The Dead Side of the Mike

Table of Contents

The Charles Paris Mystery Series

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

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

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

CAST, IN ORDER OF DISAPPEARANCE

SO MUCH BLOOD

STAR TRAP

AN AMATEUR CORPSE

A COMEDIAN DIES

THE DEAD SIDE OF THE MIKE

SITUATION TRAGEDY

MURDER UNPROMPTED

MURDER IN THE TITLE

NOT DEAD, ONLY RESTING

DEAD GIVEAWAY

WHAT BLOODY MAN IS THAT?

A SERIES OF MURDERS

CORPORATE BODIES

A RECONSTRUCTED CORPSE

SICKEN AND SO DIE

DEAD ROOM FARCE

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

First published in Great Britain in 1980

by Victor Gollancz

ebook edition first published in 2012 by Severn Select an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

Copyright © 1980 Simon Brett.

All rights reserved.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0005-1 (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.

TO DORIS who will understand that I'm only giving the hand that fed me an affectionate nibble (and with thanks to John for the title and to David, Peter and Richard for their help)

CHARLES PARIS PAUSED at the top of the steps leading down to the Ariel Bar, momentarily unable to see a path through its voluble mass of humanity to the source of alcohol. Mark Lear, with the assurance of a BBC native, plunged into the thicket of people, a rhetorical, ‘What do you want?' thrown over his shoulder. Rhetorical, because he had known his guest long enough to supply the answer, ‘A large Bell's.'

Charles managed to wedge himself against a high ledge just inside the door. It was hot; the weather had suddenly changed and, for the first time that year, in early July, offered the possibility of a summer. Above the babbling surface of heads, he could see the room's fine ceiling, which still boasted the building's ancestry, its luxurious past as the Langham Hotel, where elegance had occasionally reigned and Ouida occasionally entertained guardsmen. But now the petalled roses and coving of the ceiling had been painted in the institutional colours of a hospital or government office. Proper BBC austerity. By all means let the staff enjoy themselves, but let them not be seen to enjoy themselves. For a moment the drab paint over the fine curlicues of the ceiling seemed a symbol of the organisation, of flamboyant creativity restrained by proper Civil Service circumspection.

Still, it was comforting. Charles always felt on BBC Radio premises as he did on entering a church: not that he shared the faith of the celebrants, but that it was reassuring to know such faith still existed. He relaxed. He had found the afternoon a strain. It was always difficult to explain to fellow-actors who hadn't done radio why one should feel tension working with the permanent safety-net of a script, but total reliance on voice, without any of the rest of an actor's armoury, imposed new anxieties. Even when working with a producer as sympathetically cynical as Mark Lear.

Mark worked in Further Education (a department whose exact function and intended audience Charles could never grasp) and that afternoon they had been recording a programme on Swinburne. It was one of a series called
Who Reads Them Now?,
in which various faded literary figures were reassessed to see if they had anything to offer to the modern reader (not much in most cases). Mark, remembering a feature on Thomas Hood called
So Much Comic, So Much Blood
which Charles had written some years previously, had rung and asked if there was anyone he'd like to re-assess. The Paris diary being as unsullied by bookings as usual and his long-running hare and hounds race with the tax man reaching a point where the latter was no longer going to be fobbed off with any scraps of paper other than banknotes, he assented, mentioning, off the top of his head, Swinburne, whose works he had not glanced at since leaving Oxford nearly thirty years before.

He had enjoyed researching and writing the programme. It was a long time since he had become so involved in a project. And, after the strains of recording, he felt distantly confident that it had worked. A little enthusiasm insinuated itself into his mind. There was something there. Why shouldn't he turn it into a one-man stage show, as he had with
So Much Comic, So Much Blood
? Why shouldn't he write more for radio? The basic money really wasn't bad, and always a good chance of repeats. It was just a question of getting himself organised.

Simultaneous with this thought arrived what most frequently prevented him from getting himself organised. Mark handed it over. ‘Cheers. Thanks for doing the programme. I think it really worked.'

Charles drank gratefully. ‘Hope so.'

‘No, I felt satisfied with it. All seemed to fit. Came out of the studio feeling we'd really made a programme. Don't often get that. The Beeb puts out so much rubbish these days.'

‘I have to confess I don't listen much.' It was true. For a moment, Charles wondered why. The radio would be an ideal companion for those (increasingly frequent) days when he just mooched round his bedsitter. And yet it was hardly ever switched on. Maybe he didn't want to be distracted from his mooching.

‘Radio Three and Four are okay, I suppose, rapidly going downhill, though. But it's Radio One and Two that are really awful.' Mark gave the little pause of someone about to swing a leg over his hobbyhorse. ‘Yuk, “Nation shall speak piss unto nation”.'

Charles smiled politely at this distortion of the BBC's motto, which Mark obviously kept polished in a little box for dinner parties, in the way his father might have kept pearl shirt studs. It was strange seeing Mark after all these years. Charles had forgotten the anti-establishment pose. Or at least, it had used to be a pose; now it seemed to have hardened into something beyond cynical phrase-making. But how old must Mark be now? Thirty-seven, thirty-eight? Perhaps he saw himself trapped, fully wound up, and pointed on an unswerving course towards his pension. In the old days he had always been complaining about the amount of dead wood at the top of the BBC; now perhaps he was feeling incipient Dutch Elm Disease himself. In the old days he had said he would never stay in the BBC. Only a couple of years, anyway. And then . . .

‘Of course, I'm not going to stay,' Mark went on. ‘As I say, today was good, but most of the time I'm producing totally predictable rubbish. I can't think when I was last surprised by anything I did. No, I'll get my own thing going, I don't know, I'll . . .'

He returned to his drink. Maybe he could have finished the sentence, but Charles had a feeling that there was nothing more to add. Mark only wanted the negative benefit of escape; he had no positive thoughts of where he could escape to.

Time to move the conversation on to a less morbid plane. ‘How are the wife and kids?'

‘Oh, they're fine, fine.' Mark Lear's mind was elsewhere. His eyes kept scanning the swirl of heads. Looking for someone specific? Or just looking. Yes, there was quite a lot of talent around. Another piece of Charles's memory of Mark fell into place. He'd always had a roving eye.

The eyes roved on as he continued, ‘Vinnie is as ever, you know, full of good works, and the children are – well, you've had children . . .'

‘One.'

‘That's enough to know that they are alternately tiresome and endearing. And always present. You must come and see us soon. We're only up in Chalk Farm.' The invitation was given automatically, without expectation of acceptance. ‘You haven't gone back to Frances, have you?'

‘I see her sometimes.' Charles didn't want to be reminded of his own marriage. Not that he hated his wife. Far from it. He was probably as near to loving her as anyone else. But when they lived together, they bickered and things didn't work. And he stumbled into affairs and . . .

When it was all working, when he was secure of Frances's love in the background and he had some nice beddable little actress in the foreground, it seemed an ideal relationship. But the balance was rarely achieved. Recently, beddable little actresses had become rare enough to qualify as an endangered species. And Frances, who had just been appointed headmistress of the school where she taught, had developed a new career dynamism, which seemed to leave little time for an intermittent husband. Charles felt ruffled, fifty-one and failing.

He tipped his drink back, so that the ice clunked down on to his lips. ‘Another of those?' he pointed at Mark's dry white wine. ‘You haven't got to rush away?'

‘Oh no.' The Producer grinned with primary-school slyness. ‘I told Vinnie the studio was booked till ten. Since it's now twenty past six, that gives me a bit of time.'

Charles edged his way to the bar, elbow to the fore, wishing, not for the first time, that the human body had been built to a more triangular design. He achieved base camp of one elbow in a pool of beer, and immediately assumed his customary cloak of invisibility. Maybe the barmen really could not see him. Or maybe part of their induction into the mysteries of the BBC was rigorous training in recognising and ignoring people without grades and staff numbers.

A tall man in a brown corduroy bomber jacket appeared at his shoulder, immediately drawing a barman's eye. ‘Yes, Dave, what can I get you?'

Charles turned to remonstrate, or rather, being English, turned to debate inwardly whether or not to remonstrate, but, fortunately, the man behind was a gentleman. ‘I think you were ahead of me,' he said with a well-crowned smile.

The voice was clear and professional, with an overtone of some accent. Scottish? American? But it carried authority. The barman grudgingly supplied Charles's drinks, still resolutely ignoring his presence. ‘Saw you on the telly last night, Dave. On the quiz show.'

‘Oh yes.
Owzat
? Hope you liked it.'

‘Certainly did, Dave. Thought it was very funny. So did the wife. Is it going well, Dave?'

‘Pretty good reaction, I think. They seem happy with the ratings. Happy enough to book another series, anyway.'

‘Good for you, Dave. Oh, you'll be leaving the radio soon, won't you?'

‘No chance, no chance. Radio's where I belong.'

‘I hope you're right, Dave. The wife'd certainly miss your
Late Night Show
if it came off. She loves that
Ten for a Tune
competition.'

‘No danger of me going – unless the Beeb decides they've had enough of me.'