The Shooting in the Shop by Simon Brett

also good businessmen.’
    He favoured Carole with a big, confidential smile.
He had that ability, shared by many professional
charmers, of being able to make the person they’re
looking at feel for that moment that there’s no one
else in the room. ‘My background’s as a record producer.
Worked with a lot of big names in the past . . .
Led Zeppelin, Procol Harum, Jethro Tull. My name
was never in the foreground, but, to give them their
due, a lot of the artistes always make a point of
recognizing my contribution . . . you know, when
they’re interviewed, that kind of stuff.’
    Still rather sensitive about her own retired status,
Carole asked, ‘And are you still working?’
    He chuckled and made a broad gesture to his
womenfolk, whose message seemed to be, ‘Isn’t itamazing that people still have to ask questions like
that about Ricky Le Bonnier?’ ‘Carole,’ he said gently,
‘I’m the kind of guy who’s never not working. I’m
always switched on. I don’t do downtime. So, yes, in
answer to your question, I am still working.’
    ‘Still in the music business?’
    ‘You betcha. They say it’s all changed, and certainly
it isn’t the same world I grew up in. God, we
knew how to enjoy our work in those days. We
knew how to lunch. We knew how to have a proper
all-nighter in the studio with a few bottles and, er,
other stimulants, to aid the creative process. Today’s
Perrier-sipping wimps in the music industry couldn’t
keep up with the pace we used to live at. But, hell,
it worked! The stuff that came out of those studio
sessions was pure gold. Now the accountants have
moved in – as they have in most of the creative industries
– but they still have to turn to me for help when
they get stuck. Oh, yes, the skills of Ricky Le Bonnier
remain very much in demand.’
    ‘So when did you last actually produce a record?’
asked Polly coolly.
    For the first time Ricky looked slightly thrown by
the question. His daughter, it seemed, had the ability
to get under his skin. For the first time Carole was
aware of considerable tension between them.
    ‘It’s not actually to produce the record, Polly love,
that they look to me for these days. I work more in an
advisory capacity. I allow them to pick my brains
when they need a bit of expertise – not to mention
experience.’
    ‘And do they pay you for your “expertise – not to
mention experience”?’ There was no doubt now that
Polly Le Bonnier was deliberately needling her father.
    He looked down at his mother with the same
expression he’d used when Carole had asked whether
he was still working. He sighed and addressed his
daughter. ‘Look, love, you should know by now that
your daddy just attracts money. He doesn’t have to
go out of his way to find it. He works hard for it,
certainly, but your daddy is a money magnet.’
    ‘And a babe magnet?’ There wasn’t much affection
in Polly’s tone.
    Her father looked down to Flora in her armchair
and shrugged helplessly. She smiled up at him lovingly
as he said, ‘Guilty as charged.’
    Polly’s snort was very similar to the one recently
emitted by her grandmother. Then the girl looked at
her watch. ‘Can we get back soon? You know I’ve got
to catch the seven-thirty-two train back to London this
evening and I haven’t seen much of the little ones.’
    Ricky’s hands rose in a placatory gesture. ‘Just a
few more people I want to see. I haven’t spoken to the
lovely Jude properly yet.’ And he drifted off. Flora
was also lifting herself out of her armchair with the
help of her sticks, saying she needed ‘the little girls’
room’. Carole noticed how little movement she had in
her clawlike hands; she couldn’t grip the sticks, only
push them into the right position to support herself.
    Left alone with Polly, she asked, ‘When you mentioned
“the little ones” . . . ?’
    ‘Lola’s two. Mabel and Henry.’
    ‘Your stepsister