Charles bit back the actor’s instinctive question (‘If there is a second pilot, am I likely to be booked again?’), and said, ‘So he stood to gain very directly from Barrett’s death. We should definitely investigate Bob Garston.’
‘Him first?’
‘I’m not sure. I think we should try and see all three of them. Who’s going to be the easiest to get in touch with?’
Sydnee laughed. ‘Tim Dyer. He’s desperate for someone to go and talk to him about his bloody car.’
Charles Paris grinned round at his research team. ‘Then maybe we should start with Tim Dyer.’
Chapter Seven
Sydnee drove an old red MG Midget, fast. The hood was up, against the autumn weather, and she and Charles travelled in their noisy cocoon out along the A3 towards Petersfield, where their first suspect lived.
‘Are you sure he’s not going to think it odd, me coming along with you?’ asked Charles.
‘I don’t think he’ll give it a second thought. The only thing on his mind is that bloody Austin Metro.’
‘Is that what you said you wanted to talk about when you rang?’
‘No, I didn’t say it, but I think that’s the way he took it. Wouldn’t occur to him that there was anything else to talk about.’
‘Could be the second pilot.’
‘Could be, I suppose. Though, if the truth were known, he’s very unlikely to be involved in that.’
‘Oh?’
‘It’s a matter of research time. It’s difficult getting contestants, but it was more difficult setting up the rest of the programme. Probably be better to leave all that intact and just slot in four new contestants.’
‘What, leave the rest of the show just as it was?’ asked Charles, scenting another booking.
‘Yes. Assuming the powers-that-be don’t want major changes in the format.’
‘Are they likely to?’
‘Who can say? John Mantle and the American copyright holders are watching the tape through today.’
Charles grimaced. ‘Fairly grisly experience.’
‘Only the end. Up to there the show ran as it should. Very few recording breaks, it was fine. John Mantle won’t waste the recording. I mean, for him it’ll be great, having the luxury of a second pilot. Another bite of the cherry, a chance to make sure it’s all dead right.’
Charles winced. ‘Dead right.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Has it been decided yet whether Bob Garston will host it second time around?’
‘Not definitely, no. I think it’s a strong possibility.’
‘Hmm.’ Charles fell silent, his mind circling round the murder, round the possible motives and opportunities of its perpetrator.
They reached the outskirts of Petersfield. ‘Could you reach into my handbag? There’s a sheet of W.E.T. notepaper where I wrote down the directions he gave me on the phone.’
Charles complied and guided Sydnee towards their quarry. ‘What does he do?’ he asked, as they turned into the road where Tim Dyer lived.
‘He said on his form that he was a computer programmer.’
‘You sound sceptical.’
‘Yes. Just something about him sounds warning bells. Also, he said he’d be at home any time I cared to call.’
‘You mean you don’t think he has a job?’
‘Wouldn’t surprise me.’
‘One of the unemployment figures? Made redundant, and too proud to admit it?’
‘Possible.’ She didn’t sound convinced. ‘Except that computers are one of our few boom industries. Wouldn’t imagine there are that many redundant programmers.’
‘So what do you think?’
‘I think he may have slipped through our net. I think he claimed to have a job just to put us off the scent.’
‘I’m still not with you.’
‘I rather suspect that Tim Dyer is one of those characters who all researchers try to spot and weed out. If I’m right, I’ll kick myself for not having recognised it earlier.’
Charles was mystified. ‘What sort of character?’
Sydnee stopped the car outside a neat, Thirties semi. In the drive stood a brand-new, gleaming Vauxhall Cavalier. She looked at Charles with a little grin as she pulled on the handbrake and replied, ‘A professional contestant.’
It was clear as soon as they got inside the small front room that Sydnee had been right. Tim Dyer made no attempt to disguise what he did for a living. Indeed, he exulted in it. Perhaps, having played his part in If The Cap Fits and having, to his mind, won an Austin Metro from W.E.T., he saw no further necessity for secrecy.
He indicated a table, on which papers and open reference books lay between piles of cardboard coupons. ‘Doing another of the soap powder ones,’ he announced airily. ‘Pretty simple General Knowledge. Difficult bit’s always the tie-breaker.’
‘Tie-breaker?’
‘Bit at the end. Always a variation on the old “I LIKE THIS PRODUCT BECAUSE. . in not more than ten words”. Mind you, there is a knack to them,’ he added smugly.
‘You’ve won in the past?’ asked Charles. As Sydnee had predicted, Tim had registered no surprise, or indeed interest, at his presence.
‘Just a few times.’ Tim Dyer smiled indulgently at the understatement. ‘Out of these I’ve won fifty pounds a week for life, three music centres, a food processor, a sailing dinghy and a fortnight’s holiday for two in Benidorm.’
‘Good God. What do you do with all that lot?’
‘Keep some. Sell a few. Though selling’s always a pity, because you drop a lot on the price, even when it’s brand-new. I prefer barter. I’ve got a good barter deal going with my local electrical shop.’
‘What did you do about the fortnight’s holiday for two in Benidorm?’
‘Oh, I went on that.’
‘Nice break for you and the wife.’
‘I’m divorced,’ said Tim Dyer. ‘No, I went, and sold the other half of the holiday to someone I used to work with. Had to drop the price a bit, but did all right. Trouble is, very few of the companies who put up these prizes are ready to give cash equivalent.’
‘Do you enter for everything?’ asked Charles, bemused.
‘Everything I hear about. And everything where there’s a bit of skill involved. Like I say, there’s a knack to it. The ones where it’s pure lottery, it’s not worth bothering, I’ve got no advantage over anyone else. Don’t do any of those. . well, except the Sun Bingo and Times Portfolio. Check them first thing every morning before I start on the rest.’
‘And you really find there are enough of them to keep you going?’
‘You bet. In fact, I don’t have time to do them all. I work weekends too, you know,’ Tim Dyer concluded piously.
‘So you just sit here and — ’
‘Have to spend a lot of time in the supermarkets, checking the new promotions that are coming up, seeing what the competitions are, getting entry forms, coupons, buying up relevant stock.’
‘Relevant stock?’
‘Come and have a look.’
He led them through into what had presumably been intended as a dining room. But it contained no table and chairs. Instead, it was crammed full like a supermarket warehouse.
Tim Dyer gave them a conducted tour. He pointed to a ceiling-high pile of Cook-in-a-Bag Curry boxes, from each of which a side panel had been neatly cut. ‘Did all right out of that. Won a three-week holiday for two to India.’
‘Did you go on it?’
‘No, sold it through the local paper.’ He indicated a wall of food cans, none of which had any labels. ‘Four different competitions, those were. Canned mange-touts, new instant custard launch, lychees in syrup and chilli con carne. Got a yoghourt-maker, cut-glass decanter set, tennis racket and two hair-dryers. Sold them all.’
‘Why no labels?’
He looked at Charles as if he were dealing with a moron. ‘They’ve got the coupons on. You have to get them off.’
‘Well, how can you tell whether it’s instant custard or chilli con carne?’
‘You can’t. I just open one and hope for the best.’
‘You do eat them?’