Death on Daytime: A Tess Darling Mystery (The Tess Darling Mysteries) (19 page)

How tough?

Groping through the pockets of her Puffa, Tess searched for the photo she’d stolen from Rod’s coat. (As he’d said, she was good at getting into places…) Since retrieving the picture from Jeenie’s flat, Tess had spent hours poring over it: The murdered woman and her shadowy lover. ‘A’ appeared to belong more in a Gothic horror story than the world of today’s TV. What was visible of his face looked thin and pale; his pointed beard Mediaeval. He was embracing his beloved in front of an ancient-looking stone wall… of a church, perhaps, or a castle?
I am your beginning and your end – and I
shall
come for you.
Who
was
the Biblical-sounding bugger? And why was Rod so keen to suppress proof of their relationship, he’d snuck into his dead client’s flat – and pilfered her post?

For though the words of the accompanying note were etched in Tess’ mind, the letter itself remained in the possession of Rod Peacock. Tess was here to ask why. She no longer cared how Rod punished her – the many ways the powerful agent could destroy her career. After all, now Tess had bottled her Fat Alan exclusive, they were just talking about incremental levels of crap. Pulling the photo from her pocket, she prepared to ask the burning question that would send her last scrap of career up in flames. “Rod –

“Too late,” he said. “Yer time’s up. I never allow talking over a client’s press conference.”

Without rising from his seat, he pedaled his executive swivel chair out from behind his desk, and started walking it towards a huge, flat screen TV on the far wall of his office. At the approach of its master, the screen flickered into life. Tess was done with. She pushed the stolen photo back into her pocket. Rod pulled out a remote control from his – and brought up News 24. “Thing’s due to start any minute,” he explained. “
Police
think they’re holding a press conference to appeal for information about Jeenie’s killer. We know they’re just trailing tomorrow’s show.”

“You mean Monday’s
Live With–?
”

“That I do, pet. Your interview with Fat Alan?” The agent grinned. “It’ll get more viewers than the death of fookin’ Di.”

T
ess went still. Beside her, Rod squeaked in his leather, swivel chair. On the screen ahead, News 24 cameras moved across an expectant conference table.

As yet empty of people, the long, utilitarian table was cluttered with mic stands, cables and glasses of water. With a slight wobble, the picture pulled back to reveal the ranks of waiting TV cameras, assembled press and… “Laura Pound?” said Tess. Colin’s wife was sat at one end of a row towards camera. She was dressed just as Tess recalled from Jeenie’s wake – frilly, white blouse under navy school uniform. All that was missing was knee-socks. Her Alice band was clamped to her head, her eyes were trained ahead. “What the–?”

Answer came with a flurry of movement from behind the conference table. Various men in suits – representatives of the Metropolitan Police, Tess guessed – and a couple of uniformed officers were ushering in Sandy Plimpton. The TV presenter was in executive producer mode. She wore a dark suit that minimised her ample bosom and maximised her scraggy neck. Her thin crispy hair looked like it had spent the night in a Breville sandwich toaster. Her make-up was thick foundation and matt lips. The overall effect was one of gravity and professionalism. Then Colin Pound bounded up her rear.

“What a pillock,” said Rod. They watched the
Live With
chef barge past a police officer to take a centre-seat beside Sandy. “But what could I do? The police wanted grieving loved-ones.”

“Like
Colin?
”

“Who else was there?” Rod looked uncharacteristically rueful for a second. Then he reached into an ivory box on the desk behind him, produced a fat cigar, and lit it. “Fergal Flatts
did
volunteer,” he puffed. “But I daren’t risk it. Like as not, Fergie would’ve arrived half-cut, and ready to toast Jeenie’s killer.”

True, thought Tess. “But what about Mark Plimpton? Wasn’t he closer to Jeenie than anyone?” He’d certainly started acting that way.

In the days since Jeenie’s wake, Mark’s wariness of the press had morphed into a
Daily Mail
three-page spread on his ‘unutterable’ heartbreak.
I DREAM OF JEENIE
, claimed yesterday’s headline. The piece had been decorated with current shots of Mark, looking dishy, disheveled and apparently too upset to button his shirt. The top half of his tanned chest had been bared, and the scar on his collarbone was gone – airbrushed, thought Tess, just like the conversation they’d had in the Frith Street bar.
That
Mark was gone. This one was back in the game, flashing whitened teeth and a media smile. He didn’t look sad to Tess. He looked hungry. Folding up the newspaper, she felt relieved to have escaped their drunken
tête
-
à
-
tête
with mere concussion. “Mark’s staging a comeback,” she said. “He’s using Jeenie’s death to do it.
He’d
have done the press conference.”

“Over
my
dead body,” choked Rod, sending up a stream of black smoke. “A press conference like this is worth thousands in ad space. D’yer think I were gonna let the police give that kind of publicity to an
ex-
client? Especially a liar like Mark Plimpton. No-one walks out on Rod Peacock and lives to see primetime, d’yer hear me? No-one!” The agent stabbed the air with his cigar. Tess flinched. Both actions seemed to calm him.

“Last time I saw Jeenie, she said Mark were in ten kinds of fookin’ shit, so p’raps
that’s
why ‘ee hasn’t made the Press Conference. Prat couldn’t rustle up the bus fare.”

Tess was surprised. “Jeenie
told
you about Mark’s money troubles?”

He gave a cold, crocodile grin. “She told me a lot more than that.”

“But Jeenie—”

“Was my property,” he snapped. “She owed me.”

Tess turned away. She looked through the glass walls of Rod’s private office to the open-plan agency beyond. Hard, metallic shelves were lined with TV monitors and DVD stacks; the cream carpet strewn with glossy showreels, all stamped with the brand of the ‘Rod Peacock Talent Agency’. Desks were for client biogs, slogan mugs, and the agents themselves – red-eyed and rowdy, crowing into their mobile phones. A boy who looked about twelve and probably controlled the fates of half of
Coronation Street,
played with a yo-yo. Beside him, a girl thin enough to pass through a colander plucked her eyebrows in a heart-shaped mirror and told Kate Thornton
not
to call again.

These were the ones who did the magic, thought Tess, conjured the Jeenies from the bottle. Once back on TV, Jeenie Dempster would have done anything to stay there. Rod Peacock could have counted on it… traded on it. “Are yer listening, woman?” She turned back.

“I
made
that Mark Plimpton.” Cigar twitching in his mouth like a bit of finger, Rod continued to chew over the only client to dare leave him. “I shoulda spat him out years ago, the slimy dick-squirt. He’d a been fookin’
nuthin’
without me.”

He was right, thought Tess. It was Rod and his agents who had the power, who made the calls… and kicked the showreels lying at their feet. By Rod’s own admission, Mark Plimpton had been the only client to try and break free. So what if Tess had been reading Jeenie’s subsequent betrayal of him? All wrong? What if Jeenie
hadn’t
been acting on her own, merely carrying out orders? If Rod Peacock
had
wanted revenge on Mark Plimpton, blackmail would have been just his style, and Jeenie the perfect weapon: lethal to use, and easy to toss.

“A brutal, shocking murder has been committed.” The picture on the flat screen moved to life. The press conference was starting. Colin Pound was looking excitedly at Sandy. Sandy was looking straight at camera. “We are appealing to the public for help.” A senior-looking police officer set out the objectives of today’s exercise. “We need to talk to anyone who might have seen Jeenie Dempster in the days before her death. How did she seem? Was she distressed? Who was she with? We are keen to speak with anyone who might have witnessed the television presenter being harassed or pursued—”

“By anyone at all,” interrupted Sandy. The officer gave her a stony look. Sandy smiled. She thought he was throwing to her, realized Tess. They were here to make TV, weren’t they? “We are looking for
anyone
seen acting suspiciously around Jeenie,” emphasized the show host. “Anyone looking odd – suffering from obesity issues, perhaps, and/or a moustache. Viewers must watch Tess Darling’s
exclusive
interview on tomorrow’s
Stop the World,
where—”

“Alan Pattison is a pervert!” As the police officer blocked Sandy’s mic, Colin Pound started shouting into his. “He is a sex-crazed stalker who had been harassing Jeenie for months. I saw him threatening her – turning violent -”

“The sweaty bollock-bag,” said Tess. “He’s making it all up—”

“Let ‘im.” Rod watched Colin cut short by the MET. “Tomorrow’s edition of
Live With
will be the last time you see the fleshy twat.”

“What do you mean?”

Rod drew his thumb across his throat, and made a slitting noise. “On terrestrial at least. Pound
might
have some UKTV left in ‘im, I grant yer, but the channel wants him off
Live With -
and so do I.”

“But Colin’s your
client
!”

“That’s right, woman. I make ’em – and I break ’em. Coupla years ago, I saw where cooking were going on TV. Viewers had had their fill of chargrilled goujons, and cous cous on a pan-fried shit. Times were hard, and they wanted cake. But yer great British Bake-Off can only run so long. All this sweet-as-pie, ‘make mine a muffin’, it won’t last. The Recession’s easing off. Our housewives are getting horny, and they want more than a sponge finger off Colin.”

“So, instead, you’re giving them -?”

“Pinny porn. A hot, new chef.” Rod reached into a desk drawer, and pulled out a glossy magazine. “Meet Rutger Aarse.

The magazine was a recent copy of
Attitude
. He threw it across the desk to Tess, opened at a black and white centerfold. Shot ‘arthouse’ style, the photo showed an entirely naked man, covering his modesty with a live (rather large) lamb.

“Why the sheep?” said Tess.

“He’s an animal rights campaigner,” said Rod. “Also an award-winning pâtissier, and Mr Gay Low Countries 2012.”

It was enough to make Tess feel sorry for Colin. Rutger Aarse appeared to be everything you’d want from his name: His body was a mass of well-oiled muscle; his face was lean and wicked. He looked like a satyr – or at least the modern equivalent. “He should be dancing on a podium,” said Tess. “To something by Avicii. Not making puff pastry on a daytime TV show.”

“It’ll do for now,” shrugged Rod. “This stage of his career, the boy just needs a springboard. Look at Jamie Oliver with his
Naked Chef.
”

“Yes, Rod, but Jamie Oliver wasn’t actually naked.”

“More fool him. Rutger’s a top-class baker, and an A-grade tart. I’ve told him to do six months on
Live With,
and shove sex into every fookin’ bun. If that don’t get him on to Channel Four at 8pm, I’ll pack in my talent agency, and go work for
Dave.
”

He had it all sewn up, didn’t he? “Have you run this past Sandy?”

“No need, woman. I’ve already pitched Rutger’s reel to the channel. They love him.”

“But Sandy will go nuts. You can’t replace Colin. You’ll be—”

“Doing her a favour,” said Rod. “She can’t stand the man.”

“Bollocks,” said Tess. “She loves the berk.”

“Not any more, she don’t.”

“But—” Tess thought back to Jeenie’s wake. Mere days ago, Colin and Sandy in the disabled loo. “She’s shagging him.”

“He’s shagging
her,
more like. She’s stuck with it.”

“But… but…”

Rod laughed. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those old-fashioned girls, Tess – the kind who associates sex with love.”

“Or drinking.”

He gave her that. “Sandy was a mess when Mark walked out,” he sighed. “She just wanted Colin to rub her feet and massage her ego. But he got ambitious – the twat. Started talking to her – and me – about the two of them going public, launching themselves as the next Mr and Mrs Daytime. Who was he kidding? Colin Pound’s a bit part, a clown. He’ll go to his grave with “Three Minute Slot” written over him. But there’s nowt more dangerous than a small man with big ideas. So I warned her, I did. Told her to get shot, and fast. But she didn’t listen, and now it’s too late”.

“What do you mean–
too late
?”

“She can’t dump ‘im
now
, can she? Off the show
and
slung out by Sandy, Colin would have no choice. He’d have to cash in his presenter’s retirement plan.”

It took a moment for Tess to catch up. “He’d sell his story? No! Who’d want to read that?”

“
My Sexy Nights with Sandy Plimpton?
A kiss ‘n’ tell on Britain’s Queen of Family Viewing?” Rod sucked on his cigar. “It’d kill her. Worse, it’d knock her ratings. You know, as well as I,
Live With
was bombing before Jeenie’s murder. Your little stunt on
Pardon My Garden
got more than
Jeenie
out of a hole.”

“But Sandy—”

“Is an old war-horse. She knows her gallop on
Stop the World
can’t last forever – and she
don’t
need Colin speeding her trip to the knacker’s yard with tabloid tales of hot flushes and nutty turns. No… “ He regarded the blackened end of his cigar. “Colin may be off the show, but he’s on to Sandy. As long as she wants to stay on the
Live With
sofa, she’s got to keep lover-boy sweet.”

“But that could be years…”

“What can I tell you? Life’s a peach.” Chuckling and giving off black smoke, Rod exuded warmth like a rumbling volcano. He was revelling in the ruin of one client; the perpetual misery of another. Could there
be
a better time?

“Tell me, Rod… “ Tess rose up from her seat. She leant over his desk. “What did Jeenie have on you? Why
did
you take her on?”