Death on Daytime: A Tess Darling Mystery (The Tess Darling Mysteries) (33 page)

Last night, Tess had struck a deal with Rod. While Aaron remained a plausible suspect for both killings, Tess couldn’t promise to keep the Peacocks’ secrets. She had, however, agreed to give them a few hours’ grace – time enough for the shrewd king of spin to work out some sort of damage-limitation strategy for his vulnerable son. In return, Rod had revealed the recipients of Jeenie and Colin’s life insurance policies: Mark and Sandy Plimpton respectively.

“
If
Peacock told us the truth,” she accelerated towards a roundabout, “Jeenie bought her life insurance policy, just as her affair with Mark Plimpton was taking off. She probably seized the chance to show-boat her love – and put him as beneficiary. By the time they split up, I bet she’d forgotten all about it.”

“But had
Mark?
” asked Miller.

“Good question,” she replied. “All we know is Plimpton meekly let Jeenie blackmail him to the point of bankruptcy – and then, miracle of miracles, got his money back five times over when she died. No wonder he’s driving a Hummer around with his stiffy.”

It stank, she decided, but not as much as what they’d learnt about Colin. According to Rod, the murdered TV chef had been so convinced he was about to forge a new life with Mark’s estranged wife, he’d put her down as sole recipient of his life insurance policy: when Colin died, his own wife got nothing. Sandy Plimpton, on the other hand, was set to become almost a million pounds richer.

Together or apart, the ‘much-loved’ Plimptons had come out of this bloodbath smelling of roses. If Rod Peacock was to be believed, that is. “We need to call Di,” decided Tess. “You’d better do it. I doubt she’ll pick up to me.”

Miller rang Di’s mobile three times; her home phone twice. “Can you stop doing that?” she finally picked up. “Iss half past seven! I only stopped drowning my sorrows two hours ago.” Congratulating her, Miller held the phone up to Tess.

“We need Colin Pound’s address.” Tess shouted into it. “We’ve got to talk to his wife.”

“Why?” said Di. “You’re not doing no more investigatin’ are you? Bluddy hell, Tess, it’s not safe—”

“And it’ll
ruin
your looks.” Another voice joined Di’s, down the line. “Just look at Columbo.”

“Gideon!” beamed Miller. “What are you doing in bed with Di?”

“Healing,” sighed Gid. “Nine straight Mojitos and we
all
need a bosom for a pillow.”

“Well, those pillows need to get themselves to a Rolodex,” said Tess. “We don’t have time to hear about—”

“ITV1’s new, daily chat show?” Gideon was a study in nonchalance. “
Tell It to the Plimptons.
Coming shortly to your screens for a sixty episode run.”

“You
what?”

“Prostituted myself for the cause,” he said. “Shortly after
you
got us all sacked yesterday –
don’t
think I’ve forgotten, you cheeky bitch, I only forgive today because I’m tired – we got word in the pub: ITV were holding a launch for some lavish, new drama flop, so Di and I took ourselves off for a last hurrah and I
inadvertently
seduced some ITV big cheese into confirming some ITV
big
news. Mark Plimpton is to front their new, teatime chat show.” He paused dramatically. “On
one
condition.”

“Not…”

“He bring in his wife as co-host. “Can you believe it?”

The cheek of the man, marvelled Tess, the desperation: No wonder the hard-up host had been knocking down his wife’s dressing room door. No wonder he was celebrating the removal of
both
their troublesome lovers.

“I would have found out more,” said Gideon. “But we got pressed against the buffet and I realised the ITV big cheese had the most ginormous—”

“Stop now,” said Tess. She had a job for him. “You need to get off Di’s pillows, and head back to Backchat.”

“No,” said Gideon. “Security escorted us out of the building yesterday. Sandy will kill me if I go back”.

“And I’ll kill you if you don’t,” said Tess. “I don’t care
who
you have to press up against: you and Di need to get into Archive. You need to scroll through stored footage of
Live With
, specifically clips from Mark Plimpton’s time on the show. Whenever you see a mark on the man – the smallest dent, the slightest scrape – I want it logged, time-coded, and stuck on a memory stick.”

Much had happened since Tess had fought off Mark in his Hummer. But now the Plimptons were back in her thoughts, so were the scars she’d uncovered on Mark’s face – and the hideous burn on his chest. Tess may have lost her job, but if she could just keep focus—”Di, are you still there?”

“No,” replied her ex-production manager. “I’m not giving you Pound’s address – and I’m not helping Gid. I think it’s bluddy mad what you’re doin’.”

“But—”

“I can just about forgive you for losing us our jobs. Sandy Plimpton’s a nasty piece of work and, fair dos, you
were
trying to help Fat Alan—”

“I still am, Di. Don’t you get it? Alan’s going down for double murder. He’s got nobody but us. Please Di, do it for him?”

An indignant pause followed. “I’ll do it for you,” said Di. “Plus, I owe Sandy one. If I
gotta
do an ‘angover poo, it might as well be in the loos by her.”

After a brief delay to go through her files – and “do a little bitta sick”–Di produced the Pounds’ postcode. Tess tapped it into her SatNav. “Shouldn’t take more than 40 minutes,” she muttered, easing her Fiat on to a main tributary out of London. They hurtled towards the Kent commuter belt on a wave of breaking news. Good as his word, Rod had unleashed the press hounds of hell. “
Stalker’s Famous Past Exposed”,
“
Suspect Nursed Twenty Year Obsession with Murdered Woman”.
As Tess slowed past a row of shops, Miller paused his iPhone news trawl to read out the headlines on a newspaper rack:
”Secret Vendetta of Fallen Drug Fiend”, “Alan Ate My Hamster. And Then He Ate My Chips.”

Tess turned on the car radio. “Police are treating the death of TV chef, Colin Pound, as murder,” Sarah Montague confirmed on Radio 4’s Today programme. “Meanwhile, dramatic information has come to light on a suspect for the killing of Pound’s colleague, Jeenie Dempster. Alan Pattison, then known as Alan Antony, co-hosted a Saturday morning show,
Wacky House,
with the dead woman. Police are now keen to re-interview Pattison, who is believed to have been stalking the victim prior to her murder. The current whereabouts of Pattison, however, are unknown. Talent agent Rod Peacock represented both the murdered presenters, and is calling for an immediate escalation into the hunt for the missing man.”

“
Pattison is a lunatic”,
Rod’s synch cut in. “
The man’s got a vendetta against Live With, and he’s gonna kill again”.
He must have been making himself ‘available for comment’, even as he left Tess’ flat. “
Tune inter tomorrer’s show ter find out who could be next!”

It could have been her. Tess flinched at the memory of last night’s attack. What if her Mum was wrong, and Rod was right? The killer
hadn’t
identified Tess as a serious threat, but an easy target – one of the more accessible cast of
Live With.
She gripped the steering wheel.
Was
an evil assailant silencing them, one by one? No, she ground up a gear, not Alan. He lacked the strength – and the leather gloves. Aaron Peacock? He couldn’t have put his hands over her mouth. He’d been wringing them in her lounge.

Briefly, Tess considered a third option: a random psychopath, lurking in the shadows, primed to kill? Then how to explain the inside knowledge they’d shown, every step of their bloody way?

No. No matter how she hammered at this case, one simple truth emerged: the only two people
known
to benefit from the deaths of
both
Jeenie and Colin were Mark and Sandy. Mr & Mrs Plimpton, still sharing their ghastly spotlight.

Fuck ’em, she revved. Last night Tess had been so defeated, her assailant could have knocked her down with a feather. Instead, they attacked her in the street. Once again, she smelt the bitter tang of solvent; felt their glove brush her face. They’d crushed her. Worse, they’d caressed her.

Man alive,
it made her mad. Yanking her radio dial towards Heart FM, Tess got a timely blast of Def Leppard. “All I want!” she roared, rounding a bend. “All I need!”

“
Animaaal!
” yelled Miller, as Tess veered to miss a jack-knifed truck. The Fiat rode up on to the kerb, as she fought to re-gain control. Braking hard, she looked back: the truck had its trailer sprawled across the tree-lined road, its cab buried in the hedge of a private driveway. The sign above the driveway? ‘Country Kitchen’.

The Pounds, shuddered Tess, you couldn’t make them up.

Reversing her car clumsily off the kerb, she abandoned it in a vaguely parked position. Accompanied by Miller, she approached the spilled truck that had almost done for them. It was surrounded by a crowd of people: not concerned onlookers, she realized, but press. They’d obviously been gathered outside the Pounds’ home, in the hope Colin’s widow might emerge and toss them a few tragic quotes. In the absence of such raw, human anguish, however, they appeared quite happy with a traffic accident.

It wasn’t clear what had caused the truck to jacknife, but Tess saw a pissed-off youth up on the trailer, presumably checking for damage to a small, on-board winch. Back in the cab of the truck, the beleaguered driver was trying to climb out but getting speared on broken, privet branches. While the gathered press did their job – stood back and took photos – Miller did his.

“Thanks, mate,” said the driver said, as Miller set him gently on to the pavement. “I was told to pick up a skip from No. 46. Boss didn’t warn me I’d be crashing through a bloody street party!” He nodded at the crowd of reporters spilling across the road as far as the driveway of No.46, aka ‘Country Kitchen’. “How am I supposed to get reversed through this bunch of prats?”

“Come back tomorrow,” advised Tess. With Fat Alan headlining as Serial Killer, Colin Pound would be back to a bit part. “This place will be dead”.

Leaving the driver to his busted winch, she walked up the Pounds’ curved driveway. ‘Country Kitchen’ turned out to be a mock-Tudor mansion with a large, PVC conservatory attached. Crunching over gravel, Tess saw why the assembled press had got so excited about a minor road incident: There was nothing to see here – no cars in the driveway, no lights at home.

“Aren’t we on private property?” Miller caught her up on the doorstep.

“Yes. But since we’ve been fired, we’re no longer intrusive press but concerned friends looking through the window.” Pressing her face up against the lead latticework, Tess saw a gloomy but immaculately tidy sitting room. Very comfortable, she thought, very Kent – thick carpet, tidy furniture, a three-piece suite. The walls were the only distinguishing features. They were devoted to the Stages of Colin, as depicted through a succession of framed, publicity stills from
Country Kitchen
. Hugging the doorway was a picture of Pound, making an early TV appearance. Ruddy cheeks, flushed neck and fat fingers, he was a rising chef, building his flan base. By the time Pound had made it round to the mantelpiece, he was packing an extra 20lbs, and playing celebrity pro-golf. A huge, gilt-framed portrait showed Colin crouching over a nine-iron, touched by what looked like the blessed calf of Catherine Zeta-Jones.

Feeling slightly bilious, Tess headed round the side of the house. The next window showed the cooking quarters. Here the house lived up to its name: snow-white tiles set off by crisp, green gingham curtains, and perfectly-hung tea towels. A scoured, Belfast sink shone beside a dark green Aga. While Colin lived for TV, it appeared his wife was devoted to home. Only the industrial-sized Magimix and ceiling-high shelves of catering pans spoke of the years Laura had spent cooking up a career for her ungrateful, untalented husband. Even now, a stack of baking trays and mixing bowls sat drying on the draining board. Tess imagined Colin’s anxious-to-please widow, scurrying to meet the press with a plate of home-baked treats, her husband’s body still as warm as her cookies…

With a jolt, Tess recalled where she
had
seen Laura yesterday: in the back door of the Soho Club. A world away. Sure enough, Laura had looked lost – dishevelled and scared. Whoever had been roughing up Mrs Pound in the Soho Club, it sure as hell wasn’t her cookies they were after.

“Over here, Tess!” It was Miller. He was peering over the edge of a large skip, by the Pounds’ garden fence. Next thing she knew, he was hauling himself up. “You’ve got to look in here. It’s nicer than my flat.”

“Miller!” Seeing her mate go over the top, Tess got as close as she could to a run. “You’ll break a leg. And I’m not pulling you out. Not again. I’ve still got stretchmarks from the last time.”

Words dried, however. The skip, when she got to it, was lined with results of a garden clearance – dead branches and rotten ivy – but topped off with several bags of gleaming golf clubs, and a dense scattering of mens’ clothes – presumably Colin’s. Among the flashy discards, Tess counted chef’s whites, loud shirts and baggy Calvin Klein underpants. Tossed on top were the tools of his phoney trade – a crème brulee blow-torch, a Harrods egg-whisk, several very sharp knives. Judging from the shine on them, they’d just gone in.

“Mrs Pound must have been having a clear-out.” Miller righted himself among the rubbish, and scratched his mop of black curls. “Do you think she was sad?”

“Fuming.” Tess reached down to pull out a wooden mixing spoon – freshly-snapped. “Is this what happens when a devoted wife discovers her dead husband left a million quid to another woman?” If so, had the discovery occurred before or
after
Laura’s trip to the Soho Club?

Rummaging further, Tess dislodged a stack of glossy hardback books. “Around the World in 80 Cakes” read the title on each. “A voyage of discovery with TV’s Colin Pound.”

The cover showed a jaunty shot of Colin with a string of French onions around his neck. He was holding a suitcase and a wad of plane tickets – and Tess guessed there’d be the usual, flabby smile on his face, but couldn’t be sure because a yellow “50% Off” had been slapped over it. Every copy had received the same slap. Colin must have visited the local Waterstones to snap up his book before no-one else did. Grabbing one of the copies, Tess saw why.