Read Online Situation Tragedy by Simon Brett - Free Book Online

suicide, there was still one jarring element he couldn’t reason away.
    It was what he alone had heard in the Production Control cubicle on the day of
The Strutters
recording. Sadie Wainwright saying, You couldn’t kill me. You haven’t got it in you.’
    If only he had heard just a few seconds more, so that he could identify whom she had been addressing. The words, out of context, sounded ominous, but it was quite possible that they were just another example of showbusiness hyperbole.
    He wished he knew a bit more about television studios and their sound systems. He knew that a variety of people could talk back into the Production Control box. Certainly the Sound and Vision Controllers on either side could. So could the four cameramen . . . and of course the Floor Managers with their little walkie-talkies. Then he was sure he’d heard PAs talking to people or places with technical names like VTR and Telecine. And there was always sound from the studio microphones on their booms.
    In fact, Sadie could have been speaking from almost anywhere in the immediate studio area. That didn’t give him any clues as to who she was with. Maybe it could be investigated, but two months had passed and, apart from the dauntingly technical nature of the enquiry, Charles thought it unlikely that anyone was going to remember exactly which microphone might have been left open to catch Sadie’s words.
    But he did now have another line of enquiry. It was one he was reluctant to pursue, because it involved a friend. But he could no longer pretend that he knew nothing of the dead girl’s private life. And he had got Walter Proud’s phone number.
    He decided that they perhaps should meet for a drink.
    Walter was very apologetic that they had to meet in a pub. ‘I’d have said come round to my place, but really, I’ve hardly got a place for anyone to come to now.’
    â€˜Well, never mind. I’m always happy with a pub.’
    But it still seemed to worry Walter. ‘Thing is, I’ve moved from that service flat in Kensington. I’d have invited you round there, but the place I’m in now . . . well, it’s really just a bedsitter.’
    The emphasis he put on the last word amused Charles. ‘Oh, come on, that’s not the end of the world. I live in a bedsitter, you know.’
    â€˜Yes, I know. I mean, it’s all right for someone like you, but for someone with . . .’ Walter Proud realised he was on the brink of being insulting and stopped. Charles, who wouldn’t have been offended anyway, wondered what the next word would have been. Standards? He certainly had standards, but on the whole they didn’t concern material possessions.
    Walter tried to cover up. ‘What I mean is, the last few years have been a series of shocks for me. Angela and I had been married for eighteen years, you know, and we’d been in that house in Datchet for twelve. So when we split up, it was quite an upheaval. I mean, don’t get me wrong – I wanted the divorce, no question, but it was . . . an upheaval. And then leaving the BBC so soon after, and I’d done . . . what? . . . fifteen years with the Corporation . . . well, it all made sense at the time, and it was the right thing to do, careerwise, but . . . er . . .’
    He seemed unable to resolve the sentence.
    â€˜Do you see Angela at all now?’
    â€˜No.’ Walter Proud sounded very hurt. ‘No, she won’t see me. I see the girls occasionally, but . . .’
    â€˜I’m sorry,’ said Charles formally, giving Walter the opportunity to move on to another subject.
    But the producer was unwilling to do so. ‘What makes it worse is that she’s ill.’
    â€˜Angela?’
    â€˜Yes. She had a growth, apparently, on her breast, about a year ago and had a . . . what do they call it . . . mastectomy. But apparently it didn’t get rid of it all. It’s