But he didn’t get his treat. Sally was glad to hear from him, but, sorry, she’d got a friend coming round that evening. Yes, maybe another time.
It shouldn’t have hurt him. They’d agreed no strings, but it did cause a pang. The idea of a completely casual encounter with no obligations had always appealed to him, but now it had happened he was full of the need to establish continuity, to keep it going, to make something of it.
When he’d rung off from Sally, he contemplated ringing Frances, but procrastinated once again. He wrote off the idea of female company for the evening and went back to the Montrose. If he could keep on topping up his alcohol level, he might retain his mood of confidence and face the ordeal ahead without too much introspection.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
In spite of the knowledge of inevitable confrontation, Charles still had a career to pursue. Whatever the outcome of his meeting with Geoffrey Winter, he was still meant to be recording the second batch of Bland radio commercials on the Tuesday morning. The events of the week had pushed that from his mind.
It was only when he thought about it on the Monday morning that he realized he had better check the details. After all, it was Hugo Mecken’s campaign and Hugo would not be able to conduct it from the remand wing of Brixton Prison.
He rang through to Mills Brown Mazzini and asked for Ian Compton. It turned out to be the right choice. Ian told him with no little complacency that he had taken over the Bland account. Charles wondered how much more of Hugo’s authority the young wheeler-dealer had managed to annex since the Creative Director had been off the scene.
‘I was just ringing to check that tomorrow’s still on as per arrangement. Eleven o’clock at the same studio for the rest of the radios.’
‘Yes, I should think that’ll stand, though there’s a slight question mark over it. May need some time for reworking of the copy. I’m having a meeting with Farrow this afternoon. Won’t really know for sure till after that. Can I ring you in the morning?’
‘Not quite sure of my movements.’
‘You should be. Got to always be on call in the voice-over business.’
Charles ignored the young man’s patronizing tone. ‘I’ll ring you. Either at the office in the morning or — have you a home number where I can get you this evening?’
‘Won’t be in. Got a film dubbing session at Spectrum Studios.’
‘For the Bland campaign?’ Charles pricked up his ears. Was Ian Compton getting some other voice-over work done on Bland behind his back?
‘No, no. It’s a private film production I’m working on. Doing a session with Diccon, just dubbing the voice.’
‘Oh, I see.’ It was hard to know whether to believe it or not. Ian Compton wouldn’t hesitate to lie if it served his ends. On the other hand, he did work on a lot of other projects apart from Bland. ‘How is Diccon?’
‘Oh, he’s in a pretty lousy mood at the moment.’
‘What, not getting work?’
‘You must be joking. That cookie is one of the busiest voices in the business. Clears twenty grand a year easy. No, he seems very cut up about Hugo’s wife. I think he had quite a thing for her.’
‘She was a very nice lady.’
‘So I hear. It seems everyone thought so except Hugo.’ Ian did not attempt to disguise the note of triumph in his voice. He was giving a reminder that Hugo Mechen was no longer a challenge to the bright young whiz-kid of Mills Brown Mazzini.
Charles decided that the confrontation should take place in Geoffrey’s office. It would be quiet, no danger of interruptions. He told Gerald what he was going to do. Gerald disapproved, but Charles wanted someone to know in case he didn’t return from the interview.
It was about a quarter to eleven on the Monday morning when he entered the building in Villiers Street. He mounted the stairs with one part of his mind immobilized by fright and the other irreverently providing sound track music and offering Sydney Carton’s dramatic lines for use when mounting scaffolds to the sneers of unruly mobs.
All of which build-up was somewhat wasted when he found the door of Geoffrey Winter Associates firmly locked.
There was no light on inside. His mind, still running on romantic rails, summoned up the image of Geoffrey Winter sprawled over his desk, the smoking revolver clutched in his hand, his brains spattered on the wall behind. The villain who knew he had been found out and who had done the decent thing.
Wisely recognizing that this image was a little fanciful, he started knocking on the door to attract attention. A light tap produced nothing from inside, so he tried a more robust blow and then heavy hammering.
The last did raise a reaction, but it came from the floor below. An aggrieved young man with elastic bands holding up his shirt sleeves came and complained. So far as he knew, Mr. Winter wasn’t in. He hadn’t heard him coming up the stairs that morning. And surely the fact that there had been no reply to ‘that bloody awful din you’re making’ indicated that there was nobody in the office.
Charles apologized and left the building. But he was too keyed up to drop it there. He had steeled himself to a meeting with Geoffrey Winter that day and somehow he had to arrange it.
He went into Charing Cross Station and rang the Winters’ number from a call-box.
Vee answered. That in itself was strange. If she was a teacher, she should surely be in class at that time. Also she sounded even tenser and more emotional than usual. She had snatched up the phone on the first ring.
‘Could I. speak to Geoffrey, please? It’s Charles Paris.’
‘No, I’m sorry, he’s not here.’ She sounded near to tears.
‘Do you know when he’s likely to be back? I’ve been to his office and I couldn’t find him there.’
‘No, I’ve no idea. He’s…’ She stopped, leaving the word dramatically in the air. Charles was conscious of her acting instincts vying with genuine emotion.
‘Is he likely to be in this evening? Do you know?’
‘No. I don’t. I — ’ Again she cut short, uncertain whether to confide more. Charles felt a new panic. Had Geoffrey done a bunk?
But Vee could not keep her secrets to herself. In the same way that she had confided Geoffrey’s supposed infertility to Charles, she couldn’t resist the dramatic and martyring implications of her latest piece of news. ‘Oh, what the hell. I might as well tell you. The whole country will no doubt know soon enough. Geoffrey’s been arrested.’
‘Arrested?’
‘Yes, the police came round this morning before he left for work.’
Charles murmured some suitable words about how sorry he was and how sure he was that it would soon all be cleared up and how it must all be a ghastly mistake, but he had stopped thinking what he was saying. He concluded the conversation and then walked slowly, numbly, down to the Embankment.
He looked into the murky, swirling Thames. He tried to tell himself all kinds of other things, but ultimately he couldn’t deny that he felt profoundly disappointed.
So that was it. The police must have been following his investigations in exact parallel. They must have worked out in just the same way how Geoffrey had contrived his alibi and managed to leave his room for the vital forty minutes.
Or no, perhaps he was flattering himself. The police had probably far outstripped his feeble investigations. They must have done. They wouldn’t make an arrest without convincing evidence. He felt diminished and unnecessary.
He tried to argue himself out of this selfish mood. After all, what did it matter who had found the truth, so long as it had been revealed? Hugo could now go free, that was the main thing.
It didn’t help. Depressingly he thought how little Hugo cared whether he was free or not. The release might well be a licence for him to commit suicide or, more slowly, drink himself to death.
Still, right had triumphed. He tried to feel glad about it.
With an effort he drew himself away from the river and started back to the station. Better ring Gerald and bring him up to date. Though if charges against his client were about to be dropped, he’d probably know already.