Comedian

By Derek Ansell

When fading comedian Jim Wilson is found dead in his hotel bed at the end of a week-long engagement at a South Wales theatre, his wife Joanne refuses to believe he has taken his own life.

Her private investigations involve interrogating the last three women to see him alive. What she discovers is upsetting and deeply shocking, and in the course of considerable pursuit of people who seem reluctant to talk to her - with help from Henry, the hotel Duty Manager - she is resolutely persistent in her pursuit of the truth.

Joanne will not give up until she knows everything. But is she prepared to learn the truth about her husband?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Next Chapter
• Release date: Nov 8, 2022

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

There was really nothing unusual about Jim Wilson’s last night in his hotel following his week-long engagement at the Carswell Bay Hotel, nothing that is, except that he was found dead on his bed the following morning. Everything else about his last night and the gig had gone according to plan as it always had in recent years. He had accepted a week in the small provincial theatre because that kind of engagement was the only kind he had been getting for the past five years. And small gigs with poor payment were, after all, better than no gigs at all.

He had left his Victorian villa on the outskirts of Windsor at eleven in the morning because he was regular in his habits and kept to the same timescales in almost everything he did. The drive down the M4 had been relatively uneventful, sparse traffic through as far as Swindon, a brief flurry of vehicles for about two miles and then quiet again. He went first to his hotel, as he always had on similar engagements in other towns, proceeded straight to the reception desk, announced himself, and requested a brief word with the duty manager.

The man that approached him shortly was a somewhat gangling figure, quite tall and with a somewhat craggy face and sparse, light brown hair. Wilson judged his age to be about forty-six or seven, close to his own.

‘Mr Wilson, welcome to the Carswell Bay hotel,’ he said warmly.

‘Are you the duty manager?’ Wilson asked.

‘Duty manager, restaurant manager, accountant, and general dogsbody.’

‘Well, that should keep you pretty busy,’ Wilson responded, ‘I shall be here for a week, and I have a request.’

‘Whatever I can do,’ Dobbs offered affably.

‘Well, you will know my situation,’ Wilson replied. ‘When I come off stage at night, I like to keep a low profile. Avoid people sidling up to me telling me how much they enjoyed my old television programmes and are there going to be any more.’

Dobbs smirked. ‘Well, you are rather known for them. I myself was about to say how much I enjoyed them.’

‘Fortunately, you didn’t.’

‘No.’

Wilson explained that he was hoping to return each night and not be bothered by anybody, hotel staff and other guests. He would like a quiet corner of the restaurant for meals and would prefer not to be approached by anybody. It was tiresome indeed to be reminded constantly of his former glories especially as he was going to great lengths to expand and make a success of his present engagements. Mr Dobbs’ co-operation in this would be appreciated.

‘Well, I can promise to keep the staff here off your back,’ Dobbs said quietly. ‘As to the guests coming and going, they may be a different kettle of fish.’

‘Do what you can.’

‘Indeed, I will,’ Dobbs offered brightly. ‘I run a tight ship here so you may depend on the co-operation of every member of staff.’

‘Well, that is all I can ask,’ Wilson replied looking doubtful.

Wilson requested a late, light lunch and Dobbs smiled in his offbeat manner and indicated the door to the restaurant. He walked with Wilson over to the door and asked if he ever worked with his old sidekick Len Harris these days. Wilson told him gruffly that he didn’t, they had broken up five years ago and he preferred to work alone. Or with less prominent assistants.

‘But you were very good together. So funny those old sketches.’

‘It’s in the past Mr Dobbs,’ Wilson snapped, raising his voice. ‘And I prefer to leave it there.’

‘Oh, sorry, no offence intended.’

‘You see, this is just the sort of thing I want to avoid during my stay. If you can’t stop yourself blaring out some inane reference to my past, what chance do I have with the rest of the hotel staff.’

Dobbs attempted to placate his guest. He assured him he meant no intrusion into his past and would make absolutely certain that it would not occur again. Mr Wilson could depend on him.

‘I hope I can’ Wilson intoned sourly.

Wilson picked a quick snack from the light bites menu and sat down in the corner alcove Dobbs had offered him. He wanted to get to the theatre in good time and set up his dress rehearsal ready for the first performance the following day: Tuesday. Then he asked for Dobbs again and got directions to the local theatre which was situated on the other side of town. On arrival he parked his Audi, went straight to the stage door, asked the security man to announce him to the Artistic Director and was soon greeted by a young man with blond hair who introduced himself as Freddie Thompson. The man was dressed in jeans and a tee shirt emblazoned with the words ‘Support Live Theatre.’

Wilson introduced himself and the two men shook hands. Everything was ready for him, Thompson assured him, including his dressing room. As they walked in the direction of that room Wilson repeated the request he had made to the hotel manager to keep him private at all times and keep visitors away from him.

‘How about actors and other theatre professionals?’ Thompson asked drily.

‘They would be acceptable, yes.’

‘I thought they might be.’

Wilson glared at him but didn’t speak. When they reached the dressing room, Thompson indicated it with his hand and stood to one side.

‘And I want people kept well away from this dressing room,’ Wilson uttered starkly. ‘Especially people enquiring if I have another television series coming up.’

Thompson smiled briefly, thinking about how unlikely such a series was but he kept quiet. ‘I’ll leave you to it then,’ he said and departed.

Wilson went in and saw a young woman in tightly fitting jeans and a fluffy yellow top standing by the make-up mirror. She had light brown hair and vivid green eyes.

‘Holly!’ Wilson exclaimed.

‘Hello, Mr Wilson,’ she replied. ‘I got here early so I thought I’d come and tidy up your dressing room.’

‘Very kind of you, I’m sure,’ Wilson responded, advancing into the room.

‘It’s no problem.’

‘Come and give me a big kiss, Holly,’ Wilson suddenly blurted out, holding his arms wide and advancing towards her.

‘No, keep away,’ Holly replied, moving swiftly to the other side of the room. ‘Behave.’

‘You didn’t say that last week,’ he reminded her.

‘That was different,’ she murmured, frowning. ‘Look, I’m here to work, to learn from you, do whatever you ask of me on stage but that’s all.’

‘You know I can’t resist you,’ Wilson told her, grinning.

‘Think about your wife, Jim,’ she replied harshly.

‘I’m trying hard not to,’ he told her, looking grim.

Holly kept her distance, moving further away every time he appeared to move nearer her. She talked about his new act, how good she thought it was, and how successful it would be. She had worked very hard, learning lines, checking all the bits of business that went on during performance, and she was sure this dress rehearsal was going to go smoothly and without a single hitch.

Wilson wasn’t so sure. He suffered from stage fright and had done ever since he started in show business more than twenty years ago. Even now, although it was just a dress rehearsal, he was feeling sick and nervous. There would be people out front, possibly quite a few of them. He sat down heavily in the only armchair in the room and smiled sadly at Holly.

‘I could do with a cup of tea,’ he murmured softly.

‘I’ll make you one,’ Holly said, ‘And lighten up, you look as if you’d seen a ghost.’

‘I have,’ he agreed. ‘The ghost of my younger, more attractive self.’

But Holly was already moving over to get the kettle and cups. Wilson sank into a reverie, half asleep, half awake, and worrying about going out on stage. It would never get any better, he knew that. Now his depression was compounded though, by rejection from Holly, his new assistant, and a young woman he had great hopes for. When Holly brought the tea, they both sat and drank it, in silence at first. Then Holly perked up and beamed at him.

‘I want you to know, Mr Wilson,’ she began earnestly, ‘that I intend to work myself into the ground, if necessary, to make a success of this act.’

‘That’s nice to know,’ Wilson responded but he didn’t look particularly pleased.

Holly just smiled. A sweet, provocative smile, he thought.

‘You’d best get to your dressing room,’ he told her. ‘It’s getting near time.’

She paused at the door before going out. ‘It will be successful, won’t it? We’ll break a leg, won’t we?’

‘Better than that Holly, we’ll break two, yours and mine.’

He began to get ready for the dress rehearsal. Slowly, he changed into costume and was even slower applying stage make-up. When he finally stood and went down the corridor towards the stage, his head was throbbing and his heart thumping in his chest. It was always the same; he desperately wanted to turn back and return to the dressing room, but he kept moving forward.

‘How do want to play it, Mr Wilson?’ the stage manager asked.

‘Straight in, no fuss no, preliminaries.’

‘Right you are.’

‘Many out front?’

‘A dozen or so, maybe a few more; extra stagehands I haven’t counted.’

He walked out deliberately, thinking, as he always did, it was just like going to the swimming pool. You were nervous and edgy until you dived in, and then all was well. He saw Holly on the other side of the stage smiling, waiting patiently for her cue. He winked at her, but she wouldn’t have seen at that distance. He fixed a grin on his face, bounded out onto the stage, told a short, snappy joke, pulled a face, and heard the reassuring burst of laughter. Suddenly all was well, he felt great and was enjoying himself doing what he did best.

CHAPTER TWO

Sharon Jones had been working hard for over two hours. She paused, mopped her brow, straightened the pillows and covers of the fresh bed she had just made, and walked over to the window. Outside the sun was shining and cars were moving slowly along Carswell High Street. Soon it would be time to take a short break and meet up with her friend on floor three. She moved over to the flat surface that ran the length of the bedroom and replaced the tea, coffee, and sugar sachets by the kettle. She then fetched little sachets of milk and lined them up alongside the rest.

People often asked her if she would like to get a better job, but the truth was, she liked working as a chambermaid. She was always up early every morning so the six o’clock starts suited her quite well. And starting early in the morning meant that you had a good-sized slice of the day after work to do as you liked. That suited her too. She made a last-minute check on the room and everything in it and went out into the corridor.

She walked up to number forty-four and looked beyond to forty-five. Then she looked at her watch and grinned. Five minutes to nine. The man in forty-five would be coming out any second now and going down for his breakfast. He was meticulous in his timekeeping and came out of his room on the dot of five to nine. Had done all week since he arrived on the Monday. Sharon frowned, waited, and waited a little longer and couldn’t understand why there was no movement from number forty-five. He was always dead on, never missed. As he didn’t appear however, she shook her head and went to work in number forty-four. She cleaned the room, made up a fresh bed and came out onto the corridor again. It was time for her break now, but she was puzzled about the man in forty-five who hadn’t appeared as usual. Maybe he came out and went down while I was in forty-four she reasoned, shook her head, and walked along the corridor and up the staircase to the third floor.

Annie was already pouring out a cup of coffee from her flask as Sharon appeared. Sharon took it, thanked her, and accepted a cigarette which her friend lit for her. She told Annie that she was concerned that the immaculate time-keeper in forty-five had not yet emerged from his room.

‘Prob’ly overslept.’

‘No, no,’ Sharon recited, shaking her head. ‘He’s not the type.’

‘Most likely explanation.’

‘No, I think he must be unwell,’ Sharon murmured and added, ’I hope he is.’

‘Well take a look in,’ Annie advised. ‘You’ve got a pass key.’

The two women continued to drink coffee and smoke in silence, standing side by side and gazing over the balcony at the now busy high street below. When they finished their cigarettes, they prepared to return to their respective floors.

‘Good luck with sleeping beauty,’ Annie called, departing.

Sharon shook her head and returned slowly to her floor. She knocked loudly on number forty-five’s door but received no response. She stood there for perhaps a minute, debating with herself whether or not to go in and investigate. Finally, she decided that she must go in, if all was well, she could retreat swiftly, apologise if the occupant was still in the room and not much harm done. On the other hand, if all was not well—Sharon took out her pass key and opened the door gingerly. As she entered the room, she became immediately aware that all was not well; the lights were on, and the curtains drawn although it was broad daylight and sunny outside. She advanced slowly towards the centre of the room, looked left to where the bed was positioned and was shocked to see a man lying on top of the bed.

‘Oh, I’m so sorry, sir,’ she blurted out. ‘I thought you were out.’

It was only as she turned round to walk out that it occurred to her through the fog of her nervous state that the man was lying on top of the bed and not in it and he was wearing shirt, trousers, and socks. She turned again, advanced nervously back to the bed, and looked at the man. He was lying perfectly still; no movement of any kind and his face was pasty white with his lips slightly parted. Something about his appearance and stillness terrified Sharon; she wanted to scream but it died in her throat. Convinced that the man was dead, she rushed out of the bedroom and ran headlong down the staircase and did not stop running until she burst, unceremoniously into the manager’s office.

Henry Dobbs had just put a biscuit to his mouth. Coughing and spluttering, he shed crumbs onto his desk at the sudden loud intrusion into his morning coffee break.

‘What on earth,’ he cried out. ‘What are you doing Sharon?’

‘He’s dead sir.’

‘What?’

‘Dead, Mr Dobbs. Bloke in number forty-five.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous Sharon, what are you talking about?’

Suddenly, it was all too much for Sharon. She stopped talking and burst into tears, standing in front of Dobbs’ desk, spluttering, and weeping noisily. Dobbs came around quickly to her, took her arm, and told her not to worry, she must come and sit down over here and tell him all about it. Sharon sat down but had difficulty stemming the flow of her tears and stopping her shoulders from shaking. Dobbs asked her to take her time, take a deep breath, and tell him all about it. Finally, Sharon managed to explain, more or less as it happened, her experience in number forty-five.

‘I expect he was in a deep sleep,’ Dobbs told her.

‘No sir, he was dead, I know he was.’

‘Do you have medical qualifications, Sharon?’

Sharon burst into tears again and Dobbs had to come over to her, comfort her, and tell her he would sort everything out; she was not to worry. He picked up his telephone receiver and dialled an internal number.

‘Margaret, hello, could you bring in a cup of sweet tea for Sharon please? She’s had a bit of a shock.’

Dobbs assured Sharon that he would sort everything out and clear up any misunderstandings so that she could return to work later. Sharon shook her head, convinced that he did not understand what had happened. Margaret came in with the tea and handed it gently to Sharon although she couldn’t stop her hands shaking and rattling the cup in the saucer. As she sipped tea looking most forlorn, Dobbs slipped out of the office and walked casually up to the floor Sharon was working on. He was a little put out to see the door of number forty-five was wide open. He frowned, shook his head irritably, and walked in. He only needed one look at the man on the bed to realise that Sharon had not been imagining things or exaggerating. He took Wilson’s pulse, something he had learned to do on a first aid course many years ago. Wilson was dead and the body was growing cold to the touch.

He walked out of the room, closed the door, and put a Do Not Disturb notice up; he didn’t want any other chambermaids going in there. Then he walked quickly back down and into the office. Sharon was still sitting there, clutching her cup and saucer although she looked up eagerly at Dobbs as he entered the room.

‘You were right, Sharon,’ Dobbs stated flatly. ‘Mr Wilson has died.’

Whether from relief or some other emotion, Sharon just burst into tears again and Dobbs had to go over and comfort her by sitting close to her and holding her hand.

‘Now you are not to worry,’ he told her