Star Fall

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  ‘He’s worried about you.’

  ‘I know. But he seems stuck in phase one.’ She met his eyes. ‘Is it the Job?’

  Atherton shrugged. ‘It’s always the Job. None of us is really normal.’

  She changed the subject. ‘Heard anything from Emily?’ she asked, too casually.

  He moved to let her pass. ‘Not since the Christmas card. I didn’t expect to. It was all over between us, you know.’ Emily had found out about one of his extra-curricular activities, and after a flaming row followed by a period of chilly anatomizing, they had split up. She had taken a post in New York – supposed to be for two years, but he didn’t expect her to come back.

  ‘It’s a shame,’ she said.

  ‘I’m not the settling-down kind,’ he said.

  ‘You just haven’t met the right person,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, I’ve met her,’ he said lightly. ‘But she wanted someone else.’

  She looked at him sharply for a moment, but did not follow it up. ‘Just time for that drink,’ she said and led the way out.

  Over drinks and over supper, they told her about the case. She knew who Egerton was, of course.

  ‘I’m sorry it was him,’ she said. ‘I always rather liked him. I thought he had a nice manner – friendly enough but not too friendly. You want your expert to seem a bit above you, or why should you take their word? But not so much as to make you feel foolish. Was it his nearest and dearest did it?’

  ‘Too early to tell,’ said Slider. ‘There are so many possibilities. Theft, lover’s quarrel, blackmail, business rivalry. Even Connolly’s idea of a mad fan.’

  ‘And the old cui bono – the Will,’ said Atherton.

  ‘And jealousy,’ Joanna suggested. ‘Show-business is riddled with it. On a show like that, with all those experts competing for airtime and prominence … You only have to look at the quarrels and side and bitcheries in orchestra life – and we don’t even have much contact with the public. Our faces aren’t known. But this chap Egerton – he’d done pretty well out of it, hadn’t he? Not just Antiques Galore—’

  Atherton interrupted. ‘No, you mean Antiques Galore! You missed out the exclamation mark.’

  He was rewarded with a small smile. ‘Silly title, anyway. But he’s on that other antiques programme—’

  ‘Going, Going, Gone,’ Atherton supplied.

  ‘And he seems to pop up all over the place, commenting on things, giving his opinion. He’s practically the Beeb’s resident expert. What do they call it? The “go-to man”. The David Attenborough of antiques. Don’t tell me all that didn’t make someone jealous.’

  ‘You could well be right,’ Slider said. ‘That’s one of the things to do – find out about the show.’

  ‘But it’s most likely to be his friend, Mr Lavender – isn’t it?’ Joanna said, coming full circle. ‘Just the fact that he put the murder weapon back. An intruder would have taken it away, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘That’s what McLaren said,’ Atherton remarked.

  Joanna put her hands to her head in mock horror. ‘Oh my God! I’ve agreed with McLaren! I’ve got “baby brain”! If I don’t get back to work soon I’ll be a drooling idiot.’

  ‘There’s no hurry,’ Slider said. ‘Take your time. Don’t try to go back before you’re ready.’

  As soon as he said it he wished he hadn’t. He saw the minute glance between Joanna and Atherton and felt annoyed – with himself for having betrayed his anxiety, and with them for colluding against him.

  But Joanna said only, ‘Can’t work until I get offers, and I haven’t had any so far. Anyone like any more of this? I haven’t got any pudding, I’m afraid, except fruit.’

  The wind had dropped by the next morning, and the world was locked in a bright, bitter stillness. Despite the wind dropping, it was even colder. There was a film of ice on the inside of the bedroom window where their breath had condensed and then frozen.

  Joanna got up with him and cooked him bacon and eggs.

  ‘What’s the occasion?’ he asked.

  ‘You need a proper breakfast before you go out in this cold,’ she said. ‘You don’t eat enough. I bet you missed meals yesterday.’

  ‘I’m all right,’ he said. ‘You don’t need to worry about me.’

  She put the plate in front of him, then sat down between him and George and helped their son with his boiled egg and soldiers. He looked sleepy, but rosy – cold never seemed to bother him.

  ‘Aren’t you having anything?’ Slider demanded.

  ‘I’ll have mine later, when I’ve got you two sorted out,’ she said. He wanted to argue, but remembered The Look last night and held his tongue. Going off to work was almost a relief. At least the extreme emotions bound up in a murder weren’t his emotions.

  ‘I’ve had Mr Wetherspoon on this morning,’ said Porson, surging restlessly back and forth between his desk and the window like a trapped tide. Wetherspoon was their boss, the Borough Commander. ‘Celebrity murders. I hate ’em!’ he complained. ‘What’s the partner like? Another Publicity Percy? Used to having everyone fawnicating over him?’

  ‘I don’t think so, sir. He’s not a celebrity himself – seems quiet and retiring enough.’

  ‘Thank God for small murphies. Bad enough with everyone else on our backs without him chasing us for answers day and night. What lines are you following?’

  ‘I’ve got Swilley on the money. We’ve printed out the computer list, and McLaren and Mackay are going to check it against the stuff in the house, make sure nothing else is missing.’

  ‘You’ve put out an enquiry about the painting and the box?’

  ‘We’re doing that, sir. All the usual dealers and galleries, plus my own sources. We’re going to look into the antiques business and the shop, see what the financial state was, whether there was anything dodgy going on. And I’m going to talk to the television people, find out about the show and who else was on it and what his relations were with them.’

  ‘I suppose that about covers it for now,’ Porson said grudgingly. ‘Nothing from the canvass?’

  ‘Not yet, sir. But it’s early days.’

  ‘Early days it may be,’ Porson barked, ‘but that’s all you get on a celebrity case. Procrastination is the thief of crime.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Slider said, the meek ass between two burdens.

  Porson softened. ‘There’s a lot to do. You can have all the uniform you want to help you out.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Slider said. Uniform was all right for the door-to-door stuff, but it didn’t replace trained troops. Still, Porson knew that as well as he did, so there was no point in saying it and risking another mangled aphorism. Fair words never buttered fat parsnip.

  The production company, First Forward Television, had its office in Soho Square, and Gavin Ehlie was there and only too eager to be interviewed. He was a good-looking man with an enviable head of hair, sculpted by the same firm that designed the Sydney Opera House, a seamless tan and rather disconcerting frameless glasses. He wore a white shirt open at the neck, a black waistcoat, skintight black leather trousers and state-of the-art trainers. Slider guessed his age at mid-forties, about a decade up on his clothes, hairstyle and manner. Probably, in television, he thought, you had to stay young or be overtaken on the inside.

  The office was large and dazzlingly modern. The walls and carpet were black, but the wall between it and the outer office was made of glass bricks, and there was a vast window, so it still managed to seem light and bright. There was a desk big enough to sleep on, a cream suede sofa and two chairs grouped around a coffee table that seemed to be a single enormous slab of glass, and an entire wall covered with television screens and electronic equipment. There were framed pictures of celebrities everywhere, and a huge open bookcase all made of glass, given over to the display of awards. It was positioned so that when Slider sat on the sofa, to which he was directed, he found himself staring straight at them. He wondered briefly whether it was accidental.
r />   ‘Can I get you something to drink?’ Ehlie asked. ‘Coffee? Tea? Mineral water?’

  Slider didn’t want anything, but he calculated Ehlie would talk better with the props of a social beverage, so he said, ‘Coffee, thank you.’

  Ehlie put his head out of the door to order coffee, came back and perched on one of the chairs opposite Slider, well forward, his hands clasped between his knees. All his movements were swift and energetic, his expression eager and enquiring. He looked as though his brain was so seething with ideas that he could hardly sit still. Television is a fickle mistress, Slider thought. The idea of having to keep up this level of youthfulness into your forties made him feel tired.

  ‘This is so terrible,’ Ehlie said. ‘Poor Rowland! I can’t believe it. And so soon after we lost Bunny – I’m starting to wonder if there’s a jinx on us.’

  ‘Bunny?’ Slider queried.

  ‘Julia Rabbet – everyone called her Bunny, of course,’ he said, and then looked puzzled that Slider was not immediately enlightened. ‘Don’t you watch Antiques Galore?’ Unlike Atherton, he said it without the exclamation mark.

  ‘I don’t get to see much television,’ Slider said, though on reflection that was not the most tactful thing to say to a man in Ehlie’s position.

  ‘She was one of our resident experts. Jewellery and miscellaneous. Wonderful woman – very knowledgeable and a real trooper. Everyone adored her. She died about a month ago.’

  ‘Oh?’ Slider raised an eyebrow.

  Ehlie caught on. ‘Natural causes. She had a brain haemorrhage, poor darling. Lay in a coma for eight days and then …’ He shrugged rather than say it. ‘An awful loss to the show. And now Rowland too! And we’re right in the middle of recording the next season. Fortunately, a couple of our old stalwarts have agreed to come back for the rest of the run, bless them, but it’s devastating all the same.’

  ‘You’ve already replaced Mr Egerton?’

  Ehlie looked offended. ‘I had to get straight on it. I have to have someone by Tuesday afternoon at the latest. These things run to a format and we couldn’t possibly manage with a man short.’

  The door opened and a smart, mini-skirted young woman came in with a tray. She placed mugs of coffee along with milk and sugar and a plate of biscuits on the table and retreated again. ‘Thank you, Tara!’ Ehlie called after her belatedly. ‘Please, help yourself.’ He took one of the mugs and sipped. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’m sure you’re a busy man too. What did you want to know?’

  ‘You had a meeting with Mr Egerton on Monday, I believe.’

  ‘Oh. Yes,’ Ehlie said with the hint of a sigh. ‘I took him to lunch. They all need their egos rubbed from time to time, bless them, and I’m afraid Rowland was one of the needier ones.’

  ‘So this was a regular event?’

  ‘Not exactly regular. Lunch a couple of times a year, coffee meetings in between. When I signed him up for another series, or if he had something particular on his mind.’

  ‘What did he have on his mind on Monday?’

  ‘He wasn’t keen on Bunny’s replacement. That’s old Arnold Needham. He said that for jewellery I ought to have got another female. He thought Arnold was too old and not glamorous enough. He had a point, in a way, but …’

  ‘You didn’t like being told how to do your job,’ Slider suggested.

  ‘Believe me, you get used to it,’ said Ehlie sourly, letting the youthfulness drop for a moment. ‘That’s the problem with dealing with people who know all about their own subject. They think they know all about everyone else’s too. And they’re such prima donnas – give them a spot of exposure on television and suddenly it goes to their heads. Well, most of them, anyway – not dear old Arnold, which is why he’s going to be such a relief to work with.’

  ‘Was Rowland Egerton a prima donna?’

  ‘He’s trouble. But he’s so popular with the viewers and the punters, he’s worth the trouble – he was, I mean. Although I don’t know how long that would have gone on being true. One loses patience in the end.’

  ‘In what way was he trouble?’

  ‘Being demanding, you know. Everything had to be done just so, and done his way. Had to have the best pitch, the most camera time; had the production assistants running around doing errands. As far as he was concerned, he was the star of the show, and no-one else mattered.’

  ‘I expect that got on people’s nerves. The other experts …’

  ‘Oh, well, they got used to him grabbing the limelight – they’d do the same themselves. And he was very charming, you know – always managed to smooth down the feathers after he’d ruffled them.’

  ‘Ruffled them how?’

  ‘Like I said, grabbing the limelight. Specifically? Well, snagging things on the trawl before anyone else could get them.’

  ‘What’s the trawl?’

  ‘On recording day,’ Ehlie explained, ‘the punters start lining up early with their bits and bobs, and the experts trawl them to see what they’ve got and pick out the stuff that’s especially interesting. Sometimes a real treasure comes up, something rare or quirky or valuable. All the experts want something like that to show in the recording.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘They all do it, but there are unwritten rules about it. If you come up with something that’s definitely someone else’s speciality, you’re supposed to let them have it. I mean, if you’re ceramics and there’s an exciting oil painting, you’re supposed to let the oils man have first dibs. Obviously, there are things that don’t fall into any particular category, and they can all do “miscellaneous” items, but it causes bad feeling when it’s a case of blatant poaching.’

  ‘And Rowland was a poacher, was he?’

  ‘Well,’ said Ehlie reluctantly, ‘I don’t want to speak ill of the dead. Let’s just say there have been times when he’s been less than scrupulous, and there’s been a bit of ill-feeling. But, as I say, he’s very good at smoothing people down.’ He hesitated, and Slider read more information that he was unsure about sharing.

  ‘Was there an incident recently?’ he asked.

  Ehlie met his eyes and sighed again. ‘That was the other thing he wanted to talk to me about on Monday. There was a row between him and Rupert Melling at the previous recording – the one two weeks ago. Rupert is miscellaneous, but he has a particular passion for snuffboxes, and everyone knows it. Well, someone showed up with a very rare old snuffbox, and Rowland nabbed it. Rupert made a big fuss and demanded he let him have it, but Rowland refused. He said the panels were painted by some famous miniaturist, and paintings are his speciality. Rupert was particularly pissed off because he’d sent a nice oil Rowland’s way in the previous show.’

  ‘How serious was it, this quarrel?’

  ‘It was nasty at the time,’ Ehlie said. ‘I had to go over and shut them up, because they were making such a row, some of the punters were starting to notice. I mean, you can’t have the experts throwing insults at each other. Word would soon get around. We like to project a nice, friendly atmosphere, everybody getting on together and respecting each other. It’s a family show, you know.’

  ‘What sort of insults?’

  ‘He called Rowland a thief and a fraud, among other things. He accused him of sending John round behind everyone’s backs to get the juiciest items for him. Then said a few unpleasant things about their relationship, too, at which point Rowland really lost it. He couldn’t bear anyone suggesting he and John were that way involved.’

  ‘And were they?’

  Ehlie looked at him. ‘He’s always said they were just friends and business partners, and I’ve no reason to think otherwise. I mean, nobody cares these days, anyway, nobody would have thought anything if they were. But I suppose Rowland comes from a different generation. Anyway, it was always something that got him riled – and Rupert knew that, which was why he said it, to get under his skin. Rupert’s openly gay, and thinks everyone else should be as well. Out and proud – you know the sort of thing.’
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  ‘So this bad blood between Rupert and Rowland – how long has that been going on?’

  Ehlie drew back a little, belatedly cautious. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t put it as strongly as that. They had a bit of a row, but it was soon forgotten. Everyone gets a bit worked up ahead of the recording – they’re like actors, you see. Stage nerves. But it doesn’t mean anything. We go out for a meal afterwards to wind down, and everyone’s friends again.’

  ‘How were things at the recording this week?’ Slider asked. ‘Any tensions?’

  ‘No, not really, not that I noticed,’ Ehlie said.

  Slider read his face. ‘No tensions between Rowland and Rupert Melling?’

  ‘Oh – well – there was a bit of teasing, I suppose, but it didn’t mean anything. Just friendly joshing, you know the sort of thing.’

  ‘About?’

  Ehlie squirmed, not wanting to say. But in the face of Slider’s steady silence he had to give. ‘Well, Rowland and John got invited to dinner by the owners of Wykeham Hall, and Rupert made a bit of a joke about it. He suggested they were trying to rook a poor old couple out of their treasures. Of course, he didn’t mean it,’ he added hastily. ‘It was just a joke. As a matter of fact, John got more upset than Rowland.’

  ‘What do you think of John?’

  Ehlie shrugged. ‘Not much to think. He’s Rowland’s right hand. Protects him like a bodyguard.’

  ‘Protects him from whom?’

  ‘Oh, everyone. If he thinks Rowland’s not getting his rightful dues, or someone criticizes him, or the fans don’t treat him with enough respect … Loyal, dogged, and a bit dull. He never says much in company, so I can’t say I know him very well. He’s just – an extension of Rowland, that’s all. One hardly notices him as an individual.’

  Walking away afterwards, Slider wondered whether John Lavender knew that was how he was regarded – a pseudopodium of the star. Outclassed and outshone. Some people were simply proud to be useful to the person they admired; others might harbour a slow-growing tumour of grudge. He supposed it would depend on how the star treated the tentacle.