Death on Daytime: A Tess Darling Mystery (The Tess Darling Mysteries) (36 page)

“A vicious,
evil
killer is targeting our innocent stars,” Sandy told Camera One. “Before the break, we heard Fergal’s
terrible
account of the savage knife attack that could have killed him last night. Only exceptional courage – and commitment to our viewers – has got him here on the sofa today. Not even that could have been possible, however, without the help of Fergal’s fearless and devoted agent, Rodney Peacock.”

Rod trotted on to set while Sandy was speaking. With the timing of an old pro, he settled on the sofa, as Camera One pulled out to a two-shot. Then a gasp went round studio.
Another
man was slipping to the couch: Mark Plimpton, wearing a silky, pink shirt and a self-satisfied grin. Running a hand through his gleaming, blond mane, he winked to camera as if he’d never been away.

“Wha–?” spluttered Sandy, her head spinning between her ex and her agent, like a woman possessed.

“I know, woman, I don’t like ‘im any more than you do,” said Rod. “But it’s only right he’s ’ere. The
Live With
killer plans to slaughter us like fookin’ lambs – and it’s time we faced facts. There’s only
one
sod with balls big enough to stop ’em.”

“J’arrive,” said Tess, stepping in front of the cameras. As she sat down on the sofa between Fergie Flatts and Laura Pound, Rod acknowledged her with a scrunch of his perm. The Plimptons, however, recoiled as one.

“Is this some kind of sick joke?” gasped Sandy. “I must apologise to viewers for this
tasteless
interruption—”

“Shut
oop
woman,” snarled Rod. “I asked her to be ’ere.”

“You
what?
”

“I want an end to this. An end to
all ‘o’’ this
.” The hardened agent waved a hand over the shiny set with its sticky floor, painted faces and fear. “It’s murder, Tess, so tell us. Who the fook dunnit?”

Sandy started a terse, automatic apology to viewers for her guest’s “unfortunate language.” A soundman came forward to clip a mic on to Tess’ dress. It was the soundman from her last, fateful
Pardon my Garden
shoot, and he was folding her fingers over the mic’s battery pack.

“Don’t drop it.” He squeezed her hand. “Good luck.” She blinked back tears – tears of sweat, she told herself, just sweat – only they were stinging and blinding, until the rest of studio disappeared and suddenly she was back in the reception of the Rod Peacock Talent Agency, counting the fillings in Dad’s mouth as he threw back his head to laugh at her.

“We’ve been played,” she said. Then louder. “The police, the public, all of us at
Live With
– we’ve been played for fuckwits.”

“Again,” said Sandy. “I apologise to viewers for—”

“The moment Jeenie Dempster’s body was found,” Tess cut in. “You pointed the finger of blame at Alan Pattison, a man
you
claimed to be Jeenie’s stalker.”

“A man we
now
know to be Alan Antony,” said Sandy. “A disgraced children’s presenter, who was
obviously
under the influence of drugs when he attacked Jeenie.”

“And when he attacked Colin?” “Why not?” she spluttered. “Who knows what medication the demented man is under? Anyone who—”

“Shut
oop
, Sandy,” ordered Rod. “Get ter the point, Tess.” He’d not managed to get a straight answer out of her yesterday, but now the cameras were rolling, she had nowhere to hide. “Do you know who killed Jeenie Dempster?”

The studio froze. “No,” said Tess. The studio cracked, groaning. “But I do know who killed Colin.”

It was Miller who gave her the answer. Yesterday, the pair of them had left Rod’s Agency in a sort of stunned silence. Unable to return to her flat (Dad was doubtless already ringing the doorbell) Tess took Miller to pub off Percy Street. Previously, the Newman Arms had housed many a comfy night’s drinking. Tonight, it held two knackered friends trying to out-think a killer.

Still drinking, though.

“It’s like a chain, only I can’t join it up.” Tess drained her whisky. “I can link Jeenie’s death to Colin. I can link Colin’s death to Fergie. But, not for the love of Jim Beam, can I link Fergie back round to Jeenie.”

“You were attacked too, remember,” said Miller. “How do
you
fit into all this?”

“I don’t,” she shrugged. “That’s just it. The murders of Jeenie and Colin were designed to hit the full glare of the spotlight. Fergie and I were attacked in the dark; alone. It feels different, doesn’t it?”

“Maybe the killer was
feeling
different.” Miller’s eyes darkened behind his specs. “They could seem all normal on the surface, but have all these split personalities underneath.”

“Right,” said Tess. “So they go to bed, thinking they’re Hermann Goering, but wake up as Kermit?”

He shrugged. He didn’t mind Tess taking the piss. At least it stopped her doing it to the barman.

“Fuckinell, Miller, if DCI Burns approaches you after this case – and tries to offer you a job as profiler,” said Tess. “Don’t take it.”

“OK.”

“Unless…” she frowned. “Split personalities, you reckon?”

Miller said nothing. He finished his crisps, and watched Tess run her hands through her hair. Something had sparked, hadn’t it? Her blue eyes were shining. Her soft, blonde hair conjured static. “You’re the fairy that fizzes on top of my Christmas tree,” he thought.

But Tess didn’t see him. How could she? Her gaze had lit on a killer.

Shame all she saw
now
was Camera One, flanked by the studio floor manager, urging her on. “I know who killed Colin,” she repeated stupidly. “I mean, I think –”

“You
think?”
said Laura Pound. She hadn’t moved since Tess sat down beside her. Now she spoke like someone winded. “This is my husband’s murder, not some sick guessing game. My poor Colin. He – the newspapers – they’re saying he was killed by this horrible man – Alan Antony – he’s stalking the show – hunting us down –”

“First Jeenie, and then Colin,” nodded Sandy. “Now Fergie, knifed and left for dead by a… a… maniac.”

Tess couldn’t argue. “Last night, I stopped chasing motive. The attacks were too many, and too random. The only link
had
to be a vendetta – an insane crusade pursued by someone with a severe personality disorder.” Slowly, Tess raised her hands. She was giving up Fat Alan. “But then, I thought fuckit.”

“You did
what?
Again,” said Sandy. “I would like to apologise to viewers—”

“Fuckit,” said Tess. “You heard me. Prompted by my trusted assistant Miller – who sadly can’t be with us, due to problems with his car boot – I took a more cock-eyed view. What if the attacks hadn’t stemmed from one personality disorder, but
two personalities
–both very ordered indeed.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’re not looking at one irrational killer, but two extremely sane ones. The first killer murdered Jeenie. The second used the subsequent media storm as cover.”

“For what?” said Mark Plimpton.

“A murder of their own.”

“This is ridiculous,” spluttered Sandy.

“Go on,” said Rod.

“The public furore over Fat Alan – I mean Alan Anthony – created a perfect opportunity. Colin’s killer just had to repeat the original MO – and strike live on TV – to get Alan promoted from stalker to serial killer. Sure enough, Colin Pound choked to death on his own apple pie – in front of millions of open-mouthed viewers.”

“Stop,” cried Laura Pound. “Why are you
saying
these things? Such painful – I can’t listen—” She rose awkwardly from the sofa, fumbling for her clip mic. “I came here to appeal for help in finding Colin’s killer – not to regurgitate the horrible details of his death.”

She’d have fled, had a gentle giant not loomed from the shadows to block her path.

“Sit down Mrs Pound,” said Miller. “You’re not going anywhere.”

T
ess could have cheered. Instead, she said, “Where’ve you bloody
been?
I’m stood here, on live TV, like a plum. Well, did you get it?”

“I got it,” he said. “Got the car boot open. Got the memory card from the camera. Gave it to Di.”

“And my car boot?”

“All bashed-up. Things fell off. Now what?”

“
I’m
leaving,” said Laura. “This show is a travesty. I have a husband to bury.”

Once again, however, Miller blocked her. Gently, he gestured for Laura to return to the sofa. “Please,” he said. “Or I shall have to sit on you.”

“For just a second,” said Tess. “We don’t want to add to your suffering, Laura,to lose your husband in this way? After so many years of happy marriage? It was to
spare
your feelings that we spoke to your husband’s agent. Rod Peacock has been very helpful.”

Very.

Yesterday, in the glass heart of his talent agency, Tess had struck a deal. She would keep forever quiet about the relationship between Jeenie and Rod’s son, Aaron. In exchange, Rod would strong-arm both Mark Plimpton and Laura Pound on to today’s show. In the event, the wily media operator did much more. “He told me how you’d given up a successful career to support your husband, Laura; how you washed for Colin, shopped for him, never left his side. He must have adored you.”

As Laura inclined her heavy head, Tess could almost hear the crunch of Sandy’s nose being put out of joint.
She
was Colin’s aggrieved mistress, after all. She trumped any grieving widow. “
Sit down,
Mrs Pound,” said Sandy. “You are
blocking the cameras
.”

As Sandy yanked Laura down on to the sofa, Tess took back the floor. “What
usually
happens when a man is murdered?” she paced. “The police go straight for the wife. Unfair, I know, but you can’t blame them. After all, who knew more about Colin’s fatal allergy than the woman who loved him? Who better to spike Colin’s pâtisseries than the wife who trucked them over from France? Fuckit, who’d cash in his life insurance when he died?” His widow made a choking noise. “Tell them, Laura: who makes the most money from your husband’s death?”

A blush rose up Laura’s sinewy neck. She raised a hand to her throat. “Sandy Plimpton.”

A gasp went around studio. Sandy Plimpton tensed. Laura merely tightened her collar. “
Live With
was Colin’s life’s work,” she said. “He dedicated his life insurance policy to his Executive Producer. What’s wrong with that?”

Nothing. There was nothing Tess could say. Except… “Gideon.”

“Gideon?” frowned Laura.

“Gideon.” She said it louder now, then stopped, as if listening for something. When nothing happened, she threw back her head and roared. “GIDEON, DO NOT DO THIS TO ME, I AM ON LIVE TV”

“
I’m here, I’m here. Hold your horses
!” Her researcher trotted out from behind Camera Two, clutching a round, brown paper parcel. “Boy, does this thing stink.”

It was the parcel Tess and Miller had intercepted outside the Pounds’ house. As she took it from Gid, Tess noted the stench had grown fouler, but the shape remained round, hard… and like a human head. “This came for you yesterday, Laura,” said Tess. “But we wanted to deliver it personally.” She rolled the parcel on to Laura’s lap. “Aren’t you going to open it?”

Mrs Pound, however, appeared paralysed. It was the others on the sofa who stirred: Mark Plimpton started running his hands through his greasy mane, Rod Peacock tensely scrunching his perm. Sandy Plimpton was twitching like a lobster over the pot. All eyes were trained on the terrible parcel.

Reaching forward, Tess tore off a strip of brown paper to reveal the source of the gut-churning stink.

It was a red, waxy ball of Edam.

“Cheese?” said Sandy.

“Not just
any
cheese,” said Miller.

“First prize in the Hotel Rjinsburg raffle,” explained Tess. “When I called the hotel yesterday, the management apologised for the delay in completing their summer draw, and were delighted your prize had arrived safely. They asked me to pass on their congratulations, and hope you will enjoy the cheese as a reminder of the time you and your husband spent with them.”

“Wha – I – there must be some mistake.” A shadow passed over Laura’s flat, grey face like cloud over a headstone. “I’ve never heard of the Hotel Rjinsburg.”

“Not many have,” said Rod. “It’s a crummy hole in the arse-end of Holland. But it landed on the last leg of your blessed husband’s book research tour.
Around the World in 80 Cakes
? More like 80 corks,” he wheezeddisconsolately. “They were popping all the way from Paris. By the time you guys hit Amsterdam, he’d blown half the budget on champagne, fine wines and fookin’ wheels of Brie. So I told Cleo to stick the pair of you in any hotel with running water. You only got
that,
because Holland hit a heatwave; the book needed photos, and we coulda stored anchovies in the sweat pourin’ off your Colin.”

“Speaking of the photos,” said Tess. “You appear in one yourself, Laura: look.”

As she’d been speaking, Miller had reached into the pocket of his duffle coat. Now he pulled out one of the discounted hardbacks, found in the Pounds’ skip. Tess held it up briefly for viewers. “
Around the World in 80 Cakes.
Page 106 shows Laura and Colin, ‘going Dutch’ last summer.” She snapped the book shut, and thrust it at Laura.

“Yesterday, at Rod’s
gentle
behest, Cleo scanned the page to the manager of
The Rjinsburg.
He recalled the photo. Of course, he did. It had been taken outside the hotel – by one of his waiters. A charming guy, apparently, very eager to help. Perhaps you remember him?”

Laura merely smiled. She set the hardback down beside her, like a choirgirl tucking away a hymn book. Then she placed her palms back on the red ball of Edam cheese, as if it were the world in her hands. She was serene and untouchable. There was no part of her scared or desperate; no hint of the wild, fearful woman whom Tess had caught fleeing the seedy, secret annexe of the Soho Club.

Or was there? This past week, Tess had suspected some link between Mrs Pound and the man with the half-big box. Yesterday, she got corroboration: Boris’ cleaner friend had seen the man on the day in question. He’d stood waiting in the club’s lounge – for over an hour – clutching his box the whole time. When he did briefly put it down – to use the bathroom – the cleaner had succumbed to her suspicions. What if the box contained drugs? Or a bomb?