‘And the only thing on the set big enough to hide you would have been the spinning wheel.’ Suddenly Charles knew he was right. ‘You were behind that wheel . . . tampering with it.’
‘No, I wasn’t.’ But the denial carried no conviction.
‘Wouldn’t take much, would it? All you needed to do was fix a counterweight on the wheel, directly opposite the crown, and that would guarantee it would always come to rest with the crown overhead. Simple.’
Charles knew from the man’s expression that he had inadvertently hit on the truth. Confidently, he asked one final question. ‘You didn’t see anyone else in the studio after I left?’
Tim Dyer shook his head miserably and whispered, ‘I went out straight after you. Didn’t see anyone else.’
There was a long silence. Then Sydnee rose to her feet. ‘Better be going, I suppose.’
Charles got up too, and they moved towards the hall. Just before they left the room, Sydnee looked back and said, ‘And, if you want to take up that point about cheating over the car, I suggest you get in touch with our Legal Department.’
Tim Dyer did not respond. He stayed crumpled in his chair, looking as comically guilty as a schoolboy with stolen jam on his face.
SYDNEE RANG CHARLES the next morning. ‘You were right,’ she said.
‘About what in particular?’
‘Tim Dyer trying to fix the wheel. I spoke to Sylvian this morning.’
‘Who?’
‘Sylvian de Beaune, the designer. I mentioned what we thought might have happened, and he went to check. The set’s in store, you see, waiting for the definite go-ahead on the second pilot. Anyway, there it was – small polythene bag filled with sand, stuck on the back of the wheel with sticky tape, just opposite the crown. As you said.’
‘Quite a feat of improvisation, to sort that out in the studio.’
‘I think Mr Dyer went prepared.’
‘Took the sandbag with him, you mean?’
‘Wouldn’t surprise me. As we know, he’s a
very dedicated
competitor. He knew the format of the show. He knew about the wheel. I think he planned it in advance.’
‘Bloody nerve. Where’s the traditional British spirit of fair play?’
‘That was invented before game shows.’
‘Yes. I suppose no one could have predicted the day when ritual humiliation would become a participant sport.’ Charles chuckled. ‘God, Tim would have been furious if he’d doctored the wheel and then someone else had got to the final.’
‘He was pretty confident it was going to be him. As he kept saying, there’s a knack to these things. He knew what he was doing.’
‘Hmm. Presumably, if the show had run its course, he would have won his Austin Metro with no questions asked.’
‘Yes. Until you found out about his cheating, there was a possibility that he would have got it, anyway.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. All that guff I quoted from our Legal Department was sheer improvisation. I did consult them, but they were going to look for precedents and come back to me. So, you see, Charles, your quick thinking has saved W.E.T. a few thousand quid.’
‘Good. Not that I think W.E.T. needs the money, but I would really resent the idea of that little wimp Dyer getting it.’
‘I agree. Sylvian, incidentally, was furious.’
‘About what?’
‘The idea of someone tampering with his set. It was his first big one, you see. He’d been assistant on a good few, but this was the first on which he was going to get a sole credit.’
‘I thought he looked rather nervous all day.’
‘He certainly did. Kept fiddling about and rearranging things. Anyway, he really blew his top when he saw what Tim had done. Said it ruined the game. He’s got a strangely puritanical streak, Sylvian. He was particularly annoyed, because he’d already resisted one attempt to fix the result.’
‘What – another of the contestants tried it on?’
‘No, no. It was John Mantle. He asked Sylvian to arrange that the wheel
didn’t
end up with the crown on top.’
‘Good Lord.’
‘Well, it’s an Executive Producer’s job to keep his costs down. And it
was
only a pilot. Anyway, as I say, Sylvian refused to do it.’
Charles was not given time to reflect on the perfidy of television producers as Sydnee went on, ‘So, where do we go next?’
‘Which suspect, you mean?’
‘Yes. We’ve still got Trish Osborne and Bob Garston – that is, assuming we’ve found out the full extent of Tim Dyer’s evil-doing.’
‘I’m fairly confident we have. Well, of the other two suspects, Bob Garston at the moment seems much the more suspicious. Trish Osborne had very little opportunity to put the cyanide in the glass during the vital twenty minutes, whereas Bob was certainly around the studio area. He also stood to gain directly from Barrett’s death . . .’
‘
Has
gained from it already. Heard this morning he’s been definitely booked to host the second pilot.’
‘Has he? There was also that strange conversation Tim Dyer overheard . . .’
‘About infidelity . . .’
‘Yes,
marital
infidelity . . . Could have meant that Bob’s wife had been unfaithful. Has got a wife, has he?’
‘Oh yes. She’s an I.T.N. newscaster. I wonder who she was supposed to have been unfaithful with . . .?
‘Be wonderfully neat if it turned out to be Barrett Doran. Which would also tie in with Bob’s line about “finding it difficult to work with the bastard under the circumstances”.’
‘Yes,’ Sydnee agreed excitedly. ‘And that would give Bob another reason for getting rid of his rival.’
‘All interesting speculation. Well, the person he was talking to, and who obviously knew what he was on about, was Joanie Bruton’s husband. I think we should put Trish Osborne in cold storage for a while, and try and find out more from Roger Bruton.’
‘Probably mean talking to Joanie too. It’s not often they’re seen apart.’
‘That’s fine. She may know even more about it. The question is: How do we make the approach? Do you claim you want to talk about the second pilot? And, if so, how do you explain me away? Tim Dyer was too obsessed about his car to take much notice, but Joanie Bruton’s no fool. I’m afraid she’s likely to be rather more observant.’
‘Yes.’ There was a silence from the other end of the phone, while Sydnee made up her mind. ‘I think the best thing is to tell them the truth.’
‘Tell them that we don’t think Chippy killed Barrett and we’re trying to find out who did?’ Charles asked, amazed.
‘Yes. Why not? After all, they’ve both got rock-solid alibis for the relevant twenty minutes, so there’s no way either of them could have been involved in the crime. Also, as you say, Joanie’s a shrewd lady. I think she’d respect us more for telling her the truth. And we needn’t worry about her discretion. By the nature of her work, she’s used to keeping secrets.’
‘What about Roger?’
‘He does what she does. No, the more I think about it, the more I’m convinced we should tell them everything. Joanie’s a bright lady, and very understanding. I think she could help us a lot.’
‘Okay. If you’re sure.’
‘I am. Leave it to me, Charles. I’ll set it up.’
The house in Dulwich Village, outside which the MG drew up, was large, probably Edwardian. Its exterior had been recently decorated. A new Volvo was parked on the paved semicircle at the front.
The porch in which they stood as Sydnee pressed the bell-push was wooden-framed with the original windows of coloured glass. The red and white diamond tiles underfoot had been cleaned that morning.
Roger Bruton opened the door. Charles was again struck by his pallor which, combined with the wispy hair around his bald patch, gave him a slightly effete appearance. His voice, soft and precise, did nothing to dispel this impression.
‘Good morning. You’re right on time. I’m afraid Joanie hasn’t quite finished her correspondence, but she’ll be with us very shortly. Come through.’
He led them across the tiled hallway and opened a stripped pine door into a large front room, which could be doubled in size when the folding partition doors were opened. A dumpy sofa and two dumpy armchairs gave a feeling of expensively casual comfort. A window-seat in the bay at the front was littered with apparently random cushions. Books were stacked with careful asymmetry on the shelves either side of the fireplace, in whose grate a Coalite fire glowed scarlet. Invitations and jocular cards were stuck into the frame of the high mirror above the mantelpiece. Everything demonstrated that perfection of cleanliness only to be found in a house without children.
‘Do sit down, please.’ Roger gestured to the armchairs. Charles and Sydnee appropriated one each. They were both aware of a woman’s voice talking rapidly and incisively on the other side of the partition.
Roger explained it immediately. ‘Joanie dictates her letters into a tape-recorder. Then her secretary comes in in the afternoon and types them up. It’s the only way we can keep ahead. I’m afraid, what with the magazine and the radio spot and now the television show, the mail-bag just gets bigger every day.’
‘Actually,’ said Charles, ‘it was you we wanted to talk to, at least initially.’
Roger Bruton looked startled at the suggestion. ‘I think it’d be better if you talked to both of us together. After all, I wasn’t involved in the show at W.E.T., that was Joanie’s bit. I was just sort of hanging around.’
‘Which must have given you an ideal chance to see what was going on.’
‘Oh, no. I’m not observant,’ said Roger Bruton, with a self-depreciating shrug, and then firmly changed the subject. He indicated a low table, on which stood a tray with a china coffee-set on it. Four cups and saucers were neatly laid out. ‘I’ll just fill the pot. Coffee all right for both of you?’
They confirmed that it was, and he hurried out of the room with evident relief. ‘What did I tell you?’ whispered Sydnee.
Charles might have responded to this, but the voice next door stopped, and they heard movement from behind the partition. The central door opened, and Joanie Bruton appeared. Charles rose to his feet.
‘Good morning. Sorry to have kept you.’
Seen close up, and in her own surroundings, she was strikingly pretty, tiny but perfectly proportioned. Her short hair was the kind of ash blond that melts almost imperceptibly into grey, she had a smooth, clear skin with only a tracery of lines around the eyes, and it was impossible to say what age she was. Anything from thirty to fifty. She was one of those fortunate women on whom time leaves little mark.
She briskly clattered the partition doors back, revealing a tidy office area at the other end of the room. On a red desk stood a word processor and two telephones. Colour-coded files filled one wall of shelves. It was all neatly expensive, like a home office design from a colour supplement.
She came and shook their hands. ‘Sorry, there wasn’t a great deal of opportunity to get to know either of you on the studio day.’ She flopped gracefully on to the dumpy sofa and gestured Charles to sit, too. Turning her shrewd blue eyes on Sydnee, she said, ‘So you think the police have got the wrong murderer, love?’
‘Yes. I’m convinced that Chippy didn’t do it.’
‘Hmm. Is she a friend of yours?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s quite natural that you should disbelieve it. We all get shocked when we hear unwelcome things about our friends. Apart from anything else, it seems to cast doubt on the quality of our own judgement. Pretending the unpalatable news is not true is quite a common reaction. Are you sure you’re not just doing that, love?’
‘Quite sure. We’ve almost got proof Chippy didn’t do it.’
Quickly, Charles explained about his drinking from Barrett Doran’s glass at six-thirty. He slightly edited the truth, saying that he had just wanted to check the rumour going around that the host always had gin on the set, but Joanie’s appraising eyes seemed to see through the subterfuge.
She looked pensive when he’d finished. ‘It never occurred to me to look for any other explanation of the death . . . I mean, once I’d heard the girl had been arrested. I suppose we can rule out the possibility of accident . . .’
‘The cyanide had to be taken from Studio B, the gin had to be emptied out of the glass and the cyanide put in.’
‘No, you’re right. It could hardly have been accidental. So that means you’re looking for another murderer?’
At that moment Roger Bruton came into the room with the filled coffee-pot, and there was a pause while he filled the four cups and passed them round. When he was seated beside his wife on the sofa, she put her hand on his knee and said, ‘As I told you after the phone-call yesterday, Sydnee and Charles are convinced that the girl who’s been arrested did not kill Barrett Doran.’
‘In that case,’ he asked almost without intonation, ‘what do they think happened?’
‘Perhaps we should ask them,’ said Joanie. ‘Do you have any theories about what really went on?’
‘Only vague theories,’ Charles replied. ‘I mean, obviously someone else murdered Barrett . . .’
The couple on the sofa seemed to relax slightly now this statement of the situation had been made.
‘. . . and we’ve been checking out the movements of people involved in the show during the relevant time.’
‘During the meal-break, you mean?’ asked Roger.
‘Well, only during a very specific part of it. The cyanide must have been put in the glass after six-thirty.’
‘After six-thirty?’ Roger echoed in surprise.
‘Yes, because I drank from Barrett’s glass at six-thirty and it contained gin.’
‘Gin?’ Another surprised echo.
‘He always had gin when he was doing a show.’
‘Oh. And after you’d drunk from the glass, did you swap it round with one of the others?’
‘No, of course he didn’t,’ Joanie almost interrupted her husband. Then, more gently, she repeated, ‘No, of course he didn’t, love.’ Turning to the others, she asked, ‘So
who
are your suspects?’
Charles smiled. ‘Well, you’ll be glad to hear that you two are off the list. You weren’t down in the studio area at the pivotal time, so you’re in the clear.’
Joanie clutched at her throat in mock-panic. ‘What a relief.’
‘Just concentrating on the people who actually appeared on the show, we’ve ruled out all of the four “professions” – that’s except for me, assuming that I would be devious enough deliberately to stir up an investigation into my own guilt . . .’