‘She didn’t say who?’
‘Some friend from drama school.’
Charles took a taxi from Waterloo to Spectrum Studios in Wardour Street. He told the uninterested commissionaire that he wanted to see Diccon Hudson and was directed to the dubbing theatre.
The red light outside was off to indicate that they weren’t recording at that moment, so he went on through the double door. It was a large room, walls covered with newish upholstered sound-proofing. At one end was a screen above a television which displayed a film footage count. On a dais at the other end was the dubbing mixer’s control panel. On a low chair in front of this Ian Compton lolled.
He looked quizzically as Charles entered. Some explanation of his presence was called for.
Charles hadn’t really thought of one and busked. ‘I was in the area and I thought I’d just drop in to find out about tomorrow’s session. Save the phone call.’
Ian Compton looked sceptical and Charles realized it did sound pretty daft. But no comment was made. ‘No, in fact tomorrow’s off, Charles. Farrow’s not happy with the radio copy and I’m afraid it’s all got to be rewritten. Take a few days. I should think we’d be in touch by the end of the week.’
‘Fine.’
‘And don’t worry, you were booked for the session, so you’ll get paid.’
‘Oh thanks.’ Charles’s instinct was to say, ‘Don’t bother about that,’ but he bit it back. He must develop more commercial sense.
Ian Compton looked at him with an expression that signified the conversation was over.
‘Actually, I wanted to have a word with Diccon too.’
A raised eyebrow. ‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, we’re just about to start doing a few more loops. Then we’ll break in about half an hour when we’ve got to set up a new machine.’
‘May I wait?’
Ian Compton shrugged permission.
The film that was being dubbed appeared to be about a young bronzed man fishing for octopus on a Greek island. Charles need not have worried about Bland work being done behind his back.
Diccon Hudson was working at a table in a box of screens. He wore headphones. The film was cut down into loops of about thirty or forty-five second durations. On each loop a chinagraph pencil line had been scored diagonally, so that it moved across the screen when the film was run. When it reached the right hand side, it was Diccon’s cue to speak, adding his voice to the Music and Effects track.
He worked smoothly and quickly. He needed only one run of each loop and timed the words perfectly each time. A master of all forms of voice work.’
When they had to break, Ian Compton went out to the control room, where the new machine was being set up. Charles went into the box of screens. Diccon Hudson looked up nervously. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure? Coming to get some tips on voice technique?’
‘No.’
‘On dubbing? The great con-trick. Wonderful the things you can perpetrate in dubbing. That bloke on the screen, the diver who does all the talking, is Greek. Talks English like a broken-winded turkey. But by the wonders of dubbing, he can speak with my golden cadences. It’s magic. He does his talking at one time, I add my voice at another and in the cinema, so far as the audience is concerned, it all happened at the same time.’ He had taken this flight of fancy as far as it would go and paused anxiously. ‘But you didn’t come here to talk to me about dubbing.’
Charles shook his head slowly. ‘No, I’ve come to talk about Charlotte Mecken.’
Diccon coloured at the name. ‘Oh yes, what about her?’
‘When we last met, you said you used to see her from time to time. The odd lunch.’
‘So?’
‘I’ve come along to ask if you saw her a week ago today. Last Monday.’
It was a shock. Diccon gaped for a moment before replying. ‘No, of course I didn’t. Why should I? What are you insinuating?’
‘I’m not insinuating anything. I’m just asking you what you were doing last Monday.’
‘I was out.’
‘Out where?’
Diccon hesitated. ‘Out with friends.’
‘Friends who I could check with?’
‘No, I…’ He tailed off in confusion.
‘Did you speak to Charlotte that day?’
‘On the phone, yes. When I got back to my flat after an afternoon session, there was a message on the Ansafone for me to ring her.’
‘Someone else she spoke to that afternoon was told that she had a friend from drama school coming down in the evening.’
‘She wanted me to go down and see her, but I couldn’t.’
‘You went out with friends instead.’
‘Yes. What are you suggesting — that I strangled her?’
Charles shrugged. ‘Well, I don’t think Hugo did.’
‘I didn’t. I swear I didn’t go down there. I went out.’
‘But you won’t tell me where.’
Diccon hesitated and seemed on the verge of saying something. But then, ‘No.’
‘But you did speak to her?’
‘I’ve told you, yes. She wanted my advice.’
‘On what?’
‘She wanted to know if I knew the name of an abortionist.’ This time it was Charles who was put off his stroke for a moment. ‘But she wasn’t pregnant. The police post-mortem showed that.’
‘Well, she thought she was. And she said she’d decided she couldn’t keep the baby.’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t know. Presumably because Hugo didn’t want children.’
‘You think it was Hugo’s?’
‘Why not?’
‘Not yours?’
‘What?’ His surprise seemed genuine. ‘Good God, no, I never scored with Charlotte, I’m afraid. Though I tried a few times.’
‘Then why did she ask you about the abortionist?’
‘I don’t know. I suppose I was the only person she knew who might have that sort of information. I have been around with quite a few women, you know,’ he added with a touch of self-assertive bravado.
It had the ring of truth. If Charlotte had wanted to get rid of a baby, in her naivete, she wouldn’t have known where to begin. She could only ask a friend. Why not Sally Radford? Perhaps Charlotte knew of the girl’s emotional reaction to her own abortion and didn’t want to upset her by asking.
As to the pregnancy, that must have been a phantom, some freak of Charlotte’s cycle, probably a side-effect of going on the Pill.
But if what Diccon had said was true, why was he being so evasive about the night of the murder? ‘I’d like to believe you, Diccon, but I’d feel happier with an alibi I could check. Where were you at the time Charlotte was strangled?’
‘I… I won’t tell you.’
‘You tell him.’ A new voice came into the room, harsh and electronic. It was Ian Compton on the talkback from the control room. He must have had Diccon’s microphone up and been listening to their conversation for some time.
Diccon turned towards his friend behind the glass screen and shouted, ‘No!’
‘All right then, I’ll tell him.’
‘NO!’ Diccon Hudson rose and ran out of the screens towards the glass as if he could somehow smother Ian’s speech.
But the talkback talked on inexorably. ‘Diccon was with me. We went together to a club called The Cottage, which you may know is a resort of homosexuals or gays as we prefer to call them. We went there because we are both gay.’
‘No,’ muttered Diccon, tears pouring down his face.
‘For some reason, Charles, as you see, Diccon does not like to admit this fact in public. God knows why. He’s only discovered his real nature recently and still tries to put up a straight front. That’s why he lunches all these pretty little actresses, like Charlotte Mecken — to maintain the image of the great stud. Which is in fact far from the truth.’
Diccon Hudson found his voice again. ‘Shut up,’ he said feebly.
Charles decided it was time for him to go. He didn’t want to get into a marital squabble and he didn’t think much more useful information was likely to be forthcoming. ‘I’m sorry to have caused a scene. Thank you for telling me all you have. It’s going to help me clear Hugo.’
‘Clear Hugo?’ Diccon repeated in amazement. ‘You can’t still think that I — ’