Star Fall

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

‘You accused Mr Egerton of being interested in Tarquin Pelly himself,’ Atherton took it up. ‘That was the young man’s name. The shoulder-cam operator. Apparently, quite a looker. And there must be lots of opportunities for flirting when a handsome young man is following you around doing close-ups of your face.’

  Melling was pale, but there were spots of anger in his cheeks. His mouth opened and shut a couple of times, and then the outrage burst from him. ‘It was none of his damned business! What the hell did he mean by telling me what to do? Who made him Lord High Morality? It would make a cat laugh to hear him dictating to the rest of us – him of all people!’

  ‘Oh, quite,’ Slider said. ‘I can see it would be intolerable. Especially in view of what came next. He threatened to tell your live-in partner about it. Mr Melling, was Rowland Egerton blackmailing you?’

  Melling groaned. ‘Yes,’ he said, closing his eyes and his fists in pain. ‘He was! I couldn’t believe it. It was excruciating!’

  ‘How much money did you give him?’ Slider asked.

  The eyes flew open. ‘Money? Oh, he wasn’t interested in money. It was power he wanted,’ Melling said with bitterness. ‘To have me squirm under his foot, knowing he could crush me or not, any time the fancy took him. Alex is wildly jealous – the Russian temperament, you know. He can’t bear me to look at another man. Any hint that I was seeing someone else and he’d go mad. Rowland knew that, the bastard. And he loved it. He had to have power over everybody. That was his thing.’

  Slider spoke kindly now. ‘Blackmail is a hideous crime. And people who are being blackmailed often feel the only way out from under is to get rid of the blackmailer.’

  ‘Wait, wait! What are you saying? You don’t think I killed him? You’ve arrested John Lavender! I had nothing to do with it!’

  ‘You lied to us about your alibi,’ Atherton said. ‘In fact, now, you don’t have an alibi at all. Alone at home all day – that’s a classic. And blackmail is the best motive in the world. Things are not looking so good, wouldn’t you agree?’

  ‘I—’ He stopped, biting his lip. Then seemed to decide. ‘I was at home all day on Thursday. But I wasn’t alone.’

  ‘Is this another story?’ Slider asked sternly. ‘Because you know now that we will check.’

  ‘No, it’s true this time! I swear it. I didn’t want to tell you before because – well, it was Tarquin. Tarquin Pelly. I’ve been seeing him. But Alex mustn’t find out. Oh, swear you won’t tell him! He’ll just go crazy if he gets so much as a hint—’

  ‘What time did Mr Pelly arrive?’ Atherton interrupted.

  ‘I don’t know. It was about eleven, eleven thirty, I should think. He was there until about five-ish. Then he went home because it had to look as if he’d been at work. He’s living with someone as well, you see. He’d got the day off, but he told his partner he was working and – well, you get the picture. Then after he’d gone I got ready to go out and went to meet Alex from rehearsal, and we went for a meal with some friends at the Café des Amis. That bit was true.’

  ‘We know,’ said Atherton. ‘We checked.’

  ‘You checked?’ Melling said blankly.

  Atherton nodded. ‘With the restaurant.’

  Melling looked from one to the other with a sort of pathetic appeal. ‘But that’s me off the hook, then, isn’t it?’ he cried. ‘I mean, now you know where I was, and I’ve got witnesses. You can’t think now that I had anything to do with Rowland’s death?’

  ‘There’s still the matter of your lying to me before,’ Slider said. ‘That is a serious offence. Obstructing a police officer in the performance of his duty. That can attract a custodial sentence.’ Melling looked sick. ‘I shall have to ask you to come with me to the police station and make a full statement.’

  ‘I’m – supposed to be working,’ Melling said faintly. ‘Can’t I come later?’

  ‘We can’t risk having you contact Mr Pelly and agree a story with him,’ Atherton said. ‘I’m sure you understand that.’

  ‘But I’m telling the truth!’ Melling cried.

  ‘Perhaps you are now,’ Atherton said unkindly.

  ‘Another dead end,’ Slider said as they trod up the stairs to the office again, having left Melling to be processed.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Atherton, ever cheerful. ‘There’s still the sinister Russian, Boris the Slasher. The smouldering Cossack in the background. Suppose Melling told him Egerton was being beastly to him, and Boris decided to take revenge? That single stab to the throat is very John Le Carré, don’t you think?’

  ‘I think you need to take a pull on the reins. Boris has the best alibi of all. Those dancers are accounted for every minute of the day.’

  ‘If he was actually there.’

  ‘Well, we’ll check that, obviously. That’s the easy part.’

  Atherton grunted agreement. They pushed through the swing doors at the top of the stairs, and he said, ‘I think poor old Melling’s in trouble, even without any charges from us. There’s no way on earth he’s going to be able to keep Boris from finding out about little Tarquin. He’s going to ask why Melling’s here and why we’re sniffing around the ballet company, and it’s all going to come out.’

  ‘Not our problem,’ Slider said.

  ‘It will be if he cleaves Melling’s head with his sabre in a jealous rage.’

  ‘Cossacks use shashkas, not sabres,’ Slider objected.

  ‘The things you know,’ said Atherton.

  ‘I used to read The Hotspur when I was a lad.’

  ‘Ah, the golden age, when boys’ comics were designed to inform, educate and entertain!’

  ‘You could learn a lot from them,’ said Slider. ‘All human experience encapsulated in the three-colour process.’

  ‘You could say the same of bathroom walls,’ said Atherton.

  Lavender had departed under bail, red-eyed and hoarse with his oncoming cold, in the rather tight-lipped care of the Hedley-Somertons. Atherton, being the most au fait with ballet, was out checking Alex Anton’s alibi, while Gascoyne had gone to interview Tarquin Pelly, who was fortunately working out at Elstree, so he could be questioned away from his entanglement.

  Slider had his head down, reading back through everything they had so far in the hope that something would spark an idea, or at least suggest a direction for him to look next. McLaren came in, looking weary. ‘Any luck?’ Slider asked.

  ‘Not yet, guv,’ he said. ‘I’ve checked every station on the Central Line, both directions, but I’ve not got him coming out of any of them – not unless he’s took the hat off.’

  ‘That’s always a possibility,’ Slider acknowledged. ‘But it was a very cold day, and if he wore it for warmth, or out of habit, he likely wouldn’t.’

  McLaren almost sighed. ‘I’ll have to start checking the platforms at the interchange stations,’ he said. ‘That’s a lot of work. I could really do with some help.’ He rubbed his eyes, which were distinctly red.

  ‘I’ll see if I can get you a couple of uniforms tomorrow,’ Slider promised. ‘You’ve had a long day on the computer. Why don’t you go home, before you get a hunch.’

  ‘Could do with one of them, couldn’t we?’ McLaren said jovially.

  Slider was impressed. Maurice had never been known to make jokes before. His New Improved Love Life, v2.1, was obviously changing him. Come to that, he noted, McLaren wasn’t actually eating anything at that moment. That, too, was almost a first.

  ‘Go on, get off, relax and refresh yourself.’

  ‘Thanks, guv. Don’t mind if I do. Natalie’s Amdram club’s doing auditions tonight, an’ I’d like to go along.’

  ‘You thinking of going up for a part?’ Slider said – a num question if ever there was one.

  But McLaren looked as though he would have been blushing if he had not lost the ability long ago, and said, ‘Well – I was thinking of it. Maybe. Just for a bit o’ fun.’

  ‘Good Lord,’ said Slider. And then, ‘Well, good for you.
Anything that takes the mind off.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said McLaren, and departed.

  Soon afterwards, Connolly appeared. ‘Fancy a cuppa, boss?’

  ‘No – thanks. I’m all right.’ He looked up as she hesitated in the doorway. ‘I’ve just sent McLaren home. Why don’t you get off as well?’

  ‘I’d as soon be here as back at the flat.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Flatmates! There’s the one for ever getting the ride offa one feller or another, doing the nasty on every surface in the house. And the other’s just been dumped again, streeling round the kip racked with grief. Between the two of them they have me driven mad.’

  Slider suppressed a smile. ‘The best defence is attack. You should get in there with a bloke of your own and drive them mad right back.’

  ‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ she said with dignity.

  Atherton phoned. ‘I’ve checked Alex Anton’s alibi, and he was definitely there the whole time. He was in class in the morning – general class, and then one-on-one with a coach. There was a half-hour break for lunch at one, which he spent in the canteen with half a dozen others, and then it was rehearsals all afternoon, when he was in clear sight of other dancers at all times – not that that part interests us. So there’s no chance at all he could have slipped away and whacked Egerton with his shishkebab.’

  ‘Shashka,’ said Slider.

  ‘Just giving you the opportunity to display superior knowledge, as a good subordinate should. I’m going to get off home, now, unless you need me to come back for anything.’

  ‘No, that’s all right.’

  ‘Good. I have a hot date tonight, and I want to take a long shower. After mingling with the corps du ballet for several hours, I’m convinced I smell of feet, sweat and rubbing liniment.’

  ‘By the way –’ Slider caught him as he was about to ring off – ‘did you have any words with the subject himself?’

  ‘Couldn’t really avoid it,’ said Atherton. ‘It’s a hothouse there; you can’t ask about somebody without the word getting back to them. He came over during a pause to ask me why. All hot eyes and pointy cheekbones. They have strong arms, those ballet boys,’ he added, ‘from hoisting girls in the air. Most men couldn’t lift a kitchen chair over their heads and hold it there.’

  ‘I take it you wriggled out of trouble?’

  ‘He didn’t swing for me, if that’s what you mean. I told him it was purely routine to check everyone who knew Egerton, and their nearest and dearest. Don’t know if he believed me, though. Is Melling still there?’

  ‘Just waiting for Gascoyne to check in with Tarquin Pelly’s version, then we’ll throw him back in.’

  ‘Lucky Alex is dancing tonight,’ Atherton observed. ‘At least it’ll give Melling a hundred yards’ start.’

  The Department had never seen such glamour. From the moment the shop downstairs rang to announce in hushed tones of reverent excitement that Felicity Marsh was there, the CID room was like a kicked ant’s nest. And now that she was there in his room, even Slider felt a rather shameful frisson. What was it about celebrities? Just because someone had appeared on a television screen, they were suddenly different from ordinary mortals, their most casual word treasured, their ideas and preferences of palpitating interest. What did you have for breakfast, Miss Marsh? At least half the population, maybe more, would pause to listen to the answer. Why was that more interesting than what Slider had for breakfast? But it was. It was one of the mysteries of life.

  There was no doubt that she was glamorous. The pheromones she exuded could have melted breeze-blocks. There she stood, taller than him in her six-inch nude platform heels, wearing one of her trademark tailored suits, this one in cinnamon, over a slightly darker silk round-necked top. She was so thin, she appeared not to have any breasts at all: she could have turned sideways and disappeared. Her dark hair, cut in a twenties-style bob, was sleek as a rook’s wing. Her make-up was perfect, as if it had been sprayed on. Well, perhaps it had, Slider thought – he fancied he had read somewhere that studio make-up artists use spray cans nowadays.

  He greeted her, invited her to sit down, offered her a beverage, and took his place on his own side of the desk.

  ‘We weren’t expecting you back in England until tomorrow,’ he said.

  ‘That was the schedule,’ she said, ‘but we finished early.’

  Her faintly husky voice – which sounded as if she was talking about sex even while reading out something like ‘the GDP figures, out today, show a slight decline in the last quarter’ – was startlingly familiar, giving Slider the spurious feeling that he knew her.

  ‘We had a couple of meetings this morning, then flew back,’ she went on. ‘Maggie – my agent – told me you wanted to talk to me, so I thought I’d better come straight in on my way from the airport.’ She folded her long, long legs.

  Slider, following the direction of her gaze, saw the entire staff jammed in the doorway to the CID room – it was like a view of a Central Line tube train at Oxford Circus in rush-hour. He got up and quietly but firmly closed the door.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  Passing her on his way back to his seat, he got a closer look at her face. Under the delicately tinted enamel she was older than her first appearance, and she looked tired.

  ‘Of course, I read about Rowland Egerton’s death,’ she said. ‘And you arrested John Lavender for it, didn’t you?’

  ‘Did that surprise you?’ Slider asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Did it?’ She considered. ‘I suppose it’s always surprising when it’s someone you know. You always think murder happens to other people, people very different from yourself. Yes, I was surprised about John,’ she concluded. ‘I always thought he was devoted to Rowland. But I suppose that kind of devotion can go either way, if the circumstances are right.’

  There was something very polished about the way she spoke, Slider thought, as though what she said had been thought out, written down and learned well beforehand. She had been a newsreader before branching out into other kinds of presentation. Perhaps the manner had stuck. Or perhaps, being a celebrity, she had to prepare answers to all sorts of questions she thought she might be asked. It aroused a strange dichotomy in Slider. The fact that it sounded rehearsed made him want to disbelieve what she said, while the fact that it was her voice saying it made him want to trust it.

  ‘I don’t know that there’s anything really I can help you with,’ she went on. ‘The last time I saw Rowland was at the recording of Antiques Galore! on Wednesday last.’

  ‘You went to Paris on Friday, I believe,’ Slider said.

  ‘Thursday night, actually. We took a late flight.’

  ‘And what were you doing before that, on Thursday?’

  She frowned, ever so slightly. ‘I met with Maggie in the morning, had lunch with her and a publicity agent, then in the afternoon it was script and pre-production meetings with various people from TV Raisonné – that’s the company that’s doing the Nazi Art show. Then off to the airport. Why are you asking me that?’

  ‘It’s purely routine. We have to ask everyone who was close to Mr Egerton or who had recently been with him.’

  ‘Well, I wasn’t either,’ she said, with a hint of annoyance. ‘As I told you, I hadn’t seen him since Wednesday. And we certainly weren’t close. The only time I had contact with him was during the recording of Antiques Galore!’

  Slider captured her gaze and held it steadily. ‘I’d like you to be very careful about answering the next question. What was the exact nature of your relationship with Rowland Egerton? Because it has been suggested that you and he had – shall we say – a special understanding.’

  He had thought she might redden with anger, but instead she became rather pale and still.

  ‘I don’t know what that means,’ she said at last, without moving her lips.

  ‘Let me be direct, then,’ Slider said. ‘Were you lovers?’

  Her face crumpled in distaste. ‘God, no!’ she said with feel
ing.

  ‘You were often seen talking together, apart, as if sharing secrets. He made a point of sitting next to you for meals or drinks. There was an air of connection between you, observed by someone on the team – eye contact and significant glances.’

  ‘And from that you conclude …’ She shook her head. ‘I can’t believe it.’

  Slider waited impassively.

  ‘Look,’ she said – the word of capitulation. ‘I suppose I’d better tell you what was really going on.’

  ‘That would be nice,’ said Slider.

  FOURTEEN

  Arts and Crafty

  ‘I hated him,’ said Felicity Marsh. ‘He was a hateful, hateful person.’ It was said with real feeling, but then she corrected herself, retreated behind the mask and the trained delivery, and said, ‘Oh, he could be very charming. Wonderful company. That was what the public saw – they adored him, you know. That was how he seemed when you first met him – that smile, the crinkling eyes, the impression he gave you that he was uniquely interested in you. He could make you feel terrific. That’s a real talent, you know. A genuine talent. If you’ve got that, you can go a long way in television – in show business in general. Half the job is getting the job. You can be the best actor in the world, or the best singer or musician or whatever, but if you can’t get past the audition, it counts for nothing. You have to make the producers or directors want you, and if you can do that, it doesn’t matter that scores of other people are better than you. They won’t even get heard.’

  All this, while interesting enough in itself, and probably true, Slider reflected – he had heard the same from Joanna about orchestras, and it applied to some extent in the Job as well – seemed to him designed to distract attention from the first unruly outbreak.

  ‘How long have you known him?’ he asked, hoping a direct question would winkle her out from behind the screen.

  ‘I met him for the first time when I took over presenting Antiques Galore! I knew of him before that. I’ve always been interested in art and antiques – Dad was quite a collector – so I’d seen him on the television. And when I joined the team he was very nice to me. Took the trouble to talk to me, showed me round, asked if I needed any help, that sort of thing. Gave me some tips about how things worked. I liked him. I thought he was kind and genuinely concerned.’