Cast in Order of Disappearance (8 page)

He tried Juliet and Miles' phone-number in Pangbourne, but there was no reply. No doubt out for the evening talking insurance at some scampi supper. Marius Steen might be out too, but he was bound to return at some stage, and the more Charles thought about the urgency of the situation, the more he was determined to meet the man. He said good-bye to Jacqui. She refused the cold remains of the fish and chips, so he took the whole package out to the dustbin at the front of the house (no need to worry her about the Sweet murder if she didn't know—and it appeared she didn't). He caught a train from Paddington to Reading, arrived there to find the last train to Goring and Streatley had gone, and, after a considerable wait, got a minicab.

It was only when he was sitting in the back of the car that he actually thought of the risk he was taking. Because of a mild affection for a tart he now seemed unable even to make love to, he was going to confront a man he knew to be a murderer with copies of the photographs for which a man had been killed. Put like that, it did sound rather silly. Fortunately, there had been time to buy a half bottle of Bell's on the way to Paddington. Charles took a long pull. And another one.

The car drew up outside a pair of high white gates. The driver charged an enormous amount of money ‘on account of the petrol crisis' and swore when he wasn't given a tip to match. As the car's lights disappeared round the corner, it occurred to Charles that he should perhaps have asked the man to wait. If Steen turned nasty, he'd be glad of a quick getaway. But the thought was too late.

It was now very cold, the night air sharp and clear. The moon was nearly full and shed a watery light on the scene. It gleamed dully from a puddle outside the gates, which were high and solid, made of interlocking vertical planks. A fluorescent bell-push shone on the stone post to the right. Charles pressed it for a long time. It was now after midnight, Steen might well be in bed.

He pressed the button at intervals for about five minutes, but there was no reaction. His quarry might not be back yet, or perhaps the bell wasn't working. Charles tried the latch of the gate; he had to push hard but eventually it yielded.

He stood on a gravel path, looking at the house. It was an enormous bungalow, with a central block roofed in green tiles which shone in the moonlight. From this main part smaller wings spread off like the suburbs of a city. To the right there was a ramp down to a double garage on basement level. The whole building was painted the frost white of cake icing and its shine echoed the gleam of the silent Thames behind. No lights showed.

The main door was sheltered by a portico with tall columns, an incongruous touch of Ancient Greece grafted on to the sprawling modern bungalow. The door itself was of dark panelled wood with a brass knocker. Since there was no sign of a bell, Charles raised the enormous ring and let it fall.

The noise shocked him. It boomed as if the whole house was a resonating chamber for the brass instrument on the door. Charles waited, then knocked again. Soon he was hammering on the door, thud after thud, a noise fit to wake the dead. But there was nothing. The rush to Berkshire had been pointless. The photographs still bulged in his inside pocket. Marius Steen was not at home.

VIII

Inside the Giant's Castle

‘IT WOULD HAVE all been easier, Daddy,' said Juliet, ‘if you'd had some sort of regular job. I mean, acting's so unpredictable.'

‘No, no, darling,' said Miles Taylerson, judiciously, ‘not all acting. I mean there are regular jobs in acting—you know, directors of repertory companies, or in serials like
Coronation Street
or
Crossroads
.'

Charles, seated in Miles' karate-style dressing-gown, gritted his teeth and buttered, or rather battered, a piece of toast.

‘No, but, quite honestly, Daddy, I do worry about you. I mean, you haven't set anything aside for your old age.'

‘This is my old age, so it's too late now,' Charles pronounced with facetious finality.

But unfortunately that was not a conversation-stopper for Miles; it was a cue. ‘Oh I wouldn't say that, Pop' —Charles winced—‘I mean, there are insurance plans and pension plans for people of any age. In fact in my company we have rather a good scheme. I know of a fellow of over sixty who took out a policy. Of course, the premiums are high, but it's linked to a unit trust, so it's with profits.'

‘I thought unit trusts were doing rather badly,' Charles tried maliciously, but Miles was unruffled.

‘Oh yes, there haven't been the spectacular rises of the first few years, but we could guarantee a growth figure which more than copes with inflation. I know a case of a fellow who—'

Charles couldn't stand the prospect of another text-book example. ‘Miles, I didn't come down here to talk about insurance.'

‘Sorry, Pop. It's only because we're concerned about you. Isn't that so, darling?'

‘Yes. You see, Daddy, Miles and I do worry. You don't seem to have any sense of direction since you left Mummy. We'd just feel happier if we'd thought you'd made some provisions for the future.'

‘Exactly, darling. And, Pop, now you've got the advantage of someone in insurance actually in the family, it makes it so much easier.'

‘What? You mean it's easier than having some creep loaded with policies pestering me at my digs—'

‘Yes.'

‘—to have a creep in the family doing exactly the same thing.'

A pause ensued. Miles went very red, muttered something about ‘things to get on with' and left the room. Charles munched his toast.

‘Daddy, there's no need to be rude to Miles.'

‘I'm sorry, but it is tempting.'

‘Look, he's been jolly tolerant. You arriving completely unannounced in the middle of the night, using our house as a hotel. We might have had people staying. As it is, he's put off his fishing so as to entertain you—'

‘That was entertainment? My God, what's he like when he's not making an effort?'

Juliet ignored him. ‘And I think you might show a bit of gratitude. Daddy, I do wish you'd just get yourself sorted out.'

Oh, sharper than the serpent's tooth it is, to have an ungrateful father. But, Charles reflected, even sharper to have a middle-aged daughter of twenty-one. Where had he gone wrong, as a parent? There must have been a moment when Juliet had shown some spark of individuality which he failed to foster. Some moment when she, as a child, was on the verge of doing something wrong, and he could have fulfilled a father's role and made her do it. But no, his daughter had always been a model of sobriety, good works and even chastity (a virgin when she married at nineteen. In 1973. So much for the permissive society.) It's disappointing for a father.

Miles reappeared, incongruously dressed in brand-new green waders, a brand-new camouflage jacket and brand-new shapeless hat. ‘Look, Pop, sorry we got heated.'

‘No one got heated. I was just rather rude to you.

Miles laughed in man-of-the-world style. ‘Jolly good, Pop. That's what I like. Straight talking. Eh? Look, what I wondered was, would you like to come fishing with me? Got time for a couple of hours, then a quick pint at the local, while Juliet gets the lunch. What do you say?'

‘Well, I should be—' Charles remembered his mission.

‘We could go into Streatley, there's a nice pub there.'

‘Oh, all right.' It was important to get there and a lift in Miles' odious yellow Cortina was as good a way as any other. He graciously accepted the olive branch.

Charles persuaded a rather grudging Miles that he had time for a quick bath before they left. It was still only half-past nine. Apparently it was Miles' fishing that got them up so early. Charles wondered. To him, getting up early on a Sunday seemed sacrilegious, particularly if you had a woman around. Some of the best times of his life had been Sunday mornings. Toast, newspapers and a warm body. Not for the first time, he tried to visualise his daughter's sex-life. It defied imagination. Perhaps a regular weekly deposit with a family protective policy and a bonus of an extra screw at age twenty-five.

As he lay in the marine blue bath (matching the marine blue wash-basin and separate lavatory), laced with Juliet's bubble bath, Charles thought about the Steen situation. It seemed a long way away and he focused his mind with an effort. Assuming he could see Steen and hand over the photographs, it would soon be over. Now Bill Sweet was dead, there was no one else to put on the pressure. Charles conveniently put the circumstances of Sweet's death to the back of his mind. He didn't feel any obligation to see justice done in that matter. If Steen was a murderer, that wasn't his business. Let the police deal with it. If they really wanted to find a motive for the murder, they should grill Mrs Sweet. She could supply them with a few answers.

But did Mrs Sweet know about Steen? Had she realised who was responsible for her husband's death? In fact, did she know all the details of his blackmailing activities or was she just cashing in as much as possible? If Mrs Sweet was in the picture, she might continue the pressure on Steen, and that could have unpleasant repercussions for Jacqui. It suddenly became rather urgent to find out how much Mrs Sweet knew.

The trouble with modern architect-designed houses on estates (what's the alternative to an architect-designed house—a milkman-designed house? a footballer-designed house?) is that there's no privacy. The telephone in the Taylersons' executive home was situated in the middle of the open-plan living area, which had unimpeded access to the kitchen area, the sitting area and the upstairs area. In other words, Juliet and Miles were bound to hear every word of any telephone conversation. But there was no alternative.

The ringing tone stopped. ‘Hello.'

‘Ah, Mrs Sweet. It's . . . er . . . Bill Holroyd.' The old
When We are Married
voice.

‘Ah, Mr Holroyd.' Interest.

‘Yes . . . er, the reason I'm ringing is . . . er . . . I've just heard about your husband . . .'

‘Yes.' No emotion.

‘I wondered if . . . er . . . this changed the situation?'

‘No. You deal with me.'

‘Yes. Er . . . nasty business.' No reaction. ‘This doesn't mean that the . . . er . . . police . . . would . . . er . . .'

‘Don't worry. I haven't told them a thing.'

‘Oh good.'

‘Yes. You just give me what you owe and you'll never hear about that particular business again.'

‘Fine. There was . . . er . . . something else. One or two of my friends were also at the party . . .'

‘Yes.'

‘A Mr Phillips, a Mr Cuthbertson, a Mr—' he tried desperately to think of a name ‘—Taylerson. They. . . er . . . wondered if they featured in the photographs.'

‘Yes, I rather think they did. You'd better put them in touch with me.'

‘Yes.' Charles was getting the information he wanted. Obviously Mrs Sweet hadn't a clue who any of the people in the photographs were. But best to be sure. ‘Mr Taylerson in particular was anxious. He seemed to think he might feature in some pictures with a blonde girl. And a mask.' The Steen and Jacqui photographs were the only ones that fitted the description.

‘That's Mr Taylerson, ah.' She didn't know. ‘Perhaps I'd better get in touch with him. Do you know his address?' Charles resisted the temptation to give Miles' address, funny though the image of his son-in-law being blackmailed with dirty photographs was. ‘No, I think I'd better put him in touch with you.'

‘Yes, do that. And I'll see you Wednesday.'

‘Yes.'

‘With the money.'

‘Yes.'

‘And . . .' the voice continued with studied casualness, ‘perhaps you'd better double the money . . .'

‘What?'

‘Mr Holroyd, you remember yesterday afternoon?'

‘Yes.'

‘Well, would you believe it, Mr Hoyroyd, there's a camera trained on that sofa.'

‘Oh.'

‘I'm sure you wouldn't want your wife and two lovely daughters to—'

‘No.'

‘Ten thousand then, Mr Holroyd, and you'll have the whole album.'

‘But I—' The line went dead. Charles felt enormous relief that he wasn't Bill Holroyd. Bill Holroyd was a man with problems. Still, it explained Mrs Sweet's sudden change of behaviour. Oh dear, and he'd thought it was his own animal magnetism.

Charles turned to see Miles and Juliet standing open-mouthed in the kitchen doorway. ‘Sorry about that. Talking to an actress friend. Always fool about like that. Putting on voices.

‘Yes,' said Miles in a very old-fashioned voice. ‘I suppose a lot of that sort of thing goes on with actors and . . . you know. Perhaps we can go fishing now.'

‘Just one more call. Will be quick, I promise. What's the code for Streatley from here?'

Again it was a recorded answer. Steen's voice gave the number. ‘Marius Steen speaking. Not available at the moment. Ring later, or leave a message after this noise.'

Miles had the complete kit. Not only the shining new camouflage clothes, but various shining new containers of tackle. A waterproof khaki bag to hang from one shoulder, a long black leather rod-case to hang from the other, and an assortment of neatly dangling nets, stools and bait-boxes. As he laid out his instruments on squares of cloth like a surgeon, he said, ‘You know, Pop, fishing's a very good relaxant. Relaxation is important to anyone in an executive position.'

They were sitting on the bank opposite Steen's house, Miles on a new folding chair of shining chromium tubes, Charles on a relegated wooden stool. He had chosen the location deliberately, assuring Miles that it was a very promising swim, that the swirlings of the current denoted barbel pits and that the overhanging trees were a good lie for large pike. It was all nonsense, but it was in the right language and Miles was impressed.