‘You could do with some pictures. Maybe a cartoon or two. You know, something to help innocent members of the public, like me, who have to come in and give statements feel more at home.’
‘I hope your home isn’t anything like this.’ The sergeant opened the door to an office with two desks crammed together underneath a barred window. An uncovered light bulb was hanging from a ceiling rose. Someone had put a cactus plant on one of the desks, which simply added to the general feeling of dismal discomfort.
‘Wow!’ said Elizabeth. ‘Did you get your inspiration for interior design from Guantánamo Bay?’
A pink flush crept upwards from the folds of the sergeant’s neck, but he stopped himself from smiling. He moved a pile of folders from a hard-backed chair, dropping some papers as he did so, and flustered, gestured for Elizabeth to sit on it. He offered her a coffee, pointing apologetically at a kettle on the window sill and a box of Nescafé sachets.
Elizabeth grimaced. ‘No chance of a skinny double shot latte, I suppose? Maybe a basket of muffins? Haven’t you got a runner?’
He looked at her, bemused. She shrugged off her raincoat. ‘I’m sorry. I think I’m making terrible jokes because I’m nervous.’
He nodded, but before he could speak the door opened again and banged into Elizabeth’s chair. It was Detective Inspector Watson. She smelled strongly of apples. Her blonde hair was loosely swept up into a knot and fastened with a surprisingly girly pink scrunchie. She was wearing black trousers and a shirt the colour of cornflowers. Her arms were toned and tanned. She wore no make-up and, fresh-faced, looked younger than she had last night. Elizabeth guessed they must be about the same age.
‘Hello, DI Karen Watson. Sorry, not much room.’ The detective inspector went to sit at the remaining desk, the one with the cactus. She flipped open a notebook, picked up a pen, inspected it, and then lobbed it across the room, where it tipped neatly into a waiting wastepaper basket. She picked up another pen, inspected it again and wrote something on the open page. Finally, she looked up.
‘Good shot,’ offered Elizabeth.
‘County netball team. Wing attack.’ DI Karen Watson leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk.
‘Still plays,’ added the sergeant proudly.
‘Tuesdays only,’ the DI said pointedly.
Elizabeth found herself saying, ‘What’s wrong with Saturdays? Or Sundays? I’ve heard weekends are good for sport.’
The DI looked at her sharply. ‘Well, you see, the women I play with mostly have husbands, some of them have kids, and so they can’t play netball at the weekend. Tuesday is their only opportunity to get out of the house.’
‘Gosh,’ said Elizabeth, genuinely struck. ‘And they spend their only evenings off playing netball? When they could be necking sauvignon blanc in the wine bar? That’s dedication.’
‘Ah, well you see, most of us don’t drink,’ the DI said, and the implication was clear.
Elizabeth shifted in her seat. She realised that the volunteering of some personal information by the detective must be a well-rehearsed ploy. She noticed DI Karen Watson’s body was taut, wired, finely tuned.
‘So, tell me, how long had you been working with Ricky Clough?’
‘On and off for seven years.’
‘Producing all his shows?’
‘Yes, this one and his Saturday night entertainment show…’
Elizabeth looked carefully at the DI to see how much of this television history she knew. Her face, however, was a perfect blank. But to her right, the sergeant said helpfully, ‘Saturday Bonkers.’
DI Watson looked nonplussed.
‘Yes,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Saturday Bonkers. Which was, well, a bonkers show! Partly a variety show but with other anarchic stuff going on in the studio, games and live OBs – um, outside broadcasts. And Ricky is – was – very good in it. You know, he’s probably best known for Shower? The secret camera pranks on celebrities. And the song and dance finales every week with Ricky and guest stars. We had the Shadow Home Secretary on once, that caused quite a storm… Anyway, it’s been running for years and last year it won Best Entertainment Show at the National TV Awards.’ Elizabeth looked at the policewoman, hopeful of a congratulatory nod, but DI Watson remained expressionless.
‘But, well, we’ve had some difficulties over the last few months. The show’s not been doing so well and Ricky was reluctant to try out new ideas. He couldn’t believe it was losing its audience, he blamed the viewers, not the programme. He’d become quite difficult – a bit, well, bonkers himself.’ Elizabeth smiled half-heartedly, but the DI’s face was serious.
‘Bonkers? How?’
‘Well, you know, he could be very unpredictable.’ Elizabeth twisted in her chair. How could she begin to describe, in this soulless office, to this ramrod straight policewoman, the sort of daily mayhem that had for the last few years passed for her professional working life? ‘Um, well, let’s see. He’d bring live animals into the office – I seem to remember there was a serious incident with some rats. And he’d wear clown’s trousers to production meetings and then let them drop. He liked holding meetings in his underpants. There was an occasion when he went to a meeting with the network’s chief, carrying a water rifle… He quite regularly used a water pistol during script meetings. And there were the late-night phone calls…’
The DI frowned and Elizabeth rushed on. ‘But you know, people loved working with him. It was exciting. He had a loyal team. I liked working with him. That’s why I agreed to produce this new chat show with him as well. I mean, you had to dismiss half his ideas, but at least he had some. And he could be very generous – he used to take the entire team out for lunch and pick up the bill. And he was very entertaining when he was on form… It was exhilarating to try and harness that sort of creative energy.’
‘Tell me about the recent difficulties.’
‘Well, I’d had to have words with him about his behaviour with the team.’
DI Watson nodded and Elizabeth got the feeling that despite the professionally blank expression, she knew more than she was letting on. ‘Yes, tell me about that. His bad behaviour.’
‘Oh, you know, he’d get stressed and angry and take it out on the researchers. He reduced a couple of them to tears. Nothing was good enough. He’d find fault with the guest bookings, the scripts, the props. In a way, it came from the right place – his ambition for the show – but it got to the stage where he was never going to be satisfied unless we booked Barack Obama and preferably got him to sing a duet on the show. He’d lost perspective somehow. He couldn’t understand why he was having to work with reality show contestants instead of the leader of the free world.’
‘Did he reduce you to tears?’ The DI looked at the pad on her desk and Elizabeth realised she’d made quite a few jottings.
‘Not in his presence,’ Elizabeth said truthfully. ‘But I must admit, I’ve had quite a few nights where I’ve been awake at 3 a.m., eating Marks & Spencer custard.’ She looked at the policewoman’s lean, netball-toned figure and doubted that Karen Watson had any nights when she succumbed to a tub of crème anglaise. But
