Dead Giveaway Read Free

indicating a small elegantly-shaped bottle with a glass stopper which he held between thumb and forefinger, ‘perhaps the quickest-acting of all poisons. Cyanide. Beloved of detective-story writers, though significantly less popular with real murderers. Cyanide can kill in as little as ten seconds. Well, though I said it is not popular with murderers, there have still been one or two juicy cases where it was the favoured method. In 1907 Richard Brinkley . . .’
    ‘Ooh, it’s Melvyn Gasc,’ hissed the one female in the party, peering at the speaker beyond the cameras. ‘He did that series on torture, didn’t he?’
    ‘This is the follow-up,’ Sydnee hissed back. ‘It’s called
Method In Their Murders
. Being made for Channel Four.’
    ‘What are you doing here?’ a third female voice hissed. Charles could make out a shapely outline in a flying-suit of indeterminate colour which had stepped in between his group and the light.
    ‘Chippy. It’s me, Sydnee. I’m trying to keep this lot out of the way. Mustn’t be seen by the others in this game show.’
    ‘Barrett’s thing?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Has the Great Shit himself put in an appearance yet?’
    ‘He’s around.’
    ‘Maybe I should go and have a word with him . . .’
    ‘No, Chippy. This show’s going to be hectic enough without that kind of complication.’
    ‘I don’t know. I’d just be interested to see how the bastard reacted if I walked in. I bet he’d –’
    But the girl called Chippy was cut short by another hissing voice, male this time, as a Floor Manager, complete with headphones, came up and asked what the hell was going on and what the hell they thought they were doing bursting into a studio while there was a rehearsal in progress and whether they would piss off out again double-quick or whether he’d have to bloody kick them out.
    Sydnee peered out into the corridor as they beat their hasty retreat from Studio B, but all seemed to be clear. ‘We’d better go back on to our set,’ she said, and then, with a note almost of desperation in her voice, went on, ‘Barrett may be there, or John, or Jim. Then we can get your bit of rehearsal sorted out. Or the hats sorted out. Or something . . .’
    She got them to wait in the corridor while she slipped to check that Studio A was clear of contestants and celebrities. She took her duties seriously.
    Within a minute they were ushered back on to the red, blue and silver set. Sylvian the Mohican was still fiddling, unhappy with the alignment of the lectern in the centre of the floor. Three cameramen were slumped lethargically over their cameras. There were more people around than there had been earlier in the afternoon.
    One of them was Jim Trace-Smith, the Producer. Since there was no sign of Barrett Doran, and the Executive Producer, John Mantle, had yet to return from his, er, important meeting, it had fallen to Jim Trace-Smith to brief the ‘professions’ as to what they had to do.
    The Producer was tall with dark-brown hair which stuck out on his crown as if cut by a school barber. There was something boyish about his whole appearance. Even his pale-blue flying-suit looked as if it had come from Mothercare. His face would have been astonishingly youthful, but for the almost comical creases of anxiety which were etched in between the eyebrows. He had the air of someone who took life
very seriously indeed
.
    Nor was this impression dispelled when he began to speak. His voice had a slight Midlands flatness which, even when his words expressed great enthusiasm, seemed impervious to animation.
    ‘Good afternoon, one and all.’ He made what was perhaps intended to be an expansive gesture. ‘And may I say how delighted I am that you have agreed to join us in the fun of
Hats Off!
’
    ‘
If The Cap Fits
,’ murmured Sydnee.
    ‘Oh yes,
If The Cap Fits.
It’s a really terrific game and I think there’s no question that you’re all going to have a ball. Now, as you’ve probably gathered,