Episode 4: Slow Cooking

(upbeat music) Murder of a famous bastard, episode four, slow cooking. This story is called murder of a famous bastard that, of course, was the word his nephew Frodo used about him. It's the job of a pathologist to look at a newly dead body and try and work out what happened, as someone had already done with TV chase. It's a coroner's job to examine all that grizzly information that he's going to do, as someone had already done with TV chase. It's a coroner's job to examine all that grizzly information and decide whether all was above board, whether there should be further questions asked. It's a cops job to ask those questions, as Katrina Angus had already started doing this morning. Between all these parties, the ultimate aim is to be able to say to the public eventually, this is how the guy died. That's the final word on it. Thank you very much. Put it in the history books. Move along that. What is an investigator's job? To look into the cracks between what those people did, I suppose. To see the things they didn't see, or chose not to see. To clear the throat and say, hang on, something's quite out up here. Normally, the starting point is being hired by someone else with misgivings. Apart, they refuse to accept a suicide verdict. A friend reveals something the missing person said on the eve of their disappearance. Something doesn't add up, they say, can you help? He wouldn't have done that. She wouldn't have gone there. He was scared of something. Can you help? You retrace the tracks of the police inquiry. You re-question people. Pretty much every suspicious death I'd looked into in my stop-start career had involved that. Re-opening something that had been shut. Sometimes, shut very tightly. Prising up the headstone, like some mad scientist in a horror movie, asking the ghost to talk to me. One way in which TV crime dramas, even old-fashioned ones, are more accurate than you think is that, at some point, in any case, the detective is going on pure vibes. That moment, when the frazzled investigator sees a goose eating a scrap of bread, or a kid flying a toy plane, and the camera goes in close, and they go, "Hit, of course!" No brain can really go from the goose to hang on. The murder victim was a celiac to only the doctor knew that, to the doctor killed him, with special 1,000% flower bread in one second. But there are these moments where something sparks when your whole body is filled with a conviction, more than that, certainty, rightness. Of course, I had no idea who could have killed Stevie Chase at this point, or how. But whether, I had no doubt, that I'd been summoned by someone who feared or suspected Stevie would come to harm, I had almost no doubt. And as I stood on air station platform looking at the space from which my bag had been stolen in the 60 seconds I was looking at Jade, I also felt certain that someone had taken it, for some reason, connected with the crime. It was exactly how I felt when I looked at a murder victim's brother, back in the glory days, and the fact he had a haircut flooded me with the knowledge that he was the murderer. It hadn't felt my sonats is light up like this for a little bit too long. My heart was beating. I'd come here for a reason. I'd come here to solve a case. But another thing the old Sunday night murder classics get right is nobody welcomes the detective. Cops, see he was a crank or a threat, I felt like I already had a bit of both from Katrina. People didn't tend to like answering questions for a second time round, especially if they'd not been particularly keen to answer them first time. Sometimes even the person who brought the detective in can become hostile, if it starts to go in the direction they didn't anticipate. If the truth that come to light aren't the ones they wanted. And of course, if there is a murderer in the picture somewhere, they'll do whatever they have to do to remove you from that picture. My bag was gone. My train was leaving on the platform opposite in less than 10 minutes. If I missed it, I'd missed the connection in Glasgow, and I wouldn't get home till Christ knew when. The wind picked up and I felt a strange, momentary sense of my loneliness. I wanted to be back with Callum. I thought a texting on the train, telling what's happened. Then I remembered he was in the air right now. But in a few hours, we'd both be home. We could make things make sense together. Callum sometimes teased me about how cranky I get, about the modern culture of murder podcasts, about how a victim these days has hardly got time for their eyes to glaze over before a 30-something with a sure microphone is on the scene going, "Well, have we got a beauty of a murder for you this week?" "It's hypocritical," he'd say, "when at moments like this, I'm as hungry as anyone for evil to have taken place. When I, even in a way, depend on bad deeds of one kind or another, for my role in the world." I'd normally retort those allowed to be cranky about one thing, given that Callum had people watching videos on public transport with the sound up, people saying "step foot" instead of the correct "step foot." Waiters not giving me enough parmesan and taking it away again. The entire career even the existence of Jeremy Clarkson and more added each week. He was right though, but I wasn't sure he understood exactly why. It wasn't that I was snobby about Amitus wading into the many unresolved cases out there. It was that I was worried they'd do it too well. As I walked down the train to take the seat, I'd pre-booked. I glimpsed Stevie Chase's face on one phone, on another tablet. I overheard someone saying, "It doesn't seem real, does it?" As I proceeded through the shop, the lady behind the counter was saying to her colleague, "I never watched it, but I liked him." I knew that across the country people would be googling hell out of Stevie Chase. His ex-wife, Giselle, his now-wife, Widow, Hazel, his co-host and supposed lover, Rhapsody Brutum. They'd look up his sister, Rebecca Chase, his nephew, Frodo. Andre, his jilted former sidekick, Martina, his manager, Jaz, the producer I've been sitting next to. They would follow the wiki trails, ride the water slides of information. They would draw conclusions, come up with theories. Already some of those theories were sprouting up. On a Google the name of Katrina Angus, the winds of the internet blew me into a Reddit discussion that was already several dozen posts deep. Isn't that Katrina Jeffery's patch? Someone I've written a couple of hours earlier. If so, God have mercy on them. You mean Katrina Angus, someone I've replied, with the slash S indicator which I believe meant sarcasm. They'd follow what you'd call a pylon with Katrina at the centre of it. She was sus as hell. She must have nine lives to still be working at all. She had no respect for procedure, just pure ego. I reviewed through the clouds of fatigue and confusion the way things had gone down this morning. The way she'd taken charge of inquiries, despite having, I thought, been on the scene and therefore, surely, a suspect herself. At the presumably classified nuggets of information that she'd let slip, perhaps on purpose. Yes, there was plenty to be suspicions about. The more I thought about the morning, the more irregularities I could recall and the more I wished I'd pushed back at her. Then I disliked myself for being drawn into the mob into all the speculation. But that was how things were going to be from now on. I was a private investigator now. All he needed was a phone and a curious mind. And it felt like I was in a race with everyone I saw to solve this thing, but they could afford to do it for fun. I needed it. I'm sorry if this is a callous way to talk about the aftermath of a man's death. I'm just telling you where my mind was as we headed south. I was hoping the journey would help me step back from it, be a chance for some clear thinking. Trains have often worked that way for me. But my mind was anything but clear. If it had been a river last night in the pleasant grip of alcohol, now it was more like lava, slow, sludgy, bubbling unpleasantly. With every little jolt of the train, every crunch of a pebble under its wheels, or scratch of a branch against its windows, another question was flung into my mind. Who would send me that text as I steely would be happy if I came, that he'd like to see me? Why was I there not on the seating plan? He guessed list. Why the fuck was Kevin McGee, a man I'd helped to ban from stalking Stevie on that list? Who had been with Stevie Chase when he died? Was it plausible it had happened while he was having sex? Whom had I heard running breathless past my door? What time had that been? Whom had I heard amorously shouting the name of Jack Solesbury to lawyer for that matter? What was the big row behind the kitchens about? Even among what I'd heard this morning? Was it true that Anita hadn't even gone to the scene? Was it true that the duty manager was the only person who's account we had? Had she really been sent home? Who else had left without talking to the constable? What was Anita doing out in the woods in the middle of the night? Wasn't it a bit weird the far alarm had gone off like that at 3.30am? And what else was weird that it wasn't even thinking about? That I hadn't picked up on or forgotten? Who had tampered with the Wikipedia entry, seemingly very close to the death, and then again at some time not long after? When I called up Stevie's page and looked at the edit history, there had been no fewer than 13 edits between the rough time of the far alarm and the point I'd checked my phone in the lobby. The majority of them had been made by a user called Scorpion 01. As far as I could guess, that was the person who had but the recently died text in place. But the different user seemed to have reverted it back. There was no username for that person, just an IP address. I'd be able to trace that in theory, but they could be using a VPN, of course. And there were plenty of ways you could leave a false trail online, that's seen enough proof of that. All my questions were worth asking, some very well worth asking, but this wasn't the way to be asking them, like someone trying to catch a series of bullets from a pop gun. I wanted to make some notes in my little book, but remembered with a quam that had gone, been stolen in the bag. But there'd been almost nothing in the bag, definitely nothing of value, my outfit from the previous night, which I probably would never have worn again anyway, some minor toiletries. If Calum's of a night bag was stolen, he'd lose 500 quid and moisturiser alone. But the book had been in there. And I'd written several things down in the lobby after talking to Anita. Who saw me do that? Who could have followed me to the station and somehow disappeared again with the bag that quickly, who they even knew that I was an investigator. I had to clear some of this Mosquito buzz out of my brain and focus on the big question, the real thing. Had someone killed Stevie Chase, as I was sure they had, and who? Motive and opportunity. That was one of the classic traditions, wasn't it? Who would have wanted to kill them, and you could have. Find the person in the middle of that Venn diagram, bang, there's your guy. Simple. Again it's not that it's not accurate, there's a fictional trope. Of course your culprit is, whoever is the last person standing, when you've crossed off everyone who doesn't fit in both lists. Just here, it was very hard to know where to begin crossing. I didn't even have a definitive list, as the constable did of everyone who was under that roof when Stevie died, or on the premises if he died during the fire evacuation. Who could have got up to the penthouse, entered his room, murdered him, well in theory almost anyone. Who could have been in the room with him and killed him? Literally anyone was the answer to that one, because all he would have had to do was invite them in at some point, and Stevie Chase wasn't known to be shy about inviting people into his bedroom. The only person I could truly rule out was myself, because I knew I hadn't been there and murdered him, but I would say that, wouldn't I? As for Motive, that was even harder. Love, money, sex, power. These were the kind of things people committed a murder over, and Stevie had had all of them, but people also killed for reasons nobody could guess, over a grudge buried for 20 years, or a fury, formed in 20 seconds. Stevie Chase had made a lot of people happy at one time or another, but also a lot of people angry. Of course, it only takes one. I needed a complete list of who'd been there. I needed to know exactly what Mariana had found when she went into that room, and what the conclusions of the pathologists were when he exiled in the body. I needed to know a hell of a lot more about Stevie's relationships with his wives, his co-host, family, everyone. Right now also, I needed to be home, with my husband, to having dinner, watching something on TV that didn't have a decimate, but I know my brain. I knew I wouldn't be able to switch it off for long. Like I said, on some level, I was fully aware this was about to take over my life, but that doesn't mean I was in any way prepared for the consequences. Oh, this smells absolutely amazing. It should be amazing. I had it on for 10 hours. I don't call it a slow cooker for nothing, I'll tell you that, Jesus. I thought, didn't you only get back this afternoon? No. I came in morning time. They messed around with the flights because of the weather or something. Well, it is delicious. So, are you going to tell me what it was like? How did you find out? This police woman woke me up with a phone call. You asked to report to the lobby, I was hungover, right? The cops were already there. No, well, this constable had been at the party. I was sitting at her table in fact. She was really nice. Why would you have a cop at your birthday party? She was saying she'd got to know him from him having a place up there. She was very friendly, but obviously now, she's all serious and like, like I've never met before. Why the question you, wouldn't there be starting with people who are not fans as nearest and dearest? I don't know. Well, I'm. Well, what? No, just a. You're scratching your nose. That nearly always means you're concealing something from me. I thought you told me that I'd been debunked. The general claim that touching your nose means a lie, yet debunked, but when you touch yours, pretty much 100% means you're talking pure shite. Remember when you claimed you thought you had appendicitis, but it was just you didn't want to go to Craig's party? More or less, Tory or Wee snout, clean off your face or when you denied having a crush on that zookeeper? He wasn't zookeeper. He was one of the leading insect authorities in. There he goes again. Anyway, she said to me at the copper, that someone answering my description had been seen around the penthouse when we rolled out to the bar room. Answering your description, how many sexy chaotic six-foot-two men with a cute birthmark were at this time? I didn't mention the birthmark, to be fair. So just the check, are you the murderer? I don't know how I was telling you, but yeah, will you come visit me in jail? Man, do I have to make you one of those cakes with a knife hidden in it? You know I don't like baking. But also, she was suspicious of me because she showed me the seating plan and the guest list and all this, and I wasn't on it. What? Yeah. Well, I guess you only replied like a few days before, huh? I did think that, yeah. But you don't think that's why it is. I mean, we know I got an invite, and then got a separate text saying Stevie hoped I was going. I. You never mentioned that. No. No, I didn't. We were on the phone. You were in that bar. Who was it from? I don't know. It was number in Poland. It said he'd really like to see you. So. Okay. Oh, that was really, really nice, thank you. You're welcome, babe. So, you got an anonymous text from someone. You didn't try to find out. I asked twice who it was, they went silent. Right. So, you think. Well, I think a reason we're working theory is that someone was worried something was going to happen to Stevie the night that he did, engineered me an invitation, which maybe didn't appear on the official list, wanted me there to. To. To what? I mean, he. He's still dead, die, he. No, I'm not a fucking miracle worker, Carl. Sorry. No. I know. Well, what now? Well, now I'm going to find out what happened. I think that's what I was there for. I don't think it was ever going to be possible for me to stop whoever murdering him, but I think someone wanted me to be there, so I could put the pieces together, put the clues together, so I could solve it. Okay. What? I think I'm making it about myself. Why would anyone have sent me the invite? Why? I didn't say making it about yourself. I just. I don't want you putting too much pressure on yourself and going chasing after something which. Which what? I'm not saying you shouldn't get involved in this age. Just. There'll be an official inquest. No. There'll be a police matter. I don't see how you're going to get access to the sort of information they'll have. I don't know how you'd try to speak to like 50 people who were there. How long have you known me? These things have never been easy, have they? The whole point is I investigate, I go into the writer. Sure. I just want you to be careful, I guess. This feels like it's pretty big stuff. Big stuff is what I want to be doing, come. I know. I know. Right. Shall we do. Warto together. I was waiting till you came back. Yeah. What do you want us to start a wood? This. That's got to be. How's that? Okay. Easy hello. Easy hello. Huh? How about. Gaws next. Jesus. A green. You green. E green. Hmm. Should be moved then. Yup. Ah, it's done. 30 seconds. Sometimes I wonder if you truly need me for wood? Don't be ridiculous. You hold the phone very nicely. Right. Are we watching, married at first sight in Australia or.? As always happens, there have been a weird silence in the days following Stevie Chase's death. The days after something like that tend to be eaten up in confusion. You replay the events again and again. You read about them from every imaginable angle. If you were there, as I had been, you strained to remember details that might have got away from you. And your brain toys with those you do recall, tugging at them, rearranging them, making you doubt the authenticity. I had a life to go back to, as well, of course, a dentist's appointment, a couple of tutoring clients, including one of the laziest kids ever to open a textbook. To be fair, it wasn't clear you ever had done that. Calum, meanwhile, had his huge roster of therapy clients. Two days in his office, two in our house, one by zoom. All of them had the whole week while Cal was away to refresh their neuroses, come up with some new ones. He'd be a busy old listener, as I like to tease him, very busy and important. On the third night, we had dinner with old friends, and Stevie Chase came up the way he'd be coming up in any number of other dinners, as a topic of fleeting, idle curiosity. I bit my tongue, and Calum moved the subject onto the idea of us getting a greyhound. But about a week and a half after the night of the death, as if someone had flipped a switch, the statements started coming. The sun newspaper triggered it with a headline, Stevie Chase, tragic star, hosted sex party on night of death. Calum was looking at it on his phone when they woke up in the morning. They were inverted commas around a hosted sex party, the legal safeguard, the old trick that allowed you to print absolutely any old horse shit in the world. But the speculation in the article below wasn't particularly coy. He claimed that the time he died, Stevie Chase had multiple women in his room, and was engaged in what the journalist, and being generous with that term, called a wild group romp when he'd suffered a suspected heart attack. The article alleged that a hotel source had interrupted this romp when the far along went off, about 230, and that the panic to call to the night manager had actually come from someone in Stevie Chase's room. It went onto the litany of Stevie's irregularities, long separated from First Wife as a cell, daughter who wouldn't speak to, long marriage to Hazel surrounded by various rumours. It concluded that a verdict of accidental death was expected, pending a full inquest, that the details of the funeral would be kept within close friends and family. An email address at the end, invited you to "have your say" on open marriages. "This is purest A-grade fucking shiteballs," Calumet said. A hotel source can literally be anyone they've paid 50 quid to say anything, or bullied into it, or just made up. Anyway, didn't you say the far along was after three, more like half past three? But only everyone was chatty, perhaps the Britain broker silent as it was described everywhere, as if he'd never really had the right to be quiet. She put an instant story up the morning after the sunpiece went out. "Hi everyone, I can't believe I'm having to say this, but I've seen things going around already about Stevie and what might have happened that night. It's literally none of anyone's business, but that's the modern world, people will always chat shits. I just want to say there was no inappropriate relationship between me and Stevie. Not that night, not ever. We were colleagues and friends. I am devastated. That's literally it, and I'm not going to say anything else about it. Love you all." Meanwhile Glen-Bale Manor, the hotel, had put out its own statement. It was hard to associate its clipped professional tone with the chaos of Anita, and I wondered who'd actually written it. One at Glen-Bale Hotel and Manor wishes to express our deep sorrow and shock at the passing of Stevie Chase under our roof. We'd also like to strongly refute claims in the media that there were any shortcomings or irregularities in our staff's handling of the tragedy. We have absolute trust in our workers and salute them for their conduct on a hugely challenging day. Glen-Bale remains open for business as usual, although some Christmas two-for-one offers may not run due to unforeseen circumstances. Now the rabbit Warren was really opening up, each new thing I read through even more questions into the mix. What had been reported in the press that the hotel was so keen to distance itself from? What has rapidly seen going around? What we meant to take from the full inquest that had been caused? And where was the funeral going to be? There was no going away from it, I needed to be there. It was my only realistic chance of getting to talk to a load of witnesses of suspects. I would wake up in the night and wade around Google, clicking the news tab, hungry for any scrap. There'd been nothing from the coroner's office yet, but despite all the tabloid claims I suspected there would be a full inquest. That was what I had to outpace, somehow. I looked deeper into Katrina's past. From various sources it seems she'd been accused of some sort of impropriety in her previous post, in Glasgow, under her old name of Katrina Jeffrey. That was around a decade ago, and at least one report referring to it seems to have been taken down, removed. But she herself denied whatever the accusations were, and it wasn't completely clear how it had been resolved. Sometimes, Callum would stir, mutter in his sleep, reangle himself with what sound like a complaint. But we'd been sharing a bed for a long time, years, we had protocols. We were both light sleepers. Hell, often I'd come around for a wee and find him an hour or so into a long read, some sort of deep dive, or one of the million word games he played alongside his near-in-human wordless supremacy. On the Friday night, almost a fortnight since the murder, I angled my phone so as not to disturb him, and started writing an email. Several times since it happened, my mind had gone back to the way Jade pressed her phone against mine, sending her details leaping to my electronic brain. But she'd done it deliberately, of course she had. I could see her eyes meeting mine through the huge frames of her glasses. She had to have done it because she wanted me to get in touch. She was the only obvious route for me into this world, my only immediate way of staying in the story. Hi Jade. I hope you don't mind me emailing. I hope too, that I don't have the right end of the stick here, but I feel that you blew tooth me your details because you must have wanted me to message you, or at least be open to it. I don't know how much you know about the circumstances of me being at the party. I don't know why I was there. As I said to you at the station, and I'm sorry if I was a bit forward, I was absent from the guest list that the police constable showed me. If you have it, I'd love to see that list. And I'd also love to know where the funeral is going to be. I know this must sound very presumptuous, but as you know, I am an investigator. I noticed the way, when I said I'm not saying there wasn't anything suspicious about it, you said, but it's that what you think. I believe there are things about Stevie's death that need looking into, and I have enough reason to think you might agree with me. Hugh Flander. Outside, far below, a siren, an ambulance. There's always an emergency somewhere I thought falling into dreams. There's always something you don't know about. OK, let's look at it again. Me thought I heard a voice cry, "Sleep no more. Macbeth have murdered sleep." So do you think you really heard a voice say that? I don't know, really. Because nobody knows at this point that he's murdered done can do they. So it's probably not a literal voice saying that. What do you think Shakespeare might be telling us about Macbeth's state of mind? I don't really know. Do you think he feels guilty about having murdered him? Yeah, I could do, I guess. Legend of play we see Lady Macbeth desperately trying to wash her hands, don't we? Yeah, yeah, maybe. Do you remember, I know you had a school trip to go and see at the barber, didn't you? Do you remember that bit where she's going out, damn spot, and she's washing her hands obsessively? I think I was in the toilet for that bit. It had been as usual a tough battle with Louis, whose hedge fund manager Dad was out of the country most of the time and his mum had told me he was a super bright boy who just needed a bit of a push. I had been pushing him there for six months and I would probably have been happy to swap with siss of us at this point. Still, a paycheck was a paycheck. I pulled my coat around me and walked down the Kensington High Road. Christmas lights in white and silver have been up for several weeks now. There were sands and reindeer in shop windows. It struck me I'd not got anything at all for Callum yet. Time had got away from me a bit with the whole being bound up in a celebrity death thing. With no real plan in mind, I found myself drawn into a department store. Callum wanted a nice pair of gloves. I knew that much. Gloves and a scarf. I found the winterwear department, picked up a couple of items, looked at the prices, immediately put them down again. I'd more or less decided it was a bad idea to come in here when I heard a voice at Half Reconyte. I'm looking for kitchen stuff, electrical stuff. I looked up and saw Jazz, the producer I sat next to at Stevie's party. It took her about ten seconds to place me as it generally did for everyone. Well, ten seconds if I was lucky. Sorry, I can't think of your. I'm a huge. It's Jazz, isn't it? Yes, from the party. The assistant has pointed her in the right direction that she was moving across the aisles. She already had a couple of yellow self-riches bags and the general demeanor of someone who knew what she was doing on a shopping mission. As always, I didn't want to look if I was following her, but she didn't seem hostile as I continued the conversation. Have you been? Yeah, it's been a pretty weird time, hasn't it? Seeing it on the TV the whole time. I'm lucky I've got some stuff lined up. There's a Rob Beckett thing for Dave, which I think I'm going to be assisting on. I've got a meeting next week about something else, which actually is in the USA, so fingers cross. It must have been so weird going from making the show every week to this happening. No, totally. It's been crazy. Like I say, I'm really glad I've got a couple of other things in the pipeline. Are you going to the funeral? Stevie's funeral. No. It's my nephew's birthday party. I can't miss it. I'm a bad aunt as it is. I always forget his birthday. I actually forgot his name last time and had to call him mate, although. Where actually is it? Oh, at some church, and have you not been invited? I have not had an email. No, I think it might have gone into some folder, but I know he'd want me to be there. So it's just. Well, it's in Hastings, something, St. George. It's where he grew up, but I think it's the same church he was baptized or something. Thanks. No, I guess I won't see you there, but. It's nice to see you again. Yeah, it was fun meeting you. I didn't see you in the morning at all. Actually, I didn't even see you during the fire alarm. What? When we were all standing out there, you seem to have just disappeared. I remember kind of looking for you because I really know many other people, but you. I really have to go now. Take care. She was gone in the moment, past the tables of soaps and candles and mirrors. Paul McCartney was singing wonderful Christmas time. I watched the yellow bags become dots and disappear out of sight. I'd got the information I wanted from the chance meeting, as I assumed it had been. I tried my luck with the question about her disappearance. From her response, I had the strongest sense she was the person who left the hotel before questioning had started, even possibly, left during the night. Was that a reason to think she could have murdered Stevie Chase? Well, it would be incredibly rash to flee the scene like that if he were guilty. But it felt like it might mean something. Everything meant something, of course, like the constable has said. Something is of interest. The beginning of a murder case is a bit like a department store down out for Christmas. It occurred to me, not wanting to get too sex in the city about it. Rose and rose of items beckon you. The thing just around the corner looks more inviting than the thing you've just picked up. Somewhere in the chaos is what you actually need. But you don't even know if you'll recognise it when you're looking right at it. Hey, first, please don't use this address. Jade at Stevie Chase again. I think the login will be taken off me any time, because, well, you can guess why. Stevie Chase.com isn't going anywhere. But once a few bits of admin are done and dusted, my engagement as Stevie's PA presumably comes to an end for obvious reasons. I've attached the guest list from the party because I can't see what harm it can do, and I believe you, when you say you're acting in good faith, but please download the file and delete this email straight away. I would be happy to talk to you, but it needs to be at a place of my choosing. Read the funeral. I don't think it's a safe choice for you to attend. You have my phone number, and let's talk when things have settled down a bit. Jade. Jade has sent the email at 4.30am, although I guess it wasn't certain she was in the same time zone. I read it at 8.30am, after fumbling down the side of the bed for my phone. Callum was in the shower, it was one of his office days, he'd leave at 9.15. I read the email twice, downloaded the attachment, deleted the message, like she'd said. I don't think it's a safe choice for you to attend, but what was I meant to make of that? My immediate response was what anyone's would have been in my position. Like I said before, being investigated means operating in the cracks, in the spaces. If someone doesn't want you to ask a question, that's a good reason to ask it. If someone tries to stop you going somewhere, you should go there. Hey, Cal. Yes, love. Oh, side note. Does this look nice, or is it like, too blue? I think it's lovely. Can you have a side note before the conversation has actually started, though? No, I feel enough. What's up? I'm going to go to this funeral, I think, on the 19th. I was thinking maybe we could go down together, it's in Hastings, and I don't just stay in it. Wait, what? Who's funeral? Steven Chase. Oh. I managed to find out from. well, I ran into someone from the party in town, a complete fluke, and she told me not the exact location, but I should better work it out from what I've got. The 19th is hemish as birthday hue. Ah, yeah. It's been in the diary for. I'll be back in the evening. I won't miss it. Cool. Okay. I'll see you tonight. Don't forget to put that washing in the dry area. Love you. Ah, you too. I couldn't really blame him for being sniffy about it, but something was odd about his response. I don't know exactly why, but my mind went back to the day I'd come home from Scotland. He'd come back earlier than he said he was going to. The lamb was on the slow cooker for hours before he even got that. They'd messed around with the flights, he said, because of the weather. But was that likely really that he'd be moved to an earlier flight? I'll put it into Google. No. No flights at all. The left Budapest Affairant List Airport. On the morning I woke up to the news of Steven's death. No flights from Vienna, either. Not from anywhere he could realistically have got to. William hadn't flown back to London that morning like he said he had. He'd come back sometime before that. Why? What didn't I know? The answer was always, "We don't know much at all." Our desire to know, to control, goes up against the reality of what we are in the universe. A bunch of atoms bouncing through as best we can. It's good to keep sight of that, except if you're looking to sort of a murder, say, for that, you really have to know everything. And I had to solve this. If I hadn't been obsessed before, Jade's email had got me there. This case would define me, I told myself. The fact I wasn't hired onto the case, the fact it wasn't an official case, none of that mattered anymore. I was going to catch Stevie Chase's killer. What it might cost me, but I would worry about that later. Murder of a famous bastard, episode four, was written by Mark Watson and performed by Mark Watson, drop Davids, Susanna Hisslock, Athenica Bleningh, Chaparack or Sandy, Kit Watson and Maddie By. It was an impatient production, and the editor was Ralph Foster, music by Matt Ryer, artwork by Heimingly. You can discuss the events on Discord and Blue Sky, whatever those may be. My name is Hazel, by the way, and you haven't even met me yet.