Death on Daytime: A Tess Darling Mystery (The Tess Darling Mysteries) (2 page)

“Now get behind that potting bench.” Wardrobe over, she shoved him behind a trestle table, which her production manger Di was trying wedge fast with bricks. “Don’t fidget when the cameras come on and—”

“Try To Look Interested,” said Gid. He’d heard it before.

“Miller will do a quick opening pan,” said Tess. “Then we’ll move to a tight two-shot of you and Mrs Whatsit –”

“Meakes,” prompted Di.

“You talk about the weather, her kidney stones, George Clooney’s true leanings,” she instructed. “
Anything
but her precious garden, and how we’ve turned it to soup.” She hugged him quickly.

“Fuck it up, and I’ll get the work experience to throw stones at you.” As a shivering schoolgirl scrabbled for throwing gravel, Tess was handed a walkie talkie. She snapped into it. “How we doing, Kev?”

“Good to go,” Kev crackled back. From the OB truck out front, he acted as vision mixer. Jammed between two TV monitors and a computer, he cut between camera feeds to send live pix to viewers from his satellite dish. “The studio interview is over-running,” he added, “So you’ve got a couple extra secs before they throw to you. I’ll count you down.”

Clicking off, Tess surveyed the windswept garden. “Good luck everyone,” she shouted to her crew. “Get through this and I’ll buy you all breakfast. Somewhere that serves Bloody Marys.”

A feeble cheer went up as the camera lights flickered on. Tess’ hair was sticking to her head like wet tights and mud was snailing up her inside thigh, but fuckit: this was the bit of the job she enjoyed – the daft moment when yet another shambolic shoot picked up speed and turned from chaos to live TV. Which reminded her…

“Punter!” she cried. “Where’s our sodding punter?!”

It took a second for her crew to take up the cry. With increasing urgency, they passed it along into the house. Response was swift. “Punter coming through!”

There was a pause. “Punter coming through
slowly
.”

A longer pause. “PUNTER IN A WHEELCHAIR! I REPEAT, PUNTER IN A WHEELCHAIR.”

With a roll of thunder, a tiny, old lady appeared in the doorway, her slippered feet dangling from an ancient, NHS wheelchair. “Mrs
Meakes
!” Tess welcomed her warmly. “
Why did no-one tell me about the wheels?”
she hissed.

“We diddent know!” moaned Di. “On the phone, she sounded so…so…full of legs.” Tess suppressed a howl. Much as she wanted to punch someone, it didn’t deserve to be Di. Forced to recruit participants from its TV audience,
Pardon My Garden
relied heavily on the willingness of students, the unemployed and veterans of the Second World War. In fact, if it wasn’t for the wheelchair, Mrs Meakes would have looked fitter than most. Still, Tess felt guilty for what they were about to put her through. She felt even guiltier when the old woman’s gaze lit on her and turned from terror to relief. (Relief was a reaction Tess seemed to provoke in many of her punters. If pressed, she’d have attributed it to her professional and caring manner, not the desperate cleaving of one hapless soul to another. Whatever the reason, complete strangers would trust and confide in her). “We’re going to look after you, Mrs Meakes,” she promised. “Just a quick spot of filming and we’ll have you back inside with a nice cup of tea.” The old lady still looked a bit unsure.

“Call it a stiff brandy then,” she negotiated. “And I’ll get Miller to show you what he keeps under that duffle coat.” As Mrs Meakes gave a shocked giggle – and Miller retreated under his hood – Kev issued a last warning.

“60 secs to air, Boss.”

“Get her into position, can you?” Picking up the wheelchair, as lightly as if it were a potted geranium, Miller placed it – and Mrs Meakes – beside Gid. Tess’ walkie talkie gave a last crackle.

“We’re rolling,” she cried. “GIDEON, PUT DOWN THE COCKING LIP BALM.” Ducking out of shot, she counted down to air: 3 – 2–1 –

“Welcome to another fabulous edition of
Pardon My Garden,”
trilled Gideon. “The lovely Jeenie can’t be with us today, as she’s come down with… women’s problems.” From behind camera, Tess made encouraging gestures with her fists. “But I’m sure this week’s participant has had
years
of experience with that sort of thing, haven’t you Mrs Meakes?”

“Oh yes, dear,” she nodded obligingly.

“Now Mrs Meakes, you’re a little old lady who can barely move. What’s that all about?” As Gideon shook his head in disbelief, Mrs Meakes’ head started to wobble. She looked around for the producer-lady. So pretty and reassuring, she reminded her of that cosy barmaid who used to top up Reg’s pint. And her hair looked just like a floor-cloth – the kind you could trust.

“I’m so glad you’ve come to rescue my garden,” she addressed Tess. “It’s gone to seed since my Reginald died – he did so love his flowers – and of course, I’m no use to anyone.” Trailing off, Mrs Meakes cast a forlorn look at a flower-bed. She was sure there’d been some pansies there this morning.

“Don’t worry, grandma!” Seized by her plight, Gideon careered off-script. “Your garden just needs a bit of love – why, look at the quality of the soil!” Sticking his hand in, he held a turd-like lump to camera. “
Full
of earth. We just need to pull out a few weeds like so…”

Dropping to his knees, Gideon yanked at a clump of straggly grass sprouting from the mud – just as a sharp gust of hail knocked their Kiwi cameraman into the pond. Heart sinking, Tess shoved Miller forward to cover the shot. “I will not be beaten by grass,” Gid muttered manically. “Not
again.
” He gave one last heave. It produced a satisfying, schlurping noise. Then the tangled knot came away in his hands, bringing with it a huge, white bulb.

A bulb the size and shape of a human head.

Gideon’s smile sagged into a slack gape of horror. As he tumbled backwards, the head kept rising up out of the earth, as if by its own volition. A dirt-splattered forehead emerged, then a pair of aggressively plucked eyebrows and two sightless eyes, soft and pale as egg whites.

Taken altogether, one very dead Jeenie Dempster.

As Tess felt her legs go cold, she realised it was the first time she’d seen her presenter without make-up.

I
t took forever for the police to arrive. Herding her shocked and silent crew into the relative warmth of Mrs Meakes’ kitchen, Tess headed back into the garden. There was the shooting equipment to think about – a crime scene to protect –
Jeenie dead, hell
– and the electrics to secure. Heart pounding, feet slipping, Tess crossed the churned-up ground to find Miller bent over Jeenie. His head was bowed, the head of his duffel coat fallen back and filling with rain; his broad back shielding the dead woman from the rain.

“Shit, Miller,” said Tess, as he moved to cover the half-naked corpse with a tarpaulin. “Should you be doing that?”

“Yes.” He tucked Jeenie in. Tess felt her manic energy subside. Jeenie Dempster may have just segued from bitch to corpse, but she’d been a little girl once. She’d had hopes and dreams. These, if nothing else, should be respected.

Tess came to stand beside Miller. Together they listened to the staccato of raindrops on the plastic sheeting until the whine of sirens approached. After that, things happened quickly. Scene of Crime officers in zip-up, plastic overalls were already moving out to the garden, as the
Pardon My Garden
crew were led through the house and driven to Croydon Police Station to give witness statements, cede swabs of their DNA and use the loo.

Formalities over – for now – Tess ordered a fleet of cabs to get her traumatised team home. Promising Miller she’d meet him later for a stiff drink, she checked her mobile for messages. In the light of ‘this morning’s tragedy’, the TV channel had shaken up the lunchtime schedule to grant
Live With
an unprecedented extra forty minutes of airtime. Tess was to direct her taxi straight to Backchat Productions. And no, she was not allowed to stop for a burger.

Backchat Productions had been making TV for almost thirty years. A big supplier of factual programming in the late ’70s, it had floundered in the face of reality TV and talent shows. Though it still occupied a squat concrete tower, just off the Tottenham Court Road, half the building was now leased out to a call centre; the other dominated by
Stop the World
, its only long-running commission. Six months ago, Tess had arrived at
Pardon My Garden
as a secretarial temp on a week’s booking. Committed to getting the job done – so she could go home – she’d promptly uncovered a budget deficit, haggled a deal on studio equipment and started organising shoots. She’d also smashed the water cooler, groped an editor and lost £200 of petty cash on the Northern Line. (A lot can happen in one night). Come Friday, Tess had everyone so charmed, cowed or covered in teeth marks, they’d bumped her up to Producer/Director on a rolling contract.

Tess had worked in TV before, however. The experience had been so painful, she’d only returned with great doubts. As her cab now pulled up outside Backchat Towers, Tess felt a sickening certainty: the worst was yet to come.

Press were thronging the entrance to the production company, pointing cameras and jabbing boom mics. When Tess opened the door of her taxi, they swarmed. Flashbulbs stung her eyes, and lens shutters beat the air like giant, mechanical wings. Starting to panic, Tess prayed for Miller to appear; failing that a miracle.

She got the latter. As sunlight split the clouds overhead, the crowds parted to allow the progress of an elegant, silver-haired man in his late fifties. Like Moses in a Burberry mac, he held his hands out to her. She took them. What else could she do? He was Darcus Darling, one of nation’s most respected broadcasters.
The Times
had recently named him ‘the foremost investigative journalist of his generation’. Tess called him ‘Dad’.

“So good to see you, darling, it’s been too long!” He embraced her. “Why didn’t you tell me you were back in the country?”

Face pressed against a coat button, Tess spoke into his lapel. “I got back six months ago, Dad.”

“
That
long? And no see? Mea culpa, I suppose, I’ve been so woefully busy.” He raised his voice over the photographers now snapping the reunion of famous father with newly-infamous daughter. “First there was the wedding to cover – dear Kate and Will – didn’t they do well? And then the funeral: My dear friend Madiba would have loved the turnout, wouldn’t he? The tribal ritual, the heads of state, the selfies – ”

“I know Dad.” Tess pulled away. “I know.”

Her father’s work was his life. Over the course of a high profile career, he’d chased down flying pickets during the Miners’ Strike, blown the whistle on dodgy practices at the FA and exposed a shadow cabinet minister for shady dealings with a Saudi oil company. For the past twenty years, he’d fronted flagship BBC current affairs show
World Inaction.
In studio, Darling berated viewers for their political apathy; his special reports exposed everything from Mumbai sweatshops to the ghastly acoustics at the O2 Dome. More recently, his series of
Head-to-Head
– intimate interviews with political and cultural figureheads – had afforded him the glamour of a chat show host, garnering him several BAFTAs and the personal phone numbers of Brangelina and Ban Ki-Moon. It explained the excitement he was now generating – and made his presence in the press mob more baffling. “What are you
doing
here, Dad?”

“Making an educated guess,” he said. “With no other way to contact you, I had to presume you’d at least be checking in with your employers. They’ll be wanting answers?”

“They’ll be wanting my head.” And they weren’t the only ones. Ducking a boom mic scything down towards her, Tess felt the crowd getting restive again. Fortunately, her father did too.

“Looks like it’s time to get you inside,” he murmured. Putting an arm around his daughter, Darcus led her imperiously through the throng. For a few, crazy moments, Tess felt safe in her father’s embrace. Not for long. With a sharp shove to the back, Darcus pushed her through the glass swing doors into her building. “
This
is more like it.” Backchat reception was empty but for two security guards. The sounds of the crowd were muffled behind the glass. “Time to think.”

“Bloody hell,” groaned Tess. “That’s the last thing I want to do.”

“So how about we have a little chat instead? I thought you might want to offload.”

“Offload?”

“Unburden youself.” She looked blank. “I know we parted on bad terms,” he continued impatiently. “But believe me, I’m sorry. I’ve missed you darling.”

“You have?”

“Of course.” Tentatively, he chucked her under the chin. She turned her face away, but not before he saw the start of a smile. “How about we slip off somewhere for a quiet drink? After you’ve checked in here of course. We can catch up a bit. You can talk me through what happened this morning—”

“Talk you through it?”

“For God’ sake, darling, you’re a key witness to a murder that’s come to light in the full glare of the media – not just that, a
celebrity
murder – live on TV. Forget the OJ Simpson car chase or the trial, you’ve dug up a body in real time. Twitter’s gone ballistic.”

“I’m not
on
Twitter!”

“You are now. Hashtag TessDigsUpBody, thank me later, it’s what I’m here for. To look out for you, darling, guide you through it. You’re at the eye of a media storm now. The madness outside is just the start of it, don’t you see?”

Tess didn’t want to take another look outside however. She hid her face in her father’s shoulder. “You’re going to have every rag, mag and blog after your story,” he continued more gently. “Obviously, you’ll give it first to your Old Man.”

She went very still. Her father seemed not to notice. “An hour ago, I spoke to my Editor at
World Inaction.
She’s keen to move quickly. There’ll be some money in it for you, of course, with the usual caveats.”

Tess raised her face to his. “
Caveats?
”

“Oh, just the usual stuff. You sign over exclusive rights, worldwide. No talking to media outlets other than ourselves—”