A Reconstructed Corpse by Simon Brett Page B

Garston’s eyes. ‘Wouldn’t it be great if another bit of the body gets discovered in time for this week’s programme . . .’
    â€˜Mm,’ Charles agreed with a chuckle. ‘Maybe the murderer will have the good sense to feed the remaining joints out gradually over the next four weeks – so that you’d have one for each programme . . .’
    â€˜Yes . . .’ The presenter of
Public Enemies
was far too absorbed by this delicious fantasy to realise it had been proposed as a joke. A dreamlike quality came into his voice. ‘Yes, wouldn’t that be just perfect . . .’
    Roger Parkes decided it was time to assert himself. ‘So, about this week’s filming, Mr Paris . . .’
    Bob Garston, fearful of any challenge to his command, snapped out of his reverie. ‘Yes, about this week’s filming. Though we’ve done Martin Earnshaw in the pub, and we’ve done him leaving the pub, we still haven’t done him leaving home and getting to the pub.’
    â€˜Ah. Right. So that’s what I’ll be doing, is it?’
    â€˜Yes. Good thing is we can get Chloe in this one too.’
    â€˜Oh?’
    â€˜Well, the research on her is still very positive. Getting stronger every week.’ Garston looked thoughtful. ‘She really has got something, you know . . . I’d like Bob’s Your Uncle to set up another project with her when this lot’s finished . . .’
    Charles was incredulous. ‘Her own series, you mean?’
    â€˜Mm.’
    â€˜But wouldn’t that require her having a different husband murdered every week?’
    Bob Garston looked up sharply, touchy about the possibility of being sent up. ‘Look, you just do your work as a bloody extra! Keep your wisecracks to yourself!’
    â€˜No, I didn’t mean –’
    â€˜Another thing . . .’ Roger Parkes chipped in, maintaining the admonitory tone of the conversation. ‘The security on this show is getting more and more important. You mustn’t breathe a word to a soul about what you’re up to.’
    â€˜I haven’t. I wouldn’t.’
    â€˜Not even to a wife, girlfriend. No pillow talk – OK?’
    â€˜It’s all right. I live alone.’
    â€˜Oh, that’s a blessing.’
    Depends on your point of view, thought Charles wistfully. Bob Garston once again hijacked the conversation from his executive producer. ‘Right, so we’re pretty sure we’re going to get very positive viewer reaction from having you in a reconstruction with Chloe.’
    â€˜But aren’t you in danger of blurring the distinction between fantasy and reality?’
    â€˜Exactly.’ Garston nodded vigorously. ‘That’s one of the main aims of programmes like
Public Enemies
.’

Chapter Eight
    AN UNMARKED police car arrived at Hereford Road the following morning to take Charles back to Brighton. It was larger than the previous one, almost a limousine. While I was just a missing person, he thought wryly, I didn’t qualify for this. Now I’m officially a murder victim, nothing’s too good for me.
    But he was quickly disillusioned of the idea that the special treatment was just for him. In the back of the car, separated from the driver by a glass panel, sat Superintendent Roscoe and Greg Marchmont. The detective sergeant looked ill at ease, subdued perhaps in the presence of his superior, but Roscoe was almost excessively affable.
    He wasn’t in uniform, but quickly explained his pale trousers and diamond-patterned pullover. ‘Mixing business and pleasure for a couple of days. Keep an eye on the television lot and maybe fit in a bit of golf. Got my clubs in the back, you know. Get ready for retirement, eh? Just think about it, Marchmont, in a few months I’ll be able to do this every day . . . while you lot are still grinding away at the coalface.’
    He chuckled. This was a new Superintendent