Cast in Order of Disappearance (11 page)

Marius Steen married Rose Whittle in 1934. She died in 1949 and he never remarried. He leaves a son.

Charles was impressed. It was quite an achievement for anyone in the theatre to command that many column inches in The Times. The obituary seemed like a washing of the body. It cleaned Steen up. The existence of the photographs, all the sordid aspects of the man's life were rinsed away by the formalised prose. The Western ritual of death was observed—the obligation to remember the most dignified image of the deceased. Like those ghastly American mausoleums where the embalmed corpse is presented at its best, dressed and smiling, prior to burial. But Charles had a nagging feeling that, however Marius Steen was tarted up in death, his corpse would not lie down.

Charles arrived at the Archer Street flat with a two-litre bottle of Valpolicella from Oddbins and a determination to be very slow on the uptake in any discussion of Steen's death. Jacqui looked ghastly when she opened the door. Her face was pale and her eyes were puffy red slits.

‘Are you all right?'

‘I will be, Charles. I'll just sit down for a moment.'

‘Can I get you a drink?'

‘No. It'd make me sick. But help yourself.'

The events of the last few days had made Charles forget about Jacqui's flat being done over, but inside it the evidence was all too clear. She had obviously made some attempt to tidy up. There were two cardboard boxes in the middle of the room full of bits of glass and torn clothes. But the curtains were still hanging shredded from their rails, and the bed smelt of oil from the smashed lamp. The little room looked sad and crippled.

He didn't make any comment, but found an unbroken glass and filled it with Valpolicella. ‘Do you want to go out to eat, Jacqui?'

‘No, I couldn't.'

‘Hmm.' The silence was obtrusive. Feebly he repeated himself. ‘Do you feel all right?'

‘Charles, the bloke I loved and whose kid I've got has just been murdered.'

‘I'm sorry.' He stolidly avoided reacting to the word ‘murdered'. Jacqui softened. ‘I'll get you some food later. When I can face it.'

‘Don't worry about that. Not particularly hungry.'

‘No.' Again they were conscious of the silence. Then Jacqui burst out. ‘He always was a little sod.'

Charles was genuinely amazed. ‘Who?'

‘Nigel.'

‘Nigel Steen?'

‘Well, who else?'

‘Why do you suddenly bring him in?'

‘Because he killed Marius, that's why.'

This new direction of thought was too sudden for Charles to take in. Deliberately, he slowed down. ‘What on earth do you mean? You haven't got any reason for saying that.'

‘Of course I have. Who else stood to get anything out of Marius' death?'

‘I don't know. I would have thought Nigel was doing all right anyway. He didn't need to murder anyone. Presumably he'd have got everything when his father went. He only had to wait.'

‘He's greedy. Anyway, things may have changed. Maybe he had to move fast.'

‘What do you mean?' Charles asked patiently, determined to humour her through this crazy new idea.

‘Marius was thinking of changing his will in favour of me and the baby.'

‘Oh yes.' Charles tried to sound believing, but failed.

‘Yes, he bloody was. He was even talking about us getting married.'

‘When was this?'

‘First in the South of France. Then when I told him about the baby he was more definite. He said he'd felt awful about the abortion last time, and he wanted to keep this one and marry me and start again.'

‘And cut Nigel out of the will?'

‘I suppose so.'

It didn't sound very plausible. Even if Steen had ever had such intentions, the events of the last week made it clear that he had changed his mind. And the whole idea of remarriage and disowning Nigel was the sort of novelette situation that would appeal to Jacqui. Still, he couldn't be completely brutal with her. ‘Why didn't you mention this before?'

‘It was a secret. Between Marius and me. It was all going to be secret. Even when we married it was going to be a secret for a bit. But now he's dead . . .' She broke down.

Charles calmed her and forced her to drink a little wine. But when she was composed again, he felt he had to be cruel. If Steen had been murdered (and he had no cause to believe that that was the case), then it was something to do with the Sweets and the blackmailing business. It was dangerous for Jacqui to go around blaming his son. She was quite capable of going to the police and making accusations which, since she hadn't a shred of evidence, could only lead to trouble. This nonsense had to be stopped.

‘If what you say is true, how do you explain Steen's behaviour during the past week? Hardly the actions of a devoted husband-to-be.'

He could see from her face that that really hurt, and also that it was something she hadn't been able to work out satisfactorily for herself. ‘Well, Nigel kept him from me. Marius went off to Berkshire—where he didn't want to be disturbed. He'd often do that,' she added defensively, ‘go off with a great pile of scripts, looking for his next show. And then Nigel left all those messages for me.'

‘And he sent the note?'

‘Yes.'

‘Pity I burnt it. We could have got the handwriting analysed,' he said sceptically.

‘That note's just the sort of thing the little sod would do.'

‘Jacqui, why, if Nigel had decided to kill his father anyway, did he bother to give the impression you were out of favour?'

‘So that, when he'd done it, nobody would believe me when I said about us getting married. They'd think we'd had a quarrel.'

It was ingenious, but Charles didn't feel very inclined to accept the reasoning. ‘All right then, when did Nigel do the murder?'

‘Sunday evening. When he says he found the body.'

‘How do you know he found the body? It wasn't in the papers.'

‘I rang Morrison. He told me.'

‘Who's Morrison?'

‘Sort of odd-job man at Orme Gardens. He was meant to be the chauffeur, but Marius liked driving himself. I rang Morrison and he told me Nigel had driven down to Streatley and found the body dead in bed at about quarter past eleven on Sunday night. Well, Marius never went to bed before one, so I don't believe that for a start.'

‘I think you may have to believe it.' Charles told her about his movements on the Sunday night, concluding, ‘. . . so it must have been the arrival of Nigel's car that made me run out of the place.'

‘And you are sure Marius was dead?'

‘Quite sure. He was cold. He had been dead some time.'

‘Perhaps Nigel had come earlier and killed him and then arranged to come back and find the body.'

‘I hate to sound like a detective, but there was a puddle outside the front gate and only one new set of tyre-marks between the Saturday night and the Sunday night. They must have been Steen coming back on the Saturday. I know he did come back because of the new tape on the Ansaphone.'

‘Perhaps Nigel killed him on the Saturday night.' Jacqui was desperate to hang on to her theory, but she could feel it slipping away. Charles shook his head. ‘I'm sorry, Jacqui, but you must face the facts. Marius had a history of heart trouble—you say he'd had a minor attack before you went to France in the summer. He was a man of 68—worked hard all his life—never made any concessions to age. Is it surprising that he should die a natural death from a heart attack? Apart from anything else, if there were suspicious circumstances, the doctor wouldn't have signed a certificate. So far as we know there's been no suspicion of foul play.'

‘The doctor must have been in league with Nigel,' Jacqui insisted truculently.

‘If there was any mark on the body, the undertaker would notice.'

‘There are poisons which don't leave any trace.'

‘Jacqui, my love' —he deliberately sounded patronising. Having chosen the role of the infinitely reasonable older man, he was determined to stick to it—you have read too many detective stories.'

That finally silenced her. She sat still for a full five minutes, then stood up brusquely. ‘I'll get you some food.'

It was another of Jacqui's frozen meals. This time fish steaks with still-frozen centres and bright slivers of French beans. Charles consumed most of the Valpolicella and tried to steer the conversation away from anything to do with Marius Steen. It was difficult. Small talk kept erupting into some new accusation or burst of crying from Jacqui. Charles found it a strain and was relieved when the meal was over and he felt he could decently leave. ‘You get to bed, Jacqui. You look absolutely knackered. I'd better be off.'

‘Yes. Charles.'

‘Yes.'

‘Do you mind staying?'

‘No. OK.' He lied. She obviously needed him, and so the awkwardness must be prolonged.

‘I don't mean . . . you know . . .' she said feebly, and the waif-like expression on her strained face made it difficult to grasp immediately what she did mean. Then he realised she was referring to sex. It seemed incongruous in relation to the events of the last week.

‘Of course not. No, I'll stay. As long as you need someone around.'

‘Just for the night. I didn't sleep at all last night. It was awful. I kept hearing things and imagining. Just tonight. I'll be all right tomorrow. Got to be. Sort out what I'm going to do about the baby. I'll have to get rid of it.'

‘Jacqui, you must keep the baby.' Charles had long since ceased to delude himself that he had any immovable principles on anything, but he felt something approaching that on the subject of abortion. Without having a particular reason, like Catholicism, he found it unjustifiable. He tried to argue in his mind against this conviction, because he was frightened by feelings of such strength. Granted, he'd say to himself, I've never been in a situation where an abortion has been necessary. Natural caution has prevented me from getting anyone into trouble. If it happened, no doubt that principle would crumble like any other. But the instinct remained strong.

And as Jacqui's suffering face looked up at him, he knew he had said the right thing. There was relief and determination there, in spite of her words. ‘But I can't look after a baby on my own. I can hardly look after myself.'

She sounded so plaintive that Charles laughed and Jacqui even managed a brief grin. ‘Don't worry' —at his most avuncular—‘something'll happen.'

‘What? Nothing can, now Marius is dead.'

‘Something will happen,' he repeated with a confidence whose basis he didn't like to investigate. ‘Now, where am I going to sleep?'

‘Oh, with me. It's daft for you to get a stiff neck on the sofa when there's room in my bed.'

So they settled down, Charles in shirt and underpants, Jacqui in silk pyjamas, cradled in his arms. It was eight days since they had last lain on the bed together, and sex seemed as far away now as then. But this time Charles' feelings were mellower. It seemed all right that this sad and trembling body should lie in his arms. There was a lot to be said for cuddling. Now he seemed to find it even more attractive than screwing. Perhaps it was the approach of old age, sliding into impotent fumblings. As he fell asleep, Byron's lines floated through his fuddled mind.

When he woke, he was alone in the bed. He could hear Jacqui being sick in the bathroom. It was a nostalgic sound, taking him back to the flat in Notting Hill where he and Frances had started their married life; and started Juliet; and, in a way, started living apart. Nappies boiling on the gas-stove, the sweet smell of breast milk—it all came back. ‘I am degenerating into a sentimental old fool,' he thought as he rolled out of bed.

Jacqui came in as he was pulling on his trousers, and sat down, looking drained. ‘OK?' he asked.

‘I will be. I hope I will. It's ghastly. Look.' She closed her eyes grimly and pointed at the table. There was a letter which had been opened and shoved back into the envelope.

‘Can I read it?' Jacqui nodded. Charles pulled the papers out. There was a short letter and a smaller envelope, which had also been opened. The letter was on paper headed ‘Cohn, Jarvis, Cohn and Stickey—Solicitors and Commissioners for Oaths.'

‘Can I read the other one?'

‘Go ahead.'

He opened the envelope. The letter was written in a sprawling hand, writing that had once undergone the discipline of copperplate, but long ago broken loose from its restrictions and now spread, thick and unguarded, over the page.

Dear Titty . . .

Jacqui was studying Charles' face and anticipating his reaction. ‘Marius always called me that.' Charles continued reading.