Merely Players by J. M. Gregson

has it?’
    â€˜I believe so, yes.’ Suddenly she was trying to keep it light, to keep any anxiety out of her voice. ‘James Walton seemed to think it was a done deal.’
    â€˜Did he, indeed? Well, what the producer says goes, as we are all aware. Speaking of which, as you so tactfully reminded me, I must be on my way.’
    He was abruptly distant and cold when she wanted him to be intimate. He dressed quickly, held her for a few seconds in an embrace, kissed her forehead, and was gone. He had smiled at her before he went, had said something conventional about doing this again.
    But he had said nothing more about working together. Half an hour later Adam Cassidy was nearing his house and his wife and his sleeping children. And Michelle Davies was still trying to thrust from her mind the producer’s final reminder to her that the star still had the final veto over casting.

SEVEN
    C hief Superintendent Tucker would never have admitted it, but he was not immune to the celebrity culture which seemed to have captured British society in the second decade of the twenty-first century.
    He was as anxious to catch his first glimpse of the actor who played Alec Dawson as any of the eager audience for the afternoon chat show. He had accepted his wife’s injunction to have his hair cut specially for the occasion. He decided he was pleased with the effect, as he surveyed himself in the mirror after the make-up girl’s rather perfunctory attention to his solid fifty-four-year-old features. His hair was thinning a little, but still plentiful enough when brushed skilfully; the silvering at the temples would give just the correct degree of gravitas to the considered opinions of a senior policeman.
    He realized by the polite applause which greeted his introduction that he was to be merely the warm-up act for the eagerly awaited appearance of Adam Cassidy, but he didn’t mind that. It would take the pressure off him in a television world where policemen were sometimes not the most popular presence. And he had confirmed that he was to stay on set even when Cassidy appeared. Barbara would be delighted to see him accorded equal status with the great man, sitting beside him in the studio armchairs and exchanging friendly conversation.
    The host of the programme was Gerry Clancy, a bright Northern Irish man who had for ten years risen at four each morning to present the early morning show on Channel Four. It was his liveliness there which had earned him the right to this more relaxed and leisurely afternoon ITV assignment. The vehicle was ideal for him; he had a quick wit and an ability to mine the richest veins of ore among a wide variety of guests. Clancy knew the importance of preparation; one of the paradoxes of television chat was that to appear spontaneous you had to put in a modicum of research and the proper degree of forethought. Gerry had noted that Chief Superintendent Thomas Bulstrode Tucker was a senior policeman who was a little nervous and a little pompous. He was even more aware than his guest that policemen were not the most popular of public servants.
    He said as much to Tucker as soon as he had greeted him and set him politely in the chair opposite his.
    His interviewee had resolved to picture a doting wife rather than the sprightly and hostile Percy Peach as his audience. He smiled patronizingly at this man who was fifteen years his junior and plainly in need of enlightenment. ‘The public needs us and we need them, Mr Clancy. Our job is more difficult than it has ever been, and we do not always receive the cooperation we deserve from the public.’ He shook his head sadly.
    â€˜Deserve, Superintendent? Surely trust has to be earned? If suspicion of the police is greater now than it has ever been, there must be good reasons for that.’
    Tucker allowed his eyebrows to lift a fraction, indicating surprise and disappointment. His demeanour conveyed that he wasn’t going to be