Читать книгу About That Night - Elaine Bedell - Страница 10

The police officers, a man and a woman, are sitting uneasily on the leopard-print cushions in Ricky Clough’s dressing room. His day clothes, a crumpled sports shirt and some jeans, are hanging on a hook and the desk is piled high with weekly magazines, scripts, his laptop, as well as empty bottles of white wine. Two scented candles still burn by the mirror and the air in the small room is thick with the smell of hairspray, aftershave (Colonia, Acqua di Parma) and something else, something sticky and fetid. If Kevin managed a clean-up sweep, Elizabeth thinks grimly, it was fleeting.

As they walk in, Matthew immediately holds out his hand to the policeman, who is looking hot and bulky in a padded vinyl bomber jacket, but he simply looks anxiously across at his female colleague. Matthew continues to address the policeman. ‘Hello. I’m Matthew Grayling, Controller, All Channels, here at the network. Sorry about this, we can go upstairs to my office, if you’d prefer?’

‘No, this is fine.’ The policewoman speaks. She stands up. She is really quite tall. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Watson and this is Detective Sergeant Rafik.’ She turns her back on the Controller and instead looks directly at Elizabeth. ‘And you’re Elizabeth Place? The producer of the show?’

‘Yes.’

‘Right. We’re going to need to talk to you again tomorrow morning when we have the results from the hospital. But if you wouldn’t mind just answering a few questions now?’ DI Watson has an estuary accent, the missing t’s giving her voice an abrasiveness which Elizabeth suspects works rather well in her line of work. Although she’s technically asking a question, Elizabeth understands there’s only one possible answer.

‘Of course not.’

She sinks on to a velvet stool and remembers that she’d hidden one of the still-full wine bottles under the couch. She can’t help glancing down and sees that it’s still there, unopened. DI Watson’s eyes follow Elizabeth’s.

‘So I’m afraid that the emergency services were unable to save Richard Clough when he collapsed on the floor of studio 4 at 20.15 this evening. I believe you’re aware of this?’

‘Yes,’ Elizabeth says faintly.

‘And how had Mr Clough appeared to you earlier this evening?’

‘Well, I’d say, better than normal. Ready to have a good show.’

‘And what was normal, for Mr Clough?’ The DI glances at the empty wine bottles.

‘Yes, erm, well, on studio days, he liked a drink, you know. Or two. Um. Well, on other days, as well, if I’m honest.’

‘And so he’d been drinking this evening?’

‘Well actually, I’m not sure how much he had… Until he started shaking and slurring his words, I thought he was sober. But then he just keeled over.’

‘And other than wine, did you notice Mr Clough take anything else this evening?’

Elizabeth looks across at Matthew, who is staring back at her with an unreadable expression. She chooses her words carefully. ‘Well, um, he never eats before the show. He likes to go out for dinner afterwards. I mean, he’s got quite an – appetite. So he picks at stuff before the show – Percy Pigs mainly, Yellow Bellies, Smarties…’

Elizabeth glances around the room. She can’t see any of the usual sweet-shop detritus, just one bowl of fruit slowly mouldering under its cellophane wrapping. ‘We did have some food props on the show. We were going to do a tasting because we had the celebrity chef, Paolo Culone, on the show.’

‘Never heard of him,’ DI Watson says flatly.

Elizabeth looks at her helplessly. ‘I’m not sure if Ricky actually ate any of it. I mean, he made out like he did, for the show, but…’ DI Watson looks at her sceptically.

The Controller has had enough of not being included. He adopts a pose and an expression Elizabeth knows only too well and speaks as if addressing a small child instead of a senior officer of the law. ‘Detective Inspector – Watson, is it? As I’m sure you know, Ricky Clough was a man in his late forties, erm, early fifties, who was quite a bit overweight and drank too much for his own good. I’ve known him for years. He was also under a lot of stress, you know, ratings and so on. I think you’ll find that’s a classic coronary case, right there.’

Elizabeth understands that Matthew wants nothing more than for the network to escape any further interrogation. He doesn’t want Ricky’s appetite for the high life exposed and examined. He wants the police off the premises and the network’s reputation unsullied.

The policewoman looks at him without saying anything. The silence hangs heavily in the room and Elizabeth begins to feel hot and itchy. The sergeant is looking miserably at his boots. ‘You may be jumping to conclusions, sir.’ The detective inspector is icily sarcastic. ‘It would be foolish for us to do so. And as yet…’ she nods briefly at her colleague, who struggles thankfully to his feet. ‘And as yet, the cause of death is not established.’ She looks stern as she turns at the door. ‘So we’ll see you both tomorrow morning. We’ll come to your offices first thing.’

Elizabeth glances anxiously at her boss. Matthew clearly doesn’t like the idea of the police arriving in full view of everyone at the TV studios. He says very hastily, ‘We’ll come to the police station.’

DI Watson looks at him as if considering this, but then shrugs. ‘Alright, if you prefer. Paddington Green, 10 a.m. Don’t expect any tea. It goes without saying that this is an ongoing investigation so please say nothing in the meantime. Our press people are liaising with yours. This room is now being sealed for evidence. Goodnight.’ And with that, DI Watson strides out of the room, ushering Elizabeth and the Controller ahead of her, and slams the door behind her with an almighty bang.

Back in the Green Room, most of the production team have left for a spontaneous wake at the King’s Head, except for Lola, who’s being comforted on the sofa by Robin. His eyes are also red-rimmed but, as Elizabeth comes in, glitteringly alert to the prospect of further drama. Kevin, the Head of Press, is still in the corner, talking into his mobile. Matthew moves to the drinks table, now laden with empty wine bottles, and shakes a few to see what dregs are left. ‘Christ, is there no whisky here?’

‘It’s a banned substance.’ Elizabeth reddens at the sudden realisation that the principal reason it’s banned is now lying in a hospital morgue.

‘Banned? Who banned it?’ He turns on her accusingly.

‘You did.’

Various measures, not many of them successful, have been taken to curb Ricky’s excesses. A complete ban on alcohol was deemed unworkable – providing it for the guests before the show produced the sort of loose-tongued talk that gives a chat show its headlines – so they’d tried instead to empty Ricky’s dressing room of all bottles, but he’d simply taken to stealing them from the Green Room. In the end Matthew decided a firm line needed to be drawn – and he had drawn it at Scotch.

Elizabeth realises that their intern, Sam, is sitting miserably on the sofa by herself. She’s always the last to leave because although she isn’t awarded a London Living Wage, she is awarded the responsibility of locking up the Green Room at the end of the night.

‘Sam,’ Elizabeth says pleadingly and the intern jumps up, grateful that someone has finally spoken to her. ‘Please could you find some whisky… somehow… somewhere?’ Sam nods quickly and runs out of the room. Elizabeth puts her arm around Lola while Matthew sits on the edge of a chair, uncertain how to interject himself into the emotionally charged scene. He hasn’t got where he’s got to without previously keeping all his presenters alive and kicking.

Lola begins to sob on Elizabeth’s shoulder. ‘I mean, Ricky seemed so fine this afternoon! Like really normal, you know? He’s not been drinking or you know, doing – anything else.’ Her mascara begins to run in deep black rivulets down her cheeks. Elizabeth has never seen her friend so unkempt. She’s always impressed that Lola can turn up for any crisis with her face done, her hair plaited or piled, and in clothes so tight and heels so high that Elizabeth is surprised she can move or breathe. Elizabeth, in contrast, keeps her hair cut short so that she can simply dry it by running her fingers through it each morning and wears a combination of short skirts and pumps that allow for running, since she always seems to be going at twice the speed of everyone else. (‘We should put a battery pack on you,’ Hutch once said as she came hurtling down the street, bumping into passers-by and tripping into his arms. ‘I could plug into you and charge my mobile phone at the same time.’)

‘Ricky was really together and just – well, you know – not that tipsy, really.’ Lola gulps.

Elizabeth nods. The dress run had gone well in that Ricky hadn’t had a tantrum. He’d managed to keep the camera crew on side with a couple of well-aimed quips against his guests, especially the celebrity chef Paolo Culone, whose very fashionable and pretentious Soho restaurant had just opened. It was Ricky who’d come up with the idea of bringing some of Paolo’s food on to the show for a tasting and, he promised, a pasting. ‘Piquant cockle ketchup?’ he’d sneered in the rehearsal. ‘Little nuggets of calf’s tail? Blimey! Who wants to eat this stuff? What’s wrong with a tidy pie from Greggs?’ And the crew had laughed and egged him on, surprised at the host’s new-found enthusiasm for his show. Many of them had been at the receiving end of Ricky Clough’s bad humour over the last few weeks, when he’d found everything wrong and everyone else to blame. This was a welcome change.

Matthew begins to pace around the Green Room. He’s small and completely bald but muscular and full of a kind of attractive adrenaline. Two weeks ago he was the victim of a mugging and has since developed a slight limp. He’s in his mid-fifties and every morning a personal trainer comes to his Hampstead Heath mansion with a gym bag full of rubber resistance bands. As a result, Matthew has gained some nicely bulging triceps, a flat(ish) stomach and, Lola claims, a new-found interest in S&M (she’d heard it from his secretary, who found a bag of sex toys stashed in the secret, locked, bottom drawer of his desk – a drawer to which she’d taken the precaution of cutting a duplicate key). Matthew hasn’t got where he’s got to without flexing a few muscles and he likes people to notice them.

‘Christ, we’ll have to put out a repeat this week instead of the show,’ he says despairingly, but then his eyes brighten. ‘Maybe a compilation? The Best of Ricky Clough? Only the early shows, obviously. Kev – would we have enough time to publicise it? Get everyone to watch it while they’re still upset? We could be in for bumper ratings!’ The two men huddle together around Kev’s vibrating mobile.

‘Lola, what time did Ricky actually arrive at the studio this afternoon?’ Elizabeth tries to think back over the day’s routine. She’d been in the production office till the early afternoon, trying to sort out next week’s show. She’d only joined for the dress run when Ricky was ready to rehearse his monologue at the top of the show.

Lola looks at her miserably. ‘I didn’t like to call him.’ She looks defensive. ‘You know, it’s not MY job to chivvy up the presenter…’ Her eyes well up again and Elizabeth strokes her back.

‘Of course it’s not. It’s just that you do it so well. Normally.’

‘But he was only an hour late. And you know, sometimes it’s been worse than that. And he was in such a good mood when he arrived.’

It’s true that Ricky had seemed much more his old self and Elizabeth had been hopeful the show might improve. It was very unlike the last couple of weeks, when he’d been bored and bullying. She’d had to have words with him after she found a camera assistant in tears. Yesterday, he’d missed the production meeting because he’d failed to return from lunch. Elizabeth was getting fed up with it and had begun to think about leaving the show and leaving Ricky Clough.

As if reading her thoughts, Lola turns to Elizabeth, her face streaky with grief. ‘I thought he was getting better. You know…’

‘Yes, I did too.’ Elizabeth pauses, but the whisky has done its job. ‘Lola, hon, when did you last…um…you know, with Ricky?’

Lola screws her soaking napkins into a tight ball. ‘Not in the last few weeks. He hasn’t wanted to. He didn’t seem to want company – or at least, not my company. To be honest, I’d wondered if there was someone else.’

‘Oh, Lola. You didn’t tell me! So no more late-night visits after the show?’

‘Not for a few weeks, no.’ Lola looks up, sharply. ‘You won’t tell Matthew, will you?’

‘If you haven’t seen Ricky – I mean, alone – for a while, then I don’t see how it could be relevant,’ she says slowly, glancing over at her boss. ‘But Lola, I’m not sure it’s as secret as you think it is…’

‘Has anyone from the team said anything to you?’

Elizabeth considers this for a moment. When she’d first gone to discuss her presenter’s bad behaviour on the show with Matthew, he’d asked if Ricky had ‘inappropriately’ propositioned anyone on the team. Elizabeth had said, truthfully, that no one had complained and Matthew seemed very relieved. But she’s wondered a lot since about that word ‘inappropriate’. Was it inappropriate that Lola should phone Ricky late at night, when she ‘unexpectedly’ found herself close to his Kensington house? Or inappropriate that she should accept his offer of a nightcap – and then a bacon butty? Or inappropriate that she should then go back for more at Ricky’s urging? Inappropriate maybe, but definitely consensual. Over the years, Ricky had entertained a number of dalliances – Lola was merely the latest. They’d all lived with it, condoned it, covered for him, even. And Lola is her best friend. No, Elizabeth isn’t about to tell tales about this affair.

‘No, no one from the team.’ (Elizabeth decides that Matthew doesn’t really qualify for this distinction.) ‘Why don’t you go home, Lo? Nothing’s going to happen here. Let’s speak in the morning. I’ve got to see the police again at 10. I’ll call you after that.’

‘Promise?’

‘Of course.’ Elizabeth hugs her. ‘By the way, hon – do you know who Ricky had lunch with yesterday, when he missed our planning meeting?’

Lola bends down to pick up her vintage peep-toes, which she’d dramatically discarded in the heat of the crisis. ‘Oh yes. Didn’t you know? He had lunch with the boss.’

Elizabeth turns to her in surprise. ‘With Matthew?’

Lola nods.

‘Oh.’ She glances over at the whispering two men in the corner of the room. ‘Funny. Matthew didn’t mention it.’

Lola looks at Elizabeth ironically and she smiles ruefully back at her. ‘Yeah, you’re right, hon. Of course, knowledge is power.’ She kisses Lola on the cheek.

‘Will you be okay yourself? I mean, going home to an empty flat?’ Lola looks at Elizabeth meaningfully.

Elizabeth feels her sides constrict and her heart sink as she thinks of the deathly silence waiting for her: the unlit rooms, the unoccupied double bed. ‘I’ll be fine,’ she says, turning away.

‘Well, if you’re sure. Speak tomorrow. Call me.’ Lola squeezes her hand and leaves.

Elizabeth makes a half-hearted attempt to stash the empty bottles into an already overflowing recycling bin. She realises her silk shirt is clammy and clinging uncomfortably to her flesh. There are some unidentifiable stains on the front of it. She leans against the sofa and runs the shaking fingers of one hand through her fringe – her forehead is damp and strands of dark hair fall wetly on to her cheeks. The waistband of her skirt suddenly feels tight and restrictive; she feels she might have trouble breathing. She catches Matthew looking across at her, his face creased with concern. Kevin leaves the room with a brief nod in her direction.

Matthew puts down his whisky glass and moves towards her. ‘How you doing, kiddo?’

Elizabeth is thirty-five but it’s somehow become accepted between them that he will occasionally confuse her, his most senior female producer, with his teenage daughter Millie. It’s a subtle but useful reference to the power play between them and Elizabeth is perfectly aware why he does it. And equally, she knows that occasionally she finds it comforting to treat Matthew like a dad. For too many long years now, she hasn’t had a dad – and the older she gets, the more she realises what a void this is in her life. She’s genuinely fond of her boss; she indulges all his foibles (as you would a dad) and allows him to tell his celebrity anecdotes uninterrupted, even though she’s heard them a hundred times before. It’s a purely professional partnership but it works well and she’s grown to feel genuinely fond of him, especially given his recent trauma. But she’s no longer sure she needs Matthew – or any boss, in fact. She’s begun to harbour dreams of setting up a production company of her own. It’s high time, she thinks, to call the shots herself.

‘Is someone going to the hospital to meet Lorna?’

‘Yes, Kev’s organising it. She’ll need help with the press – word is creeping out.’

‘I hear you had lunch with Ricky yesterday.’ She speaks more sharply than intended.

Matthew raises his eyebrows. ‘Is that a question?’

‘Yes, I think it is. Especially as he missed our programme planning meeting because of it.’

‘Did he?’ Her boss moves to open the door in an elaborate display of chivalry and gestures for her to lead the way out. ‘Well, yes, I had lunch with Ricky. At The Ivy actually. I suspect there may be paparazzi shots, which are bound to get used once the papers hear about this. Kevin’s checking it out now.’ Matthew seems quite pleased at the prospect of some intrusive evidence of his celebrity lunch.

Elizabeth hesitates at the open door. ‘Will you be telling the police?’

‘Well, yes. If it comes up.’ Matthew pauses. ‘Actually, as lunches with Ricky Clough go, this wasn’t so bad. He seemed, well, reconciled to the inevitable.’

‘The inevitable? Did you tell him we’re making a new show without him?’ Elizabeth stops in surprise.

‘Yes, I did. Although actually I think he knew anyway. He just wanted confirmation. But yes, Ricky took it remarkably well. He asked if the new show was with Hutch, and I said it was. He had quite a few very nasty things to say about Hutch and what he thought were his fatal flaws. Nothing I wasn’t expecting.’ Matthew gestures that they should continue walking and Elizabeth, whose face is aflame at the mention of Hutch’s name, avoids looking at him as he continues. ‘But you know, Ricky seemed more relaxed about his future than I’ve seen him for a while. There was none of that recent aggression. He had a few ideas for new shows himself – they were all terrible, of course – but I got the impression his heart wasn’t in it. I think maybe he was beginning to think about other things he wanted to do in life.’

Elizabeth doubts this. She can’t imagine Ricky enjoying a life out of the spotlight. And she isn’t entirely sure they can judge him, notorious as he was for his volatile mood swings, by just one day’s good behaviour. But of course it’s irrelevant now. Pointless. Poor Ricky. She suddenly finds her eyes welling. ‘Well… That’s a real shame, given…’ A tear creeps out of the corner of her eye and she rubs it away, fiercely.

Matthew grabs her hand. ‘I know, I know. It’s terrible, Elizabeth. I’m going to miss him too. He was brilliant in his heyday. Unbeatable. But he was living on the edge – you know he was. His appetites were too large. He was caning it, night after night. He’s not a child, he knew what he was doing. It’s not your fault. It’s not our fault.’

‘But he was a child in so many ways… We indulged him just like we would a child! And it feels like my fault. I was supposed to be in charge this evening. Why didn’t I spot it? Why didn’t I see that he was so ill?’ A shuddering sob escapes.

‘Elizabeth, listen. In this business, we’re all control freaks. But there are some things we simply can’t control. No producer – not even one as good as you – can stop nature taking its course.’ He smiles at her. She knows that she will tuck away his rare compliment for a future rainy, otherwise unrewarding day, but for now she gratefully accepts the neatly pressed hanky he hands her.

‘Have you got a car to take you home?’ he asks, still smiling. ‘Take mine. I might walk for a bit.’

‘Are you sure?’

The Controller is very sure. Elizabeth’s phone call had pulled him away from a meeting in a discreet hotel room where the irresistibly long-legged hostess of his lunchtime consumer show is waiting to consume him. She’s blonde and favours the sort of wrap dresses that show just about enough of a luscious cleavage (although some viewers have written in to complain that her breasts are putting them off their sandwiches). He figures that he’ll get more comfort there than he will from going home to Hampstead and his wife, the history don, who despairs of absolutely everything to do with his job – other than its considerable income.

Tears are now falling freely down Elizabeth’s cheeks and she allows herself to be ushered into Matthew’s Mercedes with its deep leather seats and the heady smell of aftershave. Winston, Matthew’s driver, tilts his mirror to look at her in the back seat and then silently hands her a box of tissues. As the car pulls away from the kerb, she sees Deniz Pegasus, Ricky’s friend and manager, lurking in the shadows of the building. He steps out and moves towards the car but without saying anything, Winston gently presses down on the accelerator and they glide smoothly past him. Elizabeth turns and looks out of the back window to see Deniz standing in the street, his legs apart, his arms outstretched, watching her go. ‘Thank you,’ she says to Winston. He nods at her in the rear-view mirror. She pulls the hood of her parka low down over her face, sinks back into the seat and Winston turns up some soft jazz. The car slides like a snake, stealthy and smooth, through the London night.