‘So you confronted him,’ Atherton said. At Masterson’s slight hesitation, he added, ‘Your altercation was caught on camera, in the background of the authorized photographs.’
‘Why on earth were you looking at those?’ he asked, affronted.
‘It’s our job, I’m afraid, sir. Tell me about the altercation.’
‘Oh, it wasn’t anything like that,’ Masterson said briskly. ‘I told him he wasn’t welcome, he apologized and went away. That was all.’ He gave a little laugh. ‘It was so insignificant, I’d forgotten all about it. As I said, I had other things on my mind.’
‘And was that the last time you saw him?’
‘I wish you wouldn’t keep saying “last time”, as if there were dozens of times. I tell you, I hardly knew the man.’
‘But you said shoving himself in where he wasn’t wanted was “typical of him”,’ Slider said.
‘By reputation. I heard stories about him – from Bunny. And others. Many people disliked him for being so pushy, you know.’ He looked again at his watch. ‘Look, I really must go. I have to read those papers before the debate.’
‘Just one last question, sir,’ Atherton said, catching the ball from Slider. ‘Would you mind telling us where you were on Thursday last. It’s purely a matter of routine – to eliminate anyone who knew the deceased and had seen him recently.’
Masterson seemed to like the word ‘eliminate’. ‘Thursday? That’s easy,’ he said. ‘Deregulation committee in the House from eleven until two, then I had lunch downstairs here and I worked alone in my office for the rest of the day. Went home at around six. Did emails and read letters, then watched a little television while I had supper. I have most of my meals on my knees, now. I don’t like eating alone,’ he added pathetically. ‘It helps to have the TV on. The house is so silent otherwise.’
They emerged on to Bridge Street and breathed in the cold air. Tourists were flocking everywhere, noisy and directionless, blocking the way and bumping into each other, like black-headed gulls on a rubbish tip. An intrepid – or possibly demented – man in a kilt was playing the bagpipes on Westminster Bridge. Simply the thought of it made the normal man’s assets shrivel. On the full, slow river a pair of barges moved monumentally downstream and a white pleasure-boat swung across the current to dock at Westminster Pier where the next passenger load was waiting. In the background the London Eye turned imperceptibly against the hard blue sky, and in the foreground vermilion double-deckers inched past the gothic tracery of the Houses of Parliament, like the establishing shot of all establishing shots. Being in this part of London always made Slider feel as if he was in a movie.
‘Well?’ Slider said.
‘Didn’t like him,’ said Atherton. ‘Shallow and showy. And it sounds as if he didn’t like Egerton.’
‘But he’s got the perfect alibi,’ said Slider as they headed off. ‘House of Commons committee until two.’
‘He was on his own for the rest of the day. No-one to corroborate that part of his alibi.’
‘Egerton was dead by then. He doesn’t need an alibi for the rest of the day.’
‘I’m wondering whether he knows he doesn’t.’
Slider glanced at him. ‘You’re getting way too clever,’ he said. ‘He’d only know he didn’t need an alibi for the rest of the day if he was the murderer. And if he was in committee until two he couldn’t have been the murderer.’
Atherton sighed. ‘Oh well, at least we can cross him off. But I still think he was evasive about the quarrel at the funeral. It looked like a lot more than him saying, “Would you mind leaving, old chap,” and Egerton saying, “Certainly, old fellow.”’
‘He’s a politician,’ said Slider. ‘They’re paid to be evasive.’
‘I’m starving. How about lunch before we head back?’
‘Round here? It’s all tourist traps,’ Slider objected.
‘There’s the Albert, in Victoria Street. That’s only five minutes away. Taylor Walker pub. And they do a decent fish, chips and mushy peas.’
‘You’ve sold me,’ said Slider. ‘But we mustn’t be long. Lot to do today.’
‘You sound like Philip Masterson,’ said Atherton.
Felicity Marsh, her agent told Swilley with a touch of importance, was in Paris, filming a documentary, and wouldn’t be back until Thursday.
But Sylvia Thornton was at home and happy to be interviewed. ‘Come to tea!’ she cried gaily. ‘One so loves company!’
She gave an address in a village in Hertfordshire, then gave copious directions on how to get there. ‘Write it down!’ she kept trilling. ‘Write it down, you’ll never find it otherwise! And don’t pay any attention to anything your satnav tells you. It’s all rot.’
Swilley looked at the address with grave misgivings. She hated the countryside with a deep and visceral loathing. She liked tarmac and concrete, streets and pavements, brick, steel, glass and lamp posts. Fields and cows filled her with horror. But the directions turned out to be immaculate and brought her via a web of narrow lanes to a gravel patch beside a small, square cottage, where she parked next to a dumpy red Renault Clio. Old lady car, she thought unkindly. The cottage was so sweetly pretty it made her teeth ache – and this was winter. In summer, covered in roses, she guessed it would make even Richard Curtis nauseous.
Sylvia Thornton had the door open to welcome her before she got anywhere near it. ‘Come in, come in! How nice to see you! The kettle’s just boiled, and I’ve got a lovely fire going. Horrible cold day, isn’t it? So you found it all right?’
Swilley, following her in as she chuntered, said, ‘Yes, your directions were very good.’
‘Thank you! Long experience of losing visitors down the cracks. Let me take your coat. Now sit there, make yourself comfortable, and I’ll get the tea. Unless you’d prefer coffee?’ she added doubtfully.
‘Tea is fine,’ Swilley said.
The room was small and chintzy and beamy and china-ornamenty, but the fire was cheerful. An enormous tabby cat was curled in one of the flanking armchairs. It opened one eye to inspect Swilley, as she sat on the floral chintz sofa, and closed it again dismissively. Thornton returned with a tray, which she put on the coffee table, and took the other armchair. Swilley was horribly afraid she was going to say, ‘Shall I be mother?’
In the flesh she looked older than last time Swilley had seen her on television. Her plump, softly creased face was like a gently expiring balloon, her carefully waved white hair appeared thin. But she wore full make-up, diamond-encircled pearls at her ears, diamond rings on her fingers, three strands of pearls around her neck, and the rest of her was covered in a pink velour jump suit and pink sequin slippers.
Catching Swilley looking, she put a ring-heavy hand up to pat her pearls and said, ‘When you get to my age, you have to have a bit of bling about you. Look at Barbara Cartland! If she hadn’t got herself up like a great big fluff of pink candyfloss, no-one would have noticed her at all. She’d have been just another little fat old lady. Like me.’ The hand reached for the teapot, diamonds sparking in the firelight. ‘Shall I be mother?’
Tea was poured and passed. ‘Have a piece of cake,’ said Thornton. ‘It’s lemon drizzle. Very good.’
‘Did you make it yourself?’ Swilley asked politely.
Thornton laughed. ‘Oh my dear! Look at these.’ She extended her hand, displaying the long, pink-painted nails. ‘Are these the hands of a cook? No, there’s a bakery in the village, run by such a lovely girl, Miranda, and her husband. They make everything on the premises. Gorgeous bread and cakes to die for! They’re famous – people come from miles around. Now, have you got everything?’
Swilley took the plate with the cake on it, settled herself, stretched her legs. ‘I wanted—’ she began.
But Thornton was off again. ‘You are a very lovely young woman. Not at all what one thinks of as a policewoman. Or are detectives called policewomen? And so tall, too. It must be lovely to be tall. Women of my generation never are �
� poor feeding, you know, during the war and after. It wasn’t until the sixties, really, that there was enough so that people grew to their full potential. All you young people are lovely and tall and healthy. It’s very comforting. But I expect you want to talk to me about poor Rowland. Do you watch the show?’
‘I’ve seen it, once or twice,’ Swilley said cautiously.
‘Of course, you young people have better things to do,’ Thornton said comfortably. ‘I was the same when I was your age. It’s only old people who watch television these days. Well, Rowland was a stalwart of the show. I expect he thought of himself as the lynch-pin, though I’m not sure everyone else would agree. But he was the rookie once, of course. Seven years ago, when he first joined, he knew nothing about cameras. But he was good looking, of course, and he had that intangible thing, star quality, so I knew he’d make it all right. He and I had a little fling, you know.’
‘No, I didn’t know,’ said Swilley.
‘Oh yes. That was before he joined Antiques Galore! We used to meet on the dealers’ circuit. And I was on Treasure Trove, AG’s predecessor – do you remember that? – and he used to come and watch me recording sometimes. I suppose that might be what gave him the idea of trying it himself. Not just lots of lovely exposure on the screen, but lots of lovely young women ready to be impressed. Celebrity is a tremendous aphrodisiac, you know. Where was I?’
‘You had a fling.’
‘Oh yes. Well, I don’t claim great distinction for it, because he was very rampant, you know. Went through every female he could lay his hands on. But I had my turn, and very nice it was, too,’ she added reminiscently. ‘I was still on the HRT at the time, so I was horny as a hoot-owl, and it must be said that Rowland was a top-notch performer. At the drop of a hat. Mr Ever-Ready. A bit like the energizer bunny – he’d always have a bit more just when you thought he’d finished. Am I making you uncomfortable, talking like this?’
‘Not at all,’ Swilley said, privately thinking it was revolting. ‘It’s very refreshing. And helpful.’
Thornton nodded. ‘So we had our fling, lots and lots of lovely sex, and no harm done. I miss it,’ she said with a sigh. ‘My doctor told me I had to come off the HRT because of health worries, and that was that. No more sex-drive. No more anything. Except weight-gain. I became what you see now,’ she said, spreading her hands, ‘and no man will ever look at me again. And I’m not on the show much any more. I’m a sort of reserve, on the bench in case of injuries. Well, little fat old ladies are not what television’s about, even though that’s mostly who watches it. Ironic, don’t you think?’
Swilley didn’t want to talk about that. ‘Was that why Mr Egerton dropped you?’
‘Don’t call him that. Call him Rowland, as we’re discussing his private life. And call me Sylvia, while you’re about it. All right?’
Swilley nodded, managing not to say, ‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘So, why did Rowland drop me? It wasn’t really like that. We weren’t romantically involved. He had other people, and so did I, and eventually we just drifted away from each other, with no hard feelings. Love wasn’t what I was after, and I don’t think Rowland had it in him to be attached to a woman in that way. Not back then. It was all about sex.’ She smiled. ‘Actually, the idea of Rowland being faithful …! He only had to see a woman to want to bonk her.’
‘You say he didn’t have it in him to be attached?’
‘Not then. He was very insecure, you know, and it was his way of proving to the world that he was worth something. The more women he scored, the better he was. Notches on the bedpost. I don’t say he didn’t enjoy it – that’s something you can’t fake – but it was a numbers game.’
‘Why was he insecure?’
‘My dear, I can’t tell you. He was smart, good-looking – there was no reason he should be. But he was. Some people just are, you know. And once he became famous, women just threw themselves at him, so he should have been content, but still he had to have them all. That sort of behaviour can become a habit.’
‘You said “back then”—’ Swilley began.
Sylvia caught on quickly. ‘Oh, he changed,’ she said. ‘I don’t know whether it was age catching up with him, or that someone said something to him – he was doing more and more for the Beeb, and they’re very wary of scandal. But recently he’s stopped the dolly-chasing, cleaned up his image. He comes across quite the patriarch now – richly benevolent towards the whole world. My view is – and it’s only my opinion, but remember I know the old fellow rather well – my view is that he’s fallen in love.’
She looked at Swilley for reaction, bright-eyed, like a robin eyeing a worm.
‘Fallen in love?’
‘Yes, at last. The old faker hooked! The fisherman turned fish! Caught, line and sinker. You see, I don’t think this new image is an act. I think he’s actually become a nicer person, and of course that’s one of the sure signs of real love, as opposed to mere sex.’
‘Fallen in love with who?’
‘Ah, that’s the question,’ Sylvia said, frowning in thought. ‘Whoever it is, he’s become terribly discreet, and that’s another reason I think what I think. Chivalry. He wants to protect her from the eyes of the world. He’d never have done that before. Quite the opposite – he welcomed the eyes of the world on his conquests. Craved them. Now – Mr Discretion! Despite watching him as closely as it’s possible, I can’t work out who it is.’
‘You could be mistaken,’ said Swilley.
Sylvia must have heard the impatience. ‘Of course I could. I said it was just my opinion. More tea?’
She had offended her. Swilley rowed back. ‘Do you think it was someone on the show?’
‘Well, of course, I’ve wondered about that,’ Sylvia said, somewhat mollified. ‘But who? For him to fall, really fall at last, it would have to be someone with something about her. Not just a daffy little production assistant or a fluffy gofer. And the only women of substance on the show – apart from me, and I can assure you it isn’t me – are Felicity Marsh, the presenter, and Bunny. You know, Julia Rabbet?’
‘I know,’ said Swilley.
‘Well, Bunny’s lovely, but they’ve known each other for yonks, and they’re really more like brother and sister. And she’s not the type to have an affair – very straight-down-the-middle, Bunny. From a very old family, Roedean, Oxford, country house parties, hunting, Ascot. Even if she wanted an affair, I can’t see her having it with Rowland. There’s something a bit shabby-genteel about him, a bit middle-class and trying-too-hard, if you know what I mean. She’d have to stoop a long way to get down to his level.’
‘He went to her funeral,’ Swilley said.
‘Did he? Well, they were friends,’ she said.
‘Was he upset when she died?’
‘We all were. She was a lovely lady. But him more than anyone else? Not that I noticed. There was no rending of hair. He seemed quiet and thoughtful the last time I saw him – but as I said, that’s been the way he was for the past two years or so. Since he fell in love.’
‘So, if not Bunny—?’
‘Well, that leaves Felicity – assuming for the moment that it was someone on the show, which it needn’t have been at all. But Felicity – yes, I could see him going for her. She’s smart, hard, ambitious, glamorous. A glittering prize. And very sexy, I have it on authority from chaps who’ve worked with her. But not an easy conquest. Yes, she’d be just the sort of woman he’d fall head over heels for. And of course, if it was her, secrecy of the first order would be necessary, because they’re both in the eye of the media. Especially, they’d have to be discreet on the show.’
‘Would she go for him?’
‘Well, he’s a bit older than her, but women like her often do fall for the slightly fatherly chap, the experienced lover who knows how to treat a woman properly. Men her own age can be infuriatingly self-centred. And he’s famous and getting famouser, and he’s got a very good in with the Beeb, and also now with independen
t television, with that Royal Palaces series he did, all of which would count with her. She’d want someone well-connected, because her career’s very important to her. And I have seen them quite a few times with their heads together, and sitting together at the breaks. You know how you can tell when there’s some connection between two people – the way they catch eyes across the room, significant looks. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if there was something going on with them.’ She looked at Swilley thoughtfully. ‘If it was her, she must be devastated now. Have you spoken to her?’
‘She’s out of the country,’ Swilley said.
‘Ah,’ said Sylvia, as if that was significant.
‘Doing a documentary,’ Swilley added.
‘The show must go on,’ Sylvia said, nodding. ‘Work helps in these circumstances. Have some more cake.’
‘No – thank you,’ Swilley said. All this was very nice and filled in a lot of gaps in Egerton’s life, but it didn’t get them any closer to the murderer. ‘I suppose,’ she tried, ‘his sexual antics made him unpopular on the show?’
‘Oh no,’ said Sylvia. ‘When it’s someone famous like him, it just adds to his appeal. They think he’s a hell of a fellow. No, it wasn’t that that people disliked. It was his pushiness – grabbing the limelight.’
‘Who, in particular, disliked that?’
Sylvia didn’t answer, thinking.
‘There was a row between him and Rupert Melling,’ Swilley tried.
‘Oh, that! I can tell you all about that. I was standing just a few feet away, heard the whole thing. They didn’t notice me, or they might have shut up.’
‘There was something about a snuffbox,’ Swilley suggested.
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