Noose

Table of Contents

Cover

A Selection of Titles by Bill James

Title Page

Copyright

Author's Note

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

DOUBLE JEOPARDY *

FORGET IT *

FULL OF MONEY *

HEAR ME TALKING TO YOU *

KING'S FRIENDS *

THE LAST ENEMY *

LETTERS FROM CARTHAGE *

MAKING STUFF UP *

NOOSE *

OFF-STREET PARKING *

THE SIXTH MAN AND OTHER STORIES *

TIP TOP *

WORLD WAR TWO WILL NOT TAKE PLACE *

 

YOU'D BETTER BELIEVE IT

THE LOLITA MAN

HALO PARADE

PROTECTION

COME CLEAN

TAKE

CLUB

ASTRIDE A GRAVE

GOSPEL

ROSES, ROSES

IN GOOD HANDS

THE DETECTIVE IS DEAD

TOP BANANA

PANICKING RALPH

LOVELY MOVER

ETON CROP

KILL ME

PAY DAYS

NAKED AT THE WINDOW

THE GIRL WITH THE LONG BACK

EASY STREETS

WOLVES OF MEMORY

GIRLS

PIX

IN THE ABSENCE OF ILES

HOTBED

I AM GOLD

VACUUM *

UNDERCOVER *

PLAY DEAD *

 

*
available from Severn House

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First published in Great Britain and the USA 2013 by

SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

eBook edition first published in 2013 by Severn House Digital an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

Copyright © 2013 by Bill James.

The right of Bill James to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

James, Bill, 1929-

Noose.

1. Actresses–Suicidal behavior–Fiction.

2. Journalists–Fiction. 3. Brothers and sisters–

Fiction. 4. Great Britain–History–Elizabeth II,

1952–Fiction. 5. Suspense fiction.

I. Title

823.9' 14-dc23

ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8318-6 (cased)

ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-489-9 (trade paper)

ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-459-1 (ePub)

Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

This ebook produced by

Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

Some material in this novel is adapted from a short story in my collection
The Sixth Man
(Severn House, 2006).

T
wice tonight, within a couple of hours, he was invited back into his past. Invited? Frogmarched, more like it. Not a totally happy feeling. Recently, a novel had come out with an already famous opening sentence comparing the past to a foreign country. He'd agree. And not just foreign. Fundamentally and cantankerously hostile. Vengeful.

He had a call at home from Percy Lyall on the
Mirror
News Desk, the usual flippant but, behind-it-all, urgent tone. ‘Here's a possible tale that's very much your sort of thing, Ian – a poignant mix of near tragedy, possible thwarted romance, glamour. Can you get over there? Needs sensitive but, of course, dramatic treatment. And it goes without saying, so I'll say it, depth. I immediately thought of you.'

‘How right you were.'

‘Daphne West,' Lyall said. ‘Heard of her?'

Ian Charteris paused for a moment, or a moment plus. Yes, say three moments. The shock deserved that.

‘Heard of her, Ian?'

Well, yes, sort of. She might be my sister. Might. We possibly share an amphibious father. Most probably. Certainly. But Ian didn't say any of this. ‘Actress?' he replied. ‘Television, stage, a film or two? Twenty or so.'

‘A beauty. Starred very young, like Jean Simmons. Hang on. I've got some background cuttings here and very fetching library pix. Yes, born 1936, so, as you say, twenty.'

That would be about right. ‘Near tragedy? How?'

‘She's tried to kill herself. Standard method – gas, the ever-available, as long as the meter's stoked. Half in love with easeful death because a love affair of a different sort turned un-easeful and sank. She's in hospital, possibly OK now. But touch and go. Her publicity people, bless them, and their protectiveness and speed, are putting out the usual kind of horse shit: an accident – water boiled over, extinguished the flames, but the gas kept coming, as gas will. Daphne dozing nearby didn't notice. Tired after early morning wake-up for filming. Luckily, or maybe not, someone in the next flat smelled gas and after knocking and yelling got no reply so barged the door in. Stove immediately switched off. Windows swiftly, recuperatively, opened. The customary PR gab. Get the truth, would you, please, Ian? That's our business, isn't it – at least, as long as the truth is (a) gripping and (b) convenient for the paper. See if rolled towels were in place under door gaps, including the door of the break-in. The rumour is she was getting fucked on a reasonably regular basis by a big-deal theatre producer, Milton Skeeth. Could have been mistaken by the girl for something serious, the way girls do.
Man's love is of man's life a thing apart, 'Tis women's whole existence
. Byron. Heard of him?'

‘Byron?'

‘Skeeth.'

Oh, yes, indeed. Heard plenty. But that was added to the great unsaids. ‘The name seems familiar.'

‘It looks as though Daphne was only one of his bed mates. A lad in his position can move around among young, ambitious lovelies. He has parts to offer. His. Fay Doel. Heard of her?'

‘Another actress – TV and so on?'

‘Like that, yes. Skeeth lives at twelve Feder Road, Chelsea.'

Lived. Has lately long-term exited. But Charteris didn't say this, either. ‘I'm making a note. Feder Road, twelve. Right, Percy?'

‘Right. Perhaps Doel is there with him.'

Charteris knew nobody was at twelve Feder Road and wouldn't be tomorrow or the day after or possibly for weeks, months ahead. There had been what battlefield communiqués during the war called ‘a tactical withdrawal'. Hoof it, in other words. From Ian Charteris, though, more silence.

Lyall said: ‘Maybe West had been ditched. And so, despair. These theatrical people, they emote easily. They're trained to it. It's their long suit. And so, a decision to end it all. And so, gas.'

‘Which hospital?'

‘St Thomas's. Talk to her, if possible. Well, obviously. This is a voice from the almost Beyond. Lazarus, but prettier and with tits. Normally I'd give the tale to one of our staff people. But it seems so very right for you. They probably won't let us in to do new pix. She might not be looking her best. No problem. We've plenty in stock. An eyeful. Ask her what really happened. That's one of your flairs, isn't it – getting folk to confide, blub on your shoulder, reveal all? You sport that kind of sympa face and chummy voice. You could become an agony aunt when age sets in and your career starts to wind down. I want to hear the flagging of her gas-strangled heartbeat in your stuff, Ian. This calls for prose. This calls for prose that sobs and strums and reaches, above all, our lady readers. Some might have been thinking of gas themselves.

‘Then recovery. I need to watch via your phrasing how near-deadly emptiness for a while colonized her lovely photogenic eyes – grey-green in most of the cuttings, aquamarine once, but in the
Herald.
I want to share the pain and piquant hopelessness of a nice cast-off piece of thespian arse.'

‘We don't actually
know
that, do we?'

‘You believe her publicity people's version?'

‘Was there a note?'

‘You don't get notes with an accident. That's the thing about accidents – they come out of nowhere and don't give you time to write notes.'

‘But if there was a note it would show definitely it wasn't an accident.'

‘Probably the publicity people have been around to her flat and destroyed any note.'

‘Conspiracy theory?' Ian said.

‘What keeps journalism going.'

Hospital stories could turn out difficult. Although wards were, in a sense, public areas, open to visiting at certain hours, managements hated any Press scrummage around beds of the famous and would often try to exclude reporters and photographers, claiming hospitals had a duty to protect the privacy of patients. Maybe they did. But news aces had a duty to get the news and, as Percy said, to expose conspiracies.

Hospital security people were guarding Daphne West. When Ian reached St Thomas's this evening he found reporters from the
Sketch
and
Mail
already hanging around Reception and trying to negotiate admission for a brief interview. So, the word about the star and her gas was out in Fleet Street. Ian gave his name and the
Mirror
's
and added his plea for an interview. They were told the requests would be passed on and up. Nothing happened, though. The
Mail
man left. It wasn't really a broadsheet tale. Tacky? TV obsessed?

At the end of another forty minutes, Ian and Greg Amber of the
Sketch
heard that one of them, and one only, might be allowed a quick visit to Daphne West. Ian and Amber agreed to toss a coin. Amber won. The arrangement was that whoever interviewed her showed his notes to the other afterwards. Ian felt nervy but thought it might be all right. Tabloid honour did exist, even if not standard issue. A couple of hospital officials accompanied them upstairs to the ward. Ian hung back, as stipulated. Amber walked with a guard on each side like a deserter on his way to be shot. He tried to do some amiable chat but they weren't having any. At the entrance to the ward they seemed to tell Greg to wait while the two went into what might be the sister's office and closed the door. Another formality? Or an invitation to Greg to nip into the ward and talk to Daphne without their approval, so there'd be no later reproofs for caving in to the Press?

From where he stood, Ian could see West in the second bed. She was sitting up, looking alert and very wholesome. This was not in any sense an ordinary moment for him. He tried to think brotherliness, in case she did turn out to be his sister. There wasn't really much doubt. He didn't understand why Greg went on waiting. The agreement could still be countermanded by someone bossy and non-cooperative in that room. Amber was experienced, tough, as pushy as any
Sketch
reporter. Did hospitals paralyse him? They were home ground to Ian. He walked past Greg to the side of Daphne's bed. ‘Hello, Miss West,' he said, notebook ready.

‘Who are you? Press? Is it as important as that?'

‘
You're
important. Think of all the worried fans.' She had on a short blue silk jacket over what might be hospital pyjamas with faded red and orange stripes, not new. Ian found himself sniffing at her hair for gas. ‘Are you all right now?' he said.