Death on Daytime: A Tess Darling Mystery (The Tess Darling Mysteries) (27 page)

When the smoke cleared, Tess was surprised to find the Soho Club still standing. But the descending gloom of a London night soon eradicated any sign or sound of him. By the time, she’d dusted herself off, the dingy yard was still once more. Good, thought Tess, she was beat. Leaning against the wall, she let herself become just another shadow. When a noise sounded, she didn’t move. She saw, though: movement in the rear recess of the Soho Club. The door marked ‘Private’ opened, and a flushed, heavy-set woman emerged.

It was Laura Pound. Widow to a murdered chef. Mother of all surprises.

Tess let out a sound. Laura heard it; she stopped in the doorway. She peered in Tess’ direction, but appeared unable to penetrate the gloom. Her frown was unfocussed. But her thick neck was taut, her whole body emanating tension.

As if thinking better of her chosen exit, Laura retreated soundlessly behind the door.

Tess was left staring at the ‘Private’ sign, wondering why Colin’s stolid wife was trying to slip unseen from a seedy club that rented out rooms by the hour. More importantly, what had torn the top buttons from her shirt, and pulled at her hair? The tightly-clamped Alice band was gone; her bob was tangled and loose.

Mrs Pound usually had the implacable front of a thickset librarian. Not today, though. Today, she looked scared.

As Laura retreated, Tess advanced. Stepping out of the shadows, she moved towards the door marked ‘Private’. She pushed, and felt it give.

Naturally, the man behind reception was useless. “Our members come here for privacy,” he said. “We give it to them.”

Entering through the back door, Tess had found herself in a corridor so dimly-lit, she’d practically had to feel her way to the foyer. Front of house had proved no lighter or more welcoming. The sole member of staff wore a maroon, velvet suit and no expression, melding so completely with his setting, Tess only spotted him when he moved to throw her out.

She’d elbowed him back, and taken stock. With opulent, purple curtains drawn across the windows, mirrors veiled in black, and a cloying odour of scented candles and stale cigars, the place felt more opium den than ’boutique hotel’. Mark Plimpton hadn’t been kidding: The main Soho Club may give its private members all the publicity they craved, but this annexe really
did
pride itself on its discretion. When Tess asked after Laura Pound, the receptionist recoiled. “I am not in a position to reveal any information about any of our guests, present or past.”

“I don’t want her life story,” said Tess. “Just confirmation: Laura Pound was here. Who with?”

He looked blank. Tess guessed this was her cue to produce a winning argument; failing that, a bribe. Rummaging through her Puffa, she produced three Strong Mints and a sock. She pushed them towards the vampiric receptionist, and nodded at the sock. “There’s another where that came from.”

He didn’t bite. Instead, he swept her mints into a bin, returned her sock on the point of his Mont Blanc pen, and summoned a security guard. This being the intimate annexe of the Soho Club, the guard came wearing peacock blue, embroidered pyjamas. He looked like Dolf Lundgren. As he marched Tess from the club, he said nothing, simply squeezed her shoulders. She stiffened: his touch felt good. Less bouncer, (she knew that grip), more masseur. Ejected from the premises, Tess wondered if the obedient Dolf did more than
guard
the bodies of their guests.

Further conjecture was cut off by the need to re-orient. Pushed through an even more dismal door than the one through which she’d arrived, Tess found herself in a narrow, litter-strewn alley. She wasn’t the only one. Huddled in a doorway opposite was a skinny, young man. He was wearing a donkey jacket over a pale blue, polyester kimono – like a lower caste version of Dolf – and sucking on a cigarette.

“Boris,” he grinned.

“Tess,” she grinned back.

“They caught you nicking the soaps?” He took her frown for a ‘yes’. “It’s a joke, da? We clean up their mess – these saggy stars and titty celebrities with their snorting and their shagging. They think we so stupid, but
they
the ones who drop their Rolex in the towels, or lose their phone under the bed. And leave their rolled-up fifties in the ashtray.” Crossing the alley, Boris started to punch a security code into the door above her head.

“You
clean
here?” said Tess. “At the Soho Club?”

He nodded. “For just one more year, da? Then I fly home like king to my Latvian bride. Rich from the droppings of your silly, celebrutty pigeons.” He flashed a knowing grin, prompting her to recall the words of Fat Alan’s hard-worn mother:
Just because I clean for a living – wipe old people’s bums – don’t make me stupid.
Nor did it make them blind, thought Tess.

“Wait,” she grabbed his arm. “You didn’t see a woman come out of this door a minute ago? Big shoulders, heavy jaw… messed-up-looking, you know?”

“I know. I see her.” Boris jerked his head. She go that way. Down alley. Then man go after.”

Tess felt her skin prickle. “What man?”

“I see no face. Man hurry.”

The lad was losing interest, Tess could tell, gearing up to start his shift. “Please,” she said.

“He wear long coat. Carry box.”

“What sort of box?”

“Square box.” He punched in the entry code, and pushed open the door.

“Big?”

“Half-big.” Moving inside, he threw a last crumb over his shoulder. “Big enough you could put a hat in. Or a present maybe. You know, some books?”

Books? At the Soho Club? The only thing perused here were labels on the booze. Boris was doubtless describing the poor sod tasked with emptying the hotel mini-bars. Still… a talkative cleaner with access to every room of the Soho Club was worth fifty mute receptionists who never made it out from behind their potted Bonsai. “If you see either of them again – the messed-up woman or her friend with the half-big box – will you let me know?” Politely, Boris shook his head. “I’ll make it worth more than a few smelly soaps,” she shouted through the closing door.

He opened it again. Some energetic haggling took place. Half an hour later, following a costly diversion to aa cash till on Frith Street, Tess finally made it into Backchat.

She climbed the stairs towards the
Live With
offices, pursued by an image of Laura Pound emerging from the back yard of the Soho Club annexe. Who the hell had been terrorising Colin’s widow in media’s most exclusive haunt? Was it the man who’d gone after her, clutching a suspicious package?

Entering the open-plan production floor, she tried to rein in her excitement. Whatever was going on with Laura, it was unlikely to bear directly on the murders. Mrs Pound had adored the second victim, barely known the first. Mark Plimpton, on the other hand…

Tess tensed, as she recalled her introduction to the Soho Club’s hidden annexe. Mark Plimpton had shown a violent loss of control – and sense of entitlement – that could easily commute to murder. More importantly, he’d mauled her inside a brand new, £50k Hummer, when last week – to quote Rod Peacock – he’d been running short of bus fare.

Reaching
Pardon My Garden’s
office, however, Tess felt the adrenalin drain from her. The tiny room, usually cramped and busy, was quiet as death. Staff count was down to a researcher and a production manager: Gideon comforted by Welsh Di. Both looked shaken. “What is it?” said Tess.

“Bad news,” said Di. “You might want to sit down, love.”

L
ike everything in Tess’ life, this was easier said than done.
Pardon My Garden
was a weekly item on a daily, two hour show. This was reflected in the office space accorded its production team, currently a 4ft x 6ft space between the staff loos and a fire exit. Props and filming equipment dotted the office infrastructure. A row of potted palms abutted the Xerox machine. Filing cabinets were piled high with tomato grow-bags, seed packets were stacked against the printer. Production staff were forced to take a back seat; failing that, a garden chair. (Di worked at a plastic picnic table, while Gideon did his best thinking on a sun-lounger). Tess had the only desk.

Moving towards it, she realised how much her life had changed in the past few days. A pile of once-pressing admin – draft call sheets and weather print-outs – lay untouched. The cart of viewing rushes that usually sat beside her chair had been shoved out of the way by a shiny, silver trolley. On it, sat a huge, round cake. It was covered in rich, pink frosting, and had a message piped across the top: “GOODBYE
PARDON MIJN GARTEN,”
read the sweet, swirly script. “U ARE TOTAAL FIRED.”

“Sacked,” said Di. “Can you bluddy believe it? Sandy Plimpton’s gone and sacked the whole buggery lot of us!”

“By
cake
?”

“My idea.” A lazy voice came from behind the bank of potted palms. “Isch important to have a human touch, ja?”

Tess pulled back the jungle curtain to reveal the tanned, muscular form of Rutger Aarse. He was stretched out on a hammock, strung up between the Xerox machine and a Flymo hover-mower.
Miller’s
hammock, thought Tess: He’d swing there, like a cheerfully-marooned sailor, while Tess put together their next shoot. Occasionally, he’d offer filming suggestions; mostly he’d discuss
Dancing with the Stars…
bad smells on the Jubilee Line…and his plans to have healthy soup for lunch. Or two burgers.

Now Miller was gone, however. He’d let something bad happen to him. Worse, he’d left her. With Rutger Aarse and his poisonous cake. “I fink I use the recipe when I start tomorrow on
Live With
,” the chef smiled up at her. “But first I try on you guys. You call this market research, ja?”

“I call this Fuck Off.” Grabbing the edge of the hammock, Tess toppled Rutger to the ground. “You’ve yet to make it on set. Since when did
you
start delivering Sandy’s bad news?”

Yesterday, she could understand: Her boss had been weak, Rutger her knight in bulging armour. But this cake smacked of something more. Already, he was her chief executioner and pâtissier?

“Schandy needs me. Ja, I take her home.” Rutger rose up. “After Colin die, she not feel so good. Very tense, very tight – sche need to relax.” He was wearing the same black jeans as yesterday, with an even tighter black vest. Tess guessed the latter was a souvenir of the Dutch player’s podium-dancing days. A blood-red emblem across the front of the vest showed a figure swinging round a pole at
Klub Sexy Rjinsburg.

“Be happy, I schay.” He was enjoying her eyes on him. “Everybody free, ja? So me and Schandy, we haf a liddle fun. We…unwind. Schandy Plimpton, powerful lady, ja? She hating
you.”
He stroked his arm, musing. “Want you allen
totaal
sacked. Wanna write email, but I schay,
No lady! Let your Aarse work for you – I schow you what I cam do.
Isch cool, ja?” He eyed his creation, and the languidity left him. Tess watched the saturnine chef grow excited, cooing over his pink-frosted cake, like the Grim Reaper over a hostess trolley. “You like?”

“I no like!” said Tess. “Out. Away. Bog off with you!” Dragging Rutger from his ghastly gateau, she bundled him past tomato grow-bags that bore testimony to months of honest sweat and shoddy labour. Thrusting him at the lift, she hit ‘Down’.

“Wow,” he giggled. “You even more tight than Schandy. So how about it? You wanna have a liddle fun with big Aarse?”

As the door closed, she kicked it.

“Fuckinell,” said Tess, returning to the remnants of her production team. “What a git. Poor Sandy.

“Poor Sandy?” said Gideon. “Poor
Sandy?!
The Wicked Twitch is throwing us into the street, and you feel
sorry
for her?”

He had a point. Fenced off from the rest of the floor by potted palms and bad attitude, her
Pardon My Garden
team had operated one of the most hectic and pointless shoots in British television. Slumping down at her desk, Tess knew she’d miss it. “Sandy really sacked
everyone
?”

“According to Rutger,” nodded Di. “We gotta be out by 5pm today.”

“The dream is over,” said Gid. “Farewell to fame, and hie me to a job at JD Sports.” Despite his histrionics, he looked genuinely heartbroken. Di was looking pretty close to tears herself, as she huddled over her Backchat laptop, and tried to wipe Gideon’s email history with Gay Match.Com from the company’s server.

“This is all my fault,” said Tess. “I could’ve stopped this—”

“Stopped what, love?” Di looked up from her screen. “Sandy being a bitch? Colin being dead? None of this is down to you. It’s down to bluddy Jeenie getting herself killed, and giving the lot of them ideas—”

“Exactly. I knew from the start. You didn’t.” Di and Gid stared at her – they
looked
to her – but hell, she owed them the truth. “As soon as Sandy got the stalker story off the ground, she made it clear: she wanted Fat Alan. And she’d fire Miller – she’d fire
you
guys – if I didn’t deliver. I hoped it might turn out to be some big bluff. I jettisoned Alan’s piece to camera, thinking I could throw Sandy some
other
bone to chew on. If I just produced enough new material, she’d leave Alan alone—”

“So that night in the edit… when we were helping you cut together that replacement tape,” said Di. “We were helping to put ourselves out of a job? Bluddy hell, woman, you let us
do
that?” Cardiff outrage sang. “Without giving us no buggery
choice?
”

“Everything was happening so fast,” pleaded Tess. “Alan had seemed so sad and helpless. I couldn’t bear to sell him down the—”

“Oh, tin it!” Gid leapt to his feet. “You couldn’t bear to give up your lousy shot at fame!”

“What do you mean?”

“Your lousy report. You had to be different, didn’t you? Play the heroine and champion Fat Alan when no-one else would. Acting like some hot-shot reporter with your ‘exclusive footage’ and ‘exciting, new leads’–you weren’t thinking about us at all.” Hurt poured out of him. “You were just trying to outdo your Dad.”

Tess looked down. Her desk – the crap on it – everything blurred for a second. Her father had won again, hadn’t he? Gid knew it, she knew it, and when the
Panorama
exposé hit, the whole sodding world would know it. Darcus Darling had landed one more scoop: Tess.