Death on Daytime: A Tess Darling Mystery (The Tess Darling Mysteries) (23 page)

“Rutger Aarse,” she mouthed in disbelief. Rod Peacock didn’t mess about, did he? Colin hadn’t burnt his last pie, yet his treacherous agent was already sending in his replacement.

When he stepped out into the studio lights, however, Rutger didn’t look at Colin or his Country Kitchen. He looked at Fergal Flatts. When Tess turned to do the same, she found Fergie blushing all over, and groping under the sofa for a stabilising croissant.

“Give that to
me!
” Sandy snatched the croissant from her co-host, as the Floor Manager started counting them down to air. “You greedy, little
Welcome Back From The Break
!” she beamed, as the red light flicked on Camera One. “Exactly a week ago today, we were shocked and saddened by the
senseless
killing of Jeenie Dempster.” She turned to Camera Two. “Here, on
Live With Sandy and Fergal!”
Back to Camera One.

“Fortunately, we have rising star and talented producer, Tess Darling. As Jeenie’s
close
friend and colleague, Tess has been able to use her
unique inside position
to gain an exclusive interview with Alan Pattison, a disturbed fan, believed to have been
stalking
Jeenie in the days before her death.” Sandy turned to Tess. Tess turned to camera. This was it, wasn’t it? She’d spent so long trying to be heard – by her disapproving father and her distracted Mum – by all the men who thought she was joking when she said she’d rather finish her kebab than curl up and ‘spoon’. After years of obscurity, Tess Darling had millions waiting on her next word.

“Crap,” she said. Then, realizing she’d just used a bad word on daytime TV, she said, “crap,” again. This time, Sandy was ready with a cough.

As his co-host hacked over her, Fergal fumbled on the table in front of them for a glass of water. “Just keep talking,” he whispered to Tess. “Whatever you do, keep talking.” As he leant over the table, crumbs fell from his lap. They were flakes of pastry, Tess was to realize afterwards, the leavings of his croissant – but seeing them fall on to the table, she went quiet. Inside. She remembered the crumbs she’d seen over another coffee table – the corners of cold toast, the crumbs of cocaine – and she got over herself. This wasn’t about her, was it?

This was about a dead woman.

What was it Mrs Meakes had said? Tess recalled the widow’s warning, on the day she and Miller visited her at the retirement home. In a grief-touched room, lined with old mysteries, the traumatized woman urged them to take note:
Jeenie’s death took cunning – planning of the most devious kind
.

So what if Mrs Meakes
did
spend too much time in bed with Miss Marples? The old bird had a point. Today wasn’t about Tess saving face – or Sandy Plimpton recruiting viewers. Jeenie had been murdered. The police were chasing the wrong guy. And It Naffed Tess Off.

Screwing her courage to the sofa, she gave the word: “Run VT”.

The studio filled with the sound of music. Specifically, the opening bars of
You Used to Bring Me Roses,
from seminal Australian prison drama,
Cell Block H
. (It fitted the tone, Tess had reasoned, and the broadcast clearance rights were cheap). Courtesy of Miller’s shaky camera action, viewers were sent lurching up the garden path to 13 Squarey Street. “None of us can forget how Jeenie Dempster’s body was found,” started Tess’ voiceover. “But how – and where – did she die?”

The music swelled. Miller’s camera entered Mrs Meakes’ kitchen. It panned across her sink to the window above – and gave viewers a glimpse of the white, police tent erected over Jeenie’s grave – before pulling back inside.

“Jeenie Dempster was brutally beaten, then smothered to death.” Tess’ VO followed the camera into a gloomy sitting room. “We have found evidence to indicate this savage attack occurred
inside
13 Squarey Street – in the
two hours
before either Jeenie or the
Pardon My Garden
film crew were due to arrive.” The picture shook. “So
what
was she doing there?”

No answers came from studio. On the sofa beside her, Tess felt Sandy stiffen…and Fergie start to shake. Floor crew were gathering around the on-set TV monitors; gripped, Tess could only hope, like those watching at home. As Miller’s camera jerked across Jeenie’s front door, Tess’ voiceover kicked back in.

“It was my job, as Pardon My Garden’s producer, to arrange Jeenie’s car to the shoot. When Jeenie’s regular driver came to collect her at 7.30am last Monday, however, she did not not appear. Someone, it transpired, had already come for her.”

“THE CAR ARRIVED AS I WAS PULLING UP THE SHUTTERS.” It was the turn of the drycleaner on Bayswater Road, now reduced to a little green man with subtitles crawling over his chest. (There were some facets of Miller’s shooting style no editor could fix – not even Jez, friend of Pete Tong). “JEENIE GOT IN THE BACK SEAT LIKE THE QUEEN,” he insisted. “I SAW THE CAR DRIVING HER OFF AT…QUARTER TO SIX, SAY? BIG LAUNDRY DAY, MONDAY, IT COULD HAVE BEEN NO LATER THAN SIX O’CLOCK.”

At this point in the edit, Tess’ rushes had run out. “WHO was behind the wheel of this mysterious car?” she demanded, over archive footage of traffic circling Birmingham Bull Ring. “Was it the hoax caller who’d previously tricked Jeenie’s agent into re-arranging her pick-up time? On that fateful Monday, did this same person lure Jeenie into their own vehicle, and drive her to the shoot location at 13 Squarey Street, Croydon? In the crucial hour before our filming crew arrived, did they kill Jeenie, bury her body – and flee?”

VT cut to Fat Alan. He was being mobbed outside Croydon Police Station, in the seconds before Miller came to his rescue. At the time, Tess had watched Miller trample down gathered press, using his camera as a hi-tech battering ram. It wasn’t until last night’s edit that Tess realized he’d set his battering ram on ‘record’. The rushes were dramatic: a corridor of outraged faces leading to Alan, cowering and condemned. His coat was torn, his CHOOSE LIFE T-shirt filthy. In a losing fight against flashbulbs, Alan had his arm held up over his eyes. Miller’s last shot had captured his lower face, in jagged close-up: snot-smeared, eczema flaring, mouth wide. He was
The Scream
in an anorak, thought Tess. TV had made him that way.

Only TV could fix it.

“Alan Pattison has been held and questioned by police; vilified by both press and public,” concluded her voiceover. “Despite this hate campaign, Pattison denies having stalked Jeenie Dempster, or meant her harm. His lifestyle
may
be unusual, his past not without fault.” She pre-empted the coming reveals. “One fact remains, however. Alan Pattison lacked knowledge – and means – for the meticulous ambush that led Jeenie to her death.”

In studio, Tess saw DS Selleck stir impatiently beside Sandy. On VT, the film moved to its climax. ‘
You Used to Bring Me Roses’
was reaching a crescendo over a montage of shots from Monday’s
Pardon My Garden
: Gideon pulling at a dead woman’s hair, then heaving her corpse from the mud. Mrs Meakes’ face crumpling against a storm-wracked sky.

Stunned silence followed.

Had Tess got away with it?

“No,” said Sandy. “You can’t mean to leave us there.” Frowning inclusively at camera, she reached for Tess’ knee. She was Sandy Plimpton, news anchor, pulling the story in. The
real
story. “Your interview with Alan Pattison. Jeenie’s stalker. We want to hear –”

“You need to
listen
. I’m trying to tell you: Fat Alan wasn’t stalking Jeenie – he was obsessed with her, yes, he adored her – but from a distance. Jeenie was killed by someone close to her.”

“
How
close?” said Fergie. The flush had left his cheeks, Tess saw. He looked pale as Jeenie’s corpse.

“Close,” she said carefully. “Someone with whom she had a personal involvement.” Tess’ money remained on Aaron Peacock. But with Miller yet to report back from Oxford, she had no plan to blow their lead on live TV.

“Heck, Jeenie’s murderer may have even been someone she knew
professionally.
Why
not
someone she worked with?” Fuckit, Tess’ tenure on the show may have been over – and Darcus’ imminent exposé would ensure she never worked in TV again – but for the next few seconds at least, Tess was in the business of making telly. “Who’s to say Jeenie Dempster wasn’t killed by someone
in this studio?
”

Dead air. No-one spoke. No-one moved. Except…

What was that rattling noise? Tess cocked her head. Faint, at first, but definitely coming from somewhere… behind her? An
agonized
rattling – there was pain in it, fight in it. The tortured sound grew louder, filling the dead air, and bringing the stricken set back to life. Its unnatural life. The ghastly sound, Tess realized, was bouncing off a TV clip mic.

“
Colin,”
cried Sandy. Twisting round on the sofa, they saw the
Live With
chef collapse against the oven of his
Country Kitchen.
He was clutching a forkful of apple pie in one hand, and tearing at his throat with the other. The flesh round his face was swollen and mottled, a livid rash spreading up from his neck to his ears. “I can’t breathe!” he gasped. “Help me – someone help me!”

He crashed to the floor. Tess scrambled over the back of the sofa to reach him. “We’ve got to loosen his collar. He’s turning blue.”

“I can see that!” Close after Tess, Sandy threw herself at Colin’s writhing body. “Keep still, Big Dog!”

He kicked her away. “Laura,” he barked. “Where’s Laura?” As Sandy fell back, Colin’s wife shot from the shadows. Followed by Cameras One and Two.

“He needs adrenaline!” screamed Laura, tearing at his shirt. “His heart – it’s not strong.” Her husband’s eyes bulged at her, imploring. She took him in her strong arms and kissed him passionately on the mouth. “My darling.”

Contorting violently, Colin parted his foam-flecked lips. “Nuts,” he said, then fell back into the arms of his wife.

P
anic ensued. DS Selleck was the first to get to them, but crew were running in from all corners of the studio. Frantic helpers were packing into a tiny kitchen that, on its best days, could barely contain the yeast and body heat rising between Sandy Plimpton and her TV cook. While DS Selleck started checking Colin’s mouth for whatever was choking him, Tess tried to ease Laura’s arms from around her husband’s neck. Violently, Laura pushed Tess away, knocking her to the ground, and sending the back of her head slamming against the oven door. It was too much for the flimsy
Country Kitchen
set
.
Pots and pan lids crashed down on to Tess, as she watched Mrs Pound turn on Selleck.

“He’s not choking, you fools!” Hysterically, she pummeled the policeman’s back. “It’s his nut allergy. Colin’s gone into anaphylactic shock.”

“He’s gone into cardiac arrest. Call an ambulance,” Selleck yelled over his shoulder at the studio crew. His eyes fixed on Mrs Pound. “Adrenaline. Does he carry any?”

“Not today, oh God, not today.” Watching the officer tear off his jacket to start cardiopulmonary resuscitation on her husband, the fight left Laura. She sank back on her heels, and moaned. “I told him –
begged
him to carry his EpiPen, but he wouldn’t do it – not on baking days. He was scared, you see? Terrified he’d bulge when he went to open the oven. He’d tried it once, on
Sunday Kitchen,
and a bishop had phoned in.”

As Selleck started pumping at Colin’s chest, the chef’s upper body disappeared from view. Only his legs remained visible, kicking like a marionette – a puppet with his strings cut, thought Tess, and then hated herself for it – for thinking
anything
while a man fought for his life in front of her. She should do something – help his hysterical wife – but how? Laura Pound was keening, and talking fast enough to distract death itself.

“I pleaded with him to go back to the savoury stuff – the casseroles, the rotisserie, you know?” Tess nodded, holding Laura as tight as she dared. “Colin was an artist with a wok – an
artist.
What he could do with noodles – or a steak, you know? On a griddle. Chops even. Anything in a pan, but no, it’s all baking now. You’re nothing if you can’t puff a pastry, or bake a tart. Viewers want it all, these days, don’t they? They want to have their cake and eat it – now my Colin’s paid the price. He’s dead, isn’t he?
Dead!
”

Her voice rose to a scream. Selleck turned, and gave a grim nod to Tess. Then he renewed his efforts, his sweat mingling with the smell of cooked apple.

Slowly, Tess got to her feet. She looked around at the gathered studio crew, and gave the briefest of signals. Wordlessly, they moved to form a semi-circle around Selleck and the Pounds, blocking them from the cameras. “Sandy?” Tess appealed.

The
Live With
host and executive producer hesitated. Then even Sandy bowed her head – to speak into her clip mic. “Cut all cameras. Run Emergency VT.”

All eyes turned to the nearest studio monitor. The screen cut to black. For what seemed an eternity. Then a caption came up – Live With Holiday File! Sponsored by SunTours – and the picture cut to Shane Richie on a lilo in Dubai.

Tess used him as cover. Reaching across the central island of Country Kitchen, she grabbed a fork. She dug into the apple pie, which Colin had ‘prepared earlier’; the pie from which he’d taken his last bite. The pastry broke open, and a glistening, green sap oozed out. It was sweet with sugar, studded with chopped apple… and roughly-ground nuts.

“No,” cried Sandy. “He didn’t… he couldn’t.” She pushed past to inspect the pie for herself – Tess could hear the tinny voice of the director shouting down the gallery feed into Sandy’s earpiece – but, for once, she was deaf to it. “Not Colin
too
… not my Colin.”

Sagging as if she’d been punched, the Grande Dame of daytime TV turned on her swollen Jimmy Choos, and staggered from the studio.

Feeling strangely abandoned, Tess looked back at Selleck. The detective sergeant was slick with sweat, his shirt straining against the muscles in his back, as he fought to bring a man back from the dead. Selleck was vital, she realized, doing what he was trained to do. As for Tess? She looked back at the woman she’d tried to comfort. Laura Pound was now being restrained by the Floor Manager, two cameramen and a chair.