Fortunately this uncertainty was settled by the producer’s next words. ‘Of course you must come back and do your Pole, but it won’t just be the two of you. We’re going to open it out quite a lot, bring in a few other younger character boys and girls for the sketches. I think it’s going to be very big. Look, as I say, the pilot’s in the studio in six weeks, so we’ll want you available for filming from about the third of next month. I checked availability with Maurice and he didn’t seem to think there was a lot in the book, unless it was something you had set up and not told him about.’
‘Well. .’ At such moments Charles was always tempted to play hard to get, mumble mysteriously about talk of a film, possibility of a telly series and so on. Nobly he restrained himself. ‘No, that should be fine.’
‘OK. Well, I’ll put the booking through and my casting director will be in touch with Maurice. Listen, as it’s such a rush job, I want to get talking about it as soon as possible. Now Lennie Barber’s doing his act at a club this week. Booking he got after The Alexander Harvey Show. The Leaky Bucket in Sutton, don’t know if you know it?’
‘No.’
‘Well, I was thinking of going, sort of to see what kind of a night-club act he’s doing these days, talk through some ideas for the show. Also getting a couple of writers along who I think could be the right combination for the show. Steve Clinton and Paul Royce, do you know them?’
‘I’ve met Paul Royce. Never heard of Steve Clinton.’
‘Dear oh dear, where do you hide yourself? Steve’s one of the biggest, names in the comedy field. Writer for Phil O’Neill, for a start. And he did that sit-com for Thames, the one set on a cross-Channel ferry, called A Bit on Each Side.’
‘Sorry, I’ve never heard of it. And what’s a sit-com? Is it one of these chairs with a chamber-pot incorporated?’
‘No, you’re having me on, Charles. Sit-com — situation comedy. Anyway, do you fancy joining us for the trip? Lennie’s on about eleven, so it could be a late night. I’m meeting up with the boys and their agent, Virginia Moult, in the bar here at about nine, so’s we can have a few drinks and then get a car down. Could be a good evening.’ Beneath the big-time image, there was a lonely appeal in Walter’s voice.
‘Sounds interesting. I’d like to come.’
‘Great. It’ll continue your education. Don’t you worry, Charles, we’ll soon have you understanding how comedy works.’
After the conversation, Charles was conscious of the opposing pulls of his two careers, as an actor and as a detective. He knew that the mild elation he felt was because Walter had offered him a job, not because his suspicions about the producer as a murderer were hardening into certainties. Oh well, time enough to check out his theories of Bill Peaky’s death. The main thing was, it was work.
The Leaky Bucket in Sutton was one of those little clubs which closes and re-opens every six months or so under a different name. Its existence was based on the fallacy that people in the London suburbs won’t make the effort to go up to town and want a night spot on their doorstep. A relay of new owners and managers discovered for themselves the falsity of this premise, in their own time, with their own money.
In its recent incarnations it had been The Horseshoe, a drinking club, Kickers, a discotheque, The Closet, a gay club (much to the fury of the local residents), The Safety-Pin, a punk-rock club, and The 39 Steppes, a club with an emphasis on vodka and Russian cuisine. This last venture had only survived a fortnight, which was short even by the standards of the premises.
But now a new owner of unfailing (and unjustified) optimism had reopened it as a cabaret club, with a resident live group for dancing and ‘the best of the world’s entertainers’ (to quote from the club’s literature) for entertainment. The people of Sutton greeted the new incarnation with the same apathy they had lavished on its previous manifestations and the new owner started to lose money in exactly the same way as his predecessors.
However, it was a Friday night when Walter Proud and party entered the premises and there was a reasonably good turn-out. As they swam down into the smoky and red-lit interior, most of those present were dancing vigorously to the pounding of the live group which, to Charles’ surprise, turned out to be none other than those stars of the Hunstanton bill, Mixed Bathing.
The intervening weeks had given them nothing more in the way of style, though their trade-mark, volume, was more noticeable in the confined space.
The club was not so full that a table could not be found for them and the club’s new (and soon to be impoverished) owner, who had been, tipped off about their coming by a phone-call from Walter, greeted them and presented a bottle of indifferent champagne ‘with the compliments of the management’. At least Charles gathered from his fulsome face that that was what he was saying; the noise of the group made the words completely inaudible.
It also precluded the possibility of much conversation among the new arrivals and, to Charles’ relief, even silenced Steve Clinton. It had become apparent in the television company bar and in the car on the way down that he was one of those writers who is a performer manque and makes up for this by telling jokes all the time. Steve Clinton could be guaranteed to be the life and soul of any party, a characteristic which Charles found about as appealing as a slug in a salad.
Paul Royce, by contrast, was very quiet. All the ideas went on in his head and were only given life by being written down. This, Walter Proud had confided in Charles, was why he thought they were going to be very big writing together. All the great writing teams, he asserted, were made up of an extrovert and an introvert. Walter also had theories about the combination of experience and youth, which he thought would be ideal to produce the right material for Lennie Barber. Virginia Moult, the agent who represented both writers (Clinton for some years, Royce as of very recently), also thought it would make a good team and was confident that the coupling would pull up Paul Royce from beginner’s rates to a much more reasonable level of script payment. In fact, she announced, she always tried to start new writers in tandem with more experienced ones because this confused the television companies’ Copyright Departments in discussions of money.
Charles found Virginia Moult interesting He looked at her as they sat silent amid the thundering music of the club. Short hair, had been all black, now streaked with grey. Prominent, determined nose. Hard set of mouth belied by unexpectedly full lips. Shortish, large bust, probably just turned forty. Wedding ring, Very tough, but not unfeminine. Interesting.
Walter Proud had entered the club with a self-important air and looked around as if he expected to be recognized all the time. He liked the big showbiz bit, television producer appearing in little-known venue, researching entertainment at grassroots level. The manager’s obsequious gesture with the champagne coincided exactly with his self-image.
Walter’s craning round was eventually rewarded by the sight of someone he knew. At a small table near the group’s speakers sat Miffy Turtle, deep in conversation with an emaciated figure whom Charles recognized with some shock. It was Chox Morton from the Hunstanton inquest.
The initial reaction of amazement at this coincidence was tempered when Charles considered that, as the group’s manager and roadie respectively, Miffy and Chox were quite likely to be seen at Mixed Bathing’s venues. And also, when he thought about it, since Miffy also handled Lennie Barber’s bookings, it made sense that here, as at Hunstanton, the comedian and the group should appear on the same bill. No doubt Miffy Turtle had arranged some sort of package deal with the club.