Death on Daytime: A Tess Darling Mystery (The Tess Darling Mysteries) (38 page)

Sandy had got too close. She’d left the sofa, was approaching the kitchen. Laura lurched forward suddenly, and spat in her face. Saliva hit like a bullet – Sandy cried out in pain – but the effort finished Laura. She fell back into Miller’s arms. “I had no choice. You see that, don’t you?” She appealed to her captor. “Every morning, I cleaned our house, as they made love in front of me. I polished the TV, and saw them laughing at me. My darling chef and his saggy tart.”

“Then along came Rutger.” Tess approached carefully, lest Laura turn on Miller next. “You met at Hotel Rjinsburg?”

Laura nodded. “I’d insisted Colin take me on his book research tip – a chance for us to be alone – but Colin just ignored me; spent the whole trip texting
her,
and signing autographs for Germans who thought he was Boris Johnson. I ate every meal alone – which is how I met my Ruddy, my beautiful Ruddy.” Her head started to sway, a string of spittle swinging from her jaw.

“Who cared he was a waiter? He had dreams. He brought me my pickled herring, night after night, and told me he longed to escape. I realised I could do it for him. I’d done it for Colin, hadn’t I? The sweaty, fat-tongued
wretch
.” She made a gagging noise. “Why
not
for this beautiful, smooth-skinned youth? I bought Rutger a seat on the next flight to London. I set him up – first with a flat, and then with an agent: Rod got Ruddy the perfect job.”

“That’s right,” said Tess. “Colin’s. So why
kill
him?” Since puzzling it together, this piece had eluded her. “Why
murder
him, Laura? Your revenge had worked perfectly: your cheating husband was getting ousted from
Live With.
Your grateful lover was taking over
Country Kitchen
–and moving into your bed – so why not lie back and enjoy it?”

Rutger moaned on the floor by the fridge. Over on the sofa, Fergal Flatts closed his sad, tired eyes. “Why risk everything to watch a weak man die?” asked Tess.

“Because I could.” For the first time since dropping the breadknife, Laura sounded sane.

Chillingly so. “I’d dreamed of hurting Colin – torturing him – ever since I found out he’d betrayed me. But you’re quite right, Tess. I knew Colin’s affair would immediately implicate me if anything happened to him. It was only when Jeenie’s body was dug up on
Pardon my Garden,
I saw a chance to punish Colin without suspicion falling on his cheated,
humiliated
wife.”

“You copied the killer’s MO.”

“I improved on it.”

“You contrived
the murder itself
to occur on live TV. You planted peanuts—”

“Into every goddamn gateau I trucked back from Paris for him. This last trip produced a rich haul: mille feuilles, custard cream tarts and, of course, an exquisite Tarte de Pommes.” She inclined her head, as if to deflect praise.

“I placed every poisoned pastry into the Backchat fridge. For Wednesday’s
Cookery Kitchen
, I stood in the shadows behind camera – like I’d stood in the shadows for our whole, lousy marriage – and I took the last of the peanuts from my handbag. Why should I go hungry while he tucked into that tasty apple pie?” She smacked her lips, then feigned dabbing at her mouth with a serviette.

“The moment Colin swallowed, I knew his larynx would close up and his oesophagus would go into spasm. As his heart started to burst like a rotten fruit, he’d know what I’d done.” Briskly, she straightened the collars of her shirt. “When he cried out my name, I was ready for him. I pulled him into my arms. Placed my dry, roasted lips on his –”

“And gave him the kiss of death,” said Tess.

“No kiss could be sweeter.” Laura closed her eyes in ecstasy. “From now on, my kisses would only be for my Ruddy, my beautiful Ruddy.” An agonised whimper from behind the Breakfast Bar broke her reverie. Laura’s eyes flew open as if she’d been wrenched from a vision of heaven.

“
You lying, cheating bastard!
After Colin, I swore I’d never let any man cheat me again or I’d kill them, I’d kill them, I’ll
kill kill kill
—”

Once again, she launched herself at Rutger. Once more, Miller pulled her back – and this time, Laura
did
turn on him. Tearing at his hair, clawing at his glasses, the vengeful widow was about to sink her fingers into his eyes when -

“HANDS OFF MY MILLER” were the last words 6.2 million viewers heard before their picture cut to a clip of Blake Lively on the red carpet at Cannes.

B
y the time the police and ambulance crew arrived, Laura Pound had two black eyes and one less tooth. She got short shrift from the attending medics – Knordal Chops was now lying prone in a pool of blood – and shorter still from DS Selleck, who arrived to lead Laura away. The brutal courtesy with which he cautioned and cuffed her, made Tess almost wish for another date (at least the chance to get drunk and disorderly).

“I’ll be back,” he promised Tess. “You’ve got one hell of a lot of explaining to do.”

Sandy Plimpton, for one, wasn’t prepared to wait. “Is this your idea of revenge?” she cornered Tess. “You produce that
squalid
sex-tape to punish me for sacking your pathetic little production team?”

“I’m sorry, Sandy.” Tess raised her hands. “I swear, I had no choice.”

Armed with circumstantial evidence that wouldn’t have rattled the funfair owner in
Scooby Doo
, how else was she going to trigger Laura Pound into a confession? She accepted Sandy might not see it like that though. The enraged star was turning a sickly green. Her eyebags were bulging. More than ever, she looked like Jabba the Hutt with a feathercut.

“You flush away thirty, dedicated years of serious journalism – by broadcasting an
intimate
film you stole—”

“I didn’t steal anything!” retorted Tess. “Your ‘
intimate’
tape is currently swinging its way round the Internet.” Yesterday, Miller had googled every cast member and brought up thousands of possible hits. Searching for ‘Ruger Aarse’, however, he’d just brought up some modelling shots for an online fetish catalogue – and his brand new blog.

“Rutger has a
blog?
” Sandy sounded surprised he could read.

“He’s got his own website,” said Miller. “It went live yesterday. Stop squirming, Tessie.” He was bent over her hand, applying antiseptic cream to her knuckles from a tube he kept (expressly for this purpose) in his duffle coat pocket. “I’m trying to look after you.”

“I don’t
need
looking after.” Tess snatched her hand away, before he could see he’d been rubbing in the contents of his favourite tube of squeezy-cheese. “Rutger wanted to make today a multi-media debut,” she told Sandy. “His site is surprisingly professional. His biography runs to several pages.”

“He posted your sex-film under
Hobbies and Leisure
,” said Miller. “It’s got pop-ups.”

“Pop-ooops?” said Rod. “Did I hear
pop-ooops
?” The fraught agent had spent the past few minutes in
Country Kitchen
, attempting to protect his newest investment with a wad of kitchen towel. Relieved by the ambulance crew, Rod was now poised to assist those clients still huddled round the sofa. “What are you yelling aboot, woman?”

“I’m naked on Rutger’s blog,” wailed Sandy. “Doing terrible things – with pop-ups.”

“For Nando’s Chicken,” confirmed Miller. “And a kind of tyre.”

“Well, fook me,” chuckled Rod. “The boy listened ter Uncle Rodney after all.”

“He…
what?
” said Sandy.

“Did as bid. First time I saw Rutger’s bulging talent, I thought,
fook
the showreel, lad, yer need a sex tape! ‘Course I
were
expecting he’d bag himself some titty pop star, not my leading talent,” he beamed proudly at Sandy. “Yer great, grubby dirt-box.”

Sandy crumpled like an old paper bag. “It’s all over, isn’t it?” She dropped on to the sofa. “Everything I’ve worked for my whole life – my career, my reputation – destroyed by a few seconds of poor resolution sex. Who’ll want me now?”

Silence answered her. Then, uncharacteristically nervous, Mark Plimpton stood up. “I will,” he said. “If you’ll have me.”

Sandy Plimpton stared at her estranged husband. “You?” she whispered. “
You?
You left me—”

“And now I’ve come back.” He reached out to her. “I tried to tell you the other night, but you were so wrapped up in Colin – you wouldn’t let me finish – wouldn’t let me prove I’m the only man who can give you what you need.”

“You can?” She frowned, then appeared to find hard in his gaze, some steel in his words. “Oh Mark, you’re kidding. You mean—”

“Teatime peak, darling, teatime peak! ITV1 want us to present a new chat show – minimum sixty eps – going out in the Spring.”

They took a step towards one another. She scratched her straw hair. He flashed his tennis coach smile. “They’re waiting for my call, Sandy, but I said I couldn’t do it without you. We’re a team. We’re The Plimptons.”

He pressed his voluptuous mouth to hers. Her thin lips twitched under his, then went still. It was as close to a happy ending as Sandy would ever get, thought Tess. She turned away.

“Just a minute.” Sandy’s voice scythed after her. “Your father’s exposé airs tonight. 9pm isn’t it?
Plenty
of time for a last-minute edit.”

Tess turned back round to find Mark stood down; Sandy scrolling through her phone. “
You
may have stolen the show today, Tess, but
I
have a direct line to your father. He’s been begging me to do a piece to camera – play witness for the prosecution – but I feared you may pull one, last trick from your sleeve.”

“From my
sleeve?
I’m no magician,” said Tess. “It’s all up my skirt.” Sticking a hand under her hem, Tess pulled out a smoking gun.

Well, a large, manilla envelope, at least. Tipping it upside-down, Tess shook the contents of the envelope over the sofa. Instinctively, Peacock and the Plimptons closed ranks against prying eyes. They alone saw the glossy, archive stills that spilled across the couch, each photo timecoded and dated; all clipped from episodes of
Live With,
going back years. En masse, they formed a rogue’s gallery, with the same handsome rogue in each.

20th January 2006. Mark Plimpton throwing a playful punch at Justin Timberlake. Viewers would have barely registered the large, padded plaster on his wrist, but for Di. In her new role as investigative archivist, she’d ringed it in red pen for the attention of Tess – and her chosen audience.

13th March 2009. Mark Plimpton applauding an Inuit. Di’s red pen marked a cluster of cigarette burns on the back of his hand.

10th November 2012. Mark Plimpton flirting with Jackie Collins, his shirt just falling open to reveal a crop of nasty scratch marks, as red as the pen that now ringed them.

In each successive shot, the guests changed but Mark’s smile never wavered – nor did Di’s red pen. It circled a graze on his forehead, a powdered shiner above his cheekbone, a clot of blood drying in one ear.

“This is what Jeenie was blackmailing you about, wasn’t it?” Tess asked Mark. “All those years you’d been hiding your secret in plain sight. Viewers witnessed the scars, with no idea of the cause. Then Jeenie extracted the truth. Pillow talk, was it? She promised to save you?” Tess watched Mark turn pale under his tan. “Instead, she bled you dry.”

“Yer poor sod,” said Rod. “She were blackmailing you, too?”

“Shut
up
, Rod.” Sandy scrabbled at the photos. “Find us a bin. And then call a lawyer.”

“Good idea,” said Tess. “You’ll need one. I’m going to see you charged with domestic abuse, Sandy.”

“With
what?”

“Seven years of it. Seven years, you steered your husband through the show, then dragged him home to use as your punch-bag.” Mark was shaking his head. Tess didn’t care. “If
he
won’t admit it, we’ve got a witness.”

“A witness? Don’t make me laugh. Who’ve you spoken to?”

“The nanny.”

The laugh stopped.

Tess had taken a risk when she sent Di and Gid to search the Backchat archives. How were they going to get in, for starters? They’d only just been fired.

She’d not counted on Gid’s people skills. Calling in old favours, chatting up new runners, and shouting ‘Fire!’ occasionally, Gid had hustled Di through to a back office housing the server for the Backchat digital archive. Scrolling through old footage of
Live With
, they found Mark Plimpton getting more battered than a nearside prop. They also tracked the disintegration of the Pimptons’ domestic life. Back in 2007, Mark and Sandy were cooing about a romantic anniversary dinner. Scroll forward to last year, and they were bickering about their new nanny. “Boring,” said Gid.

“Potential witness,” said Di. Pulling out her smartphone, she googled, ‘NANNY AGENCIES, WEST LONDON.’ When a list of phone numbers appeared, she handed over to Gid. “Get calling, boyo.”

“And ask what?”

“You’ll know.” Gossip-monger Gid could could winkle the dirt from a clam, couldn’t he?

“The manager of
Nice Nannies Ltd
opened up,” Tess now revealed. “Claimed she’s still chasing three months of back pay for the last girl her agency sent to you: Hannah Kufer left you, traumatized.”

“Hannah left us
without notice
,” said Sandy.

“Having witnessed
you
repeatedly strike and punch your husband. On the last occasion, Hannah claims you pushed Mark’s head into the kitchen sink. You then turned the hot tap on him, while screaming, “You undressed Oprah Winfrey with your eyes.”

“Is this true?” demanded Rod. “As yer agent, Sandy, I have to know.” He pointed at Mark. “Have yer been whackin’ Blondie, here?” Rod looked delighted. Sandy less so. She opened her mouth. Shut it again. Swallowed.

Good, thought Tess. She’d had a first glimpse of the truth when Mark assaulted her in his Hummer. That boat-shaped burn on his hip? Seared on her memory – but not for the first time. If Tess had learnt one thing from working at the women’s shelter in Queen’s Park, it was the mark left on skin by an iron set to “steam.”