Situation Tragedy Read online

  Peter Lipscombe intervened again. ‘Er, yes. Just a moment, Bob. If I could say a few words . . .’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, er, as Producer, I would like to –’

  ‘Oh yeah, I forgot you were Producer. All right, be quick. I’ll get myself a coffee.’ And Bob Tomlinson got up and walked across to the coffee machine, while Peter Lipscombe started his pep-talk.

  ‘Right, first let me say how nice it is to see you all looking so well. Now we’ve all had a horrible shock and there’s no use pretending what happened didn’t happen, but what we’ve all got to do is to put it behind us and look ahead, just remember what a jolly exciting series this is going to be. Now, because of circumstances, we’ve lost a couple of days’ filming, but we’ll be able to pick them up in the course of our schedule. And, incidentally, I’d like to warn you now that I’ve just received Script Number Six from Rod and that’s going to involve some of you in a night’s filming. We’ll let you know the date as soon as it’s been sorted out, but I thought you’d like to know.

  ‘So . . . here we all are and by this time next week we’ll have recorded the first episode – second, if we include the pilot – of this really exciting new series-The Strutters! Let me tell you, ladies and gentlemen –’

  ‘Have you finished?’ asked Bob Tomlinson, returning with his cup of coffee.

  ‘Well, er, yes, I, er, um . . .’

  ‘Okay, read from the top. Start the watch, girl.’

  Maybe it was the inhibiting expression of boredom on the director’s face, or perhaps it was just that the script was inferior to the pilot episode, but the read-through didn’t seem very funny. Peter Lipscombe and Tilly Lake provided their usual sycophantic laughter for the first few pages, but soon faded to silence.

  As the pay-off to the episode was spoken, Bob Tomlinson turned to Janie. ‘How long?’

  ‘Part One: 10–17, Part Two: 9–41,’ she supplied efficiently. ‘Making a total of 19–58.’

  ‘That’s near enough.’ Bob rose with the enthusiasm of a man about to put three coats of paint on a forty-foot wall. ‘Let’s block it.’

  Peter Lipscombe raised a hand to intervene. ‘Um, just a few points before you do that. Debbi, that line you have on 1–7, where you say, “No, I’m not that sort of girl”. . . could you –’

  “Ere, what is this?’ asked Bob Tomlinson, with all the anger of a barrow-boy who’d arrived at market to find someone else on his pitch. ‘I’m the Director of this show. I give the bleeding artists notes.’

  Peter Lipscombe didn’t want a scene. His voice took on a mollifying tone. ‘Yes, of course, Bob, of course. I wonder if you’d mention to Debbi that I think one way – not by any means the only way, but one way of delivering that line would be to emphasise the ‘that’. ‘I’m not that sort of girl.’ I think it points up the joke.’

  ‘All right,’ Bob Tomlinson conceded. ‘Which one of you’s Debbi? Right, on that line, could you hit the “that”? Okay, let’s get this bloody show blocked.’

  ‘I’ve got a point, Bob,’ said the colourless voice of Rod Tisdale.

  ‘And who the hell are you? Another bloody producer?’

  ‘No, Bob, this is our writer, Rod Tisdale.’

  Bob Tomlinson glowered. ‘I don’t like writers round my rehearsal rooms.’

  Rod Tisdale showed no signs of having heard this. ‘It’s Page 3 of Part Two.’

  ‘Oh, don’t bother me with bloody details on the script. Tell the producer.’

  ‘Peter,’ said Rod Tisdale obediently, ‘on that page, I think the line, “I can’t stand it any longer” would probably be better as “I can’t stick it out any longer.” You know, probably pick up the laugh on the double meaning.’

  ‘Yes, nice thinking, Rod. Um, Bob, Rod’s had rather a good idea, I think. On Page 3 of Part Two, wondering if we could change “I can’t stand it any longer” to “I can’t stick it out any longer”?’

  ‘Change it. See if I care.’

  ‘No, but I don’t want us to force it on you. We all want to be in agreement on things. So do say what you’d like.’

  ‘I’d like you and the bloody writer to clear out and let me get on with this rubbish.’

  As rehearsals progressed. Charles found his respect for Bob Tomlinson increasing. He realised that the director’s manner was not just rudeness for its own sake, but a way of getting on with the job quickly. And his contempt for the material he was directing (a feeling for which Charles found in himself considerable sympathy) did not seem to make the performances any worse. Nor did it lower the morale of the production; after the agonising of Scott Newton over every comma, the more practical approach was quite a relief. The atmosphere in the rehearsal room was rather jolly.

  Bob Tomlinson just got on with the job and didn’t waste time with socialising or toadying to his stars. He was an efficient organiser and ensured that every part of the production came together at the right time. He was a good example of the huge value of competence in television. Flair may have its place, but flair is not always coupled with efficiency and, given the choice between a director with flair and one with competence, many actors would opt for the security of the latter.

  Certainly the cast of The Strutters didn’t seem put out by the offhand manner of their new Director. They seemed to respect his lack of obsequiousness. It made them more equal, a group of people who had come together to get on with a job of work. Aurelia Howarth, used to cosseting and cotton-woolling from generations of producers, seemed totally unworried by Bob Tomlinson’s directness and his undisguised lack of interest in the welfare of Cocky.

  The atmosphere between Director and Producer remained. The fact was that Bob Tomlinson was not used to working to a Producer. For many years he had combined the roles, and his agent had ensured that the final credit read: ‘Produced and Directed by Bob Tomlinson’. It was only because of the last-minute nature of his booking on The Strutters when his other series was cancelled that he found himself in this unusual position.

  But he didn’t let it worry him. He didn’t let anything worry him. The Strutters was just another three months of well-paid work, and soon he’d be on to something else. The secret of Bob Tomlinson’s success and his formidable track record in sit com was his ability not to let anything get to him. He was the first person Charles had met in that world who seemed to have an accurate estimate of the value and importance of the product.

  He continued to be cheerfully rude to Peter Lipscombe and continued to allow no notes to be given directly from the Producer to the artists. So there were more conversations in which people with a common language talked through an interpreter. But Peter Lipscombe’s role, which under Scott Newton’s inexperienced regime had increased, dwindled back to grinning a lot, asking everyone if everything was okay and buying drinks. Which was, after all, what he did best.

  The actual recording of Episode One (or Episode Two, if you counted the pilot) of The Strutters did not go particularly well. This was in no way due to Bob Tomlinson’s direction. There was, after all, only one way to shoot a Rod Tisdale script, and that was the way he did it. All that was wrong with the evening was that the script was slightly inferior, and after all the euphoric generalisations about new eras in comedy which had followed the pilot, anticlimax was inevitable.

  After the recording, Charles overheard a conversation between the writer and Director. Rod Tisdale, in a voice that almost betrayed some emotion, asked, ‘How d’you think it went?’

  Bob Tomlinson shrugged. ‘All right. How does any sit com go?’

  Rod Tisdale shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I reckoned there were sixty-eight jokes in that script. We only got fifty-three laughs.’

  ‘It’ll look fine after the sound-dub.’

  ‘You mean you’ll add the laughs?’

  ‘You bet I will. By the time I’ve finished, you won’t be able to tell the difference between this and a really funny show.’

  ‘I’ve always resisted having laughs dubb
ed on to my shows.’

  ‘Sod what you’ve always resisted, son. I’m directing this show and I’ll do it my way.’

  Which was of course the way it would be done.

  Charles decided to go up to the bar in the lift. (Though no one actually mentioned it, the fire escape had been used much less since Sadie’s death.) He had changed with his customary rapidity out of his top half (Reg the golf club barman’s legs, after their brief airing on film, had once again retreated to proper obscurity), and reckoned only Peter Lipscombe would have beaten him to the bar. Where he could once again demonstrate his skill in buying drinks.

  There was an argument going on outside the lift. A small balding man with glasses, who carried a duffle bag and wore a thin checked sports jacket and a yellow nylon shirt, was being moved on by a uniformed commissionaire.

  ‘No, I’m sorry, sir, show’s over. I have to clear all the audience out of the building. Now come along, please.’

  ‘But she will see me, she will. She always does.’

  ‘No, I’m sorry, sir, I’ve got to clear the building. So, if you don’t mind . . . If it’s an autograph you want, you’re welcome to wait outside the main door until the artists come out.’

  ‘I don’t want her autograph. I’ve got her autograph a thousand times over. I’ve got autographed programmes of every show she’s ever been in. I’ve collected them all.’

  ‘Sorry, sir, I must –’

  ‘No, listen, my name’s Romney Kirkstall. She knows me. Really. You just tell her I’m here and –’

  ‘She know you were coming tonight?’

  ‘No, she didn’t actually, but she’s always glad to see me. I come to all the What’ll the Neighbours . . . recordings and –’

  ‘If the lady’s not expecting you, sir, I’m afraid I must ask you to –’

  ‘No, really, she will want to see me!’

  Before the commissionaire could produce further verbal or physical arguments, the truth of Romney Kirkstall’s assertion was proved by the zephyrous arrival of Aurelia Howarth, saying, ‘Romney, darling, how good of you to come!’

  ‘You’re lucky I’m still here, Dob,’ said the little man. ‘This . . . gentleman was doing his best to throw me out.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Miss Howarth,’ the commissionaire apologised sheepishly. ‘I didn’t know who he was. We get a lot of types wanting to worry the stars and that. I thought he might be some kind of freak.’

  The wildness of Kirkstall’s appearance justified that supposition, but Aurelia cooed lightly, ‘No, no, Romney’s my most loyal fan.’

  The lift arrived at that moment, so she continued, ‘Come on, darling, let’s go up and have a drink. Sorry about the mix-up.’

  Charles went into the lift with them and they all arrived together in the bar. Where, predictably enough, Peter Lipscombe bought them all drinks. And he did do it very well.

  Gerald Venables had once again come to the recording and Charles met him in the bar. The actor was becoming suspicious of the solicitor’s constant appearances at West End Television. Though he always claimed disingenuously he had just come to see the show, Gerald was notorious for investing in the lucrative areas of show business, and Charles wouldn’t have been at all surprised to discover he had a stake in the company. He seemed to know everyone altogether too well to be a mere casual visitor. And his constant discussions with W.E.T.’s Head of Contracts suggested more than idle conversation.

  But Charles never expected to have his suspicions confirmed. Gerald was masonically secretive about his investments.

  ‘Still think we’re on to a winner?’ he asked ironically, after Peter Lipscombe had bought Gerald a drink too.

  ‘Oh yes,’ asserted the solicitor confidently. ‘Minor hiccup tonight, but it’ll be fine. Yes, this series is going to make the autumn schedules look very healthy. What with this and Wragg and Bowen, the BBC’ll be knocked for six.’

  Gerald was talking so exactly like Peter Lipscombe that Charles once again suspected him of complicity with the company’s management. He seemed to know altogether too much.

  But Gerald’s interest in television was subsidiary to his interest in criminal investigation. He had helped Charles on one or two cases in the past and was evidently avid for more.

  ‘Well? Two suspicious deaths now. What do you make of it, bud?’

  ‘A coincidence of two accidents, I think.’

  ‘Oh, come on, you can do better than that.’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve thought it through a lot, but I can’t seem to get any line on it at all. Either there are two totally unrelated crimes, or only one crime and one accident, or no crimes. I can’t get any consistent motivation for anyone.’

  And he gave Gerald a summary of his thinking to date. ‘The only person for whom I’ve got even a wisp of motivation,’ he concluded, ‘is dear old Bernard Walton. If he thought the future of his own series was threatened by The Strutters, then he would in theory have a motive to sabotage the show. And, if you think on those lines, it becomes significant that the two people who have died have nothing to do with What’ll the Neighbours Say? I mean, say Aurelia or George had gone, then that might jeopardise the future of the series, but as it is, there’s nothing to stop it going ahead. As indeed – and here’s the one fact that makes the whole theory crumble in ruins about my ears-it is going ahead. I’ll have to think of something else.’

  ‘I’ve got news for you, Charles,’ Gerald announced portentously.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I was just talking to the Head of Contracts. The proposed series of What’ll the Neighbours Say? has been cancelled.’

  ‘It can’t have been. The artists’ options have been taken up.’

  ‘Oh, sure. But they’re all going to be paid off. Head of Contracts has been ringing round the agents today. Were you optioned for the series, by the way?’

  ‘No. They just did an availability check. Said it wasn’t definite that Reg the golf club barman would be a regular character.’

  Gerald grimaced. ‘If your agent was worth his commission, he’d have got some sort of contract out of them. Who is your agent, by the way?’

  ‘Maurice Skellern.’

  ‘Oh. Say no more.’

  ‘But just a minute, Gerald, they wouldn’t just pay everyone off.’

  ‘Why not? Happens all the time.’

  ‘But it’s a huge amount of money.’

  ‘A huge amount of money for the actors involved, maybe. A very nice little pay-off for doing nothing. But, as a percentage of the budget of a major television production, it’s peanuts, really. So long as you actually keep a show out of the studio, you’re still saving money. In fact, there are producers who have built up considerable reputations by keeping shows out of studios.’

  Once again Gerald was showing more than a layman’s knowledge of the workings of television, but Charles didn’t comment. Instead, he said. ‘Anyway, even if that has happened, and I still don’t quite see why it has . . .’

  ‘Nigel Frisch has lost confidence in the series. And they need the studio dates for Wragg and Bowen.’

  ‘Okay, but coming back to our little problem of a murder motivation, we’re no further advanced. If the artists’ agents were only told about the cancellation today –’

  ‘Yes, most of them were. But Bernard Walton, because he was the star, was given the honour of knowing the bad news before anyone else. Nigel Frisch, who, whatever else one may say about him, is never one to shirk responsibility, rang Bernard personally.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Last Tuesday.’

  The day before Scott Newton’s death.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE ATMOSPHERE at the Paddington Jewish Boys’ Club Hall for the read-through the following morning was distinctly subdued. Partly, this was because the previous night’s recording had been less than successful, but there was also a communal consciousness that they were now all into a weekly turnaround of shows; they would have to work harder and there wo
uld be less time for anything else. And there were some sore heads. The very human tendency to have a few drinks and go out for a meal after a recording that finishes at ten rarely takes account of a ten-thirty call the next morning.

  George Birkitt was the only one who seemed cheerful. His agent had come to the recording and told him about the What’ll the Neighbours Say? pay-off. Not only did this give him financial encouragement, because the contracted fees for thirteen programmes came to a very considerable amount, it also seemed a promising augury for The Strutters series. The company was clearly backing the new show at the expense of the old one. And, though he didn’t quite say it, he reckoned that meant they thought George Birkitt was now a more bankable star than Bernard Walton. ‘The other thing is,’ he confided to Charles, ‘it means I’ll be able to take some other work. My agent keeps having calls from casting directors offering quite nice stuff, but always has to turn it down, saying, no, sorry, love, he’s under contract to W.E.T.. Exclusive contracts have their advantages, but they do restrict your movement.’

  Charles Paris, whose experience of exclusive contracts was small, nodded wisely.

  But George was the only one in a sunny mood. Even Aurelia, whose diaphanous charm rarely varied, seemed distracted. Apparently it was something to do with Cocky, who had been sick during the night and had to have the vet summoned. The lack of sleep this disturbance had caused made the actress look slightly less ageless than usual. Charles was more aware of the strains a television series must impose on a woman in her seventies.

  And she was obviously worried about the dog. Throughout the read-through, she kept going across to his little basket to check on his welfare. ‘If anything happened to Cocky,’ she said, ‘I don’t know what I’d do.’

  Janie Lewis was also less than her beaming efficient self. Dark circles under her eyes suggested she hadn’t had any sleep the night before and a strained atmosphere between her and one of the regular cast, Nick Coxhill, suggested why. Charles once again thought he might continue his desultory pursuit of her, but his first overture was met with the sharp retort that she was henceforth to be known as Jay, and that she was busy.