Free Cast in Order of Disappearance by Simon Brett

supper. Marius Steen might be out too, but he was bound to return at some stage, and the more Charles thought about the urgency of the situation, the more he was determined to meet the man. He said good-bye to Jacqui. She refused the cold remains of the fish and chips, so he took the whole package out to the dustbin at the front of the house (no need to worry her about the Sweet murder if she didn’t know—and it appeared she didn’t). He caught a train from Paddington to Reading, arrived there to find the last train to Goring and Streatley had gone, and, after a considerable wait, got a minicab.
    It was only when he was sitting in the back of the car that he actually thought of the risk he was taking. Because of a mild affection for a tart he now seemed unable even to make love to, he was going to confront a man he knew to be a murderer with copies of the photographs for which a man had been killed. Put like that, it did sound rather silly. Fortunately, there had been time to buy a half bottle of Bell’s on the way to Paddington. Charles took a long pull. And another one.
    The car drew up outside a pair of high white gates. The driver charged an enormous amount of money ‘on account of the petrol crisis’ and swore when he wasn’t given a tip to match. As the car’s lights disappeared round the corner, it occurred to Charles that he should perhaps have asked the man to wait. If Steen turned nasty, he’d be glad of a quick getaway. But the thought was too late.
    It was now very cold, the night air sharp and clear. The moon was nearly full and shed a watery light on the scene. It gleamed dully from a puddle outside the gates, which were high and solid, made of interlocking vertical planks. A fluorescent bell-push shone on the stone post to the right. Charles pressed it for a long time. It was now after midnight, Steen might well be in bed.
    He pressed the button at intervals for about five minutes, but there was no reaction. His quarry might not be back yet, or perhaps the bell wasn’t working. Charles tried the latch of the gate; he had to push hard but eventually it yielded.
    He stood on a gravel path, looking at the house. It was an enormous bungalow, with a central block roofed in green tiles which shone in the moonlight. From this main part smaller wings spread off like the suburbs of a city. To the right there was a ramp down to a double garage on basement level. The whole building was painted the frost white of cake icing and its shine echoed the gleam of the silent Thames behind. No lights showed.
    The main door was sheltered by a portico with tall columns, an incongruous touch of Ancient Greece grafted on to the sprawling modern bungalow. The door itself was of dark panelled wood with a brass knocker. Since there was no sign of a bell, Charles raised the enormous ring and let it fall.
    The noise shocked him. It boomed as if the whole house was a resonating chamber for the brass instrument on the door. Charles waited, then knocked again. Soon he was hammering on the door, thud after thud, a noise fit to wake the dead. But there was nothing. The rush to Berkshire had been pointless. The photographs still bulged in his inside pocket. Marius Steen was not at home.

VIII
    Inside the Giant’s Castle
    â€˜IT WOULD HAVE all been easier, Daddy,’ said Juliet, ‘if you’d had some sort of regular job. I mean, acting’s so unpredictable.’
    â€˜No, no, darling,’ said Miles Taylerson, judiciously, ‘not all acting. I mean there are regular jobs in acting—you know, directors of repertory companies, or in serials like Coronation Street or Crossroads .’
    Charles, seated in Miles’ karate-style dressing-gown, gritted his teeth and buttered, or rather battered, a piece of toast.
    â€˜No, but, quite honestly, Daddy, I do worry about you. I mean, you haven’t set anything aside for your old age.’
    â€˜This is my old age, so it’s