Death on Daytime: A Tess Darling Mystery (The Tess Darling Mysteries) (18 page)

She turned to her unwashed ally. Alan cowered in the corner of a child’s bedroom – a room that bore testimony to his twisted obsession with a murdered woman. But this time, Tess wasn’t just
looking
, was she? She was framing the shot. “Lucky you brought your camera, Miller. The light’s crap, but you’ll have to do what you can. You good to go?”

He merely rustled. She knew that rustle. Turning back round, Tess found Miller towering over her, holding his camera like a dubious gift. A gift Alan took for himself.

“You brought a TV camera?” With difficulty, he tore his gaze from the lens to Tess. “Isch this for me?”

“Would you
like
it to be?”

His response was almost tender. Taking the camera, Alan nursed it in his eczema-ridden hands. Suddenly, Tess realized why this lonely
Pardon My Garden
fan had always rushed to help carry their filming equipment – why he’d always hovered on shoot days. Fat Alan may have been obsessed with Jeenie, but it was the whole world of TV he missed. He was like an outcast who could never get back. Unless someone helped him. “Would you like to talk to our viewers, Alan?” she said. “Give them your side of the story?”

He nodded slowly. “I truscht you.”

“But, son…” Mrs Pattison tightened her fists. “Are you sure?” She was scared, knew Tess. She was right to be. And TV was just the start of it. Tess could almost hear the early chorus on Twitter, the malevolent rumble of online trolls. But Mrs Pattison had said it herself. The joke had got too sick to put right. The police were going to leak to the media soon enough. The second the world discovered her son’s shocking past, he’d be crucified – and it would be Tess’ exultant father banging in the nails. “Miller,” she said. “Hit record.”

Gently, sadly, Miller took his camera back from Alan. He flicked a couple of switches, flipped open the viewfinder, and passed the readied camera to his boss.

“I’m not turning this on Fat Alan. You’re on your own.” For a second, his eyes held hers. It frightened her… being held. Then he let go. “Shoot him yourself.”

“Me?” she wanted to cry, as he turned away. “I’m doing it for
you,
you great, curly nit! Sandy Plimpton won’t sack you – she won’t sack you, or Gideon, or Di – as long as I do this one, lousy thing!” But who was she kidding? Miller would never want a job at that price, so she grabbed the camera, turned to her punter, and hit record.

On the small screen of the viewfinder, she watched Fat Alan Pattison force himself back into the shriveled skin of Alan Antony. He ruffled his thin, scurf-crusted hair into spikes. He stretched his mouth into a smile. (She suggested he pick something green from between his teeth). Then she started asking questions from behind camera – nothing too hard, just enough to get him talking. His voice was barely audible at first, his responses trembling. As the minutes of footage clocked up, however, his confidence grew. From somewhere deep inside, the erstwhile presenter pulled out rusty tools of his former trade – the cheeky wink, the infectious giggle (now a scraping rasp) and the high-energy patter (now breathy ramblings, all meaning lost).

He was a grotesque, realized Tess, a snail with his shell ripped off; a slug on her screen, repellent and forlorn. He couldn’t have been happier. Pulling up imaginary collars on his shirt, nodding down the lens at fictitious fans, the long-forgotten star recalled “his best times on telly”, acts of affection from the production team, and the buzz of a live audience. He described how he “mucked about with the children,” when cameras cut to the latest pop performance. Katy Bush cracked jokes with the crew, while “Jeenie put lipschtick on her schmile.”

As he talked, Tess listened. In the course of her round-the-world trip, she’d met men of all shapes and sizes. She knew who would cry like a baby in a headlock, who’d turn nasty at the drop of a pint – and she couldn’t see this man as a murderer.

Her camera could though. With every broken smile – every ill-timed giggle, and sticky wink – Alan appeared more animated, more excited.

And infinitely creepier.

Carrying Miller’s camera from Alan’s flat, Tess felt she held her future in her hands. She’d scored an interview that would dominate headlines, launch her career and make her truly her father’s daughter. Walking back to the underground station, however, Miller didn’t say, “Well done.” Reaching their platform, he opened a packet of M&Ms, but didn’t offer her one.

Getting a seat on the Circle Line, Tess flipped open the camera’s viewfinder. She watched back the rushes of Alan’s interview to reassure herself–she
could
make great TV – and then deleted the lot.

Taking back his camera, Miller offered Tess an M&M. She took the packet.

He let her.

H
eroism, Tess soon realized, had a downside. People didn’t thank you for it. Walking the last stretch home, Tess fielded a succession of aggressive phone calls from Sandy Plimpton. By the time she reached her front door, Tess felt the glow of Having Done the Right Thing overcast by the panic of Shit, What Have I Done?

The first time her boss called, it was to ask if she’d spoken to Fat Alan. Tess replied in the affirmative, and hung up. Sandy then rang back – several times – to pin down what he’d said. Tess was forced to expand on the (entirely fictional) details of her interview, so Sandy could start trailing her scoop to major media outlets and ‘key opinion-formers’.

She worked fast.

Opening her front door, Tess found her mother stood in the hall, holding out her phone like it was the Olympic Torch. “It’s your father! He says you’ve been busy. What does that mean?” Violet added in a whisper, “He’s being nice, Tess. He asked me how I was!”

“Good luck,” said Miller, taking himself tactfully off down the hall. Warily, Tess took the phone, and greeted her father. He sounded delighted. “Round one to you, I hear! I wasn’t expecting such rapid results from a cub reporter. Where
was
it you got your training?” he asked. “Local paper? Regional news? No, silly me – serving drunks in a Dublin pub.”

Thanks Mum, thought Tess. Three minutes of Dad being nice, and Violet had already spilled the details on their daughter’s round-the-world bunk. Darcus himself had made no attempt to stay in touch for the three years Tess was travelling. “I got as far as Australia, actually,” she said. “I worked at a roadhouse. And I didn’t just pull pints. Sometimes I filled cars.”

“So the hand that holds the mic used to wield a petrol pump? I love it, I love it!” A pause followed. For a surreal moment, Tess could’ve sworn the great reporter was writing it all down. Then he produced a conciliatory laugh. “As you
are
trading on your old man’s name to get you screen time, how about you treat me to a preview of this interview you’ve landed with Mr Pattison?”

“Cock off,” said Tess. “You’re the competition, remember?”

“Ah come now, you didn’t take my challenge
seriously
did you?” She stared at the phone in disbelief. “I admit it,” he went on. “I was trying to teach you some manners – some respect. Now how about I teach you some
craft?
What say I give you a hand in the edit, darling? Lend you my
creative
touch.”

Tess took an outraged breath… then let it peter out. Truth was, Dad’s slippery touch with the truth was probably the only thing that could save her now. A perverse picture popped into her head: Darcus Darling and Daughter, sharing an edit suite, poring over Miller’s footage. She’d kill to know what her father would make of the drycleaner’s piece to camera – and his reveal of Jeenie’s dawn pick-up. How would Darcus view Mrs Meakes’ account of her broken kitchen window and hastily-covered sofa? She pictured his immaculately-groomed eyebrows shooting up when she told him about the dralon fibres found in Jeenie’s throat; her theory that Jeenie’s murder – far from being opportune – was a well-planned execution for a public audience. Then she grew aware of Mum stretching hopefully for the phone, and hung up.

“Tess!” cried Violet.

“He’s a git.”

“Don’t speak about your father like that.”

“Why not? You gave him thirty years of devoted service and he ‘let you go’ like some cleaner who’d missed a bit.”

“I’m still his wife.”

“Only because it’s cheaper than paying you alimony. He’s one of the highest-paid journalists in TV, Mum, and you’re in a flat-share by a dog track.”

“He says things have changed. He wants to see me.” Hope flickered in her eyes. Needy, weedy hope. And for a second, Tess recognised it as her own. (Hell, what had the man done to them?) “Your father was most insistent,” said Violet. “He was sorry, he said. We should meet.”

“Shame you can’t seem to make it out of the flat.” Tess handed back the dead phone, and then headed down the hall after Miller. He was in the kitchen, interrogating her fridge. Pushing past him to the small lounge beyond, Tess sank on to the sofa – a heap of hangover and despair. She smelt like a bear. She nursed evil urges towards her own mother, and had just binned the professional opportunity of a lifetime to protect an obsessive nutter who had probably – everyone said so – killed her colleague.

Pulling out the 23 year-old newspaper cutting from Mrs Pattison, Tess looked again at the incriminating photos of the
Wacky House
presenters. Alan Antony snorting while Kathy Bush blew. The story was out there, wasn’t it? In the public domain. The fact that the scandal had occurred before the reign of the internet couldn’t protect Alan now. The police were involved. Alan’s true identity was exposed, and with it his connection to the murder victim. By jettisoning her interview with the hounded man, Tess had simply bought him some time. Now what was she going to do with it?

Eat chocolate, she decided. Fuck fruit. Rifling through the pockets of her Puffa coat, Tess found a Twix finger – and pointed her thoughts to a new suspect: Alan Antony’s co-host and fellow-victim, Kathy Bush. If Jeenie
had
been behind the newspaper sting, Kathy had as much motive as he did. Jeenie may have framed Alan as a coke addict, but she’d cast Kathy as a nympho with her knockers out. Like Alan, the scandal had sunk her without trace. Until now, perhaps?

“Miller,” said Tess. “Get your head out of the fridge. I need you to do some research.”

“Fire away.” Having just ‘researched’ three Dairylea triangles from the salad drawer (and tracked down a Cadbury’s Crème Egg for later), Miller was ready to go. He just needed a sit-down first. “What do you need to know?” He settled on the sofa beside her. “More about the nice one?”

“Kathy Bush,” she nodded. “Where is she now?
Who
is she now? Would she have been able to carry out a revenge attack on Jeenie?”

“Good questions. I’m on it. Just got to find my laptop…” Bending forward, Miller started groping round under the sofa. “Did you
know
there was a piece of toast down here? Marmalade, brilliant.”

Miller could take a while to boot up. Forced to breathe out for a second, Tess felt a rare sense of peace. Gratefully, she patted the top of her mate’s head. Idly, she brushed a few Wotsit crumbs from his hair, and then checked the size on his collar. (There was a t-shirt sale on at
Fatface).

When Miller came back up, he was munching on a piece of toast, and clutching his laptop. Tess, however, was hot and shame-faced, having looked down Miller’s shirt and found a seriously impressive set of shoulder blades. (All this time, she’d put his bulk down to back-fat and a penchant for vests). “Let’s crack on,” she blushed. “You did a good job checking out Jeenie’s biog.”

“What can I say?” he grinned. “I’m a googler.”

“You’re a geek. Now it’s time to put your search skills to a greater good than finding the current crew list of The Starship Enterprise.” He inclined his head. “Or post-divorce updates on the podgy Kardashian.”

“She moves me.”

“Well, now it’s Kathy’s turn.” Tess got up from the sofa. “See what you can dig up on her, Alan Antony and the sorry
Wacky House
saga.” She picked up her Puffa coat, and made for the door.

“Where are you going?” He called after her.

“The pub,” she lied. “On my own.” Tess might not be able to protect Miller from Sandy’s ruthless manoeuvring, but there were worse hazards from which she
could
shield him.

Entering the offices of The Rod Peacock Talent Agency, an hour later, Tess found the super-agent yelling into his phone. “Have you
any
idea what an 18-hour telethon does to my client’s water retention? You’ve got kids, don’t yer? Three of ’em? Lovely.” His voice softened. “Well,
they’re
going to be fookin’ Children in Need if you don’t stomp oop the cash as agreed. Sandy Plimpton don’t do charity for less than 20k, plus make-up and hair.”

Slamming down the receiver, he scowled up at Tess. “How the hell did
you
get in ’ere?”

“Fast,” she said, looking over her shoulder. (To get into Rod’s private office, she’d had to sweet-talk his snotty receptionist. When that didn’t work, outrun her). “It’s urgent, Rod. I need to talk to you.”

“Join the queue,” he grunted. But he waved off his furious receptionist when she arrived. “You’ve got further than most,” he conceded. “Now make it worth my while.”

Tess took a beat to gather her thoughts, however. It gave Rod time to gather his. “Last time we talked,” he mused. “It was at Jeenie’s flat, wunnit? Seems to me you’re good at getting where you shouldn’t.”

“Not always a bad thing.”

“No.” He eyed her over the top of his desk. “Just make sure you can get yourself out again, woman. Some holes go too deep. Before you know it, you’re trapped.”

“Like Jeenie?”

He shrugged. “She won’t be coming up for air any time soon.”

In the sanctuary of his air-conditioned office, Rod exuded a chill calm. He’d shed the bluster of his public persona – the Northern laugh, the irrepressible mullet – to reveal the steely core. His zoot suit must be hanging in a wardrobe somewhere, thought Tess. The Rod behind the desk wore a tailored, white shirt, a discreet Rolex, and a watchful, belligerent expression. He planted his hands on his desk, as if making a stake on it—”this empire is mine, and I shall guard it”. Tess thought of the ruthless Victorian industrialists she used to read about in her father’s books, (Darcus’ study being the first forbidden place she’d learned to get into). Like those hard-faced men, posing in daguerreotypes outside their first factory, Rod had made his money, but the coal-dust was still on him. And he liked it that way. It kept him tough.