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  There must be something he had going for him. By the law of averages.

  A quick review of his options suggested that the law of averages didn’t operate in this situation.

  How long had he got? Logic told him that Trevor would lift the pallet as high as possible before dropping him. And how high was that?

  A little light from the headlights percolated upwards, showing the outlines of shelving on either side at the end of the aisle. The pallet was nearly level with the top shelf.

  And that must be the limit of its range. The shelving was designed to use the machine’s maximum reach. In a matter of seconds, Trevor would flick the ‘Quick-Release’.

  Charles only had once chance and it was a slim one. The platform on which he lay swayed some three or four feet from the corner of the nearest shelf. He wasn’t good at heights and it wasn’t a leap he would have relished in full daylight. To attempt it in the semi-darkness was probably suicidal.

  On the other hand, to wait for Trevor to drop him was certainly suicidal, and if he was going to die, Charles preferred a method that at least gave him the illusion of self-determination.

  He dragged himself into a crouching position on the pallet. The pain in the back of his neck intensified, dizzying him for a second. The upright on the corner of the shelving rippled before his eyes in the uncertain light.

  Still, he had no other hope. With a silent prayer to the God who got so shamefully neglected except at such moments of crisis, Charles Paris unsteadily took up the position of a starting sprinter and, kicking off with his feet, launched himself into the void.

  As he did so, he felt the wood of the pallet disappear beneath him like the trapdoor under a hanging man. The impact of his body slamming and wrapping itself round the upright of the shelves compounded with the crash of the falling pallet to shake the whole warehouse.

  Every part of Charles’s body trembled with shock. The pain in his neck peaked, threatening unconsciousness. Life surged and flickered in him like the power of a fading generator.

  But his wrenched arms still clasped the perforated steel of the shelf support.

  He was still alive.

  He scrabbled around with his feet, and found the reassuring solidity of the plastic-wrapped stock on the shelf below. He tensed one foot on its surface, then the other, and allowed his legs to share the weight with his strained arms.

  From the darkness beneath, he heard a confused oath from Trevor, then the sound of the forklift truck being put into neutral. It could only be a moment before the operator realised what had happened.

  And when he did, Charles’s prospects weren’t going to improve that much. The forks of the truck could all too easily knock him off his perch, or bring down any pallet of stock on which he found refuge.

  Still, he’d be safer inside the shelves than dangling from their edge. Easier to lower himself to the second shelf than pull himself up to the top. Cautiously feeling his way with his feet and moving his hands from hole to hole along the metal spar, Charles slid into the gap between two loaded pallets. Holding his body up with aching arms braced on the stock, he felt gingerly with his foot for the bottom of the shelf.

  At first his shoe dangled hopelessly in a void, but then his shin brushed against an upright, on which he managed to find a precarious toehold.

  ‘You won’t get away, you bastard! I’m coming to get you!’

  Trevor’s voice was chillingly sudden in the empty warehouse. Charles tried to squeeze himself back into the depths of the shelves, but the boxes of stock he pushed against gave way.

  The webbing and plastic wrapping of that particular load must have been damaged in transit, because the cartons were loose.

  Charles found himself falling forwards as the stock was dislodged.

  For a second all he felt was rushing emptiness.

  Then, with the impact of a car crash, the ridged metal edge of the shelf slammed into his chest, forcing the breath from his body, but at least breaking his fall – though, from the way he felt, it might have broken a few other things in the process.

  But at the moment of his own crash, Charles was aware of an answering thunder from below, the clatter of falling cartons, the change of engine note of a forklift truck going into gear.

  And a human cry, which was suddenly cut off.

  Chapter Seventeen

  AT LEAST it proved that Dayna Richman’s death could have been accidental. One of the cartons had fallen on to the lever of the forklift truck, pushing it into gear, and the machine was once again pressing urgently against the pile of pallets.

  On the other hand, for the cartons to have fallen by chance, without the agency of a human hand, remained too much of a coincidence.

  But such thoughts were only allowed a fleeting passage through Charles’s mind. The greater urgency was to find out what had happened to Trevor. As fast as he could, but with extreme caution and a great deal of pain, he felt his way down the end of the shelving to the warehouse floor.

  As he did so, the image of Dayna’s death kept flashing through his mind. It would be a tragic irony if her murderer had been trapped by the same unlikely means.

  Charles leapt into the forklift’s seat and pulled the lever into reverse. With a protesting grind of gears, the machine backed off. He switched off the ignition and dropped down to the floor, then peered through the confusion of pallets to the wall.

  There was no sign of Trevor.

  Charles reached into the debris of splintered wood and picked up his torch, which lay exactly where he had dropped it. He swung the beam round over the chaos of dented cartons.

  Trevor’s legs struck out from under a mound of Delmoleen ‘Oat Nuggets’.

  Charles pulled the cartons away to expose the silent operator.

  Trevor lay still, but he was breathing. There was a scratch on his temple from the edge of one of the boxes, and already the skin beneath was swelling into an egg. His right leg was bent awkwardly under his left.

  He moaned gently as the last carton was removed. The sound wasn’t a moan of agony, more the mumbling of someone asleep. Charles decided that the man was not badly injured, just temporarily knocked out.

  Help must be summoned. Charles was in two minds as to whether he should be on the premises when that help came. An anonymous call to Delmoleen security and a discreet exit before they arrived might save a lot of awkward questions.

  But there was something else that had to be done. With another quick check to see that Trevor could be left for a moment, Charles went across to the pallets and moved enough back to expose the small cupboard.

  He opened it and swept his torch beam round the inside.

  Just one video cassette this time.

  He picked it up and pushed it into one of his jacket’s voluminous pockets.

  Trevor’s moaning was now more articulate. Words became distinguishable as consciousness returned. Charles moved across.

  The operator blinked in the light of the torch. ‘What the hell’s going on?’ Recollection returned when he saw Charles’s face. “Why, you bastard!’

  He made to rise, but winced in agony as he put weight on his right leg. ‘Shit! My leg – it’s bloody broken!’

  ‘I’ll get help,’ said Charles.

  Trevor looked up, still furious through his pain. ‘I wanted to kill you,’ he said. ‘I should have killed you!’

  ‘Why?’ asked Charles coolly.

  ‘Because you said I killed Dayna. I can’t have people going around saying that kind of thing. If that kind of rumour ever got to the police . . .’

  ‘Well, did you kill her?’

  ‘No, of course I bloody didn’t!’

  ‘I saw you coming into the warehouse just before she died.’

  ‘Ah, but –’

  ‘And don’t bring up the alibi that Heather so conveniently provided for you. That’s shot to pieces now.’

  Trevor didn’t try to argue with this.

  ‘Incidentally, why did Heather suddenly cover up
for you?’

  ‘God knows. I was as surprised as anyone. Mind you, wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Got me out of a nasty spot and no mistake.’

  ‘But she’s not a particular friend of yours?’

  Trevor shook his head. The movement reactivated the pain in his leg and he grimaced.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said when he’d recovered himself. ‘Heather’s devoted to Delmoleen. ‘Well, devoted to Brian Tressider, anyway. I think she probably just saw a moment of danger to the company, and said the first thing she could think of that would stop an outside investigation.’

  ‘And you were happy enough to go along with it?’

  ‘Sure.’ Another spasm of pain crossed Trevor’s face. ‘Look, I need an ambulance. Have some pity, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Charles, atypically cruel. ‘You were trying to kill me. Why should I show any pity to you?’

  ‘Because my leg bloody well hurts!’

  ‘I’ll get help in a minute. I just want you to answer a couple of questions first.’

  Trevor didn’t argue. ‘What are they?’

  ‘First – did you kill Dayna?’

  ‘No, I didn’t! I told you – it was an accident. I didn’t intend it to work out like that.’

  ‘But you did go into the warehouse, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And it was you who switched on the ignition of the forklift?’

  ‘Yes. Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I was bloody angry.’

  ‘Who with?’

  ‘You!’

  ‘Me? What had I done?’

  ‘You’d just got up my nose all that morning. I was angry that they thought I couldn’t do my own job, that they had to bring in a bloody actor to do it for me!’

  ‘That wasn’t my fault.’

  ‘Maybe not, but it got me livid. You didn’t know a thing about forklifts.’

  ‘No, but –’

  ‘So I reckoned if they saw that you’d left the truck running all lunch-hour, flattening the battery, they’d realise how bloody useless you were.’

  ‘So you switched the truck on just for that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you didn’t leave it in gear?’

  ‘No, I bloody didn’t!’

  ‘Did you see Dayna come into the warehouse?’

  ‘No. Look, all I did was I left it running . . . Then the cartons fell, pushed it into gear and unfortunately she was behind the pallets. It was an accident.’

  Charles looked sceptical. ‘Sounds pretty unlikely to me. I do know, incidentally, why Dayna was behind the pallets. She knew where you kept the videos, didn’t she?’

  Trevor looked even more truculent. ‘So?’

  ‘What were those videos, Trevor?’

  ‘Oh, just some rubbish I used to sell round the factory. Porno stuff.’

  ‘Films you’d made yourself?’

  ‘No. No, these were things I’d copied. Could usually find a few of the blokes here who’d buy them. Anything was more exciting than their bloody wives, in most cases.’

  ‘Did any of the videos feature Dayna?’

  ‘No. Like I said, they was just stuff that’d been pirated.’

  ‘But your video camera has been used for filming couples on the job,’ said Charles, remembering what Shelley Fletcher had told him.

  Trevor looked defiant. ‘I’ve lent it to people. What they did with it was up to them.’

  ‘Did Dayna ever ask you if she could borrow it?’ Trevor looked up sharply at the question, so Charles pursued his intuition further. ‘Did she ever ask you to film her in a sexual situation?’

  ‘She asked. I said no.’

  ‘So you didn’t even lend her the camera?’

  ‘Well . . . Yes, I did.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘There was . . . Well, there was something she knew which . . . ! didn’t want anyone else to know.’

  ‘Something about your sex-life?’

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘Surely not just that you’re gay?’

  Trevor looked up sharply. ‘How did you know? Did she tell you?’

  ‘No, of course not. I worked it out for myself,’ Charles lied. ‘But surely that doesn’t matter. It’s no big deal these days.’

  ‘Maybe it isn’t in the bloody theatre. Place like this it’s still a big deal. Have to be very careful . . . particularly if you’re interested in someone else in the company . . .’

  ‘And are you? Is there someone else in the company?’

  Trevor looked almost tearful, weary, glad to confide his troubles. ‘There’s a boy in the Post Room. I’m pretty sure he’s interested, but . . . Oh, it’s difficult. That’s why I was here tonight. Supposed to be meeting him here. Little bugger never showed, did he?’

  ‘And did Dayna know about this boy? Was that the hold she had over you?’

  ‘No, wasn’t that. This little bastard’s only just joined the company. No, Dayna knew about . . . something else.’

  Charles had a sudden intuition. ‘Was it something to do with minors? Under-age boys?’

  Panic flared in the operator’s eye. ‘Did she talk to you? What did she say?’

  ‘Nothing, nothing,’ Charles soothed. ‘I was just guessing.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. Did Dayna say she’d got evidence against you?’

  ‘Claimed she had. Claimed she’d photographed me outside a place . . . It’s a gents’ lavatory where . . . well . . .’

  ‘Did you ever see the photographs?’

  ‘No. But the place she mentioned was right, and the time she said she’d seen me.’

  ‘Hm. And that’s why you reacted against Dayna that morning when we were filming here?’

  Trevor gave the smallest of nods.

  ‘So she was blackmailing you . . .?’ This too was confirmed. ‘Just as she blackmailed other people round Delmoleen . . .?’

  ‘I don’t know that for sure. But I think so. I’m fairly certain that’s why she wanted to borrow the camera – to set it up so she could film herself on the job.’

  “With whom, though, Trevor? Who did she want to be filmed with?’

  ‘I don’t know. Really don’t.’

  It sounded like the truth. ‘Would explain why the men she’d been with didn’t criticise her too much afterwards . . .’ Charles mused. ‘She was an ambitious girl by all accounts, Dayna, wasn’t she?’

  ‘Yes. She wanted to get to the London office. Had applied for a post there just before she . . . you know, before she died.’

  ‘Really? That’s interesting. Do you know if she got the job?’

  ‘Not certain. Think she probably did, yes.’

  ‘Hm. I’ve heard people say she wanted to screw her way right to the top of the company . . .’

  “Wouldn’t have been out of character.’

  ‘But you can’t give me any names . . .’

  Trevor gave a decided – but incautious – shake of his head. He winced as the pain from his leg tore through him.

  ‘I’ll call an ambulance,’ said Charles. ‘And, actually, I don’t think I’ll be around when it comes.’

  ‘Probably just as well.’

  ‘Another industrial accident. Likely to get as detailed an investigation as the last one.’

  ‘I should think so.’

  The atmosphere between the two men had changed. It was never going to become one of complicity or even friendship, but at least the overt hostility was gone.

  ‘By the way,’ said Charles graciously, ‘I’m prepared to forget the fact that you tried to kill me.’

  He got a gruff ‘thank you’ for that. ‘I’m sorry, but I couldn’t have you going round saying I’d murdered Dayna. I mean, that was bound to open up a whole can of worms about . . . you know, other things . . .’

  ‘Don’t worry. I won’t make the accusation again.’

  ‘Right. Good. So that means you know I didn’
t kill her.’

  ‘Sure,’ Charles agreed. ‘All you did was switch on the forklift’s ignition.’

  And he was very close to being convinced that that really was all Trevor had done.

  But he’d reserve judgement until he’d watched the video cassette that nestled in his jacket pocket.

  For the call to security that announced an accident in the warehouse, Charles used the voice he had perfected for Gaslight (‘Charles Paris was about as sinister as a teddy-bear with a bow round its neck’ – Leicester Mercury). The security guard didn’t sound very frightened by it either, nor particularly interested, but he said someone would be over there soon.

  Charles made good his escape by the same route that he’d entered the warehouse and, to his amazement, got to Stenley Curton Station in time to join Will on the ten twenty-seven train to Bedford.

  ‘What the hell’s happened to your suit?’ the writer asked.

  Charles looked down. A pocket flapped, torn down one side. Two of the double-breasted buttons had gone. The fabric was scored with furrows of black dirt.

  ‘Oh, er, I fell over,’ he replied feebly.

  On their journey back he told Will Parton nothing of what had happened. Nor did he mention what he was carrying in his suit’s surviving pocket. This was partly because secrecy seemed essential until he’d got a few more details sorted out. And partly because he gave in to the healing sleep that his battered body cried out for.

  At St Pancras, still muzzy and confused, Charles hailed a cab and gave the address of the only discreet person he could think of who owned a video.

  ‘What the hell’s happened to your suit?’ Frances asked.

  She stood in the doorway of her flat in a dressing-gown, face puffy with sleep. Someone who always hated being woken up in the middle of the night, she did at least have the restraint not to say, ‘Do you know what time it is?’

  ‘Take a long time to explain,’ said Charles. ‘Look, for reasons which would also take too long to explain. I need to borrow your VCR.’

  Frances looked at her watch and raised her eyebrows. ‘I see.’

  The tape was a commercial hard-core pornographic film. The antics of the cast demonstrated a bored mechanical professionalism. There was no soundtrack, but the looks of the participants suggested a German or Scandinavian origin. None of them was recognisable from Delmoleen.