It was an impressive turnout. The sun beat down on the mourners at the graveside, crowded between ornate headstones and wreaths that were already wilting in the heat. A discrete band of black suited security ringed the entrance to the cemetery. Even so, the flash of paparazzi bulbs was a jarring reminder of his brothers popularity.

Tobias stood a safe distance away, dark glasses hiding his eyes as he scanned the crowd. The graveside was a veritable who’s who of stars of stage and screen from years gone by. It was a line up more Oscars than funeral. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped the sweat from his brow. He hadn’t moved in the same illustrious circles as Anton, so he still experienced a thrill when exposed to the glamour of his brothers career, a life filled with award ceremonies, private yachts, and beautiful women (and beautiful boys, if the tabloids were to be believed). Not that it was any use to him now, poor bugger, his cancer ridden body lifeless in the coffin being slowly lowered into the ground. Tobias looked around at the heads lowered in prayer. Was that Suchet? Really? He had the nerve to turn up at Antons funeral? Tobias scrunched the handkerchief into a tight ball in his fist. He felt a sense of duty to continue the grudge Anton had long held for him, ever since he’d stolen the Poirot role from him in ‘89. He had been bloody marvelous though, Tobias begrudgingly thought. Even when Anton was Bafta nominated for his role as Tsar Nicholas II, he had never forgiven ‘that smug bastard Suchet’ for his betrayal. That had been the end for him really, losing out to a prime time TV detective at the awards, which had led to a loss of spirit, and faith in his craft that he never regained. He’d sank further away from public life, although the tabloids had hounded his every attempt at a discrete retirement.

The service was over, the crowd murmuring and moving towards blacked out limos waiting to spirit them away to the Groucho club, where whiskey tumblers would be raised aloft to toast the life and death of Sir Anton Buchanan. A fitting tribute that Tobias was sad to miss, but he’d already risked too much attending the funeral. He slipped into his own modest VW Polo and ran the aircon as cold as he could. It had all been Tobias’ idea, genius that it was. Lung cancer, only three months to live. Anton desperate to slip into obscurity. And they looked so similar, any differences were overlooked by a wad of cash discretely slipped into the funeral director’s hands. He eased the car out of the cemetery gates, the paparazzi packing up their cameras, nothing more to see. Anton smiled as he prepared to take on the most challenging acting role of his life, the mundane life of Tobias Buchanan. Fuck you, Suchet.