An Amateur Corpse by Simon Brett Read Free Book Online Page B

announced the approach of Bonfire Night.
    â€˜Good God, November already,’ observed Geoffrey. ‘Guy Fawkes to be burnt again on Friday. How time flies as you get older.’
    â€˜You think you’ve got problems,’ Charles mourned. ‘It’s my fiftieth birthday this week.’
    They talked a little on the way to the main road, but most of the time there was silence except for the soft pad of their rubber soles on the pathway. Charles didn’t notice the lack of conversation. His mind was still full of hurt after the clash with Hugo.
    He didn’t really notice saying goodbye to Geoffrey. Or the train journey back to Waterloo. He was still seething, almost sick with rage.

CHAPTER FIVE
    CHARLES SPENT AN unsatisfactory Tuesday mooching round his bedsitter in Hereford Road, Bayswater. It was a depressing room and the fact that he stayed there to do anything but sleep meant he was depressed.
    He was still fuming over the scene with Hugo. No longer fuming at the fact that Hugo had hit him, but now angry with himself for having flared up. Hugo was in a really bad state, possibly on the verge of a major breakdown, and, as a friend, Charles should have stood by him, tried to help, not rushed off in a huff after a drunken squabble.
    As usual, his dissatisfaction with himself spilled over into other area of his life. Frances. He must sort out what his relationship with Frances was. They must meet. He must ring her.
    Early in the afternoon he went down to the pay-phone on the landing, but before he dialled her number, he realized she wouldn’t be there. She was a teacher. Tuesday in term-time she’d be at school. He’d ring her about six, before he went down to Breckton.
    To shift his mood, he started looking through his old scripts. How’s Your Father? He read the first few pages. It really wasn’t bad. Light, but fun. A performance by the Backstagers would be better than nothing. Rather sheepishly, he decided to take it with him.
    He left without ringing Frances.
    Vee Winter opened the door. She had on a P.V.C. apron with a design of an old London omnibus. She looked at him challengingly again, part provocative, part exhibitionist.
    â€˜Sorry I’m a bit early, Vee. The train didn’t take as long as I expected.’
    â€˜No, they put on some fast ones during the rush-hour. But don’t worry, supper’s nearly ready. Geoff’s just got in. He’s up in the study. Go and join him. He’s got some booze up there.’
    The house was a small Edwardian semi, but it had been rearranged and decorated with taste and skill. Or rather, someone had started rearranging and decorating it with taste and skill. As he climbed the stairs, Charles noticed that the wall had been stripped and rendered, but not yet repapered. In the same way, someone had begun to sand the paint off the banister. Most of the wood was bare, but obstinate streaks of white paint clung in crevices. The house gave the impression that someone had started to renovate it with enormous vigour and then run out of enthusiasm. Or money.
    The soprano wailing of the Liebestod from Wagner’s Tristan und Isolde drew him to Geoffrey Winter’s study. Here the conversion had very definitely been completed. Presumable the room had been intended originally as a bedroom, but it was now lined with long pine shelves which extended at opposite ends of the room to make a desk and a surface for an impressive selection of hi-fi. The shelves were covered with a cunning disarray of hooks, models, old bottles and earthenware pots. The predominant colour was a pale, pale mustard, which toned in well with the pine. On the wall facing the garden French windows gave out on to a small balcony.
    Geoffrey Winter was fiddling with his hi-fi. The Wagner disc was being played on an expensive-looking grey metal turntable. Leads ran from the tuner to a small Japanese cassette radio.
    â€˜Sorry, Charles, just getting this on to