A Reconstructed Corpse (11 page)

The bar was unmanned. Charles's repeated banging at the bell on the counter eventually produced a spotty waiter in a red jacket.

‘Large Bell's, please.' And, in spite of the resolutely turned back, he added, ‘Get you something, Sergeant?'

Marchmont turned to look at him and, after a moment's hesitation, said, ‘I'll have the same, please.'

He took his drink with a murmured ‘Thank you', and the spotty waiter left them to it. Doesn't look like being the most convivial evening since records began, thought Charles.

Still, better make some conversational effort. ‘Your boss not around then, Sergeant?'

Greg Marchmont looked at him appraisingly, as if undecided whether or not to respond. Charles Paris had seen that look many times before, and always from people who knew nothing about the theatre. It was what he thought of as the ‘all actors are poofs' reaction.

But basic good manners just about triumphed. ‘No, God knows where he is. Maybe he's found some Masonic function to go to down here.'

The detective sergeant remained surly and didn't volunteer anything else. If the conversation was to be maintained, Charles would have to be the one to keep it going.

‘He seemed pretty sure of finding the murderer, didn't he? You know, when he was talking in the car . . . Sounded very confident.'

‘Wankers always sound confident,' Marchmont growled. ‘Goes with the territory.'

So his apparent deference to Roscoe only lasted while his superior was actually there. With the superintendent off the scene, Greg Marchmont showed as little respect as the rest of his colleagues.

‘And is Roscoe a complete wanker?' asked Charles. Marchmont gave a bitter laugh. ‘You better believe it. One of those people who gets promoted for all the wrong reasons. Never done a single thing on his own, but always happy to take the credit for what his staff have done. He's a bloody joke throughout the force.'

‘That's virtually what Ted Faraday said, wasn't it?'

‘It's what anyone'd say.'

Since the subject had been raised, Charles couldn't resist a supplementary question. ‘Why did Faraday actually leave the police? He implied it was because of some run-in with Roscoe . . .?'

Greg Marchmont gave him another appraising look, and Charles knew that this was a significant one. The detective sergeant was deciding whether to pull out now or to settle in for an evening's drinking with an actor.

At the end of a long silence, Marchmont's gaze shifted to their glasses, which were both empty. ‘Same again?'

Charles nodded. Greg Marchmont banged down on the bell. When they were resupplied with Bell's, Charles got his question answered. ‘Ted Faraday was always an unconventional operator – tended to have a lot of criminal contacts and sailed pretty close to the wind a lot of the time. Coppers who work that way do sometimes set themselves up.'

‘You mean, by getting too close to the criminals they're investigating?'

Marchmont nodded. ‘Right. You want something from them, they usually want something from you. So often there's a trade-off for information.'

‘What kind of trade-off? Money?'

‘Not usually. No, a villain'll tell you what you want to know in return for . . . well, it can be a straight exchange of information. He tells us about some job one of his mates is planning, we tell him how much we know about what he's up to. Or maybe we agree to turn a blind eye to his next little effort . . . All kinds of different deals get done.'

‘You need them as much as they need you.'

‘Oh yes. But sometimes it goes a bit too far . . .'

‘In what way?'

‘Well, starts with a trade-off for information. I tell you this, says the villain – in return you don't shop me for that. Only a small step then for the villain to say – you don't shop me for that . . . in return for
this
. . . and he bungs the copper a few hundred.'

‘Is that what happened with Faraday?'

The detective shrugged again. ‘Don't know for sure. But he was well on the way to it. He was investigating a loan-sharking operation, and getting bloody close to the villains who were running it. OK, in order to get that close, he had to pretend he was on their side, he had to look like he was bent . . . Maybe that's all he was doing. Certainly that's all he
said
he was doing.'

‘But he might actually have been bent?'

‘There was evidence which could have suggested that. Certainly enough evidence for Roscoe to get him out of the force so quickly his feet didn't touch the ground.'

‘But there were no actual charges against him?'

‘No. Not enough evidence for that. I mean, opinion's divided.
I
reckon Faraday was straight and still is, but Roscoe'd wanted him out for years and saw his chance. Ted never made any secret of his opinion of our beloved superintendent.'

‘Whereas you do . . .'

‘What do you mean?' Marchmont demanded aggressively.

‘Well, I've noticed you show a lot of respect to Roscoe when you're with him.'

The detective sergeant looked sullen. ‘Yes, well, I can't afford to lose my job. Can't see me setting up as a PI somehow.'

They drank on. The idea of getting something to eat faded from Charles's mind. At midnight the spotty waiter said he was going to have to close the bar. They went up to Charles's room, where, inevitably, he had a half-full bottle of Bell's.

The room was bleak and impersonal. Charles tried to put from his mind all the other anonymous hotel rooms where he'd sat up too late drinking too much with people he hardly knew.

The remains of the bottle didn't last long. ‘I'll order another from room service,' Charles announced when it was finished.

‘All right,' said Marchmont, ‘but I'm afraid it'll have to be on you. I'm bloody strapped for cash at the moment – shouldn't really have spent all that in the bar – so, sorry, if you get a bottle, I won't be able to return the favour – particularly knowing how much over the odds you usually pay for room service.'

‘Don't worry,' said Charles with the magnanimity of the very drunk, ‘I'm actually in work at the moment. I'll be happy to pay.'

‘You get a good screw then, being an actor, do you?'

‘Oh yes,' Charles lied.

The room-service bottle arrived – fortunately without notification of how much it was costing. That little surprise would be kept until Charles settled his bill.

The two men recharged their glasses and Greg Marchmont expanded on his financial problems. ‘It's the bloody maintenance that kills. God, I should never have got into that divorce.'

‘Any kids?' asked Charles.

‘Three of the little buggers. God, with what I have to pay for them and for her, I've hardly got a bloody penny to call my own. You divorced?'

‘No,' Charles replied, wondering lugubriously how long he would be able to give that answer.

‘Keep it that way if you don't want to be ruined for life.'

‘Have you remarried?'

Marchmont shook his head. ‘No, I've managed to end up with the worst of all worlds. Broke up my marriage to go off with someone else, then as soon as the divorce is all sorted out and definite, she pisses off and leaves me.'

‘Ah. It is supposed to put a lot of strain on marriages, isn't it? Police work. I mean. Like the theatre, actually.'

‘Hm. Well, I don't know if you can blame the police. I just met someone else and fell for her hook, line and bloody sinker.'

‘Someone else in the force?'

‘Oh yes.' Marchmont's glazed eyes focused on Charles for a moment. ‘You've met her actually.'

He knew immediately who it was. ‘Sam? Sam Noakes?' A mournful nod confirmed it. ‘Uh-huh. And now she's every telly viewer's favourite bloody wank.'

‘Her and Chloe Earnshaw.'

‘Hm. Yes, I wouldn't mind giving her one either.' The detective looked dejectedly down into his dwindling drink. ‘Sodding women – why do we bother with them? Only leads to bloody heartbreak.'

‘Why did Sam leave you?' asked Charles gently.

‘Why? Because I wasn't good enough for her, I guess. I was just a DS and didn't show much sign of ever getting above that.'

‘So you weren't rich enough?'

‘It's not money with her, no. Sam's a control freak. She likes to feel she's in charge. Sex for her is just another way of demonstrating her power. She wanted to prove she was powerful enough to break up my marriage and I guess when she'd done that, I ceased to be a challenge for her, so she moved on. It's the same with her career – she's very single-minded.'

‘And good, isn't she?'

‘Oh yes, bloody good. Way out of my league. She was same intake as me, actually – came first in the class at everything. No, she can go right to the top.'

‘And wants to?'

‘You bet. You wouldn't begin to believe that woman's ambition. I used to think she was joking, some of the things she said she wanted to achieve, but now I know it's all for real. It'd give her a bloody orgasm to be first woman Commissioner of Scotland Yard.'

‘Regardless of who gets trampled on the way . . .?'

‘Yup.' Tears welled up in the detective's eyes. ‘Wish I'd never met the cow. Should've stayed with Maureen and the kids. Now I've lost them, I'm permanently bloody broke, I'm put under intolerable pressure to do a whole load of stuff I don't want to do, I'm –'

‘What kind of stuff?'

‘Oh, nothing. Doesn't matter.'

‘And what do you feel for Sam now?' There was a silence. ‘I mean, if she'd have you back, what would you –?'

‘Oh, I'd jump. Like a bloody rabbit. Straight back for more humiliation. When you've had a woman like that . . . you're ruined. I'm still totally obsessed with her. Do anything she asks me, even if . . .' Marchmont sighed. ‘I'm just totally fucked up.' He brushed the back of his hand savagely against his face. ‘Come on, pour us another one.'

Charles half filled the glass and the detective downed its contents in one angry swallow.

‘When Sam walked out on you . . .' Charles began tentatively, ‘did she walk straight in with someone else?'

‘Oh yes,' Marchmont replied bitterly. ‘As if I needed it bloody rubbed in.'

‘Who did she move in with?' asked Charles, feeling pretty certain he knew the answer.

He was right. ‘Ted bloody Faraday,' said Greg Marchmont.

CHARLES's hangover the next morning felt like he'd had a face-lift without benefit of anaesthetic. It was as if all the skin had been scoured back and twisted into a little knot of pain at the point where his spine met his skull. So tight had it been pulled that it compressed the brain agonisingly inside his cranium. His head had to be kept at a constant level and moved infinitely gently, like a conjuror's magic ball supported on the edge of a scarf.

The knowledge that DS Greg Marchmont ought to be feeling at least as bad was small comfort. Probably he wasn't, anyway. No doubt a whisky session like that was routine for a hard-bitten copper.

There were certain kill-or-cure options available to Charles, one of which – readily available in a hotel – was a Full English Breakfast. If he could actually get that down him, he knew it would ultimately help. But the dry nausea in his throat cast doubt on whether he could manage that pivotal first mouthful without throwing up.

So he just lay prone, sticky under the sheets, hoping for a blessed return to sleep. He'd woken at five, and deep down he knew that was it for the night. Maybe get a zizz in the afternoon if he had a few drinks at lunch-time.

That was of course another kill-or-cure option – the old ‘hair of the dog'. And it was an option that he had been resorting to too often recently. Charles felt grimly virtuous that he and Marchmont had drained the previous night's bottle to its last bead of condensation. Otherwise he knew he'd have been straight at it again.

Anyway, he needed to sober up, not extend the binge. He was, after all, potentially working that day. Although impersonating Martin Earnshaw was not the most complex role he'd ever attempted, playing the dead man drunk might have led to serious misidentifications from the viewing public. And one of Charles Paris's residual professional rules was not to get pissed when he was working. Well, try not to.

The thought of work prompted him to attempt getting up. Further instructions about the day's filming, Charles told himself, might be waiting at Reception. Of course he knew that if W.E.T. really needed him they would have rung through to his room, but he did need some motivation for the potentially hazardous transition from horizontal to vertical.

It took him about an hour and it wasn't easy. Shaving was the real killer. He finished with half a dozen cuts, his head looking, he reflected ghoulishly, rather too much like Martin Earnshaw's might when it was finally discovered. Still, if he was required for filming that day, Make-Up could no doubt patch him up.

It was after half past ten when he got downstairs and they'd stopped serving breakfast; at least he was spared the decision about that option. There was no message for him at Reception, so presumably he'd just have to wait around the hotel until he heard something.

Charles moved through to the lounge and ordered a pot of coffee. He'd try to be strong and put off the first drink of the day as long as possible. The coffee scalded his tongue and he sat there in miserable isolation with the mortifying knowledge that he could blame no one but himself for his condition.

There was no sign of his drinking partner. Greg Marchmont had probably been on duty first thing in the morning, shaking off the night's alcohol like the hard man he was. Oh God, thought Charles, nourishing his self-pity, I can't even hold my liquor like other men.