What Bloody Man Is That by Simon Brett Page B

Charles.’
    â€˜What, we’ll be rehearsing as usual?’
    â€˜We must. Ten o’clock call, as ever. Somehow I’ve got to get this show on.’
    â€˜What show is it you’re rehearsing on at the moment, Mr Scholes?’ the policeman asked politely.
    â€˜Macbeth.’
    â€˜Oh. That’s the play that’s meant to be bad luck, isn’t it?’
    â€˜Yes,’ said Gavin wryly. ‘
The Scottish Play
.’ Then the implication of Warnock’s death struck him again. ‘Oh Christ, I’ll have to get another Duncan.’ He looked hopefully at Charles who was walking past him with concentrated caution. ‘Charles, I wonder if you’d mind . . .?
    â€˜Sorry.’ A shake of the head. ‘Not that I don’t want to help out, but I am the Bleeding Sergeant, aren’t I? I think I’m as versatile as the next actor, but even I can’t envisage standing up on the stage and saying, “What bloody man is that?” to myself.’
    â€˜No. No,’ said Gavin wistfully. ‘Pity . . .’
    The police kindly drove Charles back to his digs. When he got up to his room, and before he collapsed into the long-desired haven of bed, he looked through the curtains to the road outside.
    The police car was still there.
    A chill thought struck him.
    Was the alcohol making him paranoid?
    Or was he under surveillance?

Chapter Nine
    THE NEXT morning the police car had gone, so Charles shrugged off his anxieties. Or at least he would have done, if shrugging hadn’t been far too painful an activity for the delicately poised time-bomb which was now balanced on top of his neck. He had the worst hangover he could remember.
    The gentle September light seemed to laser through his eyeballs into his brain. He took one look at his landlady’s bacon, eggs and fried bread and had to leave the dining room, thus causing irremediable damage to their relationship – his landlady was one of those women whose emotional life is conducted solely through the medium of food and for whom every unconsumed crust or potato-skin is a mortal affront.
    He couldn’t face the claustrophobia of a bus, so he walked to the Pinero, arriving a little after ten. But the fresh air didn’t help.
    And what greeted him at the theatre did little to improve his mood. He was met at the Stage Door by the policeman of the night before who, courteous as ever, said, ‘Mr Paris, good morning. As I mentioned last night, I would like to talk to you a little further. Mr Scholes has kindly said that we may use his office, so if you’d care to come up with me straight away . . .’
    â€˜Oh yes. Fine. But I am meant to be rehearsing. Perhaps I’d better have a word with Gavin to –’
    â€˜That’s quite all right, Mr Paris. I have spoken to Mr Scholes. I won’t keep you any longer than necessary.’
    â€˜Oh. All right.’
    They didn’t speak again until they were up in Gavin’s office. It was a crowded room, its every surface high with copies of
Spotlight,
scripts, set designs and the other impedimenta of theatre production.
    The policeman sat at Gavin’s desk and indicated a low chair for Charles. ‘Mr Scholes’ secretary was kind enough to offer to make us coffee if we wanted any.’
    â€˜It would be very welcome. Black, please.’
    â€˜Of course.’
    The policeman, like a good host, went to the door and arranged the order. Then he returned to the chair. He looked very alert, in good condition for someone who had presumably been up most of the night.
    â€˜Sorry,’ said Charles. ‘I didn’t get your name in all the confusion.’
    â€˜Detective Inspector Dowling.’
    â€˜Ah.’
    The Detective Inspector looked up as someone entered the room. It wasn’t the coffee. Instead, Charles was aware of the other plain-clothes policeman of the night before moving silently to take a chair in the corner