Death on Daytime: A Tess Darling Mystery (The Tess Darling Mysteries) (11 page)

Rod needed a decent straightening shampoo, but Tess let her go. Cleo had given her more than she’d hoped: confirmation Jeenie Dempster
was
the victim of a carefully planned abduction. Her captor knew her filming schedule – and had a direct line to her agent. Her killer had been close to her, personally or professionally… or both.

“Looking for me, are you? You got my message?” Fergal Flatts pushed out of the throng, and almost fell on her chest.

“What message?” she asked, pushing him off, and wiping down the hot, damp patch he’d left on her shirt. Though she generally had time for the genial Irishman, he was a sloppy drunk – the kind who sprayed you with laughter one second, sobbed on you the next, spilling liquor with his confidences, and then disappearing in a cloud as black as his Guinness. Tess had enjoyed many post-show drinks with Fergal – he was a habituee of the Backchat Bar pretty much from end credits until last orders. Though his jokes always started thick and fast, they thinned as the crowd did. Tess would leave him talking to his pint, laughing alone. “You never left me a message.”

“I didn’t? I meant to.” The funny man rocked on his feet. The thick white head of his pint of Guinness slid slowly down the side of his glass. “I’ve got information.”

“For me?”

“Well, I wouldn’t
dream
of giving Sandy the satisfaction,” he belched quietly. “And when I
tried
to collar that handsome policeman at the bar, well…” Fergal tried to aim his mouth at the top of his drink; missed. “He didn’t look interested.”

Tess looked over at the bar. DS Selleck was now trapped between Mrs Plimpton and a bawdy lesbian once known for her stand-up comedy, now more famous for her tireless promotion of a brand of bag-less hoovers.

“So, it’s your lucky day.” He tilted his pint at her. “The information’s all yours. But only because I know –
I know –
you hate Sandy Plimpton as much as me. She’s an old witch, isn’t she? So help me God. Going after that Fat Alan fella like that – but you’ll take care of him, won’t you? See him right? Because I daren’t say anything, you see. What I’m going to tell you now,” he staggered forward, spilling Guinness down his jacket,”You never heard it from me, see? I’ll swear blind.”

Tess halted him. “What have you got, Fergie?”

“The old witch was right, Tess. She was lying – but she’s right. Jeenie
was
being stalked.”

“You’re drunk.”

“Ah, feck off, I’m always drunk. This is gold, Tess, I swear. A few weeks ago it was – I’d just finished up at the Artistes’ Bar, you know, and I was off out to hail a cab, when didn’t I see Jeenie heading out before me?”

His eyes, though pink, looked sincere. “What was
Jeenie
doing at Backchat so late?”

“Feck knows,” he said. “
I
was busy watching the fella who slunk out of the shadows after her – and it sure as hell weren’t Fat Alan.” He lost focus. “I’d know that tubby backside in a nuclear fog.”

“So? Did you say anything?”

“Didn’t get the chance, did I? Jeenie span round like a woman possessed, and started screaming at him.”

“To scare him off?”

“You’d think. But then she ran out into the street, flagged down a black cab, and pushed him in it.”

Tess stared at him. “You’re saying Jeenie confronted her stalker – and then hailed him
a cab?
”

“And that’s not even the best part of it,” he giggled. “She only went and got in after him, didn’t she? Bundled him in like some naughty schoolboy about to get a good whipping, then started waving at the driver to take them off down Percy Street. When the taxi doubled back past Backchat, she realised I’d seen the whole thing, of course.” He stopped giggling.

“I swear, Tess, if she could have reached out of that cab and put out my eyes, I’d be feeling for your face now, and talking ter the wall.”

His fear was real. For a second, he’d sobered up. But it’d only be a second. “This stalker,” she said. “The guy Jeenie threw into the taxi – did you see what he looked like?”

“Ach, it was dark, and I’d sunk a few.” Already, he was turning back to the bar. “I didn’t catch his face. Just got a glimpse of these scary, staring eyes. And a stupid, wee beard.”

T
ess was excited, she had to go to the loo. Long experience told her the queue for the Ladies could take all night. (One small row of toilets could not process several score media-chicks who needed prolonged cubicle time to allow for lip-glossing, drug-taking and tweeting how fat everyone was in the flesh). No, decided Tess, what she needed was a good, honest disabled loo. In keeping with The Soho Club’s generous inclusion policy, however, she found it up five flights of stairs, doubling as a cleaners’ cupboard.

It was a climb. Leaving behind the party in the First Floor Bar, Tess was met by more muted sounds of revelry – smug laughter and squeaking leather armchairs – as she rounded the landings to a succession of members’ lounges. The higher she went, however, the more she noticed a sound of frantic panting. At first she assumed it was coming from her, (Tess in motion had something of the bellows about her) but on reaching the fifth floor, she realized the labored breathing came from behind the door marked ‘Disabled’.

“You alright in there?” A heavy thud answered her. “Need a hand?” she shouted. “I won’t look.” Rattling the doorknob, getting nothing back but a desperate, scuffling noise, Tess grew alarmed.

“Stand away from the door!” she commanded. Then she remembered the ‘disabled’ bit. “
Drag
yourself if you can.”

Ramming the door with her shoulder, Tess crashed in on Sandy Plimpton. Naked from the waist up, her Executive Producer was wobbling violently. This was because she had one foot up on the sink, and Colin Pound tugging at the crotch of her tights with his teeth. Tess’ arrival sent him toppling to the ground, trousers round his ankles.

“Fuckinell,” said Tess, sprawling to her knees. Pushing herself upright, her hand pressed down on something bristly… and gristly. It was Colin’s erect penis. “For fuck’s sake, people, you’re at a
wake
!” Pound yelped with pain. Sandy turned away, but not before Tess caught her smile. “Unless
that
was the turn-on.”

“Sandy has a bad back,” said Colin, getting on to his feet. Tenderly, the
Live With
regular and resident chef tucked himself into his slacks. “I was just…er…helping her to the loo—”

“With your knob?” said Tess. A fleshy snigger escaped him, then his tongue lolled out to catch it. Not for the first time, Tess compared Colin to a pond-wet Labrador. Thick, keen and smelly, he’d started sniffing around Sandy the moment her husband Mark left her. Two months ago, at the Backchat summer party at Kenwood, Colin pounced. No-one was watching – the speech-making had started, and Jeenie was up on the podium, wiping the floor with Fergal. Too far back to intervene, but unable to watch, Tess had ducked out of the back of the marquee, and seen Sandy emerging from a Portaloo with a flushed face, and a strangely rolling gait, as if she’d sat on something uncomfortable. Colin had bounced out seconds later, smelling of wet dog, and Tess guessed he’d been scampering into toilets after her, ever since.

“It’s alright, Sweetie,” he told Sandy. “She knows what it’s like, don’t you, Tess? You’ve had a few – done it in a toilet – you tell Sandy. There’s no shame. It’s time we came out. Time to stop hiding. Tell viewers the truth. Everyone on the production team will back us. They know we’re in love. They just want us to be happy.”

“
I
don’t,” said Tess. “Your wife’s downstairs, you dirty mutt.”

“Laura? I sent her straight home after the service – she wanted to put a wash on. What’s she doing here?”

“At this precise second?” Tess calculated. “Standing at reception, getting ignored by the hat-check girl. I don’t think glacial Swedish blondes know what to do with a polythene rain bonnet.”

“Go and deal with her, Colin,” said Sandy, struggling to roll her pencil skirt down from her hips. “We can’t let your wife find out.”

“Maybe not like this,” wheedled Colin. “But she’ll have to find out sooner or later…”

“Colin!” Sandy’s voice took on a shrill edge. “You know I need time…”

“What
for
Sweetie?” When Sandy jerked her head at Tess, Colin simply took it as a cue to bring her in again.

“Tell her, Tess. Sandy isn’t just the
face
of
Live With.
She’s the brains – the Executive Producer. Why
shouldn’t
she choose her co-host? Fergal Flatts is a dinosaur – and a drunk. We all know the direction Daytime TV is heading in. Viewers want sex on the sofa.” He was panting again. “Me and Sandy can give it to them. Can’t we, Sandy?”

But Sandy just gave him a sharp shove towards the door. “
Don’t
tell me what viewers want,” she said. “When Mark left me, those 3.8 million strangers were all I had. I’ll do
whatever
it takes to keep them”.

“But—”

“Having your
wife
catch us in the toilet at the funeral of my husband’s murdered mistress? That is
not
my idea of a well-managed press launch for our relationship.”

This seemed to check even Colin. “Laura
can
get herself a bit worked up.” He laughed nervously. “Scares even me sometimes. Perhaps it might be best to apply some Colin magic… move her along, you know. Are you sure you’ll be alright?”

“For pity’s sake, I’ll be fine, just go.” Pushing Colin through the door, Sandy locked it behind him. She turned back to Tess. “We need to talk.”

“What’s to say? You and Colin are ‘coming out.” Tess fished a black cashmere jacket off the sanitary towel dispenser. “Things
must
be serious.”

“Don’t listen to him.” Sandy snatched the jacket back. “He gets… over-enthusiastic. It’s just a fling, that’s all: two lonely people getting together… having some fun…”

“And then what? Opening their hearts to the
The Mail on Sunday
?”

“That’s
all
Tess, believe me,” said Sandy. “I don’t want
any
of this getting out.”

Tess could believe it. Following Mark’s desertion, Sandy had worked hard to elevate humiliation into martyrdom, trading on the role of ‘woman wronged’. She’d shed her halo fast if viewers found out she was boffing a TV chef christened by the tabloids as ‘The Tongue’.

“What about his wife?” asked Tess.

“Laura?” Sandy yanked on her jacket. “She’s nothing. One of those domestic, devoted types. Totally smothers Colin.”

“So you swan in and ‘liberate’ him? Come on, Sandy, be honest, at least.” Tess was seized by unexpected anger. “You’re stealing Laura’s husband just like Jeenie stole yours.”

“And why not? It’s my fucking turn. Why
can’t
I piss all over someone for a change?”

The beleaguered studio crew of
Live With
told vivid tales of Sandy’s mood swings: Her ‘turns’ were legendary in the industry. Working as an Outside Broadcast producer, however, Tess had been safely on the road (or in someone’s back garden) when they struck,

Now she watched in awe as a jagged red line shot up from Sandy’s chin to her temple, pumping blood into an angry, purple vein that had burst out on her forehead like a fat rope of haemorrhoids. “Jeenie stole
my fucking husband!
What terrible justice happened to
her
? The bitch got a newspaper spread; her viewing figures soared – and do you know what she’d have been doing next week?” Sandy stepped towards her.
“
If some madman hadn’t put Jeenie Dempster in the ground, she’d have been burying
me.
”“What do you mean?” Tess pressed herself against the door.

“I mean that conniving bitch had somehow got her claws into Rod Peacock–
my
bloody agent. Fourteen years I’ve been with him – made a small fortune for him – but, oh no, my contract was up for renewal on
Live With,
and nobody wants the leftover half of a husband-wife presenter team. Where’s the chemistry? The sleazy dose of daily voyeurism?” Her eyes were piercing; the bags beneath them bulging fit to burst.

“When the channel decided to ‘sex up’ their daytime schedules, it was
Rod Peacock – my own, fucking agent
–who suggested they ditch me as host. It was
Rod’s
idea to set Fergie up on the sofa with a hot, new blonde.”

“No,” said Tess. “You don’t mean
Jeenie
?”

“Not so hot now, is she?” Sandy’s face twisted into a smirk. “The channel are so rattled by her killing, they’re offering me a raise to renew. Suddenly, my ‘safe pair of hands’ is worth its weight in gold.”

“So you’re sorted.”

“
Sorted?
I was about to lose my husband
and
my sofa to that peroxide bitch, when she did the one, decent thing of her life – and got herself killed.” Saying it seemed to calm her, however. With visible effort, Sandy reined herself in. Her hands unclenched; the pulsing at her temple lessened. All passion spent, it was a tired, middle-aged woman who subsided against the hand-dryer. “If Jeenie’s death proves anything, it’s that life’s too short. You’ve got to go for what you want.”

“And you want Colin?”

“I want what’s best for the show.” Sandy pulled herself up, and studied Tess in the mirror over the sink. “You’re young, you’re like the rest of the team laughing at the TV you make, the viewers you make it for. But do you
know
how many people watch Daytime TV?”

She didn’t; Sandy was right. If Tess had to think about their audience at all, it was more as victims than viewers.

“Two million viewers, we get. That’s a solid third share, day in, day out, year upon year. So what if it’s housewives watching? Do you know what they’re worth to advertisers? Housewives with children are like gold dust. Gold dust, that’s what
Live With
brings in – what
I
bring in. But how about we forget the money for a minute? Yes, I know you all think I’m in it for the pay cheque and the column inches – but
I’m
the one proud of what we do.
Live with Sandy and Fergal
goes into the homes of lonely people, old people, poor people – yes, it’s the Twenty-first Century, and the UK is still full of them – I
grew up
one of them – and for three hours a day, we light up their lives. So no, this isn’t just about me. Sandy Plimpton Ltd is a private company doing a damn fine public service.
I
know that. Jeenie didn’t.”