The Dead Side of the Mike (23 page)

‘Well, thank you for finding that out.'

‘You don't sound very upset about it.'

‘Why should I?'

‘For goodness sake!' Steve sounded exasperated. ‘If Keith was in the studio all evening, then he couldn't have sneaked out and killed Andrea.'

‘No.'

‘And our whole theory depends on that.'

‘Did.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Steve, you know the expression: When one door closes, another door opens?'

CHARLES WAS SOMETIMES mildly depressed by how fickle his logic could be. He had had the same experience in the theatre. He would see a production of a play with a central performance of such power that he thought it must be definitive. Then, years later, with another actor in the rôle, he would see the play again and find the new interpretation, though totally different, equally compelling. And, as a strong central performance sometimes can, he would find that it often changed all the performances around it, changed the shape of the whole play, so that he left the theatre feeling he had seen a completely different work.

So it was when he recast the script of Andrea Gower's and Danny Klinger's deaths. With Keith Nicholls bowing out and having his part taken by Dave Sheridan, a new play emerged. And all the supporting roles of evidence and logic shifted and changed their emphasis to accommodate the new character.

It clarified many things. Some bits made a lot more sense. The whole elaborate procedure of sending musical clues over the air became much more acceptable if the person who wanted to send them actually did the speaking; from the start he had felt uneasy about the opportunities for error with Keith feeding the clues to an unwitting Sheridan.

What the new play did not offer was any clear motivation. It presented Sheridan with opportunities to do both murders. (He had left the Features Action Group meeting twice on the night of Andrea's death and his presence ten minutes from the scene of Klinger's murder on the relevant night had to be more than a coincidence.) But so far Charles had no link between the disc jockey and his two victims. He knew that Sheridan had known Andrea, but had no idea of the nature of their relationship. And he had no proof that Sheridan and Klinger had ever spoken to each other.

Still, such things were investigable, and who was better placed to investigate Dave Sheridan without causing suspicion than someone who was compiling a radio feature on him?

Charles rang Brenda, who again regrettably misinterpreted his call, and got the number of Dave Sheridan's agent.

While the phone was ringing to Creative Artists Ltd, Charles tried to visualise the agent. He knew he had seen him in the bar after the Swinburne recording. But all he could bring to mind was a shiny chestnut-coloured toupée. Of what was underneath it he had no recollection.

He also tried to decide whether he should use his own persona for the call or assume another identity. He rather fancied using the accent he'd perfected for a revival of
The Second Mrs Tanqueray
(‘Effete and degenerate capitalist rubbish' –
Time Out
). Or maybe the Welsh he'd done in
See How They Run
in Darlington (‘Presumably a comedy' –
Yorkshire Post
).

But by the time he had been put through, he had opted for caution and told Mr Michael Oakley that he was Charles Paris, he was working on a feature for Radio Three about Dave Sheridan and he wondered if he could ask a few questions.

‘Well, okay, but make it quick. I'm a busy man.' Oakley's accent was firmly American, making him sound like every agent in every Hollywood movie.

‘I really just want to know about the sort of work schedule Dave keeps up. He seems to me to put in a daunting number of hours.'

‘Sure, he's a hard worker.'

‘I mean, with the radio show and the television as well. It must be very tiring.' Charles decided that naive ignorance was going to be his most fruitful approach.

‘That's only the half of it. There's also all the personal appearance stuff, his weekly column in
Teen Dreams,
guesting on quiz shows, even got a pantomime coming up for Christmas, talk of hosting a telly chat show, if Thames can get themselves together. I tell you, that boy is very big and about to get a lot bigger.'

Strange how all the show business agents Charles encountered said their clients were about to become very big. He wondered if Maurice Skellern had ever said that of him. It somehow didn't seem likely.

‘Yes. But, Mr Oakley, his work doesn't seem to stop at the end of the radio show. I mean, that's over at midnight, but I gather he still goes on and does personal appearances after that.'

‘Sure, if the money's right. That's my business, to sort out how much he does. Dave's a professional, anyway. Been in this business all over the world, one way and another, for years.'

‘I mean, I was driving in the country the other day, long way out, towards Wallingford, and I saw that Dave was opening some big disco out there
at one in the morning
.' Charles hoped he wasn't overdoing the wide-eyed innocent bit.

It seemed not. Oakley took it without suspicion. ‘Sure, does a few of those. Did two hours, the money made it worth doing.'

‘But he must have leapt into a car the minute he came off the air.'

‘Exactly what he did do. I know. I went with him.'

‘Do you usually go along to that sort of thing?'

‘Well, not all the time, of course. Just a few here and there. See how it's going. I'm his personal manager, you know, not just an agent.'

Oh, I see, thought Charles – twenty per cent rather than ten.

‘So you leapt into the car and went straight down there . . . what, and then you had a little break before he went on?'

‘Nope. He arrived on the dot of one and went straight on stage. I tell you, he's a professional.'

‘But then he had a break in the middle of his session, did he?' Charles's whole new script depended on Sheridan having half an hour in which to leave Brassie's, meet up with Klinger, kill him and get back to the disco without anyone noticing his absence.

The script was quickly rejected. ‘Nope. He didn't get a break. He got there at one, did the gig, finished on the dot of three, I got the money from the manager – you can never trust these new outfits, better to get it straight away – then we were back in the car by five past three and all in bed by four.'

‘Dave didn't stay down there for anything, for –'

‘Hell, no. The guy's got to sleep sometime.'

‘Yes . . .' Charles felt dejected. It had been a nice new script and he had begun to envisage dramatic success for it. Now he was nowhere.

But not for long. Unwittingly Michael Oakley threw him a lifeline. ‘Look, Mr Paris, I'd love to chat to you all day, but there's no percentage in it for me, do you see? I do have other things to do. Look, if you really want to know about Dave's working methods, why not follow him round for a day? I could arrange that for you.'

‘Oh, I'd be very grateful,' murmured Charles, still dejected.

‘And if you want to know more about that Brassie's gig, ask Dave's producer. He went down with us that night.'

‘His producer?'

‘Yeah, producer of the
Late Night Show
at the Beeb. I don't think he's still doing it, but the guy's name is Kelly Nicholls.'

‘Kelly Nicholls?' Some instinct told Charles to probe a little further.

‘Oh yes, I think I met him once. The same evening I met you in fact.'

‘I didn't know we'd met.' Oakley didn't sound suspicious, just uninterested.

‘In the BBC bar. Nita Lawson introduced us. It was the night that girl committed suicide, I don't know if you remember.' It was worth the risk. Oakley must get introduced to a lot of people; he'd be unlikely to remember a passing introduction in a bar.

So it proved. ‘Oh yes, I remember vaguely.'

‘I think I met Kelly that night. He was producing the show. You must have seen him. I remember you were showing a young lady the studio in action.'

‘Oh, it comes back to me, yeah.'

‘I dropped into the studio during transmission and saw Kelly then,' Charles lied.

Oakley disagreed. ‘No, must have been another night. Kelly wasn't in the studio that night.'

‘What?'

‘All the other SMs were, but not Kelly. Dave does that show on his own, anyway. Just needs some jerk to play in the tapes and route the phone calls. An experienced jock doesn't need a producer; it's just one of those quaint old things the Beeb insists on.'

‘So Kelly wasn't around all that evening?'

‘Certainly not when I was there, no.'

Which, if it was true, meant he was somewhere else. Organising his wife's murder, perhaps?

He rang Steve at work and found out how to contact Bill Hewlett, the custodian of Keith's alibi. She had to consult some schedule and find an extension number for him.

Though she couldn't really discuss the case in the office, she was obviously hurt that Charles didn't tell her more about the progress of his suspicions. But he felt an inclination to secrecy, until he had something more positive to offer. Once he had a proven case, then he would present it to her as a rich gift. And maybe claim some sort of reward.

He decided to get Detective-Sergeant McWhirter out of mothballs again for Bill Hewlett's benefit. The extension number he had been given was for a studio control cubicle. When the phone was answered, the first thing he heard was treacly, undistinguished music like that on the Musimotive tape. Radio Two. He asked if Bill Hewlett could have a quick word and was told, yes, they were only rehearsing at the moment.

‘Mr Hewlett, this is Detective-Sergeant McWhirter of Scotland Yard.' He had a moment's doubt; should he say ‘New Scotland Yard' these days?

But Bill Hewlett was not in a mood to notice irregularities. He sounded frightened as he asked in what way he could help. Illegal it might be, but impersonating a police officer brought results.

‘This is just a routine enquiry, Mr Hewlett. You may remember an unfortunate incident some weeks ago when a young lady called Andrea Gower committed suicide.' Better stick to talk of suicide; no need to raise even more suspicions.

‘Yes.' Bill Hewlett sounded properly awed.

‘Well, please understand that there are no grounds for suspicion in the lady's death, but I'm afraid I do have to check out the movements of various people connected with her. Now I've been investigating her estranged husband, Keith Nicholls.'

‘Ah.' Bill Hewlett didn't sound at all happy.

‘So far I've checked with one or two people and received conflicting reports. Some say he was in the studio all of the evening in question working on the . . .
Dave Sheridan Late Night Show
, have I got that right?'

‘Yes,' said Bill Hewlett miserably.

‘Now I believe you were working on that show that evening?'

‘Yes,' said Bill Hewlett even more miserably.

‘I wonder if you could confirm that you were with him all evening. Well, the time I'm really concerned about is the hour between nine and ten when the show started.'

‘Mmm.'

‘I'm sorry? Was he there?'

‘No, he wasn't.'

Charles Paris kept the elation out of Detective-Sergeant McWhirter's voice. ‘Oh, really?'

‘No. You must understand, one or two other people have asked me that, you know, people inside the BBC, and I've said Keith was there. I just thought, you know, that he had enough problems at the moment, without getting into trouble at work for not being where he should have been.'

As Steve had suggested, honour among SMs. ‘Very loyal,' said Detective-Sergeant McWhirter laconically.

‘I'm sorry, it just seemed –'

Charles took pity. ‘No, I think you did right. There's no need to make extra troubles for him, as you say. In fact, if anyone else – anyone else unofficial, that is – asks you again, I'd stick to your story.'

‘Oh, thank you.' Bill Hewlett sounded pathetically relieved.

‘And, by the same token,' the detective said cunningly, ‘I wouldn't mention my call to anyone either.'

‘Oh no, no, I won't. If that's it, I'd better go. We're about to record.' Charles Paris put the phone down with some satisfaction. He had got his old script back, but with two excellent rewrites.

Brenda flushed when he walked into Nita Lawson's office, confirming his worst fears. And when he stated the purpose of his visit, he felt he was only adding fuel to her fire. Its importance to him was very real, but he knew it didn't sound convincing when he said, ‘I've got a tape of music here, and I wondered if you'd be able to name some of the titles of the numbers.'

‘Oh,
Ten for a Tune,
is it?' asked Brenda with – horror of horrors – a wink.

He laughed uneasily, realising that that probably made him sound like the eager lover, confused at first sight of the desired object. Under the circumstances, he feared that absolutely anything he did was liable to similar misinterpretation. Still, he had to press on. Brenda worked with light music all the time and, if there was some code hidden in the sequence of tunes, she would certainly be able to provide the key to it.

‘Well, all right, I'll see what I can do,' she went on. ‘But I'll have to get on with my work at the same time. Most of us restrict playing games to outside office hours.' Lest the ambiguity of the final sentence should be lost, it was reinforced by another wink.

‘Oh certainly, thank you.' Charles went across to the office music centre. ‘Shall I put it in?'

‘Yes.' Brenda picked up two square black boxes from the floor, put them on her desk and started to empty out records.

‘I don't seem to be getting any sound from the tape.'