Elaine Bedell - About That Night

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.’)