Table of Contents
Cover
A Selection of Titles by Bill James
Title Page
Copyright
Author’s Note
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
A Selection of Titles by Bill James
DOUBLE JEOPARDY *
FORGET IT *
FULL OF MONEY *
HEAR ME TALKING TO YOU *
KING’S FRIENDS *
THE LAST ENEMY *
LETTERS FROM CARTHAGE *
MAKING STUFF UP *
NOOSE *
OFF-STREET PARKING *
THE SIXTH MAN AND OTHER STORIES *
TIP TOP *
WORLD WAR TWO WILL NOT TAKE PLACE *
The Harpur and Iles Series
YOU’D BETTER BELIEVE IT
THE LOLITA MAN
HALO PARADE
PROTECTION
COME CLEAN
TAKE
CLUB
ASTRIDE A GRAVE
GOSPEL
ROSES, ROSES
IN GOOD HANDS
THE DETECTIVE IS DEAD
TOP BANANA
PANICKING RALPH
LOVELY MOVER
ETON CROP
KILL ME
PAY DAYS
NAKED AT THE WINDOW
THE GIRL WITH THE LONG BACK
EASY STREETS
WOLVES OF MEMORY
GIRLS
PIX
IN THE ABSENCE OF ILES
HOTBED
I AM GOLD
VACUUM *
UNDERCOVER *
PLAY DEAD *
* available from Severn House
NOOSE
Bill James
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First published in Great Britain and the USA 2013 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.
eBook edition first published in 2013 by Severn House Digital an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Copyright © 2013 by Bill James.
The right of Bill James to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
James, Bill, 1929-
Noose.
1. Actresses–Suicidal behavior–Fiction.
2. Journalists–Fiction. 3. Brothers and sisters–
Fiction. 4. Great Britain–History–Elizabeth II,
1952–Fiction. 5. Suspense fiction.
I. Title
823.9' 14-dc23
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8318-6 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-489-9 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-459-1 (ePub)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Some material in this novel is adapted from a short story in my collection The Sixth Man (Severn House, 2006).
ONE
Twice tonight, within a couple of hours, he was invited back into his past. Invited? Frogmarched, more like it. Not a totally happy feeling. Recently, a novel had come out with an already famous opening sentence comparing the past to a foreign country. He’d agree. And not just foreign. Fundamentally and cantankerously hostile. Vengeful.
He had a call at home from Percy Lyall on the Mirror News Desk, the usual flippant but, behind-it-all, urgent tone. ‘Here’s a possible tale that’s very much your sort of thing, Ian – a poignant mix of near tragedy, possible thwarted romance, glamour. Can you get over there? Needs sensitive but, of course, dramatic treatment. And it goes without saying, so I’ll say it, depth. I immediately thought of you.’
‘How right you were.’
‘Daphne West,’ Lyall said. ‘Heard of her?’
Ian Charteris paused for a moment, or a moment plus. Yes, say three moments. The shock deserved that.
‘Heard of her, Ian?’
Well, yes, sort of. She might be my sister. Might. We possibly share an amphibious father. Most probably. Certainly. But Ian didn’t say any of this. ‘Actress?’ he replied. ‘Television, stage, a film or two? Twenty or so.’
‘A beauty. Starred very young, like Jean Simmons. Hang on. I’ve got some background cuttings here and very fetching library pix. Yes, born 1936, so, as you say, twenty.’
That would be about right. ‘Near tragedy? How?’
‘She’s tried to kill herself. Standard method – gas, the ever-available, as long as the meter’s stoked. Half in love with easeful death because a love affair of a different sort turned un-easeful and sank. She’s in hospital, possibly OK now. But touch and go. Her publicity people, bless them, and their protectiveness and speed, are putting out the usual kind of horse shit: an accident – water boiled over, extinguished the flames, but the gas kept coming, as gas will. Daphne dozing nearby didn’t notice. Tired after early morning wake-up for filming. Luckily, or maybe not, someone in the next flat smelled gas and after knocking and yelling got no reply so barged the door in. Stove immediately switched off. Windows swiftly, recuperatively, opened. The customary PR gab. Get the truth, would you, please, Ian? That’s our business, isn’t it – at least, as long as the truth is (a) gripping and (b) convenient for the paper. See if rolled towels were in place under door gaps, including the door of the break-in. The rumour is she was getting fucked on a reasonably regular basis by a big-deal theatre producer, Milton Skeeth. Could have been mistaken by the girl for something serious, the way girls do. Man’s love is of man’s life a thing apart, ’Tis women’s whole existence. Byron. Heard of him?’
‘Byron?’
‘Skeeth.’
Oh, yes, indeed. Heard plenty. But that was added to the great unsaids. ‘The name seems familiar.’
‘It looks as though Daphne was only one of his bed mates. A lad in his position can move around among young, ambitious lovelies. He has parts to offer. His. Fay Doel. Heard of her?’
‘Another actress – TV and so on?’
‘Like that, yes. Skeeth lives at twelve Feder Road, Chelsea.’
Lived. Has lately long-term exited. But Charteris didn’t say this, either. ‘I’m making a note. Feder Road, twelve. Right, Percy?’
‘Right. Perhaps Doel is there with him.’
Charteris knew nobody was at twelve Feder Road and wouldn’t be tomorrow or the day after or possibly for weeks, months ahead. There had been what battlefield communiqués during the war called ‘a tactical withdrawal’. Hoof it, in other words. From Ian Charteris, though, more silence.
Lyall said: ‘Maybe West had been ditched. And so, despair. These theatrical people, they emote easily. T
hey’re trained to it. It’s their long suit. And so, a decision to end it all. And so, gas.’
‘Which hospital?’
‘St Thomas’s. Talk to her, if possible. Well, obviously. This is a voice from the almost Beyond. Lazarus, but prettier and with tits. Normally I’d give the tale to one of our staff people. But it seems so very right for you. They probably won’t let us in to do new pix. She might not be looking her best. No problem. We’ve plenty in stock. An eyeful. Ask her what really happened. That’s one of your flairs, isn’t it – getting folk to confide, blub on your shoulder, reveal all? You sport that kind of sympa face and chummy voice. You could become an agony aunt when age sets in and your career starts to wind down. I want to hear the flagging of her gas-strangled heartbeat in your stuff, Ian. This calls for prose. This calls for prose that sobs and strums and reaches, above all, our lady readers. Some might have been thinking of gas themselves.
‘Then recovery. I need to watch via your phrasing how near-deadly emptiness for a while colonized her lovely photogenic eyes – grey-green in most of the cuttings, aquamarine once, but in the Herald. I want to share the pain and piquant hopelessness of a nice cast-off piece of thespian arse.’
‘We don’t actually know that, do we?’
‘You believe her publicity people’s version?’
‘Was there a note?’
‘You don’t get notes with an accident. That’s the thing about accidents – they come out of nowhere and don’t give you time to write notes.’
‘But if there was a note it would show definitely it wasn’t an accident.’
‘Probably the publicity people have been around to her flat and destroyed any note.’
‘Conspiracy theory?’ Ian said.
‘What keeps journalism going.’
Hospital stories could turn out difficult. Although wards were, in a sense, public areas, open to visiting at certain hours, managements hated any Press scrummage around beds of the famous and would often try to exclude reporters and photographers, claiming hospitals had a duty to protect the privacy of patients. Maybe they did. But news aces had a duty to get the news and, as Percy said, to expose conspiracies.
Hospital security people were guarding Daphne West. When Ian reached St Thomas’s this evening he found reporters from the Sketch and Mail already hanging around Reception and trying to negotiate admission for a brief interview. So, the word about the star and her gas was out in Fleet Street. Ian gave his name and the Mirror’s and added his plea for an interview. They were told the requests would be passed on and up. Nothing happened, though. The Mail man left. It wasn’t really a broadsheet tale. Tacky? TV obsessed?
At the end of another forty minutes, Ian and Greg Amber of the Sketch heard that one of them, and one only, might be allowed a quick visit to Daphne West. Ian and Amber agreed to toss a coin. Amber won. The arrangement was that whoever interviewed her showed his notes to the other afterwards. Ian felt nervy but thought it might be all right. Tabloid honour did exist, even if not standard issue. A couple of hospital officials accompanied them upstairs to the ward. Ian hung back, as stipulated. Amber walked with a guard on each side like a deserter on his way to be shot. He tried to do some amiable chat but they weren’t having any. At the entrance to the ward they seemed to tell Greg to wait while the two went into what might be the sister’s office and closed the door. Another formality? Or an invitation to Greg to nip into the ward and talk to Daphne without their approval, so there’d be no later reproofs for caving in to the Press?
From where he stood, Ian could see West in the second bed. She was sitting up, looking alert and very wholesome. This was not in any sense an ordinary moment for him. He tried to think brotherliness, in case she did turn out to be his sister. There wasn’t really much doubt. He didn’t understand why Greg went on waiting. The agreement could still be countermanded by someone bossy and non-cooperative in that room. Amber was experienced, tough, as pushy as any Sketch reporter. Did hospitals paralyse him? They were home ground to Ian. He walked past Greg to the side of Daphne’s bed. ‘Hello, Miss West,’ he said, notebook ready.
‘Who are you? Press? Is it as important as that?’
‘You’re important. Think of all the worried fans.’ She had on a short blue silk jacket over what might be hospital pyjamas with faded red and orange stripes, not new. Ian found himself sniffing at her hair for gas. ‘Are you all right now?’ he said.
‘Oh, fine, fine. What an idiot I was, though, causing so much fuss! Sorry. So, sorry.’ A big, stagey, ‘So sorry.’ At once then she started the boiling water flimflam, telling it with lots of face pulling and minor groans to indicate the extent of her stupidity. Yes, actress. Very successful young actress, so there would have been enough in the meter. He wondered if she worked out the explanation alone or whether, as Percy Lyall suggested, she’d had expert public relations advice. Her agent might already have visited.
Ian, of course, kept ‘glamorous’ in his head for the statutory description of her, but she wasn’t made-up now, and at some moments between the gushes of self-mockery she seemed almost haggard and resentful at being alive still, as if sure suicide would have been her grandest performance yet. He searched for resemblances to his father. Was there something about the slant of those light-blue eyes, and an unusual depth from the bottom of her nose to her top lip – supposed to be characteristic of a comedian? Well, Dad was one, but without knowing it. Daphne’s tale about the boiling water had its giggle aspect, too – the daft unlikelihood.
She seemed to become unsettled by the thoroughness of his gaze, though someone with her attractions should have been used to men staring. ‘I look pretty rough, I expect,’ she said.
‘I’ve enjoyed a lot of your stuff on television,’ he said.
‘Oh?’ She was thrilled and real pleasure sweetened her face, rather than the put-on, jolly, self-mocking chirpiness.
Ian said: ‘Look, I might get thrown out in a minute. Can we talk about – about the gas? What’s your first memory after waking?’
‘My first memory? Oh, being slapped twice across the chops, to bring me round. And then the ambulance. Have you ever been carted off as an emergency in an ambulance?’
Yes, he’d been carted off as an emergency in an ambulance. And screaming for his mother. But this bedside meeting wasn’t about him. He said, ‘A siren? Flashing blue light?’
‘So frightening, ambulances,’ she said. ‘Those terrible bright red blankets, and the shine on all the metal gear.’
‘Is this stuff about the boiling water total garbage?’ he replied. ‘Your flunkeys have been along and told you what to say? They don’t like “Star in suicide bid”? Not good for the image, is it? Not good for their percentage.’
‘Flunkeys?’
‘You’re an investment. There’ll be an organization behind you, won’t there? A manager. An agent. An impresario. They have to look after their property – you.’ Percy Lyall had spoken about Ian’s empathy flair – spoken about it satirically, but with some truth there, too. Occasionally, though, in this game an amount of brutality – verbal brutality – had to take over: when time was short, for instance, and when you suspected you were being soft-soaped.
‘No, it isn’t like that. Not at all,’ she said. Her voice had weakened, though, as if she’d been knocked off-balance by what he said. She wouldn’t have been able to get her lines to people in the back row of the stalls.
‘Is it a love affair? Something gone wrong between you and a man? Was it a serious relationship, at least from your point of view, and suddenly it’s finished?’
She looked startled. ‘Why do you say that?’ she said.
‘Has he disappeared, perhaps with another woman? The gas wasn’t an accident, was it? As I see it now, you—’
‘“Disappeared” with another woman?’
‘Something like that.’
She stared about the ward, as though searching for Matron, to ask her, ‘How come this rude, offensive, gutter reporter can get i
n here to torment me?’ Aloud she said, ‘What do you know?’
‘It’s a guess, a reasonable guess, that’s all. “Cherchez le gaz, cherchez l’homme.”’
‘What do you know?’ She whispered the question. They’d suddenly entered an area of secrets, though there remained for now one secret she wouldn’t be dealing with – her/his father.
‘I’m asking, no more than that,’ he said. ‘This kind of thing – it’s usually a matter of a fractured romance.’
‘You see scores of such cases, do you? Professionally?’ She turned away from him and began to sob.
‘Oh, look, I’m sorry,’ Ian said. ‘I’d hate to hurt you, believe me.’ He leaned forward over the bed and gently touched her hair. ‘Look, Daphne, you and I might …’
He’d been about to cough the familial lot to her, or the familial lot as it might be, but those hospital security people plus a ward sister arrived at the bedside just then. They had Amber with them. They told Ian and him to leave at once. They said Ian was blatantly upsetting a patient and it couldn’t be allowed. Her recovery would be set back.
‘But we’re only here to help,’ Ian said.
‘You’re reporters. You’re here to help yourselves,’ the sister said.
‘Out, please,’ one of the guards said. ‘Out now.’
In the corridor afterwards, Ian gave Amber all the boiling-water quotes and full atmospherics of Daphne’s blue silk jacket, the old pyjamas, the way her face seemed to sag and crumple now and then, though no gas smell in her hair. Maybe they’d given her a full rinse.
‘This is total, routine fucking rot, isn’t it – her account of things?’ Greg said. ‘You can buy it by the yard from some protect-your-reputation firm.’
‘Sure.’
‘So, what’s the real story? Man trouble? He’s dumped her?’
‘Not that I discovered,’ Ian said.
‘Is she up the duff? You wouldn’t con me? I was the one who should have been talking to her.’
‘Why weren’t you?’
The ward sister came out from her office. She’d be in her mid-thirties, long-faced, auburn-haired, authoritative looking, not too friendly, good, enticing legs. Ian thought something had messed up to a major extent in her life, and being a ward sister with her own office and the power to vet visitors didn’t totally compensate. You could meet people like this: grudge driven. ‘That was quite a little shock when someone brought your names and the papers’ names up from Reception. I’ve often seen your byline on reports – that’s the term, isn’t it, byline – and wondered,’ she said.