THE NEWS was smuggled discreetly to Brian Tressider, who, instantly decisive as ever, decreed that no purpose would be served by breaking up the party. So, showing no untoward emotion, he sat through the act of the American girl singer who’d been big in the charts in the early seventies, and then, when the band took over, began the first dance with Brenda in his arms. He subsequently did more public relations work, dancing jovially with the wives of specially favoured salesmen.
The official announcement of his Marketing Director’s death would, he had decided, be made in the morning.
Charles Paris did not return to the banqueting suite. Instead, he went wearily to his room and ordered another Room Service bottle of whisky. They didn’t have Bell’s but he made do.
The death seemed so unnecessary, and he couldn’t totally eradicate a feeling of guilt. Though he deserved no blame for the hideous inappropriateness – or perhaps appropriateness – of Nicky Rules’ routine, Charles still felt responsible for having hounded the dead man earlier in the day. It wasn’t a good feeling.
He didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there, but about a third of the whisky had gone, when there was a gentle tap on his door.
‘Come in,’ he said, too dispirited to move.
It was Brenda Tressider, still immaculate in her ball dress. He shambled to his feet. ‘Come in. Can I get you something? More of that tap water?’
‘No, thank you.’ She closed the door and moved a few steps into the room. ‘I just wanted to say that I’m sorry about what happened . . .’
‘Yes.’
‘And that you mustn’t feel bad about it.’
‘Easily said.’
‘Ken was devoted to Pat. He really couldn’t have lived without her.’
‘No, but they’d have got over this. They could have been reconciled.’
Brenda Tressider looked at him in puzzlement. ‘What do you mean? They could have got over it? You know that Pat’s dead, don’t you?’
‘What?’
‘She felt ill during the banquet and slipped away without any fuss. She managed to get up to their suite, but there . . . she must have passed out on the floor . . . maybe just died straight away. Nobody’ll ever know for sure. The Hotel Manager found her after . . . after they’d found Ken.’
‘But –’
‘She was very ill. This had been on the cards for a long time. And I’d always been afraid of how Ken would react when the moment finally came.’
‘Oh. So what exactly do you think happened?’
‘Ken must’ve noticed she was missing from her table. In the middle of the cabaret. That must be why he left in such a hurry. Then, when he got to their suite, he found her dead and . . . just couldn’t go on.’
‘Tell me, was Patricia present for any of Nicky Rules’ routine?’
‘No. According to the people at her table, she left before the coffee.’
So Patricia Colebourne had never even been aware of the suggestions that her husband was so afraid of her hearing. She had died in full confidence of his undivided love.
Brenda Tressider’s reading of events had not been the correct one. But it was, in its own way, tidy.
And it probably made a more satisfactory ending to the tragedy of Ken and Patricia Coleboume than the truth would have done.