Dead on Cue (27 page)

Paniatowski nodded sympathetically, but said nothing.

‘I can normally tell when most people are lyin',' the chief inspector continued. ‘But these buggers make a livin' out of lyin'. Was Paddy Colligan tellin' us the truth back there?'

‘I don't know,' Paniatowski confessed.

‘An' neither do I. How the hell am I supposed to get these people to give themselves away when they spend their whole time thinkin' on their feet?'

There was a knock on the door, and a constable entered the room, followed by the dead producer's wife.

Diana Houseman was wearing a thick red lipstick which emphasised her sensuous lips, and a purple mascara which made her eyes look even larger than they actually were. The hem of her dress fell well below the knee, but the split up the side of the skirt virtually ensured that when she sat down she would display a considerable amount of leg. She overdid things, Woodend thought – maybe that came from her theatrical background – but there was no question that she was an astonishingly attractive woman.

‘Mrs Houseman, sir,' the constable announced, unnecessarily.

‘Thanks, lad, you can go now,' Woodend said. He waited until the constable had backed out of the room, then turned to the widow. ‘Would you like to take a seat, Mrs Houseman?'

Diana Houseman stayed close to the door. ‘I resent being here,' she said in her husky voice. ‘You should be showing me some consideration. My husband's just been murdered, in case you've forgotten.'

‘I haven't forgotten,' Woodend told her. ‘It's precisely
because
your husband's been murdered that you are here.'

‘And isn't it a bit late in the day for you to start playing the role of the grieving widow?' Paniatowski asked nastily.

Diana Houseman shot her a look of pure venom. ‘I liked you better when you were pretending to be Jeremy's downtrodden assistant.'

‘Yes, you would have,' Paniatowski agreed. ‘I was a bit easier to intimidate then, wasn't I?'

‘Sit down, Mrs Houseman,' Woodend said. ‘Sit down, and I promise you we'll get it all over with as quickly an' as painlessly as possible.'

The producer's widow hesitated for a split second more, then, swaying her hips, walked over to the table and took a seat.

‘Thank you,' Woodend said. ‘Now I'm afraid I'm goin' to have to ask you some rather personal questions.'

‘And if I refuse to answer them?'

‘Why should you, when you might be helpin' to bring your husband's killer to justice?'

Diana Houseman turned his words over in her mind for a moment. ‘Ask your questions,' she said, ‘but I'm making no promises about giving you the answers you want.'

‘Let's start with somethin' easy,' Woodend suggested. ‘Could you tell me anythin' about your husband's state of mind in the period leadin' up to his death?'

‘That's not an easy question at all. In fact, it's almost impossible to give you an answer.'

‘An' why's that?'

‘Because Bill was incapable of sustaining one state of mind for any length of time. He was a very driven man. He had considerable energy, and most of it was devoted to his work. Minor irritations, which would probably hardly bother you at all, could seem like major tragedies to him. On the other hand, minor triumphs could buoy him up to incredible heights. And since he experienced several minor irritations and several minor triumphs in the course of one working day, his state of mind was very difficult to pin down.'

He'd heard more ringing endorsements of a loved one's life and work – and deeper outpourings of grief at their departure – Woodend told himself. He didn't think about his own death very much, but he hoped that when his time
did
come around, Joan would be able to find it in herself to give him a better send-off than Diana Houseman was prepared to give Bill.

But perhaps she wouldn't. Perhaps, after what had happened with Annie, Joan would be as glad as Diana Houseman had been to see the back of her husband. And who was to say she'd be wrong? Who was to say that he deserved any better?

‘Sir!' Paniatowski said sharply.

Woodend pulled himself back from the brink of his own misery, and turned his attention to Diana Houseman again.

‘Did your husband have any enemies?' he asked.

The widow smiled – almost pityingly. ‘You don't have much experience of the world of entertainment, do you, Chief Inspector?' she asked.

‘No, I don't.'

‘I thought not. If you had known a little more, you'd have asked if he had any
friends
.'

‘An' did he?'

‘He had
allies
.'

‘I'm only a simple bobby, so I'm afraid you're goin' to have to explain in words of one syllable just how those two things are different.'

‘Friends are people who you're nice to because you
like
them,' Diana Houseman replied. ‘Allies are people you're nice to because you
need
each other, which means that, as situations change – and they can change very quickly in television – allies can quickly become enemies, and enemies allies.'

‘But that's just business, isn't it?' Woodend asked.

‘There's no such thing as
just
business, if this is the business you're in. People like my husband don't live
in
television, they live
for
it.'

‘So you're suggestin' that he was killed for what you might call “professional” reasons?'

‘Of course,' Diana Houseman replied, as it had never occurred to her to consider any other possibility.

‘Why were you in the studio this mornin'?'

‘Because staying in the house bores me. There are some woman who can play the role of being the little home-maker, but I'm simply not one of them.'

‘Where were you when the alarm went off?'

‘Talking to one of the girls in the make-up department.'

‘Why?'

‘She was giving me some professional tips.'

‘We can check on that, you know,' Woodend warned.

‘I'm sure it's already down in black and white – in the statement she gave to one of your officers.'

‘You left the buildin' immediately?'

‘Yes, I did.'

‘Who did you talk to while you were standin' in the car park, waitin' for the all clear?'

‘I carried on my conversation with the girl from make-up for a while, then I went for a stroll in the direction of the village.'

‘You're sure you didn't nip back into the buildin', take a knife from the cafeteria, an' plunge it into your husband's back?'

‘I lived with Bill. If I'd wanted to kill him, I'd have had ample opportunity to have done it somewhere there was no chance of me being observed.'

‘True,' Woodend agreed. ‘But if you'd killed him at home, you'd have been the obvious suspect, whereas doin' it here, there are scores of other people to choose from.'

‘Then I suggest you talk to some of them,' Diana Houseman said, ‘because while I'm not entirely devastated by the thought of being a moderately prosperous widow who can do as she chooses from now on, I had nothing at all to do with Bill's death.'

She was a cold, hard bitch, there was no doubt about that, Woodend thought. But how calculating was she? How much was her callousness simply her nature, and how much of it was simply designed to make him think that anyone who was so candid couldn't possibly have deeper secrets that she was attempting to hide from him?

‘Tell me about your relationship with Valerie Farnsworth.'

‘My relationship with her? Well, I certainly knew Val.'

‘In the biblical sense?' Paniatowski asked.

Instead of taking offence, Diana Houseman merely looked amused. ‘Are you asking me if I slept with her?' she asked.

‘That's right,' Woodend agreed.

‘No, I didn't. Valerie, like most of the
men
I meet, would probably have liked me to sleep with her. She may even have dropped hints about it once or twice. But, I never went to bed with her, because, unlike Val, I'm no lesbian.'

‘So where did George Adams get the idea that was exactly what you'd done?' Woodend asked.

Diana Houseman shrugged indifferently. ‘He probably got it from my husband. Or from someone else who Bill had blubbered out his self-pitying worries to.'

‘An' where would
your husband
have got the idea from?'

‘From me.'

‘But you just said you hadn't—'

‘I told
him
I'd slept with her, but that doesn't mean I really did.'

‘Most people lie about
havin
' committed adultery, not about
not
havin' committed it,' Woodend pointed out.

‘I'm not most people. I was angry with Bill. I wanted to say something which would hurt him, and I knew that that would.'

‘An' how did he react?'

‘He asked me to give her up.'

‘An' you agreed?'

‘Since there was nothing to give up – and since the lie had already served its purpose – yes, I did.'

‘And I'll bet he bought you a nice present for being such a good little girl,' Paniatowski said.

It was the first barb which had come anywhere near to hitting its target, and Diana Houseman flinched a little.

‘He was
always
buying me presents,' she said, sounding just a little uncomfortable.

Aye, I bet he was. An' I wouldn't put it past you to have told that particular lie
in order
to get the present, Woodend thought.

He wondered if Diana Houseman realised that by telling the lie she had sealed Valerie Farnsworth's fate – and if she did, whether she cared! He hoped that she was the one who had stuck the knife into Bill Houseman's back, and that he could lock her away for a long, long time.

‘Tell us about you an' Paddy Colligan,' he said.

The producer's wife smiled again. ‘Now there's someone who I
have
slept with.'

‘Good in bed, is he?' Paniatowski asked sneeringly.

The smile disappeared, and Diana Houseman looked Paniatowski straight in the eyes. ‘You may not believe this, but I really do love him,' she said.

‘An' you were goin' to leave your husband, an' move in with him?' Woodend asked.

‘Who told you that?'

‘Paddy Colligan himself.'

‘People believe what they want to believe, whatever you try to tell them,' Diana Houseman said calmly.

‘Then you
weren't
goin' to leave your husband?'

‘The situation Paddy and I found ourselves in was far from ideal – but it was certainly better to live apart, as we were, than to live together in penury.'

‘Weren't you takin' a big chance, carryin' on like you were?'

‘Not really. Bill had forgiven me for my other affairs – both the real and the imagined ones. He would have forgiven me for this one, too.'

She was lying, Woodend thought. No, that was not quite it. What she was doing was trying to make the whole situation seem a lot more straightforward than it actually was.

‘He might have forgiven you for the affair, but he wouldn't have forgiven
Colligan
,' Woodend said. ‘Paddy would have been out of a job, and Bill would have seen to it that he never worked for NWTV again. So what would Paddy have done then? He'd have had to move away from the area to find new work – probably down to London – and you'd hardly ever have seen him.'

Diana Houseman smiled again. ‘For that to happen, Bill would have had to catch us at it, wouldn't he?'

‘People who are havin' a bit on the side never think they're goin' to get caught – but they usually do,' Woodend pointed out.

‘That's because they don't take precautions.'

‘An' you did?'

‘Oh yes.'

‘Are you goin' to tell us what they were?'

Diana Houseman considered it. ‘No, I don't think I am,' she said finally.

‘Even if it will clear you of the suspicion that you played a part in your husband's death?'

‘I did not kill Bill, and nothing I tell you about my precautions will help to either prove or disprove that.'

‘So why won't you tell us?' Paniatowski demanded.

Diana Houseman looked a little uncomfortable again. ‘Because I'm . . . because I'm a little embarrassed by it.'

‘I find it very hard to believe that you could be embarrassed by anything,' Paniatowski said cuttingly.

‘I don't give a toss
what
you believe,' Diana Houseman told her. She turned her attention back to Woodend. ‘Is there anything else you want to ask me, or can I go now?'

‘You can go,' Woodend said. ‘But don't leave town without lettin' us know where you're goin'.'

‘Leave town?' Diana Houseman repeated. ‘Why should I want to do that?'

A
s Woodend drove towards the village which he had lived in just long enough to start thinking of it as his home, he found his mind contemplating the long and tortuous series of events – many of them occurring even before he was born – which had led to his present dilemma.

He pictured the long-dead cotton magnate, dressed in top hat and frock coat, selecting the site for the mill which would add to his already considerable fortune. If only the bugger had chosen a plot of land just a little closer to Manchester . . .

He thought of the boundary commissioners, a large-scale map of the area spread out on the table in front of them, deciding just where to draw the line between the city and the county. Would it have hurt them to have inked it in a hundredth of an inch further south?

He imagined the meeting at which the Big Wheels at NWTV had decided to go ahead with the purchase of the mill. Wouldn't there have been a few dissenting voices, men who had felt it might be wiser to locate the new studio closer to the rest of the organisation? And if there had been, why, for God's sake, had they not won the day?