A Decent Interval (19 page)

Still, having got to this point, he had to lumber in somehow. ‘I actually wanted to talk to you, Bazza,' he began clumsily, ‘about Doug Haye.'

‘Tony Copeland's Rottweiler? Why?'

‘It goes back to the accident that happened to Jared Root …'

‘Oh yes?' There was a new caution in the young man's eyes.

Charles was circumspect. He didn't want to leap straight to a confession of his eavesdropping. ‘Well, given what happened there … and given what's happened since with Katrina … there's been a lot of gossip backstage.'

‘When isn't there a lot of gossip backstage? You should know what theatre people are like by now.'

‘Yes, of course.'

‘So are you saying you've been listening to backstage gossip, Charles?'

‘Well …'

‘About what in particular? Some illicit shagging been going on? I'm usually fairly quick to spot that, but I haven't been aware of much going on with the
Hamlet
lot … though there might be something developing between Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. If you know about that … Come on, Charles, give me the dirt.'

‘Sorry, I can't. Quite possible there has been something going on, but I haven't been aware of it either. Anyway, that wasn't what I wanted to talk to you about.'

‘Oh?'

Charles was not finding this easy. ‘The fact is, Bazza, as you say, actors are very good at spreading rumours around, and getting the wrong end of sticks, and building up conspiracy theories.' The stagehand didn't say anything, just looked at him as he struggled on. ‘And obviously there's been a lot of talk about the two … accidents … and whether or not they're connected.'

‘So what makes you think they might be?'

‘I didn't actually say I thought that. I just said that a lot of people in the company do think that.'

‘OK, so the show's got some jinx on it, is that it? It is
Hamlet
we're doing, Charles, not
Macbeth
.'

Time to stop beating about the bush. ‘Some people have been saying that the accident to Jared was arranged.'

‘Arranged? How do you mean – arranged?'

‘That it was set up. That the piece of the skull was made to fall on him deliberately.'

Bazza's eyes were very narrow now. ‘And who would want to do that?'

‘Or then again, to ask another pertinent question, who would have the opportunity to do that?'

‘What're you saying, Charles?'

‘I'm saying that, if Jared's injury wasn't accidental, then the only people who could have set it up would be members of the backstage crew.'

‘Like me, for instance?'

‘If you like.'

‘I don't like at all. I don't like being accused of things by overdramatizing actors.'

‘I'm not accusing you.'

‘Well, you're coming damned close to it. Too close for my liking.'

‘But if it wasn't an accident—'

‘Do you have any proof, Charles?'

‘Not proof as such.'

‘Of course you don't. Because there is no proof. A piece of scenery fell by accident on Jared Root – that's all that happened. Anyway, why do you imagine that I – or any other member of the backstage crew – might want to sabotage the show we're working on?'

‘I can only think of one reason why you might do that.'

‘And what is it?'

‘Because you were paid to do so.'

Bazza reacted as if he'd been slapped in the face. ‘Oh, I see. And who are you suggesting might have paid me?'

‘Doug Haye,' Charles Paris replied coolly.

That brought Bazza to his feet, towering over his accuser. For a moment Charles feared that he was going to be hit, but the stagehand restrained himself. Instead, in a hissing whisper he spat out, ‘Don't you ever dare spread that accusation anywhere! If you do, by God you'll regret it!'

And with that Bazza stormed out of The Pessimist's Arms, leaving his second pint of 6X untouched.

Charles Paris sipped away at his own, feeling quite pleased with himself. Though the stagehand hadn't actually admitted to accepting money from Doug Haye to arrange Jared's accident, the strength of his reaction demonstrated that Charles was very definitely on the right track.

It seemed silly not to drink Bazza's pint as well as his own, so Charles felt suitably mellow when time was called and he left The Pessimist's Arms. A nightcap of Bell's back at the digs and he thought he'd sleep well.

The weather had changed. He must remember to take an overcoat with him when he went to the theatre the following day. The autumn days were still mild, but the evenings had started to get chilly.

He'd done the route from pub to digs so often that he didn't have to think about it. Left out of The Pessimist's Arms, along the road, another left, through an alley, turn right. Less than ten minutes.

It was when he was in the alley that he heard the footsteps behind him. Close behind him. He quickened his pace. But when he heard his name called, he stopped and turned. To find himself facing the solid bulk of Doug Haye.

The force with which the man's left hand grabbed his lapels slammed Charles Paris against the wall. On Doug Haye's upraised hand the inadequate light from a distant street-lamp glinted on the metal edge of a knuckleduster.

‘H
old it there, Doug!' said a voice. And Doug did hold it there. To the considerable relief of Charles Paris. The knuckleduster had stopped millimetres away from his chin.

‘Let go of him.'

The grip on Charles's lapels was released with some reluctance. He looked towards the silhouette framed by the entrance to the alleyway.

‘I think we ought to talk,' said Tony Copeland.

The producer wasn't staying in a lavish boutique hotel like the people from Pridmore Baines. He had opted for an old coaching inn in the centre of town, solid, unexciting. As well as a bedroom, he had a sitting room, though, and it was there that he had the bottle of room-service whisky delivered, along with an ice bucket and a single glass.

‘I don't drink,' he said, ‘but I gather you do.'

‘Well …' Charles shrugged sheepishly. ‘Has been known.'

‘Help yourself.'

Charles did so.

‘I'm not going to apologize for Doug's actions because that might suggest that I had something to do with them, that he was acting on my instructions. He's very loyal and he makes decisions very much off his own bat … both of which are qualities which I admire in people who work for me.'

Tony Copeland was unruffled; there was little intonation in his voice. Off-screen he was totally unlike the waspish critic of
StarHunt
. Once again he wore his uniform of pinstriped suit, tie and rimless glasses, looking more than ever like an accountant. And accountancy, the management and manipulation of money, was, of course, a large part of his job as a theatre producer. Whether arranging accidents to befall his stars was another part of the job description Charles Paris could only, for the time being, conjecture.

The one thing he did know for sure was that Tony Copeland had an agenda. He hadn't invited a minor actor from his production of
Hamlet
into his room and supplied him with a bottle of whisky purely out of the goodness of his heart.

‘All right,' said Charles. ‘I can understand why you don't want to admit responsibility for Doug's actions, but do you at least know why he attacked me?'

‘He attacked you,' came the cool reply, ‘because he didn't want you spreading rumours in the company about Jared Root's accident.'

‘Like the rumour that it wasn't an accident?'

‘Maybe.' The producer shrugged.

‘You don't seem that bothered.'

‘I'm not. I have too many important responsibilities to worry about backstage gossip.'

‘And what if it were more than gossip?'

‘What do you mean, Charles?'

‘I'm pretty sure Jared's injuries were caused deliberately.'

‘Oh? And what do you base that on?'

So Charles related to him the conversation he'd overheard between Doug Haye and Bazza in The Pessimist's Arms.

At the end of his account Tony Copeland looked singularly underwhelmed. ‘There's more than one interpretation to what you heard.'

‘Oh, come on.'

‘And even if it's true, that Doug did pay Bazza to cause the accident, the charge would never stand up in a court of law.'

‘Maybe not, but from the way Bazza reacted when I talked about it this evening, I know it is true.'

That merited no more than another shrug. ‘And what would Doug's motive have been in taking that rather extreme step of causing an injury to Jared Root?'

‘Look, Tony, it was clear to everyone in the company that Jared, however popular he may be as a singer, couldn't act to save his life. With him playing the part, it really was “
Hamlet
without the Prince”.'

‘The box office advance was very good, just on the strength of his name.'

‘Yes, but once people started seeing the show, once the reviews came out—'

‘The age group who're interested in Jared Root don't read reviews.'

‘It doesn't change my point. Word of mouth would have got around. So long as Jared stayed in the title role, this
Hamlet
was dead in the water.'

‘And Doug worked all this out for himself, did he? And out of the goodness of his heart he made arrangements with Bazza to solve the production's central problem?'

‘I'm not suggesting Doug worked it out for himself. I'm suggesting he was following instructions.'

‘Really?' Still not a flutter in the producer's calm demeanour.

‘I'm suggesting that Jared had served his purpose. Once he'd generated far more publicity than you're ever going to get for your average production of
Hamlet
, he was surplus to requirements. But obviously this play of all plays needs someone bloody good in the name part. You'd seen Sam Newton-Reid give a stunning performance in a pub theatre in Battersea. You saw a way of getting even more publicity, as well as a Hamlet who could turn the production into a very good one. And you saw in Sam a talent that you could nurture.'

‘I see, so it's me now? Not Doug acting off his own bat, but me giving him instructions?'

‘Yes.'

‘Hm. You do have a vivid imagination, Charles.' Tony Copeland's words were insufferably patronizing. ‘Not to mention a lack of inhibition about accusing me of deliberately injuring a member of my company.'

Charles Paris looked straight into the producer's cold blue eyes. ‘I'm convinced that's what happened, Tony.'

The eye contact was held. Charles was the first to turn away.

‘Well,' said Tony Copeland, ‘suppose you were right …? Suppose I did engineer this rather complicated crime you're accusing me of? What would you do about it?'

‘Well, I—'

‘I would remind you, of course, that the management of the Grand Theatre have conducted a full enquiry into what happened. The insurance assessors have checked the place out too. No evidence of foul play was found.'

‘Bazza would know how to cover his tracks.'

‘Whether or not he had tracks to cover I have no idea. I go back to my previous question, Charles. If your conjecture did turn out to be true, what would you do about it?'

‘Well …' He wasn't quite sure of the next step. Having got Tony Copeland virtually to admit involvement in the crime, he must find a way of capitalizing on the moment. ‘I could go to the police,' he said defiantly.

‘Ooh yes, they'd really love to hear the theories of a precious luvvie of an actor, wouldn't they?'

Tony was right. There had been previous occasions when Charles had tried to convince the police of someone's wrongdoing, and his treatment had never been less than patronizing.

‘Quite honestly,' the producer resumed, ‘you can do what you like. It won't get you anywhere. You go to the police, they'll laugh you out of court. And talking of courts, if your accusation ever got that far – which it wouldn't – you'd be blown away there too, Charles. You have no idea of the quality of lawyers that Tony Copeland Productions can afford.'

Charles knew he was losing ground and made one more desperate sally. ‘Suppose I went to court about Doug Haye's attacking me in the alley?'

The producer smiled blandly. ‘Did Doug Haye attack you in an alley?'

‘Yes, of course he did. With a knuckleduster.'

‘Ah, well, if he used a knuckleduster, no doubt you have some dramatic bruising to show for it?'

‘As you know, you stopped him before he actually hit me.'

‘Did I? I don't recall.'

‘You were a witness.'

‘Yes, I was a witness, and I don't recall seeing anything untoward. You and Doug were having a chat in the alleyway. I joined you, then you came back to my room for a drink … Do top your glass up, by the way, Charles.' Another bland smile as Charles couldn't resist doing as he was told. ‘And that is my recollection of what happened between us this evening.'

‘I see. And when I walk out of this hotel am I likely to be attacked again by Doug Haye?'

‘What's this “again”? You haven't been attacked by him once.'

Charles was getting frustrated by all this blandness. ‘So you're saying I'm not at risk from Doug Haye?'

‘Of course not.'

‘You've called off the Rottweiler, have you?'

‘What a very strange expression to use in describing one of my most trusted employees.'

There was only one ploy left to get a reaction out of the man. ‘Of course,' Charles announced, ‘what happened to Jared Root would be relatively unimportant if it wasn't connected to what happened to Katrina Selsey.'