About That Night

Elizabeth turns on her heel to run down the spiral staircase that will take her back to the studio floor. ‘Stop recording!’ she cries over her shoulder to the gallery. ‘And for God’s sake, get the warm-up back on.’

By the time she’s groped her way around the heavy black drapes that enclose the set and the audience, the warm-up is on the studio floor and calmly announcing that the show has been suspended. People are reluctantly gathering their things. On set, Ricky has slithered to the floor beside the desk. The floor manager is trying ineffectually to shield him with her own body from the openly gaping stares of the front rows. Paolo Culone is being ushered politely off the set by Zander, the researcher, whose face creases with alarm as he passes Elizabeth running in.

‘Ricky?’ Elizabeth bends low over her presenter’s head and gently touches his shoulder. ‘Ricky – can you hear me?’ Her touch seems to topple him, he rolls on to his back and she can’t help herself, she shrinks back in horror. The whites of his eyes have yellowed and a sudden spasm forces his head back, but his hand seems to find her wrist and his grip is like a vice.

‘Phone 999. Where’s the St John Ambulance attendant?’ Elizabeth shouts. She tries to find Ricky’s pulse. The flesh around his wristwatch is pudgy and his shirtsleeve is stuck to his skin with sweat. She sees Lola running into the studio and tries to restrain her but Lola sinks to her knees beside Ricky. She bends low to stroke his soaking forehead and whispers in his ear, ‘It’s okay, babe. Someone’s coming. Hold on. It’s going to be alright. It’s going to be okay.’

Elizabeth straightens up and says, ‘Get the audience out the back way. Now! Quickly! Keep the scene dock clear for the ambulance.’

She notices the cameramen are still standing by their cameras, watching curiously. They’ve seen people die in television studios before – they worked on Celebrity Wrestling – but this is definitely more sensational. Phil on camera 5, when he catches her eye, holds out his hands, palms upwards, as if to say, Who’d have thought…? She turns back in despair to Ricky and sees that Lola is kneeling and rocking beside him, almost in prayer. He is lying on his back, his arms and legs splayed, as if completely spent.

Then there are uniforms, men in hi-vis jackets saying, ‘Clear a space please, coming through’, and a stretcher. Ricky is laid out flat on the floor, behind the desk hidden from view, but he’s stiff and unresponsive, an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth. A machine is placed on his chest.

Elizabeth steps aside and takes a deep breath. She wants to be calm and capable, but she can barely think straight and her heart is pounding. She steels herself and pulls out her mobile to phone her boss: the Controller, All Channels.

‘Elizabeth? Um. Hi. Everything okay?’ Matthew sounds sleepy, slurred, like he’s just surfacing.

‘Ricky’s collapsed in the studio. The ambulance is here. They’re working on him now.’ Her voice is unnaturally high, but steady.

‘Jesus Christ! Working on him? What, like resuscitation?’ Matthew is suddenly alert. He hasn’t got where he’s got to without recognising a crisis when he’s just been told that there is one.

‘Yes. He just keeled over at the desk.’

‘Was he drunk?’

‘No. Well. Definitely no more than usual.’ The paramedics are standing up. Ricky is lying inert on the floor. She whispers into the phone, ‘Um, I think he’s – dead.’

‘Dead? Oh God! Poor Ricky. The poor old bugger. You know, I feared it might come to this… Christ – what did the audience see? We need to manage this. Call the press office. I’ll be with you in half an hour.’

‘Um, we should ring Lorna. His wife? Do you want to ring her…?’ There’s no response on the end of the phone. ‘Or shall I?’

Matthew hesitates. ‘Can you do it, Elizabeth? As you were there, you know. In case she wants any details. You’ve worked with Ricky for so long, she knows you two were close. And you were there, at the house the other week, at Ricky’s party. I think it might be better coming from – you know – a woman.’ He pauses and Elizabeth can’t help thinking that Matthew was at that party too – he was the one who gave Ricky his big break in the first place – he’s known them for years. But she says nothing and so Matthew adds with some relief, ‘Right, I’m leaving now. Elizabeth?’

‘Yes?’

‘You okay?’

Elizabeth presses her cheek against her phone. ‘Yes,’ she says finally, ‘I’m alright.’

The ambulance crew lifts the body on to the stretcher. ‘We’ll take him to St Thomas’s, love,’ one of them says to Elizabeth. ‘It’s Ricky Clough, right?’

‘Yes. Thank you. Does someone need to travel with him?’

‘No, not necessary.’ The ambulance man looks at Elizabeth carefully to see if she has understood and she nods. ‘I’ll phone his wife and tell her that’s where he is.’

Once the ambulance has gone, the cameramen pack up their equipment in respectful silence. The last few members of the audience are filing out of the side doors, whispering in hushed voices. They’re unsure what they’ve just witnessed, but it was definitely more eventful than the last Ricky Clough show they saw. Lola is sitting in the front row, crying into some paper napkins from the canteen. The rest of the crew have also gathered on the studio floor and are standing about looking stunned. The researcher, Zander, tells Elizabeth that Paolo Culone is now in the Green Room, happily drunk on the show’s warm white wine and has the X Factor finalist sitting on his lap.

‘He thinks it’s all a planned joke.’ Zander’s solemn grey eyes turn towards her, searching for guidance. He’s in his late twenties, tall and very lean, with broad bony shoulders; good-looking in that well-bred way with soft curly hair – neatly and expensively cut – and a warm, charming smile. His impeccable Etonian manners make him an excellent booker of celebrity guests: he’s unfailingly polite but incredibly thick-skinned, and simply never takes no for an answer, without ever seeming to offend.

‘Tell them all to go home,’ Elizabeth instructs him. ‘And tell them Ricky’s gone to hospital. Don’t tell them anything else.’

She moves to a dark quiet space at the back of the set and spools through her contacts to find Ricky’s home number. She peers round the drapes that separate her from the set and sees that Lola is still sitting in the audience, her head in her hands, her shoulders shaking. Elizabeth has met Ricky’s wife Lorna a number of times over the last six years, although she no longer comes to any of his shows. Elizabeth presumes Ricky put an end to her visits once he grew close to Lola. She was a former dancer and they met on the set of a music show, back in the days when he was the UK’s most popular breakfast DJ. They’ve been married for eighteen years and Elizabeth reckons Ricky managed to stay faithful for at least four of them. Lorna Clough picks up immediately and Elizabeth gives her the news slowly and carefully: Ricky collapsed, he seemed to have trouble breathing, there was nothing anyone could do… Her voice cracks and breaks in the end. Lorna, however, is composed. She takes a short, sharp intake of breath, but then says quietly that she will go straight to the hospital. Once Elizabeth has established Lorna can get a friend to drive her there, she tells her that someone from the television network will meet her when she arrives.

Elizabeth takes a moment to compose herself before hurrying to find her team in the Green Room – a saloon furnished with plump sofas and a bar that groans with wine bottles and buckets of beer. The Green Room is a sort of celebrity farmyard pen, there to hold the guests before a show and keep them well watered. She joins the rest of her production team, most of whom are red-eyed and speechless, and she hugs each of them in turn. She spots two of Ricky’s old schoolfriends in the corner, including his sometime manager and mentor, Deniz Pegasus. Deniz left school in East Ham and became a brickie during the day and a roadie for his DJ mate Ricky in the evenings, but he soon found a gap in the building market by supplying low-cost ‘affordable’ housing estates for council tenants. It proved to be more than very affordable for him, and he quickly made a fortune from careless councillors whose political ambitions he fed and watered in various clubs around town and who afterwards couldn’t be bothered to check his books. Recently, Deniz has started coming to all of Ricky’s shows and afterwards offering Elizabeth his opinion, which she finds annoying.

Deniz is holding two Pomeranians in his meaty arms, staring at her. She beckons to Zander. ‘What are we going to do about Hiss and Boo?’

Zander turns and looks puzzled at the two leather-jacketed men.

‘Ricky’s dogs,’ Elizabeth says patiently. ‘The ones with the four legs.’

‘Oh!’ Zander says in relief. ‘Shall I ask them if they can take the dogs home with them?’

Elizabeth nods. Deniz Pegasus steps forward as if to speak to her, but she firmly turns her back on him to face the network’s Head of Press, Kevin, who is talking into his mobile with his hand over his mouth. He tells her the police have arrived and want to talk to her. They’ve been put in Ricky’s dressing room. Elizabeth wonders whether Kevin has been brazen enough to do a quick clean-up before the police went in – she wouldn’t put it past their wily head of press. Then Matthew, the Controller, bursts into the Green Room, ready to do some controlling. Elizabeth, truly glad to see him, moves quickly towards him and is pleased to see his arms opening to receive her. He hugs her and for a brief moment, Elizabeth longs to rest her head on his chest and weep but instead, she straightens and stiffens.

‘Elizabeth! The police are here! They want to see the most senior person here. That’s obviously me. But I think you should come too, you know, to fill in some of the detail.’

‘Yes, Kevin just told me, I was about to go and see them.’ She’s aware that she’s sounding overbrisk, even though she’s on the verge of shaking uncontrollably.

‘Okay. Let’s go.’ Matthew’s voice is now also curt in response to hers and he turns away.

‘Do you think you should maybe say something to the team? They’re all quite upset.’ Elizabeth gestures to the researchers, who are now mostly sitting silently on the floor, staring at them. Robin is posing palely against the wall, an embroidered handkerchief in his hand. Lola is curled up on the sofa, clutching a glass. Matthew immediately squares his shoulders and begins:

‘People, listen up! I realise tonight has been traumatic for everyone involved in the show. Ricky was a great guy. I’ve known him for years.’ He pauses for effect, which fortunately gives him just enough time to remember that this speech isn’t really about him. ‘Many of you will know how much Ricky cared about the show and how hard he worked.’ A few of the researchers shuffle their feet and Matthew decides to err on the side of honesty. ‘And of course, he had his demons – but we loved him for it, right?’ A few miserable heads nod. ‘Needless to say, we have to keep this absolutely confidential at the moment while Kev sorts it.’ Elizabeth looks across at Kevin, Head of Press, who is feverishly texting, and wonders if sorting it means that he can somehow miraculously bring Ricky Clough back to life. ‘So please stay off Twitter for now, nothing on Facebook, don’t talk to ANYONE about this yet. Okay?’ Matthew looks to Elizabeth for approval and she raises an eyebrow questioningly. ‘Oh,’ continues the boss graciously, ‘and don’t worry about coming in tomorrow. Take the day off.’

‘We always have the day off after recording the show,’ says one fearless researcher.

‘Yes, exactly,’ says Matthew. Elizabeth adds gently, ‘I’ll call you all in the morning, when we know more.’ She hugs Robin, blows a kiss to the rest of the team, her eyes full of tears, and then follows her boss out of the room.

Chapter Two

The police officers, a man and a woman, are sitting uneasily on the leopard-print cushions in Ricky Clough’s dressing room. His day clothes, a crumpled sports shirt and some jeans, are hanging on a hook and the desk is piled high with weekly magazines, scripts, his laptop, as well as empty bottles of white wine. Two scented candles still burn by the mirror and the air in the small room is thick with the smell of hairspray, aftershave (Colonia, Acqua di Parma) and something else, something sticky and fetid. If Kevin managed a clean-up sweep, Elizabeth thinks grimly, it was fleeting.

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.’)

‘Ricky was really together and just – well, you know – not that tipsy, really.’ Lola gulps.

Elizabeth nods. The dress run had gone well in that Ricky hadn’t had a tantrum. He’d managed to keep the camera crew on side with a couple of well-aimed quips against his guests, especially the celebrity chef Paolo Culone, whose very fashionable and pretentious Soho restaurant had just opened. It was Ricky who’d come up with the idea of bringing some of Paolo’s food on to the show for a tasting and, he promised, a pasting. ‘Piquant cockle ketchup?’ he’d sneered in the rehearsal. ‘Little nuggets of calf’s tail? Blimey! Who wants to eat this stuff? What’s wrong with a tidy pie from Greggs?’ And the crew had laughed and egged him on, surprised at the host’s new-found enthusiasm for his show. Many of them had been at the receiving end of Ricky Clough’s bad humour over the last few weeks, when he’d found everything wrong and everyone else to blame. This was a welcome change.

Matthew begins to pace around the Green Room. He’s small and completely bald but muscular and full of a kind of attractive adrenaline. Two weeks ago he was the victim of a mugging and has since developed a slight limp. He’s in his mid-fifties and every morning a personal trainer comes to his Hampstead Heath mansion with a gym bag full of rubber resistance bands. As a result, Matthew has gained some nicely bulging triceps, a flat(ish) stomach and, Lola claims, a new-found interest in S&M (she’d heard it from his secretary, who found a bag of sex toys stashed in the secret, locked, bottom drawer of his desk – a drawer to which she’d taken the precaution of cutting a duplicate key). Matthew hasn’t got where he’s got to without flexing a few muscles and he likes people to notice them.

‘Christ, we’ll have to put out a repeat this week instead of the show,’ he says despairingly, but then his eyes brighten. ‘Maybe a compilation? The Best of Ricky Clough? Only the early shows, obviously. Kev – would we have enough time to publicise it? Get everyone to watch it while they’re still upset? We could be in for bumper ratings!’ The two men huddle together around Kev’s vibrating mobile.

‘Lola, what time did Ricky actually arrive at the studio this afternoon?’ Elizabeth tries to think back over the day’s routine. She’d been in the production office till the early afternoon, trying to sort out next week’s show. She’d only joined for the dress run when Ricky was ready to rehearse his monologue at the top of the show.

Lola looks at her miserably. ‘I didn’t like to call him.’ She looks defensive. ‘You know, it’s not MY job to chivvy up the presenter…’ Her eyes well up again and Elizabeth strokes her back.

‘Of course it’s not. It’s just that you do it so well. Normally.’

‘But he was only an hour late. And you know, sometimes it’s been worse than that. And he was in such a good mood when he arrived.’

It’s true that Ricky had seemed much more his old self and Elizabeth had been hopeful the show might improve. It was very unlike the last couple of weeks, when he’d been bored and bullying. She’d had to have words with him after she found a camera assistant in tears. Yesterday, he’d missed the production meeting because he’d failed to return from lunch. Elizabeth was getting fed up with it and had begun to think about leaving the show and leaving Ricky Clough.

As if reading her thoughts, Lola turns to Elizabeth, her face streaky with grief. ‘I thought he was getting better. You know…’

‘Yes, I did too.’ Elizabeth pauses, but the whisky has done its job. ‘Lola, hon, when did you last…um…you know, with Ricky?’

Lola screws her soaking napkins into a tight ball. ‘Not in the last few weeks. He hasn’t wanted to. He didn’t seem to want company – or at least, not my company. To be honest, I’d wondered if there was someone else.’