifty this week. Fifty.'

‘There, there.' She took him in her. arms. ‘Rejuvenate yourself with the body of a young woman. Like Dracula.'

‘You're nothing like Dracula. If you were you'd have run screaming from the garlic in the pollo sopreso.'

‘There, there. Let's hope your body's not as decrepit as your wit. Otherwise I'm left out in the cold.'

‘There, there. And there.' She drew in her breath sharply as he touched her. ‘I think you'll find all's in working order.'

‘Remember,' she whispered as they rolled together, ‘no strings. Experience.'

‘No strings,' he echoed as their bodies' heats fused.

‘And no babies,' she said, nimbly detaching herself and reaching into her bedside drawer. ‘Good God, considering our conversation, it's amazing I forgot it.' She flicked the small white pill into her mouth and swallowed it down jerkily.

‘Tell me . . .' Charles's mind fumbled through the fogs of alcohol. ‘. . . if you were having an affair with someone, what would stop you from taking your pill? Apart from just forgetting it?'

‘I suppose if the bloke walked out, I might – except that I wouldn't because I always live in the hope that something else is going to come along. Or if I wanted to get pregnant – except then I'd be more likely to do it at the end of the cycle.'

‘Or . . .'

‘Or, I suppose, if I thought I was pregnant, I'd stop as soon as I realized . . . for fear of hurting the baby.'

Charles smiled in a satisfied way as he took Sally back into his arms and crushed her flat but oh so feminine chest to his.

It was unhurried and good. As they snuggled together to sleep, Charles murmured, ‘It simplifies everything, doesn't it? Sex therapy. Frees the mind.'

‘Yes,' Sally agreed lazily, ‘it's freed my memory.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘I've just remembered the name that Charlotte mentioned, the guy who I think must have been her lover.'

Charles was instantly alert. ‘Yes?'

‘Does the name Geoff make any sense?'

‘Yes,' said Charles. ‘Yes, it does.'

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHARLES GOT BACK
to Hereford Road at half-past nine the next morning, feeling pretty good. So it wasn't all over; it could still happen. His mind started to generalize, filling with images of other nubile young girls through whose beds he would flit.

An envelope on the doormat quickly dislocated his mood. A birthday card. Right on cue. Friday, November 5th. The card was a well-chosen reproduction of an El Greco grandee and continued the message ‘Congratulations on half a century. Love, Frances.' It served as a brutal reminder not only of his age but also of his neglected responsibilities. Images of future girls gave way to wistful recollection.

To stop himself getting maudlin, he brought his concentration to bear on Charlotte's murder. Now he knew the identity of her lover, the case seethed with new possibilities. The first thing he must do was to talk to Geoffrey Winter.

The sound of the phone ringing broke into his train of thought. Expecting it would be a boyfriend of one of the beefy Swedish girls who lived in the other bedsitters, he answered. It was his agent, Maurice Skellern.

That was unusual. Maurice was terribly inefficient and never rang his clients. Since he had never got any work for them, there was no point; they could ring him to find that out.

‘Charles, I've had an inquiry from an advertising agency about your availability for a voice-over.'

‘What, Mills Brown Mazzini?'

‘No, another one.'

‘That's good. Hugo said that once somebody uses you in this field, you start getting lots more inquiries. Perhaps I've become Flavour of the Month.'

‘Well, they want you to do a voice test.'

‘When?'

‘This morning. At eleven.'

‘Shee. I'd better get straight along. What's the address and who do I ask for?'

Maurice gave the details. ‘Incidentally, Charles, about this voice-over business. I don't know much about it.'

‘Well, there's an admission.'

‘What I was going to say was, I'm glad about all the work, but we don't seem to have had too many checks through yet.'

‘No, we'll have just the basic studio session fees so far. A few thirty-five quids. It's when the commercials go out and get repeated that the money really starts to flow. I mean, if this Bland campaign takes off . . . well . . . Exclusive contract has even been mentioned. And, you see, it's already leading to other inquiries.

‘So you reckon there's a lot of work there?'

‘Could be. Some people do dozens of voice-overs a week. Mix it in with film dubbing, reading books for the blind, other voice work. Make vast sums. Mostly people with specialist agents, of course,' he added maliciously.