Cast in Order of Disappearance (7 page)

CHARLES FELT DISTINCTLY jaded as he walked along Hereford Road. Mrs Sweet had kept him at it some time. He ached all over, and felt the revulsion that sex without affection always left like a hangover inside him. It was half-past four and dark. No pubs open yet. He felt in need of a bath to wash away Mrs Sweet's stale perfume.

As he entered the hall of the house, he heard a door open upstairs. ‘He is here,' said a flat Swedish voice. There was the sound of footsteps running downstairs and Jacqui rushed into his arms. She was quivering like an animal. He held her to him and she started to weep hysterically. A podgy Swedish face peered over the banisters at them. ‘You are an old dirty man,' it said and disappeared.

Charles was too concerned with Jacqui even to yell the usual obscenities at the Swede. He led the trembling girl into his room. She was as cold as ice. He sat her in the armchair and lit the gas-fire, poured a large Scotch and held it out to her. ‘No. It'd make me sick.' And she burst out crying again.

Charles knelt by the chair and put his arm round her shoulders. She was still shivering convulsively. ‘What's happened, Jacqui?'

The question prompted another great surge of weeping. Charles stayed crouching by her side and drank the Scotch while he tried to think how to calm her.

Eventually the convulsions subsided to some extent and he could hear what she was saying. ‘My flat—they broke into my flat.'

‘Who did?'

‘I don't know. This morning I came back from doing the weekend shopping and it was—it had all been done over. My oil lamp—and the curtains pulled down and all my glasses smashed and my clothes torn in shreds and—' She broke down again into incoherence.

‘Jacqui, who did it?'

‘I don't know. It must have been someone who Marius—who Marius—' she sobbed.

‘Why should he—'

‘I . . . I tried to ring him again.'

‘Jacqui, I told you not to do that.'

‘I know, but I . . . I couldn't help it . . . I had to ring him, because of the baby.'

‘Baby?'

‘Yes, I'm pregnant again and . . .'

‘Does Steen know?'

‘Yes. We knew a month ago, and he said we'd keep this one and he wanted a child and . . .' Again she was shaken by uncontrollable spasms.

‘Jacqui, listen. Calm down. Listen, it'll be all right. Steen's only acting this way because he's frightened. There's been a misunderstanding about those photographs.' And Charles gave an edited version of his findings at Imago Studios.

By the end of his narrative she was calmer. ‘So that's all. Marius thinks I'm involved with this Bill Sweet?'

‘That's it. Jacqui, you might have known he'd keep the negatives.'

‘I never thought. I hope you tore him off a strip when—'

‘I didn't see him. I saw his wife.'

‘What was she like?'

‘Oh.' He shrugged non-committally. ‘Listen, Jacqui, it'll be all right now. You can stay here. You'll be quite safe. And go ahead as planned. I'll somehow get to see Steen, deliver the photographs and explain the position. Then at least he'll take the heat off you. And turn it on Sweet, where it belongs.' He laughed. ‘I must say, Jacqui, I don't care for your boy-friend's methods.'

Jacqui laughed too, a weak giggle of relief. ‘Yes, he can be a bastard. You think it'll be all right?'

‘Just as soon as I can get to see him. I mean, I don't know about the emotional thing—that's between the two of you—but I'm sure he'll stop the rough stuff.'

There was a pause. Jacqui breathed deeply. ‘Oh, it really hurts. My throat, from all that crying.'

‘Yes, of course it does. You're exhausted. Tell you what, I'll get you pleasantly drunk, tuck you up in bed, you'll sleep the sleep of the dead. And in the morning nothing'll seem so bad.'

‘But my flat . . .'

‘I'll help you tidy it up, when we've got this sorted out.

‘Oh, Charles, you are great. I don't know what I'd do without you, honest.'

‘S'all right.' He took her hand and gripped it, embarrassed, like a father with his grown-up daughter. Then suddenly, brisk. ‘Right, I'm hungry. Have you had anything to eat?'

‘No, I . . . I've felt sick. I—'

‘Haven't got anything here, but—'

‘I couldn't go out.'

‘Don't you worry. It was for just such occasions that fish and chips were invented.'

‘Oh no. I'd be sick.'

‘Don't you believe it. Nice bit of rock salmon, bag of chips, lots of vinegar, you'll feel on top of the world.'

‘Ugh.'

It's strange how fish and chip newspapers, out of date and greasy, are always much more interesting than current ones. It's like other people's papers in crowded tubes. You can't wait to buy a copy and read some intriguing article you glimpse over a strap-hanging shoulder. It's always disappointing.

In the fish and chip shop Charles noticed that his order was wrapped in a copy of the
Sun
. On the front page was the tantalizing headline, ‘Virginity Auction—see page 11'. The fascination of page 11 grew as he walked home. Who was auctioning whose virginity to whom? And where?

This thought preoccupied him as he entered his room. Jacqui was lying on the bed, fast asleep. Curled up in a ball on the candlewick, she looked about three years old.

He made no attempt to wake her. In her state sleep was more important than food. The Virginity Auction—he settled down in front of the fire to find out all about it. He slipped a hot crumbling piece of fish into his mouth, placed the warm bag of chips on his knees and turned to page 11.

Bugger. He'd only got pages 1 to 8, and the corresponding ones at the back. He'd never know where virginities were knocked down, or how one bidded. A pleasant thought of nubile young girls being displayed at Sotheby's crossed his mind.

There wasn't much else in the paper. It was the last Wednesday's—all bloody petrol crisis. The titty girl on page 3's midriff was stained and transparent with grease from the fish and chips. It looked rather obscene, particularly as the word ‘Come' showed through backwards from the other side of the page.

Charles turned over and stopped dead. There was a photograph on the page that was ominously familiar. He had last seen it on a dresser, surrounded by brass souvenirs.

Fiercely calm, he read the accompanying article.

The man whose body was found early on Monday morning by the M4 exit road at Theale, Berks, has been identified as 44-year-old William Sweet, a photographer from Paddington, London. Sweet was found shot through the head at the roadside beside his grey Ford Escort, which appeared to have run out of petrol.

Interviewed at his Paddington studios, Sweet's wife, Audrey, could suggest no motive for the killing. Police believe Sweet may have been the victim of a gangland revenge killing, and that he may have been mistaken for someone else.

Charles put down the fish and chips and poured a large Scotch. He could feel his thoughts beginning to stampede and furiously tried to hold them in check.

Certain points were clear. He ordered them with grim concentration. Marius Steen must have killed Sweet: Sweet had put the pressure on about the photographs, Steen had fixed to meet him and shot him. Charles grabbed an old AA book that was lying around. Yes, the Theale turn-off was the one you'd take going to Streatley. Sweet was shot Sunday night or Monday morning. Marius Steen was in London certainly on the Saturday night, because he was at the
Sex of One
. . . party. And in Streatley during the week. He was therefore likely to have been driving through Theale late on Sunday. As Harry Chiltern had said, there was always a gun in the glove compartment. A glance at the map made Charles pretty sure that that gun was now in the Thames.

Other facts followed too. Mrs Sweet was holding out on the police. It was nonsense for her to say no one had a motive for murdering her husband. As Charles had discovered, she knew about the Sally Nash party photographs. All she had to do was to tell the police about her husband's blackmailing activities and very soon the finger would point at Steen. For reasons of her own, she wasn't doing that. Probably just didn't want to lose a profitable business.

But the most chilling deduction from the fact of Bill Sweet's murder was the immediate danger to Jacqui. If he'd shoot one person who challenged him, Marius Steen would do the same to anyone else he thought represented the same threat. He'd tried to frighten Jacqui off with the telephone messages and vicious note, but if she persisted . . . Charles shivered as he thought what might have happened if Jacqui had been in the flat when her ‘visitors' called that morning. He looked over to the child-like form on his bed and felt a protective instinct so strong he almost wept.

Confrontation with Marius Steen couldn't wait. Charles must get down to Streatley straight away. If the man was down there . . . Better ring the Bayswater house to check. But he hadn't got the number. It seemed a pity to wake Jacqui. He opened her handbag, but the address book revealed nothing.

No help for it. ‘Jacqui.' He shook her gently. She started like a frightened cat, and looked up at him wide-eyed. ‘Sorry. Listen, I've been thinking. I want to get this sorted out, like as soon as possible. There's no point in your being in this state of terror. I am going to try and see Steen tonight. Get it over with.'

‘But if he's in Streatley—'

‘That's all right. I don't mind.' He tried to sound casual, as if the new urgency was only a whim. ‘My daughter lives down that way. I wanted to go and visit her anyway.'

‘I didn't know you'd got a daughter.'

‘Oh yes.'

‘How old?'

‘Twenty-one.'

‘Nearly as old as me.'

‘Yes.'

‘Like me?'

‘Hardly. Safely married at nineteen to a whizz-kid of the insurance world—if that's not a contradiction in terms. Anyway, the reason I woke you was not just bloody-mindedness. I want to ring Steen's Bayswater place and check he's not there. It's a long way to go if he's just round the corner.'

Both the phone numbers Jacqui gave were ex-directory. Charles paused for a moment before dialling the Bayswater one, while he decided what character to take on. It had to be someone anonymous, but somebody who would be allowed to speak to the man if he was there, and someone who might conceivably be ringing on a Saturday night.

The phone was picked up at the other end and Charles pressed his two p into the coin box. A discreet, educated voice identified the number—nothing more.

‘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.