Free Dead Giveaway by Simon Brett Page B

spoke very directly, with the confidence of someone who spent most of her working life on the telephone.
    ‘We can meet if you like, but I don’t think I’m going to be a lot of help to you. I didn’t see anything. I was only in the studio for that first round.’
    ‘I still think you could help.’
    ‘Hmm. Have you any reason for thinking Chippy didn’t do it?’
    ‘Instinct.’
    ‘Not always very reliable, I’m afraid, instinct. The police aren’t fools. On the whole, they don’t make an arrest until they’ve got a pretty good case worked out.’
    Sydnee did not answer this objection. ‘I’d like to talk about it,’ she persisted.
    ‘Okay. When do you want to meet?’
    ‘Could you make it for a drink this evening after work?’
    Charles was again reminded of how most people’s lives were defined by the boundaries of work, while at times the only structure in his own seemed to be imposed by licensing hours, but he didn’t comment. ‘Sure.’
    ‘Say . . . half-past six?’
    ‘Fine. Where, down at W.E.T.?’
    ‘No. Better off the premises. Too many people with their own theories down here. Do you know Harry Cockers?’
    ‘I beg your pardon?’
    ‘Cocktail bar. Covent Garden. Just off Floral Street.’
    ‘I’m sure I could find it. What, there at six-thirty?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘One thing, Sydnee . . .’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘Why did you get in touch with me?’
    ‘One of the Stage Managers here mentioned you. Mort Verdon . . . you remember him?’
    ‘Sure.’
    ‘He said you’d sorted a few things out when those murders happened on the
Strutters
series.’
    Charles felt childishly pleased as he put the phone down. He was amused by the idea that, while his acting career remained undistinguished, his reputation as an amateur detective was spreading.
    The venue currently called Harry Cockers had been through many identities in the previous decade, as various kinds of bars and restaurants became fashionable. Its latest manifestation was very Thirties, with bright jagged lines along every surface, and wall-panels showing geometrically-stylised silhouettes of dancing figures in evening-dress. Overhead large fans swished.
    It was full at that hour, and as he gazed at the clientele crowding the long bar, Charles felt infinitely old. The variegated flying-suits, the strident colours of fabrics and hair, the lurid make-up which would have been condemned at Drama School as ‘horribly over the top’, all seemed to point up the incongruity of his crumpled figure in its loyal sports jacket.
    He needn’t have worried. The bright young things at the bar were far too involved in themselves and each other to notice him as he peered from flying-suit to flying-suit, trying to identify Sydnee.
    She wasn’t there. At least, she wasn’t there unless she had dyed her hair another colour (which was of course not impossible). He sat at an empty table on the outskirts of the action. If she was there, she could find him. He knew his own appearance hadn’t changed in the last few days (or probably the last few decades).
    He was gratified to discover that his invisibility did not extend to the staff. He had hardly sat down before a waiter, whose tail-coat and white tie seemed at odds with the yellow-and-green-striped hair and the Christmas Tree decoration dangling from the ear-lobe, materialised to take his order. He drew Charles’s attention to the infinite list of highly-priced cocktails on the card in front of him.
    ‘Er, just a large whisky, please.’
    ‘On the rocks?’
    ‘Please.’
    The waiter vanished, very quickly to return with a tall glass so full of ice that the whisky had paled almost to invisibility, and a large bill.
    Charles sipped his drink, while mortifying thoughts about how old and out of touch he was ran through his head.
    Sydnee’s hair was still the same copper-beech colour when she appeared a few minutes later. Her flying-suit this time was electric blue.
    ‘Hi,’ she said, offering no apology