Free Situation Tragedy by Simon Brett

producer.’
    â€˜Oh, come on. You did some terrific stuff in the past.’
    â€˜In the past, yes. And what have I got to show for it? A few press clippings, some stills, cassettes of the later stuff – though that’s ironical; I can’t afford to keep up the rental of my video cassette recorder, so that’s gone back. So I’ve got nothing. Not even Angela. She’s dying quietly in Datchet and here am I drinking gin I can’t afford and . . .’
    Walter Proud seemed to be on the verge of tears, which Charles didn’t think he could cope with. He wrenched the conversation brutally on to another tack. ‘That evening of the pilot, when you came to see Sadie, when did you arrive?’
    â€˜When did I arrive?’ the producer repeated blankly.
    â€˜Yes.’
    Suddenly Walter started to laugh. It was a weak and not a jovial sound. ‘Oh, Charles, I don’t believe it.’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜You’re off on one of your bloody detective trips, aren’t you?’
    â€˜Well . . .’
    â€˜Now you think Sadie was murdered and –’
    â€˜I think there may have been something strange about the death. I mean, she was a grown woman, she hadn’t been drinking, why should she suddenly fall off the fire escape?’
    â€˜The railing gave way.’
    â€˜Or was helped to give way.’
    â€˜Oh really.’
    â€˜I’m not the only person who said that.’
    â€˜What, you mean all those self-dramatising fools at West End Television think someone gave her a shove?’
    â€˜Not that, necessarily. She might have done it herself.’
    â€˜Suicide?’
    â€˜Possible.’
    â€˜Not if you knew Sadie.’ Realisation dawned on Walter. ‘You mean, you thought she might have . . . because of me? Because we’d broken up, you thought she might . . . oh, Charles. It’s so wrong it’s almost flattering. No, I’m afraid I didn’t rate that highly on her list of priorities. I was a few bouts of sex before she decided I was . . . what was her expression . . . past it? I don’t think I was bloody past it, I think anyone would have found the same with her. I really think she was a nymphomaniac. I don’t mean the kind of avid partner one dreams of, but the real thing, someone with a pathological and insatiable desire for sex. It’s not very pleasant when you encounter it.’
    Charles, who never had, agreed uncertainly. And, since any cover he might have had had been thoroughly blown, asked, ‘And you didn’t kill her?’
    â€˜No, no, sorry. There were times when it might not have been a bad idea, but I’m afraid I never thought of it.’
    â€˜So what time did you arrive at W.E.T., that evening?’
    â€˜Oh, I see, the full interrogation. I don’t get off the hook so easily. Right, I got there about nine. I have cause to remember that, because the doorman wouldn’t let me in. Good God, I’ve produced two or three series for the company, and he wouldn’t let me in to the building. Said I had to be vouched for by a member of staff. I got him to page practically every name I could remember ever having met there before I found someone who’d vouch for me and let me in to get a drink. That’s the sort of thing that destroys you, Charles. You don’t think about it when you’ve got a job, but, God, it tears you up when you find yourself crawling to doormen like some unwanted alien.’
    Charles felt relief. He hadn’t wanted to suspect his friend, but he had had to check it. If Walter really had arrived at nine in the evening, and that could be confirmed, then he could not possibly have been the person whose death threat Sadie Wainwright had treated with such contempt. And since those few overheard words were the only real reason why Charles had any suspicions about the accident, Walter seemed effectively to have left the list of