Dead on Cue (7 page)

‘He's the boss,' Drabble said. ‘He's the one who pays our wages.'

‘Bugger him!' Paddy Colligan said. ‘And bugger his bloody money, too!'

‘That's stupid talk,' Drabble said. ‘You're tired and upset. We all are. Things will look different in the morning.'

‘Maybe you're right,' Paddy Colligan agreed.

‘Of course I'm right. And whatever your opinion of Bill Houseman, you have to admit he thinks quickly, don't you?'

‘What are you talking about?'

‘That idea he came up with about finding some footage of Val ironing and then matching it up with shots of another actress.'

‘Yes, it was quick thinking,' Paddy Colligan said. ‘Perhaps just a little too quick.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘It's only a couple of hours since they found Val's body. I hadn't even got around to thinking that we might all be suspects. But he had. And he'd gone beyond that. He'd found time to think about what impact her death was going to have on the show.'

‘That's his job,' Ben Drabble said.

‘You don't think there's a chance that the reason he came up with a solution so quickly was because he'd had more time to work on it than we have?'

‘What are you saying? That he's thought through the possibility that some key members of the cast might suddenly drop out of the series for one reason or another? That he's gone on from that to work out what he'd do if such an eventuality did occur? I'm sure he's done precisely that. He'd have been a fool
not
to.' Drabble frowned. ‘That was what you meant, wasn't it, Paddy?'

‘I suppose so,' Paddy Colligan said grudgingly.

‘Because if it wasn't – if you're suggesting he knew something more specific – then you're treading on very dangerous ground indeed. Nobody likes having the finger of suspicion pointed at them. And you've no reason to point it. So Houseman thought fast! That's the kind of work he's in. Producers aren't like writers, pondering over every word. They thrive on making quick decisions. It's the same with directors. Five seconds after it became obvious that Val wasn't going to appear on the set, Jeremy Wilcox had already worked out what to do about it. It's just the nature of the beast.'

‘He didn't seem very fast on his feet in the meeting just now, though, did he?' Paddy Colligan asked. ‘He hardly said a word all the time he was sitting there. And that's not like him at all. Usually, if Houseman says “black”, he'll say “white” as a matter of principle. Yet tonight all he did was agree that what Houseman wanted done
could
be done. That – and ask how long the police were likely to be here.'

‘So he was unusually quiet. That could easily be because of delayed shock or something.'

‘Yes,' Paddy Colligan agreed. ‘Or
something
.'

I
t was half past nine in the evening when the two men and one woman entered the public bar of the Drum and Monkey, an unassuming little pub on the outskirts of Whitebridge where – if your face became known – it was possible to order a drink long after the more legally-minded establishments had put the towels over the pumps. Under the watchful eye of the landlord, the trio looked quickly around the room, and then selected a table in the corner, as far away from the rest of the customers as possible.

Once they were seated, the younger of the two men stood up again. He was obviously intending to go to the bar and order drinks, but the landlord caught his eye and waved him to sit down again.

‘Serve that table in the corner, will you, Phil,' the landlord told his waiter. ‘Pint of best bitter, half a bitter an' a double vodka.'

‘I didn't know there
was
waiter service in the public bar,' replied the other man, who was new to the job.

‘There isn't usually,' the landlord conceded. ‘But them three are bobbies, so, as far as I'm concerned, the normal rules don't apply.'

The waiter took the drinks across to the table. The pint was for the large man in a hairy sports jacket. The half of bitter was for a much younger man who was wearing a smart suit and could easily have been a dynamic young businessman – but wasn't. The double vodka was destined for the short-haired blonde woman who was pretty enough in her own way, though that way was not
quite
English.

Woodend picked up his pint and took a slurp that lowered the level by a good two inches.

‘There are cases I'd almost kill to get my hands on, an' there are cases I wouldn't give to my worst enemy as a Christmas present,' he said. ‘This is, without doubt, one of the latter.'

‘Why's that?' Monika Paniatowski asked.

‘You mean, aside from the fact we'll have the press breathin' down our necks every inch of the way, just waitin' for us to make a cock-up?'

Paniatowski smiled. ‘Yes, apart from that.'

‘Well, for a start, it involves actors.'

‘So?'

‘I don't know much about them as a breed, but from what little I
have
seen I'd have to say that I've found them a pretty odd bunch who I'd rather keep away from if I had the choice. But I
don't
have the choice, do I? Mr Ainsworth's made sure of that. He's better than anybody else I know at recognisin' a hot potato when he sees it – an' at passin' it on again before it has a chance to burn him.'

‘Do we know much about this particular hot potato yet, sir?' Bob Rutter asked in his usual businesslike manner.

Woodend shook his head in mock despair. ‘I sometimes think I'm wastin' my breath talkin' to you, lad,' he said. ‘How many times do I have to tell you that until we get to the scene of the crime, we know bugger all!'

There'd been a time – not so very long ago – when such a dour comment from his boss would have intimidated Bob Rutter. Now that he knew Woodend better, it merely brought a grin to his face.

‘So you're saying we have no details at all, are you, sir?' he asked.

‘If you're lookin' for bare bones to chew on, I suppose I could throw you a couple,' Woodend admitted reluctantly. ‘I don't imagine, bein' as how you're a bloody Southerner – an' a grammar-school lad at that – that you've ever actually watched
Maddox Row
, have you?'

‘As a matter of fact, I have,' Rutter countered. ‘I'm using it as a learning aid to help me come to grips with the strange traditions and customs of the Northern tribes I find myself living in the midst of.'

Woodend chuckled, but noticed that Paniatowski did not seem in the least amused.

‘I know you only made that smart-arse remark to score points off me, lad,' he told his inspector, ‘but there's an element of truth in what you've just said. If you want to learn about the North, you could do a lot worse than watch
Maddox Row
. I'm not sayin' it's anythin' like as accurate as one of them documentary programmes would be, but as a reflection of Northern workin'-class life, it's not at all bad. Any road, if you've been watchin' it, you'll know that Liz Bowyer is one of the central characters. Or, at any rate, she was until tonight, when the actress who was playin' her . . .' He looked questioningly at Paniatowski.

‘Valerie Farnsworth,' the sergeant supplied.

‘. . . Valerie Farnsworth, went an' got herself stabbed to death. Now, from my own limited experience, it seems to me she couldn't have been killed at a more inconvenient time – at least from our point of view.'

‘What makes you say that?' Rutter asked.

‘When we were livin' down in London, my Joan was involved in the local amateur dramatic societies, an' one year she talked me into takin' part in the production.'

‘You, sir?' Rutter asked, unable to hide a smile as he pictured his boss standing self-consciously on the stage.

‘Aye, well, I wouldn't normally have agreed to do it – but it was Dickens they were puttin' on, an' I couldn't very well turn down a chance to speak the Great Man's lines, now could I?' Woodend said.

Rutter gave a stage groan. On almost every case they were involved in, Woodend managed to drag Dickens in somehow. If he had his way, the complete works would probably be required reading for the sergeants' exam.

‘You can groan, but there's a lot you can learn from Dickens,' Woodend said, for perhaps the hundredth time.

‘I know I'm going to hate myself for asking this, but which book was it?' Rutter said.

‘You should be able to work that out for yourself,' Woodend told him. ‘When do most amateur dramatic societies put on their plays?'

‘Christmas and the summer?'

‘This one was at Christmas. So it would be . . .?'

‘
A Christmas Carol
?'

‘We'll make a half-way decent detective out of you yet,' Woodend said.

‘And who did you play, sir? Scrooge?'

‘No, I didn't, you cheeky young bugger. I played the ghost of Jacob Marley – complete with chains and loud wailin' voice.'

‘Can we get on, sir?' Paniatowski asked.

She doesn't like being left out of things, Woodend thought. She doesn't like it all.

‘The point I was about to make, before Inspector Rutter saw the opportunity to take the piss out of me, was that in putting on a theatrical performance there's always plenty of scope for confusion,' he said. ‘When we were on stage, everythin' went as smooth as clockwork, because we all knew exactly what we should be doin'. But before the performance, it was an entirely different matter. All kinds of things went wrong. One of the cast got stuck in a traffic jam on the way to the theatre. Another one ripped her costume on the head of a nail. There was a bit of the scenery which kept refusin' to stay upright. Now, I'm well aware that there's a big difference between an amateur production and a professional one, but even so, given that they're doin' a new show every single time, I should think there's a fair amount of pandemonium before they . . . what's the term, Monika?'

‘Before they go on air.'

‘Aye, before they go on air. That's why it would have been better for us if she'd been killed durin' the broadcast – because then it would have been noticed if anybody hadn't been where they should have been.'

‘At least we know it was an in-house murder,' Rutter said.

‘An' what do you mean by that fancy-soundin' term?'

‘It couldn't have been an outsider who killed her. A stranger in the studio would have been spotted – and anyway, a stranger probably wouldn't have known where to find Valerie Farnsworth.'

‘Unless he'd been to the studio before – as a guest,' Woodend said. ‘Or unless he had worked on
Maddox Row
in some capacity in the past. Still, your idea's worth thinkin' about,' he conceded. ‘Make a note of it, Monika.'

DS Paniatowski scribbled a few words on the pad in front of her – but nowhere near as willingly as she would have done if the suggestion had come from herself or her boss, rather than from Bob Rutter.

Rutter and Paniatowski were like two cats who found themselves stuffed into the same sack, Woodend thought – all claws and teeth. Which was a pity because, in their own distinctive ways, they were both excellent bobbies.

‘How are we going to approach this case, sir?' Rutter asked.

‘I plan to go to the studio first thing in the mornin',' Woodend told him.

‘Alone?' Paniatowski asked.

‘Aye, that's right. I'll probably spend most of the day just nosin' around – seein' if I spot anythin' unusual. Though, like I said before, when you're dealing with show-business folk, the only thing that
is
likely to strike you as unusual is somethin' that'd be completely normal anywhere else.'

‘And what will we be doing?' Paniatowski asked.

She hadn't quite said she'd rather swim through shark-infested water than work with Rutter, Woodend thought, but the meaning was clear enough. In a way, he supposed the tension between them was his own fault. If he'd run the tightly structured kind of team DCS Ainsworth would have liked him to, there would have been no scope for such tension. But then he would have been working with zombies – and zombies weren't very good at solving complex crimes.

Anyway, he told himself, they should take a share of the blame, too. Bob had still not quite got used to the idea that he was no longer Woodend's bagman. He didn't like it when Monika had the facts at her fingertips – as a good bagman should – while he himself had to be briefed. And as for Monika, her problem was that she was not the least intimidated by her relatively lowly status, and often acted – as a younger Charlie Woodend had once done – as if she were a law unto herself. Together, they made a combination which was not always easy to deal with – but at least it made life interesting.

‘So you want to know what you'll be doin', do you, Sergeant?' he asked Paniatowski.

Monika Paniatowski smiled. ‘It might help,' she said.

‘Well, while I'm poncin' about like some kind of poor man's Hercules Poirot, Bob – Inspector Rutter, I should say – will be in charge of the real police work. You know the sort of thing I'm talkin' about – collectin' witness statements, cross-referencin' them for inconsistencies, trackin' down any leads that are thrown up by the forensic evidence.'

‘And I'll be assisting him, will I, sir?' Paniatowski said, doing her best not to bridle.

‘No, I've got an entirely different job in mind for you. Do you know anythin' about the way television works, Monika?'

‘Not a thing'

‘Well, apparently television directors have somebody to help them – a sort of civilian bagman.'

‘Yes?'

‘The director of
Maddox Row
is a feller called Jeremy Wilcox. His bagman's a lass who goes by the name of Lucy Smythe, which I suppose means she's too posh to be called just plain “Smith”. She was the one who actually found Valerie Farnsworth's body.'