It took him about a minute to come to the conclusion that Bill Peaky had not actually been very good. There was a freshness of attack in the performance and some clever business with the guitar, but otherwise it was run-of-the-mill stuff. The well-loved television personality’s mixed metaphor about ‘one of the brightest flames that the entertainment firmament has seen this century so sadly extinguished so soon’ (Good God, who wrote his stuff?) was just another example of showbiz hyperbole.
Having formed his own opinion of the late comedian’s merits, Charles looked round to see what effect the clip was having on the potential murder suspects. Walter Proud was gazing at the screen with the proper maudlin awe. Lennie Barber, bored and slightly irritated, was modelling the inside of his bread roll into a dachshund. Miffy Turtle, helping Carla back to her seat in the subdued lighting, was not looking at the screen.
But on Paul Royce the effect was profound. The boy sat forward rigid in his seat. His face was set in a hard line of hatred.
When the last award had caused its studied surprise and the last drop of sentiment had been wrung from the occasion and the television recording had been cleared (presumably if there had turned out to be anything wrong with it, the whole process would have to be repeated and everyone be surprised all over again), the crowd of very wonderful people started to disperse. Charles hurried across to the BBC table, fearful of losing his quarry. But on his way he almost bumped into Carla Pratt. She was standing forlorn; Miffy Turtle was a little way away, talking to some prosperous-looking old men with cigars.
She reacted with some shock when she saw Charles. ‘Mr. Paris. I didn’t expect to see you here.’
‘I didn’t expect to be here.’
She looked round quickly to see that no one was listening and then asked in a soft, urgent voice, ‘Have you got any further on. . you know, what we talked about?’
‘I think so, yes.’
‘Have you found Janine? Have you put the police on to her?’
Oh yes, of course. When he had spoken to Carla, it had seemed certain that Janine was the guilty party. His mind had been through so many suspicions since then, that it seemed a long time ago. ‘Yes, I found her. But no, I’m fairly certain she didn’t kill your husband.’
‘You mean, it was an accident after all?’
Charles shook his head. ‘No, the further I get into the case, the more convinced I become that he was murdered.’
‘So you mean you suspect someone else?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who?’
‘I can’t really tell you yet. Quite soon, I hope.’
‘You must tell me as soon as you have anything definite. Ring me at any time of the day or night, please. You must. I really want to know what happened. Let me know even before you get in touch with the police.’
There was no questioning the sincerity of her emotion now. She was deeply upset. Charles felt quite guilty for suspecting her before. Obviously the emotion of the occasion and the sight of her husband on screen had churned her up considerably.
‘I’ll let you know,’ he said soothingly. ‘I promise.’
Carla turned her head quickly to see Miffy Turtle approaching. With a look of complicity to Charles, she moved off with her late husband’s manager.
He took Paul Royce to the Montrose, a little drinking club round the back of the Haymarket, which was one of his regular haunts. The boy seemed subdued, almost resigned. He hadn’t asked Charles what it was all about, just followed along unquestioning.
They both drank large Scotches. Charles decided to leap in with both feet. ‘Paul, I’ve seen Janine.’
The name prompted only a slight reaction. Paul Royce seemed to be dulled by depression. ‘So?’
‘I know about you and her. I know that you were living together.’
‘So? What are you doing — taking on the role of my Moral Tutor. There’s no law against people living together.’
‘No, but there are laws against beating people up.’
This didn’t produce the shock reaction Charles had hoped for; just a sardonic smile. ‘Listen, Charles, I don’t know what your game is, but why don’t you mind your own bloody business? You know nothing about my relationship with Janine and, if I did beat her up, you can rest assured that I had a damned good reason for doing so.’
‘You mean her affair with Bill Peaky?’
This did shake the writer, but he recovered himself quickly. ‘My, you know everything, don’t you?’
‘I know quite a lot, Paul. I know, for example, that Bill Peaky was electrocuted.’
‘Yes. That’s my idea of poetic justice.’ Royce spoke with enthusiasm. ‘That’s what he deserved, the little sod. Not only did he have the nerve to reject some bloody good material I sent him, he also seduced Janine. Electrocution was too good for him.’
‘You hated him?’ Charles asked gently.
‘You bet I hated him.’
Charles paused, planning how he was going to play the scene. ‘Paul, there’s something else I know too.’
‘What?’
‘That Bill Peaky didn’t die by accident.’
‘You mean that somebody. . did away with him?’
‘Exactly that. Somebody deliberately switched the wires in the cable to his amplifier, so that his guitar would become live. Somebody who hated him very much did that. And he did it during the interval of the show that afternoon.’
Paul Royce looked at Charles blankly. It was impossible to gauge what thoughts lived behind the writer’s sleepy, depressive’s eyes. Charles pressed home his advantage. ‘I also know, Paul, that you are a hi-fi expert and would have had no difficulty in altering the wiring. I know you went backstage at the interval that day in Hunstanton. You’ve just told me how much you hated Peaky and, having seen what you did to Janine, I don’t find it difficult to believe that you are capable of killing.’
There was a long silence before Paul Royce spoke. When he did, his voice was soft, almost amused. ‘I see. So that’s it. Well, I never did. And I mean that literally too. I never did. Sure, I hated Peaky. I was delighted that he was killed. I don’t make any pretence about that. But no, I didn’t kill him.’ He mused for a moment. ‘Funny, it never occurred to me that he might have been murdered. I thought his death was just serendipity, divine intervention to show that, in spite of the bad press He tends to get these days, God still has a sense of justice.
‘However. . since you think I murdered him, I had better produce my alibi, had I not? Yes, I went backstage that afternoon in Hunstanton. I went backstage with Walter Proud, Dickie Peck and Miffy Turtle — dear God, sounds like the Seven Dwarfs. We got to Bill Peaky’s dressing room and he wasn’t there. Miffy and Walter went off to find him. I stayed in the dressing room with Dickie Peck, failing to find any subject in which we were both interested, in fact failing to find any conversation at all. I wasn’t out of his sight, though, for the whole interval. You can check, if you like.’
‘I will,’ asserted Charles vehemently, but the vehemence was reaction against the toppling of yet another of his houses of cards. Paul Royce was an unpleasant young man, he had treated Janine Bentley unforgivably, but he had not killed Bill Peaky.
A new thought suddenly came rushing into the vacuum. ‘Tell me, when Peaky came into the dressing room, were Walter and Miffy with him?’
‘No. Walter came back a few minutes later. He had been to the lavatory. Miffy didn’t come back. I got the impression he was rather. . pardon the pun. . miffed at the presence of Dickie Peck.’
‘I see. Yes, he was Peaky’s manager and just when his client was about to hit the big time. .’
‘The big boys started to move in.’ Paul Royce finished the sentence for him. He rose to his feet and spoke with heavy sarcasm. ‘Well, this has been delightful. Next time you want to accuse me of murder, don’t hesitate to get in touch. I’m afraid I must be going now. If I get into the habit of drinking whisky all afternoon, I’m going to end up as a debauched middle-aged incompetent.’