Free Dead Giveaway by Simon Brett Page A

round.’
    ‘Ah, but nobody has got any sense in the game-show world.’
    ‘You mean otherwise they’d be doing something else?’
    ‘Stands to reason, doesn’t it? Anyway, why do you say it’s such a daft idea having an actor for the round?’
    ‘Because the whole premise of that part of the game is based on people’s anonymity, and actors, by definition, aren’t anonymous. They’re always in the public eye.’
    ‘Are you saying somebody recognised you?’
    Charles was forced to admit that this had not been the case.
    ‘But, come the game, you mean subconsciously they all recognised you and all identified you as the actor?’
    Charles was forced to admit that two out of the four contestants had thought he was a hamburger chef.
    Maurice Skellern thought this very funny. His asthmatic laughter was still wheezing down the line when Charles said his goodbyes and put the phone down.
    He stood for a moment on the landing of the house in Hereford Road. He was feeling shaken. Not by the news of the murder, but by the thought of his illicit sips of gin from Barrett Doran’s glass. A little bit later and his thirst might have killed him. It was an unpleasant
frisson
.
    He wondered whether he should ring his wife and tell her how close he had come to death. His relationship with Frances was once more in the doldrums. They had long ago separated, but ties remained and, like two pieces of wood floating down a river, they occasionally bounced back together again for brief periods. The love between them was too strong for either to form other permanent relationships, but soon after each reconciliation, the same old difficulties of living together reasserted themselves, and once again they would drift apart.
    It had been a couple of months since their last such parting and, though he knew nothing would have changed, Charles needed to make contact again. Perhaps hearing that he had nearly swallowed a fatal dose of cyanide would make Frances forget their recent disagreements. It would be a good opening gambit, anyway.
    He looked at his watch. No, of course not. It was a quarter to twelve in the morning. Frances was headmistress of a girls’ school. She wouldn’t mind his ringing her there in a real emergency, but just to mention casually that he’d nearly been poisoned . . . forget it.
    On the other hand, at that time of day the pubs would be open. After his shock, Charles felt he deserved a little pampering. He went down to his local and had a few pints. By the third he had forgotten about the idea of ringing Frances. And, if he thought anything about Barrett Doran’s death, it was only pity for the beautiful, sad girl who had been driven to such extremities by love.
    And, but for a phone-call he received the next morning, he might have never thought any more about it.
    The pampering of the previous lunchtime had escalated into evening pampering in various pubs and clubs where Charles always felt confident of meeting other actors. As a result, he was moving somewhat tentatively around his bedsitter, as if his exploding head was unattached and had to be balanced between his shoulders, when the telephone on the landing rang.
    ‘Hello.’ He hadn’t intended it to come out as a growl, but that was the only sound of which his voice was capable under the circumstances.
    ‘Could I speak to Charles Paris, please?’
    ‘This is he . . . him.’
    The caller then seemed to identify itself as ‘Sidney Danson’, which did not immediately ring bells. His fuddled mind was slowly registering that it was an unusually high voice for a man, when she mentioned West End Television and he knew where he was.
    ‘What can I do for you, Sydnee?’
    ‘It’s about Barrett Doran’s death.’
    ‘Oh yes?’
    ‘You know Chippy’s been arrested and charged, don’t you?’
    ‘I had heard.’
    ‘Well, I don’t think she did it. I just can’t imagine her . . . not killing him.’
    ‘Ah.’
    ‘Could we get together and talk about it?’ She