‘Ah, good evening.’ He plumped for the Glaswegian accent he’d used in a Thirty-Minute Theatre (‘Pointless’ — The Times). ‘Is that Mr Marius Steen’s residence?’
‘He does live here, yes, but-’
‘It’s Detective-Sergeant McWhirter from Scotland Yard. I’m sorry to bother you at this time of night. Is it possible to speak to Mr Steen?’
‘I’m afraid not. Mr Steen is at his home in the country. Can I help at all?’
Charles hadn’t planned beyond finding out what he wanted to know and had to think quickly. ‘Ah yes, perhaps you can. It’s only a small thing. Um.’ Playing for time. Then a sudden flash of inspiration. ‘We’re just checking on various Rolls-Royce owners. There’s a number-plate racket going on at the moment. I wonder if you could give me Mr Steen’s registration.’
The discreet voice did so. ‘Thank you very much. That’s all I wanted to know. I’m so sorry to have troubled you. Goodbye.’
As Charles put the phone down, he tried to work out what on earth a number-plate racket might be. It was quite meaningless, but at least he’d got the required information.
He tried the Berkshire number. The phone rang for about thirty seconds, then after a click, a voice gave the number and said, ‘This is Marius Steen speaking on one of these recorded answering contraptions. I am either out at the moment or busy working on some scripts and don’t want to talk right now. If your message is business ring the office-’ he gave the number ‘-on Monday, if it’s really urgent, you can leave a message on this machine, and if you want money, get lost.’ A pause. ‘Hello. Are you still there? Right then, after this whiney noise, tell me what it is.’ Then the tone, then silence.
The voice was striking. Charles felt he must have heard Steen being interviewed at some stage on radio or television, because it was very familiar. And distinctive. The Polish origins had been almost eroded, but not quite; they had been overlaid with heavy Cockney, which, in turn, had been flattened into a classier accent as Steen climbed the social ladder. As an actor, Charles could feel all the elements in the voice and begin to feel something of the man. He dialled the number again, just to hear the voice and find out what else it could tell him.
The message itself was odd. The first reaction to ‘if you want money, get lost’ was that Steen must be referring to potential blackmailers, but then Charles realised how unlikely that was. Any of Steen’s friends might ring him, so the message had to have a more general application. Most likely it was just a joke. After all, Steen was notorious for his success with money. And notoriously tight-fisted. Tight as a bottle-top, as Harry Chiltern had said. For him to make that sort of joke on the recording was in keeping with the impression Charles was beginning to form of his character.
And in spite of everything, that impression was good. Somehow Steen’s voice seemed to confirm Jacqui’s view. It was rich with character and humour. The whole tone of the recording was of a man who was alive in the sense that mattered, the sort of man Charles felt he would like when he met him. And yet this was also the man who had recently shot a blackmailer through the head.
Somehow even that seemed suddenly consistent. A man as big as Steen shouldn’t have to be involved with little second-rate crooks like Bill Sweet. Charles felt more hopeful about his mission, certain that when he actually got to Steen, he’d be able to talk to him and clear Jacqui from his suspicions.
He tried Juliet and Miles’ phone-number in Pangbourne, but there was no reply. No doubt out for the evening talking insurance at some scampi supper. Marius Steen might be out too, but he was bound to return at some stage, and the more Charles thought about the urgency of the situation, the more he was determined to meet the man. He said good-bye to Jacqui. She refused the cold remains of the fish and chips, so he took the whole package out to the dustbin at the front of the house (no need to worry her about the Sweet murder if she didn’t know-and it appeared she didn’t). He caught a train from Paddington to Reading, arrived there to find the last train to Goring and Streatley had gone, and, after a considerable wait, got a minicab.
It was only when he was sitting in the back of the car that he actually thought of the risk he was taking. Because of a mild affection for a tart he now seemed unable even to make love to, he was going to confront a man he knew to be a murderer with copies of the photographs for which a man had been killed. Put like that, it did sound rather silly. Fortunately, there had been time to buy a half bottle of Bell’s on the way to Paddington. Charles took a long pull. And another one.
The car drew up outside a pair of high white gates. The driver charged an enormous amount of money ‘on account of the petrol crisis’ and swore when he wasn’t given a tip to match. As the car’s lights disappeared round the corner, it occurred to Charles that he should perhaps have asked the man to wait. If Steen turned nasty, he’d be glad of a quick getaway. But the thought was too late.
It was now very cold, the night air sharp and clear. The moon was nearly full and shed a watery light on the scene. It gleamed dully from a puddle outside the gates, which were high and solid, made of interlocking vertical planks. A fluorescent bell-push shone on the stone post to the right. Charles pressed it for a long time. It was now after midnight, Steen might well be in bed.
He pressed the button at intervals for about five minutes, but there was no reaction. His quarry might not be back yet, or perhaps the bell wasn’t working. Charles tried the latch of the gate; he had to push hard but eventually it yielded.
He stood on a gravel path, looking at the house. It was an enormous bungalow, with a central block roofed in green tiles which shone in the moonlight. From this main part smaller wings spread off like the suburbs of a city. To the right there was a ramp down to a double garage on basement level. The whole building was painted the frost white of cake icing and its shine echoed the gleam of the silent Thames behind. No lights showed.
The main door was sheltered by a portico with tall columns, an incongruous touch of Ancient Greece grafted on to the sprawling modern bungalow. The door itself was of dark panelled wood with a brass knocker. Since there was no sign of a bell, Charles raised the enormous ring and let it fall.
The noise shocked him. It boomed as if the whole house was a resonating chamber for the brass instrument on the door. Charles waited, then knocked again. Soon he was hammering on the door, thud after thud, a noise fit to wake the dead. But there was nothing. The rush to Berkshire had been pointless. The photographs still bulged in his inside pocket. Marius Steen was not at home.
VIII
‘It would have all been easier, Daddy,’ said Juliet, ‘if you’d had some sort of regular job. I mean, acting’s so unpredictable.’
‘No, no, darling,’ said Miles Taylerson, judiciously, ‘not all acting. I mean there are regular jobs in acting-you know, directors of repertory companies, or in serials like Coronation Street or Crossroads.’
Charles, seated in Miles’ karate-style dressing-gown, gritted his teeth and buttered, or rather battered, a piece of toast.
‘No, but, quite honestly, Daddy, I do worry about you. I mean, you haven’t set anything aside for your old age.’
‘This is my old age, so it’s too late now,’ Charles pronounced with facetious finality.
But unfortunately that was not a conversation-stopper for Miles; it was a cue. ‘Oh I wouldn’t say that, Pop’ — Charles winced-‘I mean, there are insurance plans and pension plans for people of any age. In fact in my company we have rather a good scheme. I know of a fellow of over sixty who took out a policy. Of course, the premiums are high, but it’s linked to a unit trust, so it’s with profits.’
‘I thought unit trusts were doing rather badly,’ Charles tried maliciously, but Miles was unruffled.