A Comedian Dies (22 page)

There was no microphone boom near them, so, though Charles fiddled with the speaker controls in the little observation room, he could not hear what was being said.

But the mime was expressive enough. Lennie Barber was definitely telling Chox to go away. Chox seemed doubtful at first, then resigned, and the two parted.

Which was hopeful. If Chox believed Lennie's story about Charles having left the building, then the pressure was off for a little while at least. If only he could have actually heard what was being said between the two, Charles could have relaxed.

He was soon let off the hook. The door from the studio to the control room opened and Lennie Barber entered, followed by Walter Proud. The comedian came straight through to where Charles was sitting and whispered, ‘It's all right. He's gone.'

‘Thanks very much. Bless you, Lennie.'

Walter Proud bustled into the observation room, all jovial importance. ‘Charles, Lennie and I were going to have a bite to eat, talk through a few things. Going to Dollops, you know, that little bistro round the corner. You care to join us?'

‘That's very kind of you, Walter. I might. Yes, why not? Got to get out of my Wilkie Pole gear, so I should think I'd be along in about half an hour.'

‘Fine. See you then.'

The producer and the comedian left. It was nine-thirty and the end of the studio session. The plugs were pulled out and everyone started to leave (straight to the bar). What hadn't been done would have to wait for the next, already over-crowded, day.

Charles stretched out for a few minutes, letting the tension drain from his limbs. The problem of an avenging Chox remained, but at least he had earned a brief reprieve. After five minutes, he felt almost human and started out for his dressing room.

It was when he got into the corridor that Charles saw Chox. The roadie was visible through the glass doors at the end. He looked jumpy and nervous, waiting.

A moment of panic stopped his mind dead. Then he started to think quickly. The corridor was a dead end, leading only to the Ladies' and Gents' lavatories. The only escape for him was back through the control room into the studio.

But even as he realized this, it was too late. In the shock of seeing Chox, he had moved back and was now nearer the lavatories than the control room. Just as he was about to step forward, the roadie turned suddenly towards him and pushed open the door into the corridor.

Instinctively, Charles leaped backwards and shoved his way into the Gents. As he did it, he saw his folly. He was trapped in a cul-de-sac.

He went to one of the cubicles and locked himself in. It would give him a little protection. If necessary, he supposed he could stay in there all night. And in the state he was in, the lavatory could be very useful.

He heard the click of the outer door as someone entered. Then silence. He waited for Chox to speak, or for a blow on the door, or for the appearance of that thin cruel face over the top of the cubicle.

There was nothing.

Then, again, the click of the outer door being opened. This was followed sharply by the sound of another cubicle door being shut and locked. Presumably Chox had hidden himself from a potential witness.

The unseen newcomer seemed to take an unconscionably long time relieving himself, but eventually there was the swish of water in the washbasin and the clank of the roller towel being pulled down. Followed by the soft thud of the outer door closing.

Once again Charles and Chox were the only people in the room. Playing a waiting game.

The silence was oppressive. Every hum of the air conditioning, every gurgle of the cisterns took on a new and menacing identity. But there was no human sound.

Time crawled by, broken-backed. Charles was sweating a lot. The more he thought about it, the less he liked the idea of waiting till someone else came in. Now the studio work had stopped, the building would be empty but for the security men and the crowd in the bar, many floors above. He looked at his watch. Quarter to eleven. The bar-flies would soon be making their meandering ways home to disgruntled wives, to disappointed second wives or with unsuitable PAs.

He couldn't face the idea of sitting there for another ten hours. Better confront whatever evil there was outside than let his imagination inflate it to terror proportions.

He swallowed deeply, then, in one movement, slid back the bolt, opened the door and stepped outside.

No one.

The row of blue doors was uniform, all closed. He moved softly along, tense for attack, pushing against each door.

Each one gave inward to his pressure. Each cubicle was empty.

Until he came to the one nearest the entrance. That was locked on the inside.

Plucking up courage, he knocked on the door.

Nothing.

He called Chox's name.

There was no response.

He drew back and crouched to look under the door. He could see the end of a thin leg protruding from discoloured jeans. The foot was encased in a frayed grey plimsoll. He recognized Chox's clothes.

Still, fearing a trap, he found a lavatory brush and poked at the leg underneath the door. There was no movement.

He rang the security men from the studio control room. Two of them came. One climbed over the top of the cubicle and opened the door. He came out and the three of them looked inside.

Chox Morton was sitting on the closed lavatory seat, leaning back against the pipes. His eyes were closed and his sleeve rolled up to show the pitted terrain of his forearm. The other arm hung loose by his side and on the tiled floor, where it had dropped from his hand, lay a plastic syringe.

He was not breathing.

COMIC: I say, I say, I say, do you know why my girl-friend's called ‘Television'?

FEED: No, I don't know why your girl-friend's called ‘Television'.

COMIC: Because she never has much on on Saturday nights and she often does repeat performances on Sundays.

Charles had to spend a long time at the police station. There seemed to be no suspicion of foul play in Chox Morton's death, but the police were interested in what Charles had been doing hanging around the television premises in makeup and costume so long after the studio session had finished.

Since he didn't have enough evidence to start propounding his theory of Bill Peaky's murder, he had to make do with some rather incomplete excuses to justify his presence. He sweated for a bit while the police questioned him, but after a time they realized that, however suspicious his behaviour, he hadn't actually committed any crime. Having nothing to charge him with, they spoke to him sternly, took a statement about his discovery of Chox's body and let him go. They warned him that he might have to appear at the inquest and said they would be in touch to fix the details if necessary.

As, with some relief, he left the interview room, Charles saw a middle-aged man in a discreet tweed suit sitting waiting on a chair in the corridor. He was about to walk past, but the man addressed him.

‘Excuse me. I gather you are the one who found the body.'

‘Yes.'

‘Ah.' There was a pause. The man looked distressed, like the man from the ad with no life insurance at fifty-five. He seemed to want to talk, but had nothing to say. When he introduced himself, it was clear why he needed to communicate with someone. ‘I'm Charles' father.'

‘Charles'?'

‘I believe he had taken to calling himself Chox.'

‘Oh. Yes. I'm sorry.'

It was a shock to see this conventional middle-class man and try to relate him to the dead roadie. Chox had seemed classless and rootless.

‘I suppose I'm sorry too,' Mr. Morton went on vaguely. ‘More confused than anything at the moment. I mean, we'd hardly seen him for two or three years. When I saw the body, it could have been anyone. Oh, it is Charles all right, no question, but somehow he didn't seem to be anything to do with me. That's not the boy we put through prep school and Epsom College; it's another person. And to die of . . . that.'

‘It must be terrible for you.'

‘Yes, I suppose it is. I haven't been able to define my feelings yet. My mind still can't cope with the idea of Charles as a heroin addict. But I suppose when it can accommodate that, the idea of his dying of an overdose is a natural corollary.'

‘The police are sure it was an overdose?'

‘Oh, certainly.' Mr. Morton looked at him in a bewildered way. ‘Yes, apparently he had got hold of some particularly dangerous form of the drug. Well, they say it's not the drug in itself that's so dangerous in its pure form, but it's what it gets mixed with for sale by these . . . what are they called? Pushers?' He handled the jargon of drug culture with bemused unfamiliarity. He could not yet believe that any of the events of the last four hours had happened and was quoting verbatim from what he had just been told by the police. ‘Apparently what he should have done, what the police recommend for addicts, is that they should get registered with a doctor – it seems it happens a lot, there are standard procedures – and the doctor will prescribe what I think they call a maintenance dose and that sort of keeps the addict on the straight and narrow. Otherwise they are just at the mercy of these . . . pushers. Unfortunately it seems Charles was still trying to keep his addiction a secret, so he had to go to these . . . less reputable sources.'

The man was still talking very calmly, piecing together the unfamiliar, but Charles sensed that the tension was building up and soon Mr. Morton was going to be swamped by a shattering wave of emotion. Selfishly, Charles didn't want to be around when that happened.

‘Yes, it's a frightful business,' he said meaninglessly. ‘I'm sorry, I must be off.'

‘Yes.' Mr. Morton did not appear to hear him. ‘He was very young, you know.'

‘How young?'

‘Twenty-three. In January. He would have been. Twenty-three.'

A lot of factors prevented Charles from sleeping for what little of the night was left to him. First, there was the shock of what he had seen and the subsequent interviews at the police station. Next there was the half-tumblerful of Bell's he had drunk when he got back to Hereford Road; he found, unless alcohol put him straight to sleep, it had the opposite effect and condemned him to wakefulness. Also, somewhere in the back of his mind, there was nervous anticipation of the next day. In spite of the events of the night,
The New Barber and Pole Show
was still going to be recorded and it was potentially the most important event for some years in what Charles occasionally dignified with the title of his ‘career'.

But more than all these deterrents to sleep, an ugly thought had been seeded and was growing in his mind, growing into a huge black plant that threatened to blot out all other thoughts.

Suppose Chox Morton's death had not been an accident . . .?

Charles could not forget the third person. When he had been locked in the lavatory and Chox had also been in the room, an unidentified third person had come in and Chox had hidden himself in another cubicle. The third person had, Charles remembered, taken an unconscionably long time to relieve himself.

If that was all he had been doing.

If, that is to say, he hadn't also been injecting Chox with dirty heroin.

Only one other person connected with the case knew that Chox was in the building.

The call was at ten for camera rehearsal. There would be a dress run at about four in the afternoon and the recording would start in front of the audience at seven forty-five.

Charles found Lennie Barber alone in his dressing room at a quarter to ten and decided that nothing was to be gained by prevarication.

‘Lennie, Chox Morton died last night.'

‘Good God. Did he?'

‘Yes. I found him in a cubicle in the Gents. He died of a massive injection of adulterated heroin.'

‘Silly little sod. I suppose it had to happen at some time. You can't go on living like that without it catching up on you.' The comedian spoke with not exactly pity, but world-weary acceptance.

‘Lennie, I'm not convinced that Chox's death was an accident.'

Lennie Barber looked up at him sharply. Then smiled. ‘Oh, Charles, here we go again. First it's Bill Peaky, now it's Chox Morton. Can't you let anyone die a normal death? No doubt you'd regard cancer as evidence of foul play.'

But Charles wasn't going to be side-tracked. ‘Lennie, I want to know what you did after you left me last night.'

The comedian's eyes narrowed. ‘Oh, so that's it. That's the way your mind is going. Well, I'm not sure whether to be insulted or flattered.'

‘I will be asking other people.' Charles tried ineffectively to cover his clumsiness.

‘I see,' said Lennie Barber sardonically. ‘Well, let me offer you my alibi. Straight after I left you I went, as I had said I would, with Walter Proud to this bistro place, Dollops, where, incidentally, they serve food which has reduced my guts to little knots of plastic hosepipe. However, that is not what you want to know. Walter and I arrived there at nine-fifteen, which is when he had booked the table for. The proprietor, called Gino, complimented us on our punctuality. From nine-fifteen until about twelve I was there eating and drinking, witnessed by about four waiters and assorted guzzlers and piss-artists. Want any more?'

‘No, Lennie.' Charles felt relief flooding through him. He had not enjoyed the ride on which his latest suspicions had been taking him. ‘I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. But I had to ask.'

‘Yes. You had to ask.'

‘I'm sorry. I . . . Anyway, now I can enjoy the show.'

‘All right for you. What about the poor audience?'

In the course of the morning Charles was summoned to the phone to take a call from the police. Yes, he would be required to appear at the inquest on Chox Morton in two days' time. No, it wasn't because anything had changed. It still seemed to be a straightforward case of self-inflicted drug overdose. Charles' presence was required because he was the person who had discovered the body.