Written down it looked convincing. Charles felt a satisfaction akin to completing The Times crossword. He couldn’t imagine why he hadn’t thought of the driver before. Very distinctly he remembered the first time he had seen the man, advancing threateningly towards the crowd of boys who mobbed Christopher Milton outside the Welsh Dragon Club. He remembered how the driver had been halted by a gesture and how he had hovered protectively until the star wanted to leave. Like a bodyguard. It was quite logical that Christopher Milton should have a bodyguard. People in the public eye are instant targets for freaks and lunatics. And in a way everything untoward that had happened on the show could be put down to an exaggerated interpretation of a bodyguard’s role. Whether the man interpreted it that way for himself or at someone else’s suggestion was a detail which could wait until there was some actual evidence of guilt.
In Charles’ new mood of logical confidence he felt sure that proof would not be difficult to find now that he had a definite quarry. He took his sheet of paper with the winning formula on it and burnt it carefully in the grate of the fireplace, pulverising the black ash until it could yield nothing to forensic science. Even as he did so, a sneaking suspicion that he concentrated too much on the irrelevancies of detection started to bore a tiny hole in his shell of confidence.
‘Charles, what the hell’s going on?’
‘What do you mean, Gerald?’
‘Well, there’s a little piece in the Evening Standard about this M.D. being run over.’
‘Ah.’
‘It also mentions Kevin being mugged in Leeds. No comment, just a juxtaposition of the two facts. It’s worse than if they actually said it’s a bad luck show.’
‘Oh, come on. If someone’s run over, it doesn’t necessarily mean there’s anything odd. Accidents do happen.’
‘But don’t you think this is another in the series?’
‘As a matter of fact I do, but nobody else does. There’s no talk about it in the company, beyond the sort of relish actors always have for dramatic situations.’
‘Have the Press made much of it down there?’
‘Not a lot. Small report, just the facts. M.D. of Lumpkin! — hit and run driver in stolen car — details of injuries, that’s all.’
‘What were his injuries?’
‘Mainly bruising. I think he may also have broken his patella.’
‘His what?’
‘Kneecap to you.’
‘And he’s out of the show?’
‘Certainly for a bit. Leon Schultz has taken over as M.D..’
‘Has he?’ Gerald sounded gratified. ‘Ah, well, it’s an ill wind. Good. I always said they should have got a big name from the start rather than that boy. It’ll bump the budget up a bit.’
The welfare of the show seemed to be Gerald’s only concern. So long as his investment was protected, nothing else mattered. Charles felt bitter, particularly as his friend continued, ‘But look, do keep a watchful eye on Christopher Milton. If he gets clobbered, the show really is a non-starter.’
‘And if anyone else gets clobbered, it doesn’t matter?’
‘Well, yes, it does, of course, because it’s very bad publicity for the show, but it’s Christopher Milton who’s the important one. And they must be aiming for him eventually, otherwise there’s no point in all this, is there?’
‘That’s not the way I see it. I don’t think I should worry about Christopher Milton; I should be protecting everyone else in the show.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Nothing. I can’t explain it now. Suffice to say that my view of the case has changed since we last spoke.’
‘Oh. But do you know who’s doing it all?’
‘Yes. I think I do.’
‘Well, get him arrested and stop him.’
‘I haven’t got any evidence yet.’
‘Then get some.’
‘I will.’
Charles felt furiously angry when he put the phone down. The whole thing was getting out of proportion. The protection of Christopher Milton must continue, whoever got hurt on the way. It was hearing such blinkered lack of consideration from Gerald that made him so cross. The world, even his friends, would forgive anything done in the name of Christopher Milton. Gerald had asked for evidence and an arrest and he’d get them, though they might not be what he expected. Charles felt a wave of anger against the whole star set-up, the charming public persona that needed the support of thuggery to survive. Whether or not Christopher Milton was directly involved in the crimes, the rottenness and meanness of what had been going on should be exposed to the public. From now on Charles wasn’t working for Gerald Venables representing Arthur Balcombe. He was working for himself.
After the Thursday show, he dressed carefully for his midnight jaunt. As an actor, he knew how much the right costume could help in a difficult role, and the role in which he had cast himself was a very difficult one.
He wore a pair of his own black trousers and a black sweater borrowed from Julian (in what he hoped was a casual manner). He had bought a pair of plimsolls in Woolworth’s and, since Woolworth’s don’t sell ready-dirtied plimsolls for house-breakers, he had shabbied them up with earth from Julian’s garden. Other investments were a balaclava helmet and a pencil torch. He knew the preparations were over-elaborate, but they took his mind off what he had to do.
With the balaclava on, he looked like a very young photograph of himself as Second Sentry in Coriolanus (‘Leaden production’ — Richmond and Twickenham Times). Without it, he looked a cross between himself as Lightborn in a modern dress Edward II (‘Flamboyantly sinister’ — Birmingham Evening Mail) and as Jimmy Porter in Look Back in Anger (‘Ill-considered’ — Luton Evening Post). He crept down the stairs to the front door and realised he was using the walk he’d perfected for Rookery Nook (‘Uneven’ — Jewish Telegraph).
Unfortunately he met Julian coming in. ‘Where are you going dressed like that, Charles? You look as if you’re about to commit a burglary.’
That didn’t help.
Residents of the Holiday Inn in Bristol park their cars in the adjacent multi-storey car park. It was a simple matter to walk in. He found Christopher Milton’s distinctive Rolls on the first level without any problem.
And his luck held. The Corniche was unlocked. He slipped in by the passenger door and closed it quickly to douse the interior light. He reached to get the torch out of his pocket, but his hand was shaking too much. He closed his eyes and practised rib-reserve breathing, trying to keep the thought of what he was doing at bay. But a schoolboy fear of being found out remained. He wished he could remember some of the relaxation exercises various experimental directors had tried to put him through. None came.
Still, the deep breathing helped. He opened his eyes and, very slowly, like a man under water, he got out the torch and switched it on.
The glove pocket opened easily. A tin of boiled sweets came first into the light. He prised it open and found nothing but the sugary debris that should have been there. Next a large stiff envelope. He felt inside. The shiny surface of photographs. He pulled one out and shone the torch on it. Christopher Milton grinned cheerily at him. Fan photographs. The sight of the familiar face brought on another pang of guilt. At the same moment he noticed that his thumb had left a perfect print on the photograph. The light caught it on the shiny surface. That was one that the police wouldn’t need powder to spot. He wiped at it roughly, but seemed only to add more prints. He shoved the photograph back into the envelope and replaced it.
Sweat prickled on his hands and he thought he’d done enough. His grandiose schemes for following the raid on the car with a search of the driver’s hotel bedroom were evaporating fast.
Finish the glove pocket and go. He ran his fingers along the angle at the back and felt some small bead-like objects under his finger-nails. He picked one out, held it between thumb and forefinger and turned the light on it.