Death on Daytime: A Tess Darling Mystery (The Tess Darling Mysteries) (26 page)

To silence her fear, Tess set about searching the room. The only real furniture was a massive bookcase, filled with more impenetrable-looking books, and an ancient wardrobe. Tess moved towards it. She’d not forgotten Selleck’s angry tip-off: Jeenie’s killer had smothered her with a garment made from brown, dralon fabric. Fighting an urge to run, Tess creaked open the wardrobe doors. Nothing jumped out at her. Just a few, fusty jackets that would have looked dated on an Oxfam rail. If Aaron Peacock owned anything made of dralon, he was wearing it.

Closing the wardrobe doors, Tess noticed an old prayer book on the floor by her feet. The corner of a Polaroid photo stuck out from it. Bending down, cursing her recalcitrant thighs and disco-knee, Tess extracted the Polaroid. “Crap,” she said. “Crap.”

It was a pair to the photo Rod Peacock had tried to steal from Jeenie’s flat – the photo Tess had carried in her coat since. She pulled it out now, hand shaking: Jeenie and Aaron sat on a bench together, Jeenie smiling to camera. The Polaroid from the prayer book must have been snapped shortly afterwards: Jeenie was still snuggled up to Aaron, but the sun had caught her hair, the wind teased her skirt.

And someone had stabbed her face repeatedly with a blood-red pen.

Tess looked away. Aaron was one angry soul – and
that
thing, on the floor behind his door, was an empty crisp packet: crumpled and licked clean, but unmistakably
Wotsits.

“Miller!” Throwing back her head, she wailed like a Wookie. “WHERE ARE YOU?”

N
othing. She’d lost him, hadn’t she? Having exhausted all sources at Jesus College, Tess spent the next few hours trawling the bars and kebab vans of Oxford City Centre, asking after ‘a giant with curly hair–and a skinny boy with a goatee’ She gave up only when the last nightclub closed.

Sober, cold and shattered, Tess fell asleep at the bus station. It was gone 6am when she woke. Catching the next Oxford Tube back to London, Tess disembarked at Marble Arch, and stopped at a café. Rejuvenated by three bacon sandwiches, two pints of Expresso and a flirt with a Brazilian barista, Tess formed a plan. She’d head back to Backchat for any word on Miller. If there was none, she’d tell Selleck everything. The disapproving officer was hardwired to help a damsel in distress, wasn’t he? Or she’d kick his handsome head in.

Tess was not to make it into Backchat, however. Crossing the last corner to Percy Street, she heard the roar of an engine. She saw a huge, black Hummer accelerate towards her. The rest was a rush – of fear and hurt.

Hitting the kerb, Tess felt, rather than saw, the jeep mount the pavement beyond her, and screech to a stop. Heart pounding, she got to her feet. She was sore, scared, and watching a dangerous man exit the driver’s seat. “You’re lucky I didn’t kill you,” said Mark Plimpton. He sounded impressed. “These Hummers can go!”

As the dashing TV star pulled her up, Tess felt herself in a vulnerable position with a man accused of double-murder: a man unrecognisable from the maudlin drunk she’d considered taking advantage of at the Soho Club, just one week before. “What are
you
doing in a Hummer?”

“Road-testing it,” he said. “Prior to purchase.”

“You’re joking,” she said. But what was funny about Mark Plimpton behind the wheel of three tons of killing steel? “You’re nuts. You’re
broke.
Jeenie left you destitute, you said.”

“Ah… “ Mark relaxed his hold. “The blackmail thing. You remember that?”

“
Some
things I drink to forget, Mark. Murder’s not one of them.” He sprang back, as if burnt. Good, thought Tess, saved her the trouble of pushing him.

When they’d met at Jeenie’s wake, Mark Plimpton had been drunk enough to tell her the truth; just not the
whole
truth, she was sure of it. He’d claimed Jeenie was blackmailing him, under threat of exposing the financial mess he’d made of his fledgling production company, Exodus. Tess hadn’t questioned this at the time, what with being drunk, and then unconscious, but her doubts had since grown. Surely the last person you try to blackmail is someone speeding to bankruptcy?

Real or not, Mark’s insolvency didn’t ring true as a topic for extortion. Tess was sure Jeenie had had something
much
dirtier on her famous lover. After all, Tess knew Jeenie.

She just didn’t know Mark.

“I’ve been hoping I’d run into you,” he said.

“Oh, yeh?”

“If you’re on your way into Backchat, I could give you a lift.” He moved back to his Hummer. “Fancy a ride?”

Not with Mark Plimpton, she didn’t. The man was a menace. Except…

As he opened the driver’s door, Tess glimpsed a luxurious leather seat. It looked comfortable. It looked better than walking. And who knew where it could take her? Perhaps a bit of menace was what you wanted in a murder enquiry? Blinking back exhaustion, Tess tried to think it through: If Mark Plimpton
had
killed Jeenie and Colin, Miller was safe, wasn’t he? Not missing, presumed dead at the hands of Aaron Peacock, but miles from harm… sleeping off a big night in Oxford, cuddled up to a cheeseburger.

She just had to prove it.

Walking to the nearside of the Hummer, Tess opened the passenger door, and climbed in. “Hold on for your life,” said Mark. “I’m outta control!”

He wasn’t kidding. The Hummer roared forward. Pulling out on to Percy Street, he over-swung, crossed both lanes of traffic, and bumped the car up on to the farside pavement. Pedestrians scattered… most of them.

“Blind man,” cried Tess, as they powered towards a bloke swinging a white stick.

“Sorry,” Mark bumped back down on to the road. “Haven’t had much sleep. Spent most of yesterday being grilled by the police, thanks to my
insane
wife.” They shot out on to Goodge Street. “You know she’s claiming I killed Jeenie? And then Colin?”

He braked for a red light. Looked hard at Tess, who blushed. “Should’ve guessed
you
were in on it,” he said. “Looking like butter wouldn’t melt – those soft lips and big eyes – you’re worse than Sandy. At least she
looks
rotten.”

Tess said nothing. Some instinct told her to keep her ‘soft lips’ shut, while Mark had the wheel. She’d always suspected the star’s tennis-coach charm was thin as ice – and the Mark poking through today wasn’t pretty. His shirt was though. Pink Italian silk, it was in stark contrast with the greasy, crumpled number he’d worn to Jeenie’s Memorial Service. The cuffs were open though – an angry man doesn’t fiddle with cufflinks, does he? As Mark turned off Goodge Street on to a narrow side road, the elbow nearest Tess came up; the sleeve fell down. There it was – the nasty cigarette burn she’d seen, when Mark poured the wine at Jeenie’s wake. Now touched by silk… and scratched red-raw. “If I
did
want to teach Colin a lesson,” said Mark. “I’d use a cooler method than a bloody peanut.”

It jarred. For reasons more pressing than taste. Before releasing everyone from studio yesterday, the police had told them not to speak publicly about the details of the chef’s death – particularly his anaphylactic shock. Viewers had seen the
Live With
chef choking, that was all. “How do
you
know about the nuts?”

“My lawyer,” said Mark. “He’s costing me a fortune, but at least he ensured last night’s interrogation wasn’t
all
one way: Turns out the police went through Colin’s fridge of scammed French cakes, and found them riddled with crushed peanuts. But there’s no way of proving
when
–or how – they got there.” As the Hummer jolted over a traffic island, Tess wondered if the charming Mark Plimpton – freed from the steely girdle of his wife – wasn’t heading fast out of control.

“
You don’t deny you went to Sandy’s dressing room though?” she asked. “The night before Colin’s murder, she says you begged her for another try.”

“Me, beg
her?
That’s a joke.” The TV presenter forced out a laugh. “I went to see Sandy to talk business – and business only.”

“What kind of business?”

“
My
business.”

“Not Colin’s?” she pushed.

“Too bloody right. Only the silly prat had to play the Big Man, didn’t he? Threatened to throw me out. Me?
Mark Plimpton
.” He shook his head. “I haven’t interviewed three consecutive British prime ministers, two Arctic Monkeys and Justin Bieber’s chimp to lose it in a scrap with a low-rent
bun
-pusher. So I left. Went home – like I told the police – to be awoken by a phone call confirming some very good news.”

“Oh yes?”

“Looks like Mark Plimpton is back in the game.” This time, his laugh was real. “No more bitch women to spoil things.
This
time, I’ll get what I deserve. Like I said…” He gave her a strange smile. “You owe me.”

Veering off the road, Mark pulled his Hummer into a cramped, seedy-looking yard.

“Hang on,” said Tess, as they bumped against a shabby building, overlooked on three sides by steep, Victorian walls. A discreet sign nailed to the back door announced ‘Private Hotel’. “What are you doing?”

“Showing you a good time.” Killing the engine, he released his seat belt. “This is the Soho Club.”

“Bollocks it is,” she said. “We’re the wrong side of Old Compton Street.”

“Oh
that old thing
is just a front,” he laughed indulgently. “To keep the paparazzi happy and take money off sad, silly wannabes. This is the
real
private members’ club–
strictly
A list.” His silk shirt slithered over his collarbone. “Rooms by the hour.”

As he leaned over her, strands of his thick, blond hair fell into his eyes. Good, thought Tess, she didn’t like the look in them. She didn’t like any of this – he was on her now, pressing down on her. As Tess tried to squirm free, she could smell sickly-sweet conditioner in his hair – and alcohol on his breath. “What the cock are you up to?”

“Unfinished business.” Mark thrust his full weight on her. She felt herself reverting to a scared young girl in a dark alley – but this time, there’d be no Miller to come to her aid with a Sainsbury’s trolley. In the flash of fear that followed, everything about her current aggressor was magnified: the crinkly, red veins in his weak, excited eyes – the oily, tinted moisturiser smeared over a network of disfiguring scars.

“Oh crap,” she thought. “Oh crap, oh crap.” The ugly marks were everywhere, like ants running over his skin: a deep, jagged scar stretched across his widow’s peak. Slicing in and out of his hairline were several long-healed cuts. A chunk appeared to be missing from one side of his nose. Beneath his shiny, Ken doll exterior, the TV star was stitched together like Frankenstein’s monster.

And he was getting rough. He was wrenching back her shoulder, trapping her hair. Jammed into the passenger side, Tess felt for the door release. “What’s the hurry?” grunted Mark. His weight lifted for a second.

Then she heard the quiet clunk of automatic locks coming down.

“That’s better,” he said. “Do you know how many women would kill for an hour alone with Mark Plimpton?”

“Well lock
them
in your sodding Hummer!” She felt fear harden to anger. “You’re invading my space, twat-head.”

“Cut the crap, woman, you’re pulling me in.” Thrusting his hand inside her shirt, he squeezed her breast. Hard.

“Get the FUCK OFF—” But she was pinned down, her arms were crushed under his body.

“Bit late to play coy now, isn’t it?” Using his weight to hold her down, Mark moved a hand down to his crotch, and start fumbling with his fly. “You know you want it – girl like you—”

Would have to use her teeth. She bit. Got a mouthful of shirt. Shook her head like a dog.

The shirt tore open to reveal Mark’s chest – waxed, suntanned, and disfigured: a hideous welt, shaped like the prow of a ship, covered his left pectoral. Beneath it, the muscle had withered; the nipple was deformed.

Tess gagged. She’d seen a burn like it, once before; seared on to the cheek of a young woman. The victim had sustained worse injuries, but it was the livid, purple burn that had excited Darcus Darling. It was Darcus Darling, directing his daughter to position the woman towards camera. It was afterwards Tess swore never to work with him again.

“What’s wrong with a
girl like me
? I love sex,” she panted. “Great, shagging dollops of it. But
only
when the bloke is fit, funny or very, very—” Pulling back her head, she slammed her skull into his, “Nice.”

Mark Plimpton screamed in agony. His nose poured blood. So she stuck her fingers in his eyes. “
Please, no,”
he cried. “
Not again -
I’m sorry, so sorry.”

He was still crying, as she pushed him off her. “I’m bad, I’m weak, I know.” He cowered in his seat. “Just don’t hurt my face – anywhere but the face. I promised ITV.”

“You’ve promised ITV
what
, you fucker?”

“A gold handcuffs deal. They want me to host a new chat show.” He stopped abruptly, as if he’d said too much. She raised her fingers. “It’s teatime peak – a daily, one-hour show to bring viewers to ITV’s stellar, peak-time offering,” he spieled. “Big budget, top-flight guests – but I can’t chat up Kate Winslet with bruised kidneys. Not any more.” He ran his hands up into his blond mane, smearing blood through the roots. Tess’ fear returned.

“Your own show! That’s great, Mark.” She fumbled at the passenger door. Bloody automatic locks, there must be some knob she could push. “All this time, you’re getting your own show. Just
you
-”

“Yes, me, goddamit,
me.”
The locks sprang. Mark wanted her out. Only his ego could heal him now. “ITV have promised–
I’ll
be the star – she’ll be beside me in name only – someone to throw to the break, pass my cue cards—”

Tess scrambled from the car. Even as she got clear of danger, however, she couldn’t leave it. “Who, Mark?
Who’s
co-hosting?”

Her questions were buried in the roar of engine. Revving his Hummer, Mark leant across to pull shut the passenger door. Tess got a snatch of his furious, bloodied face. Then he twisted round, and reversed hard up the street.