Free A Comedian Dies by Simon Brett Page A

television’s good. But the real money for a comedian’s in cabaret. Those big cabaret joints, the clubs, they pay the comic all the door money, virtually. Make their dough on the drinks, and the chicken-in-the-basket. Yes, if you want to clean up, get on to one of the major cabaret circuits. Mind you, you need to do the telly for them to book you. Bleedin’ vicious circle.’ Lennie Barber morosely refilled his whisky. His hands were no longer bandaged, no doubt as a concession to the television camera, but he held the glass and bottle gingerly. As he put the bottle down, Charles saw on his palm the bright pink of new skin surrounded by yellowing flakes which were all that remained of the blisters.
    Lennie Barber’s burns were genuine. Which, to Charles’ mind, made it very unlikely that the old comedian could have killed Bill Peaky.
    â€˜Um, I think we’ll probably be going ahead in about ten minutes,’ said the dishy researcher, and added for the seventh time, ‘So it’ll just be about ten minutes’ chat along the lines Alex suggested and then straight into the sketch on the special set.’
    â€˜Fine. Point me in the right direction when the time comes,’ Barber mumbled slackly.
    â€˜Are you sure you, feel all right, Mr. Barber?’ Her pretty little face looked anxious. Good heavens, was this show going to be a MAJOR DISASTER to be talked about for weeks in the bar? Like all girls in their twenties in television, she took it TERRIBLY SERIOUSLY and she wasn’t sure that she could cope with an incapably drunk guest. Oh dear, would Alex blame her?
    â€˜I’m on top of the world.’ Barber’s tones were even more slurred.
    â€˜Oh, um. If you’ll excuse me, I must just have a word with the producer.’ And she scuttled out, all White Rabbit.
    Charles, who had also been worried by the sudden deterioration in Barber’s condition, was relieved to receive a wink.
    â€˜Get ’em worried. They love it in television. Feel lost without an atmosphere of panic.’
    Charles laughed. ‘She’s a pretty little thing. Your type?’
    â€˜My type?’
    â€˜Your type of woman?’
    â€˜I haven’t got a type of woman anymore. Just no interest in them. I’ve been through it all – affairs, marriage, divorce, one-night stands, little dancers, big landladies, the lot – and now I couldn’t give a damn. It’s as if all that bit of my life just doesn’t exist.’
    â€˜But don’t you miss it?’
    â€˜Never give it a thought. I find, getting older, lots of things that used to be important just don’t matter anymore. I look back and I think, why the hell did I waste all my time with that?’
    â€˜Yes.’ Charles mused. In a strange way the moment seemed propitious to continue his inquiries into Bill Peaky’s death. With no apologies for the change of subject, he started. ‘Lennie, you know you told me about Bill Peaky having an affair with one of the girls in Hunstanton?’
    â€˜With three of them, yes.’
    â€˜But one in particular. Janine.’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜You’ve no idea where she is, have you? I want to contact her.’
    So far the comedian had not seemed to notice the change in direction of the conversation, but at this he looked up. ‘Now why do you want to contact her? Oh, just a minute, Walter told me something about you being a bit of an amateur detective on the quiet. Is that it? You think there may have been something funny about his death?’
    â€˜It’s possible.’
    â€˜The coroner didn’t seem to think so.’
    â€˜No, but I happen to know that Peaky did test out his equipment as usual that day.’
    Barber registered genuine surprise at that. ‘How on earth did you find that out?’
    â€˜Norman del Rosa saw him. For reasons of his own he didn’t want to tell the police.’
    â€˜I can guess