A Reconstructed Corpse

A Reconstructed Corpse by Simon Brett

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Authors: Simon Brett
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    But it’s an ill wind . . . Martin Earnshaw’s murder offered Charles Paris the prospect of continuing employment – at least until the perpetrator of the crime was uncovered. The
Public Enemies
production team had come up with a winning formula, in which the heart-rending Chloe Earnshaw and her late husband were essential ingredients. They weren’t about to change that in a hurry. Charles Paris, as the dead man, had become a running character in this soap opera of murder.
    Briefly he even contemplated getting on to Maurice Skellern and demanding more money now he was such an integral part of the show, but he decided against it. Instead he – and some bottles of Bell’s – passed the weekend around Hereford Road in empty-glove-puppet mode, waiting for the next summons to W.E.T. House.
    It came on the Monday morning. Louise Denning, earnestly humourless. announced that he was required for a briefing meeting at eleven the following day. There was no enquiry as to whether he was available. It was again assumed that nothing would impede the ultimate imperative of television.
    W.E.T. Reception was expecting him and Charles Paris was speedily and efficiently escorted upstairs by one of the programme secretaries. Once in the
Public Enemies
outer office, he was asked to wait. He was offered a cup of coffee, though no explanation for the delay. He accepted the coffee, which the secretary quickly brought before disappearing on some unspecified errand to another part of the building.
    Charles was left alone, wishing he’d thought to bring his
Times
, so that he could have a crack at the crossword. But he hadn’t. He looked around the office for other reading matter. There weren’t even any programme files. The conspiratorial secrecy which surrounded
Public Enemies
ensured that all its records were kept under lock and key in an inner office.
    Nope, he could see nothing that contained words except for the telephone directories and, compulsive reader though he was, Charles Paris wasn’t about to start reading them.
    He tried to find something else of interest in the room, but without success. Characterless grey walls and white ceiling; grey desk and typing chair; two low grey armchairs, on one of which he sat; grey telephones, photocopier and fax machine. It was the kind of decor that would have confirmed Kafka’s worst fears.
    Just as he was thinking that time and life were frozen, that nothing in the world would ever move again, he was surprised by a click. A slight whirring followed, as the fax machine burst into action.
    For maybe a minute Charles convinced himself that he would be virtuous and not give in to curiosity. But he was alone in the office, and he was human. He moved casually across to the fax machine and squinted down at the emerging sheet.
    The originating fax number began ‘0273’, which Charles had dialled often enough to identify as Brighton, and the ident read ‘PRINTSERVE’. Presumably some public fax bureau.
    The typed message was short.
    GOING UNDERCOVER IN BRIGHTON. FOLLOWING UP VERY PROMISING NEW LEADS. TELL SAM I’M WAY AHEAD OF HER. REPORT AGAIN SOON. T.F.’
    Charles didn’t think it would be leaping to conclusions to assume that the fax came from Ted Faraday. So, even though the missing persons case had now developed into a murder hunt, the
Public Enemies
contest between the amateur and professional detectives was still on.
    A door opened and Charles moved guiltily away from the fax, fascinated suddenly by some detail on the wall calendar. ‘Come through,’ commanded Louise Denning, never for a second contemplating any apology for keeping him waiting.
    The customary level of television manners was maintained inside the room. Bob Garston and Roger Parkes did not even look up when Charles entered, but continued their latest squabble about programme content.
    â€˜Well, I still think,’ the executive producer was

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