A Reconstructed Corpse Read Free Page B

directors, he really saw himself in the movies and, though his only actual experience in cinema had been doing soft porn, he had been bitten at an early age by the
film noir
bug. The opportunities to indulge this obsession in
Public Enemies
made him feel like a child with limitless credit in a sweet shop.
    Charles’s only brush with the genre had occurred when a seventies movie he was in had been hailed as ‘a British homage to
film noir
’ by a critic who didn’t realise that the film’s budget hadn’t stretched to more lights. The actor’s own contribution – a mere spit and a cough – had been characterised by the same critic as ‘unthreateningly menacing’, and Charles had spent a long time puzzling over whether that was a good notice or a bad one.
    Geoffrey Ramage’s moody background silhouette had been rejected by Bob Garston first thing in the morning, but since Charles Paris had been called, that meant he’d have to be paid another day’s fee. The money was nothing to get excited about – Martin Earnshaw was unfortunately not called upon to speak in the reconstruction of his last known movements, so Charles Paris was being paid as a mere extra – but any money was welcome to his morbidly undernourished bank account.
    Because he’d written off the day – and because there was the W.E.T. bar at lunch-time and the prospect of free hospitality later – Charles decided he’d stick around and watch the proceedings. Television studios are always full of so many people with unspecified roles that one more or less ligging around wouldn’t provoke comment.
    So he had a pleasantish day, watching the
Public Enemies
egos battle it out on the studio floor. Roger Parkes was the self-appointed voice of reason, Geoffrey Ramage the self-appointed
enfant terrible,
but Bob Garston rode roughshod over both of them. It was his show, and he wasn’t going to let anyone forget it. With no attempt at tact or even awareness that other people might have opinions, the ‘man of the people’ continued on his workaholic course.
    And Charles Paris sat benignly in the bunker of an audience seat, watching the flak fly overhead. He liked the atmosphere of a television studio, and he liked it even better when he had no responsibility for anything that was going on in it.
    The free hospitality, when it came, was a bit meagre. Commercial television companies used to lay on wall-to-wall food and drink, so that working on a production would ensure Charles didn’t have to go near a supermarket for its duration. The ready availability of spirits even slightly diminished his Bell’s whisky bill.
    But the new austerity which followed the reallocation of their franchises brought ITV companies’ generosity down to BBC standards – or even lower. The only foodstuffs on offer in the
Public Enemies
hospitality suite were crisps and nuts. The booze was limited to wine and beer. And, seeing how vigorously the police hangers-on were getting stuck into that, supplies weren’t going to last very long.
    Charles wondered whether this parsimony came from W.E.T. or from Bob’s Your Uncle Productions. Given the way Bob Garston dominated all other aspects of the production, he probably also controlled the hospitality bill. Its niggardly provisions were certainly in character with his teetotal righteousness.
    In the circumstances Charles Paris resorted to an old trick. He took a half-pint beer glass, filled it with wine and sat cradling it unobtrusively in the corner.
    He needn’t have worried about drawing attention to himself. The police contingent were far too caught up in their own banter and camaraderie to take any notice of anyone else.
    There were about a dozen of them. Two were silent, though the remainder made noise enough for many more. Only a few were in uniform, but the others had that distinctive rectangular look which always gives away a