Situation Tragedy (11 page)

And it was also Bernard Walton with whom Sadie Wainwright had had a blazing row just before her death.

But why? Why should a highly successful television and theatre star hazard everything by committing murder? Charles supposed that if
The Strutters
had been being made at the expense of
What'll the Neighbours Say?,
then Bernard might be seen to have a motive for sabotaging production of the new series, so that it would have to be cancelled and replaced with the older one. But that motivation didn't work, because the options on the next series of
What'll the Neighbours Say?
had been taken up and, though Bernard didn't know that at the time of Sadie's death, he certainly did when Scott died. Nope, it didn't work.

But, as a theory, it did contain one attractive element, and that was the idea of sabotage to the production. If the violence was directed against the whole series rather than individuals, then the random nature of the murder schemes made more sense. Maybe the saboteur had fixed the railing on the fire escape to injure Sadie Wainwright
or anyone else
connected with
The Strutters
pilot. The dislodged urn, too, might have been a random act of violence.

This idea answered a doubt that had been nagging at Charles ever since Scott's death. Any theory that assumed murder directed specifically at the young director also assumed an enormous amount of luck. There was no guarantee that Scott was going to be the next person down the hill after Bernard. He might well have chosen to leave last of all and demonstrate the powers of his Porsche by overtaking everyone else on the motorway back to London. Even if the murderer could have predicted the bet with Peter Lipscombe, he couldn't have known that the producer would offer the opportunity for the director to go first. (Unless of course the producer
were
the murderer . . . But no, that was a blind alley; it was Scott who had suggested the race.)

And, as well as having no guarantee who his victim would he, the conjectural murderer had no guarantee that he would murder anyone. A more prudent driver than Scott Newton might have been going slowly enough to stop safely when he saw his path obstructed. And, even given Scott's precipitous speed, he might well have survived his descent on to the main road. No murderer, however much of a criminal mastermind, could have arranged the simultaneous arrival of a Spanish juggernaut to finish off his victim.

So, if any crimes had been committed, it looked as if they were just random sabotage. And the only person who had ever had a motive for such actions, Bernard Walton, had had his motive removed by the guarantee of a new series of
What'll the Neighbours Say?

Unless, of course, the acts of sabotage were the work of a psychopath. Oh dear, Charles did hope not. Psychopathic crimes offered no prospect of satisfaction; if their motivation was without reason, then no amount of reasoning was going to provide a solution to them.

So what was he left with? Two deaths. Both, according to police findings, accidental. And nothing to make him disagree with those findings except for a few ambiguous overhead words relating to the first one.

All he could do was watch and listen, and wait to see if anything else happened.

On Monday, June 4th, Charles arrived at the Paddington Jewish Boys' Club for the first
Strutters
read-through, and found Peter Lipscombe predictably cooing over Aurelia Howarth. She appeared just to have given him a brown paper parcel.

‘Of course I'll read them, Dob love, of course I will.'

‘I don't know, I just think there might be something there, darling. They're old-fashioned, but might adapt into a rather jolly series. Just an instinct I have about them.'

‘And when have your dramatic instincts ever been wrong?' asked the Producer with a sycophantic laugh.

Charles moved over to sit beside George Birkitt, who was reading the
Sun
. ‘How's tricks, as the white rabbit said to the conjuror?'

George brandished the newspaper. ‘Look at this – bloody Bernard Walton all over it.'

Charles glanced at the page. ‘MY FIRST DATE – In our series of the Famous with Two Left Feet, BERNARD WALTON, hilarious star of TV's
What'll the Neighbours Say?
describes the visit to the pictures that went riotously wrong . . .' He didn't read any further. There was a half-page picture of Bernard, pulling one of the gauche expressions that was a feature of the character he played in the sit com (and indeed of every other character he played; whatever the part, he always gave the same performance).

Charles shrugged. ‘So what?'

‘I don't know. I just get a bit sick of it,' George Birkitt complained. ‘I mean, you just can't get away from him. He's always doing all these bloody interviews, and popping up on quiz shows and all that rubbish. All the
Blankety-Blanks
and
Star Games
and
Celebrity Squares
when that was around. Or he's opening supermarkets or being photographed at premieres.'

‘I agree, it must be hell. But that's the life he's chosen. One of the penalties of being a star, you have to be on show all of the time.'

‘Yes,' said George, with a tinge of wistfulness.

‘Surely you don't want to get involved in all that, do you?'

‘Good Lord, no,' he protested. ‘No, no, I value my privacy. I'm the last person to want to become a public property. No, no, I was just thinking from the financial point of view. I mean, there is quite a bit of money in all those spin-off things. And I think, you know, if you get the chance to do them, well, you shouldn't turn them down from high-minded principles about the sanctity of your art. You should take advantage of whatever's going.'

‘Oh, I agree.'

‘And, if there's money going for all that sort of rubbish, I don't see why it should always go to the same circle of boring professional personalities with heads too big for their bodies. Because, to be quite frank, Charles . . .' George Birkitt lowered his voice, ‘I wouldn't mind a little more money. They're getting me damned cheap for this series. Okay, I know it's the first time I've had my name above the title – as if I cared about things like that, for God's sake – but they are still getting me damned cheap. No, if they want to do another series after this lot, I'm afraid they'll find my agent in more of a negotiating mood. It's not that one wants a huge amount of money, it's just that one doesn't want to be undervalued.'

Further demonstration of George Birkitt's unwillingness to fall into a star stereotype was prevented by the arrival of
The Strutters
' new Director. Bob Tomlinson, the man who certainly knew his stuff when it came to sit com, proved to be a thickset individual in his fifties whose appearance behind a market barrow would have been less remarkable than behind a television control desk. He was dressed in a shiny blue suit and wore an expression of belligerent boredom.

‘Okay,' he said. ‘Let's sit down and read this rubbish.'

‘Bob!' cried Peter Lipscombe heartily. ‘Sure you'd like to be introduced to everyone, wouldn't you?'

‘I'll get to know them soon enough in rehearsal,' said Bob Tomlinson, and sat down.

‘But you haven't worked with Dob Howarth, have you?' Peter Lipscombe persisted.

‘No.'

‘Well, do allow me to introduce you to our lovely leading lady.'

Bob Tomlinson looked up briefly. ‘Hello. Right, PA got the watch ready? Let's start reading.'

Peter Lipscombe intervened again. ‘Er, yes. Just a moment, Bob. If I could say a few words . . .'

‘Why?'

‘Well, er, as Producer, I would like to –'

‘Oh yeah, I forgot you were Producer. All right, be quick. I'll get myself a coffee.' And Bob Tomlinson got up and walked across to the coffee machine, while Peter Lipscombe started his pep-talk.

‘Right, first let me say how nice it is to see you all looking so well. Now we've all had a horrible shock and there's no use pretending what happened didn't happen, but what we've all got to do is to put it behind us and look ahead, just remember what a jolly exciting series this is going to be. Now, because of circumstances, we've lost a couple of days' filming, but we'll be able to pick them up in the course of our schedule. And, incidentally, I'd like to warn you now that I've just received Script Number Six from Rod and that's going to involve some of you in a night's filming. We'll let you know the date as soon as it's been sorted out, but I thought you'd like to know.

‘So . . . here we all are and by this time next week we'll have recorded the first episode – second, if we include the pilot – of this really exciting new series-
The Strutters
! Let me tell you, ladies and gentlemen –'

‘Have you finished?' asked Bob Tomlinson, returning with his cup of coffee.

‘Well, er, yes, I, er, um . . .'

‘Okay, read from the top. Start the watch, girl.'

Maybe it was the inhibiting expression of boredom on the director's face, or perhaps it was just that the script was inferior to the pilot episode, but the read-through didn't seem very funny. Peter Lipscombe and Tilly Lake provided their usual sycophantic laughter for the first few pages, but soon faded to silence.

As the pay-off to the episode was spoken, Bob Tomlinson turned to Janie. ‘How long?'

‘Part One: 10–17, Part Two: 9–41,' she supplied efficiently. ‘Making a total of 19–58.'

‘That's near enough.' Bob rose with the enthusiasm of a man about to put three coats of paint on a forty-foot wall. ‘Let's block it.'

Peter Lipscombe raised a hand to intervene. ‘Um, just a few points before you do that. Debbi, that line you have on 1–7, where you say, “No, I'm not that sort of girl”. . . could you –'

“Ere, what is this?' asked Bob Tomlinson, with all the anger of a barrow-boy who'd arrived at market to find someone else on his pitch. ‘I'm the Director of this show. I give the bleeding artists notes.'

Peter Lipscombe didn't want a scene. His voice took on a mollifying tone. ‘Yes, of course, Bob, of course. I wonder if you'd mention to Debbi that I think
one
way – not by any means the only way, but one way of delivering that line would be to emphasise the ‘that'. ‘I'm not
that
sort of girl.' I think it points up the joke.'

‘All right,' Bob Tomlinson conceded. ‘Which one of you's Debbi? Right, on that line, could you hit the “that”? Okay, let's get this bloody show blocked.'

‘I've got a point, Bob,' said the colourless voice of Rod Tisdale.

‘And who the hell are you? Another bloody producer?'

‘No, Bob, this is our writer, Rod Tisdale.'

Bob Tomlinson glowered. ‘I don't like writers round my rehearsal rooms.'

Rod Tisdale showed no signs of having heard this. ‘It's Page 3 of Part Two.'

‘Oh, don't bother me with bloody details on the script. Tell the producer.'

‘Peter,' said Rod Tisdale obediently, ‘on that page, I think the line, “I can't stand it any longer” would probably be better as “I can't stick it out any longer.” You know, probably pick up the laugh on the double meaning.'

‘Yes, nice thinking, Rod. Um, Bob, Rod's had rather a good idea, I think. On Page 3 of Part Two, wondering if we could change “I can't stand it any longer” to “I can't stick it out any longer”?'

‘Change it. See if I care.'

‘No, but I don't want us to force it on you. We all want to be in agreement on things. So do say what you'd like.'

‘I'd like you and the bloody writer to clear out and let me get on with this rubbish.'

As rehearsals progressed. Charles found his respect for Bob Tomlinson increasing. He realised that the director's manner was not just rudeness for its own sake, but a way of getting on with the job quickly. And his contempt for the material he was directing (a feeling for which Charles found in himself considerable sympathy) did not seem to make the performances any worse. Nor did it lower the morale of the production; after the agonising of Scott Newton over every comma, the more practical approach was quite a relief. The atmosphere in the rehearsal room was rather jolly.

Bob Tomlinson just got on with the job and didn't waste time with socialising or toadying to his stars. He was an efficient organiser and ensured that every part of the production came together at the right time. He was a good example of the huge value of competence in television. Flair may have its place, but flair is not always coupled with efficiency and, given the choice between a director with flair and one with competence, many actors would opt for the security of the latter.

Certainly the cast of
The Strutters
didn't seem put out by the offhand manner of their new Director. They seemed to respect his lack of obsequiousness. It made them more equal, a group of people who had come together to get on with a job of work. Aurelia Howarth, used to cosseting and cotton-woolling from generations of producers, seemed totally unworried by Bob Tomlinson's directness and his undisguised lack of interest in the welfare of Cocky.

The atmosphere between Director and Producer remained. The fact was that Bob Tomlinson was not used to working to a Producer. For many years he had combined the roles, and his agent had ensured that the final credit read: ‘Produced and Directed by Bob Tomlinson'. It was only because of the last-minute nature of his booking on
The Strutters
when his other series was cancelled that he found himself in this unusual position.

But he didn't let it worry him. He didn't let anything worry him.
The Strutters
was just another three months of well-paid work, and soon he'd be on to something else. The secret of Bob Tomlinson's success and his formidable track record in sit com was his ability not to let anything get to him. He was the first person Charles had met in that world who seemed to have an accurate estimate of the value and importance of the product.