Death on Daytime: A Tess Darling Mystery (The Tess Darling Mysteries) (37 page)

It held a cake.

A beautiful cake, decorated with frosted, pink lettering. The cleaning girl spoke little English, but one word among the lettering had stuck with her – a word she’d dreaded hearing from her first day on the job. The word was ‘FIRED’.

Tess’s own recall had done the rest: “GOODBYE
PARDON MIJN GARTEN.
U ARE TOTAAL FIRED.” As memories go, it was a keeper. Now, suddenly, it was a key. It hadn’t been
fear
propelling Laura from the Soho Club – at least not fear of whoever had torn the buttons from her blouse, and forced a flush to her cheeks. The terror in Laura’s eyes had been a fear of getting caught.

That’s
why she was using the private wing of the Soho Club. With reporters staking out her home after Colin’s murder, Laura needed a new handover spot. She couldn’t afford any witnesses, could she? Not with an eager recipient waiting – and a cake to smuggle in. It was
Laura
who’d baked the cake that decimated the
Pardon my Garden
team. She’d mixed it in that shiny Moulinex of hers – decorated it with care – because that’s what Laura did best. That’s what Laura had
always
done: cook up a career for the man she loved.

“Rutger Aarse.” Tess turned to the new star of
Country Kitchen
. “Drop that apron.”

He didn’t.

Instead, the Dutch chef gave a slow, sexy smile. “You’re joking, ja? You want my apron?” His smile hardened. He crossed his muscular arms across his chest. “Come take it off me.”

Up in the production gallery, the studio director (already enjoying this episode of
Live With
much
more than the previous 953 he’d directed) made a decision. Tess Darling was one of the brighter members of the crew. She’d been the first to hit the bar at the Backchat summer party, and the first to order Tequila shots all round. (If memory served him right, she’d also been the one to shovel him into a taxi, several hours later, with £20 for the driver and an empty carrier bag, “in case things get choppy”).

Plus, she looked good. Even now. Tess Darling was a woman upon whom clothes were wasted… as were words. Action was what required here.
Fuckit,
he thought, time to bring that Dutch chef down.

Leaning over his control panel, the director launched Camera Two at
Country Kitchen.
As it moved across the set to Rutger, the saturnine chef tensed, and then, almost imperceptibly, began to pant. He was achieving close-up – he was giving himself up to it, lowering the top of his pale, blue apron to reveal a tight, black vest, emblazoned with the figure of a pole-dancer and a logo:
Klub Sexy Rjinsburg.

“Still a home boy at heart,” said Tess. Leaping from the sofa, she started to pace up and down the set.

“Like a jello on springs,” murmured the director, cutting back to Camera One – and demanding a wide shot. (Those long legs and high heels? It made for a quite a stride. He doubted he was the only one trying to keep up).

“Hotel Rjinsburg confirmed that a waiter called Rutger Aarse was employed by them on 5th March of this year. He left without notice on 12th July.” Tess stopped in front of Laura. “
The day after you and Colin left
.”

“So?” Laura looked blank as stone. “The hotel had lots of waiters. They came and went.”

“To Kent?” said Tess. “Three weeks on, Rutger Aarse was catering a party for you and Colin.”

“Coincidence,” said Laura. She remained as implacable as granite, while Tess crumbled.

“Tell me how you discovered your husband was cheating,” she pleaded. “As you stuck another load of Colin’s sweaty chef whites into the wash, did you see lipstick stains on his collar? Turning on the telly, did you see him shove another sticky spoon in Sandy’s mouth and –”

“Stop!” Sandy cast an anxious look at Mark. “This filthy speculation is offensive both to me
and
Colin’s widow.”

“Please don’t worry on my account,” said Laura. “I know
just
how Colin felt about me.”

“No doubt,” drawled Mark. “But he
was
shagging my wife.”

Laura didn’t react. Her hands rested calmly on the Edam cheese on her lap. Was it only Tess who noticed her blunt fingers digging into the soft, red wax?
“Around the World in Eighty Plates,”
she pushed. “Rod tells me the book was your idea – to introduce your husband to a global market.” Laura inclined her head.

“Bollocks,” said Tess. “It was a last-ditch attempt to get him away from Sandy, wasn’t it? You hoped two months in the cheese markets of France might quell his ardour. I think it just made Colin pant for her more: By the time the pair of you checked into Hotel Rijnsburg, you were a bitter, desperate wife who feared your world was ending. Then you met a sexy, young waiter, bulging with ambition and lust.” Tess turned to
Country Kitchen
. “Suddenly, you saw a future.”

Up in the gallery, the studio director flicked the red light back on to Camera Two. Down in studio, Rutger licked his lips. “It was juscht a bit of fun. Laura help
me
–
I
help Laura – everybardy free, ja?” The dark Adonis appealed to camera. Seeing his moist, needy smile, Tess recognized something stomach-lurchingly
Colin
about him.

“Say nothing.” Laura’s voice rang out like a pistol whip. “It’s a trap. Mr Aarse, I suggest we both leave
at once
.” She rose. The Dutch chef reached reluctantly for his fallen apron strings – only to tie them back round his neck.

“I stay in my
Country Kitchen
. I greet top celebrity guest, ja? Make crunchy Appelflappen for Taylor Swift, live from LA,” he said. “On satellite link-up.”

“But Rutger,” Laura struggled to get out the words. She was rigid with incomprehension. “Don’t you understand? This woman is accusing us – we need to talk to a lawyer.”

“
You
talk to a lawyer,” he sulked. “I talk to Taylor Swift.”

Laura’s eyes flashed sharp green. Tess saw her chance. “You killed your husband,” she said. “Betrayed by Colin, you transferred your capacity for obsessive love to Rutger, but still you seethed for revenge – for revenge
and
a chance to clear Rutger’s path to
Country Kitchen
. It was only fear of discovery stopping you, wasn’t it? Should anything happen to Colin, you knew the police would look straight at his wronged, cheated wife. Then Jeenie was murdered. A vulnerable loner was branded her killer – and you saw how it could be done.”

Laura sank back on to the sofa, as Tess towered over. “
You
told Colin to go on Dr Veronica’s allergy spot the week after Jeenie died, didn’t you? Not to further his career like he thought – but to broadcast his peanut allergy. Next, you stowed the poisoned pastries in Colin’s fridge at Artistes Reception. You wanted the police misdirected – chasing after anyone with access: staff, guests… vulnerable loners. Of course,
you
knew Colin’s cakes had been spiked, long before they made it into Backchat. Safe at home – in
your
immaculate ‘Country Kitchen’–you ground up the nuts in your murderous Magimix, and then inserted them into the
’
pâtisseries’ you’d brought over from France.”

Laura’s green eyes darkened. For a second, Tess thought she’d won. Then the widow’s gaze cleared. Laura smiled, as if accepting a compliment to her culinary skills. She rose carefully from the sofa – and this time, she’d get away. Tess had blown it, hadn’t she?

Again.

As Laura moved to leave the set, however, a missile hit her square in the forehead; then another.

“Yer feckin’ knife-wielding maniac,” screamed Fergal Flatts. Barely able to stand, the injured host had grabbed the only weapons to hand – the bag of buns he kept stashed under the sofa. “You cut me to shreds, yer man woman.” He hit her between the eyes with a miniature croissant. “Why’d yer do it?”

“Rutger,” said Tess. “She did it for him, Fergie. He’d sworn his devotion to Laura – fuckit, she’d
killed
for him – and now he was going after you. Hunting down the big game.”

“Is this true, Rutger?” The last croissant crumbled in Fergie hand. “Were you just using me to get on?”

“No, I swear.” The sly smile left Rutger’s face. Finally, he turned from camera. “It was never like that with you, Fuggy. It was real, you know? My feelings… I really
haff
them.” He sounded surprised. “Like I told you, Fuggy, I only
play
with the ladies.”

“What do you mean,
ladies?”
said Laura.

“Just watch. You’ll see.” Tess looked up at Miller. “Won’t she?”

He nodded. No going back now. The friends shared a brief, fucked smile. Then Tess raised her voice to the gallery: “Run VT.”

“
O
h, bluddy bluddy,” said Di. She was sat at the gallery control desk, beside the director. While he’d been following the action on set, however, Di had been hunched over the computer – frantically downloading the contents of the memory card which Miller had dropped off on his way to studio.

Now Tess had given the order. The director was waiting. Di just had to hit the key that would run VT. “Oh, bluddy, bluddy,” she said. “Do I dare?”

The director frowned. Di flushed. And for the first time since his divorce, the director saw light… a soft, Welsh glow. He leaned towards it. “A drink says you do.”

“I do?” She did. “Oh, bluddy bluddy…”

The film thus despatched to 6.4 million TV screens was grainy, muffled and obscene: not bad for Miller. Tess had, of course, directed.

It had been one of their shorter shoots. Having seen what Miller downloaded on to Cleo’s computer, yesterday, Tess told him to fetch his camera from the car. Then she scrolled back to the start – and told Miller to grab the lot.

The home movie – for such was the nature of the download – had only
just
survived its pirating. Though the picture quality was poor, however, the audio was distinct: in the background, Barry White crooning from a stereo in the background. In the foreground, what sounded like a buffalo struggling with a punctured lung.

As the sounds of bestial thrashing grew louder, however, the picture sharpened. 6.4 million viewers saw it wasn’t a buffalo they were watching. “RAAK MIJN PENIS – HARDER, HARDER!” Naked but for a pair of black, leather chaps, Rutger Aarse straddled a king-size bed. “MIJN GOD IN DE HEMEL,
HARDER
!”

The thrusting chef directed a startled-looking woman, who knelt between his legs. She, too, was naked, save for a yellow feather boa and visible work ethic. “HARDER, HARDER!” cried Rutger.

Like Big Bird reaching for a worm, Sandy Plimpton pecked at his dancing penis.

Up in the gallery, the studio director let the film run for several life-affirming seconds. Then he cut back to studio: In
Country Kitchen
, the Dutch chef was clapping along to Barry White (‘my everyfink!’). On the sofa, Sandy gobbled for air. “I don’t – you didn’t–you filmed us, Rutger?”

“Ja, ja.” Raising his hand, Rutger started waving an imaginary lasso. “I miss ze dancink ja? I know I cook now – save the planet, ja ja – but I haf danced for Take That, you know? Madonna, 2 Unlimited – I funk with these guys.” The music had taken him over. Moonwalking past the microwave, he pivoted suddenly.

“Mrs Power Plimpton wanna see my spins and turns?” He put his hands on his hips and thrust at the sofa. “Ja, I film it for practice, ja I wanna keep it up!”

“Watch it, son,” warned Rod. “You’ll have someone’s eye out.”

“What can I say?” When I dance,” Rutger slapped his crotch, “He dance wiv me.”

“You… you…
bastard!”
Laura Pound hurled herself over the couch towards
Country Kitchen
. Skating past the hob, the demonic widow sunk her teeth into Rutger’s crotch.

The erstwhile lovers crashed to the floor in a hideous embrace. Tess dived after them, followed by Camera One Viewers were showered with cutlery, and then hit with the sight of Laura Pound taking a breadknife to Rutger’s crotch. As the desperate chef screamed for help, Tess battered Laura with a wooden spoon, but it was Miller who pulled Laura off – her body jerking wildly, her Alice band scything through the air.

Handing Laura to a couple of studio crew, Miller turned back to Rutger. The chef was doubled-up, wedged between the oven and the fridge. Miller knelt down, and placed a hand on his shoulder. “You’re safe now.” Carefully, Miller lifted the skirt of Rutger’s apron. “It’s messy,” he said. “But the knife doesn’t seem to have hit the arterial vein.” He turned to Tess. “That’s the spurty one, isn’t it?”

Shouldering him out of the way, Tess inspected the damage. “Tell me,” moaned the chef. “Will little Rutger ever dance again?”

“A slow waltz maybe.” She reached up to
Country Kitchen
’s freezer cabinet. Extracting an ice-tray, she slammed it into Rutger’s pulped crotch.

The Dutchman howled. His attacker heard it. Laura Pound broke free from the studio crew, and would have hurled herself anew at her victim – had Miller not grabbed the back of her shirt.

Held like a cat by its scruff, she spat at Rutger. “I’ll rip off your cheating cock and choke you with it.”

“Like you choked Colin?” rose Tess. “With a bag of KP nuts?”

“Too fucking right. And I’d kill him all over again, the cheating bastard. You’re
all
cheating bastards.” She jerked forward. Miller tightened his hold.

Later, Tess didn’t know whether it was Miller’s calming strength, or the fact he’d cut off her oxygen, but Laura subsided suddenly. She went strangely still, then craned her head towards Miller, as confiding a precious secret. “Rod Peacock rescued Colin from a basement, you know? The basement floor of Peter Jones Department Store. Colin was shop staff. But Rod said he could make him a star. So I cashed in my savings, and sent Colin to chef school.” She sighed.

“Fool never even learnt to boil an egg, did he? Colin wouldn’t have survived the first
Country Kitchen
, if I hadn’t rustled him up a Quiche Lorraine to pull out of the oven – and that’s how it went on. For six years, I cooked every pie, flan and pastry he ever made on
Live With.
Then Sandy got him in her sights. Suddenly, I was driving to France for pâtisseries; Colin was diving between
her
crusty legs.”