What Bloody Man Is That by Simon Brett

door was locked, but fortunately Gavin’s secretary had an extension line in the outer office. Charles picked it up. The dialling tone prompted him to wonder whom he should ring.
    Obviously the police. But maybe he should ring Gavin first. After all, the Pinero was Gavin’s responsibility; he should be informed of the accident as soon as possible.
    Yes, the director first, then the police.
    Gavin lived alone. There had been a wife for some years, but because of his obsession with the theatre, she had rarely seen her husband. And when she finally walked out, Gavin had hardly noticed her absence.
    The phone was answered on the third ring. Gavin sounded fully alert. Maybe he had been awake, agonizing over his production and how he was going to make up the lost rehearsal time. If that was the case, the news Charles was about to give wasn’t going to ease his troubles.
    â€˜Gavin, it’s Charles Paris. I’m calling from the theatre.’
    â€˜Why the hell are you there?’
    â€˜I got locked in by mistake.’
    â€˜And you want me to come and let you out?’
    â€˜Maybe, but in fact it’s worse than that. Warnock Belvedere’s here too.’
    â€˜You and Warnock staying behind . . . well, there’s a turn-up. What were –?’
    Charles cut through this untimely attempt at humour. ‘Listen, Wamock’s dead.’
    There was a silence from the other end of the phone. Then, in an appalled whisper, Gavin Scholes’ voice said, ‘What, in my theatre?’
    The police voice which answered the phone was impassive as it took down the details of what had happened. Or if the voice had any colouring at all, it was a tone of slight sceptical disbelief. Charles cursed all the alcohol he had had that night. He knew his speech was still slurred.
    He explained that the theatre was locked, and gave them Gavin’s address, so that the keys could be picked up. Yes, Mr Scholes would be awake; they had just spoken on the phone.
    Right. The police would be along as soon as possible. Would Mr Paris please remain where he was until they arrived.
    Fat bloody chance of doing anything else, he thought as he put the phone down.
    The theatre was aggressively silent now, and it seemed full of the looming presence of Wamock Belvedere’s body.
    Charles shivered again. God, he felt terrible. Really needed a drink. As he walked down towards the foyer, he looked wistfully through the padlocked grille of Norman’s bar.
    For a moment, he thought of the open store-room downstairs All those bottles. Or easy enough to fill a glass from the dribbling beer tubes . . .
    But no. He didn’t want to confront that congested face again.
    Besides, he was going to give up the booze. Wasn’t he?
    The police were there in ten minutes, but it was a long ten minutes for Charles Paris. They came in through the Stage Door and he met them in the passage which led to the dressing rooms. There were two uniformed officers, but he could hear the sounds of other cars drawing up outside.
    Charles felt very weary and unsteady. His words, he knew, were still fuzzy with drink, and he did not miss the sceptical exchange of looks between the two policemen as he showed them where Warnock Belvedere lay.
    They thanked him politely and asked where they could find a telephone. They asked if he would mind waiting in the theatre for a while. In his dressing room? Yes, that would be fine. They wouldn’t keep him longer than was necessary.
    In the dressing room, Charles’s head once again found the cushion of his table, and once again he dropped into a dead, unhealing sleep.
    â€˜Excuse me, sir. Mr Paris.’
    His shoulder was being shaken, and it took him a moment or two to realise where he was.
    The policeman who was waking him was a new face. Not in uniform, this one.
    There was another unfamiliar figure in the doorway, and, beyond, he could see the anxious face of Gavin Scholes.
    â€˜Sorry,’