Dead on Cue (21 page)

He turned to the constable who was sitting in the passenger seat beside him. ‘Tell me about your Uncle Arthur,' he said.

Pickup jumped, as if he'd been given an unexpected electric shock. ‘What was that, sir?'

‘Your Uncle Arthur. Tell me why he doesn't like Val Farnsworth.'

‘How did you . . . who told you—?'

‘That doesn't really matter,' Rutter interrupted. ‘I am right, aren't I? He doesn't like her? Because of what happened with Ellie Tomkins?'

‘Well, yes, in a manner of—'

‘So tell me what happened.'

The young constable had turned as red as a beetroot. ‘It all happened a long time ago, sir,' he said awkwardly, ‘back when I was nowt but a nipper.'

‘So you don't really know?'

‘I know all right. What I wasn't told, I've managed to piece together myself, but even so . . .'

‘What?'

‘Well, it isn't something you like to talk about, is it?'

‘How will I know that until I've heard what you've got to say?'

‘Well, it's like this,' Pickup said reluctantly. ‘My Uncle Arthur an' Ellie Tomkins had been walkin' out together for over three years, and they were just six months off getting wed. Then Ellie broke off the engagement, and went to Manchester to live with Val.'

‘And your uncle blames Val?'

‘That's right, sir.'

‘Isn't that a bit harsh?' Rutter asked. ‘There could have been any number of reasons why Ellie decided not to go through with the marriage, and if Val Farnsworth was kind enough to offer her a roof over her head . . .'

Pickup sighed. ‘You don't understand, sir.'

‘Don't I?'

‘No. You're like all the people in Sladebury. They thought Val was just being kind, an' all – but she bloody wasn't. Ellie didn't just go to live in Val's house, you see. She went to really
live
with her . . . if you see what I mean.'

‘Yes,' Rutter said pensively. ‘Yes, I think I do.'

‘They said
what
?' Jeremy Wilcox demanded.

‘They said that they really didn't have any new bits of script to show you,' Monika answered levelly.

‘Not even for Friday night's show?'

‘Apparently not.'

Wilcox had been sitting in his swivel chair, but now he got up and began to pace the room. ‘They're like the Freemasons,' he said angrily.

‘Who are?'

‘The people who've worked on
Madro
right from the beginning. No, I take that back – they're
worse
than the Masons. At least the funny-handshake brigade are usually willing to let you join them if you've got the right qualifications and think you have something to contribute. But not this lot! Oh no! If you weren't here at the birth of the show, you're nothing – and you never
can be
anything, no matter how good you are.'

‘If you'd tell me what you'd like me to be getting on with, Mr Wilcox . . .' Monika said, with all the uncertainty she imagined a real assistant would feel in this situation.

Then she saw that she might as well not have bothered with the ham acting, because he wasn't even listening.

The director's pace had quickened, so that now he was covering the length of his office in three angry strides, then swinging round to repeat the action in the opposite direction. And though he was still talking, it was fairly obvious that he wasn't talking to
her
.

‘They never wanted me on the show in the first place,' he said angrily. ‘Especially Bill Bloody Houseman! He's always been the worst of the lot. He wanted a poodle, not a director – somebody who'd be happy to sit at his feet and wait to be told what to do. And now they've all got together and think that they can freeze me out. Well, they're wrong – oh
so
wrong. I'm sticking with this show until
I'm
ready to go. And if anyone tries to get in my way, they're going to be very, very sorry.'

W
oodend was late for the meeting in the Drum and Monkey. He hadn't planned to be, but he was, and as a result Rutter and Paniatowski found themselves alone together in the bar. For the first couple of minutes they both tried to maintain a friendly façade by making safe – almost sterile – comments on topics that even
they
could not possibly disagree over, but that soon became a strain, too, and they lapsed into awkward silence.

It was a relief to them both when the chief inspector finally walked into the bar a good twenty minutes after he'd intended to.

‘Sorry about that,' he said, as he sat down. ‘I tried to get away earlier, but it's not always easy to walk out on the Brass.'

‘You were discussing what should happen now the chief's in hospital, were you?' Rutter asked.

‘Aye,' Woodend agreed. ‘For all them buggers have muttered about how useless John Dinnage was in the past, they're runnin' round like headless chickens at the thought that he might not be there any longer.'

‘How does it look?' Paniatowski asked.

‘Not good,' Woodend said heavily. ‘Even if he does pull through this time, I doubt he'll ever be fit enough to take the drivin' seat again.' He sighed. ‘I'll miss John. He's been a bloody good bobby. An' I don't even want to think about what useless prat they'll probably put in to replace him.' He reached into his pocket and pulled out his Capstan Full Strengths. ‘But enough of that,' he said. ‘Let's get on with the job we've come here to do, shall we?'

For the next half an hour, Woodend and Paniatowski did most of the talking. Rutter, for his part, was quite content to keep his bombshell to himself for a while – if not exactly holding it back, then at least waiting until he could explode it with maximum effect.

It was as Paniatowski was outlining that afternoon's incident in the scriptwriters' office that Woodend held his hand up for silence. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, then opened them again and said, ‘I don't like the picture I'm startin' to build up. I don't like it at all.'

‘What's wrong with it?' Paniatowski asked.

‘It's all a bit too neat. A bit too much like paintin' by numbers.' The chief inspector shrugged. ‘But then even if it
is
obvious, there's still no reason why it can't be the truth, is there?'

‘What's obvious?' Paniatowski said. ‘Do you think you know who killed Valerie Farnsworth?'

‘Aye. An' I think I know
why
.'

Rutter grinned at the look of exasperation which had appeared on Paniatowski's face. He might have looked like that once, too, but he had been working for Cloggin'-it Charlie for long enough now to accept that the oblique statements and long pauses were vintage Woodend, and that the easiest thing to do was to let him move at his own pace.

‘It's not a motive that would make
me
want to kill,' the chief inspector continued, ‘but then I'm not him, am I?'

Rutter wondered idly how long Paniatowski could hold out. He had counted to eight when she finally said, ‘So what
is
the motive?'

‘It's very simple,' Woodend told her. ‘Valerie Farnsworth was killed as a way of ensurin' the continued success of
Maddox Row
.'

‘Go on,' Paniatowski said.

‘After a long run as an unprecedented success, the show was starting to lose some of its audience. So what could the producer, the man who reaps most of the rewards for success – an' takes most of the blame for failure – do about it? Well, killin' off one of the leadin' characters has worked for other shows, an' so Bill Houseman started playin' around with the idea of doin' just that on
Maddox Row
. But
Madro
isn't like any of the shows that have gone before it – it's trail blazin' an' unique – so there were no guarantees that the same old solutions would work this time. On the other hand, if instead of just killin' off a character, you actually killed off the actress who's playin' her—'

‘But why does it have to be Houseman?' Paniatowski interrupted. ‘Why couldn't it have been someone else who'd lose out if
Maddox Row
went down the drain?'

‘Because it matters a lot more to him than it does to anybody else,' Woodend said. ‘When you've been involved with as many murders as I have, you find you start askin' yourself what it'd take to make
you
kill. Well, I think I've come up with an answer for myself – the only reason I'd murder anybody would be to protect my daughter.'

‘
Just
your daughter?' Paniatowski asked. ‘Not your wife as well?'

‘Joan an' me have been together for a long time, an' if anythin' ever happened to her, it would be the end of me,' Woodend said seriously. ‘But I still don't think I could force myself to kill for her. Annie's different. I know I've not always been the ideal father . . .' He paused. ‘No, let's be honest, I've
never
been the ideal father, I've not even come close to it. But I do bear part of the responsibility for bringin' Annie into the world, an' that gives me a duty to look after her. She might be all grown-up now, an' not even want my help any more, but that doesn't matter. However she sees herself, to me she's still my baby. An'
Maddox Row
is Houseman's!'

‘But even if you're right, why choose the most popular character in the whole programme?' Paniatowski asked. ‘He'd been planning to kill off Larry Coates's character – why not kill off Coates himself?'

It was the moment to drop the bombshell, Rutter decided. ‘I think I might have an answer to that,' he said, smiling.

‘Go on, lad,' Woodend said.

‘Monika thinks that Diana Houseman is – for want of a better phrase – a loose woman,' Rutter said.

Paniatowski frowned. ‘From what I've seen today, I'd say she's having it off with
somebody
at the studio – and I've got a good idea who,' she admitted.

‘I think you're only seeing one side of the picture,' Rutter said.

‘So why don't you show us the other side,' Paniatowski countered.

Rutter turned to Woodend. ‘When you were talking to George Adams this morning, he accused Valerie Farnsworth of biting the hand that fed her – Bill Houseman's hand – didn't he?'

‘That's right, he did,' Woodend agreed.

‘And when you pressed him, he said it was a personal matter rather than a professional one.'

‘True.'

‘So what you have to ask yourself is how Valerie Farnsworth hurt Houseman in a personal way.'

‘Why don't you just tell us – since you've obviously already worked it out?' Paniatowski said sourly.

‘I learned something very interesting about Valerie Farnsworth this afternoon,' Rutter said. ‘She was a lesbian.'

‘Oh well, if she was a lesbian, she got no more than she deserved,' Monika Paniatowski said. ‘There's no point in us wasting any more of our time investigating a
lesbian
murder, is there?'

‘Shut up, Monika,' Woodend said. ‘I think Bob may be on to something here.'

‘Perhaps Diana Houseman
is
having an affair with a man at the studio, as the sergeant seems to think,' Rutter said, ‘but perhaps she was also having an affair with a
woman
.'

‘With Valerie Farnsworth?'

‘Exactly. Now it's possible that Houseman doesn't know she's having an affair with this man. But it's equally possible that he does, and has forced himself to come to terms with it. He wouldn't be the first man to play it that way.'

‘No,' Woodend agreed. ‘He wouldn't.'

‘But to find out your wife has been betraying you with another
woman
. . . well, that's an entirely different matter. I can't think of any man I know who'd be willing to accept that.'

‘So you're saying that any man who discovered his wife was having an affair with a lesbian would kill her?' Paniatowski asked.

‘No, of course not,' Rutter said dismissively. ‘But given that he was planning to murder
someone
, anyway, wouldn't that discovery automatically make her the prime candidate? Wouldn't it be the perfect way of killing two birds with one stone – of protecting his programme
and
getting revenge on Val Farnsworth for the way she's humiliated him?'

‘Yes,' Paniatowski said grudgingly. ‘Yes, it does make sense. But even if you're both right about Houseman, it won't be easy to prove it.'

‘Won't be easy!' Woodend repeated. ‘Given the chaos in the studio on the night of the murder, and the fact that we've got over two dozen people without watertight alibis, it could be nearly bloody impossible.'

Woodend knew that something was wrong the moment he turned the corner and saw his wife standing in front of their cottage door.

Joan never waited on the doorstep for him! When she heard his car approaching, she automatically switched on the kettle and the television, then started cooking the meal. That was what she always did. That was what she'd done every working day of her entire married life!

He brought the car to a halt at the far side of the house, and as he put on the handbrake, he noticed that his hands were shaking. He didn't even have time to get out of the vehicle before Joan was by his side.

‘What's the matter, love?' he asked fearfully.

‘Annie . . .'

‘What's happened to her?'

‘She . . . she told me she was goin' over Rosemary's house after school, an' that Rosemary's dad would bring her home.'

‘Then what are you worryin' about?'

‘I went up to her room about half an hour ago, to see if she had any washin' she needed doin'. The first thing I noticed was that her suitcase wasn't on top of her wardrobe, and then I saw this lyin' on her bed.' She thrust a piece of paper into Woodend's hand. ‘Read it! Read it, Charlie.'