Star Trap by Simon Brett Page A

passenger door was slipped open. Charles climbed in clumsily. ‘So, what gives?’ Gerald hissed, his eyes scanning the empty road ahead.
    â€˜Just been a bit of a dust-up, boss,’ Charles hissed back.
    Gerald didn’t realise he was being sent up, but ran out of slang. ‘What? You mean a fight?’
    â€˜Too right, boss.’
    â€˜Irons?’
    â€˜I beg your pardon.’
    â€˜Irons – you know, guns. God, don’t you watch any television?’
    â€˜Not much.’
    â€˜Well, give us the dirt. Who swung a bunch of fives at whom?’ The grammatical resolution of the question rather weakened its underworld flavour.
    Charles gave a quick account of the scene in the green room and the solicitor nodded knowingly. ‘So you reckon this McMahon could be our cookie?’
    â€˜Our saboteur, the man devoted to the destruction of the show . . .?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜I don’t know. Certainly he hates Christopher Milton. If anything were to happen to the star tonight, I would have no doubt about who to look for. But I don’t think Kevin can have been responsible for the other accidents, not the first two, anyway.’
    â€˜Why not?’
    â€˜Because why should he? When the pianist was shot at, Kevin didn’t know what was going to happen to his script, rehearsals had hardly started. I reckon at that stage he must have been full of excitement, you know, his first West End show and all that.’
    â€˜But it can’t have taken long for him to realise the way things were going.’
    â€˜Yes, I suppose he could have built up a sufficient head of resentment by the time Everard Austick met with his accident.’
    â€˜Yes, surely, and –’
    â€˜There’s another snag, Gerald. Kevin’s resentment is completely against Christopher Milton. Sniping at these minor figures may be bad for the show, but it doesn’t hurt the star much. Christopher Milton doesn’t care who his supporting cast are, so long as they don’t argue with him or do anything better than he does. If Kevin McMahon did want to get at anyone he’d go straight for the one who was bugging him – and, with the star out of the way, there might be a chance that his musical could survive in another production.’
    â€˜Yes. So we’ve got to look for someone else as the mastermind behind the whole sequence of crimes.’
    â€˜If there is a sequence, Gerald, if there are any crimes. So far the only evidence I have of misdoing is what happened at the King’s Theatre. I know someone tampered with the rope holding those flats up. All the others could be genuine accidents. In fact, the thing at the King’s may have a perfectly legitimate explanation.’
    â€˜I don’t know, Charles. I still have the feeling that they’re all linked and that something funny’s going on.’
    There was a silence. ‘Hmm. Yes, I can feel a sort of foreboding too, but I don’t know why.’
    As he spoke, light spilled across the road from the stage door. Christopher Milton, Dickie Peck, Wally Wilson and the show’s musical director, Pete Masters, came out, escorted by Milton’s driver, who smartly moved forward to the parked Corniche and opened the doors. They all got in. ‘Let’s follow them,’ whispered Charles, more to satisfy Gerald’s love of the dramatic than anything else.
    They let the Rolls disappear at the junction on to the main road, confident that Leeds’ central one-way system would make it difficult to lose their quarry, and started up in pursuit.
    Gerald’s ‘Follow that car’ routine was as exaggerated as his ‘I am waiting unobtrusively’ one, involving many sudden swivels of the head and bursts of squealing acceleration alternating with dawdling so slowly that it drew, hoots of annoyance from other road-users. But the inhabitants of the Rolls did not appear to notice them.