Free An Amateur Corpse by Simon Brett Page A

didn’t take long to find the news. Hugo Mecken had been arrested, charged with the murder of his wife, Charlotte.
    And Charles Paris felt is was his fault.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    IN SPITE OF logic, the feeling of treachery remained. Charles Paris had deserted his friend in a crisis. Charles Paris had incriminated his friend by his statement.
    He had to do something. At least find out all the circumstances, at least check that no mistakes had been made.
    He hurried back to the house in Hereford Road, went to the pay-phone on the landing and dialled Gerald Venables’s office number.
    Gerald was a successful show business solicitor whom Charles had known since Oxford. Armed with a boyish enthusiasm for the whole business of detection, he had collaborated with Charles on one or two investigations, starting with the strange death of Marius Steen. In the current circumstances, it was an immediate instinct to ring Gerald.
    An efficient, husky voice answered the phone.
    â€˜Is that Polly?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜It’s Charles Paris. Could I speak to Gerald, please?’
    â€˜I’m sorry, he’s not here.’
    â€˜Oh, sod it. Is he on his way home?’
    â€˜No, he’s out with a client, I’m afraid. He was called down to Breckton mid-morning and he’s been there all day.’
    â€˜Oh my God, of course. He’s Hugo Mecken’s solicitor, isn’t he?’
    â€˜Yes. That’s who he’s with. I gather you’ve heard the news.’
    â€˜Yes.’ It wasn’t worth going into details of how he had been the first to hear it. ‘Stupid of me. I’d forgotten. Gerald sorted out Hugo’s divorce, didn’t he?’
    â€˜Yes. And he was a bit shocked when he discovered what it was about this time.’
    â€˜That I can believe. Look, Polly, have you any idea when he’ll be back? I mean, is he reckoning to go back to the office?’
    â€˜No. He rang about half an hour ago to say he’d go straight to Dulwich from Breckton. And asked me to ring Mrs Venables and say he’d be late.’
    â€˜Why didn’t, he ring her himself?’ Charles asked irrelevantly.
    â€˜I think it sounds more businesslike if I do.’ Polly replied with a hint of humour.
    Yes, that was Gerald all over. ‘Polly, when he says “very late”, what do you reckon that means?’
    â€˜I honestly don’t know. He said I was to say ten-thirty at the earliest to Mrs Venables.’
    â€˜Okay. Thanks, Polly. He didn’t say anything else about . . . you know, the case . . . or Hugo . . . or anything.’
    â€˜No. Well, there isn’t really much to say, is there?’
    â€˜I suppose not.’
    Charles spent an unsatisfactory evening and drank too much. He thought of ringing Frances, but put it off again. Round eight he realized he hadn’t eaten for over twenty-four hours.
    He didn’t feel hungry, but he thought he ought to have something.
    Going out to a restaurant was too much effort. He was too jumpy to sit down and relax over a proper meal. He looked round the room. There was an opened packet of cornflakes on the table. No milk. He tried a handful. They were soft, cardboard.
    He rooted through the grey-painted cupboard, shoving aside scripts, half-finished plays, empty bottles, socks and crisp packets. All he came up with was a tin of sardines without a key and a tin of curried beans.
    The menu was dictated by his antiquated tin-opener, which wouldn’t grip on the sardine tin., He slopped the beans into a saucepan still furred with boiled milk from the previous week and put it on the gas-ring which was hidden discreetly behind a plastic curtain.
    The curried beans didn’t improve anything. He took a long swill from the Bell’s bottle as a mouthwash. Except he didn’t spit it out.
    Then he addressed his mind to thought. Serious thought. He had been in criminal situations before and he