A Line to Kill

‘God, no! As little as possible! You know what they say about this place? Two thousand alcoholics clinging to a rock. I’d go mad if I stayed here more than a couple of months at one go. I have my business interests. Spin-the-wheel and all the rest of it. But I like to move around. London, the South of France, New York …’

‘And you’re involved with the power line.’ I was remembering what Elkin had told me.

He looked at me queerly. ‘Who’s been talking to you about that?’

‘I’ve noticed the signs.’

‘Ban NAB.’ He laughed mirthlessly. ‘That’s exactly what I mean about Alderney. The people here are stuck in the nineteenth century. Give them anything that will actually make a difference – cheap electricity to the UK and a nice little earner in their pocket – and half of them think the sky’s going to fall in.’

He was going to continue but then Marc Bellamy walked past with a plate of devilled eggs and he spun round. ‘Hey, Tea Leaf!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’m going to lift one of those, if you don’t mind.’ He snatched half an egg and slid it into his mouth. ‘Not bad at all,’ he said – with his mouth full. ‘I have to say, you’ve done really well for yourself,’ he went on. ‘Your own show on Channel 5!’

‘ITV2,’ Marc said.

‘Maybe you should be a guest on I’m a Celebrity …! I’m sure you’d be completely at home with those mealworms and kangaroo testicles.’

Marc stared at him with bleak hostility and I thought he was going to snap back, but then he swallowed his words and moved on.

There really was something uniquely offensive about Charles le Mesurier, particularly after he’d had too much to drink. The alcohol accentuated his public-school accent, so that everything he said came out with a sneer. His good looks – the swathe of grey hair, the aristocratic nose – only made him seem all the more superior and self-assured. He wasn’t an easy man to like.

‘You haven’t met the wife,’ he said.

I didn’t know who he meant but then I turned round and saw her. ‘The wife’ was the woman who had been talking to Derek Abbott when I arrived. She had crept up behind me and now stood facing her husband, hands on hips and a scowl on her face.

‘I’m going to bed,’ she announced.

‘You’re not serious.’

‘I’m exhausted, Charles.’

‘How much money did you manage to spend?’

‘I don’t know. You’ll find out at the end of the month.’

He still didn’t want her to go. He pointed at me. ‘Helen, this is Anthony. He’s a famous writer.’

‘Hello,’ I said. ‘I heard you were in Paris.’

‘I got back this afternoon.’

‘Are there direct flights?’

She gave me a look. ‘We have a PJ,’ she explained.

Of course, she was rich. She looked it. The dress she was wearing screamed haute couture – a combination of pink toile, beading and feathers that actually covered very little of her body but at enormous cost – and there was a cascade of diamonds around her neck. She was tired and she was irritated but she still exuded sexuality from her strawberry blonde hair to her Marilyn Monroe lips to the generous curves of her body.

It was hard to gauge her relationship with Charles le Mesurier. There was a careless quality to the way they spoke to each other, even in front of me. They would probably have no qualms about having a full-blooded row in public. And yet there was definitely some sort of affection there. It was as if they had known each other so long that they no longer cared about pretences. You had to accept them for who they were and if you didn’t like it, that was your problem.

Charles le Mesurier tried one last time. ‘We’re having a party, baby. You can’t go to bed.’

‘You’re having the party, Charles. Nobody knows who I am and nobody gives a damn. You can manage without me. Just try not to wake me when you come upstairs.’

‘All right. All right.’ He leaned towards me, cupping his hand over his mouth as if he didn’t want her to hear. ‘We’ve been together fifteen years and I don’t know what I’d do without her. Look at her! The face that launched a thousand chips.’ He smiled at his own witticism and weaved away.

Helen and I were left together and suddenly she relaxed a little. ‘I’m sorry about that,’ she said. ‘Charles is a darling really. But he can be so boring when he’s had a few drinks. There are times when I literally want to kill him.’

‘What did he mean?’ I asked. ‘A thousand chips?’

She laughed. ‘That’s what he always says. It goes back to the time when I used to work for him at Spin-the-wheel.’ I still didn’t get it so she added: ‘Roulette chips.’

‘Oh.’

‘God knows why he decided to sponsor a literary festival. He never reads. Maybe he thought it would make him look respectable. I’m sorry. What did you say your name was?’

I told her.

‘And you’re a writer? I’m afraid I haven’t read anything by you, but then I don’t read much either. Well, you’re going to have to forgive me. I really have had a long day. It was nice to meet you. Good night.’